Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  She did as he demanded, and he did not approach her, only lathered and rinsed his body, then paddled to the shallows and began to dry himself on a rough cotton cloth one of the village women had given them. She was already on the bank, assiduously avoiding looking his way as she dealt with the more complex problem of drying not only her body but the waistlength mass of her hair on one thin towel.

  ʺHere, use this on your insect bites. It will kill the sting and prevent swelling,ʺ he said, handing her a small vial of an evil‐smelling, oily substance. Grimacing, she accepted it. Rather than the carefully orchestrated seductive touching he had employed in his first journey with her as captive, this time he ignored her and donned fresh clothes without casting her a further glance. Finally, after she had used the noisome medication on her legs and put on the skirt, she struggled to reach one welt in the center of her back before slipping on the blouse.

  Gruffly, he took the medicine from her hand and said, ʺHold your hair away so I may see.ʺ When she complied, he quickly and dispassionately medicated the welt, then refastened the cork on the vial as she drew the blouse over her head and tied the lacing in front with fumbling fingers.

  They slept together on the rude pallet that night, much as they had on their first night in New Mexico, but this time she knew how useless it was to attempt escape from her vigilant captor. In moments she was asleep.

  The journey north was long and torturous, quickly assuming a familiar pattern as they rode, ate, and slept together in strained, impersonal silence. She abandoned all attempts at engaging him in even superficial conversation. He would tell her nothing of his plans. Everywhere they stopped, he seemed to have a network of supporters who brought them fresh horses and food, as well as providing them with shelter.

  In a few days, the cloying jungle lowlands gave way to more open higher elevations. The fertile valley of Mexico lay before them. Of course they avoided well‐traveled routes and stayed to seemingly trackless back ways where no Spanish soldiers would find them. Only the Indians and paisanos who were Joaquínʹs friends knew of their journey. He seemed possessed of an inexhaustible supply of gold coinstolen she surmised, but put to good use by the renegade.

  Orlena was so exhausted by the pace at which they traveled that she lost count of time. Every muscle and nerve in her body screamed for respite. And still she would not beg.

  When they reached the outskirts of the city of Durango, she recognized where they were. This was at last familiar terrain that she had traveled with Conal so long ago on that fateful journey to Santa Fe. ʺAre you going to visit Fray Bartolome?ʺ she finally dared to ask as they left the ramshackle Indian section of Durango and again struck north.

  ʺWe go to Chihuahua, but not to the mission,ʺ was all he would say. By the time they neared the end of their passage, Orlena was as sunbrowned and bedraggled as any paisana, which was precisely how she looked with a rebozo over her fair hair, dressed in dusty coarse cotton. Outside the city, just as they crested the ridge that overlooked its flat expanse, Joaquín veered their horses to the west.

  They rode for several hours into a small, fertile valley, picturesque in the lush grip of autumn harvest. Ripe peaches, enticingly blushed, hung from the trees, and fat, pale watermelons trailed along uneven rows of garden.

  As they rounded a curve in the road, a magnificent adobe hacienda rose before them. All along the way, Joaquín had been greeted with awe and respect, but here the men and women tilling the soil seemed to recognize him as their don, a friend and protector. When he dismounted before the large, two‐story whitewashed house with its red tile roof and elegant wrought‐iron grillwork, a slim figure appeared at the front doorway.

  She was elegantly clad in a rich, cream‐colored riding habit. Gleaming masses of ebony hair hung straight and free down her back, flying like a silk curtain as she ran to greet him. She leaped into his embrace, looping her arms about his shoulders and kissing him full on the lips.

  When the long, joyous, and intimate welcome ended, Joaquín put her down, allowing her eyes to travel disdainfully up and down Orlenaʹs grimy, crudely dressed person.

  Smiling coldly, with one arm casually about the black‐haired womanʹs waist, he said, ʺMorena, this is my wife, Orlena. Orlena, greet your hostess, Señora Morena Girón.ʺ

  Her beautiful face held an expression as cold as his.

  She replied, ʺWelcome to Hacienda Girón, Señora.ʺ

  Chapter 21

  Morena Girón was a casta and a striking beauty. Her slanted high cheekbones and rich ebony eyes were framed by a magnificent mass of black hair, which she wore pulled back from her high brow with ivory combs. The very severity of the hairdo added to her dramatic appearance. Now her eyes met Orlenaʹs with such hate that the exhausted younger woman felt it like a physical blow.

  Orlenaʹs Spanish pride forced her to sit straighter in the saddle. Ignoring her filthy peasantʹs clothes, she tossed her tangled golden curls back and raised her chin, meeting the black‐eyed glare with a cold amber one of equal ferocity. She looked contemptuously at Joaquínʹs arm about the castaʹs waist and slid her leg over the saddle, dismounting in one fluid motion as Lipan maidens did, unassisted by any manʹs hand.

  ʺWhy have you brought me to Señora Girónʹs hospitality, Joaquín? It is quite apparent your Indian blood calls to hers. Surely my pale Spanish charms are tame by comparison,ʺ she said, striving mightily to conceal her humiliation. The beautiful castaʹs place in her husbandʹs affections evoked a raw pain in her heart that she would never reveal.

  Morena felt Joaquínʹs arm tighten convulsively, then relax as he watched his wife dismount and confront them. He still cares for her! She said nothing, waiting to see what Joaquín would do.

  He released Morena and slowly walked up to his wife, taking in her haughty demeanor. Only Orlena Valdéz could spend three weeks riding across jungle and desert, arrive in filthy rags, and yet look down on the formidable Morena as if she were an insect. Perversely, her pride pleased him almost as much as it angered him. He focused on his anger. ʺSo, my base Apache blood calls to Morenaʹs Yaqui blood, does it? And you, Lioness, are above such physical cravings,ʺ he whispered, contemptuous disbelief reflected on his face as he stood in front of her, forcing her to meet his eyes. ʺShow our guest to her quarters, Morena, if you please. The accommodations at the rear of the courtyard should serve well enough.ʺ

  A slow smile of comprehension slid about the castaʹs lips. ʺI shall have them readied, but first, perhaps a bath,ʺ she said as she sniffed the air about Orlena deliberately. ʺThen some fresh clothing. We look to be of a size . . . if I have one of my women take in the seams of the basque.ʺ

  Orlenaʹs face flamed at the insult, but she let the odious woman glide past her without a retort. When Joaquín motioned for her to follow, she hissed at him, ʺWhat will Señor Girón say when he finds you in his wifeʹs bed on the morrow?ʺ

  He threw back his head and laughed. ʺNo need for me to fear, Lioness. Morena is a widow.ʺ They walked into the sala and Morena immediately excused herself, saying she would make arrangements for bath water and clean clothes for them both. ʹʹThere is cool wine on the table, as always, Joaquín,ʺ she added warmly as she left the room.

  Orlena looked about her, amazed to be in such elegant surroundings in the wilds of Nueva Vizcaya. The house was almost as palatial as Ignacioʹs outside the City of Mexico. The floors were polished adobe brick, not marble, true, but they gleamed with a rich luster and were covered by thick Moorish carpets of the finest quality. The walls were whitewashed, but no crude interior beams were visible. An Austrian chandelier full of fine beeswax candles hung from the high ceiling. The heavy oak furniture had been polished until it shone like satin.

  She could not help but betray her surprise as she inspected the sala and looked down the long hall that stretched beyond the arched doorway.

  Handing her a glass of pale red wine, Joaquín said coldly, ʺAugusto Girón was fifty‐seven years old when he took Morena, a mere Yaqui half‐
caste servant girl, to his bed. She was fourteen.ʺ

  At Orlenaʹs look of horror, he continued grimly, ʺWhen his wife died childless and he became ill, Morena nursed him. It seems the local priest disapproved of their sinful liaison, and with his first wife departed, Augusto was exhorted to legitimize the union. He married her, but she paid a high price for her present wealth. While the first Señora Girón lived, she had Morena whipped and abused by her male servants each time her husband was away.ʺ

  ʺAnd he did nothing when he returned?ʺ Orlena asked incredulously.

  Joaquín shrugged at her willful ignorance. ʺWho would he believehis lady wife who told him she caught the girl stealing and punished her, or a mere Indian with lowly enough morals to entice the peasants to rape her?ʺ

  A wave of pity for the coldly beautiful woman washed over Orlena, but as she looked into Joaquínʹs accusing green eyes, she forgot Morena Girón. ʺYour hatred for the Spanish will always be between us, will it not, Joaquín?ʺ she asked sadly, knowing the answer.

  He swallowed the last of his wine in one fast gulp and angrily set the glass on the table. ʺMy hatred of the Spanish, for which I have ample reason, is not why you chose to desert me and our child. You despise Indians, Orlena. We are the people without reasonbeneath your fine civilization, unable to aspire to this!ʺ His arm swept the richly furnished room with hostile contempt. Then he reached for her and pulled her into his arms. ʺHow you must have hated yourself for feeling such base lust for an animal like me!ʺ

  Orlenaʹs face flamed as she remembered her intense humiliation when she first had been attracted to the Night Wind. Feeling his arms about her, his heart pounding against her breasts as he held her roughly, she looked at his set face, hopeless misery reflected in her own. ʺYou have exacted your revenge, even as you told Conal you would. Why do you want me now?ʺ

  ʺYou are my wife, as I told Morena,ʺ he replied tightly. ʺNo Spaniard takes from meever again. Not Conal. Not Ignacio.ʺ

  Just then Morena reappeared silently in the high, arched doorway. Watching the crackling antagonism between them, she should have rejoiced, but Morena Girónʹs instincts had been well honed over the years. She could sense the frustration and want that lurked beneath their mutual contempt. ʺYour baths await,ʺ she said, causing Joaquín to release Orlena abruptly. Smiling at him, she continued, ʺYour tub is in the usual place, beloved. Hers is in the servantsʹ

  quarters off the kitchen. Lena will show her to it and bring her clothing.ʺ

  A young Indian girl curtsied nervously before them, her braids bobbing as she turned and indicated that Orlena should follow her. Morena moved closer to Joaquín and embraced him.

  As Orlena left the sala she could hear Morenaʹs voice echo down the hall after her. ʺI shall see to your bath, my bold warrior.ʺ

  When Orlena was gone, Joaquín gently removed Morenaʹs hands from his neck and said, ʺIt is good of you to welcome me, Morena, but you know what we once were to each other is over. There is the work we share, but that must be all.ʺ He could see the pain and desperation in her eyes. Touching her cheek softly, he added, ʺI am sorry.ʺ

  ʺIt is her, is it not? You still love her after she has betrayed you and your child!ʺ

  She twisted away, her voice harsh with anger. ʺYou believe that foolish old priest Bartolome, who has fallen under her spell!ʺ

  He smiled sadly. ʺFor all his irritating stubbornness, Bartolome is not a fool. He has given up speaking to me of her innocence. Perhaps he knows it is useless.ʺ

  He shrugged. ʺBut she is my wife. I will not let Ignacio and Conal use her for their purposes. Who knows, mayhap I can bait a trap for Quinn using a golden lure?ʺ

  She snorted, unconvinced by his words. ʺAs you will, Joaquín, but do not trust her.ʺ

  ʺLittle chance of that, Morena, never fear. Now, lead me to that bath.ʺ

  ʺThe room will serve, but are you not afraid I might escape?ʺ Orlena said insolently, hiding her chagrin over being quartered at the rear of the courtyard.

  First that witch sent her an ugly gray dress with the bust let out by her seamstress so that it hung limply! In addition, she was given this room, far in the back of the grand house, away from where Joaquín would cavort with his mistress.

  ʺYou will never escape, Orlena. I will release you when it pleases me.ʺ

  ʺSo much for the lifelong bonds of the marriage sacrament Fray Bartolome performed,ʺ she retorted bitterly.

  ʺYou betrayed me, Orlena. You would have signed anything to allow your Church to free you so you might wed a Spanish nobleman,ʺ he said coldly.

  She whirled on him in righteous fury. ʺI have slept alone this past year, husband.

  Can you say the same?ʺ

  A mocking glint flashed in his eyes. ʺSo, you are jealous in spite of everything.

  Should I visit your bed this night, Lioness? Have you missed the crude rutting of this savage?ʺ

  ʺNo! I want nothing from you, only an end to this humiliation. Parade your whores elsewhere, Joaquín!ʺ

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly. ʺMorena is no whore! You are the one better acquainted with the term, Doña Orlena!ʺ

  She jerked free of his bruising grip and slammed the door, then crumpled against it as the tears overflowed, scalding her cheeks. She could hear his footfall echo down the corridor. Did his room adjoin Morenaʹs, or did he openly sleep in her bed?

  Rubbing her temples, she forced her thoughts elsewhere. They were outside Chihuahua City in a small valley west of where Fray Bartolomeʹs mission lay. If she could steal a horse, she might escape to beg his protection. But as she paced, Orlena reconsidered. They were married, and the priest still harbored some absurd notion that Joaquín loved her. He would only tell her she must return to her husband.

  ʺI have nowhere to go,ʺ she whispered forlornly to the empty walls. Bone weary and feeling the effect of the wine on her empty stomach, Orlena walked dejectedly to the bed and lay across it. She was asleep almost instantly.

  Hearing a light rapping at her door, Orlena sat up disorientedly, having no idea how long she had slept. Faint streaks of dying sunlight filtered across her floor from the western window.

  ʺI have brought you a tray, Señora. Señora Girón felt you would be too weary to join her and Don Joaquín in the dining room.ʺ Lenaʹs voice was muffled through the heavy wooden door.

  Orlena roused herself and straightened her hair as best she could. There was no help for her tear‐swollen face. She called out, ʺJust a moment. I was resting.ʺ

  Opening the door, she took the tray from the Indian girl without looking at her, merely thanking her quickly.

  So, she was not even to be allowed to dine with them. ʺToo weary, indeed!ʺ she mimicked scornfully. She sat the tray on the bedside table and uncovered it.

  Delicious spicy aromas of beef and green chiles, along with the pungent delicacy of tropical fruit and that lush fragrance of hot chocolate wafted upward. In spite of her empty stomach, all appetite had left her. Joaquín had abandoned her in this solitary room while he and Morena ate in the elegant dining hall.

  He had truly lost whatever love he once felt for herif indeed he did ever love her.

  Had her cruel act in the mountains killed it? Or, had it been a sham from the start, only a means to avenge himself on Conal as that insidious letter had said?

  She reviewed their journey from the capital. After the fierce, angry kiss that day in the garden, he had treated her with nothing but cold indifference, never betraying the slightest desire for her, even when she was naked in the water. He was tired of her. She was his possession, but one he valued only because his enemies wanted her. Mechanically, she picked up the fork and stabbed a small chunk of meat, eating without tasting.

  Joaquín, too, had little appetite, although he forced himself to eat heartily for Morenaʹs sake. She had had the cook prepare all his favorite dishes, and he did not want to disappoint her.

  ʺYour wife is dangerous, Joaquín. Keeping her may lure Conal to you,
but it may also bring her brother. They are two formidable enemies to fight at once,ʺ

  Morena said, studying his handsome face over the rim of her glass as she toyed with the crystal.

  One black eyebrow rose in curiosity. ʺYou have met Ignacio?ʺ

  She smiled serenely. ʺDo not let his foppish manner deceive you. He is as deadly as Conal and now possesses far more power. You know our work takes me to the capital on occasion. Even a casta gains admittance in some quarters.ʺ

  He nodded grimly. ʺI know how valuable the information you obtain for us is to our cause.ʺ

  She shrugged. ʺI enjoy besting those Spanish bastards.ʺ

  ʺSo do I,ʺ he replied grimly. ʺAfter a day or two of rest, we will leave here and head north into Texas. Conal serves under Ugarte now. When he learns I have Orlena, he will come for her, I think. Then we will settle it . . . finally.ʺ

  ʺYou are going to use her to lure him to you! Joaquín, he has many soldiers at his commandhardened men who will kill you, even Comanche scouts who can track you.ʺ Her liquid dark eyes were wide with fear.

  ʺBut I have Orlena. He wants her, and even more, he wants me dead. He has pursued me this past year with great singlemindedness. I tire of the game. I, too, have men who can kill and track. We are well matched, Morena.ʺ

  She swore and threw down her napkin. ʺI hate that Irish pig!ʺ She stopped suddenly and looked at him. ʺYou want me to send word through my riders! I will not risk your life so, Joaquín,ʺ she pleaded.

  ʺYes, you will. My plans are well laid. I know the Llano Estacado and the Sacramento Mountains into which I will lead him far better than any white man alive.ʺ