And all the reasons faded into oblivion at the sight of those smoldering eyes—eyes like green fire—and the provocative smile that was still so childlike . . . and trusting. Shit! If he had to have a woman, why not Juanita or Carmen or any of the other women at the rancheria who flaunted their willingness at him?
Jessie turned away from the gaze that locked with hers to dig a shirt from the laundry basket. She would not go to Brig like some Indian squaw. She would will him to come to her. She was Jessica Davalos, regardless of what Elizabeth Godwin said or anyone thought.
When she straightened to jab the wooden clothespins on the shirt she held, Brig was stalking toward a far corral. Her hands clung to the line as her head drooped forward with despair.
Brig did not come at all to the mess hall now, and three days crawled by before she saw him again. It was her chore to rise before dawn, and, with Marta, see that breakfast was ready when the hands filed into the mess hall after sunup. That morning the air was still cool when she made her way through the predawn darkness to the well, where the churned butter was kept against the heat of the day.
As she pulled up the crock the clank of a spur behind her warned her, and she whirled. The rope slipped through her fingers, and the crock slid back into the well. Brig’s pale face, ravaged with torment, loomed out of the dark. He reached behind her and drew up the crock, holding it out to her.
“I can’t sleep at night for thinking of you, Jessie,” he said quietly. Anyone watching the two of them would not have suspected the longing that flowed between them like an electrical current.
She took the crock, careful not to touch his hands. “I know.” Her eyes met his. “And you won’t, Brig. Your soul will never rest again until we belong to each other. You’ll never know happiness with Fanny Roget.”
His hands shot out to grab her upper arms. “Damn you, don’t say that!” He began to shake her. "Don’t make it worse than it already is!”
The crock slipped from her grasp to shatter at their feet. The pinkish-yellow butter with its separated grease seeped out to flow between them like an unfordable river. Brig flung her from him. His chest heaved with the effort he made to contain himself. "I’ll find a way to have you—forever. Cristo Rey—my grandmother—I won’t let them stand in my way.”
At the mention of his grandmother, hopelessness washed over Jessie, and all her resolve to win Brig dissolved as the greasy butter did in the sand. “She’ll never permit it,” she whispered, almost afraid the woman was so omnipotent she could see them, hear them, now. “She’ll find some way to stop you.”
“Not this time. Not this time! Next week when I go into Tucson, I’m going by Roget’s office and break the engagement with his daughter.”
Jessie bit her bottom lip, not really believing what she was hearing. She must be still dreaming. Brig loved her, wanted her!
"I’ll make Cristo Rey keep going,” he continued. "If nothing else I can reopen the mines. I can cut back on expenses—though God knows, there's so little to cut back on. But some way or another, Jessie Davalos, I mean to have you. Nothing will stop me.”
"Your grandmother—”
He reached across to catch Jessie’s waist and pull her into his arms. The tension had gone from him, and she could feel his lips soft, tender, against her forehead. "My grandmother’s not God, Jessie. She’s an old woman.” His thumb tipped Jessie’s chin up so he could see her face. "Come to me tonight. I need you, Jessie . . . I love you.”
She searched his eyes, seeing there the love. At last she asked, “Where, Brig?”
“At the storehouse . . . just before midnight.”
The afternoon’s hours took forever to tick away. Once her chores were finished, Jessie forsook her riding to bathe. Several trips were made, bringing the water from the well to heat it at the jacale. Marta, hobbling in from the cornfields, caught Jessie standing in the wooden tub which was little more than a cask sawed in half. Beneath the folded lids, her eyes ran over the tall, slim girl who held the large scrap of rag before her, shielding her nudity.
"Jabon?” Marta asked, espying the lye soap. “And hot water? Something special goes on, chiquita?"
“No, Marta.” Jessie turned her back on the woman and began to furiously scrub her neck and arms. “It is only that it has been a long time, and the dust is beginning to bake on me like glaze on pottery.”
Marta watched her lather the yellow hair until the unruly curls shone like newly minted gold. Afterward Jessie dried off with the skimpy patch of terry cloth and donned the red flowered skirt and drawstring muslin blouse that she had worn that day. “There is no young man among the vaqueros?” the old woman asked. “You are becoming a young woman—and it is time for a man, no?”
Still bending from the waist as she brushed her damp hair over her head, Jessie paused and looked at Marta. “No, there is no man for me among the worthless cowboys.”
Marta began to dig at one of the few teeth she had remaining in her gums with a straw. "Posibilimente un indio, eh?” she asked, closely watching the girl.
Jessie straightened and smiled. “No, no Indian either. Have you ever heard the Anglo saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?” Then, laughing, Jessie tossed her wildly curling hair back over her shoulders. “There is no one, I tell you. I simply wanted to bathe.”
“It isn’t the señor, is it?”
Jessie blushed. She pulled the skirt over her head, mumbling, “Nor Brig either.”
That evening, as she served Marta’s tamale pie to the hungry men, she shrugged off their flirtatious remarks with a fling of her head. She was well aware that they all watched her more closely than usual and knew that it was because she had knotted her hair atop her head, making her look older than her nearly seventeen years.
"Hola, princesa," Juan Jesus called out from the far end of the table. When Jessie glanced toward him, he rose and bowed. “You have a crown on your head, no?”
She took the remark good-naturedly, as it was meant. A waggish smile curved her lips, dazzling the men and making them her subjects. She made her way along the length of the bench until she reached Juan Jesus. “And you,” she said sweetly, “are wearing a bump for a crown,” and she brought the spoon down with a light thump on his head.
Laughter reigned through the rest of the dinner, and she was kept occupied until at last the evening meal was over. After a final lingering cup of coffee, the men one by one drifted off to their own jacales or bunkhouses. She finished washing the dishes and was free.
Sunset lacked an hour, and she whiled it away in the privacy of the jacale reading her much-thumbed-through Latin text, Julius Caesar’s Crossing of the Rubicon. Marta sat nearby, darning a pair of cotton hose. The old woman finished and looked up at Jessie. “Lista para dormir?”
Jessie closed the book and shook her head. “No, I’m not sleepy. You go on to sleep. I think I'll go for a walk.”
“Aha! Someone's courting you!” Marta cackled.
Jessie rose and pinched out the candlewick. “The only suitor I have is the old man in the moon,” she teased back, shutting the door behind her.
There was no moon, and she counted her blessings as she made her way through the rancheria, careful to skirt far around the bedrolls of the cowhands who sought some relief from the heat of the July night.
She knew there would be other lovers seeking each other’s arms that hot night, but none went to such a forbidden rendezvous as she—the rancheria bastard and the Stronghold heir. Far in the distance a summer thunderstorm was in progress, its lightning writing across the sky forebodingly, and Jessie paused in her steps to shudder. Yet she knew that foolish premonitions would not stop her mission . . . nothing would keep her from Brig.
The storehouse, a solid, windowless one-story adobe, rose before her. Here slabs of bacon and ham hocks were hung from the ceiling rafters along with white cotton sacks of sweet but hard cured meat. On the floor stood sacks of green coffee to be roasted and ground as needed, dried fruit, potatoes, and onio
ns. In the comers were stacked cases of canned goods—pickles, tomatoes, and shellfish.
Jessie took the storeroom key that Marta had allotted her when she began to help out in the mess hall and opened the door. Shadows of sacks and crates filled the room. Hardly a bridal chamber. At the sound of footsteps she whirled back to the open door. Brig stood there, filling the doorway. “I thought the sun would never set, Jessie,” He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, and total blackness blanketed the room.
Above the musty odor of stored, dried food, she caught the faint scent of his cologne, and then Brig’s muscle-roped arms encircled her waist, drawing her against him. His mouth ground down on hers, bruising her lips so that they gave way and parted. His tongue thrust inside and violated her mouth. She stood helpless under the onslaught, shocked and numbed by the brutally passionate action.
At her quiescence, he released her. Her fingertips went to her lips. “You’ve never really been kissed before, have you?’’ his voice asked quietly out of the darkness.
She shook her head and realized he could not see her. “No. That is how people kiss?”
“Sometimes. Didn’t you like it, little Jessie?”
“I don’t know. No . . . yes.”
He laughed softly. His hand caught hers, pulling her somewhere. Then she realized he was tugging her downward onto the sacks— sacks of green coffee, if the pliancy and pungent aroma was any indication of their contents. His arms enfolded her against him so that she was half reclining along the length of his body. A little frightened at this side of passion he had shown her, she trembled.
As if sensing her fear, Brig brought her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed the palm. “I will never hurt you, Jessie,” he whispered. "Let me tell you how you’ve been on my mind since the first day Father brought you home.” He proceeded to tell her about the skinny little girl with wide frightened eyes the size of silver dollars and hair the color of corn that escaped the braids by springing into curls. “You were enchanting. But I don’t think I began to love you until the day the centipede dropped into the tureen at dinner.”
She laughed now, relaxing. “I don’t think your grandmother was as appreciative of the incident.”
“Nor do I. As I recall she was quite indignant about the way you calmly scooped the thing out with your spoon and squashed it on the floor with your heel. Jessie, Jessie . . . you’re such a strong little female. I don’t think even my grandmother frightens you as she does other people. She just has to look at them.”
Jessie settled deeper in the crook of Brig’s arm, her head nestled against his chest. “I don’t know, Brig. Growing up as I did—wild—I always thought I wasn’t afraid of anything. But loving you—it's my Achilles heel. Elizabeth is shrewd . . . I’m afraid she’ll find my weak spot.”
His hand slipped inside the blouse to caress her bare shoulder. “Our love will make us stronger, Jessie. After I end the engagement with Fanny, we’ll go to Grandmother together. She loves Cristo Rey, and we’ll make her see that you love it, too . . . that together we’ll make it into the empire she has always dreamed of. But with or without her blessing, I intend to marry you.”
Little nameless apprehensions still chipped away at her bedrock of assurance, but when Brig’s hand slipped farther inside her blouse, moving down the slope of her chest to cup one breast, she forgot all else. She lay motionless while his fingers sought her suddenly turgid nipple. Her lids drooped and her limbs eased in languid abandon at the pleasant sensation.
“Kiss me,” she murmured. “The way you did before.”
His mouth closed over hers, and her lips parted for the entry of his tongue. When he pulled the drawstring on her blouse, loosening it so that it slipped down over her shoulders, she made no protest but began to work at the buttons of his shirt.
Her feverish fingers reached the buttons of his pants, and his hand caught them, halting them. “I don't think you know what you’re doing,” he said, pulling away. Perspiration gathered at his brow, and he brushed it away with the back of his hand.
She caught the hand and held the palm over her bared breast. “I love you. Brig, and you love me . . . this love between us can’t be wrong.”
“No. Jessie, it’s not. But I’ll not have anyone calling our child a bastard. I’ll not have them going through what you have.” He put her from him with a gentle kiss on her forehead and a wry grin. “What I need now is a long walk in the cool air.”
It was a week of deliriously ecstatic moments. Jessie lived for the sight of Brig. After breakfast when he shared a cup of coffee with the men, their hands surreptitiously touched as she passed him his cup. Sometimes he even managed to break away and ride to meet her at some preassigned rendezvous. And then there were the wild evenings of endless, ravaging kisses that were beginning to tell on her and Brig.
The need to consummate their love was like the raging vortex of a dust devil—disorienting her, so that she moved through the day as tensely as finely strung barbed wire. She was certain the ranchhands could sense the electrical tension that flowed between her and Brig whenever they were within sight of each other.
She was just as certain Elizabeth had to suspect something.
The absence of her grandson every night would surely give her a clue. Perhaps she believed Brig was seeking his masculine privileges among the rancheria’s Mexican and Indian women, falling back on the ancient droit de seigneur, the privilege of the master.
That she would overlook. But the mistake of marrying a bastard—Jessie knew it was a mistake Elizabeth Godwin would never allow.
Brig tried to allay her anxiety that last evening before he left for Tucson. “Jessie,” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulders, “you’re giving my grandmother too much credit. There is nothing she can do to keep me from marrying you. Do you understand? Nothing! You must trust me.”
Reluctantly Jessie nodded, then gave herself up to his demanding, unquenchable kisses.
CHAPTER 30
"At best, Roget was outraged,” Brig said, smiling down at the young woman who so anxiously searched his face. “It’s over, Jessie.” He took her face between his hands and lightly rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. “If you’re ready, we’ll go up to the Stronghold.”
She pulled away and took a deep breath. "I'm ready.” She wished she had a mirror in the jacale. She would feel better prepared to meet Elizabeth if she knew she looked her best. As it was, the pink gingham dress was not that bad, but the bare feet encased in leather huaraches detracted from the desired effect.
Brig touched the pink ribbon that held back her wealth of curls. "You're beautiful,” he said, and she knew he had perceived her feminine uncertainty and was grateful for his reassurance.
She let him lead her out of the jacale that had been her home the past four years—back to the Stronghold. Elizabeth had banished her from the Stronghold once, but she would not do it again, Jessie told herself, holding tightly to Brig’s arm. Despite the evening’s relative coolness, nervous perspiration broke out on her upper lip.
Brig looked down at her as they passed through the gates. His long fingers massaged her hand. "The next time you pass through these portals, you’ll be coming home as my bride.”
A sudden thought occurred to her. She abruptly halted, worry blanching her already pale face, and pulled him around to face her. "Brig, you’re not marrying me—just to set everything right? To make sure I receive my father’s share of Cristo Rey?”
"Dearest Jessie,” he murmured, "I think it is absolutely beautiful the way justice will triumph in the end—but, no, this is certainly not a solution I would undertake if I did not love you.” His fingers brushed away the tendrils of hair that escaped the ribbon to curl about her face. "You have a hold on me, my little wild thing, and I know that I shall never be happy without you.”
Together they entered the house. At the parlor doorway Jessie paused, her gaze actually passing over Elizabeth in the Queen Anne armchair to fix on the empty space above the
rock fireplace. The painting of Dona Davalos that had been there as long as Jessie could remember was gone. There was only the lighter, faded blue rectangular outline to mark that it had ever been there.
Elizabeth halted in carding the wool at the sight of the couple at the doorway. No flicker of surprise at seeing Jessie in the house crossed her face. In fact, Jessie thought, there was a placidity in the finely seamed wrinkles, as if she had been expecting to see the two of them together . . . and this unnerved Jessie.
It had been four years since Jessie had last stood before her, and Jessie expected her to screech invectives and have her thrown out. Nevertheless, she drew back her shoulders and let Brig lead her forward to sit on the sofa. She took a small amount of pleasure in the fact that she was once again in the Stronghold— true, as a guest only . . . but one day she would be its mistress.
Elizabeth put the finely spun wool away in the basket at her feet and folded her hands before her. "Hello, Jessica. It’s been a while since last I saw you." She looked at Brig, who sat next to Jessie but leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “Did you put in the order for the mine’s boilers while you were in Tucson?”
"Yesterday, Grandmother. But mining obviously isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Jessie and I are getting married. We want your blessing.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and opened them to fix the stonelike irises on Brig—as the albatross must have fixed its gaze on the ancient mariner. "Dear God, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
Brig's brows met in a straight line over the bridge of his nose. "I know you don’t approve of the possibility that Jessie is illegitimate—a possibility which you cannot prove, in fact. But—”
“And you cannot disprove it," Elizabeth reminded him.
"But the fact remains that I love Jessie and"—he paused and took Jessie's icy hand between his large warm ones—“and she has agreed to become my wife.”
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