by Kaki Warner
Eleven
WITH SAVAGE EFFICIENCY, JACK SADDLED THE LIVELY chestnut gelding he’d ridden in from Redemption back in what seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered, pulling the cinch strap snug against the horse’s belly. “Sonofabitch.” How could things go so wrong so fast? It seemed every time he opened his damned mouth, he found himself choking on his own foot—or her fist. The woman had a helluva swing.
“Running off?”
He glanced up to see Hank peering over the stall door.
Lifting the bridle from a hook, Jack slipped the bit between the chestnut’s teeth. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Thinking? Then maybe I should come along so you don’t hurt yourself.”
“Go to hell.”
Chuckling, Hank pushed away from the door. “Let me saddle up first.”
They rode without speaking, Jack setting a hard pace in a westerly direction toward Blue Mesa and the steep trails that wound up the southeast face. He needed to get out of this valley, to find a high place so he could see past the peaks that felt like they were closing in on him a little more every day. He needed to reassure himself that the world was still out there, beyond these sloped canyons and looming mountains. He needed to breathe.
He might have ridden straight on to the ocean if his horse could have held up to the pace. Reluctantly, he reined back to a walk so the winded animal could catch its breath.
Hank pulled in beside him. They rode for another couple of miles before his brother finally broke the long silence. “What happened to your eye?”
Lifting a hand, Jack touched the ridge of his cheekbone, wincing as his fingertips found the puffy tenderness of a rising bruise. Damn hardheaded woman. “Ran into something.”
“Daisy, I’m guessing.”
Jack looked over.
Hank shrugged. “I recognize the knuckle marks. What’d you do this time?”
Jack ignored the question. He didn’t want to talk about Daisy. Or Kate. Or the fact that all his carefully constructed strategies and rationalizations had been driven back down his throat by one small, well-aimed fist.
Hank dropped back to stay clear of the dust as Jack’s horse started up the long switchback trail to the ledge that overlooked the valley. Every step felt like a move backward in time until Jack found himself reliving that fateful morning almost a quarter century ago, just before his seventh birthday, when he saw RosaRoja for the first time. Was that when everything had started to go wrong?
He remembered it had been cold. He and his older brothers slept in bedrolls on the ground under the wagon their parents and baby brother, Sam, shared and he had been trying to stay close to Hank to stay warm. Hank was like an oven, and he didn’t mind Jack sharing his heat the way Brady did.
At thirteen, Brady had been as gangly and rawboned as a new colt. He’d always needed a lot of space around him and didn’t like being crowded. Maybe he’d sensed, even then, the burdens that would be placed upon him someday, and was just trying to find room to stretch while he still could.
It had been just before dawn when Pa had nudged each of them awake. “Dress,” he’d said, tossing a bundle of clothing onto the ground beside their bedrolls. “And don’t wake your ma and Sam.”
Shivering as the night air sliced through his worn unions, Jack opened the bundle.
Hell and damnation. New clothes!
He glanced at his brothers and saw they had new clothes too. Grinning in the darkness, he quickly put them on—a blue shirt, dungarees so stiff they scratched going on, a new red kerchief, and a black, flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hat exactly like the one he had admired in the window of Hargrove’s Emporium when they’d driven through El Paso three days before. There was even a pair of shiny new boots too.
Jack almost hopped a circle, he was so happy. He hadn’t had new store-bought clothes in almost forever. He liked the way the new cloth felt, and the way it smelled, and the rustling sound the stiff dungarees made when he walked.
He was strutting for his brothers when Pa walked up leading Pat and Moe and Little Joe, the saddle horses he and his brothers rode. Jack noticed his father had on new clothes too. None of them had ever looked so grand.
Pa handed over their horses, then leaving Buck and Iantha to watch over Ma and baby Sam, Pa led Jack and his brothers on foot away from the campsite.
Except for the crunch of their footfalls on loose pebbles and a coyote’s yodel bouncing along the ridges, it was so quiet Jack could hear Little Joe breathing at his shoulder. The stars had begun to fade, and as the faint purple tint behind the eastern ridges grew brighter, shadows emerged from the darkness—spindly-armed cactus, lacy mesquite, his father’s broad form. Just above their heads, wispy bands of smoke from last night’s fire hung in the still air, while underfoot, tendrils of morning mist clung to their new boots like lost clouds. To Jack, it was like moving through a dream.
They walked until the sky lightened enough that they could see the ground from horseback, then they mounted and rode at a brisk walk toward the flat-topped shadow of a mesa looming in the dawning sky.
Jack wasn’t sure where his father was taking them, or why he’d given all of them these fine new clothes, but he didn’t ask. Pa didn’t welcome questions. If he wanted you to know something, he told you.
Jack didn’t mind. He was just glad to be away from the crowded wagon they’d called home for the last three months, glad to be out and doing something, rather than waiting for Pa to finish his business so they could move on to the new ranch he said he’d gotten them. Jack liked traveling. And even though they’d already covered over a thousand miles since Missouri, he would gladly have gone a thousand more, just to see what was over the next hill.
He glanced at his father’s profile. It was a sharp face, almost mean, with pale, far-seeing eyes that could cut right through a person’s skull. The short beard was new. Brady said Pa had grown it to cover the scar he’d gotten fighting in the Mexican War, and Jack thought it added greatly to the fierceness of his expression. He couldn’t wait to grow one. People might think Pa was as hard as one of those rocky spires pointing straight up to God, but Jack was proud to be his son.
After an hour of riding, they started up a long switchback trail. Riding drag, as usual, Jack caught most of the dust churned up by the horses’ hooves, so he tied his new neckerchief up over his nose and mouth in the bandito way. It made him feel sneaky and dangerous. He just hoped his new hat wasn’t getting too dusty.
The trail was long and steep, and every now and then, his father would stop to let the horses blow, and each time, Jack would take advantage of the brief rest to study the land around him.
There was a lot to see. Mountains all around. Fat lizards, great, dark-winged buzzards, prickly cactus, and snakes that left odd, twisting tracks in the dust. This place was as different from Missouri as anything he could imagine, but Jack liked it just the same. There was a wildness about it that appealed to him, an openness that made him want to shout as loud as he could, just to hear the echo of his own voice bouncing back at him. It was a grand place.
Pa must have felt the same. “It’s formidable country,” he said during one of their stops to rest the horses. He was leaning forward in the saddle, his crossed forearms resting on the saddle horn, his pale eyes slitted against the early morning sun.
“Yes sir, it is,” Brady agreed.
When Pa spoke, it was mostly to Brady, so it was usually Brady who answered. Hank wasn’t much of a talker, and Jack always worried that if he spoke up and brought attention to himself, Pa might be reminded of how young he was and send him away from whatever it was they were doing. So usually he just listened and watched.
“Country worth fighting for, I’d think,” Pa went on.
“Yes sir.” Brady hesitated, then dared to ask, “Is this where you fought the Mexicans?”
“Not yet.”
Jack wasn’t sure what that meant. From the puzzled expressions on his brothers�
� faces, they didn’t either. But rather than ask questions that might sound stupid, Jack took off the new hat and brushed away dust that had caked along the tooled leather band. Aware that his father watched him, he looked over and grinned. “I sure like this new hat. And the new clothes too.”
“A man needs to look his best on the important days.”
“Is this an important day?”
“It is. Mark it well.” Then with one of his almost-smiles, his father straightened and nudged his horse up the trail.
The higher they climbed, the more excited Jack became. He sensed something waiting just over the ridge ahead, something so monumental and perfect and important, it would change his life forever.
At the top, the track flattened out to weave through a stand of pinyon and juniper. When they came to a small rise where the trees were thin, Pa reined in and waited for them to catch up. There was an odd light in his eyes, and when they stopped beside him, he gave one of his rare grins. “Go on, boys,” he said, motioning them ahead. “Take a look at your new home.”
New home! Heart thudding, Jack raced his brothers to the top of the rise. As he hauled Little Joe to a stop, the first thing he noticed was the tree. Huge and droopy, it stood guard on a hilltop at the head of the valley, almost as big as the little graveyard beside it. It was the biggest mesquite Jack had ever seen, but it was nothing compared to the land spreading below it.
Shaped like a huge bowl, the valley stretched for miles, ringed by tall trees and high, rocky peaks. Even with summer full on them, it was as green as the finest Missouri bottomland. A creek lined with cottonwoods ran down the middle of the valley, and beside it, perched on a rocky shelf above flood line, rose a big, two-story house with red flowers blooming all around the foundation. It looked like a picture book painting and was the most beautiful place Jack had ever seen.
“Hell and damnation,” he said in delight.
Brady reached over and thumped the top of his head. “Watch your mouth.”
Jack shied away, afraid Brady would hurt his hat. “You say worse.”
“I’m older.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Shut up,” Hank muttered as Pa rode up. He hated when they fought.
Falling in behind Pa, they headed down toward the house, with Jack, as usual, bringing up the rear. But he didn’t mind. He set his own pace, his head swiveling as he studied his new home.
Home. How was that possible? They were poor. Where had his father gotten the money to buy a place like this?
Straddling the lane leading to the house was a high arched gate. At the top, in fancy iron filigree, were back-to-back R’s. “RosaRoja Rancho,” his father told them as they rode under it. “That’s Mexican for Red Rose Ranch.”
Kind of a girlish name, Jack thought. Hard to say too.
As they drew closer, he saw that the house was even bigger than he had thought: two levels at the center, with one-story wings pointing out back and joined together by a high wall with an open courtyard in the middle. Everything was made of whitewashed adobe—which Pa said was Mexican for mud and straw—and the walls were so thick the windows and doors looked like they were set back at least two feet. They’d make grand places to hide from his brothers, Jack thought, grinning at the prospect. Ma was going to love this place, he decided. Red roses blooming everywhere, nothing like her skimpy flower patch back in Missouri.
A man in white clothes, wearing sandals and a big round Mexican hat, met them as they rode up. At Pa’s nod, Jack and his brothers dismounted, handed their reins to the man, then followed Pa through the courtyard gate.
Once inside, Jack stopped in amazement.
The smell of flowers was so strong it almost made him dizzy. Bright color exploded on every side. Birdsong filled his ears. In the middle of a round raised pool stood the stone figure of a monk with a deer at one side, a lamb at the other. From his outstretched hand hung a wooden cage filled with chirping birds. Their song was unfamiliar to Jack and sounded almost sad.
“They are beautiful, no?”
Turning, Jack saw a small gray-haired man crossing the courtyard. He was old and skinny and over a foot shorter than either Pa or Brady, but he held himself proud, like he had a board strapped to his back. His eyes were as round and black as wet agates and he had a sharp, pointy nose, a thin gray mustache, and even thinner lips. Jack thought he looked mean. But remembering his manners, he forced a smile.
“They come from the deep forests of Mexico.” As he spoke, the old man thumped the birdcage several times with his knuckle, scaring the little birds so bad they threw themselves in panic against the woven bars of the cage. “The mestizos bring them to me.”
“It’s a big song for such a helpless little bird,” Brady said.
Jack recognized the disapproving tone, since Brady directed it at him a lot. But this time, Jack agreed, and wished the man would stop thumping the cage.
“A song of pain,” the old man said with a lizard smile. “My wife tends them but they bring her no joy.” He pinned Pa with his bright unblinking gaze. “They sing best when they have no distractions, so I have them blinded.”
His father’s face showed nothing, but Jack was too shocked to remain quiet. “You put out their eyes? On purpose?”
Pa sent him a shut-up look. His oldest brother’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Jack tried to pull away, but Brady’s grip tightened as he bent to whisper in Jack’s ear. “Not now. We’ll take care of them later.”
How? Jack wanted to ask. They’re already blind and hurt. But he said nothing, knowing better than to speak up against either Pa or Brady, and instead, elbowed his brother hard in the ribs to make him let go.
“I see you survived the war,” the bird-blinder said to Pa.
“As did you.”
The old man shrugged. “I am Spanish, not Mexican. It was not my war.”
“Maybe so. But now you’re an American.” Pa reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and passed it over. “And as an American, you abide by its laws or pay the consequences.”
Frowning, the man took the paper. “What laws?”
“Those in the Hidalgo Treaty. The territorial government sent out notices telling you what you had to do to register your grant. You should have done it.”
“No es importante. I do not recognize this territorial government.”
“Then you’ve got a problem.”
While Pa explained about the treaty and the back taxes he’d paid and how that meant the ranch was now Wilkins land, Jack glared at the bird-blinder, wishing he had a stick to poke out his black eyes. He didn’t want his ranch. He didn’t want anything to do with this place and this bastard sonofabitch bird-blinder. He wished they could just leave. This wasn’t a good place.
He glanced at his brothers, wondering if they felt it too. If they did, they weren’t doing anything about it. Lily-livers.
“You should have heeded the notices, Ramirez,” Pa said. “You were warned this day would come. This ranch is ours now.”
The old man looked about to choke. His face turned red. His eyes bulged.
Jack wished they would pop all the way out so he could stomp them.
“You are wrong,” Ramirez argued in a loud voice. “This land has been in my family for almost one hundred years. It was granted to my great-grandfather by King Charles III himself.” Wadding up the paper, he threw it at Pa’s feet. “I did not fight this war and I am not bound by its treaties.”
“You may not be, but your land is.” His father bent and picked up the paper. After smoothing it out, he shoved it back into his vest pocket and gave the old man that flat, icy stare that always put fear in Jack’s bones. “It’s all legal, Ramirez. You’ve got a month. Use one of the line shacks if you want, but be out of the house when I come back.”
The old man’s face turned the color of freshly skinned meat. He stepped toward Pa, fists clenched.
Jack perked up, knowing no one could take
down his pa in a fair fight. But then the heavy carved door to the house crashed open and everyone whirled as a little girl no older than Jack ran into the courtyard, her face wild with terror.
Elena.
And that was when, for Jack, everything had changed forever.
Even now, almost twenty-five years later, he remembered how perfect she had seemed to him—like a little china doll—even with her bloody legs and skinny arms, and those dark, slanted eyes that seemed too big for her pale, pointed face.
She had run toward him, crying. Chasing after her and swinging a short whip was a boy about Hank’s age but a lot smaller. He had laughed each time the braided leather had cut into her legs.
Jack hadn’t known who she was or why she was being whipped or what he could do to help her, but he hadn’t been about to just stand there and let it happen.
But before he could move, Brady had stepped forward to yank the whip from the boy’s hand. And when Elena had turned those terrified eyes on his big brother, that had been the end of the hunt for Jack.
From then on, it had been Brady.
Always Brady.
But for some reason, on this fine spring day, with the wind rustling through the pines and his cheek throbbing from a blow dealt him by another woman, Elena’s defection didn’t seem to bother Jack as much as it once had. She had made her choices—then and now. And there was nothing he could do about either.
Still, it hurt. And probably always would.
As he and Hank continued up the trail, another thought came, one that shouldn’t have surprised him, but did. Of all the memories of that day that kept circling in his head, the one that haunted Jack most was the warbling song of those poor blind little birds trapped forever in the dark in their wooden cage. Even with all he’d seen and done in his travels, that was still the saddest sound he had ever heard.
