After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  Now only Steve, Morgan Todd, Johnny, and a dozen riders fussing over six pack animals remained. The prospect of Steve making this trip evoked a strange foreboding in Andrea. She wished he would change his mind. But she had exhausted all her arguments this morning before she’d left him, to no avail.

  Morgan Todd’s sensuous face was bruised and surly. Even Johnny, who was not going along, exhibited a forbidding truculence that did not encourage conversation.

  “Rutledge says the Indians have all moved north,” Steve said to Johnny, who was smoothing the breeching in place on the pack he had cinched onto one of the mules. “I guess if that’s true, it should be safe to go back to doing some ranching tomorrow.”

  Johnny grunted his assent. Steve mounted Sand Biscuit, a gray mare with sleek, racy lines. Johnny squinted up at him as if he purely resented having to speak. “I’ll scout around this afternoon and see if I agree with him,” he said curtly.

  “If you take the men out tomorrow, leave a heavier guard on the walls, even if it looks all right this afternoon.”

  Johnny nodded. “Chatto’s never been an enemy of ours particularly, but maybe his competing with Geronimo will change all that.”

  “Could be,” Steve said. He looked at Andrea, and a smile started at his toes and worked its way up until he felt sure his whole face was involved.

  Johnny Brago took his cue and moved away to speak to one of the other riders.

  Steve couldn’t touch Andrea, because he didn’t want to spend the trip explaining to Morgan that she wasn’t his sister, but he could look at her. Though he probably shouldn’t. He might not have the strength to leave.

  A question sparkled in Andrea’s eyes. She needed to be reassured, told once more that he loved her, and Steve knew he would not have the opportunity to do that. All he could do was look at her and hope that she could take her assurance from his eyes. If he didn’t see her again for ten years, the very next time she lifted her gaze to his would be as satisfying as it was this moment.

  Andrea held him there with the power of her need, and slowly the truth dawned in her eyes. Ever so slowly, as a flower opens to the sun, her face changed until it reflected what he had sensed within himself, until her face blossomed with love.

  The wind swirled her skirts, men shouted their readiness, and Steve’s vision blurred, then cleared. Andrea was a shimmering enchantment in the simple white blouse and black skirt: warmth and fineness shone through her uplifted face and made him ache all the way down to his knees.

  She skimmed down the steps and reached up to put her small, dainty hand into his, and the shock to his system was absolute.

  “Be careful, Steve. Come back to me,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, giving him one last look into her bewitching dark eyes. Then, her black skirts floating out around her slim ankles, she whirled and ran into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The racket of men and horses and wagons and drivers out front drew Tía to the parlor window. Johnny Brago came walking around the side of the house with an aparejo over his shoulders. He tossed the pack saddle, a large leather pocket already stuffed with two or three inches of cushioning straw, onto one of the mules and began cinching it down, working quickly and efficiently. Next to Johnny, Leon Parker got his aparejo cinched around his beast of burden, but he could not get the breeching snug enough. Johnny finished, then helped Leon check the cinches and breeching to be sure the pack saddle would not slip under an awkward load. Then he walked his animal around to the side of the house, out of sight.

  The soldiers were ready to leave. Judy’s Persian cat Tiffany rubbed against Tía’s ankle, and she reached down to stroke its plush fur. Tiffany purred insistently and pushed herself closer to Tía. Johnny reappeared, leading the now heavily loaded mule.

  Tía lost interest in the bustling activity around the front porch, but she waited a few minutes to see if Johnny would return. She didn’t even like him anymore, but with Judy’s disaffection still stinging her, she wanted to see if he still liked her.

  Tiffany meowed at Tía. A voice behind her, Johnny’s voice, startled her so badly she jumped.

  “That’s got to be the most pitiful excuse for a meow I’ve ever heard,” Johnny said dryly, looking from Tía to the face of the dainty female Persian Judy had ordered from back east.

  He walked across the parlor, squatted down, and held out a small piece of bacon. Fascinated, Tía watched as the elegant fluff ball, hopelessly prissy by barn cat standards, lifted the offering from Johnny’s hand without touching him.

  Grinning, standing up, Johnny hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned against the Morris chair next to Tía. She could not imagine what he was so pleased about. It irritated her that all she had to do was see his hands, so dark and broad, tapering into manly wrists and muscular forearms, and she remembered instantly how vibrant with life they felt cupping her face or pressing into her shoulders.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Tiffany, he doesn’t know a really good meow when he hears one,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by Johnny.

  “Good!” he scoffed. “I’ve heard better meows on three-day-old barn cats. She doesn’t meow, she squeaks. For fifty bucks she should sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner.’”

  “She meows exactly like I taught her.”

  “It figures that she’d have to be taught how to meow.”

  “She didn’t meow at all when I came here. She just opened her mouth and pretended to make noise.”

  “Do you sing, too?”

  “No,” she said sadly, forgetting for the moment that she was furious with him. “I would love to be able to sing, though. If I could sing, I’d be so good at it.”

  Tía had rejected him last night, but Johnny smiled in spite of himself. Her cheeks flushed as pretty as a ripe peach. Her lips were smooth and rounded, perched in a blushing half-opened pout that reminded him of a blossom waiting for a honey bee…

  Johnny took another scrap from his pocket and squatted beside Tiffany. Daintily Tiffany lifted it off his fingers and carried it a few steps away. Johnny straightened, leaned against the wall again, and grinned at Tía, enjoying her flash of resentment. At least she noticed him.

  “I thought you had work to do,” she said irritably.

  “I’m doing it.”

  “You are not.”

  “Foreman does the watchin’. I’m watchin’ you.”

  “Well, I don’t need to be watched, thank you.”

  “Seems to me you need a lot of watchin’,” he said, a scowl darkening his face.

  “Well, you don’t get to decide what I need, Mr. Brago.”

  Johnny made some reply, not listening any longer to her banter. He should leave her alone. She obviously preferred Morgan Todd or Steve Burkhart, or maybe she hadn’t even decided which one yet, but it wasn’t him she wanted. Unfortunately, as long as she kept responding to him like she did, he didn’t seem capable of walking away from her. He’d probably never had good sense.

  Johnny flushed with anger at himself. Like a young buck caught halfway between hay and grass, he was still hanging around, teasing Tía into noticing him. It maddened him that he couldn’t just walk away and leave her to whichever man she wanted. His pride and stubbornness would not permit him to do more than taunt her, so he contented himself with that.

  “Your innocent little friend Tiffany’s breeding, you know.”

  “She is not,” Tía flared.

  “She is so,” he crowed, enjoying her chagrin.

  “How do you know?” She stooped to pick Tiffany up, covering the cat’s ears as if she understood every word and would be scandalized.

  “Easy. Opportunity,” he said. When Tiffany had arrived in her wooden cage—spoiled, pampered, combed and brushed until her fluffy silver-gray coat fairly gleamed—the other cats had taken one look at her mincing steps and her perfect coiffure and kept their distance until she’d gone into heat. That was something they understood.

  “We have some very c
apable tomcats around here. She went outside every night she wanted to. You wanna wager on it?”

  Tía flushed from collar to hairline, making her even prettier—if that was possible. As if the cat had burned her, she put Tiffany down. Johnny laughed, but the laughter faded as another dark thought came to him.

  “I thought you’d been out there this morning, crying your eyes out because your beaux were leaving.”

  “I don’t have any beaux.”

  “Don’t expect sympathy from me,” he said dryly.

  “If your sympathy is as scarce as your good sense, it’s rarer’n sunflowers on a Christmas tree,” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “He didn’t touch me.”

  “My condolences,” he drawled, enjoying her anger and taking hope. “Maybe next time.”

  Lifting her nose, looking like a haughty, pedigreed kitten herself, Tía sniffed with such disdain that Johnny almost howled with laughter. Admiring the pale, golden glow of her skin, the rounded smoothness and swell of her lips, parted and beckoning to him, he fairly burned to touch her. Was it possible she truly did not know how pretty she was? If she did, would she stand there daring him to prove she could respond again, the way she had in the barn?

  “I don’t need your condolences, Johnny Brago. I’m fine. Never been better!”

  “I’m glad you don’t get all broken up when your love affairs don’t work out right away. I like a woman who can bounce back.”

  “At least I’m not a cheat and a liar,” she said, her blue eyes flashing.

  “You want an award for not sneaking around?” Apparently since Tía had told him first, that made it all right to her way of thinking. The joy he’d felt when she’d seemed to respond to him dissolved. Maybe if some Indian didn’t stick a dogwood switch in his back or Morgan Todd’s bullet didn’t find its mark in his chest, he would live long enough to understand women. But he doubted it.

  Johnny picked up his hat from the back of a chair, jammed it on his head, and stalked out.

  Tía could not believe her eyes. His lithe form moved faster than she would have thought possible. Nothing of indolence showed in the angry, purposeful way he walked. In a fury, she searched for something to throw at him. He had no right to come around, acting like she was the one at fault. And he had no right to leave when she still had a mouthful of angry words to say to him. It was no wonder she hated him.

  Andrea found Tía in the kitchen and pulled her aside.

  “I told Steve last night.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was relieved. We’re in love.”

  “I doubt that was much of a surprise to either one of you.” Tía expelled a deep breath. “Now, the hard part begins.”

  Andrea nodded. “We tell Judy.”

  “I guess I’d better be the one to do that,” Tía said.

  “Do you want me to help you?”

  “No. This is between us.”

  “Is she still angry with you?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “You could wait.”

  “No. The sooner the better. I’m tired of riding under the wrong banner.”

  Tía knocked lightly, slipped inside Judy’s room, and leaned against the door she had closed after her. Judy slept in a tangle of covers. “Judy, are you asleep?”

  Groggily, Judy turned toward the sound of Tía’s voice. Her dreams had been bad, and she should have been grateful to be saved from them, but when she opened her eyes she recognized Tía Marlowe and remembered instantly that she was still angry with her because she hadn’t kept her promise to walk with Morgan Todd. “Welsher.”

  “I didn’t welsh. I forgot.”

  “You got me in more trouble than I’ve ever been in before in my life.”

  “I did?”

  “Morgan Todd hates my guts. If he could, he’d probably kill me.”

  “How did I do that?”

  “By welshing on our agreement. By not walking with Morgan.”

  Tía doubted that she could have caused all that, but she didn’t want to correct Judy and put her in an even worse mood. “I need to tell you something real important.”

  Judy turned over and punched her pillow into a more accommodating shape, then lay back down. “What?”

  “I lied to you in Tombstone.”

  “About what?”

  “My name is Teresa, Teresa Garcia-Lorca.”

  “Teresa?”

  “Yes. Teresa Garcia-Lorca.”

  Judy couldn’t fathom all the ramifications of Tía’s confession. If she was really Teresa…

  “Then who’s Andrea?”

  “My sister.”

  “You can’t be Teresa.”

  “How come?”

  “You’re not Mexican.”

  “Mama gave me my stepfather’s name. My mother is white. So was my…Mr. Burkhart.”

  Judy faced away from Tía and stared out the window. A cacophony of sound rose from outside—hens clucked, a dog barked, men argued.

  Judy had trusted Tía, and Tía had been laughing behind her back. A wave of disillusionment flooded her so completely, she thought she would suffocate from it. She had been right about Tía being a little maggot. Tía had tricked her, taken her beau, and abandoned her to Morgan after she’d promised herself to stay away from him. Tía had been laughing at her from the first minute they’d met.

  Tía’s voice was tentative. “Judy…”

  “Go away!” Judy yelled. “I don’t want to see you ever again!”

  “Judy, please don’t be mad.”

  “Mad! I hate you, Tía or Teresa or whatever your name is.” A thought came to Judy, and she sat bolt upright in bed. “But I guess I’d better be nice to you, hadn’t I? Else you’ll kick me out of your house, won’t you?” She jumped out of bed and curtsied. “How’s that, Your Majesty? Please may I be excused? Or must I get up now?” Fury sparkled in Judy’s scornful brown eyes.

  Tía pressed her lips together in frustration. “I didn’t betray you. Except for that one little lie, I was straight with you! I was your friend!”

  “You tricked me!”

  “Because you were going to trick me!”

  “That was in fun! We wouldn’t have hurt you!”

  “That was in fun, too!”

  “Making a fool of me and Steve for two weeks?!”

  “If you’d run me off, I’da been gone forever.” Tía scowled and turned away. “Once I’d lied, I couldn’t figure out how to tell you; then you got mad at me…”

  “You’re a maggot, Tía Marlowe or whatever your name is.”

  “Remember what you said to me? Can’t you take a joke?”

  “You’ve lied to me every day since I met you, and now you want me to see the humor! You slither in here like a snake, take my man away from me, trick me into getting in trouble with Morgan Todd, take away my inheritance, and now you have the gall to be disappointed because I can’t take a joke!”

  Judy raised up and surveyed Tía as if she had just crawled out from under a rock. “Get the hell out of my room, Teresa Garcia-Lorca, while you can still walk!” she roared.

  Thoroughly cowed, Tía opened the door and stepped outside.

  Judy covered her head with the pillow. Morgan hated her. Johnny had gotten completely over her. Tía had betrayed her from the day they’d met. If Tía weren’t such a maggot, Judy would be elated that Andrea, the schoolteacher, was not Steve’s sister. Grant was injured and could still die. Steve had never had time for her. Her father had hated her so much that he’d given her inheritance to that little maggot he’d secretly loved when he should have been loving Judy. Her own father, if she’d ever had one, cared nothing for her. Judy realized that no one loved her. She didn’t even love herself.

  Life was trickier than it appeared. She seemed to have everything and actually had nothing. She had lost Johnny years ago. When she’d left the dance with Morgan, she hadn’t realized she was making a choice, but Johnny had held her decision against her for years.

  Her
limbs felt leaden. She told herself to get out of bed so she wouldn’t torment herself with all these losses, but she had no strength to move.

  Her eyelids drooped, and it was too much of an effort to lift them. She didn’t remember sleeping, but something was tickling her nose. She woke blurrily, fighting the dream and the encroaching reality with equal strength.

  Grant Foreman leaned over her, tickling her nose with a feather. “Go away,” she groaned, pushing at his hand.

  “Wake up. I saved you some coffee. Besides, it’s time to get up. I need someone to talk to.”

  “No. Please go away,” she grumbled. Before his injury he wouldn’t have been allowed near her bedroom. But because he had been injured and Carmen had taken a liking to her “cheerful caballero,” he now had all sorts of privileges. Carmen had probably been the one to let him in her room. Glancing at herself, Judy was relieved to see that she was covered from the neck down. Usually she slept in naked disarray.

  “What time is it?” she asked, feeling hot and sweaty. She hated sleeping this late, because it meant she’d missed the coolest, best part of the day.

  “Almost noon. It’s a beautiful day. Hear that? Birds are singing.”

  “Birds are so stupid they sing at anything.”

  “The sky’s blue, and so am I,” he coaxed.

  It was so amazing to see Grant up and about, looking almost fully recovered, that Judy sighed, swung her legs over the side, clutched the covers around her, and sat up. Grant handed her the robe off the chair beside her bed. But when she reached for it, he suddenly jerked it back.

  “No, don’t put this on. Get dressed, and we’ll take a walk. I feel so good I can’t lie down.”

  Judy pushed Grant out the door, took a sponge bath from the basin on the bureau, sipped at the coffee he’d left for her, brushed her teeth with the wash rag, then pulled on her ugliest gown, a brown one that she hated.

  He was waiting for her at the back door. “This better be good,” she said sullenly. She was in such a grumpy mood she didn’t speak again until they were hallway through the orchard, almost to her old playhouse.