The Devil's Standoff

by V. S. McGrath

  Beatrice smiled faintly at Julia. Hettie didn’t think it would be smart for any of them to go back to the city, but refrained from voicing her thoughts. This was not her problem, she had to remind herself.

  “How did the visit with the soothsayer go?” Raúl asked. “Did she not foresee this arrest?”

  Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “No. She performed the rituals and incantations as she usually does, but her predictions were vague and unconvincing. I paid her, but I wouldn’t trust her information.”

  “You don’t have your own soothsayer?” Hettie asked. Communities often pooled money to consult soothsayers about the outlook for certain periods of time, usually a year or maybe a season. The more precise the prediction, the more expensive the soothsayers’ fees got. Ranchers and farmers couldn’t afford specific information about their own properties, but together they could afford general reports about the weather, droughts, floods, and other looming disasters that might affect their livelihoods.

  Raúl shook his head. “Father used to be able to scry the future. He couldn’t see everything with perfect clarity, but it’s a rare gift for a sorcerer, even of my father’s caliber. Unfortunately, his abilities had dimmed the year before he fell ill.” The reproach in his tone was unmistakably aimed at Walker.

  The bounty hunter caught Hettie’s eye, and he silently warned her not to say anything in his defense. If word about the soothsayers’ blackout got around, the scrying economy would break down, and she was certain Patrice did not want that. She wasn’t sure their contract spell prevented her from mentioning it, but she wasn’t about to test it.

  Dinner gave way to dessert, coffee, and cigars. Despite Julia’s best efforts to include Hettie and Abby, conversation revolved mostly around village goings-on. Raúl seemed to relish the ability to inform his brother of everything he’d missed, from the births of firstborns to the deaths of elders. It didn’t escape her notice that Walker was tight-lipped about his thirteen years away. Only when Abby started yawning did they finally have an opportunity to make their excuses.

  “You look dead on your feet.” Beatrice peered into Hettie’s face. “Are you sure you’re well?”

  “I just need rest.”

  The healer put a papery palm over her forehead. She frowned. “No fever, but I’m not convinced you’re not coming down with something. Come and see me tomorrow. I want to make sure you haven’t been infected with blood poison from your finger.”

  “Apologies, but I have a few things I must see to in my workshop.” Raúl stood.

  Beatrice gave a stiff nod, one of many she’d acknowledged her stepson with that evening. “Walker, please escort the ladies back to the great house. Julia and I will clean up.”

  They said their goodbyes. It was a balmy evening, the air perfumed with rich, spicy aromas from other celebratory dinners. A pair of men who’d been in the posse sat smoking pipes on the porch of a house, and they waved at Walker as they passed, and tipped their hats to Hettie.

  “Is it just me, or is there something going on between your mother and Raúl?” Hettie asked once they were out of earshot of the house. The tension between the two was palpable, their words to each other clipped.

  Walker tucked his chin down. “Javier married my mother pretty soon after Raúl’s mother was killed. He’s never accepted her as family, really—that’s why we still live in our own house. Javier didn’t want him to feel pushed out of his own home if we moved in.” He glanced up. “Guess nothing’s changed on that front.”

  Unfamiliar with the vulnerability in his tone, Hettie glanced his way. “I’d think that if Raúl held any grudges, they’d be against the man who killed his mother.”

  “My brother’s bottled up his hatred—he can’t let it corrupt his magic. I’m not surprised my mother and I have been convenient targets for his bitterness. The day El Toro killed his mother and all those other villagers was the day he stopped being a carefree boy.” He grew pensive. “El Toro works mainly in the capital close to the president and rarely leaves his side. That he’s been dispatched to Chihuahua can’t be good news for anyone.”

  They arrived at the great house. Abby yawned and stretched and started up to their room.

  “Hettie.” Walker stopped her as she was about to say good night. “I just want you to know … I appreciate everything you did for us … for me last night. Seems like you keep saving my life.”

  She scuffed the dirt, intent on her boot tips. “Ain’t nothing you wouldn’t have done for me. Reckon I owe you for the snakebite.” She waggled the hand his brother had healed.

  “It’s not fair you and Abby are stuck here waiting,” he said, meeting her eye. “You’re a young—” He stopped and frowned. Quietly, he asked, “How many more?”

  He was asking about the men she’d killed, the years Diablo had carved into her face. “Two.”

  “I can’t let this keep happening to you.” He tipped her chin up, the lines on his brow deepening. “You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for that stupid gun.”

  Walker’s touch sent a million moths fluttering down her neck and across her chest, and her head swam. With concerted effort, she took a deliberate step back. Walker dropped his hand.

  “You didn’t let anything happen to me,” she said gruffly, turning her heated face toward the shadows. “I would’ve killed ten men if I had to to save you.”

  His lips curved up. She corrected herself hastily. “Don’t look so smug. You’re our meal ticket. A threat to you is a threat to me and Abby.” She crossed her arms. “Soon as Javier Punta breaks this curse, we’re outta here.”

  Any warmth lurking in Walker eyes leached out, and the bright blue turned glacial. “Is that all you want?”

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek, glaring at him defiantly. The simple fact of the matter was she wasn’t free to think beyond Abby’s safety. “The only thing that matters to me is Abby.”

  His eyes became like winter ice on a lake, mirroring the barrier she desperately needed between them. “Right,” he said. Shoulders stiff, he turned and walked away.

  As she went to bed, Hettie told herself she didn’t need Walker’s sympathy. She certainly didn’t want his pity. Telling him the truth about her situation didn’t make her feel like any less of a heel, though.

  The next day Raúl did not show up for breakfast. Rosa set a plate heaping with eggs and sausage, as well as churros—a deep-fried bread Abby loved dipping in her chocolate drink—in front of the girls.

  “Raúl says you may have the day off. He is busy.” She paused and said briskly, “This is all for you. To thank you … for saving my nephew Juan.” She hesitated, as if to say more, but then simply bobbed her chin, wiped her hands, and hurried off. Hettie took this to be Rosa’s way of apologizing for her weeks of rudeness, and decided to accept it with double helpings of everything.

  As they ate Luis came clomping through the house. When he spotted Hettie, he gave a snort and tromped away. Obviously he hadn’t changed his fine opinion of her.

  With a free day on their hands, Hettie and Abby went to see Beatrice at her home. They walked through the village and were greeted by smiling faces. Women beating rugs on the porch waved and shouted “Hola!” Hettie awkwardly returned their greeting. Farther on a girl younger than Abby was ushered into the street to intercept them, bearing little posies of desert flowers for each of them. Hettie accepted them both with a confused smile for the father—a man she recognized from the posse last night. He nodded to them respectfully as he carried his daughter back into the house.

  Closer to the Woodroffe abode, an elderly grandmother hobbled toward them and pressed a basket of … somethings into her hands, talking quickly in her native tongue. Hettie stared at the basket, nonplussed—the things nestled beneath the napkin appeared to be some kind of fritter covered in sugar. The old woman gestured at her to eat one. Hettie bit into the fluffy confection and s
inged her whole mouth. It was crisp on the outside, creamy and soft on the inside, and not too sweet despite the liberal coating of sugar. Hettie nodded and grinned as much as the hot oil burns would allow, saying the only word she knew for this kind of gift: “Bueno.”

  The old woman beamed. Still talking, she bent and made some kind of sign over Abby—a blessing, maybe—and kissed her hands, then Hettie’s burning cheeks. “Amen! Amen! Hallelujah!” She gestured and spoke loudly at the sky. Abby giggled. The old woman clapped at her reaction, crushed Hettie’s full hands once more, then hurried away.

  At the Woodroffe home, they found Julia at the dining room table, trimming herbs and humming.

  “Buenos días, mis hermanas,” she said, smiling, and her eyes lit on the basket of steaming hot goods. “Are those suspiros de monjas?”

  “The old lady around the corner gave them to us.”

  Julia picked one up, hissing. “Still hot, even? Abuela Encarnación must like you.”

  It seemed a lot of folks did now, after what she’d done to help them and theirs. “Is Mrs. Woodroffe around?”

  “Tía Beatrice had to leave on an early morning errand, but she mentioned you’d be by.” She handed Hettie a small jar. “This is the salve she wanted you to have. I also have those dresses for Abby. If you will wait until I am done, she can try them on, and perhaps we can work on taking them in together.”

  Hettie bit her lip. “I’m not very good at needlework. And I was heading to the stables to check on the horses.”

  Julia waved her off. “Not to worry. I can manage the sewing. But it is a skill you should try to improve. How else will you catch a husband?” She winked and continued clipping dried herbs.

  Hettie ignored Julia’s ribbing. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Preparing tisanes. I am training to be a healer. Tía Beatrice needs an apprentice to help her and take over for her one day.”

  “So you’re gifted?” She remembered Julia’s looping handwriting in Raúl’s notes.

  Julia gave a light laugh. “No. Raúl says I have some minor gifts, but none that could help me here.”

  “Is no one in the village a magic healer?” She’d thought about asking around for a second opinion on Javier’s condition. She hadn’t had the opportunity to question Beatrice, since Raúl had been with them. She didn’t want to undermine the sorcerer in front of his family.

  Julia shook her head. “No one else in the village is strong enough to perform such spells without harming themselves, except Javier and Raúl … and Walker, I suppose, since he has his father’s power.”

  Hettie remembered how Ling’s gift had sapped his strength. He must have been stronger than she’d thought. “So, if Raúl is your cousin, does that make Javier your uncle?”

  Julia considered a moment. “I suppose we might be distantly related. Javier has had four wives and many children, but Raúl is the only child of his who lives now. But no, we are not related by blood. Raúl has taken care of me since his mother and both my parents were killed by El Toro.” She smiled sadly. “He is more like a brother to me.”

  Hettie felt bad for making the girl revisit those unhappy memories, and offered to help her with her task.

  Once they’d finished separating the heads of the flowers from the stalks, Julia pinned Abby into three plain dresses. Abby hardly squirmed as she took her measurements. A fourth dress Julia offered was big enough for Hettie, though a little too long, and Julia insisted she have it once she took in the hem. It was very pretty, and far more daring than Hettie’s mother would have ever let her wear. The white blouse had a boat neck that would show quite a bit of her collarbone. Subtle but fine embroidered flowers in white ringed the neckline.

  “This is far too nice for what I do day to day,” Hettie said, thinking about the horses.

  “Then you can save it for a special occasion. It was my mother’s,” Julia added, her dark eyes growing dewy. “It seems like such a waste not to let it be worn.”

  “It’s too generous. Let me at least pay you for it.” If she could figure out how to earn some money.

  Her look of shock told Hettie she’d insulted Julia, and she cringed inwardly. “You will do no such thing. If anything, I owe you.” Julia clasped her hands with crushing force. “You saved my life, and the lives of many others here. No one can repay that debt.”

  Humbled, Hettie left a few of the fritters with Julia and exited the Woodroffe home feeling a little off-balance. She hadn’t had many female friends back in Newhaven, and part of her still distrusted Julia’s intentions, which were nothing but good. She didn’t want to believe it was jealousy that colored her view of the girl, though. Julia was kind and smart and beautiful, and Walker would be lucky to have her.

  If he wanted her. He hadn’t exactly explained their relationship. Not that he owed Hettie any kind of explanation.

  At the stables Marco the stable master looked up from shoeing a mare.

  “Here is the hero of Villa del Punta!” he greeted with a big smile. He tapped the last nail in and set the horse’s hoof down. “Everyone is talking about you. Are those suspiros de monjas?” He snatched one out of the basket and bit into it, grinning. “Yes, you are definitely the most popular girl in the village right now.”

  Hettie was starting to feel self-conscious. She’d killed two men and injured countless more to save the villagers. She hardly thought of herself as a hero. “I did what I had to.”

  “Few people would ride into El Toro Cabello’s camp and face a whole army the way you did. They will sing songs about you.” He peered at her. “Is something the matter?”

  “No. I … I’m just looking for Raúl.” She didn’t want to admit her discomfort. She’d followed the posse to help Walker, after all.

  Marco rubbed his chin. “He’s usually in the infirmary checking on Javier around this time.”

  She remembered Raúl’s warning that Diablo might disrupt the magic keeping Javier alive. Her brain felt fuzzy as she contemplated this. She didn’t understand much about magic, but Punta had created the mage gun. How could it possibly affect him negatively?

  “Señorita Alabama,” Marco piped up. “If you would like to seek him out, my wife, Consuela, would gladly watch your sister. We have two children close to her age. They can play together.”

  Hettie hesitated, the cynical side of her pointing out that this proposal hadn’t been made when they’d first arrived, or even when Marco had offered her a job. Saving the imprisoned villagers had earned her some credit; but wasn’t Marco afraid Abby would hurt his children?

  “She couldn’t be in safer hands. And my offer still stands, if you would like to try your hand at breaking Las Furias. You can even keep an eye on your sister from here.” He pointed toward a nearby house where a woman hung laundry on a line. A boy and girl slightly younger than Abby ran around the lawn.

  Abby watched the children wistfully. “Can I please, Hettie?”

  The longing in her voice made Hettie ache. Abby hadn’t had any playmates back home in Newhaven. They’d rarely taken her to town—when they did, people pointed and whispered, making her sad and uncomfortable. One time Abby had wandered off and nearly been trampled by a horse. For her own safety, they’d kept her on the farm … and often on a leash.

  Marco beckoned. “Let me introduce you.”

  Luisa and Jorge were seven and nine respectively, and several inches shorter than Abby. At first they balked—not an uncommon reaction. But then Marco gave a stern word, and Luisa reached out her hand. Abby took it. In a flash all awkwardness was gone. The siblings giggled. Delighted at having a new playmate, they led Abby away to play games in the grass.

  With Abby occupied Hettie was free to seek out Raúl and Javier Punta and the answers to the questions that were only now starting a low, slow burn within. Something felt off—she didn’t know why she was feeling it now, but it nibbled on
her conscience like a rat scrabbling behind the walls.

  Hettie followed Marco’s directions through the village. The infirmary was located behind the church, a low, squat building of clean white adobe. The sweet, woodsy scent of incense tinged the air. An enormous wooden Jesus on the crucifix watched Hettie with a disapproving glare. She found herself muttering, “Excuse me,” as she hurried past the pulpit.

  In the rear of the church, a breezeway surrounding a stone-paved courtyard led to another low building. Hettie paused in front of a limbless statue set in the middle of the space. The jagged stumps on the shoulder blades suggested it had been an angel, its wings long lost to whatever abuses it had faced. The top half of the statue’s head was also gone, leaving only a strong jaw. Captivated, she studied it, feeling as though she were being watched despite its lack of eyes.

  A low murmur from the end of the breezeway drew her attention away from the statue. She followed the sound to a heavy wood door that had been left ajar, and she pushed it open gently.

  As she entered her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Sharp herbs and cloying incense perfumed the air, just barely masking the distinct smell of decay. In the center of the room, an old man who could only be Javier Punta lay on a narrow bed, his gray-white beard and mane spread around him. Raúl stood over him, one hand raised as he spoke an incantation. Walker was doubled over on the other side of the bed. His wrists were tethered to Punta’s by a thick rope that crackled with magic. He moaned loudly.

  Hettie’s heart lurched. She charged toward him unthinking, but one step past the doorway and her limbs weakened. She gasped as her breath left her lungs. Power pulsed through her, throbbing hard like a labored heartbeat. Something inside her started unwinding, unraveling, like a giant ball of yarn.

  Walker looked up haggardly. “Hettie.” His voice was raw. Their eyes met, and in that moment of connection, she felt him—despair, anger, helplessness, and beneath that something so sweet and pure, it made her bones sing. But that feeling fled as a coldness seeped into her. He was being drained, turned inside out, sucked dry of his life force.