by Jeanne Rose
Frances Gannon was another reason he'd turned down Magdalena, though he had little if any chance of getting close to the casino owner. Even if she completely forgave him for killing her husband, Frances was a bit too fancy for a man like him to make a fool of himself over. Educated and well-spoken, she was as finely mannered as a Hidalgo woman, if far more open and decent-hearted than most of them. He'd bet she didn't believe in the many serving the few or that you could buy any man with the right price.
Quite a contrast to the arrogant if beautiful Dona Ynez. He wondered if de Arguello or one of the servants had suffered for the snit he'd caused by refusing her.
"Good morning, Magdalena." Luz's greeting brought him out of his musings.
Chaco scanned Magdalena's face for any sign of suppressed anger or furtiveness, seeing neither as the woman greeted everyone cordially and sat down beside Luz and Adolfo. But skinwalkers were known to have two faces.
Luz eyed the Indian blanket Magdalena had draped over one shoulder. "You have been out at the pueblo again?"
"My father's cousin gave me this. She also collected some eagle and hawk feathers for me." She drew a long brown feather from beneath her blanket. "Pretty, yes? Unfortunately, I will not be able to visit the pueblo again for quite some time."
"Why not?" asked Luz. "Did you make someone angry?"
Magdalena shook her head. "The Indians fear a diablera is stalking them. If I go there, I might be in danger."
Chaco immediately focused on the word. "Diablera?"
"You heard about the murder?" asked Magdalena.
"Which murder?" There was a killing every once in a while, what with the army stationed in town and the railroad bringing in new people.
Magdalena looked solemn. "This was no gunfight or stabbing. A few weeks ago, a young Navajo man was found dead in an irrigation ditch. His throat had been torn out by an animal, while the other marks around him seemed to be human." Now that she had everyone's rapt attention, she lowered her voice to a hushed tone. "A footprint was left in the soil nearby. But worse, a hand print had been burned into his flesh!"
"A-i-y, Dios!" muttered Adolfo, his eyes round.
While Chaco's skin crawled. Once again, he envisioned the wolf-creature. "A skinwalker." And the murder meant the witch obviously had other victims to stalk. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. "Who was this man exactly?"
"His name?" Magdalena turned her steady, unsmiling gaze on him. "I only know that he was from the reservation north of here."
Chaco didn't see what he and the man would have in common, then, unless it was Indian blood. He stared at Magdalena.
"The Navajo's relatives are certain the murderer was a witch," she went on. "Everyone on the northern reservation is afraid."
Luz cut in, "But how does this concern the Pueblos who live closer to Santa Fe?"
"They lost a young man several years ago, a similar death. They are afraid, too." Magdalena added, "I only hope they do not begin suspecting everyone who acts in the least bit different -- the reason I must stay away. I have heard of a pueblo south of here that reduced their village to five or six people."
"A purge." Chaco had also heard of that incident. "People go crazy and start thinking their neighbors caused a crop failure or somebody's death. They kill each other instead of listening to a wise person." A spiritual leader of some kind was part of every pueblo or tribe. "They need to have some sense talked into them. Not everyone is a diablera."
"What is this about witches?" Coming out of one of the doorways opening onto the placita, Frances approached.
Adolfo immediately leaped to his feet. Chaco wasn't good at social niceties, something Frances probably expected from a man. She glanced at him quickly before she took a seat at the opposite end of his bench.
Magdalena went into the whole tale about the pueblo and the murder again.
Frances looked horrified. "How terrible! Especially that innocent people may suffer at the hands of their own tribe. The Indians have problems enough with the U.S. government persecuting them."
She was taking the side of the Indians? That was certainly unusual for an Anglo woman.
"Do Anglos believe in witches?" Magdalena asked.
Behind the group, Chaco noticed Sophie entering the placita. She leaned against one of the little shade trees to listen.
"I certainly can't speak for everyone," said Frances, "but I haven't heard much about the subject until arriving here. There were the Salem witch trials, of course. The Puritans in Massachusetts tried and executed several people about a hundred years ago."
Sophie stirred and murmured, "Witchcraft is very much older than that."
"Except I don't think the Salem executions were really about witchcraft," Frances said. "Those people were victims of religious fanaticism."
"Perhaps the Puritans were ridding their group of people who followed the Old Religion." Sophie's voice was soft with French accent. "Indians said prayers to gods and made spells long before the Spanish ever came to New Mexico. People did the same in Europe before churches were ever built. And Africans brought voodoo to this country."
"Obviously, you believe in witches," Frances remarked.
"I have seen the proof," Sophie told her. "People who fall down dead when a voodoo queen casts an evil eye on them, witches who are possessed by gods and lift things twice their own size." She added, "The important question is not whether there are witches but whether a witch is good or evil."
Just then, Belle came out to call the girls inside. They left, chattering amongst themselves.
Frances rose as well. "My bookwork awaits."
Though disappointed that she meant to leave so fast, Chaco couldn't think of an excuse that would keep her hanging around. "How about a riding lesson tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow would be fine."
"Around noon."
At least that would give him something to look forward to rather than spending his time brooding about some witch who might be after his skin.
HORSEBACK RIDING wasn't as easy as it looked. Chaco claimed the little sorrel mare he'd picked out was gentle, but Frances was having difficulties anyway. Not that the horse tried to run away with her. She merely couldn't get comfortable.
"Move farther up in the saddle," Chaco ordered as they walked their animals across a ridge outside the town. "And try to keep your hands light. You have to feel the horse's mouth."
Frances frowned. "Feel the animal's mouth?"
"Through the reins. For one thing, you need to gauge how hard to pull to get her to stop."
"You can't just say whoa?"
Chaco grinned. "Horses aren't dogs. They won't obey your voice. Where did you get that idea anyhow?"
"From carriage drivers. Are you making fun of me?" His little smirk annoyed her. "Don't forget this is my first time on a horse."
"I know. I didn't mean to make fun." He offered, "You can laugh at me when I'm trying to read."
"That would hardly be nice." As a teacher, she felt it her duty to be encouraging. "And it wouldn't be true." Chaco was quick and intelligent. "You're picking up reading and writing quite well."
In a way, however, she'd made fun of him the day she'd implied he was a big donkey. He'd been a good sport about that, so she should try to be less irritable now. Even if she couldn't help but feel that straddling a horse was slightly obscene. The split skirt she'd borrowed from Belle covered her adequately, but having her legs stretched so far apart felt distinctly unladylike. Not to mention suggestive.
"Most women travel by wagon or carriage back east," she told Chaco, making an excuse for her awkwardness. "But then, there are more roads."
"What about sidesaddles?"
"Women ride that way through the parks in Boston, though I've never tried it myself."
"Sounds kind of stupid to me," Chaco insisted. "How could you give the horse signals -- or feel his mood -- if you don't have your legs around him?"
"Maybe the animals are trained in differently."
Frances wondered if she'd ever be able to ride half as well as he did. In rhythm with the buckskin, he and his mount moved as one when he turned the horse onto a downhill trail. Disliking the ground falling away so abruptly, she stiffened when the sorrel mare followed. She didn't want to lose her balance and tumble off.
"Lean back in the saddle when you're going downhill," Chaco yelled, sounding amused.
Did he have eyes in the back of his head?
"And lean forward when you're going uphill," he went on. "You don't want to get the horse off-balance."
Heaven forbid! The animal would be even more likely to fall. Heart in her throat, Frances tried to relax a bit. A short piece later, the ground straightened and led into a blue-green copse of firs.
Chaco reined in and circled, then walked his mount beside her. "Are you getting sore yet?"
"Excuse me?" That certainly sounded lewd. And his meaningful glance at her rear made her want to blush.
"We can rest for awhile if you want."
"That sounds wonderful." Though she longed to master riding as much as she wanted to feel at ease around Chaco. "I only hope I can mount again."
"I'll give you another boost."
Meaning he'd have his hands on her leg again. No matter how she tried to steel herself, Frances was fully aware of each and every place he touched her. After dismounting, he helped her down out of the saddle. She felt the warmth of his hand at her waist where her short jacket rose to expose her blouse. Corsetless, she could count the imprint of each finger and a thrill shot up her spine. She tried to ignore it as she struggled to walk on land again.
"Whew! I am a bit sore."
"And you'll be stiff tonight."
"I'll soak in a warm bath."
She couldn't believe the images that conjured, unfortunately all involving Chaco, her suggestive state of mind probably the result of her short marriage. Having slept with a man had left her with certain appetites, and whether she liked it or not, she found Chaco particularly attractive. Even the memory of Nate's shooting couldn't douse her explicit thoughts about the man responsible, much to her shame.
"There's a nice view over here," said Chaco, tying the horses to some low branches.
He led her down a path through the trees and out onto a rocky overlook. Santa Fe lay in the wide valley below them, a great cluster of buildings surrounded by terra cotta hills and the more distant loom of blue mountains. Smoke rose from several chimneys, the breeze bringing the scent of burning pinon logs.
Frances could smell fresh pinon where she stood now, a greener, sharper odor. She sat down on a big boulder, while Chaco eased himself down on a log some feet away.
"You're doing pretty well for your first time." He smiled, the skin crinkling about his eyes.
The expression softened his face but also made him look a little older. Frances guessed he was his mid-thirties, though it shouldn't matter to her. Chaco intrigued her, her interest going beyond the wild and exotic cast of his Indian and Spanish features. He exuded quiet strength and intelligence that had nothing to do with book-learning. He was so innately competent, so discerning, so lacking in fear, she could understand why people had hired him to guard them and why troublemakers feared him.
"So how do you like New Mexico Territory?" he asked.
She'd grown so used to his taciturn personality, Francis was always surprised when he initiated conversation. She gazed down at Santa Fe, its zig-zag of red-brown dirt roads a crude map.
"It's a fascinating place. The bright sunlight is beautiful and so is the clear blue sky. And I love the mountains surrounding us."
"You can reach those mountains in a few hours ride."
"I'm looking forward to being able to do that."
"We'll take a day and head for the Sangre de Cristos whenever you're ready."
A whole day in his company? Not certain that would be wise, she raised her brows.
"If that's all right, with work and all."
At least he wasn't forgetting she was his employer. She needed to remember that as well, to keep some sort of upper hand. And while she wanted to put the past behind her, she had to remember she was in mourning.
"We'll see."
She took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air as she listened to the heavy branches soughing in the wind.
"Do you like living at the Blue Sky?" he asked.
"I had to do some adjusting, get used to the idea of the Gentlemen's Club."
"You don't usually find school teachers in that kind of place." Barely hesitating, he inquired, "How did you and...Mr. Gannon get together anyway?"
He was certainly being direct. And casual about the man he'd killed, accident or no.
"Nate wasn't exactly honest with me," she said a little stiffly. "He told me he owned a hotel and a restaurant in Santa Fe."
"I see."
"I was startled when I met Belle." Not to mention stunned by having to deal with Nate's untimely end the very same day. "And I admit I was shocked when I found out about the Blue Sky. But I had nowhere else to stay." She added, "I've come to realize that Belle's ladies are doing what they believe they must to earn a living. But I hope that situation will change as did yours. Did you like being a gunfighter?"
"It paid better than cow-punching."
"So you also needed to earn a living." She would hate to think the violence had attracted him. He'd claimed he'd never shot anyone unless he had to.
"I got plenty tired of the job after a while. I don't mind watching someone's back but all out war is another story. A lot of blood is being shed down south." He stared down at the valley, his profile sharp against the sky. "The men who were trading shots with me in Galisteo Junction were some of The Boys, one of the gangs from Lincoln County."
She hadn't even thought about the reason for the gunfight.
"I quit the Double Bar, the job I had, after that happened."
And after he'd shot Nate.
Was Chaco implying that the incident had affected him so deeply that he'd reevaluated his life? He wasn't the sort of man to say so outright, but that thought somehow made Frances feel better. A little of the weight she'd been carrying around lifted from her heart.
"Violence seems to be more acceptable here than out East," she said. "I don't like that aspect of the West."
"The mix of people...all the change going on...when the wind switches directions too many times, it brings up storms."
As they sat above Santa Fe, Frances spotted a cavalry unit riding down from the hills. The westering sun glinted from shiny objects – buckles, epaulets, swords, rifles.
"Are they coming back from manuevers?"
"Probably, or else they've been chasing Indians back onto the reservation."
The mention of Indians being treated like criminals brought up a whole host of unwelcome memories. "Do the Indians escape a lot?"
"Once in a while. They're getting used to being penned up."
"How awful." She shook her head in sympathy. "At least they're living on the land they grew up on." Not being shipped away like the Indians she remembered from her childhood. "If that's any consolation."
"The Chiricahua Apaches southwest of here are still a problem," Chaco said. "They haven't given up their freedom yet. They can cover a lot of territory if they want to and they raid ranchos every once in a while."
"Isn't Geronimo a Chiricahua?" She'd heard of the great chief, even back East. "Everyone is frightened of him."
"With good reason. He's been on the warpath ever since the Mexican Army killed his family." He looked straight at her. "Real name's Goyahkla, and he's my uncle."
Her eyes widened. So Chaco descended from the wildest and wiliest group of Apaches. Had he inherited his toughness and fierce self-possession from them?
"Have you ever met him?" she asked.
"Coupla times. When I was a boy, my mother used to take me to the Chiricahua camps in the summer. We traveled south in 1851, not long after my uncle's family was massacred. While he mourned beside
a river for his mother and wife and three children, he heard a voice call 'Goyahkla' four times – four's a magic number to an Apache – and the voice said he would never be killed by a bullet."
Not exactly knowing what to think about people who heard voices, she tactfully asked, "He had a vision?"
"Something like that." Chaco's expression was rapt, faraway.
"And you believe it, I see."
"Why not? I've had a few visions myself." He explained, "They were dreams, actually, or feelings that something was going to happen."
"Premonitions?" She could accept that. Again, as with Ruby when they'd discussed Magdalena's predictions, she asked, "Did they come true?"
"Yes." The answer was decisive, unequivocal.
Which fascinated Frances even more. Chaco had abiding faith in his own intuition. That probably also added to his aura of strength.
"You haven't had visions or dreams yourself?" he asked, turning to look at her.
She shook her head. "Even if I did, I'm afraid I lack the faith to believe in them."
"Why?"
"My father was a minister – "
"A type of holy man."
"Supposedly." She went on hurriedly, "But he was very overbearing and I didn't agree with all of his ideas. I thought some of the church's rules and attitudes were more harmful than good and said so. After my honesty created a rift with my own father, I had trouble believing in anything."
"What were these ideas you didn't agree with?"
"Well, the excessive strictness of following every rule for its own sake, for one. It didn't seem like anyone should be joyful or the least bit spontaneous. I also didn't agree with the attitude toward some people, like women...or Indians."
Chaco nodded. "Yesterday, you said you thought the government persecuted Indians."
How well she remembered. Scenes from her childhood often haunted her at unexpected times.
"My father served in a reserve camp when I was a child. The government was shipping Indians out west away from their homes. A terrible situation. And my father and other missionaries thought the Indians deserved to be treated no better than cattle because they weren't Christian."
