Jacey's Reckless Heart

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Allowing her other four senses to work, she noted that she was lying on a bed, and that her surroundings were perfectly quiet and cool. Risking discovery that she was awake, Jacey finally opened her eyes. To moon-filtered darkness. But even that hurt. Getting another whiff of the whiskey, she grimaced, a motion that hurt worse. She closed her eyes, wondering what was going on here. She’d expected to be … what? Dead? Hogtied? Thrown over the back of a horse? Surrounded by hostile Indians? Abandoned out in the desert? Anything but what she actually was.

  Which was alone and in her bed at the back of the cantina. Clutching at the sheet under her, Jacey opened her eyes again. Blinking back the pain, she raised up on an elbow, worked her jaw with her other hand, and looked around. The door was closed. There was no sign of the big ugly man. Pieces of the chair still littered the floor … which was wet, smelled of liquor, and sparkled with bits of … Jacey looked closer … broken glass?

  She cupped her swollen, tender jaw and worked it gently. Almost crying with the pain, she sent up a silent thanks that at least it wasn’t broken. She then smoothed a hand under her pillow. More than likely, he’d taken her Colt. No, there it was. She drew it out and checked the cylinder. It was still loaded. She laid the gun down in front of her and felt along her thigh. Her knife was still there. This didn’t make any sense. Who was that man? And why would Alberto and Rosie be in cahoots with him?

  The door latch clicked. Jacey snapped her attention to the slowly opening door. She quietly raised her gun in both hands. Whoever this was would receive a welcome he wouldn’t soon forget.

  Rosie and her father, both shushing the other one, stepped into the room. Jacey cocked her pistol. And caught their attention.

  “Madre de Dios. Don’t shoot, señorita.” Alberto Estrada’s hands went straight up in the air.

  Rosie’s hands joined his. “It is only us, mi amiga.”

  “Don’t you call me friend.” Talking hurt. Jacey grimaced, taking a hand away from her Colt to cup her jaw. Looking at the frightened duo through pain-slitted eyes, she then mumbled on. “You let that man in here, and he knew my name. You’re—”

  “He knew your name?”

  “Yeah, he knew my name. Because you told him.” Jacey bent her knee to rest her gun arm atop it.

  Rosie exchanged a startled look with her father, who began shaking his head and protesting. “No, Señorita Lawless, you are mistaken. We would never—”

  Jacey swung the big Colt to sight on Alberto. “I’m doing the talking here. So, where is he? And I mean that mangy coot who hit me. I owe him something.” To prove it, she frowned horribly and touched the warm and swelling knot that rode her jaw.

  With her hands still raised, Rosie managed to jerk a thumb back over her shoulder. “El malo … I mean, the bad man is out there. Outside.”

  Jacey stared hard at the girl she’d thought was her friend. “And what’s the bad man doing out there, outside?”

  Rosie shrugged as best she could and exchanged another look with her father before looking again at Jacey. “Nada. Nothing. He is just lying there.”

  “He’s just lying there?” Jacey heard herself repeat. “Why’s he just lying there?”

  Rosie dared grin. “Porque mi padre … um, because my father hit him hard on la cabeza”—she tapped herself on her head—“with a whiskey bottle. What is left of it, you see and you smell here.”

  Jacey looked askance at Rosie. All the evidence seemed to be in their favor. She swung her gaze to Alberto. “Why’d you knock him out?”

  His black eyes were big and rounded. “I was sure you would want me to, querida. I checked on Rosie, like I said, and then came to my back storeroom for the whiskey she needed for the bar. But then I heard the noise in here, and me and my bottle, we come running. I saw the malo bending over you. So, I hit him. I”—he briefly lowered a hand to thump himself on his chest—“I, Alberto Eduardo Luis Estrada, will not allow anyone to harm you. Then, Rosarita and I dragged him outside. And now we have come to see to you.”

  Jacey stared at the father and daughter. All of a sudden she didn’t care if this was a trick and they did kill her. Her jaw hurt like hell, her head was killing her, she was dangerously close to tears, and her arm, despite her leg’s support, was shaking from holding the Colt up. Relenting, Jacey uncocked her gun, straightened her leg out, and let her gun arm fall limply onto her lap. “Put your hands down.”

  They did. But they didn’t move, either. Jacey looked from one to the other of them. “Who is that man?”

  Alberto shrugged dramatically. “¿Quien sabe? Who knows? Tucson is full of bad men.”

  Jacey wasn’t convinced. “Maybe so, Mr. Estrada. But it’s not full of men—good or bad—who know I’m here. And that man called me Miss Lawless. And you two are the only ones I’ve told who I am.”

  Rosie shook her head. “And we have told no one. So maybe you bring this bad man with you, no? You have come a long way and have met many people. Did you tell no one your name?” Her tone of voice and raised eyebrows plainly said that Jacey had some apologizing to do.

  Feeling suddenly too warm, Jacey looked away from Rosie’s black-eyed, accusing stare. She focused instead on the gun in her lap and thought about what Rosie’d asked her. Had she told anyone her name? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. She looked up again at Rosie and her father. “I don’t think I did, but I could have without realizing it. Maybe I did bring him in with me.” She looked from one to the other of their sober expressions and added, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

  Alberto forgave her first. He waved her apology away. “Eh, your fear is understandable. But, tell me, what will we do with him now?”

  Jacey bit at her lip while she stared at Alberto. Rosie put her hands to her hips and waited, too. “Well,” Jacey began as she scooted off the bed, “let’s go see him and see what he has to say for himself.”

  Rosie and Alberto nodded their agreement and preceded Jacey outside. She nearly ran into them when they stopped suddenly in a tiny, walled courtyard that enclosed one side of the cantina. Forewarned by their actions, she raised her gun. “What? What is it?”

  Rosie turned to her. “He is gone. We put him right here. And now—he is gone.”

  Jacey lowered her gun, looking all around on the moonlit ground. “Gone? How can he just be gone?”

  “¿Quien sabe? Perhaps the same way he just appeared,” Alberto offered.

  The three then stared at each other in the moonlight.

  * * *

  Zant figured that today just had to be a better day than yesterday. It sure as hell couldn’t be any worse—if he expected to get to the end of it alive. At least he was sober, cleaned up, and rested. Sitting in a rickety chair out in front of La Casa Grande Hotel, his booted feet up and crossed on the hitching post, Zant enjoyed the relative coolness of the morning.

  Then he felt his nose and his arm. That was another thing that would make today better than yesterday—he wasn’t going anywhere near that crazy woman he’d had run-ins with yesterday afternoon.

  Well, at least he wouldn’t knowingly. But how the hell was he supposed to avoid her, if he hadn’t gotten a clean look at her face? He knew other parts of her well enough. Again he saw her sweet little bottom sashaying away from him in the street. Then he felt again her full, firm, and warm breast in his hand. Oh, he knew her figure well. Very well. She was a fine figure of a woman. And she had long black hair. And a big, loaded Colt. And a big, black horse with a temper like hers.

  And that was all he knew of her. No, wait. Despite her black hair, she wasn’t Mexican. Her skin was too light, and she didn’t speak with an accent. Pausing long enough to realize the drift of his thoughts, Zant had another question for himself. Why was he spending his first sober day in three weeks thinking about a woman who’d hit him in his nose and then shot him? Like Blue’d said yesterday, there were women in Tucson more willing than her.

  Now, that was a pleasant thought. A willing woman. Maybe he
’d go find himself one today. Then, he remembered and slumped, nearly upsetting his chair. Windmilling the least bit, he finally got all four chair legs down before it pitched over backward. Forget women. He was leaving today to go face Don Rafael Calderon in Sonora. Again. He’d never get up to No Man’s Land and J. C. Lawless at this rate.

  Letting out a long, slow breath, Zant tugged his Stetson down lower on his brow. Just then, someone stepped out of the hotel lobby and came up behind him to flip his hat forward, knocking it off his head and onto his lap. Only one person in the world would dare. “Cut it out, Blue.”

  Zant ran a hand through his hair and replaced his hat on his head as Blue, spurs ever jangling, walked around him to lean his butt against the hitching rail. “How’s the arm today?”

  “Why? You got more whiskey you want to pour on it?” Having said that, Zant worked his arm and shoulder. “Sore as hell, that’s how it is. Same as my nose and jaw, thanks to you and some gringa.”

  Blue chuckled good-naturedly. “Yeah, me and the little lady pretty much kicked your tail, didn’t we?”

  “Enjoy it while you can, pardner. But just remember, I owe you one.”

  Blue made a fist and flexed his biceps. “Ready when you are.”

  Zant dismissed Blue’s muscles with a snort and then slyly slipped in his question. “Did you get a good look at that woman yesterday? I never did.”

  Blue’s blue eyes twinkled and his mouth fought a smirk.

  Zant narrowed his eyes in warning. “I’m sober today, Blue. And I don’t need but the one good arm to knock you off that rail. Now, answer me.”

  Blue performed a lazy imitation of a military salute. “Yes, sir.” Then he looked up consideringly at the overhanging roof as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me see. Yep, now I remember.” He looked down at Zant, revealing pure devilment in the sparkle of his eyes. “She has the face of an angel.”

  Zant stood up abruptly. “Don’t start with that ‘face of an angel’ crap. You always start with that.”

  Blue stood up, too. “But it’s true this time. She does have the face of an angel. Big black eyes, fair skin, ruby-red lips, pink—”

  “Ahh, never mind. Shut the hell up.” Zant turned to go back inside the hotel.

  Blue followed him. “Pink cheeks, all soft and dewy. And her neck is white and slender. Looked soft to me—”

  “You’re not going to be able to look at anything, if you don’t shut—”

  “Chapelo!”

  Zant and Blue stopped and turned around—with their guns in their hands. But when they saw who it was, they relaxed and reholstered their weapons. Zant stepped to the edge of the wooden boardwalk. “What the hell are you doing in Tucson, Rafferty?” Not giving the man a chance to answer, he turned to Blue. “He come with you to get me home?”

  Blue licked at his lips, like he was nervous, and cut his gaze from Zant to Rafferty and back to Zant. “I don’t need no help with you. And especially not from the likes of him.”

  Zant squinted at his friend and focused on Rafferty. He’d never liked this big, ugly man. One day it’d be his turn to go around with this mean son of a bitch. And what a fight that would be, because no one had to tell him the nature of the man’s work for his grandfather. It was enforcement, pure and simple. “What’s Don Rafael got you doing up here, Rafferty? Kicking puppies? Drowning babies?”

  Rafferty marked Zant’s insolence with only a slightly raised, bushy eyebrow. Then he pulled out his cigarette fixin’s and began rolling one. “Something like that. You on your way back to Sonora?”

  Zant watched the man’s hands move, and noted the fresh scratches and swellings over his knuckles. And wondered who today sported the bruises that’d caused them. “What if I am?”

  Rafferty, intent on his task, just shrugged. “Seems to me Señor Calderon wanted you there, that’s all.”

  Zant stiffened. “You got nose trouble, Rafferty? What I do and where I go is none of your business. So stick to your own.”

  Rafferty focused his pale, almost colorless eyes on Zant. “Usually I do, boy. But not this time. This time you are my business.”

  Sudden wariness pulled Zant up taller. “What the hell are you talking about? How am I your business?”

  “Easy now, Zant.”

  Zant heard Blue’s entreaty from behind him, but ignored him. Locking gazes with Rafferty, he repeated, “I asked you how I’m your business.”

  The hired killer shrugged. “Señor Calderon has me tracking someone. Someone who’s mighty interested in relieving you of your short, sorry life.”

  “Somebody wants me dead? Hell, that describes about a hundred people I can name. Is he going to have you kill ’em all?”

  For some reason, that made Rafferty chuckle. “No. Not this one, anyway. This one he wants alive. For now. And I’d already be on my way to Sonora with my catch, except for some interferin’ Mexicans. In fact, I’m on my way there now to set ’em straight.”

  “Is that so?” Zant exchanged a look with Blue and was surprised to see how round-eyed and frowning he was. If Zant didn’t know any better—and it occurred to him that he didn’t, having been in prison for the past five years—he’d say Blue looked guilty about something. Or like he was afraid of Rafferty. Well, hell, so was he. Any smart person was. Still, Zant looked back at the killer and asked him, “Don Calderon wants this one alive, huh? Who is he?”

  “She.”

  “She? Don Rafael set you on a woman?” Zant straightened up. Blue put a restraining hand on his arm. Zant jerked his gaze to Blue’s hand on his arm, and then to Blue’s face.

  Blue shook his head. “Let it be, Zant. I was there when the order came down. You weren’t. You were in prison still.”

  “Order? What order?” Zant jerked his arm out of Blue’s grip. “My grandfather’s not some damned military general. He’s a vindictive old son of a bitch who wants to control everything and everybody he comes into contact with. Now, who’s going to tell me who this woman is?”

  “It ain’t no skin off my nose, boy. But the fact is, you weren’t supposed to be here still.” Rafferty’s gaze accused Blue of not doing his job. Blue cut his gaze away from Zant and edgily shifted his weight.

  Increasingly uneasy, Zant focused on Rafferty as the gunman stepped up to strike his match against the hitching rail. He then lit his cigarette, shook out the match’s fire, and took a deep drag. All while looking Zant in the eye.

  Flipping the match out into the street, Rafferty pinched his cigarette between his thumb and index finger to remove it from his lips. He blew smoke all around Zant and grinned. “The old man didn’t want you in town when I took this one in. She’s supposed to be a present for you. But I guess it’s too late now.” He turned to Blue. “Ain’t it, Blue?” Then he sighted on Zant again. “Seems you met the lady yesterday, boy. In fact, she gave you that arm.”

  Zant’s surprise wrenched him up to his full height. “Who the hell is she?”

  Rafferty grunted out a chuckle. “Now, this here’s the funny part. Seems she’s the daughter of the man who killed your pa, boy. The lady’s name is Jacey Lawless. Same as her pa.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Not too many streets away and dressed now in a full skirt and loose blouse borrowed from Rosie, Jacey sat cross-legged on her bed. At the narrow bed’s other end, Rosie perched in much the same fashion. Between them and absorbing their attention was a time-yellowed packet of letters and a slim journal that Alberto’d given Jacey last night. Alberto stood beside the bed and pointed to the various items.

  “Your father gave these things to me many, many years ago as he prepared to leave Tucson. For safekeeping, he said. He also said he would return for them one day. But as you can see, he did not. Still”—Alberto shrugged his narrow shoulders—“I keep them with me. Such was my friendship with your father.” He placed a fisted hand over his heart for emphasis.

  Jacey smiled at his sense of loyalty as she sifted through the pile of letters. “I’m much o
bliged, Mr. Estrada, but I can’t make heads or tails of this. I tried to read some of it last night, but my jaw was hurting so much that I couldn’t catch the meaning of all this to Papa.”

  Alberto reached out to lift one of the brittle envelopes. Peering at it, he questioned Jacey. “Then these people are not known to you?”

  Frowning and shaking her head, she flipped through the pages of the journal she held. “No. Never heard of ’em. The woman signs her name Laura Parker at the front. And just like the letters, it’s full of her trip out West.”

  “In this one,” Rosie said, holding up a letter, “she writes of her husband and then calls him Seth.”

  Jacey nodded. “Yeah, I see that name here. And these letters—they’re to folks back in Kentucky. Can’t say why she never mailed ’em, though.”

  “Or why, mi amiga, your father had them.”

  Jacey looked at Rosie. She’d been thinking the same thing. Jacey looked away first, settling her gaze on the journal. She flipped pages and skimmed the words. “Hold on. Look. Here’s another handwriting in here.” She read the words silently and then shook her head. “Look what it says.” She held the book out to Rosie.

  Frowning in curiosity, Rosie took the journal and looked down at the page Jacey indicated. She read silently for a moment and then looked up at Jacey and then her father. “She had a baby. Seth must have written this.” She looked back down at the journal, using her finger to keep her place as she read the entry. “A girl. Laura had a niña. On nueve de Mayo—um, you would say the ninth of May—in the year 1854. They named her Beatrice.” She looked up at Jacey. “Do you know such a person? A Be-a-trice Parker?”

  Bay-ah-treese? Jacey shook her head. “Never heard of her.”

  Alberto caught the girls’ attention when he began pacing. Jacey looked over to see him pulling at his mustache. “Then I do not understand any of this, Señorita Lawless. Why would these papers be so important to your father?”