Jacey's Reckless Heart

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Jacey quirked her mouth up in irritation. And maybe a little guilt. “All I’m asking you to say is that you served a drink to J. C. Lawless. That’s all. I’m not asking you to go up against the soldiers at the fort all by yourself.”

  Rosie put her hands to her waist and stepped over her fallen broom. “At least God could understand that.” After that lofty pronouncement, she drooped her shoulders and came to stand in front of Jacey. “All right, mi amiga, it is as you say. My father has already agreed—only because he feels so bad for telling Señor McGinty who you are. But now? If I do not also say that what he says is true—that Señor Lawless himself was in our cantina—then he will be known as a liar. And so”—she shrugged her slender shoulders, showing a wealth of natural feminine grace that Jacey found herself envying—“I will do this thing for you. But you must do something for me in return.”

  Jacey cocked her head at a wary angle. “Like what? Finish sweeping?”

  “No. You must attend services with me at the mission church.”

  Jacey came straight up out of her chair, causing it to thump over backward. “Like hell I will.”

  Rosie gasped and crossed herself, looking around the cantina as if she expected demons to pop up all about them. When they didn’t, she arched a finely formed eyebrow and narrowed her eyes at Jacey. “Like hell you won’t, chica.”

  “I will not. My sisters and I learned our Bible at home with Mama. And that was good enough for me. I’ve never set foot in a church in my life.”

  “Then it is about time you did, yes?”

  “Yes.” Jacey heard herself. “I mean no. And stop doing that yes and no thing. I haven’t gotten one right yet.”

  “Then you must learn to listen better. Now, will you go to church with me or not?”

  Jacey quirked her mouth into a straight and exasperated line. “Yes, I’ll go. But I don’t have to like it.”

  “Ah, but you will.” Rosie dropped her tough stance and laughed as she tugged a resisting Jacey into her arms. She even kissed her on the cheek, much to Jacey’s outraged chagrin. And secret girlish delight. Rosie finally stepped back and sat down across from Jacey. “Now, Catarina. Tell me of this plan of yours to catch a thief.”

  Her passion for her mission leaned Jacey over the table toward Rosie. “Well, it’s really simple.”

  “What is so simple, Catarina?”

  At the sound of Alberto’s voice, Jacey turned with Rosie to face him. He went behind the bar and began alternately checking his liquor stock and turning an expectant face to the girls. Jacey exchanged a look with Rosie and then turned to Alberto. “My plan to catch a thief.”

  Alberto straightened up like something had bitten him on the behind. He thumped a whiskey bottle down hard onto the bar. “Catch a thief?”

  “Yeah. I think I’m close to doing that already. You see, I didn’t quite tell you the whole truth this morning—”

  Rosie gasped. “Do you see how it is with lying? You tell one lie, and then, the next thing you know, you are chasing off after dangerous thieves.”

  Jacey rolled her eyes at Rosie and turned back to Alberto. “Like I said, I was going after a lead. That part’s true enough. But what I didn’t tell you is … I was with Zant Chapelo.” Jacey stopped talking. Even though neither Rosie nor Alberto had interrupted her, she felt their silence had somehow deepened. Looking from one to the other, and suddenly unsure of herself, she went on haltingly. “We were, um, riding for Sonora with his friend, Blue, and that Rafferty skunk—the one who hit me.”

  Again, she looked from one to the other of them. No response. Just black-eyed stares and a heavy, censuring silence. Swallowing, feeling the day’s heat like never before, Jacey went on.

  “Well, the second night at camp, somewhere out in the desert, Rafferty got into it with Zant and got himself killed for his insults. I tell you, I’ve never seen the like of that man’s quick draw. He made greased lightning look purely sluggish.” Shaking her head at the memory, she next recalled herself sleeping next to Zant and then kissing him the next morning. A sudden intake of breath forced on her by her conscience told her she’d best leave that part out.

  But the rest of her words tumbled out of her like rolling pebbles in a swift-moving stream. “And then, yesterday morning, Zant told me to go back to Tucson and take care of my business and get out of town before he got back in two weeks. He said he’d kill me or worse—but I don’t know what that means—if I was still here. So, I hightailed it back here, and he went on to see his grandfather, that Don Rafael Cal … Calde … Calde-something.”

  “Don Rafael Calderon.”

  “Yeah, that’s him.” Grateful for Alberto’s breaking his silence, but aware that he said the man’s name like it was a sin, Jacey half grinned, half frowned. Clearing her throat, she added, “Now, from what I’ve learned so far, I think this Calderon is involved. I learned something else, too. Maybe you can tell me if it’s true. Was Zant in prison for the past five years?”

  Jacey watched Alberto look past her to his daughter. She spun to look at Rosie. She was looking at her father, so Jacey turned back to him. “Well?”

  He finally focused on her. “Sí, he was in prison.”

  Jacey nodded, feeling one of the knots in her stomach unravel. She took a deep breath before asking, “And when did he get out?”

  Alberto shrugged and shook his head. “Maybe a month ago? No more than that.”

  As Rosie walked past her to go confer in low tones with Alberto, Jacey almost slumped onto the table, so great was her complete relief regarding Zant. He wasn’t a liar. He was innocent. Then, catching herself singing the man’s praises, she conceded that even though he might have his good points, she couldn’t forgive him for making her feel things for him she shouldn’t. Or for making her think of nothing but him and his mouth on hers.

  Jacey jerked upright, fearing she wore some cow-eyed look on her face, like the ones she teased Glory about having whenever some boy fell at her feet in worship—as they always did. Well, except for Riley Thorne. Now, there was a man Jacey could respect. Riley didn’t let Glory get away with anything, and that just got Glory stomping mad—Jacey jerked upright again. What in the world is wrong with me that I’m giving myself over to daydreaming?

  Jacey self-consciously looked from Rosie to Alberto, only to realize, by their expressions, that her fears were well grounded. She had given something away. Dividing her wary attention between the two, she asked, “Why are you two acting so funny all of a sudden?”

  Rosie came back to the table, sat down, and reached across the table to take Jacey’s hands in hers. Unaccustomed to such intimacy, Jacey looked from their entwined hands, both sets small and long-fingered, to her friend’s earnest face. “What?”

  “Catarina, do you hear yourself talking? Señor Chapelo is now Zant to you. And your face, when you speak of him, is very soft, very enamorada.”

  Already fearing what that word meant, and afraid she knew, Jacey nevertheless sat back and pulled her hands out of Rosie’s grasp. “What does that mean—that enamorada word?”

  Rosie gave her a soft smile. “In love, I believe you would say.”

  A sudden hotness suffused Jacey’s face, catapulting her up and out of her chair. “I’m no such thing.” She turned at the sound of Alberto’s approaching footsteps. “Tell her, Mr. Estrada. Tell her that’s just crazy talk. Why, I care more about my horse than I do that polecat outlaw Chapelo.”

  Alberto stopped beside the table, putting himself between Jacey and Rosie. With a hand on Jacey’s shoulder, he urged her to sit down. “Come, querida, what my Rosarita says is true for all to see.”

  Jacey sat, but she wasn’t the least bit mollified. “Hogwash. The day I start getting all soft over the likes of Zant Chapelo—”

  “Is already here, I am afraid,” Rosie cut in. “And this worries me very much.”

  Jacey narrowed her eyes at Rosie. “You’re gettin’ a might too personal for me, sister. What I feel or don’t feel is
my business.”

  Mouth quirked into a grin, Rosie sat back and crossed her arms under her bosom. “Don’t worry, mi amiga. I will keep your secret safe.”

  Angry heat exploded Jacey to her feet again and forced Alberto to step back. “I already told you—there is no secret. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. All I need from you is a yes or a no on helping me.”

  Rosie’s smirk faded to a gentle smile. “All right, hermana—sister, as you call me, I will speak no more of it. I will help you. Tell me what to do.”

  Jacey relaxed and sat down. She motioned to Alberto. “Get a chair and sit here a minute, Mr. Estrada. I’ll tell you my plan. And how you both can help me.”

  * * *

  Zant pushed his plate away and shook his head, signaling to Conchita that he didn’t care for more. The round little maid made a dissapproving-mother face as she stepped back from the long table, taking the serving platter with her to the richly carved sideboard behind Zant.

  The clinking of china accompanied her movements and mingled with the trillings of a songbird perched atop the high adobe walls of the bougainvillea-draped courtyard. With the room’s double doors open to the afternoon breeze, the happy splashings of water in the tiled fountain kept the silence in the large, airy dining room from being oppressive.

  For his part, Zant sprawled back in his chair, bracing an elbow on its armrest. Silently, soberly, he watched his grandfather’s meticulous gestures as he finished his meal.

  As if he sensed Zant’s attention on him, the old man looked up, ran his gaze over his grandson, and then gestured with his silver fork, indicating Zant’s still-laden but ignored plate. “Is something wrong with your food? I can have Anna cook you something else.”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong with the food.”

  Don Rafael rested his wrists against the table’s edge and stared pointedly at Zant. “Then perhaps it is your appetite? Or the company?”

  “Or both,” Zant came back.

  Still holding his fork and knife, Don Rafael gestured as if helpless to figure out his grandson. “What have I done now? I am aware of nothing—”

  “Bullshit.”

  Don Rafael’s face darkened dangerously. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his utensils tightly. “I will not tolerate that language at my table.” He slammed his fist down on the table, making the silver candelabra jump and Conchita flee from the room. “And especially not in front of my servants. I did not pay a handsome sum to free you from prison just to have you—”

  “Just to have me what?” Zant leaned forward, as hot and angry as the old man. “Come back here and not kiss your ass? I didn’t ask you to get me out, and I won’t thank you. The price is too high.”

  Don Rafael stiffened and sat back, his black eyes glaring daggers at Zant. In the next moment, he took a deep breath and smoothed out his features. Zant knew this look by heart. This was not over, just glossed over. And only for now.

  Don Rafael thinned his wide slash of a mouth. “Very well, then. I won’t ask you to thank me. It doesn’t matter. Because, thanked or not, the result is the same—you are out of prison.”

  Zant snorted and leaned back against his chair’s high back. “I’m out of one prison, at any rate.”

  Don Rafael stared a moment and then very carefully, giving the act his full attention, placed his knife and fork beside his plate, arranging them just so on the table’s polished-tile surface. Then he raised his large, white-haired head and turned his swarthy attention on Zant. “Why do you hate me so? You are my blood, the only child of my only child. My heart’s desire is whatever is best for you, mi hijo. Everything I do is for you.”

  Zant said nothing, only stared. He’d heard all this before.

  Don Rafael’s features melted into an entreating mask. “How can you call this a prison?” He made a broad gesture with his thick hand, indicating the elegantly furnished room, but meaning, Zant knew, all of the walled compound that comprised La Casa del Cielo Azul, The House of the Blue Sky. “How can you think of Cielo Azul that way? It will be yours one day soon.”

  Zant smirked his contempt. He knew too much and suspected even more about Don Rafael to be fooled by his show of hurt. “I don’t want it.”

  Don Rafael narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin out. He spoke in a low and deadly tone that reminded Zant of a hissing snake. “What you want does not matter. You are my blood. What will be yours, will be yours. It can be no other way.”

  Zant stared levelly at the black-clad old man at the other end of the long table. For long moments, the creaking-squeaking of the breeze-stirred, overhead fans ruled the silence between them. Zant then breathed in deeply and let it out slowly. “Speaking of blood, why are you having the Lawlesses tracked?”

  Don Rafael, in the act of picking up his fork and knife again, stilled and then leaned toward Zant. “Who says that I am?”

  “Rafferty.”

  Don Rafael raised an eyebrow, but then lowered his gaze to his plate. He very precisely sliced his knife through his steak’s all-but-raw flesh as he asked, “Where did you see him?”

  Zant watched the old man raise the fork-impaled chunk to his mouth. “Tucson.”

  Don Rafael chewed slowly, swallowed, and shook his head. “I know of no tracking going on. I gave no such orders.”

  The old man’s lie nearly catapulted Zant to his feet. Exercising great restraint, but tensed like a mountain lion ready to spring, he clutched at his chair’s armrests. “That’s not what Rafferty said.”

  “Then Rafferty lies.”

  “Yeah, he lies … in a shallow grave about halfway between here and Tucson.” Zant shifted in his chair and crossed a black-booted ankle over the opposite knee. “I know because I put his worthless hide in it.”

  Don Rafael closed his thick-fingered hand around his wine goblet, much as if he grasped a delicate, helpless throat. He raised the crystal to his lips, drained its contents, and then set it gingerly on the table. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

  Zant shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice. He insulted me, my father, and my mother—your daughter.”

  Don Rafael licked his lips, and worked his mouth, as if tasting the last of the wine that clung there. “I see. Tell me, Zant, why was Rafferty with you?”

  Considering his answer as carefully as he would a chess move, and already anticipating his opponent’s surprised reaction, Zant replied, “Because the Lawless woman was with me.”

  Don Rafael disappointed him by merely frowning as he leaned back against his chair. “I see. But where is she now? She was not with you when you rode in last night. Does she, then, perhaps share a grave with Rafferty?”

  Zant’s hands fisted. His grandfather’s words confirmed his involvement, and yet gave nothing away. Zant’d forgotten how wily the old man was. And how much better he was at this game than he could ever hope to be. Or want to be. “I wouldn’t raise my hand against a woman.”

  Don Rafael grinned in a cold and superior manner. “The day may come when you will, mi hijo.” He then placed his napkin on the table and stood, easily lifting his still powerful body out of the chair. “If you will excuse me on your second day home, I have business to attend to. I will see you this evening?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  Don Rafael nodded sagely. “True.” He then turned his back on his grandson and left the room.

  Alone now, Zant slumped and exhaled heavily. It had always been thus between him and Don Rafael. Always the mistrust, the sparring. So what made him think this time would be any different? What a fool he was to hope that the old man, just once, would—Forget it, Chapelo. He’ll never change, and neither will you.

  Knowing it and accepting it were two different things. Downhearted, Zant stared at the room’s arched entryway under which his grandfather had passed only moments ago. Finally shrugging off the old hurts, Zant chided himself for tipping his hand. He’d revealed far more than he’d learned. And he’d just made things worse for Jacey. A lot worse.<
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  Zant ran a hand over his mouth and muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “It ain’t no lie, Phelps. Ah’m a-tellin’ ya J. C. Lawless hisself is right here in Tucson. Seen ’im with my own eyes, Ah did.”

  Phelps pushed up the brim of his sweat-stained hat with a sausagelike finger. “Pete, you lyin’ old hound dog, when’d you see J. C. Lawless?”

  “Last night. Just standin’ there all leaned up against the Casa Grande Hotel.”

  A burst of laughter followed his pronouncement. Phelps waved the crowd of men to silence and leaned over the cantina table toward Pete. “Last night? When you was liquored up and stumblin’ home? That’s when you seen J. C. Lawless? You sure you didn’t see yer dead old mama, too?”

  Pete made a strangled noise and jumped up, sending his chair and about ten highly entertained men scooting backward. He shoved his ratty gray combination-suit sleeves up his skinny arms. “Don’t you be sayin’ nothin’ about my mama, Phelps. I done tole you once about that.”

  Rosie parted the crowd and stepped into the breech. “Now, what is this fussing all about over here?” Looking around the knot of suddenly moon-eyed, docile men, she smiled prettily and patted Pete’s bony shoulder before batting her eyelashes at the corpulent Phelps. “Señor Phelps, have you been a bad boy?”

  Señor Phelps melted and turned red and got the silliest grin on his heavy-jowled, freckled face. He dragged his hat off his head, revealing thinning reddish-orange hair, and held his tattered hat over his heart. “Oh, no, ma’am. Not atall. We was just kiddin’ old Pete here. He says he seen J. C. Lawless hisself right here in Tucson.”

  Rosie gasped, feigning surprise. She turned to Pete. “Señor Pete, you saw him, too?” She hastily crossed herself. Some of the men, obviously startled by her confession, halfheartedly mimicked her actions before catching themselves and looking self-consciously around.