Rocky Mountain Discipline

by Lee Savino

“Let me see her,” Francesca ordered in a shaking voice. One of the neighbors held the baby, trying to soothe the child.

  “No,” the butcher roused enough to say. “Do not go near my wife.”

  Ignoring him, Francesca pushed to Camila’s side, Sebastian just behind. People made room.

  “Señora, she is gone,” one of the neighbor’s said.

  “Oh, Camila, please.” Francesca’s hands danced over the woman, checking the woman. “I don’t understand. You were weak, but healthy. The babe was healthy.”

  “There was too much blood,” Pepe said.

  “The herbs I gave her would help. And did she nurse the baby?”

  “She put the baby aside and would not take her.”

  The baby still screamed. “Find a wet nurse, now.” Francesca waved furiously at the neighbors, before turning back to the mother.

  A crowd had gathered in the house, people peeking in with faces curious and sad.

  “Where were you when she needed you?” Francesca screamed at one of the neighbors, who hurried away.

  “Darling.” Sebastian tried to soothe his wife. “It’s over. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “She was fine,” Francesca cried. “She could have lived.”

  A ripple in the crowd, and people parted for the large man in robes

  “You.” The Bishop pointed a finger at Francesca. “The witch did this.”

  Before Sebastian knew it, he’d crossed the room, and cracked his fist into the priest’s face. The man staggered back and almost fell into the street, but the neighbors caught him, their faces angry.

  “Get him out of here.” Sebastian turned on his heel and went back in the room, feeling sick at the stench of death.

  Francesca was on her knees next to the dead woman, covered in blood, moaning.

  “Madre, please, no,” she prayed. “What have I done?”

  “Francesca, darling.” He knelt and tried to draw her up. “It’s over, there’s nothing you can do.”

  Pepito stood nearby, his little face stricken.

  “No,” Francesca cried. “No, no, no, no.”

  “Yes, it’s over. Please, my darling.” He tried to pull her away, and when she resisted, he lifted her in his arms.

  He carried his weeping wife past the silent neighbors. The priest had disappeared.

  As he crossed the fields to the hacienda, the church bells began to toll for the dead.

  “Put me down.” Francesca pushed at him. He set her on her feet and watched as she took a few tottering steps ahead of him, then fell to her hands and knees. “Madre, madre, it cannot be,” she moaned, her hands ripping up the dirt.

  “My darling, come here—” Sebastian crouched beside her.

  “It cannot be,” Francesca wailed, raising her tear stained face to the sky. “She was alive she was well. Her babe was healthy. What have I done? Oh, madre what have I done?”

  “Come here.” Sebastian scooped her up again, and loped on long legs the rest of the way to the hacienda. She shuddered in his arms.

  “Help me, Ana,” Sebastian said as he entered the garden. “She needs us.”

  Ana dropped the bucket of water and scrub brush she was carrying to the apothecary, and hurried ahead of him.

  He went straight to the bedroom and laid Francesca on the bed.

  “Camila?” Ana asked.

  Sebastian shook his head, and stepped back as the woman took his wife into her arms.

  He went to the dining room, downing a stiff drink before pouring one for Francesca. Juan stepped inside.

  “She knows the news of Camila?” Juan asked. They could hear Francesca weeping and Ana comforting her.

  “Just got back. Bloody shame.”

  “Terrible, señor.”

  “The villagers, they think Francesca did something.”

  Sebastian cursed. “She did nothing wrong. The woman was healthy when we left after the birth.

  “There is talk that she admitted guilt. At the bedside.”

  “She was upset. You know her. She will always wish she did more. But I was there the whole time, Juan, and nothing was wrong. The butcher now, that man is a suspect.” He was so upset, he downed Francesca’s drink. “He may very well have mistreated his wife.”

  “Pepe isn’t friendly but he is respected. And some would say a wife belongs to her husband to do with as he pleases.”

  “Who says that?” Sebastian demanded.

  “Bishop Bernardo—”

  “Bishop Bernardo be damned.” Sebastian cursed, and cursed again at Juan’s widened eyes. Leaving the head vaquero standing in shock, he went to the bedroom to take Ana’s place. The house matron left to prepare some food while Sebastian curled himself around his wife’s sobbing form.

  “Shhh, shhh, my darling,” he soothed until she quieted. “You did all you could.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” she said in a broken voice. “I thought something was wrong in that household, but said nothing. And when he sang to his child—” Tears choked her.

  “I know, I know.” Sebastian kissed his wife’s hair, and set his chin on top of her head. “You’re all right, darling. Just let go and rest for now. You can grieve. I’m here.”

  Late evening found Sebastian smoking in the garden. His heart felt heavy at the turn of events. The dead mother, his wife a target of a gang and a religious vendetta, the drought—it all seemed to be coming to a head.

  He started when Cage came into the garden.

  “Evening, boss.” Cage refused Sebastian’s silent offer of a smoke. “Been a long day.”

  For a while, the silence lay heavy between them. Then Cage sighed. “Something came for you, while you were out.”

  Striking a match for light, Sebastian read the telegram. Silent, he read it again. He felt cold all over, but his cheeks burned.

  “What is it?” Cage asked.

  Jaw clenched tight, Sebastian couldn’t answer. He felt a little sick as he read the missive from his father a third time. Will not send funds to support your Spanish whore. Travel fare waiting at Colorado Springs. Return home or be disowned.

  He could hear the exact inflection in his father’s voice, and the rest of the rant. “I sent you to America to teach you not to get caught up with these trollops. At least this one isn’t with child.”

  Lose his inheritance? All the money he would put at Francesca’s disposal, gone in a blink of an eye. He wouldn’t allow it. He could go to England, make things clear to his father. He could fix this, stand up to the duke, be a man.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Quite,” Sebastian said, shoving the telegram into his pocket. “Any other news?”

  Cage looked at him for a moment, assessing his employer before he shared. “Royal Mountain gang is around. Word is it’s being led by two men. Brothers. Bigs and Johnson. Doyle’s death left them the opportunity to take over his holdings, but they ain’t the brightest. They lost the brothel and saloon, and are grasping at any dollar they can. They’re not above extortion.”

  “Or shooting into a widow’s hacienda.”

  “Nope. But this business with the goat.” Cage lowered his voice. “That seems like a local thing.”

  “It is.” Sebastian gave the cathedral one last glance, then turned his stride back toward the hacienda. All around, liars, killers and thieves, and him without his armor, his father’s money.

  He’d have to go to England to fetch it. He had no choice.

  Sebastian woke the next morning and found his wife up, sitting in the garden. Barefoot, with her hair unbound, she looked terribly young and vulnerable. Some of that sparkling passion had ebbed away.

  Grabbing a blanket, he went and placed it around her shoulders.

  “Good morning, my darling.”

  “Is it?” she asked tiredly. There were dark half moons under her eyes. “My world is falling apart. You are the only solid ground.”

  Settling down beside her, he pulled her close.

  “I’m here for you,
” he said, and felt himself a liar. The telegram burned a hole in his pocket. He had to tell her that no funds were coming, that she’d put her faith in the wrong man. “I’m going to help, I swear it.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He searched for a way to ease into the news, and couldn’t find away. “I need to go to England.”

  “What?”

  “Darling, I’m sorry. The money I promised was coming…it’s not. My father won’t send it. He’s threatening to disinherit me unless I return to England.”

  She lay quiet against his chest for a moment.

  Then she said in a small voice, “You’re leaving me?”

  “No, darling, no. Never. I just need to return to England, convince him to give me my rightful share. Then I can return and stay here forever.”

  She stiffened and lifted away from him, staring into his face. “You’re serious. You’re actually thinking of going…now?”

  “Darling, I have no choice. My travel fare is waiting in Colorado Springs. I can go collect it, make the trip to England, be done with it.”

  He could see her fire returning, but her face and voice were stone. “And how long will this take?”

  He shrugged. “As long as it takes…I’ll return as soon as I can. Francesca, do you see, I have to go.”

  “You are more than your father’s money.”

  “I’m doing this to help you, dammit.”

  “I do not need money. I need you.”

  It was his turn to pull away. “To do what? Sit here and watch your crops die? I can leave you here with Juan and Ana, you hunker down and survive. We can rebuild when I return.”

  She shook her head. “If you go, you will not return.”

  “How can you say that? I’ve pledged my life to you. Everything I’ve done has been for your benefit.”

  “And now things are hard and you want to leave. A telegram from your father and you run home. Let me tell you this, James Sebastian Chivington the third, you are more than your father’s money.”

  He could feel his face flush, and hated it. “I know that.”

  “Do you? Because you do not act it.”

  He hardened himself, turning away. “I cannot be the husband you need me to be without my inheritance.”

  “You can. I only need you. I don’t want your money.”

  Whirling he strode close to her, grabbing her shoulders. “Well you need it. You need money. Where are you going to get it? Your farm is failing, Francesca.” He raised his voice. “You and these peasants can’t hold it together, even if you plowed the fields yourself.”

  Her eyes shone with tears of rage. “You sit and judge us. Before you came here, you’d never done a day’s work in your entire life.”

  Sebastian forced himself to answer calmly. “I will not give up my inheritance. It is mine. I am going, and I will return. I will speak to Juan about hiring men to protect the ranch—

  “No, please, mi amor, do not leave me.” She slid to her knees before him. “Please.”

  “I’m not leaving for good, Francesca.” He tried to lift her and she wouldn’t, hanging on to his leg.

  “Do you want me to beg? To show you how much I need you?” she sobbed wildly.

  Sebastian glanced around the garden, suddenly aware they were making a scene. “Darling, please, pull yourself together.”

  “Ah yes,” she said, still on her knees. She dragged a hand across her face to wipe away tears. “Act like a lady, be noble, and pure. Do not feel so much. Where have I heard this before? My father and husband, every man in my life. All my life I’ve tried to obey men who would control me. And where has it gotten me?” She waved a hand, chest heaving with gasping sobs. “A failing ranch, a field full of graves. My enemies rise against me.”

  “Francesca—”

  “No.” She recoiled. “Do not touch me. We are through. I have crawled for you for the last time. You wish to leave, leave. You lied to me. I thought you were a man. You are still a boy, tied to his father’s purse strings. But you are more than just your father’s money. I need you, Sebastian, you.” She grasped his lapels, begging again.

  “Francesca…my father doesn’t approve of our union. But I can convince him.”

  Her face fell. “It will be too late.”

  “How, Francesca? What can I give you? If not money… jokes my wit? My pride?” He caught sight of Ana in the kitchen doorway, watching them with a stricken expression. Francesca’s gaze never left his face.

  “I did not marry you for your money. I married you for you.”

  Now Cage was approaching from the barracks, eyes on the fighting couple.

  “Are you so certain of that?” he muttered, catching her hands in his in an attempt to calm her down.

  She stepped back as if she’d been struck. Immediately he noticed his mistake.

  “Francesca, I didn’t mean it—”

  “Get out,” she said in a shaking voice.

  “Darling—”

  “Get out,” she screamed. “You want to go?” She gestured wildly to the garden wall. “Go. I spit on your money. I don’t need it.”

  She turned on her heel and hurried to Ana, who wrapped her mistress in her arms and pulled her inside the house.

  Sebastian hardened himself to the sounds of sobbing. His wife would cry, then she would see reason. She’d understand it was for the best.

  It wasn’t the best plan, but he couldn’t lose his inheritance. It was all he had to bring to their marriage, besides a growing work ethic and worthless past.

  “Is it true, boss?” Cage sidled up to him, hands in pockets.

  “Oh don’t you start,” Sebastian cursed and headed to the bedroom to pack. The sooner he was gone, the sooner he would return.

  At least, that’s what he told himself.

  As soon as the hacienda faded into the distance, the weight of his new quest hit him. How was he going to convince his father to hand over the money?

  The only way might be to renounce her. It would pain him, but he would still send the money, of course. She could marry Diego. That might be the best for her. He’d never amount to anything, best she discover that now. All the things his father had said about him were true…

  The scent of sage wafted over the field to him, and pulled his memory. Francesca raising her gun to shoot him, then ass up over a log. Riding through the orchard, laughing at him. Striding across the fields to the acequias, snapping orders to the vaqueros. Wrinkling her nose when he came home covered in mud, seducing him in the bath. Waiting for him in the grove, handing him a candle and telling him his past was wiped clean…

  Holding his hand as they crossed the fields at sunset.

  She took what she wanted, and beyond that, she needed nothing more. His father would forever be disappointed, but Francesca bared her body and soul to him every time she knelt, or lay across his lap for him to discipline.

  His life was a meaningless quest without someone to love like that. His money wouldn’t change her feelings one way or another.

  He was halfway across the valley when he stopped his horse.

  “I’m a fool,” he said out loud.

  Cage reined in beside him, but said nothing.

  “I’m a bloody, godforsaken idiot. What am I doing?”

  “Don’t know, boss,” Cage said patiently.

  “I left her. I promised I wouldn’t run at the first spot of trouble, and that’s exactly what I did. What was I thinking?” He glared at Cage. “What the bloody hell were you thinking, letting me leave?”

  “Honest truth?” Cage met his employer’s gaze head on. “I was gonna guide you all the way to Colorado Springs, wait ‘til you collected the travel money, then hit you over the head and take everything you have to help your bride.”

  “Oh, jolly good,” Sebastian breathed.

  “I’d pawn your horse and ridiculous suits, and give the money to Francesca. I’d be in a hurry to get back to the ranch, otherwise, I’d take a horsewhip to you.”
/>   “The least I’d deserve,” Sebastian agreed.

  Cage nodded. “Better than the end you’d meet if your little lady rode after you with a gun.”

  Sebastian’s humor slipped away. “I don’t deserve her.”

  “You don’t if you ride to Colorado Springs. But stick by your woman and do right by her, no matter what. You’ll never deserve her, but she’ll love you anyway.”

  “I don’t understand.” Could she take him back after this? Knowing all the mistakes he’d made, and would make?

  Cage shrugged. “Women are sentimental like that. Motherhood instinct. They love us even when—”

  “When we’re awful little shits?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have to go back,” Sebastian said in a determined tone. “I have no money to pay you, Cage. I don’t expect you—”

  The silver haired man held up a hand. “I’m in it for the long haul. Way I was made.”

  Sebastian took a deep breath and nodded. His whole world was tilting on its axis, but with Francesca at the center, he felt he was right where he needed to be, on solid ground.

  “Just tell me what to do,” Cage continued.

  “Right,” Sebastian said. “I have an idea.”

  When Sebastian reached the hacienda an hour before dusk, he felt noble for the first time in his life. He’d never realized how he’d patterned himself after the duke. If calling women slatterns, using them like whores and abandoning them was what it took to be the sort of man his father respected, he didn’t want to be one. He’d write to his father about his inheritance, telling him to stuff it up his arse, and wash his hands of the whole lot.

  “I’m a free man,” he told his stallion cheerfully, as he galloped through the orchard. “All I have is a horse and my armor, and the love of a lady. Just like a knight of old.”

  His spirits dampened as he strode around the gardens, calling for Francesca. The apothecary door was ajar, so he looked there first. It was empty, so he shut the door carefully and loped off to the hacienda, noting that his wife’s horse was in the stable.

  The kitchen door was locked. Frowning, he pounded on it.

  “Ana!”

  She opened the door, and he took a step back at the furious look on her face.