Jacey's Reckless Heart

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Blue’s eyes widened, but then he settled his features into respectful lines. “All right, I will. I’m just … well, I’m just glad that you’re here now. That’s all that counts. And I’m glad you’ve … grown into the man you are. I was afraid you’d never realize your responsibility to your home. And to your people.”

  My home. My people. An overwhelming emotion seized Zant’s heart. His throat working, he quickly turned his head and blinked his eyes at the desert landscape. Without looking back at his friend, and hating the husky tone in his own voice, he asked, “What makes you so sure I can do this, Blue? What if I can’t? What if I’m not ready … or able?”

  “You are.”

  Blue’s quiet words made Zant turn to face him. But seeing the serious, proud, almost worshipful look now on his friend’s face, and fearing what he was preparing to do, Zant tightened his hand around the reins, clamped down on his back teeth, and fought to stay dry-eyed. He then gritted out, “Don’t do this, Blue. I’m not ready for this. Not from you.”

  “You are ready.” His eyes filling with moisture, Blue fisted his right hand over his heart, held it there, and looked Zant right in the eye. “My life is yours … mi jefe.”

  * * *

  Back at Cielo Azul, standing in front of her daughter’s adobe, Conchita was frantic. No one was here. Most probably Blanca had little Teresa and Pedro with her while she helped the other women with the villa’s laundry. Not knowing if something horrible was already happening to her firstborn grandson, Conchita decided there was no time to look for Blanca. Besides, she would only be hysterical and no help at all in finding Esteban. Especially when Conchita told her what she’d had him do last night.

  So, hands on her mouth, her rapidly graying black hair slowly loosening itself from its bun, she looked right and left. Where could Esteban be? He wasn’t at home. He wasn’t with his friends. He didn’t come when she called him. When she found him, when she knew he was okay, she would hug him and then turn him over her knee. How could he scare her, an old woman, like this?

  And, she asked herself, why am I standing here like simpleminded Victor? Oh, Victor, you idiot! Conchita trundled off again, her short legs pumping as fast as her heart. She made another circuit of the adobe camp. At the end of it, again standing in front of her daughter’s house, she had to admit that Esteban was nowhere to be found. Holding her hands again to her plump face, she swayed from side to side and singsonged, “Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi,” as she tried to decide what to do next.

  Señor Zant? Gone. And Señor Blue was with him. Those two had picked a terrible time to leave. Then, there was no help for it. She’d have to find Señorita Lawless and tell her. But the first problem to be overcome was the little gringa’s not speaking Spanish. Another face popped into her head. Paco! Señorita Lawless was with Paco. He knew some English. He wouldn’t want to use it, not in front of the señorita, because Señor Zant had told him not to, but she would make him. This was an emergency.

  * * *

  The boy did not exist. Giving up, hot and thirsty, but richer in Spanish words, Jacey flopped down on one of a group of chairs that, at home, would have been kindling by now. But here, close to the big horse barn, somebody’d left them leaned up against an equally rickety old shed. All around her busy men carried on with their work, essentially ignoring her and her guard.

  Breathing in the maturing scents of manure, hay, and horse, Jacey used her forearm to shield her eyes from the midday sun. Squinting up at Paco, she spoke over the neighing and hammering and laughing coming from inside the barn. “Are you as tired and thirsty as I am?”

  “Sí, señorita.”

  “You know, Paco, I’m beginning to think that niño doesn’t exist. I need to rest a bit. Why don’t you pull up a silla and sit here with me?”

  “Sí, señorita.” But he stood in place, unmoving.

  Jacey sniffed and quirked her mouth, thinking she’d give anything if Rosie were here with her to translate this infernal language. Still peering up at Paco, she added, “How about some agua, then? I know—‘Sí, señorita.’ Just go find us a drink, please.”

  “Sí, señorita.” Her big guard turned away, apparently and surprisingly going in search of water. And leaving her here alone. Had he and she reached a higher level of trust? Just then, Paco turned and faced her again. Squinting and grimacing in a way that warned he wouldn’t be disobeyed, he pointed to the ground and said, “Stay here.”

  Jacey nodded fatalistically. “Sure, I’ll stay here. Where else am I going to—” She froze, her mouth still open to form “go.” She seemed capable of moving only her eyes in their sockets. She swiveled her gaze up to Paco’s reddening face. And recovered her power of speech. “Did I just hear you say something in English?”

  He blanked his expression. “No, señorita.”

  “Aha! You just gave the right answer.” Jacey jumped up, shaking her finger in his face. “Why, you old faker. You do speak English.” She remembered all the terrible things she’d said to him in the past few days. She withdrew her accusing finger and lowered her arm to her side. “Oh. You speak English.”

  “Un poco.” He held his thumb and index finger up about an inch apart.

  Jacey cocked her head questioningly. “What’s that mean … ‘a little’?”

  Paco smiled broadly at her. “Sí. A little.”

  Jacey put her hands to her waist. “Well, I’ll be damned, Paco.”

  Paco nodded and pointed to himself. “Y yo tambien. And I too will be damned, señorita.”

  Jacey laughed out loud at this suddenly lively guard of hers. Just then, Paco went grim and yanked his gun out of its holster. Jacey’s jaw dropped.

  “¡Cuidado, señorita! ¡Venga aquí!” Paco fanned the air with his big paw of a hand, as if urging her to come to him.

  “What?” But then she knew what. Someone grabbed her arm, she cried out, and was spun around. She drew back in shocked surprise. “Conchita! What’s wrong?” She then grabbed the red-faced, out-of-breath woman’s arms to steady her.

  The short, heavyset maid sucked in air, held on to Jacey, and spat out Spanish faster than Zant could draw his gun. She was clearly scared to death about something, but Jacey felt helpless to understand her. She finally remembered Paco. “Come here, Paco. Tell me what she’s saying.”

  Paco stepped up, his gun holstered, and spoke with Conchita. He listened, nodded, looked around, turned mighty grim, and shook his head. Jacey became nearly as frantic as her maid. She let go of Conchita to tug on Paco’s sleeve. “What’d she say?”

  Conchita quieted, looking in supplication and hope up at Paco. Jacey frowned, scared of what could be happening, what with Zant and Blue gone. But whatever it was, she was on her own with it. She bit down on her bottom lip when Paco began speaking to her in very hesitant and broken English phrases. “Conchita …¿que dice? … um, say her nieto, her grandson Esteban, is … gone. She looked and looked. But he is nowhere.”

  Jacey slumped in relief. “Everybody’s somewhere, Paco.” A missing boy. That wasn’t too terrible. She could handle that. After all, wasn’t she herself … sudden suspicion caused her eyes to narrow at Conchita … looking for a missing boy, too? She directed her gaze back to Paco. “What else did she say? Why would she come to me with this, and why wouldn’t she have the whole camp helping her look?”

  Paco exchanged a look with Conchita, who suddenly looked down at the ground. Jacey put her hands to her waist and waited. Paco shifted his considerable weight and began. “Porque Esteban is, um, in … troubles plenty. With Don Rafael. Conchita say Esteban gave to you the, um, espuela”—he lifted his booted foot and pointed to his spur—“and now Don Rafael will know. She also say Victor is an idiot.”

  Jacey had no idea who Victor was or why he was an idiot. Nor did she care. Her shock at learning Conchita’s grandson had placed the spur on her bed was so great that all she could do was stare straight ahead. Her hands fisted over her heart, she tried to think her way through all this. She then turn
ed to Conchita, knowing the woman spoke no English, but still feeling a need to put her questions to the source. “Let me get this straight. Your grandson gave me the spur?” She pulled it out of her pocket and pointed to it. A wide-eyed Conchita nodded. Jacey repocketed it. “Where’d he get it?”

  Without prompting, Paco translated her words for Conchita. She gave a short answer. Paco turned to Jacey. “She say he got it from her.”

  Numb now, Jacey nodded her head. “And where’d she get it?”

  Paco put the question to the maid and listened to her answer. “Don Rafael’s oficina.”

  Jacey recognized that word without a translation. “His office. Ask her if there was anything else in there. Like a small picture.”

  Paco’d done no more than nod before a deep and cultured voice behind them answered Jacey’s question. “Yes, there is. Would you care to see it?”

  With Paco and Conchita, Jacey spun around. There stood Don Rafael. Flanking him was the sly, grinning Miguel Sereda and some big pistolero whose mouth slacked open and who stared at them dully. At least their guns weren’t drawn.

  Still, Jacey’s mouth dried, her insides cringed. She was aware of Conchita grabbing her arm and all but whispering, “Dios mio, señorita. Esteban.” Jacey’s knees threatened to buckle at Conchita’s words. But still she kept her unwavering gaze on the old man. And the third person with him.

  Don Rafael’s hand was clamped firmly on the shoulder of a boy, a very scared and shaking boy, of about nine years old.

  Jacey finally found her voice. “Let him go, let them all go”—she indicated Paco and Conchita—“and I’ll come with you.”

  Don Rafael chuckled and shook a finger at her. “You make me laugh, as always, señorita. But you forget you are a guest here. Therefore you do not give the orders. I do. And my first order is for you and Paco to unbuckle your gunbelts and toss them away from you.” He repeated his order in Spanish for Paco and then waited silently as they both complied.

  His next words were in English. “That is good. Very good. Now, unfortunately, I cannot allow Esteban to go. Or Paco and Conchita. They have proven they are not to be trusted, and so, they must be punished.” He snapped his fingers. “Miguel, Victor.”

  The two men stepped around Don Rafael. Victor picked up the two discarded gunbelts while Miguel took Esteban from his boss. The men then drew their guns and waved them at Conchita and Paco. Those two stepped away from Jacey and stood in a knot with Esteban. The boy began sobbing and clutched at his grandmother. She took him in her arms and stared wide-eyed and frightened at Jacey.

  Frustrated and foiled, Jacey turned her glare on Zant’s grandfather. “Harm any one of them, and you’ll pay, Mr. Calderon. I swear you will. As long as I’m alive, I’ll—”

  “Uh-uh, señorita.” He wagged a finger at her. “I would think by now you would realize you cannot make threats of vengeance that you have no hope of carrying out. It is very reckless of you to do so.”

  Having thus warned her, all trace of humor left his face. “Now, so far I have been patient. But no more. You will come with me now, or Miguel will, regretfully, have to shoot Conchita—in front of the boy. The choice is yours.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The night was cool, the sky clear, the moon full. Stars winked down from the black canopy of the heavens. But no soft wind stirred. No owl hooted. No coyote yowled. The ragged pinnacles of the surrounding mountains peered over the high adobe walls of Cielo Azul. Nesting against those same walls, the small adobe houses of the camp, with its all-but-deserted streets, seemed to crouch in silence. And wait.

  Inside the villa itself, in the bedroom where Paco’d previously guarded her, Jacey sat alone and scared on the four-poster bed. With nothing but worries to occupy her time, she stared at the locked door. She could hear, out in the hall, every movement of her new guard, a most unsociable man with one eye and a knife-scarred face. And a big gun. Relieved of her own gun that afternoon by Miguel Sereda, and escorted here by her unfailingly pleasant host, she’d spent the afternoon by herself. Locked up. And praying for Zant’s return. Where could he be?

  Too, she could only wonder what had become of Paco, Conchita, and Esteban. Were they even still alive? Her heart thumping leadenly, Jacey closed her eyes and sent her prayer heavenward. Please, God, let them be alive. And send Zant home in a hurry. I could really use him right now. But please don’t let him get hurt. I couldn’t stand that. But if he doesn’t make it back here in time, then, God, find some way to let him know how much I loved him. Amen. Oh, and my sisters, too. And Biddy. Tell them too that I loved them. Amen again.

  Opening her eyes, blinking against the sudden wetness and blurring of her vision, Jacey looked down at herself and grimaced, fisting her hand around the delicate material of her skirt. Those danged maids. She shook her head at the events that had taken place earlier at sundown, in this very room. Three maids, none of whom she knew, had entered. Six big men had followed them, hauling up the bathtub and buckets of hot water.

  Seeing what was about to happen, she’d thrown enough of a tantrum to gain for herself the few moments of privacy it took her to undress herself behind the screen—and to hide her knife inside one of her boots.

  But after that, the chattering women had been all over her like cows on clover. They’d proceeded to bathe her and rub scented oils on her skin. They’d then stuffed her into a score of underclothes, which they topped off with what was, she had to admit, the prettiest and fanciest dress she’d ever seen.

  Once they’d poked and stuffed and hooked her into the purple-reddish gown, they’d sat her down, settled a combing jacket over her shoulders, and then begun torturing her hair. After a vigorous, eye-watering brushing, the three hens had settled on a style that wrenched all her black hair up in a ponytail knot that allowed a heap of curls to hang free over her shoulders.

  She’d reached the end of her rope when they fetched about twenty yards of ribbon and began trying to tie bows all through the curls. Silliest thing she’d ever heard of. Jacey grinned wickedly. She’d let them know exactly what she thought of such folderol. Those three witches had run screaming from the room when she’d begun yelling and shoving them. Enough was enough!

  Except for when it came to this gown. She yanked now at the scandalously low, scalloped bodice. But to no avail. There just was no material to spare. She gave up, flopping her hands onto her lap. Her barely covered bosom rose and fell with each agitated breath. Jacey watched her mounded flesh and wondered why she’d been trussed up as fancy as a fir tree at Christmas. Were killings around here formal affairs? Or did that Don Rafael have other plans for her? Plans that had nothing to do with a sit-down supper … and more to do with the pleasure of her, uh, company?

  Zant’s words from last night, about Don Rafael having his eye on her, came back to haunt Jacey. She put a hand over the stuttering beat of her heart and tried to take a deep breath around the sudden constriction in her chest. But the corset and gown were too tight for any but the shallowest of breaths. Still, she jutted out her chin and harrowed her eyes, vowing she’d die first before she’d allow Don Rafael to put a hand on her. She’d die, or he would.

  As if Fate meant to give her a chance to find out which ending was her destiny, the key turned in the lock. Jacey sat stock-still and stared. The door swung inward. I swear, Zant, I’ll stay alive. I’ll do whatever it takes. I won’t die. I love you. Please hear me. And please hurry. I need you. Old One-eye stood there, grinning like he’d heard her prayers and laughed at them.

  Gathering courage from fisting her hand over the hidden sheath strapped again to her thigh, Jacey raised her head. “What do you want, you ugly lizard?”

  Old One-eye, who obviously spoke no English, remained grinning. “Venga, señorita.” He crooked a finger at her in a come-here motion.

  Raising an eyebrow, Jacey remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Kiss my gelding’s ass.”

  One-eye nodded. “Sí. Venga.”

  �
��I’ll venga, all right,” she muttered. Jacey forced herself to stand up. Walking over to One-eye, as if stepping onto a scaffolding that sported a noose in her neck size, she said, “Lead the way, you mother’s nightmare. There’s nothing that can happen to me that’ll be any worse than you look.”

  Again, no response from her guard. He turned and preceded her down the long hallway. A few steps behind him, Jacey began her litany of courage. I love you, Zant. I love you. I love you. Please hurry home. Please be in time.

  * * *

  Zant reined in Sangre atop a hill that overlooked Cielo Azul. “You feel that, Blue?”

  Blue pulled back on his Appaloosa mare’s reins and shook his head. “Feel what—the cool air? Nice, ain’t it?”

  “Not the air.” Zant gave himself over to the gut-deep unease that gripped him. “Something else.”

  “Like what?” Blue’s movements in his saddle creaked the well-worn leather.

  “It’s too quiet. Down in the compound. Listen.”

  Zant watched as Blue did just that. Then, frowning, his blue-eyed friend turned to him. “Damned if you’re not right. What do you make of it?”

  Zant drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a low whistle. “Trouble, that’s what. Something’s happened while we’ve been gone. I can feel it. Damn. We put out one fire at Villa Delarosa, only to have a bigger one crop up at home.”

  Blue was quiet for a minute, but then spoke his mind. “Assuming you’re right, and I think you are, what d’you want to do?”

  Zant shrugged. “I’m not sure. All I’ve got is a hunch, and that’s not much to go on. Hell, I could be completely wrong. It could just be a quiet night.”

  Blue looked askance at him. “You don’t believe that for a minute, do you?”

  Grim, Zant shook his head. “No, I don’t.” What he didn’t give voice to was his worst fear, that this trouble had something to do with Jacey.