Jacey's Reckless Heart

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  He stopped in the middle of the room and put his hands to his waist. “Hell, I don’t know. Clues, I guess. Did you get a good look at the kid?”

  Jacey shook her head. “No. Not a good one. All I know is he was dressed in white, he’s Mexican, scared to death, and about eight or nine years old. You didn’t recognize him?”

  Zant’s grimace forced dimples into his cheeks. “No. I’ve been gone five years. I hardly know any of the men around here anymore, much less their kids. You think you could recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Jacey shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d like to try, though. I still don’t know whether to be scared by the spur showing up, or relieved. Someone is either helping me or threatening me. Either way, I’d like to know who it is.”

  She paused, taking a deep breath, reluctant to voice her next thought. But seeing no help for it, she plunged ahead. “Zant, I’ve thought of something else. Maybe you have, too. I’m thinking if the spur is here, then so’s my great-grandmother’s portrait. My keepsake.” Feeling the hot tears prick at the backs of her eyes, Jacey spoke around the gathering tightness in her chest. “I’m sorry for what that means.”

  His black-eyed gaze settled on her with a dark intensity. The quiet between them took on a life of its own. Zant finally looked down, shaking his head. When he again looked at her, no emotion shone from his eyes, or showed on his face. “No need to be sorry. It’s why you’re here. You’ve never said otherwise.”

  Her palms slick with sweat, Jacey clutched at handfuls of her skirt. “I know. But I hate the fact that it’s true. After everything I’ve gone through to get here, after all my smart words and bullheadedness … But especially now, feeling the way I do … about you, I hate it, Zant. I’d give anything for it to be anyone but your grandfather. Anything.”

  “I know you would. So would I.” With those words, some ragged emotion settled on his features, created lines in his face that she’d never seen before.

  Then, that heavy quiet descended again. Staring at him, seeing him as a lonely little boy, his mother and father dead, a little three-year-old in Don Rafael’s care, Jacey wanted only to crumple to the floor in a heap and cry until she felt nothing, cry until her burden was lifted from her heart.

  But Zant’s next words forestalled, perhaps purposely, any but practical considerations. “If that kid can get in here, then so can someone else. Obviously, this room isn’t as safe as I thought. We’re going to have to do something else.”

  His brisk manner told Jacey there’d be no more discussion of their heart-wrenching predicament. To do otherwise would paralyze them. So, responding to his cue, she asked, “What do you want to do?”

  He appeared to let out his breath as he shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe put you in my room. Or stick you in my pocket.”

  Was he teasing her? Frowning, not quite sure, Jacey sent him a sidelong glance. “Those are my only two choices?”

  Zant surprised her by grinning. “Yeah. Pick one.”

  Jacey put her hands to her waist. “Put me in your room?”

  He nodded. “Good choice. Because little as you are, I don’t think you’d fit in my pocket.” He advanced on her and grabbed her wrist. “Come on.”

  As he pulled her toward the door, Jacey grabbed up the all-important spur from off the bureau, and then dug her heels in. But given her satin slippers’ soft leather soles and the polished-wood floor, all she did was slide along behind him as she protested. “That was a question, not a decision. Zant, you can’t put me in your room. What would you tell Don Rafael?”

  Out in the hallway now, he stopped and turned to her, meeting her gaze, but not releasing his hold on her. “He expects this, Jacey. He’s already asked me how come I haven’t … sampled your delights, as he put it. The Calderons are a hot-blooded lot. Don Rafael included.”

  When Zant’s sustained stare told her he was waiting for her to catch on, Jacey frowned in thought, going over his words. When she got his message, her breath caught in her chest and her eyes flew open wide. “You don’t mean—You do, don’t you?”

  “I do. The old son of a bitch has his eye on you.”

  Jacey stiffened. Fear and outrage and disgust battled inside her. But Lawless temper won out. Jutting her chin out, she jerked ahead of Zant, now pulling him along behind her as she made for his room. “All right, I’m staying in your room. But some things are going to change around here. One, I’m not wearing any more of these fancy gowns. Get me some decent clothes. And two, I want my gun back. Now. Tonight. And three, you and I are going to make that old man think we’re a couple of rabbits hell-bent on producing him a great-grandchild. You got that? Any questions?”

  From behind her, all she heard was the sound of Zant’s boots striking against the floor and the jingling of his spurs. Then he chuckled and said, “I got it. And I have no questions, ma’am. I fully understand my duties.”

  * * *

  Zant woke up the next morning and, grinning, shook his head at the ceiling above his bed. Apparently one of his duties was to hold an exhausted Jacey all night as she cuddled against his side and snored gently. She had an arm thrown across him and her hand around his neck. Her hair fanned across her bare shoulder and over his bare chest. Bare, yes. But innocently so.

  The rabbits had been anything but productive last night. She’d been too shy and embarrassed about actually sleeping with him for Zant to do anything but hold her and reassure her that sleeping next to a man wouldn’t kill her.

  But it was killing him just to lie next to her like this. Like some damned gentleman. He looked down the long stretch of himself to his hardness, which poked up against their covering sheet. He exhaled a breath savage with need. Get it out of your head, Chapelo. Think of something else. Think about how this is a first for you, too. You’ve never slept all night with a woman without first—

  Zant found he couldn’t even think the crude word, not if it were applied to Jacey. That wasn’t what he did with her. It was lovemaking, pure and simple. Not so simple, but certainly pure. He smiled at the ceiling again. Next thing I know, I’ll be married and sitting in a church pew every Sunday. A decent man.

  He looked down at the sweet face reposing on his shoulder. Was she turning him into a decent man? Was it because of her that he was here trying to do the right thing—for the first time in his life? He considered that a moment, deciding it was only partly true. He then thought of the coming showdown between Don Rafael and Jacey. In his mind, Jacey would win … and walk away. Forever. Zant blinked and let out a deep breath. Face it, Zant. Say it.

  All right, he acknowledged, she’d walk away. And he’d have to let her. There could be no other way. Because, God forgive him, after everything, even after all the heartbreak and treachery, he loved his grandfather. Loved him. How could that be? But he also acknowledged that there’d be no way he’d ever let Don Rafael harm Jacey. He’d kill the old man himself before he’d let that happen.

  Zant tried to picture that scene, that showdown, but his mind shied away from it. Dammit. All right, think about afterward. Afterward, what would be left between them—him and Jacey? Nothing. There were some things that just couldn’t be forgiven. Or forgotten.

  Zant fisted his hand around the sheet, picturing his life here alone. No Don Rafael. No Jacey. Would there be anything left to make his life worth living? Only yesterday his answer to himself had been no. But surprisingly, this morning, his answer was yes. There was something here that was good and right at Cielo Azul. He had plans for his home—honest, decent plans that involved horse-breeding and cattle.

  So, there it was. His life was here. And Jacey’s wasn’t. She’d brought him back home, but now it was Cielo Azul and its people, not Jacey, that wouldn’t allow him to run anymore.

  Zant shook his head at these uncustomarily deep thoughts of his. He looked down at the girl who lay against his side. She was the only thing in his life, aside from his decision to fight for Cielo Azul, that had ever felt right. He wondered if,
after the next few days, either one would be left. Hell, would he himself even be alive? With a certain sense of futility, Zant chuckled at himself and tenderly kissed Jacey’s forehead.

  She frowned and mumbled in her sleep, tossing over onto her back and then turning yet again to present her back to him. She tugged her knees up almost to her chest, which put her bedgown-covered bottom warmly against his hip.

  Zant rolled his eyes. His thoughts had momentarily killed his desire. But it reared its lusting head anew under the sheet. Oh, for crying out loud. How much more of this torture was he supposed to bear?

  Just then, Jacey stiffened. Zant stared at the back of her head. With a jerk and a twist, and a swirling of long black hair, she was sitting up next to him, completely awake and wide-eyed, staring at the foot of the bed. Zant folded his fingers together behind his head, using them as a headrest against his pillows. And waited. With another twist of wariness, she faced him, stared at him, didn’t seem to comprehend exactly what he … what she was doing here.

  Zant grinned at her. “You’re in my room. My bed. Remember? And nothing happened.”

  Jacey let her breath out and flopped over onto his chest, her cheek against his heart, her arms around his ribs. “Oh, thank God.”

  Zant’s grin fled as he stared at the top of her head. She was here for now. She was his for now. Not forever, but for now. He brought an arm down to caress her hair. “Well, thanking God wasn’t exactly my thought.”

  She turned her head until she could look up into his eyes. Planting her chin on his bare skin, she arched a black-winged eyebrow. “I’ll bet.”

  Then, with a suddenness that took his breath, she bent her head and pulled herself up just enough to run her tongue around his flat brown nipple. When he stiffened and gasped, she looked up at him again. “Was this more what you were thinking?”

  * * *

  Did Señor Zant and that little hellion Miss Lawless think that no one was aware of what they were doing? And them not even married. Conchita shook her head at such a scandal. And then their lying abed until half the morning was gone had made her run late with her chores and her eavesdropping.

  Downstairs finally, after having seen Señor Zant and Señorita Lawless dressed, fed, and out the door, Conchita pretended to be dusting the already gleaming hallway table. Pushed up against the wall as it was, and across from Don Rafael’s office, this table was never dusty. Because from here, she could hear everything said inside.

  Even now the muted sounds of raised voices and angry words came clearly to her. She listened as the old man himself ranted and raved at Miguel Sereda, that snake, and Victor DosSantos. She shook her head. Ahh, Victor, how did you ever find yourself a pistolero to such a one as the don?

  Occasionally casting a wary glimpse up and down the hallway, making sure she remained undetected, Conchita cocked her head to hear better. Knowing she couldn’t trust the simpleminded Victor to accurately or even completely report to her all the details of his meeting with Don Rafael, she was forced to be a spy.

  She suspended thought in favor of listening when her employer’s already raised voice became a bellow aimed at the two men inside with him. “No, Victor, I am not happy in the least. Why is it I don’t know exactly what is going on under my own nose—in my own villa, Miguel? What do I pay you for, if not to carry out my orders and to keep me informed?”

  “My chief, I do follow your every order. And I tell you everything. Even now, I have a full report from the men about last night’s raid on Villa Delarosa. I met with them first thing this morning. And have I not brought Victor here with me to tell you of our first blow against the other dons of Sonora?”

  Conchita smirked at Señor Sereda’s desperate, almost whining words. She flicked her feather duster over an intricately patterned Mayan vase that graced the long narrow table. Señor Sereda has not been his usual mean self since Señor Zant faced him down in front of the men yesterday.

  “I am not speaking of the raid. Do you not hear me? I am speaking of what goes on inside the walls of Cielo Azul. Inside.” A loud thud told Conchita he’d pounded his fist on his desktop. Most likely. “All around me, there are scurrying feet, like little mice. There are whisperings and secrets. There are nightly meetings. What do you know of this?”

  Victor spoke up, and Conchita cringed. There was no telling what would come out of that one’s mouth. “Our first raid at Villa Delarosa was successful. We killed many of their men and lost none of ours. When we rode off, the fire we set lit up the night sky. And they never knew who we were.”

  When silence followed this memorized speech, Conchita knew why and sighed. His words had nothing to do with what Don Rafael was talking about. The old man’s voice, when next he spoke, reeked of false patience.

  “Victor, I am happy that you had such a wonderful time last night, raiding and burning. Truly, I am. But I am talking about what is going on here”—another pounding ensued—“under my very nose. If you and Miguel cannot sniff it out, then neither of you will have a nose, do you understand me? Your rotting carcasses will feed the vultures.”

  Conchita stiffened and put her hand to her mouth. She’d never heard Don Rafael speak to Miguel Sereda like that. Victor, yes. But not Señor Sereda. She grinned. He would be livid.

  Just then Manuel, Don Rafael’s personal servant and the only one he truly trusted, rounded a corner from the dining room and came down the hall. Conchita stared at him, her dusting all but forgotten. This one’s loyalty she wasn’t sure of. No one was.

  Smiling but wary, Conchita silently greeted him. Manuel acknowledged her with a nod, cut his gaze to the raised voices coming from behind the closed office door, and then looked again at her. His expression never changed. He didn’t slow down or challenge her. He continued on to the foyer. Conchita raised her eyes heavenward in a silent prayer.

  Which was interrupted by the lowering of the voices in the office. She scooted across the narrow hall, giving her undivided dusting attention to a life-sized painting of some ancient Calderon, whom she dismissed with a flip of the tied-together feathers in her hand, as she leaned toward the door.

  “There will be no need to make war on my neighbors, if I am dead. And let me remind you, Miguel, you have already had one opportunity to rid me of the thorn in my side. And you failed me. Should I die, you will have no power here, my friend. No say at all. All you have, I have given you. You are my creation. But should that change, should I die, you will die with me. Why? Because my grandson hates you. He will kill you. So, you better make sure I stay healthy.”

  “As always, Don Rafael, that is my life’s work and my heart’s wish. I will not fail you again.”

  Conchita rolled her eyes. It was a wonder that the sugary words which rolled off that one’s tongue did not attract flies. When she heard Victor ask to speak, she brushed and dusted the proudly painted Calderon’s crotch with singular and nervous intensity. No, Victor, say nothing. Please.

  “What is it, Victor?”

  “I for one do not believe the rumors that your own grandson plots against you and wants you dead.”

  Conchita nearly fainted. She clutched at the picture’s heavy frame, her knuckles white around its gold-leafed edges as it swung askew with her added weight.

  After a moment of quiet came Don Rafael’s voice. “Rumors? What rumors? Miguel, do you hear this simpleminded idiot? He knows more than you do.” Apparently done with Miguel, he now addressed Victor. “What have you heard that makes you think I was speaking of my grandson, Victor? I was referring to that little Lawless bitch. It is she who wants me dead. Not my grandson. Everything I do, every bit of power and control I gain in Sonora, I gain for him. Because he is home now to take over his rightful place here. Am I wrong to believe this?”

  “No, Don Rafael,” Victor’s dull voice assured. “I remember now. It is that little Lawless bitch who wants you dead. Because you killed her father.”

  Conchita gave up and just slid down the wall to sit on the floor with her stubb
y legs straight out in front of her. Victor was digging his own grave. All he needed was the shovel.

  Silence, once more, followed the poor pistolero’s bald pronouncement. When Don Rafael next spoke, his voice was a deadly hiss. “I killed no one, Victor. Do you hear me? No one. I never gave orders for Señor Lawless to be killed. Never.”

  Victor immediately added, “And yet, he is dead. And his daughter is here. She now has the Kid’s spur, too. All of it.”

  Still seated on the floor out in the hall, Conchita stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. Only her flattened palms on the cool floor to either side of her kept her from slipping onto her side and dying right there. How could Victor know that already? Then, it came to her, bringing with it a heartsick fear that beaded her lined forehead. She closed her eyes and bit at her bottom lip.

  That little stinker Esteban must have slipped out this morning to meet Victor—the boy’s favorite person in the whole world—when the men in the raiding party rode in. The two had no doubt exchanged tales of their courageous exploits from the night before.

  Conchita’s heart pounded so loud she wasn’t sure she would be able to hear what was said next. She then realized she didn’t need to hear anything else because she knew what was coming. Poor simple Victor. He’d get them all killed.

  Struggling to her feet, hoping and praying that Victor did not give away her little grandson before she could hide him, Conchita bustled down the hallway, through the dining room, and out the courtyard doors.

  She had to find Señor Zant right away and warn him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Peering into every little brown-skinned boy’s face, Jacey wandered through the outcropping of sunbaked adobes behind Cielo Azul. Zant and Paco flanked her. Whenever they approached, a path opened for them, the folks moved aside, quieted. A few women nodded to Jacey, some even spoke, and, most surprising, a group of old men each touched two fingers to their foreheads in a sort of salute. Not sure what was expected of her, she smiled at each of them and nodded her head in return.