A dangerous glint came to his eyes, but he doused it as he rolled over onto his back, resting his head on his folded hands. His white and dazzling grin, itself a threat somehow, mocked Jacey’s virtuous outrage. “Now, that’s the difference between us. Because I’d love for you to put your hands on me again.”
It was all Jacey could do not to kick sand in his hateful face. “Oh, I’ll put my hands on you again, if you like. Only this time, I’ll have a knife in one of ’em.”
Now Zant laughed openly at her. “Is that so? And where are you going to get this knife?”
Aware of the show it’d give him to produce it, but not seeing any way around it, Jacey hiked up her split skirt, looked down at her own stockinged leg, and—over Chapelo’s appreciative grunt—slowly unsheathed her long, thin and deadly sharp blade. Another grunt came from Chapelo, only this one had a more respectful sound to it.
Triumphant, Jacey held up the knife between them, turning it this way and that to allow its steel to catch and reflect the sun’s hot rays. “Right here, Chapelo—that’s where I’ll get it. I always have it with me. Always. And don’t think I don’t know how to use it. Or that I won’t.”
With natural male grace, and undaunted spirit, Zant Chapelo rolled to his feet. Reaching behind himself, he produced a knife that made Jacey’s look like a toothpick. Brandishing it in one hand, he hooked his other thumb into his waistband and considered her in a narrow-eyed way. “Don’t think, Jacey Lawless, that you won’t get a chance to prove your skill with that pig-poker, if you’re still in Tucson when I get back from Sonora. Starting tomorrow, you’ve got two weeks. So consider yourself warned, little lady.”
CHAPTER FIVE
This was about the last thing she needed, Jacey figured, an irritated grimace replacing her tired frown. She shortened the reins on a suddenly skittish Knight. Just then riding back into town from her desert nights with Chapelo, she could only wonder what was going on in Tucson this evening. Happy and drunk and lurching and war-whooping folks, men and women alike, soldiers and civilians, Indians, Mexicans and American outlaws, filled the dusty streets.
Torches blazed from makeshift sconces to light the desert night. Under the lights, cloth-covered tables littered the street on Jacey’s route to Alberto’s cantina, and boasted some of the most mouthwatering foods she’d ever smelled. Cheerful, chattering women presided over the tables and over the hordes of giggling, racing children underfoot everywhere. From a band somewhere around the next corner, lively rhythmic music could be heard. Whooping and whistling accompanied the cheerful strains.
When some exuberant revelers began firing their guns into the air—all too close for Knight’s comfort—Jacey found herself suddenly forced into fighting a bucking bronco. Caught off guard and cussing up a storm, her felt hat flying through the air, her braid lashing her like the thick rope it was, she fought the reins, fought to get Knight’s head up, all to the drunken delight of the celebrants. Jacey’s determined efforts to stay in the saddle earned her sideshow status and drew a circle of clapping and cheering folks. Instant betting from the sidelines became the order of the day.
Finally, thanks to her superior skill as a horsewoman, or maybe because Knight was more tired than she was—Jacey didn’t care which—she was the victor. Within a few minutes of acting up, Knight smoothed out into a prancing canter around the inner perimeter of the circle that was their audience. Cheers and groans, apparently depending on which way the individual had bet, greeted horse and rider. Money exchanged hands as the big gelding heaved and blew and obeyed Jacey’s every command. Sweating as much as her horse was, and feeling just as frazzled, she glared at the happy folks.
Reining Knight in at the center of her impromptu arena, Jacey remained silent as she looked around the circle. As if she’d commanded it, the revelers quieted, and then shushed those who weren’t. When she had their attention, she called out, “Which one of you is holding the money?”
After a second’s hesitation, a squat-legged old grizzled man came forward, a fist of wadded greenbacks held up high in his hand. “That’d be me, ma’am.”
He stopped about twenty feet away on Jacey’s right. Keeping her spine ramrod straight, and knowing another quiet entrance into Tucson was already shot as full of holes as Rafferty was, she transferred her reins to her left hand and rested her right on the butt of her Colt. “Good. I’ll be taking my cut of the action, thank you.”
At the groans and shouts of protest that stirred the night air, Jacey pulled her Colt and fired it in the air. Knight went stiff-legged, folks squawked and cringed and grabbed for neighbors. “Does that sound familiar to any of you yahoos? You made me lose my hat, and you like to’ve cost me my life. Could’ve seen my horse injured, too. Now, I’m tired, and I’ve had a bad day. So just hand over my share, or get ready for a shooting display the likes of which won’t see all of you standing at the end of it.”
A moment of strained silence, backed by the music on the night wind and the laughter on down the street, followed her words.
Then the old man holding the money stepped up another few feet and addressed the crowd. “I don’t know ’bout the rest of ya, but I say the lady’s right. I say we cut her in. Hell, I’ll even give ’er my whole share—’cause I ain’t seen but a handful of men as could keep his seat on a buckin’ horse like she just did. Whadda ya say?”
Instantly won over, the crowd sent up a great cheer. And Jacey danged near had to fight Knight again. The mule-tempered gelding shied and fought to get his bit between his teeth. Again, Jacey prevailed and even managed to keep the horse mannerly while the money was counted and paid out. When the crowd finally began to disperse, she leaned over from her saddle to take her black slouch hat, full of greenbacks and held up to her by the same grinning old man.
“Ol’ Deadeye found yer hat over there and handed it to me.” Then, his rheumy blue eyes glinted and his gap-toothed mouth curled up in a grin. “I meant what I said—that was some mighty fine ridin’, ma’am.”
Jacey wadded up the money and poked it into her pocket. She settled her hat on her head and grinned at the old man. “Thank you. And I’m much obliged for the money. And my hat.”
The old man patted Knight’s shoulder. The gelding turned his head to warily eye the offender. “You and this here animal earned it. It was touch and go there for a minute, warn’t it?”
Jacey nodded. “Yep. Especially from where I was sittin’.”
The old man’s shoulders and little potbelly shook with his cackling. “I’ll warrant that’s true enough.”
“So, tell me, mister, which one of—”
“Name’s McGinty. Ed McGinty.”
Jacey ducked her head in acknowledgment. “Mr. McGinty, then. Tell me, which one of us—me or my horse—did you bet on?”
He eyed her a moment, then scratched at the white stubble on his cheeks. “Why, I bet on you, ma’am. I larnt long ago never to bet against a Lawless.”
Struck mute at hearing her name fall from his lips, Jacey watched the old man turn and wander into the milling crowd. Well, that did it. She wondered if she was kidding herself—was she the only one in Tucson who thought her identity was a secret?
Finally, she nudged Knight into a walk. Skillfully and absently threading the gelding through the foot traffic, she gave free rein to her grumbing thoughts. She had less than two weeks before Chapelo showed up, hell-bent on showing her what was worse than being killed. No one told her what to do. Who did Chapelo think he was? Give her two weeks to clear out of town. Well, she’d just see his two weeks and raise him another one.
Then she blinked, first seeing him shoot down Rafferty, and then feeling his lips on hers, his hand on her breast … Two weeks ought to be plenty of time to accomplish what I came here to do.
Providing, of course, that Zant Chapelo didn’t turn out to be the one she aimed to flush out.
* * *
After stabling Knight in the tiny corral behind Alberto’s cantina, after brushing him down whi
le he munched on oats, Jacey paced tiredly through the deserted and dusty courtyard, only to find herself faced with a locked back door. Her saddlebags slid from her shoulder in defeat. Making a face, she retrieved the leather pouches, flung them over her shoulder again, and set out for the front of the squat adobe building. Just what she wanted to do—wade through the happy citizens again.
With her chip firmly back on her shoulder, and daring anyone to say she couldn’t set foot inside a saloon because she was female, Jacey pushed through the bat-wing doors to Alberto’s establishment. Stopping just inside, she frowned, going narrow-eyed at the cheerful and chaotic scene that greeted her.
Loud-talkin’, whiskey-drinkin’, back-slappin’, and cardplayin’ men. The place reeked with their sweat and exuberance. As she stood there, searching the crowd for a flash of color that would be Rosie, Jacey saw a few men catch sight of her, poke a neighbor, and nod toward her.
With studied indifference, she ignored them, sighting instead on Alberto. Dressed all in dirty white, bar towel over his shoulder, he chattered away and presided over the revelry. Finally he looked up from assisting a young, skinny Mexican male pour drinks up and down the length of the bar. Alberto glanced at her, looked away, and then swung his attention right back to her. His swarthy, mustachioed face lit up. “Señorita Law—Señorita! Madre de Dios! Where have you been, muchacha?”
Jacey tensed and then let out her breath when Alberto caught his own slip of the tongue. His arms raised in greeting, he stepped out from behind his bar, irritatedly shoving men out of his way, elbowing and fussing at others in rapid-fire Spanish. When a path finally cleared, he all but ran to her, enveloping her in his arms before she could protest.
Tired as she was, she wasn’t sure she could’ve stopped him, anyway. Or would’ve, because it felt good, just for a moment, to have someone glad to see her and to let someone … well, mother her. Right now, she suspected she’d even let Biddy cluck over her.
Alberto broke his hug and stepped back. And realized, after exchanging a look with her, that the oppressive quiet in his very packed and stuffy cantina was aimed at them. “Come, chica, we will get you to your room. Let’s go this way.” To his customers, he waved a hand in the air and proclaimed something in Spanish which made them all cheer. He turned to her. “I tell them the next round is on the house.”
Clapping and banging on the tables resulted from Alberto’s generosity and got him and Jacey ignored in favor of the remaining bartender. As the swarming men tried to belly up to the bar with their glasses, Alberto put an arm around Jacey’s shoulders and herded her, with loud fussing and a waving hand, through the sea of men.
“Where’s Rosie?” Jacey called out over the crush of noise.
“My Rosarita is right over there.” He turned Jacey with him to look. “No, she is over here, then.” He turned her in that direction. “Ah, there she is. Rosie! Look who has returned to us, mi vida.”
“I don’t think she can hear you,” Jacey offered, watching Rosie serve a table of surprisingly respectful men their drinks from a big tray she balanced at her waist.
“I think what you say is true, no?”
“No. I mean, yes.” Jacey shook her head in little mind-clearing jerks. “Don’t bother her. I’ll see her tomorrow.”
“Sí. Mañana. Now we will get you to your room, and then I will myself bring to you a nice plate of enchiladas and tamales. That sounds good to you, no?”
“No—yes. I haven’t eaten in so long that my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.” She then nodded in the direction of the street. “What’s going on in Tucson tonight? I never saw the likes of this in my life.”
Alberto shrugged as he switched his bar towel to his other shoulder. With his free hand, he opened the heavy oaken door into the short, musty hallway which led to Jacey’s room. “It is called a fandango—a party, a dance. All over Tucson, the people are happy.”
Accepting Alberto’s gesture for her to precede him through the doorway, Jacey stepped through. “I can see that. But why?”
Alberto followed her and closed the door behind him, significantly muffling the revelry. “Oh, mi querida, there is no why. There is a celebración for—how do you say?—um, just because? Just because someone sets out la comida—the food—someone else strums his guitar, and yet another begins to dance. Before you know it, all of Tucson dances and eats and drinks. And some even fall in love. Perhaps you would like to join in?”
Darned if that Zant Chapelo’s dark and grinning face didn’t present itself to her mind’s eye. Jacey shook her head, as much to rid herself of the image, as to turn down Alberto’s suggestion. “No, thanks, Mr. Estrada.” At the door to the room she thought of as hers, Jacey put her hand on the wrought-iron latch and depressed it. “I’ve already stabled Knight out back. So, if you don’t mind, all I want is to eat and get some shuteye.”
Alberto patted her arm. “I will see that no one disturbs you—this time.” He then drew himself up into a fine military stance, as if he were bravely facing a firing squad. “It is my fault that you have that ugly bruise on your jaw. I should cut out my own heart and—”
“Whoa! I hardly think all that’s called for. But there is one thing you can tell me.”
With his unblinking gaze focused just to her left, Alberto maintained his stiff pose and entoned, “Anything, querida.”
“Do you know an Ed McGinty?”
Alberto lateraled his gaze over to Jacey and then just as quickly snaked it away from her face. “Sí, he is known to me.”
“Mr. Estrada, look at me.”
He did. But his expression said he clearly didn’t want to.
“I met him tonight, out on the street. He knew my name. How would he know my name?”
Alberto grinned in a sickly sort of way. “Because I told him?”
Disbelief widened Jacey’s eyes. When she recovered, she asked, “Now why would you go and do that?”
“Because he is a friend of mine, and he always admired your father, as did I.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Estrada, but you’re not going to tell everyone in Tucson who I am, are you?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Just this one. You see, his son rode in your father’s gang.”
“He what?” Jacey’s screeching tone didn’t suffer any from her stiffening with her fisted hands at her sides. “His son? I never heard Papa talk of any McGinty. And I know all their names.”
Alberto continued the humble nodding he’d been doing since his confession. “He was with them only for one summer. Did you hear your father speak of … how do you say … Rooster?”
Now Jacey’s eyes narrowed. “Well, sure I did.” Then she straightened and held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Ed McGinty—that nice old man—his son is Rooster? Papa said Rooster was just a red-haired kid who hated guns, but wanted real bad to be an outlaw.”
“Sí.” Alberto nodded. “That was Rooster. Your father let him ride with them, but made sure the muchacho did not like the life. He came back to Tucson and married and gave my friend, Eduardo, many grandchildren. Señor McGinty always liked your father for what he did for his son. But poor Rooster. He is dead now. A fever took him.”
“Well, I’m sure sorry to hear that.” And she was. But her focus on the old gang being what it was, she mentally crossed one name off her list.
* * *
“No. I won’t do it. It is loco. You will get yourself killed—like this.” Rosie drew her finger across her throat and then hurriedly crossed herself. She next resumed her industrious sweeping of the cantina. Mid-afternoon heat mixed with the dispirited breeze coming in through the open windows and with the dust she was raising.
Jacey wrinkled her nose and swatted at the dry and choking miasma. “All I’m asking you to do is tell a few tall tales.”
“These tales, they are called lies, Catarina. You will get yourself killed and send all our souls straight to el diablo.” Her broom clattered to the wooden floor as Rosie reverently clasped her hands under her
chin, closed her eyes, and sent a silent prayer heavenward.
Jacey stared levelly at her friend for a moment, looking her up and down from her tied-back black hair to her loose white blouse—what Rosie called her blusa—and plain, woven brown skirt. Jacey had on similar clothes, borrowed from Rosie. She slept in their bed, ate their food, and wore Rosie’s clothes. She’d been accepted as family by them. And now she wanted to damn their souls to hell for all their hospitality. According to Rosie.
Jacey braced an elbow on the cantina table and rubbed in resignation at her forehead. There wasn’t one dad-blamed thing that’d come easy here in Tucson. Not even her name. Jacey, as pronounced by these folks, was Hacey. And that was just plain dumb-sounding to her. So they’d settled on her middle name, Catherine. After a fashion. She was now Catarina to the Estradas and all of Tucson.
Jacey shook her head, hearing again their mid-morning breakfast conversation in the bright and airy little kitchen off their adjoining rooms behind the cantina. Over omelets heaped with ham and cheese and mild peppers, they’d listened to Jacey’s lie of a story about her disappearing to check out some leads on the stolen keepsake. All clucking concern—reminding her of Biddy back home—they’d made her promise not to take off again without telling them. Jacey’d made an easy promise, knowing that she hadn’t gone of her own free will to begin with. And didn’t intend to go again.
Tired of Rosie’s infernal praying and arguing with her, Jacey drummed her fingers on the table’s rough and scarred surface. “You done praying yet?”
Rosie lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “Are you still asking me to lie?”
“Yes.”
Rosie immediately raised her clasped hands again and closed her eyes.
Jacey banged a hand on the table. “Now, cut that out. Your father’s already said he’d do it for me, so why won’t you?”
Rosie again lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “Because, as you have seen, I must worry for my father. He is too kindhearted, and he tells everything he knows. My mother”—Rosie crossed herself—“God rest her soul, is not here to watch over him.”
Jacey's Reckless Heart Page 9