Savage Enchantment

by Parris Afton Bonds

  "Señnor, I can't take these with me," she told him. "Perhaps the woman in the kitchen -- Carmela -- maybe she could use them."

  "Muchísimas gracias, señorita," he replied with a shy smile, taking the clothing.

  There was a peculiar look in Simon's eyes, but it vanished quickly as he assisted her up into the saddle, his hands easily encircling her waist.

  Leaving the ranco station behind them in the blackening night, Simon turned the quarter horse, Salvaje -- and Kathleen thought the great beast truly resembled some savage animal -- east in the direction of the Santa Clara River, which followed the foothills of the Topotopo Mountains.

  The pueblo of San Buenaventura was far behind them, only a huddle of lights, when the first sprinkling began, growing steadily into a torrential downpour. Hours later the pelting rain plastered Kathleen's hair to her face, and her clothes clung to her shivering frame like a transparent second skin.

  Simon looked back at her once, laughing as if he were enjoying himself in nature's lashing elements. The wind filled his giant yellow slicker, making him look like some apparition. His voice came to her in a shout over the roar of the storm. "Chupu -- the god of the channel coast -- he must be angry to bring the rainy season this early!"

  That Simon should know so much of the Indian folklore of the California province surprised Kathleen. But then, she was beginning to realize that this was a resourceful man she worked for. Then, as a hurricane of wind swept down out of the heavens, she was too occupied handling her mare, Estrellita, to give Simon Reyes further thought.

  The arroyos that cut deeply into the hills, forming barrancas, raced with rainwater. Overhead, lightning danced across the spiraling tops of the piñon trees. Several times thunder rumbled down the canyons, exploding in earthshaking claps, and Kathleen's mare would shy, rearing perilously and snorting its terror.

  As experienced a rider as she was, Kathleen was too exhausted and drenched to control the frightened horse. When Estrellita next reared, Simon wheeled about, sawing on Salvaje's reins with expasperation. Moving in close to Kathleen, he grabbed the bridle of the wildly dancing mare.

  "Dulce! Dulce!" he called gently. And as the animal's terror ebbed, Kathleen found herself swept up in one sinewy arm and transferred, like a bag of potatoes, to Salvaje, so that she was held tightly before Simon.

  "I thought you said you could ride."

  "I can! But I'm tired! And wet!"

  "Well, if you're going to take on the responsibilities of a man, you can damn well endure the hardships!"

  "But Estrellita, she'll --"

  "Estrellita'll follow. She's more docile than you."

  Gritting her teeth, Kathleen subsided in apathetic indifference, too tired to care what happened. She was unwillingly grateful when Simon enfolded her within the dry folds of the slicker. The heat of his body enveloped her, making her drowsy.

  When next she awoke, she was dimly aware of the spare, angular face above her; of arms that cradled her, lowering her to a bed of incense-cedar boughs and soft animal skins.

  Chapter 8

  Kathleen stirred, not wishing to awaken from the languorous feeling which drugged every muscle and nerve in her body. But little by little she grew dimly aware of hands that tore away her sopping shirt, revealing the taught, cold breasts barely concealed beneatht he chemise.

  Drowsily she protested as the hands pulled at the riata that held her calzones in place. But the soaked pants clung to her thighs. When Simon rolled her over on her stomach, yanking roughly till the pants slipped about her ankles, she cried out suddenly in fear.

  He laughed softly -- evilly, it seemed to her. His hands crushed against the small of her back, almost encircling her waist. "What? The muchacho's afraid? Shall I take you as the soldados did each time an Indian boy escaped from the mission compound? Or maybe I first ought to whip you into submission? I don't think you'd like either."

  His hands crept up her rib cage to cup the small perfectly shaped breasts. "Or maybe you would enjoy it," he taunted, as he lowered his body atop her buttocks, so that, even through the tight, wet breeches, she could feel his manhood pressed hard against her.

  "No-no," she begged in a whisper, hating herself for pleading. She twisted beneath his weight, but it was useless. His ironlike grasp tightened about her, cutting off her breath.

  "Maybe you prefer the Castilian class ... like your Lieutenant Aguila -- to the lowly cholo?"

  Kathleen began struggling again, but to her dismay she found herself abruptly released. Simon rose, standing astride her like some Grecian statue. Forgetting her nudity, she turned on one elbow and glared up into the face that mocked her.

  "You're no more than an animal," she spat.

  The teeth gleamed in the darkness of the cabin. "You'd do well to remember that, Kathleen. Like an animal, I don't waste time on the usual preliminaries of your gallant caballeros, but take what I want."

  His eyes, cold as chips of green ice, raked over her slowly. "But you, my tutor, are hardly what I want. You look like a half-drowned cat."

  "Here," he said, tossing her a shirt of deerhide he had taken from a row of pegs on the wall. "Get into that while I tend the horses."

  He stalked outside, letting in a blast of rain before closing the door sharply behind him. Kathleen hurried to slip the heavy, warm shirt over her head before he could come back. It was far too large for her, its fringed hem reaching almost to her knees.

  In the stillness that enclosed the cabin room she became aware of the faint sound of running water. By straining her eyes, she coudl make out in the darkness a small ditch that cut through the cabin floor, bringing the melodious tones of a swift flowing mountain creek. She could barely discern ferns growing in various spots through the pine-board floor and climbing up about the shuttered window.

  Apparently someone had trained the ferns. A feminine hand, no doubt. Kathleen wondered with piqued curiosity what other woman (or women?) Simon had brought there ... and what the woman was to him.

  The door came open with the wind, and she quickly dropped to the bed of cedar boughs as Simon entered. He did not even glance in her direction, but shrugged out of his own wet shirt and pants and crossed to the fireplace. His rich walnut-colored hair glistened with raindrops, so that when he shook his head and the drops splattered, he looked like some great wolf shaking his wet coat.

  Covertly she watched him as he knelt on the stone hearth and began working with the tinder and flint. When the small sticks took flame, his polished bronze skin glinted eerily, throwing into relief the angles of his face and shadowing the expressionless eyes. Squatting there before the growing flame, he could have been some ferocious Indian rather than a civilized ranchero.

  When he rose, tall and lean, Kathleen crouched back in the shadows. His nude body outlined by the firelight, he advanced on her. She shuddered, scooting back until she ran up against the wall.

  "You've got nothing to fear," he said evenly. "I'm too tired to count coup on you tonight."

  She felt the bed give slightly under his weight. When some moments had passed and he made no move to take her, she eased herself into a prone position. But the bed was scarcely large enough for one, and she was forced to endure the intimacy of his bare skin against hers.

  For a while she huddled at the bed's far edge. At length, realizing from the deep, even breathing that he was asleep, Kathleen moved closer, seeking his warmth. There was the odor of the shirt's worn leather and Simon's rain-dampened skin in her nostrils. As the fire's warmth spread throughout the small room, she felt her lids grow heavy with sleep again.

  In the early hours of the morning she awoke to find herself pinioned beneath one of Simon's muscle-corded arms. One long leg, shadowed with fine hair, was thrown across the lower half of her body. She stirred, trying to ease herself from him.

  "Were you seeking my embrace, Catalina?" he murmured against her ear.

  The Spanish use of her name affected Kathleen strangely. She turned her head to look up into
the dark face so near her own. A man shouldn't have eyelashes that long, she thought.

  Then she was suddenly aware of the length of their bodies touching, of his leather shirt bunched up about her thighs.

  What in the name of all that was holy could she be thinking about, lying in bed with the man -- and not at all distraught? Had that one night at La Palacia brought her to this? No shame? No qualms?

  "Your embraces are the last thing I want, Simon Reyes," she told him fiercely. The amused smirk on his face made her want to scratch his eyes out. "I want only the job. Or do both necessarily come together?"

  Simon raised on one elbow and looked down at the girl beneath him, all golden in the early morning light, with her hair fanned out around her like spilled champagne. He laughed even as his eyes swept over her wickedly. "You're safe from me, Catalina. I prefer my women warm and willing."

  Rising, he gave her a swat on the hips. "Your clothes are drying by the fire. Get dressed. We've got a lot of ground to cover today."

  It seemed to Kathleen that she was always undressing or dressing for him. Averting her eyes from his nakedness, she padded on bare feet across the plank floor, stepping carefully over the narrow ditch of running water. For some seconds she stood in front of the fireplace, letting the dying embers warm her chilled skin, before reluctantly picking up the camisa and calzones.

  "Would it be too much to ask you to turn your head while --"

  Simon's hand came over her mouth like a vise, shutting off her last words. Pulling her with him, he backed toward the heap of clothing he had deposited on the floor the previous night.

  Kathleen found herself pushed into the corner as Simon swiftly scooped up the flintlock pistol, which lay on top of the clothing. They were standing in the shadows when the cabin's door slowly opened.

  A man of medium height with a sandy brown shoulder-length hair stood there, a muzzle-loader cradled in his arms. He was dressed in fringed buckskin, and a powder horn was slung about his neck. The keen gray eyes took in Simon and the small figure behind him, and he smiled.

  "You haven't lost that sixth sense of yours, have you, Simon?"

  Simon chuckled and stepped forward. "Frémont, you've no respect for a man's privacy." He began pulling on his pants. "Where's the uniform?"

  The man called Frémont moved into the room. "My father-in-law felt it should be left behind on this expedition."

  "So Senator Benton thinks the Mexican officials might not take too kindly to a soldier of the U.S. Army wandering through California?"

  "More than that. He's pressuring Polk -- as soon as the man takes office -- to make Mexico an offer. But my orders are for the Oregon Territory. I was afraid I'd missed you yesterday."

  "I got held up -- on business." Simon nodded in the direction where Kathleen waited in the shadows.

  She saw the other man's eyes ease over her with a look of -- pity? Oh, dear Lord, that would be the last straw. What must the man think of her -- half naked there with Simon?

  "I'd like to dress," she said stiffly. "If you two wouldn't mind."

  "Captain John Frémont," Simon said, "you are beholding the first female tutor in the California province -- Miss Kathleen Summers."

  Frémont's sun-squinched eyes were sympathetic. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Summers," he said softly, dropping his backpack on the floor.

  Kathleen lowered her lids and nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

  "Turn your head, Frémont, before her maidenly modesty gets the best of her. Had your coffee yet?"

  "No, and I'm hungrier than a family of buzzards."

  The man leaned the long rifle against the wall and turned to open the shutters while Simon took a battered tin coffeepot from the crude hutch that stood in one corner. Mountain air, fresh from the night's rain, filled the room.

  "What about the man Polk's named as his Secretary of the navy?" Simon asked. "Did you get a chance to corner him -- what's his name?"

  "Bancroft -- George Bancroft," Kathleen answered automatically, without thinking, as she quickly pulled the now-dry cotton shurt and pants on.

  Both men whirled on her, startled. "Do you know him?" Simon demanded.

  "I do read the newspapers." How shocked Simon would be if she told him his lowly employee had danced with the historian at President Harrison's inaugural ball.

  She saw Frémont's gaze jump to Simon questioningly. And the almost imperceptible shake of Simon's dark head. Feeling something like an intruder, Kathleen turned away, busying herself with the tangled mass of her hair, pulling it once more into the severe knot at her neck and donning the bothersome glasses.

  As the coffee perked over the coals in the fireplace, the two men turned their talk to affairs in California instead. "Then it's true," Frémont asked, "that the missions have at least been taken out of the hands of the religous authorities?"

  "Secularized." Simon's voice was scornful. "Oh, yes. The Indians that Mexico freed were supposed to get a portion of the mission lands. But most of them were either cheated of their shares or forced to sell them for little in order to survive. For several years now the Indians have been drifting into the ranchos. Looking for any kind of work."

  "We hear that the bandits are rife again -- and the revolutionists."

  Simon smiled. "Much to Mexico's irritation."

  "It's what the senator's been waiting to hear."

  Simon nodded curtly before his face closed over. Pouring the parching coffee into tin cups, he handed one first to Kathleen, who sat on the hearth. She tried to make her face as much of a blank as she dared, but she was interested in the conversation. However, nothing more was said.

  Frémont pulled out hardtack biscuits from his backpack and passed them around. When the meager breakfast finished and the clutter had been cleared away, Frémont said good-bye to Simon and Kathleen outside the cabin. "Hope to see you again, Miss Summers. On my next trip back."

  "If she hasn't deserted for a more rewarding job," Simon said, his eyes flickering from Frémont to Kathleen.

  Kathleen knew all too well what Simon was thinking -- that she might once again find it more profitable to be a paramour of a highborn Castilian soldier. And she found it ludicrous that instead she had been for one night the whore of some lowborn cholo.

  But that would be one thing she would never let the arrogant ranchero know. She could imagine the contemptuous curl of Simon's thin lips if he should learn she had been taken by a common vaquero. It was one satisfaction she wouldn't give him.

  Frémont swung up onto a cantankerous-looking pack mule, and the two men shook hands. Kathleen watched with a feeling of dejection while the soldier rode away. She was once again at the mercy of Simon's vacillating whim.

  After Frémont disappeared over a rise, Simon abruptly gasped Kathleen about the waist and lifted her onto Estrellita's back, before mounting his own horse. He wheeled Salvaje around, setting off in the opposite direction, and Kathleen's mare meekly followed.

  It seemed to her as the afternoon passed they climbed ever higher, passing windfallen pines and sheer cliffs broken in places by massive rounded domes and spectacular waterfalls.

  As they began a gradual descent, her attention turned to the great herds of cattle grazing in alpine gardens. And far below in the valley she could see the gleam of white adobe and red tile. Amidst the tropical vegetation, so green it hurt the eyes, she made out a hacienda. Sprawling in all directions, it had to have at least thirty rooms. About it were smaller ranch houses, huts, and corrals.

  Noting her interest, Simon said, "We've been on land belonging to Valle del Bravo for some time now."

  "Then all these cattle are yours -- and the sheep and goats?"

  "Everything in this valley is mine."

  Kathleen glanced sharply across at Simon. Did he imply she was included in that inventory? But his face was as impassive as ever.

  The remainder of the descent was broken only once -- when Kathleen questioned Simon about the great bird circling overhead; swooping, then soar
ing. A bird of prey, Simon told her. The vulture -- el cóndor. If Kathleen had been superstitious, she would have believed the condor to be an ill omen.

  Chapter 9

  How does one mark the passage of days, weeks? For Kathleen it was a time of respite. The sunny days passed to the drumming of hooves, the squeak of saddle leather, the jangle of spurs' rowels; and the evenings to the melody of soft voices and the strum of guitars shining in the moonlight.

  Only in the deep hush of night did she still suffer. Few nights passed that she was not plagued by the same nightmare. The same lithe body to crush her, to possess her, to smother the last breath from her. And when the earring gleamed in her dreams like a coiling copper snake, Kathleen would awake with screams of horror trembling on her lips and perspiration running in rivulets down her body.

  But with the dawn her nightmares dispersed, ushering in another perfect Mediterranean-like day at the hacienda. Hidden away in the Valle del Bravo -- Valley of the Brave -- the hacienda kept the world at bay. The sun-dried adobe house with its encircling veranda and red-tiled roof was nestled among wild orange trees, scented peach orchards, lime groves, and date palms. And everywhere grew the fragrant hibiscus, oleander, and bougainvillea.

  Though more than a hundred people lived on the rancho -- including cousins, aunts, and nephews of the workers -- there was never the frenzied rushing that Kathleen associated with Boston. Rather there pervaded an atmosphere of indolent tranquility.

  In spite of the people who came for their lessons each afternoon at the grape arbor -- carpenters, tanners, house servants, and vaqueros -- Kathleen felt a loneliness that sometimes pierced her through. For those Mexicans and Indians who could neither read nor write held the maestra, or tutor, in awe. Hidden behind the thick spectacles, she appeared to the students who sat at her feet, beneath the shade of the grapevines, more a person of neuter gender than a woman.