“We will have dinner first,” he said.
It was incredible. Rita prepared dinner while Mateo held and jostled his daughter. After dinner Andrea fell asleep in Mateo’s arms. Seeing the sleeping infant, a new wave of fear washed up in Rita. He couldn’t possibly expect…
But he did. He expected, and he acted on those expectations.
Rita wiped the last plate and set it in the cupboard. Nervously she untied her apron and prepared to fight him, but in the dark recesses of her mind it was apparent to her, possibly to both of them, that this time her resistance might lack the necessary will to die, the total heedlessness of consequences. Either the memory of that night when he broke her, physically and mentally, was still too fresh, or her awareness of the baby, who slept in the other room and depended totally on her for survival, was too inhibiting. Tía Andrea could not nurse the infant.
Mateo walked across the room and stepped behind her. His hands settled on her shoulders. So warm that their heat seeped into her very bones, they moved lightly down her arms. Rita knew this was the moment to resist, but her body felt so heavy and unresponsive.
“You are my wife,” he whispered. “The mother of my child.” His hands distracted her, as did his softly uttered words. “She is a beautiful baby. You have done well.”
Rita could not bring herself to stand so complacently under his stroking hands. But her body, starved for human contact for so long, yearned to immerse herself in his heat. Even her thighs quivered at the hint of approval in his words.
“She is not a boy,” she said softly, gloatingly. At least she had not pleased him in that.
Mateo chuckled softly. “She is lucky. Boys have a harder life.”
“She belongs to me. You can never take her from me.”
“I have no desire to take her from you. What would I do with a baby?”
“Promise me,” she whispered. “I have no idea what your promise might be worth, but promise me anyway.”
“My word is all I have to give my people. It is worth my life, everyday.”
Rita shuddered. She should hate him for what he had done to her, but her mind flashed pictures of the soldiers and the handbills they had passed out among the neighboring peónes last month, offering a reward for any word that would lead them to El Gato Negro. Tía Andrea had spit on the handbill and tossed it into the fire. We should turn el patrón in so these pigs can cut his head off and put it on a stick?!
Even with his soft words and his promise, Rita was determined that this time her body would not respond the way it had before he’d abandoned her. She would die before she pleased him in that way again.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rita wanted to lie like a stone in his bed so that he would know how completely unaffected she was, but he would not allow it.
“Here, this is not like you, paloma. Go ahead, fight me if you like. I will endeavor not to hurt you.”
It infuriated her that he knew she would fight and so gave her his permission. As if his making it a game put him in charge from the outset.
Enraged, Rita struck out at him. He caught her wrist so that the blow only jarred her own arm. She went crazy with the need to hurt him the way she had been hurt, but this time he refused to strike her. He carried her to the bed and used his strength to overpower her and his weight to tire her. Tangling around her legs, impeding her kicks, even her skirts conspired to sap her strength.
At last she lay spent and exhausted beneath him. He was not even breathing hard. She hated that about him—his damned arrogant strength and endurance. Raising up on his arms, he lifted himself off her gasping body, and with two savage movements of his brown hands he ripped her gown from high neckline to mid-skirt. His hands did not stop their work until she lay naked. Then, standing up, watching her with level black eyes that sent spears of fear into her, moving leisurely, as if no reason existed for haste, he undressed himself.
A year and three months had passed since he had touched her, but once again Rita was staring at his lean, hard body, framed in the pale V of her unwilling thighs. He was as ruthless and, if possible, even more invulnerable looking than when she had seen him last. For one crazy second she wondered what forces had combined to produce such impenetrable ruthlessness in one so young.
Was it possible he was only twenty-two? Barely a man by most standards? But if the stories whispered about El Gato Negro were true, he had been killing gringos for six years.
Rita stared down the length of her naked body, aware of the quick rise and fall of her breasts, the smooth white skin of her belly, and inexplicably, as if she had never felt it before, a keen and piercing awareness came over her. This man—El Gato Negro—was her husband. She was wondering how many other women he had taken just so. How many women had watched those cruel lips curl into that insolent smile? As if he knew her thoughts and mocked her…
If she’d had a gun, she would have killed him. Her slitted eyes darted around the room, searching for a weapon. Suddenly she was remembering that first time, when she had pointed his rifle at his broad chest. You will be sorry if you pull the trigger. She had pulled it and been instantly sorry, because no bullet had sped out of the chamber into his broad chest. How many times had she pondered that? Wondering if it were possible that a man like Mateo Lorca had a sense of humor.
Now he came to her. For the first time in over a year her body was alive! She hated him with a passion that was soul deep, yet as he kissed her and ran his dark hands over her trembling softness, there was no possible resistance.
Lowering himself on top of her, his hands stroking and searching as his tongue teased her mouth, he whispered incomprehensible Spanish words. Touching her softly in dark, secret places, his lean, brown hands were like fire. His body was like a furnace; only his warm, taut muscles protected her from the heat within. His hands moved tantalizingly over thighs, belly, breasts; his lips pressed her mouth open so his tongue could nudge at the inner recesses the way his probing flesh nudged at her thighs. The heated throb of his member pressing against her own throbbing imprinted itself on her nerves and tissues. Her heart beat with his. Her blood surged and receded at his touch. A strange, sweet bliss settled over her, blotting out everything except this need, this man, who knew exactly how to still her resistance.
They slept and made love again. When she woke in the morning he was gone. A small leather pouch filled with gold coins lay on the kitchen table. Screaming invectives so loudly that she woke Andrea, Rita threw it across the room.
Their life followed this pattern until Andrea was seven. Rita sought no other men, and she did not ask questions about other women. She knew he had them, because she knew him and his needs too well, but she did not want proof.
The summer Andrea was seven he came to her for three days, the longest he had ever stayed. When he was ready to leave, he asked Rita if she would like to bring Andrea into the mountains with him, to get away from the relentless heat of Tubac. To her own surprise, she accepted.
Hidden deep in the Peloncillos, the quad with its surrounding pueblos caused a thrill of remembered fear in Rita. It was beginning to take on the look of a small, secluded city. Now, instead of lonely, vicious men living in bachelor quarters, families with all their noises and paraphernalia filled every nook and cranny of the limestone city. The streets were clean. Women peered out the windows of small adobe houses at Rita and Andrea.
The coolness was refreshing. Andrea loved it immediately, and, slowly, Rita began to relax. There were children for Andrea to play with. Mateo was less tense. For the first time Rita felt truly carefree with Mateo—until one afternoon she returned from an excursion to Cave Creek with other women and children to find a woman in the apartment she shared with Mateo.
Too surprised to back away, she stopped in the doorway. The young Mexican woman was pretty and, at the moment, quite petulant. Mateo’s face was closed, as unreadable as ever. They did not yet see Rita.
“Why did you bring her here?” she demanded, her full lips fo
rming a pretty pout.
“It was hot in Tubac,” Mateo said negligently.
“But you never brought her before! I thought you only married her for the child.”
“I did,” he said quietly, coldly.
Rita turned to leave, but at that moment Mateo glanced up and saw her.
She lifted her chin. “I will go back to Tubac now,” she said, her eyes as cold as his.
Mateo stood up and walked slowly toward her, the other woman forgotten.
“You will go back to Tubac when I say so,” he said.
She slapped him hard across the face, not caring in that moment whether he killed her or not, not caring about anything except striking out at that stubborn, handsome face.
Lips white with fear, the other woman scampered past them. Any triumph she might have felt was lost in the greater fear that, for witnessing such an act of impertinence, Mateo would kill her as well as the most foolish gringa.
In a silence so heavy it almost stopped Rita’s heart, barely aware that the other woman had left, Rita and Mateo stared at one another, it was almost a relief when he hit her. Fear was replaced by a flash of light and an explosion of pain.
She awoke in another room and was held there three days without seeing Andrea or Mateo. She was being punished, and she knew it. She seethed with hatred for him. His mistress had returned to his rooms, and now she lived openly with Mateo. Rita did not care about that. Now she was filled with an overriding dread that Mateo would keep Andrea from her forever.
On the fourth day, presumably when Mateo had enjoyed enough of his game, Rita and Andrea were bundled up and escorted back to Tubac by four of his men. This was much worse than the first rejection. As soon as she reached Tubac and rid herself of her escort, she bought a ticket to Fort Bowie. The stage left at nine the next morning; she and Andrea were on it. She did not say good-bye to anyone, not even Tía Andrea. When they reached Fort Bowie, Rita intended to head east until her money ran out. Wherever that happened, she would find work. She would do whatever she had to do to get back to Albany, where her brother, Tyler, lived.
The stage was robbed just south of the fort. The bandit took all Rita’s money. The hotel in town did not extend credit, but the clerk, seeing her desperation, remembered that Bill Burkhart was looking for a housekeeper and that he was in town.
“Keep body and soul together, ma’am. Uh, beg pardon, ma’am, but I’ll need to know your name.”
“Rita Caldwell,” she said quickly, giving her maiden name.
“Fine. Fine. I’ll send a boy for Mr. Burkhart. You sit right there and make yourself comfortable.”
Bill Burkhart was only too glad to help out. He took them out to his ranch, three miles south. He had a two-year-old daughter, a son eleven, and a young wife who flirted with the men. Rita did not like Ellen Burkhart, but she liked Bill. He was hardworking, a gruff but gentle father, and not bad looking. He had regular features, coarsened by too much exposure to the sun and wind, a thick mane of straw-colored hair, and, like the boy Steven, whom she saw only once, nice eyes. At some point the bitterness and anger that still seethed in her formed a thought—not even a thought, actually, more like a vague recognition that seemed to grow like a mushroom in a damp, dark place.
Bill Burkhart was attracted to her. His eyes followed her everywhere, and when his wife was outside, he would often find an excuse to come inside where Rita was working.
The third week Rita was there Ellen Burkhart went to Tucson to shop. She would be gone a week. Four days after she’d left, Rita appeared at Bill’s bedroom door after the children were all asleep. She was beautiful, and he didn’t ask questions. He made love to her, and for the first time in eight years of sleeping with a man, she felt nothing. There was no urgency, no fire, and no sweetness, but she did not care. She closed her eyes and pretended that Mateo was watching. She felt instantly reborn.
She would defeat Mateo’s blind egotism at last. She would show him that he could not treat her like property to be moved here and there and used at his will.
When she was sure she was pregnant, she told Bill. He gave her enough money to take her back to Tubac and keep her and the baby comfortable for a long time. His wife would not know, and he promised to provide for the child. When Teresa was born Rita wrote to Bill, telling him the date of birth, the baby’s name, and that she was blond, with blue eyes like his and Steve’s.
Then she waited for Mateo’s return. He always came back. She didn’t care if it took five years. She wanted to see his face when he saw her blue-eyed, tow-headed daughter and found out that she had named the child Teresa Garcia-Lorca.
But even in that he managed to defeat her. The cold-eyed bastard looked at five-month-old Teresa, and his eyes softened. “She looks like my mother,” he said, bending down to lift the child into his arms. “I have not seen that particular color of hair in our family for many years.”
The tone of Mateo’s voice was reverent, and the look on his face was one of hunger and tenderness. Could he be serious? Didn’t he know that the baby could not be his?
That was all he ever said about Teresa. But that night Rita had to be mastered all over again, and Mateo—guided by the blueprint burned into their passion—set himself to the task with surprising gentleness.
Rita had somehow missed her chance to tell him. And once she didn’t tell him immediately, the opportunity to right her oversight did not come. She loved little Teresa, and she wanted everyone to love her, even Mateo, because Teresa needed his love so much. She wanted to be equal to Andrea in every way. If Papa patted Andrea, Teresa would crawl over for her pat. If Papa fed Andrea from his plate, Teresa would cry for a bite of his food as well.
Their lives ground along as before. Rita resumed her place as head of her little segment of Tubac society, and Mateo treated Teresa and Andrea with the same gentleness he reserved for all children and old ones. They never spoke of her parentage again. When Teresa was nine years old Bill Burkhart visited Rita and satisfied himself that Tía was his. Bill’s wife had left him by then and Rita could have become Bill’s mistress or his wife, but she wanted neither position. She enjoyed the liveliness of Tubac, which was now a military outpost. She had friends, odd as they were, and enjoyed being free from the daily drudgeries of married life. She implied to Bill that she had reconciled with her husband. Half-grateful, admitting that publicly claiming his child would be embarrassing for him at this time, he made no demands on her.
Rita gazed up at the Peloncillos, looming darkly. How would he receive her? It had been a long time since she’d gone to him of her own accord.
They were almost there. Late tonight, Abuelito had said grumpily when she’d refused to stop at sunset. Late tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Movement as slight as the rising of a thin dust comet on the periphery of his vision caught Mateo Lorca’s attention. He turned. A dozen riders, moving in a fast, tight knot from the opposite direction, were riding toward his ambush.
Mateo frowned at the complication. Fortunately they were not close enough to be effective in time. The most they could do would be to make a nuisance of themselves and to die for their stupidity. Mateo considered giving the alternate signal—three shots instead of one to bring all his forces into action—but he rejected the idea. The intruders would probably turn tail and flee once the shooting started. And he preferred to play his cards one at a time. Patchy was an able commander; he would know how to deal with interference.
Compared with the intruders, the mule train moved at a snail’s pace. Even so, in another few seconds the entire mule train would be fully inside his trap.
Mateo brought his field glasses up to his eyes. He searched the fast-moving riders, trying to penetrate the dust and commotion. He recognized no one. They would be sorry they’d happened along at this particular time. Were they fleeing the corpses they must have found on the trail behind them? Or were they bent on some other errand? A posse, perhaps? To warn Burkhart? Had Teresa told them enough t
o tip his hand?
Another man with less confidence or more nervousness might have rushed and spoiled the effectiveness of the ambush. Another man might have abandoned the idea altogether. But Mateo Lorca did not even consider it. With the cool, calculating nerve of the born gambler, he waited until the last man in the mule train rode into the mouth of his trap, until every man, every animal, was ensnared. The intruders were still half a mile away.
Then Mateo raised his .30-.30 and fired the lone signal shot. He did not wait to see the result but urged his horse forward and began the long, steep descent. Details were unimportant. Now he wanted to be with his men.
On the canyon floor, Steve Burkhart heard the crack of the rifle and turned in his saddle, arm raised, preparing to shout a command. Where moments ago all had been quiet, with only the jingling bells on the lead mule and the sound of hooves on hard, dry earth to entertain the birds and animals in the canyon, now bullets tore into the ground beneath his feet. A searing pain strangled the words in his throat. Horses screamed, and mules brayed in panic.
Steve could feel himself falling and knew he’d been hit, but he felt no pain. The impact jarred him, but he did not lose consciousness. Horses’ hooves stamped the ground near his face. Dust choked him, blinded him. He wanted to shout orders for his men to take cover, to defend themselves, but neither his voice nor his arm responded to his commands. He was either dead or paralyzed. That thought should have upset him, but it was only words.
A neighing horse fell next to him, barely missing him. He could not be dead. He heard the ring of ricocheting bullets, the hoarse braying of mules, the yells of his men, and the screams of terrified horses.
Blackness started at the periphery of his vision and closed inward but did not close all the way. He strained to get up, but his body didn’t respond; he closed his eyes. A feeling of irreparable loss settled over him.
Down the canyon Johnny Brago heard the rattle of gunfire and knew he’d lost his battle against time. They’d been so close—so damned close!
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