After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the sequestered coolness of the tall cathedral rocks that formed the Devil’s Kitchen of the Chiricahua Mountains, Mateo Lorca sat motionless upon his sleek black Arabian. His face shaded by the brim of his flat-crowned black sombrero, he watched the slow progress of a smuggler train—its fine Andalusian mules loaded with booty. The train followed the trail that wound through a wild, deserted canyon between the Chiricahuas and the Peloncillos, running from the San Simon Valley in Arizona Territory to the Animas Valley in New Mexico Territory.

  From his vantage point Mateo could sense his men who were concealed behind the boulders and trees that bordered the winding, overgrown path the mules would have to follow. Taking off his sombrero, he wiped his forehead. The sun was high overhead. On the canyon floor the sun would blaze even hotter on the men and animals.

  Mateo waited patiently for the last mule in line to amble into his snare.

  “Get up, you lazy so and so,” Ed Smith said crossly.

  Riding at the head of the train, Russ Sloan had learned a new respect for mules. They might appear to be the dumbest animals in the world, and sometimes they were, but these small, sturdy-limbed mules seemed smarter than the men who drove them. Especially smarter than Ed Smith, whose mule just sat down and wouldn’t budge. Russ didn’t think himself the most cunning man in the world where animals were concerned, but even he could see the mule was just toying with Smith.

  Smith whacked the mule with his rawhide reata. The mule closed its eyes and brayed, but it didn’t move. Russ had grown up around mules. He stopped his horse, fished into his pocket for a hunk of salt, and held it out for the stubborn animal to sniff. It licked the salt out of Russ’s hand and then stood up to follow him. Every so often he would reach back and hand the little mule a salt chip. He liked doing it, because it irritated Ed Smith and pleased the mule. Salt was a little dear, but Russ was a rich man. He could afford to indulge himself.

  With that problem solved, the mules—in single file, each with a jingling bell at its throat—moved steadily eastward. For each mule, half-hidden beneath its great rawhide aparejos—pack sacks—Russ had hired two armed outriders: hard-faced, swarthy men dressed as vaqueros, their sharp eyes alert for any sign of danger that might lurk in the wilds of the heavily thicketed canyon. The mules’ bells tinkled reassuringly. Bandits or Indians would think twice before trying anything against these men.

  Russ turned to Ed Smith. “I hate to brag, but I know a man who may just put Wells Fargo to shame. If he’s not careful!”

  Smith was used to Russ talking about himself as if he were someone else. He hardly noticed it anymore. “They ain’t been doing too good, have they?” he snorted. “Losing the last three shipments to road agents. Reckon you had to take matters into your own hands.”

  Overhead, a shot rang out. Bounding off the rocky canyon walls, the reverberations cracked and echoed. Ed Smith was trying to decide if it was a .45 or a .44 or maybe a .30–.30. His hand was already reaching for his own gun. Unexpectedly a man leaped out of the bushes ahead of them, blocking their path.

  “Rein in, señors!” he shouted.

  “What the hell!” Russ cried, jerking his reins in a purely reflex action.

  “You are surrounded, señor! Do not reach for your irons, or there will be much trouble.”

  Unlike Russ Sloan and the riders pulling up around him in stunned silence, the man speaking was a real Mexican, probably a real bandit. He wore a soiled, multicolored serape and a tall crowned hat with an extra-wide brim. His shaggy mustache covered his lips.

  Responding slowly, Russ brought his hand up in a signal for his already motionless mule train to halt. No one moved. Perspiration trickled down the side of Russ’s temple. He was in charge, and the responsibility confused him. By nature he wasn’t a violent man. The men he had hired waited for some signal from him. When he had been thinking about this in his mind, he had assumed that if something happened, the correct action would automatically come to him, but now nothing came. What could be the right action if the bandit was alone would be wrong if he was heavily backed by others. Russ felt inexplicably paralyzed.

  “Throw down your irons, señors, and no one will be hurt. You are outnumbered. If you do not comply, my men will shoot you down like so many dogs.”

  Russ Sloan could see no other men. He had a vision of himself riding into town without his booty or his silver. He would be a laughingstock. Word would spread all over Tombstone that with twenty men at his back, he had surrendered two hundred pounds of silver to one lone Mexican bandit. The sound of raucous, derisive laughter would follow him the rest of his life.

  “He’s…bluffing,” Russ blurted, hating the way his voice cracked.

  “You’re nuts,” Smith murmured.

  “He’s bluffing!” Russ said, stronger this time.

  “No trick, señor!” the Mexican shouted, and motioned with his arm for his men to rise. From behind rocks, from behind bushes, from above them on canyon walls, at least two dozen men brandishing rifles and guns surrounded the mule train.

  “Drop your weapons!” shouted the bandido.

  Smith reached for his gun to toss it onto the ground.

  “No!” Russ said under his breath.

  “They got the drop on us!” Smith hissed.

  “They’re bluffing. They aren’t going to kill twenty men. We know who they are. They kill any one of us, and they’ll be hunted down like dogs.”

  “Throw down your guns, señors!” The shout came again.

  “Fire! Fire!” Russ yelled. “They’re bluffing!” He clawed at his own gun, cleared leather, and snapped off a shot. The man in the multicolored serape scrambled for cover behind a granite rock. Thus encouraged, Russ’s men drew their guns and prepared to fight.

  Russ Sloan gave a triumphant yell. In the next second light exploded inside him, and he was flung off his horse. He screamed and felt the ground curve up to meet him.

  A cacophony of shots rolled one on another. Horses whinnied nervously. Russ hit the ground hard, but he didn’t pass out. Riders fell. Soon only the mules were left, braying nervously in the hot sun. Russ felt himself lucky to have survived.

  The scrape of boots walking toward him caused his heart to pound. He tried to see where his gun had fallen, but waves of pain exploded in his head. He seemed to hear a gunshot, but maybe not.

  Mateo Lorca picked his way down the mountainside to the canyon floor. It took him less than ten minutes, but the shooting was already over. Slowly he rode the length of the fallen mule train, surveying the carnage. Patchy Arteaga rode up beside him and waited respectfully.

  At last, el general looked at him. Patchy sighed. “A thousand pardons, General. It could not be helped. We gave them every opportunity to surrender the silver, but they would not.”

  Mateo shook his head in disgust. “My information about this one was correct,” he said, dismounting to turn Russ Sloan’s body with the tip of his pointed boot. “The padre called him a pompous ass. Now he is only a dead gringo.”

  “A very foolhardy man, General.” patchy paused. “Shall we bury the dead?”

  “Leave them!” Mateo said angrily. “Let their bones be a warning to others.”

  Judy woke with a start. Her dream had turned into one of falling. She hated falling dreams. She straightened and leaned over Grant.

  His color was high and ruddy. Maybe that was a good sign. She leaned forward and touched his brow. It was so hot she groaned and sagged back in her chair.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. Usually, if she talked, Grant would stir or show in some way he had heard her, but this time he lay like a stone.

  Fear gripped Judy. He was going to die. Indian arrows were usually poisoned. She’d heard stories about people who died horrible, lingering deaths from being shot by Indian arrows. If they weren’t poisoned, they were filthy.

  A wave of nausea swept upward. Her stomach felt as if it were filled with rocks. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she sh
ivered as if she had taken a chill. A feeling of such sickness and self-pity grew in her that she knew she would be justified in leaving Grant. No one would blame her if she left him now. She’d made herself sick nursing him. That was all anyone could expect of her, even Tía.

  Grant moaned. It was only a low sound, deep in his throat, but it caused her heart to constrict with fear. She leaned forward and placed a trembling hand on his forehead, which was so warm it felt good to her cold hands.

  “If you die, Grant Foreman, I’ll never forgive you,” she muttered.

  She sat there all morning, afraid to move. At midday Tía came in with a dinner tray.

  “Judy, you need to eat something.”

  Judy pondered that for a moment. Her stomach still felt filled with rocks. “No.” She shook her head. “Please, take it away. I don’t like the smell of it.”

  “I brought some chicken broth for Grant. Why don’t you rest, and I’ll feed him.”

  “No. I’ll feed him. He wants me.”

  Judy knew Grant was dying. She didn’t tell Tía because saying the words aloud would devastate her, and she didn’t want to cry in front of Grant or Tía, but she knew. Something had changed in Grant, slipped away from her. He was out of her control now. She knew when it had happened. It was only a matter of time now. But she would try to feed him. Maybe his body—the part that had decided to die—could be tricked.

  Medicine box in hand, Tía left, and Judy raised Grant’s head and put another pillow behind it. Then she brought a spoonful of broth to his lips and let a little of it trickle down his throat. He choked and coughed, and the pain of coughing caused him to groan.

  “Grant…please don’t die,” she said, her hand shaking as she reached out to check his burning forehead. But she knew he would. And she didn’t even have the courage to leave him and save herself from watching it.

  Medicine box in hand, Tía hesitated at the door of Johnny’s cabin. She hadn’t wanted to come, but Carmen’s mischievous eyes had taunted her into it. Johnny was injured, Carmen had coaxed. But now Tía told herself nervously that if Carmen liked him so much, and he was in need of so much special care, Carmen should be taking care of him herself. In her opinion his wound was small and not that deep.

  Unexpectedly the door opened, and Tía found herself gazing up into Johnny’s handsome face. He smiled appealingly, and the dancing lights in his dark eyes made her forget her misgivings.

  “Come in.” He stepped back and let her pass into the relative dimness of the cabin. After the bright sunlight, the room seemed sultry and close. It even smelled like Johnny—a warm, dizzying smell that confused her senses.

  He started to unbutton his faded blue shirt. The thought of being in this small cabin with him while he undressed unnerved her. She turned to leave.

  “Tía!” Johnny reached out and touched her arm. “I’m only taking off my shirt so you can tend to my arm.”

  “Your shirt doesn’t have to come off. You can just push your sleeve up.”

  “My arm’s too big…”

  So it was. Brawny and muscular, his arm was larger than the narrow part of the cuff. Tía flushed with embarrassment and walked to the table. She set down the box of doctoring supplies Carmen had given her. What was wrong with her, anyway? She had seen men with their shirts off before. Sometimes men bathed in the water troughs in Tubac, cupping the water with their hands and letting it run down their bare chests, soaking their pants. She should have asked Johnny to come up to the house, but it was too late now. He would only think her a naive girl who didn’t know how to act with a man.

  “Of course you have to take it off! I knew that!”

  “Sorry,” Johnny said, lifting his hands as if to ward off her blows.

  At least he was not laughing at her. Slightly mollified, Tía rattled the chair at the small, rickety table and motioned him onto it. Looking completely subdued, Johnny walked over obediently, sat down, and waited for the next command.

  Tía ignored his insistent eyes. His broad chest was covered with a furry mat of black hair. She untied the rags that held the bandage in place and was glad he couldn’t see her fingers tremble. Once the knots were loose and she had exposed the area, her hands steadied. The gash in his arm was raw and red-rimmed, but it didn’t look infected.

  She cleaned the wound with a rag soaked in kerosene and felt grateful he didn’t flinch away, showing the pain she knew he must be feeling. She expected him to kick like a bay steer, but he just sat there and stole occasional looks at her.

  After she’d cleaned the wound, she rewrapped it and tied a freshly boiled bandage in place. There hadn’t been time earlier for the niceties. “Should hold you for a while,” she said, stepping back.

  “Thanks. You’ve got a mighty soft touch.”

  “I hope I didn’t hurt you too bad.”

  “You know, there’s a small gate next to the wagon gates. Would you take a walk with me? It’s nice after sunset. The Injuns won’t bother us. Even if they tried, we’d see ’em coming.”

  “No, thanks, I better not.”

  Johnny, frowned and stood up beside her. His height intimidated Tía. She felt his nearness all the way to her toes. “How come you won’t walk with me?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “How come?”

  Tía shrugged. His nearness confused her so badly that she couldn’t remember what she had said or why.

  Johnny scowled into her face a moment and then expelled a heavy breath. He had a suspicion, but he wasn’t about to mention it. His pa had had strong feelings about a man shaming a woman. So he would not accuse her of anything, but he had seen Tía Marlowe three times that afternoon, and each time she had been either following Steve or trying to get him to talk to her. If she had fallen for Steve, it would do no good to try to spark her. Women couldn’t be had for the chasing.

  Tía backed toward the door. Johnny knew all about women, but he followed her anyway. Something irresistible about Tía Marlowe made him forget his common sense.

  “You haven’t worn that bracelet. I’ve watched for it.”

  “I didn’t know I had to wear it immediately. I’ll be happy to bring it back.”

  “You act like you think I’m bad medicine. Maybe I could change your mind about me if you’d just give me a chance. Just think about it, and chew it real fine, okay?”

  Tía nodded and backed out the door, grateful he didn’t follow her. Once outside and away from his disturbing influence, the slight breeze off the desert cooled her hot face. With the high-pitched screeches of fighting wrens and clucking chickens in her ears, she suddenly could not understand why she had refused to walk with him. A walk would have made her feel better. She had been cooped up inside all day.

  All her life Tía had wanted to grow up, because she had thought life would be simpler when she had only herself to answer to. But that had been before she’d realized that she would have so many things to consider every time she turned around. She wanted to walk with Johnny. And not doing it made her feel cranky. But on the other hand, she didn’t like the idea of walking with a man who had spent the night with another woman. She had half a mind to go right back there and ask Johnny exactly what had happened, but she knew that he’d probably tell her what he thought she wanted to hear, and she might not be able to tell if he was lying or not.

  Judy had been out all night with Johnny Brago. It was no wonder she didn’t consider his request for as long as it took her to listen to it.

  Tía walked into the orchard, sat down under a peach tree, and put her head in her hands. A more pressing need existed in her. She should tell Steve and Judy who she was. Not telling was pure folly. The more water that flowed under that particular bridge, the more dangerous the current she’d have to tread to get back to where she’d started from.

  In the distance Carmen yelled at the children, who were somewhere in the orchard, and they giggled and ran. Birds carried on their business—calling back and forth—arguing, singing, squawking.


  In despair, Tía closed her eyes. It was one thing to know what to do and another to do it. She didn’t deserve to be an heiress. She’d never felt any flinching away from anything good before, but now, strangely, she recoiled from her fate.

  She almost wished Andrea was the lady of the spread. She enjoyed it. She was good at it. Tía was not. She wanted to work in anonymity—to work hard enough and long enough to get to the point where she would deserve it. She wanted to earn Steve’s and Judy’s admiration by her hard work. She wanted them to like her and respect her; she wanted them to depend on her…to love her. Then, when they found out the truth, they would…

  What?

  They’ll know what you’ve done, a small voice within accused her. They’ll know you caused your papa to nearly die. They’ll know it was your fault. They’ll know you always wanted Papa to love you like he almost did.

  Tía trembled. I didn’t!

  Yes, you did.

  “I didn’t…I didn’t!” she cried aloud.

  But no one could hear her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Midnight. Steve stood up and stretched. Six o’clock would come too soon.

  He turned down the wick in the kerosene lamp. The flame flickered and died. Steve walked through the dark office to the door. He didn’t need a light. He knew every room in the casa grande by memory, right down to the placement of each piece of furniture. He’d lived in this house for twenty-six years. His father had started with a large, one-room adobe hut and had built on more rooms every few years. At one time the entire cabin had been no bigger than the parlor. Now a new parlor was surrounded by three bedrooms on the east, a large kitchen and eating hall to accommodate twenty or so riders at one time, and Steve’s office on the north. The west side of the house provided two more bedrooms.