Jacey's Reckless Heart

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  When Knight again shifted his weight and shook his head, Jacey resettled her hat low on her brow. “You’re right. We’re not gaining anything sittin’ here.”

  She urged her restive mount forward. From the relative sanctuary of the foothills, horse and rider moved out onto the open valley floor. While glad to be at trail’s end, Jacey nevertheless felt exposed, felt like hidden eyes were watching her. Like they knew the daughter of J. C. Lawless was coming for them. They’d not greet her with a warm smile and a welcoming wave, either.

  That was fine with her. She wasn’t here for a homecoming. But she’d be willing to bet that Tucson would be glad to see her leave.

  * * *

  “Hey, Chapelo, take a look at what’s riding up the street—and all alone, too.”

  His booted feet crossed on a rough-hewn table, a half-empty bottle of rotgut whiskey in one hand, a shot glass in the other, Zant Chapelo turned his blurry gaze to Blue. “Give me more of a reason to get up, amigo.”

  Blue stepped back from the swinging doors and turned to Zant, showing him an eager-eyed expression. “There’s a woman just ridin’ into town. She’s a good-lookin’ woman, from what I can see.”

  Zant snorted his opinion of that as he measured out a stiff shot of the liquor. “Good-lookin’, huh?” He then hoisted the bottle by its neck, using it as pointer. “So’s Rosie, and she’s right over there. Now she doesn’t require me gettin’ up to look at her.”

  He tossed his drink back and contorted his face into a grimace. He eyed the bottle as if it were responsible for its contents. “This stuff tastes like panther piss. Don’t know why I keep drinking it.”

  When Blue, his spurs jangling, strode noisily over to Zant’s table and flung himself into the chair opposite him, Zant looked at the kid the same way he had the bottle.

  The lean, blond and blue-eyed, sober pistolero crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Zant, I been sittin’ in this saloon for the past two days watchin’ you drink yourself stupid. Now, this ain’t what Señor Calderon told me to do. He told me to find you and bring you home pronto. But I ain’t takin’ you back to Sonora in this shape.”

  Zant eyed him silently. Blue smacked the table and leaned over it. “Look at you. Pigs wouldn’t be seen in your company. You need to get yourself sober and get a bath, a shave, and a decent meal. If you don’t care about yourself, at least give a thought to your grandfather.”

  “To hell with my grandfather.” Zant’s flippant tone of voice belied his curse. “Which one of us, me or you, just got out of that Mexican prison after serving five years for something he didn’t do?”

  Blue huffed out a breath and answered, “You.”

  Zant nodded and quirked a cock-eyed grin. “That’s right, amigo. And which one of us hasn’t seen the inside of a cantina or tasted liquor or seen a woman for those same five years? Me, right? So, one thing you need to know, Blue—I’m just gettin’ started.”

  The kid huffed out his disgust and shook his head. “Is that all you got to say for yourself?”

  Zant shrugged. “It’s enough. For now.” He then narrowed his eyes at his childhood friend. “No, I’ve got one more thing to say. Don’t ever throw Don Rafael up to me, Blue. I’ve already been home and paid my respects to the old man. So, for the last time—I’m not going back. And don’t push me. Because I’m in no mood to be pushed.”

  Zant outstared Blue. The kid made a disgusted noise and pulled his weight up out of his chair. He hitched at his gunbelt and turned his head to spit on the scuffed, tobacco-stained wooden floor. “Suit yourself.”

  Zant set the bottle on the table and raised his next drink like a toast. “I always do.”

  Blue scowled and shook his head. “Yeah, you do, don’t you? Can’t nobody help Zant Chapelo. I don’t think those five years in a cell taught you anything. Señor Calderon should’ve left you there to rot. He never should’ve hunted all over hell and half of Mexico to find you and then pay your way out. Because you’re still hell-bent on destroyin’ the old man—”

  “You shut your damned mouth. You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about because you don’t know him like I do.” The chair’s two front legs hit the floor, the table scraped forward, and Zant was on his feet, the bottle and shot glass forgotten as they both spilled and rolled across the floor.

  He heard Rosie gasp, saw her, from the corner of his eye, duck behind the long bar with Alberto. The other customers sought their own refuge wherever they could find it. But not Blue. He didn’t flinch. He stood his ground. Which made Zant see red.

  He flipped the table out of his way and stepped up to the kid, getting in his face, his nose practically touching Blue’s. The two, both six feet tall, stood eye to eye. “If you’re so all-fired determined to preach, Blue, then heist your sorry butt on down to the mission church. Otherwise, shut the hell up and let me drink in peace. You got that?”

  Blue shook his head. “No, I ain’t got that. But you got this—and you’ve had it comin’ since we were kids.” With that, Blue stepped back and punched Zant in the jaw, sending him staggering back and sprawling over tables.

  Zant ended up on the floor, sitting on his own sorry butt. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. Then he was on his feet and launching himself at Blue. Who sidestepped neatly, soberly.

  This time, Zant met the floor hard in a belly slide across the greasy wooden floor, only to roll and collide, back first, with the bar’s wooden base. He heard Rosie screaming, and he heard Alberto fussing in Spanish about damage to his place of business.

  His ears ringing, his head throbbing, Zant pulled himself up drunkenly to lean his elbows on the bar behind him, and saw … two Blues. Three Blues. Shaking his head, blinking rapidly, he finally got the three Blues to become one. He then pointed at his friend, who had his fists raised, and bellowed, “You had enough, boy?”

  Blue coiled up like a rattlesnake. “Who you calling a boy? You’re twenty-two—the same age as me. And hell no, I ain’t had enough. ’Cause I’m the one kickin’ your ass, amigo.”

  “Like hell you are,” Zant slurred. He pushed away from the bar and went in a lurching run across the saloon, avoiding cowering patrons and correcting course and grasping at empty air each time Blue danced or darted away—after getting in a lucky punch or two. Dizzy from spinning to hunt Blue and reeling from his punches, Zant grimaced. “Stand still, you stupid blue-eyed—”

  “Why don’t you make me? You’re too drunk to even defend yourself against someone who gives a damn about you. What if some quick-draw hears Zant Chapelo is out of the hoosegow and decides to come try his gun hand against you? Until last week, you ain’t had a gun on in years. You’re still rusty. So how’re you goin’ to be able to outgun him?”

  The kid has a point. Zant weaved to a flat-footed stop. And reached for his gun. He didn’t have to fight all the Blues. He could just shoot ’em.

  He raised his pistol in a wavering aim and … couldn’t find any Blues. He turned to his left, only to have Blue wrench his gun out of his hand and shove him, with a boot against his butt, right out the saloon’s bat-wing doors. Right out into the parched late-afternoon heat of a Tucson day.

  Trapped in his own bumbling momentum, Zant careened about with a windmilling of his arms and got his booted feet all tangled in each other, finally stumbling and tripping until he lost his balance. The rock-hard, dusty street collided with him in a solid thud of bone and muscle.

  Lying sunny-side up and right under the hooves of a rearing black horse, Zant froze and stared up at death.

  “Zant! Get the hell outta the way, man!”

  Blue’s shouted warning galvanized Zant into doing just that. Two deft rolls saw him beyond the reach of the horse’s stiff-legged, dust-stirring crash back to earth. Just then, a woman screamed. Zant sat up and flipped back around. A black hat went flying through the air. A flurry of unseated arms and legs and long black braid followed it as the horse’s rider was thrown over its bucking head. She
hit the ground hard and rolled three or four times, finally pitching onto her side, still and lifeless.

  Too stunned to do much but stare, Zant flicked his gaze to Blue as he barreled through the cantina’s bat-wing doors. He jumped clear of Zant and grabbed up the panicked black’s trailing reins. With hushed and soothing sounds, the blond kid quieted the animal and backed him a safe distance away. As if he’d been ordered to, Zant numbly watched as Blue tied the horse to a hitching rail.

  “La muchacha. Señor Chapelo, la muchacha!”

  Zant turned to Rosie when she cried out. The pretty little Mexican barmaid stood next to her father and clutched at his sleeve. They both stared wide-eyed, looking past Zant and pointing out into the street.

  He spun back around. La muchacha. With her back to him, the girl still lay on her side. And she still wasn’t moving. Cussing and suddenly sober, Zant jumped up and ran to her. A month out of prison and he’d already caused the death of an innocent woman. Great.

  When he reached her, he went down on one knee behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, thinking to turn her toward him. She surely is a slender little thing. Biggest thing about her is that black braid of hair—Two shadows fell across him from behind. From long gun-fighting and prison habit, Zant jerked to his feet, his hand on his … empty holster. Luckily, it was only Rosie and Alberto. But behind them was a gathering crowd. Just what he needed.

  When Blue ran up, skittering to a crowd-parting stop and squatting on one knee in front of the woman, Zant turned his attention back to his friend. Frowning, Blue looked the woman over without touching her. He then looked up at Zant. “Damn, man, that was a close one.”

  Zant raised an eyebrow. “Close? That horse is a gelding. That’s how close it was.”

  “You ain’t lyin’.” Blue shook his head and huffed out a breath, finally pointing to the girl. “Is she dead? That was a mighty mean spill she took.”

  Zant put his hands to his waist and frowned down at Blue. “You’re just a regular ray of sunshine, aren’t you? No, she’s not dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I—” How did he know? Zant looked down at Blue’s earnest face and then lowered himself again to squat on his haunches. “Because her heart’s still beating.”

  To prove it, he felt for her pulse, but couldn’t locate it what with her blouse and vest and her sideways position. Sighing and rolling his eyes, he worked his hand inside the neck of her blouse, around a silver chain tangled in her underclothes, and finally found … her breasts … Nice … and then her steadily beating heart between them.

  Before he could even sigh in relief, the woman sucked in a huge breath and swung her gloved fist back in an upward arc as she blindly struck out. Zant tried to rear back, but his too-big hand wouldn’t come free. Her small fist connected with his nose, forcing an involuntary yell out of him as he jerked backward and tore his hand loose. And tore her blouse open. Cussing for all he was worth, Zant sat down hard on the sandy street, amid the retreating and shocked gasps of the spectators.

  “That’s the least of what you’ve got coming, mister, if you ever lay a hand on me again.”

  He heard her words, heard her scrambling movements, but his eyes remained closed as he braced himself with one hand while he held his other to his aching nose. When Zant finally opened his eyes, when the stars and tears cleared from his vision, he became aware that Blue was now sitting in the dusty street with him. And was laughing like a jackass—while he pointed at him.

  “Pretty damned funny, ain’t it, Blue?”

  Blue grinned and nodded. “Pretty damned funny, amigo. I believe the little lady bloodied your nose.”

  Frowning, Zant swiped his hand under his nose as he looked up and then all around him. Where the hell is she? The wide-eyed but hushed crowd began backing up, leaving one lone woman in the ring with him and Blue. Still not facing him, she was on her feet and dusting her clothes with her felt hat.

  Zant finally looked at his hand and verified what Blue’d just told him. Blood. He looked up again at the woman’s slender back. “Lady, I was trying to help you. You’ve no cause to bloody my nose like that.”

  With no reaction to indicate that she’d even heard him, she pushed her way through the curious crowd. Is she deaf? Raw anger tugged Zant’s mouth down as he wiped his sleeve under his nose and looked at it. No more blood. But that didn’t change things. Nobody—man or woman—just poked Zant Chapelo in the nose and walked away without accounting for it.

  Zant hauled himself up and made a swiping gesture at the crowd. “Get the hell out of my way.”

  They did, moving aside to open a wide corridor between him and the swaggering female. Her thick black braid hung down her back and swung like a pendulum back and forth over her split-skirted bottom.

  “Now, Zant, don’t do anything stup—”

  “Shut up, Blue. This is between me and her.”

  Blue grinned good-naturedly as he rested his arms on his bent knees and shook his head. “All right. But somethin’ tells me you’re gettin’ in over your head.”

  Zant watched the woman take another step or two before looking down at Blue. “Yeah, well, it won’t be the first time.” He then pointed at the woman’s back. “Hey, you, I’m talking to you, lady.”

  All heads turned to stare at the lady. Who kept walking. Like she didn’t even hear him. All heads turned back to Zant. He eyed the sober, wide-eyed crowd and felt a heat that had nothing to do with Arizona climbing up his face. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He called out to her again. “Turn around and answer me, woman.”

  She did neither of those things. Instead, she stepped around to her mount’s left, which put the big horse’s bulk between her and Zant. All he could see was her black hat. She moved to the horse’s head, unhitched him, and easily swung herself up into the saddle. Still not acknowledging him, she silently turned her mount away from the crowd and urged him into a canter.

  Frowning like a prison warden, Zant turned to Blue and put his hands to his waist. “She can’t just ride away like that. Doesn’t she know who I am?”

  * * *

  Once at the other end of Tucson, Jacey slowed Knight to a walk. Shaking like a scared dog, her whole body aching as much as her right hand, she transferred the reins to her left hand and slowly worked her leather riding glove off. She stared at her swelling knuckles. So that’s how it feels to hit a man.

  It hurt. That’s how it felt. But it didn’t hurt as much as being thrown from her horse. Good thing Papa’d raised her in the saddle and taught her how to land and roll when thrown. Otherwise, she might not be alive right now to moan like a baby over her aches and pains.

  Threading her way through the wagon traffic, and keeping an eye on the folks afoot out in the street, she urged Knight into a relatively cool and shaded alley between two adobe buildings. There she turned him and reined to a stop.

  She worked her gun hand, fisting and unfisting it. Not five minutes in Tucson before she’d gotten into a brawl out in front of a saloon. Damn! She’d hoped to slip quietly into town, get an out-of-the-way room, and put her plan into action. If putting out the word that J. C. Lawless was back in town worked the way she hoped it would, she’d be riding for home in a few days.

  But now? Well, now word would spread like wildfire about the woman who’d bloodied some drunk’s nose when he shied her horse, got her thrown, and then stuffed his hand down her blouse. Jacey fumed as a blaze of heat suffused her cheeks. Again she felt the indignity of the thrusting hand on her flesh, heard her blouse tearing.

  Lucky for him she hadn’t pulled her thigh-strapped knife. Because she’d have been more than happy to bury it in the same place on him where his hand had been on her. If she ever saw that no-good, low-down—No. She took a deep breath and willed her thoughts away from the rough moments she’d just survived.

  She then looked again at her puffy knuckles and groaned. That lousy drunk’s nose surely was hard. By tomorrow her whole hand would be stiff, mos
t likely. And that would considerably slow down her quick draw for days. Dang him! Now she’d have to lie low while she healed. Just hole up in some stuffy room and mend. And hide from the world. Angry, close to defeat, Jacey put a hand over her eyes, hitching irritably at Knight’s reins when he balked suddenly.

  “Señorita? Are you hurt?”

  Jacey started and lowered her hand from her face. There, standing about a pace or two in front of her and Knight, was a pretty Mexican girl dressed in a loose white blouse and brightly patterned skirt and a bunch of silver jewelry. A half-smile rode her lips as her wide brown eyes invited trust.

  Unsmiling, Jacey eyed her. “I’m fine.”

  “Que bien. My father and I were afraid for you when you took that fall from such a big horse.”

  So she’d seen that. And followed her. “I’m fine,” Jacey repeated, wanting like crazy for this nice, concerned girl to clear out of her business. She wasn’t here to meet folks.

  The girl’s smile faltered, but still she nodded in a friendly manner and didn’t go away. “That man back there”—she jerked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the street behind her—“he is not so bad.”

  Jacey snorted her opinion of that as she pointedly tugged her blouse closed. “I was in a better position to judge that than you were.”

  Now the girl laughed. A pleasant sound. Go away. “Perhaps you are right.” She shrugged her slim shoulders and took hold of her skirt. “But I am bothering you. I will go now.” She started to turn away, but immediately turned back to Jacey. “Me llamo Rosarita Estrada.”

  Jacey frowned and shook her head. “I don’t speak Mexican. What’d you say?”

  “I said my name is Rosarita Estrada. But the men, they call me Rosie. You can, too.”

  “Row-cee?” Jacey tried the name, giving it the same inflection the girl had. It sounded funny on her tongue. “You mean … like Rosie?”