Tame the Wildest Heart

by Parris Afton Bonds

  The woman’s shyness dropped away. She began talking rapidly with accompanying gestures toward the semiconscious Bingham.

  Mattie couldn’t quite believe she understood correctly. “Sonofabitch.”

  “Mattie!” Gordon said, “I told you about cursing. If you’re going to be a lady—”

  “Liliana says she will let them stay on the condition that Bingham marries her.”

  Gordon’s brows shot up. “Sonofabitch!”

  § CHAPTER THIRTEEN §

  Mattie and Gordon were isolated from civilization by the intractability of the landscape of the Barranca del Cobre. The streams and torrents of the Cusarare that raveled through the barranca were their map. Jaguars, grizzly bears, mountain lions, and wolves were their traveling companions by day. By night the owl and the coyote.

  That first night, she and Gordon made their camp where tracks of ringtail and deer bracketed the creek. A dozen yards farther, thin tresses of white water plunged hundreds of feet to a seething cauldron below. The thunder of the falls echoed away between cliffs and timbered crags.

  The day’s journey had been physically demanding. Often they had been forced to dismount and lead their horses up and down steep and narrow side trails.

  The altitude rendered her breathless. Her calves had forgotten the ease with which she had once negotiated the surrounding terrain. Her right shoulder was bruised where her strapped rifle bounced against it.

  She and Gordon slipped and slid down sharp switch-backs. They plunged on through loose rubble and dust. They pressed themselves against cliff ledges and picked their way over parapets of lichen-spattered volcanic rocks.

  The rewards of the day’s journey had been unbelievable views: cloud’s-eye vistas of wooded mountains and coiling stony gorges. “My God,” Gordon said in awe. “The view is every artist’s dream.”

  The best reward of all was rest.

  Exhausted and more dirty than she could ever remember, Mattie headed for a distant portion of the Rio Cusarare’s banks so she could bathe in privacy. She knew that Gordon watched her leave. To her delight, she came upon crystalline geothermal waters, gushing from the north wall of the gorge. Heaven on earth, she thought!

  She stripped off her clothing and waded into the warm water, which carried the faintest scent of sulfur and subterranean salts. To her surprise, she could float with very little movement.

  Floating on her back, she gazed up through the last rays of the sunlight at the looming canyon walls. Above their high rimrock aerie, hawks curved and soared. In front of her, the green river swirled between water-polished walls of stone. Butterflies with glimmering wings fluttered by on the warm breeze.

  Feeling completely drained, she dressed and returned to camp. Gordon had built a small fire. By its glow, his wet hair gleamed like highly polished ebony. Obviously he, too, had bathed.

  No attempt at shooting game had been made, because they were afraid the noise might alert any nearby Indians. In place of game, Gordon had heated some of the tinned food. She took the plate of refritos and practically raw pork he handed her and wolfed them down.

  A short time later, she lay beside the small fire, watching its smoke curl up toward the early evening stars. The day’s trek, as well as the steam bath, had left her feeling too tired to talk.

  Gordon wasn’t. Stretched out in his bedroll, he turned toward her and propped his head on his fist. “So you don’t think Bingham will be too happy about our arranged marriage between him and Liliana?”

  She scooted farther down inside the cocoon of her blankets. At that elevation, the nights were cold. Even the stars looked like frosty snowflakes. “Hopefully, the concoction I told Albert to give him will keep him too sedated to give the matter much thought.”

  “And after we rescue Diana and get back to Cusarare? What then?”

  “Then we rescue him next.”

  “Mattie, who’s going to rescue you?”

  The tone of Gordon’s voice . . . she turned her head in his direction. The firelight cast a red glow over his face, throwing into relief his broken nose and scarred mouth and the wicked droop of one of his eyelids. “What do you mean?”

  “I have this feeling that all your life you’ve been taking care of others and that the core of you, beneath that scar tissue of your experiences, needs desperately to be rescued.”

  She stirred uneasily beneath the blanket. “Rescued from what?”

  “From going unnoticed. Untouched. Uncared for.”

  She felt close to tears. Something about this man touched her inside. Compassion. And she knew that an important part of that word was passion. “Who’s going to rescue you, Halpern?” she asked softly.

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t need rescuing.”

  “Ye don’t? I think ye need rescuing from yourself. You’re one of those souls who keeps fighting even when fighting is not in your best interest. Me thinks that by not giving up, ye have survived.”

  He looked amazed by her statement, as if he had not given her credit for such insight. “All of which should tell you that I don’t need rescuing,” he said a bit too gruffly.

  “Ye have a keen sense of justice, Halpern. Ye do right by instinct rather than choice—and the thing of it is that you’re not even aware of doing so. I suspect you’ve got a sterling soul.”

  He turned over, presenting his back to her. “You are too trusting,” came his voice in the darkness.

  “Now what do ye mean? I weary of your riddles.”

  “I mean at one point the thought crossed my mind to make an exchange with Nantez: Albert for Diana.”

  She gasped. “How could you do that?!”

  “I’m not so sterling a soul, am I?”

  “I don’t understand, Halpern. I’ve never done anything to hurt you intentionally. How could you—”

  “When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them. Anything. I loved Diana as much as you do Albert.”

  It took a moment for her to register exactly what he had just said. She pushed the blanket back and crawled over to him. “Halpern.” She touched his shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  She was between the firelight and him and could not see his face. “Look at me.”

  He half rolled toward her. His eyes were like black sparkles. “What is it?”

  “Ye said loved, Halpern. That ye loved Diana. Not love.”

  He rolled away from her again. “Go to sleep, Mattie. We’re both tired.”

  “No!” She climbed atop him, straddling him. She wore only a clean shirt, her body totally nude beneath. “No. I want an honest answer. If anything ye speak honestly. With brutal honesty. Ye don’t love Diana, do ye?”

  “I wish I had an answer for you. But I don’t know. I just don’t know. Right now, I don’t know if I ever loved her.” His voice sounded weary. Soul weary.

  She slid down alongside him, seeking his warmth. Seeking his heart. His long, thick hair intermeshed with the wild, wayward strands of her own. “Wasn’t it ye who told me that the soul only lives when the heart really loves? Then love me, Gordon.”

  It was the first time she had used his given name. He knew it, too. She could tell by the sharp intake of his breath. Or maybe it was what she had asked him to do. She repeated her question. Softly, but more passionately. “Love me. Oh, love me, Gordon!”

  She felt his breath, slowly released, on her forehead. She felt his fingers touch her cheek. Find her cheekbone. Follow its line. Search for her lips. Trace the full curve of the bottom one. Linger in the indentation of her upper one. “Even if my heart’s not involved?”

  Her hand cupped the back of his neck. “You men are more romantic fools than women.” She lifted her face and brushed her lips against his. “But it doesn’t matter. If ye can’t love me, then let me love ye. I am not afraid. I don’t have your love, so I have nothing to lose, do I now?”

  He was silent, and she heard the yip-yip of the coyote, calling its mate. Then he said, “Not until I have Diana back. Not until I know w
hat my true feelings are. Maybe she and I will value each other more. I can’t do that to you, Mattie. I know that I was wrong when I tried to coax you into—”

  “Gordon—shut up.” She began kissing him. Her kisses were filled with such hunger that it frightened her. After all these years . . . that was all she could think. After all these years.

  His arm went around her waist, and he pulled her against him with a whispered, “Mattie.” The whisper was a sigh she identified with regret. The sigh of the wind lost.

  Her body’s soft contours melded with his hard lines. Man and woman. Fitting so well, as complements, mirror images. She and Gordon were so opposite, yet so alike. If only she could make him understand this.

  She tried. Tried with the desperation of someone who knew that at the end of the journey, she would come away with a handful of bank notes that would be frittered away. She would lose something that was abstract but all the more substantial, the love of a man for a woman.

  “Touch me, Gordon.” She took his hand and moved it up to her cheek. “See. I am flesh. I am real. I am ye.”

  A frown gathered at the outer corners of his eyes. Either he was perplexed by her statement or he didn’t want to hear any more.

  “Gordon, don’t ye see that we are reverse reflections of one another’s lives—rags to riches and riches to rags?” She turned her face slightly, so that her lips could kiss his palm. “But ’tis more than that. I am both your hopes and your fears. As ye are mine. To run away from this is to run away from ourselves.”

  “And if I let myself love you?”

  “Stop trying to see the future, Gordon. Just love me as ye would another human being. Hold me against the darkness, the unseen. Tomorrow will take care of itself. I can love ye with all of me—and bless ye and send ye on your way with your Diana. So just hold me.”

  He did that. Held her. Throughout the night they lay enfolded together. And sometime in the night, he slept.

  Mattie did not sleep. She loved him. Loved him so fully with all her will, and only her will.

  Here was a man who had never been loved. Here was a woman who wanted only to give love. Here, deep in Copper Canyon, deep in their hearts, was love.

  When, with the dawn and the chirping of the magpie, his eyes opened, she saw in them something new. Wonder? Serenity? Appreciation? She wasn’t sure.

  Slowly, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. “My medicine woman. You are indeed a healer.”

  That was enough for her. In silence, they dressed and prepared to leave the enchanted spot. Like magnets, their gazes were drawn again and again to each other. As she buckled the fleece-lined saddle strap, her eyes locked with his as he tied his bedroll to his saddle. They both smiled. We have today, she thought. I cannot complain. We have at least today, and maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

  The journey continued: times beyond counting of traversing the rims of wild ravines; here and there, clearings and meadows in dense forest of pine, hemlock, and oak; thousand-foot descents that took a mere forty-five minutes and demanded all their horsemanship skills; boulder-strewn canyon floors.

  They were so close to the Place of the Eagles, they did not want to spend the night on the trail. Without pausing for meals, they rode, and walked, leading their mounts where necessary.

  The Place of the Eagles was at the dead-end of a trail in the depths of the Rio Cusarare. One could not go any farther.

  When she sighted the hulking, eerie stone monoliths shaped like mushrooms, parasols, and pagodas, memories flooded into her mind. “I came past these formations the night I fled Nantez.”

  Gordon studied her through the fringe of his incredibly long lashes. “What happened that night to cause you to flee? After all that you had gone through, why that night, Mattie?”

  “There had been a celebration of a raid soon to be staged against the town of Galeana. A ceremonial war dance. Nantez and his warriors had gotten drunk during the festivities.”

  “A war dance?”

  She kneed her horse, nudging it onward, but at a slower pace now. She was not anxious to arrive at the Netdahe camp before dark. “The purpose for the dance was to recruit volunteers for the raid of Galeana—and to stir up a fighting spirit.”

  Gordon’s mount trotted alongside at the same slow pace. “With Nantez’s temperament, I would imagine that war dances were a common thing.”

  “There was another excuse for the dance. It was for the benefit of young Indian boys who wanted to become warriors. They had to practice this dance as if it were a real battle.”

  “Ahhh.” He said no more, but she knew he understood what she was trying to say.

  “That night, everyone in camp had been invited to witness the exciting spectacle. A bonfire had been built that night in the center of a large cleared circle, around which the tribal members had gathered.”

  She could still feel the heat of the blaze. And the old terror. Whenever Nantez drank, he was abusive.

  “Ten paces west of the fire sat four or five men who had thumped tom-toms and pounded a sheet of stiff rawhide. During this time, they sang a high-pitched, eerie chant. It reminded me of bagpipe music that me father used to play.

  “From time to time, the drummers would call out the name of some prominent warrior, who would then step forth from the crowd and strut around the fire while the singers praised his bravery and deeds in battle. This was the signal for other men who wished to take the warpath to join this man in the promenade and later to serve under his leadership during the raid.

  “Finally, when it seemed likely that all brave and eligible fighters had joined the war party, the men formed a line on the opposite side of the circle from the drummers. Then the warriors advanced toward the drummers in leaps and zigzag motions—as if in a real raid. Brandishing their weapons, yelling, writhing like they were possessed . . . then suddenly they stopped and shot their guns or bows and arrows over the heads of the singers.”

  “A grand finale of sorts, eh?”

  “The war dance was very realistic and exciting, especially to the young boys like Albert. They loved to stage sham battles in imitation of their elders.”

  “Something happened with Albert, didn’t it?”

  She squinted her eyes against the afternoon’s blinding sunlight. The limestone walls of the canyon intensified its brightness. “Nantez singled out one of the boys. Nah-de-gaa was fatherless and had a club foot. He rode horses with the skill of a plains Comanche. But Apaches don’t need to rely on horses in mountains and canyons.”

  “So, this boy with the club foot was a hindrance to the Netdahes?”

  “Not that much. But Nantez did not tolerate a weak body—or a weak heart. I learned that in me first month of captivity.

  “Anyway, by the time the boys took part in the ceremony, he was quite drunk.” Her voice dropped an octave. “He instructed them to practice their warfare skills on Nah-de-gaa. No one stepped forward to contradict Nantez. He would have smote anyone who dared. I watched the other boys rain half-hearted blows on Nah-de-gaa. Albert was among them.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I became sick. Sick with the scene. Sick with meself for not interfering. At last, Nantez called off the boys. Called off the dogs, because that was how they were acting. Like camp dogs.

  “And that was when you decided to run away?”

  “I knew the warriors would drink themselves into a stupor. I waited ’til the entire camp was asleep. Then I roused Albert. He didn’t want to go. He started to cry. I was afraid he would waken someone.”

  She paused, filling her lungs with air. “I . . . I gagged him with a headband. Gagged me own son. I felt so terrible doing this, but I could not bear to watch Albert become the animal Nantez is. I think I would rather Albert and meself both dead.”

  Gordon said nothing, but she noticed his hand tightening knuckle-white around his reins.

  “I half-carried Albert, half-dragged him, from the camp. Then it seemed like I ran. Ran and ran with him in tow. Even tho
ugh he was just five years old, he was no wee thing. A heavy burden, he was. By the light of dawn, I could see those formations we just passed. I kept them in me sight as a beacon. ‘If I can just reach those,’ I’d tell meself, ‘then I can rest.’”

  She allowed herself a slight smile. “I was so afraid of what Nantez would do when he caught up with me—for taking his son—I reached the formations and kept going. Running, walking, running again. Always moving. I tried to hide me tracks the way the Apaches did. Walking in water when I could. Trailing a small bush behind me. Walking backward in me footsteps. Whatever. As near as I can reckon, we reached the border two weeks later.”

  “I knew I picked the right person for the job.”

  She glanced over at Gordon. He was smiling. Admiration glinted in those warm brown eyes. “Did ye now?” she teased, glad to be finished with the story of her escape.

  “I remember the first moment I saw you, Mattie. The way you entered Kee’s dining room. You had a certain arrogance, as if you feared nothing and no one and knew your place in God’s order of things. Your outspokenness announced your honesty. Your manners that bordered on crudity—”

  At this, she laughed.

  He went on. “I’ve been around, Mattie. I’ve learned to spot a sham. You are a sham. Your outer crudity protects your innate gentility.”

  His opinion touched the core of her. He was far more perceptive than most anyone she knew.

  “I figured that there were a number of qualified people I could hire as a scout,” he continued. “But if I had to spend several weeks in the desolate wilds of Mexico, I could think of no one as interesting as you were. And an excellent study for my sketches.”

  “Ah, then I was merely a diversion for ye?”

  Before he could reply, she held up her hand for silence. A birdcall trilled. It was only one of the growing chorus that began at evening. But this one was different. She couldn’t distinguish in what way. She just knew. “We may have been sighted,” she whispered.