“You think you can behave toward me as do so many other men in this town?” she spat out at him, hurt and angry all at once. “You think you can cheapen me, degrade me, just because I am mestizo? You think I count for nothing?”
Ice water filled his veins. “Star. Miss Mendoza. Please, I am—I am terribly sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’ta—”
“We met for the first time this morning,” she rushed on over a sob. “Just this morning. And you are already trying to—trying to cozen me into—”
“I didn’t mean—” Matt began miserably.
“Ah, of course you did! Go away, Matthew Yancey. Go away. Your charming southern boy manners are all—just an act, to—to deceive—” The tears were falling in a storm surge by then. Rather than let him witness any more of her humiliation, Star fumbled with the handle, flung herself inside, and slammed the solid door shut behind her.
“I’m sorry,” Matt whispered again to the empty air. “I am so goddamned sorry.”
Deeply ashamed, he bent down to retrieve his hat with the stiffened, palsied movements of an arthritic old man. How could such a bright, entertaining evening have turned into such a disaster?
The lantern was still burning with a steady flame. Hoisting the handle, he stepped down from Star’s front porch and turned away. Just as he had been ordered.
V
Damn it. Franklin Bower opened one eye to survey his surroundings.
A stench wafting in from the kitchen made it clear his cook had burned another breakfast. Probably a damned costly cut of steak, too. Time to boot her out of his house and off the ranch. She knew no more about preparing American food than she knew about governing the State of California, for God’s sake. Too bad if she was old and needed the salary, meager though it was. Let her take up begging on the streets of San Francisco for a while. Serve her right.
Damn it. He opened the other eye.
The little strumpet in the bed beside him had not only rolled herself up into the only blanket, but she’d taken both of his pillows besides. Time to boot her out, too.
“Raquel. Raquel!” He stretched one leg across the mattress to kick at the girl’s naked and oblivious backside. “Move your lazy ass, girl.”
“Uhhhh…Whassamatter, señor…?” She shifted, scrubbed at her sleepy face, and yawned. “You wanna make love ’gain?”
“Hell, no,” snorted Bower. “I’m done with you. Go on, get up and out. Find yourself some other pigsty to lay in.”
Pouting, Raquel sat up and turned toward him, offering a full view of her lush, caramel-tipped breasts. Even this morning, after a night of being roughly and badly used, her rather common prettiness shone through the bruises. “You don’ want me no more, señor?” she tried again.
“What, are you deaf as well as blind?” Bower snarled. He aimed another kick in her direction that toppled her onto the floor with a crash. “Get out. And take all your slop with you!”
Tears would hold no sway with the tyrannical boss-man, nor would pleas for mercy. Resigned to whatever outcome an unkind fate might deal her, Raquel gathered up her clothing and slunk away.
Bower hauled his own naked body out of bed, stretched, scratched, and stretched some more. Last night’s wine had left a sour taste in his mouth. As had the violent intervals of sex. In reality, a half-witted servant girl had provided an outlet for his appetites; in fantasy, it was Star Mendoza who lay under him, moaning with supposed pleasure and responding to every maneuver.
Time to make that fantasy into reality.
“Horace!” he shouted, reaching for a robe. “Fill my tub. And then go get me a tray with somethin’ decent to eat. I gotta clean up and get to town.”
A down-on-his-luck former manservant for a visiting British duke, Horace had accepted the position at Franklin Bower’s ranch out of desperation. Truth to tell, he hated this Condor place and its despicable owner almost as much as he hated the whole state of California and its hot, dry climate. Had he and his onetime employer not parted company for the most trivial of reasons, he would still be happily plying his trade in foggy London, even now.
“Shall you be wanting a particular suit, Mr. Bower?” Horace asked in plummy tones.
“Yeah, I’ll pick one after I’m done here. This water ain’t very damned hot.”
“My apologies, sir. Would you like me to add more?”
“Naw.” The slam of a door, more grumbling, and a splash. “Go get me some food, Horace,” came racketing from the closed bathroom. “I’ve had a hard night and I’m hungry. And be quick about it.”
Freshly bathed and shaved, his mustache trimmed, his coarse black hair combed back, and his favorite gray suit nicely pressed, he paused to preen in front of the bedroom mirror. Damn, but he was a fine figure of a man. Rich, too; and getting richer every day. What could Goldenstar Mendoza possibly not like about him?
Feeling as cocky as some puffed-up rooster in a crowded henhouse, he made his way to the dining room. Palatial. Downright palatial, with its thick carpets and exotic woods and gold-trimmed table service. He’d sunk a good deal of money into the furbishing of this cavernous ranch house, all with an eye toward the effect such luxury would have on the woman he intended to install here. Would she be impressed? Would she appreciate his effort? Would she settle in and take advantage of everything he had provided?
Bower seated himself at the expansive table, gobbling down buttered bread and scrambled eggs while perusing his most recent copy of The Daily Evening Bulletin. Partway through, he shouted for his manservant once more.
“Something I can do for you, sir?” Horace glided into the room to ask smoothly.
“More coffee. Hot this time. And then have Tomás hitch up the buggy for me. I’m leavin’ soon.”
Not soon enough, thought Horace resentfully, gliding away.
It was a lovely morning, with enough early sunlight to splash through the leafy branches of ficus and oak and red-flowering gum blossoms. Even here, a very faint whiff of salt air mingled with the scent of powder-dry dust underfoot and the tang of evergreen swept down from the hills. One bird called to another, off in the distance, and overhead a Cooper’s hawk swooped and dipped across the cloudless sky.
But Franklin, careening along toward the city in his springy Eureka carriage, was mentally reviewing plans for the day. He had neither time for, nor interest in, scenery. Given opportunity, he would cheerfully flatten everything if his Condor Ranch could just be expanded by another million acres or so. In another era, he might be considered a pillager of ethical standards, an environmental polluter, a toxic waste dump in the making.
For now, he was merely greedy, fiercely ambitious, belligerent, and aggressive as a wolverine.
Arriving a little later at his first stop, he climbed down, tied the mare to a hitching post, and clumped his way into Hanrahan’s Saloon. Probably too early for a good stiff drink. Still, maybe one little nip would help strengthen his resolve and settle his roiled stomach. Why not a chaser after those godawful breakfast eggs?
“Back in town so soon?”
A sip of the bartender’s premium whiskey before a slow sideways turn of the head. “H’lo, Sykes. Buy you a drink?”
Grinning, Russell Sykes reached out to hook a chair leg with the heel of his boot. “Me, I never say no to an offer like that. Thanks. You’re well turned out this mornin’, Franklin.”
Bower glanced down at his dark-gray pinstriped suit, still almost as fresh as when he’d buttoned himself into it a few hours ago. “Yeah, got some business to transact. How’s that whiskey tastin’, there, Russell?”
“Oh, fine. Mighty fine.” To prove it, he emptied his shot glass and reached out for the bottle to pour another.
Much more prudent to merely sip the stuff, if you wanted to keep a clear head about you. “You find yourself a job yet?”
“A job? Hell, no, I ain’t found a job yet. Christ in a handcart, I only just saw you in here yesterday. Where d’you think I’d find a job that quick?”
; “Well, I don’t rightly know, since I ain’t the one lookin’ for work.” Another slow sip. Not the best he’d ever had, but getting better by the minute. “Howsoever, somethin’s come up that I might need some help with. You interested?”
“Damn straight I’m interested.” Sykes leaned in from his chair, ostensibly to listen attentively but also to pour out one more generous helping. “Whatcha got in mind?”
The man’s forward lean sent Bower leaning back. Sykes badly needed a bath. And a shampoo. And maybe a dash of eau de cologne. “Well, now,” drawled the rancher, “I got somethin’ goin’ on that I wanna take care of. And I may want you around for backup. So here’s the plan.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Long, lost, lonely night hours, given over to spasmodic periods of weeping, interspersed with spasmodic periods of resignation and depression, interspersed with more spasmodic periods of weeping. Somehow the minutes had ticked past, from full dark to early dawn, offering little surcease from the rant of recriminations chasing round and round inside her weary brain.
And all because, after living a lifestyle unencumbered and independent, she had fallen in love with a tall, bodacious Texas Ranger who had treated her like a bought-and-paid-for woman of the streets.
In all honesty, she probably had only herself to blame. What else could he have thought, given her response to his oh so delightful overtures?
She’d been caught at a weak and vulnerable moment. And had paid for it.
How would she dare look at him, even speak to him again, after such shameful behavior? Were her mother to hear of it, she would worriedly counsel patience and forbearance; her father would quietly load his gun.
At sunrise Star finally dragged her aching, exhausted body from bed. No point in trying to wring any more sleep from a sleepless position. Padding barefoot out to the kitchen / living area, she collected a small armful of kindling from its basket beside the back door, to revive the cook stove’s banked fire.
Crackling flames and a filled coffeepot set on to boil meant a resurgence of energy, if not a lifting of low spirits. A cool wet cloth pressed to swollen eyes and fevered face helped ease physical discomfort. Easing the discomfort of a prickled conscience and a troubled heart would take more. Was an experience like this what drove men to seek the solace of firewater?
Better days would come along. Everything happened for a reason. She would emerge on the other side of the tunnel, stronger than ever.
How many of her father’s old family proverbs had she heard and absorbed? How many did she still believe held true? Difficult to return to logic and philosophical reasoning when her mood was so bleak!
For a while she simply sat at her plain wooden table, sipping the hot hardy brew and contemplating life in general, her own in particular, as the morning moved on around her.
Lofty alder and poplar trees shaded her modest home from the worst of summer sun; their overhanging branches now sheltered a bevy of birds, trilling and cooing, mating and fighting, rustling in the leaves. Off in the distance a dog barked, then another joined in. Someone way down the street could be heard whistling tunelessly.
Sighing, Star glanced at her little clock ticking the seconds away from the corner what-not shelf. Breakfast first: one of yesterday’s corn muffins from the pantry. Then a bath. Then a trip with Ezekiel to the high hills of her family. When the world crashed, when disaster portended, when sanity descended into chaos, only Adsila Mendoza could make things right again.
Her painted tin tub might be neither large nor elaborate, but it served her needs; and the cook stove’s reservoir provided just enough warm water. A small capful of precious scented oil added the finishing touch. Soap. Towel. Another cup of coffee. Fresh underwear at the ready. Long heavy hair pulled up and fastened into a knot.
Stripping out of her muslin nightgown right down to her altogethers, Star stepped into the bath and sank back with one more heartfelt sigh. If life had recently beaten you up, almost past bearing, this type of leisurely soak could offer a soothing panacea.
Time, in all its dispassionate silence, passed on. A few beads of water dripped off the tub’s rim and onto the wooden floor. Plop. Plop. Plop. Lazily, luxuriously, Star squeezed a sponge over one arm, then the other.
Peace. Quiet. After the storm, the calm.
Thump! Thump!
“Oh!” Startled by the loud, demanding knock on her front door, she dropped the sponge and jerked upright. No one ever came to visit her. No one ever wanted in. If she stayed silent and unmoving, perhaps the caller would assume the house to be empty and go away.
Thump! Thump!
“Star! I know you’re in there. Your damn mule is still out in the corral, eatin’ his fool head off. C’mon, answer the door.”
The shades attached to both bedroom windows had been carefully pulled all the way down, to the sill. Privacy and seclusion she had expected to have in abundance. Apparently not so. The rancher must have a nose like a ferret, to track her down and corner her so easily.
Thump! Thump!
“C’mon, Star, dammit, open the goddamned door! Lissen, I got people here. I’ll break it down if I have to.”
On the bedside table, within easy reach, lay her Colt 1860 Army Revolver, presented with great ceremony and solemnity by Daniel, upon achieving the move to town. Six shots. Loaded and primed and ready to use. But did she dare?
A couple of hard kicks aimed at the door, none too sturdy to begin with. How much longer would it hold together?
By now, sharply awake and every sense cued to danger, like a hunted prey driven to lair, Star had eased from the tub, quickly toweled dry, and quickly pulled on underthings, a simple white blouse, a full black skirt, and her favorite moccasins.
If Bower broke into her home, and she shot him for it, Star knew just exactly what she could expect for punishment. Consider the outrage: a white man—attacked by a mestizo? At the very least, riots, mobs, imprisonment; at the worst, death by hanging.
Reluctantly putting aside any hope of self-defense, she cast a last lingering look at the charged weapon and turned away.
But she would not go down completely helpless and unprotected. Right foot propped on a stool, skirt pulled aside, Star hastily wrapped and tied the thong of her sheathed knife around the middle of her upper thigh. Not only did she know how to attach it, she knew how to use it. And damned well, too. Not for nothing did her veins run with Cherokee blood.
“Star! Are you comin’ out, or am I comin’ in?”
“What do you want, Franklin Bower?”
“Ha.” A lewd chuckle from the other side of the door. At least the banging had stopped. “I knew you were in there, girl. I can smell you.”
“Then you have the better of me. You are invading the privacy of my home Mr. Bower, and I have a gun aimed right about where you are standing.” Courageous and resolute though she might appear, her insides were quaking. Only now, in this cabin situated on the edge of town, was she realizing how far distant the rest of humanity lay. “So, I repeat, what do you want?”
A slight drum of fingers on the doorframe. Teasing. “What I’ve always wanted, Star,” came the low, insinuating voice. “You.”
“Go away, Mr. Bower. Leave now and I won’t press charges against you.”
“Press charges!” He laughed. A hyena’s baying laugh. “Oh, you do amuse me, Miss Mendoza. I look forward to some interestin’ times, you and me. Now, we’re still standin’ here talkin’, with a door between us. How about you open up? In more ways than one.”
Shaken and sickened, with bile rising in her throat, she shifted from one foot to the other. Escape. Escape how? Front door blocked, back door nonexistent; from a window? Could she possibly open a window without drawing attention, slip out and through and away?
“Oh, I toldja I got people here, Star. Watchin’. No way t’ get free but through me. So, whaddya say, you gonna behave yourself and c’mon? I got big plans for us there at the ranch. It’ll be easy livin’ for you—no
thin’ to do but pleasure me.”
Star nearly gagged. “I’d rather kiss a snake!” she spat.
“Yeah? Not very refined, now, are you? Well, see, here’s the thing.” A rustle of cloth as he leaned comfortably against the cabin’s outside wall, prepared to stay for however long it took to dislodge her into his possession. “I know all about your maw, Star. I know why she hides out in the hills.”
Silence. She had gone cold all over, and goose bumps covered her bare arms.
“It happened a long time ago, didn’t it? But I know the whole story. Man, and what a story it was.” That lewd chuckle again. Salacious. Vulgar. “Got herself attacked by a white man, so I heard. Nothin’ serious, just wantin’ a little nookie. But she knifed the poor bastard. Nearly did him in.”
She could not breathe. She could not, to save her soul, catch a breath.
“Yep. Bad wound. He finally recovered, but she skedaddled b’fore anybody found out who did it.” Casually, “Got a price on her head, don’t she? Be a real shame if that sheriff friend of yours found out where she’s livin’, had to haul her back t’town in handcuffs. Wouldn’t it, Star? Wouldn’t that be a real shame?”
Only a few yards away from him, inside her parlor, she was staring at the closed and barred front door as if it were some terrible red-eyed beast about to attack. Then suddenly a wrench of pain straight through her middle, like the gut of a knife blade, doubled her over.
“Yes, sir,” went on the unctuous voice, “got me a real nice carriage waitin’ right here, Star, t’take us out to the Condor. All the comforts.”
She was trapped, with no way to gain her freedom. This odious man had won. With slow, crabbed movements, she straightened, brushed both hands over her flowing skirts as if to purge herself of accumulated dirt, and took one careful step forward. Then another. And another.
“Well, well,” Bower greeted her with a huge grin as she opened the door. “I knew you’d see it my way. Here, let me help you into the surrey. Hey, Sykes,” he called to his hired flunky, waiting by his horse, “you can follow me on out. Star and me, we got things t’talk about.”
A Western Romance: Matthew Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 2) (Taking the High Road series) Page 4