Savage Enchantment

by Parris Afton Bonds

  The slashed eyebrow lifted in the mocking way she so detested. "One would think you actually are a tutor ... instead of a -- what is it -- murderess, thief ... or prostitute?"

  Kathleen's hand swung upward in an angry arc. But Simon was quicker and caught her wrist in a cruel grip.

  "Careful, Kathleen. Don't try my patience. Or I'll be tempted to forget my need for a tutor -- and remember the posters offering a reward for a fair-haired woman of twenty years."

  "I hate you, Simon Reyes! And I'll make you sorry you ever --"

  Kathleen broke off with a start as the long fingers of one buckskin gloved hand reached toward her and caught a thick strand of sunlit curls that the wind had whipped about her neck.

  "You've already told me how you feel about me, and I'm tired of listening to your tirades," he said softly as he tugged on the curling strand of hair so that Kathleen was forced to move nearer.

  She looked up into the green eyes that blazed as hotly as the wind about them. Her skirts swept around Simon's long legs. From a distance the two appeared to be lovers in a tryst.

  "Maybe I should make you change your mind."

  Kathleen pulled away with a wild laugh. "Hell'd go up in smoke first, Simon Reyes!"

  Simon's lips tightened in a thin line. "You'll get your students back." He pulled his hat low over his eyes. "After spring roundup. Every hand is going to be needed till then." He swung away, and then turned back. "And get rid of those spectacles. If you can spot a pierced ear, bebé, you sure don't need glasses.

  With a wry grin at her indignant "Ohh!" he left her, heading toward the corral, where several vaqueros were gathered to watch the breaking of the penned mustangs.

  Kathleen should have returned to the house, but she stood rooted by her hate as she watched Simon swing easily over the top bar of the corral. And while he gently cornered one of the wilder horses, which snorted and reared at his approach, she weaved vicious plots of revenge.

  She could wait until the servants had retired and then shoot the man outright -- if she had her pistol. Of course, she could always use the knife she carried. But as lightly as Simon slept, he would probably turn the blade on her first. And even if she did succeed, she would only be a hunted animal once again. No, better to suffer his taunts and hope he did not find another tutor before her father died.

  When Simon finally mounted the nervous horse, all the while whispering calm words she could not hear, Kathleen thought how it would solve everything if the mustang threw Simon, pounding the man to death beneath flailing hooves.

  But even in that, Simon defeated her. One sure hand gripped the animal's mane, and gleaming spurs drove into the heaving, sweaty flanks each time the great animal reared, viciously bucking and twisting in an attempt to throw the rider. Dust swirled about the man and the beast as they dueled for supremacy. Then it was over. At last, spent and frothy at the mouth, the mustang hung its head. It had been mastered.

  And when Simon gently stroked the horse, Kathleen abruptly turned away. Simon would never master her. No man would master her. If she had to run for the rest of her life!

  Her purple eyes as stormy as California seas during a sou'easter, Kathleen stalked back to the hacienda. She might be deprived of giving her lessons, but she would at least ride during her enforced idleness.

  Quickly she changed into the calzones and camisa that Simon had once forced her to wear. She would have dearly liked to flout Simon's orders and continue to wear the glasses, but they were a nuisance. On her way out, she dropped them in the chest at the foot of her bed, glad to be rid of them.

  At the kitchen door, she stopped at the bench where Diego sat napping. Even the hot wind racing down the portales did not disturb him. She hesitated there, hating to awaken him. But one rheumy old eye opened in a squint.

  "Qué quieres, hija?"

  She stooped to his side. "Diego," she shouted above the wind. "I'd like to go riding. May I borrow your sombrero, por favor?"

  "Simon has said it would be all right to ride out in the Santa Ana? Only Diego had the audacity to use Simon's given name.

  "No!" she said more sharply to the old man than she intended. "But I'm sure what I do or where I go is of little concern to el patrón as long as his tutor is available when he decides the lessons may resume."

  "Do not judge him harshly, hija," Diego said, and handed her his sombrero before closing his eyes again. "There are things even a tutor does not know."

  The brown, wrinkled face wore an inscrutable expression, and when Kathleen would have touched the stooped shoulder to ask Diego what he meant, she realized he was already asleep again.

  Both puzzled and offended, she pulled on the gray, floppy hat with its worn braids of silver ornamentation and made her way, leaning against the wind, to the stables.

  "Have you missed me riding you, Estrellita?" Kathleen asked as she heaved the saddle over the mare's back. "Then take me somewhere, little star, where I can ride free and fast -- like California's wild winds."

  Obeying her mistress's request, Estrellita galloped from the hacienda grounds, unrestrained and frisky, down the tree-lined road and out through a field of wild, rank mustard. Its thick stalks were bright with sispy yellow flowers, the only color in the parched landscape. All about Kathleen, the hills were as brown as umber, and up along one ridge a brush fire burned.

  Kathleen let Estrellita have her lead, and the mare followed a path that led through the pasture-lands, where a Durham calf ran bellowing after its mother at Kathleen's approach. Kathleen laughed aloud at the mother's indignant brown-eyed glare and spurred Estrellita away from the milling herd up into the foothills of the Pine Mountains. There the wind was not as harsh or fierce. Kathleen threw back her sombrero so that it dangled from her neck by its cords, and let the breeze rumple her damp curls.

  Pausing beneath the black shade of a live oak, she savored the moment of peace. Across the valley from her she spotted a line of trudging figures, shrouded and shapeless, that she knew must be Indian women. It made her feel suppressed just to look at them, to contrast them to herself.

  She wondered what kind of lives they led, if they ever rebelled against the drudgery and restraints, if they ever yearned for the freedom that was now hers. Or were their traditions so strong that those women had no idea that anything existed other than the confining life they led?

  The very thought of leading that kind of life repulsed Kathleen. The image of what marriage constituted -- submission to the debasing intimacy, fettered to the will of one man, a mere servant of his passion -- made her tremble with revulsion so that she swung her hand forcefully across Estrellita's rump.

  The mare reared and sprang forward along the foothills. Dejectedly, Kathleen turned the animal back toward the hacienda. When she once again encountered the road that wound its way like a snake toward the hacienda, Kathleen found she was not the only traveler using the track.

  Apparently Simon had had visitors in her absence, for a black carriage pulled by a bay rumbled slowly down the road toward Kathleen. At the carriage's side cantered a lone horse, whose rider sat like a giant in the saddle. At first, Kathleen thought the man whose face was shadowed by the wide brim was Simon, and her breathing quickened.

  But the man, a battered-faced Mexican, was presumably a guard, with a pistol strapped to his hip and a rifle sheathed at the saddle.

  Kathleen reined Estrellita to the side of the road as the carriage drew near. She was curious to see the occupant, who obviously disdained riding horseback. However, instead of continuing, the woman in the carriage pulled the bay to a halt.

  Chocolate-brown eyes looked Kathleen over with condescending amusement, and Kathleen's lips tightened with chagrin, realizing how unappealing she must look at the moment, with her hair tangled in a mass about her shoulders and her boy's clothing clinging to her body, wet with perspiration that even the wind, which was dying somewhat with the end of the day, did not dry.

  The finely plucked brows in the magnolia-white face arched.
"So you're working for Simon now?" Gemma asked.

  Kathleen stiffened in the saddle. La Palacia's proprietress recognized her -- from the brief meeting at the bordello, or from the reward posters? Kathleen inclined her head as royally as an empress. "I'm the tutor for Valle del Bravo."

  Gemma smiled coldly. "Oh, then the bed is not the only place you earn your livelihood, señorita?"

  Kathleen heard the guard's snort of laughter, but she continued to gaze evenly at the woman. "How one earns a living is no measure of good manners. And I must say yours are an excellent example of the manners of a puta."

  She saw the woman's eyes blaze and heard the hissing intake of her breath and knew she now faced an enemy. But she did not cower.

  "No wonder Simon prefers to bed another woman." Kathleen added, with a contemptuous smile. "A lady of quality."

  The guard's uproarious laughter was cut short by the woman's sharp command of "Cállate!"

  Calmly, Kathleen urged Estrellita past the furious woman, towards the hacienda. Lady of quality! she thought bitterly.

  She certainly had not behaved like one. Her gentle-bred mother would have blushed with shame at her daughter's brazen conduct. She could not imagine what had prompted her to act so rudely. Unless it was just to dent the woman's haughty self-assuredness. She wondered what Gemma had been doing there. And if Simon learned of her own atrocious behavior -- would he dismiss her?

  As Kathleen dismounted, she realized that her hands trembled with anger. And she knew her anger was not for Gemma -- for she herself was no better than the proprietress, now that Simon had had his way with her. No, her anger, her hatred, was reserved for SImon Reyes. May God damn his black soul!

  Chapter 13

  The Santa Ana blew itself out, and the indolence of the hacienda gave way to industrious work as the spring roundup progressed. The vaqueros stayed busy counting the cattle, branding the calves, and corraling the older cattle for the rodeo that would climax the roundup.

  The household servants swept, dusted, and scrubbed every inch of the whitewashed walls, and terra-cotta floors -- under Kathleen's watchful eye. If she could not perform her duties as tutor, she certainly would not give Simon any reason to complain about her duties as mistress of the hacienda.

  Diligently she saw to it that the bed linens in each of the nine bedrooms were fresh, that vases of columbines graced each room with their honeyed scents, and that Maria Jesus began preparations for the many meals that were to be cooked during the fiesta. As the day of the fiesta approached, even Diego roused himself from the sunny place on his bench to help oversee the decorating of the courtyard.

  In every sense of the word -- but one -- Kathleen was mistress of Valle del Bravo.

  At night the thought she would be too tired to do anything but collapse in her bed, but she felt more than ever driven to work so there would be no time to think. Restlessly she would pace the room, brushing her hair, checking her list for last-minute preparations.

  Seeing her mistress so distracted, Amelia smiled pityingly to herself. She could tell the proud, young maestra what was needed to cure her ailment, but she doubted that the maestra would believe her. A man like Julio could wipe away that look of discontent that haunted the plum-colored eyes.

  Qué suerte that Julio couldn't see the maestra now without those ugly glasses and with her hair hanging loose like an Indian woman's! But then, Julio had been too busy with the roundup to come around the hacienda. Hopefully she would see more of Julio when the roundup was over. Perhaps when Padre Marcos came for the rodeo festivities she could even persuade Julio to seek the good father's blessing in marriage.

  Amelia crossed herself quickly in hopeful prayer.

  Kathleen's thoughts were not tender ones of romance. At the moment she was cursing Simon Reyes with every vile word she had ever heard the vaqueros use, wishing him as dead as the long-deceased Father Serra, the founder of the California mission system.

  The confrontation between her and Simon earlier that afternoon still stung her thoughts, simmering within her like Maria Jesus's tallow for candles.

  The confrontation had occurred shortly after the siesta hour, when Simon worked in his study while the others rested. Diego had summoned her from the kitchen with the message that el patrón wished to see her.

  Kathleen rapped on the study door, and Simon's low voice bade her enter. From behind his desk he looked up as Kathleen crossed the room. He was dressed in dusty denim pants and a worn red baize shirt.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  "I've just learned you were out riding last week -- alone, dressed as a muchacho."

  "Are you trying to tell me I'm a prisoner here, that I'm forbidden to do as I wish with my own time?"

  "Enough, Kathleen!" Simon's bronze hand slammed down on the oak desk, and he came to his feet, his stern face only inches from hers. "I'll not have my men so inflamed by the sight of a woman in pants that they're incapable of working."

  His hard eyes moved past her throat to where the small mounds of breasts rose in agitation. A flush of heat spread over Kathleen's cheeks as she remained unmoving under his sneering regard.

  "Unless you happen to enjoy being raped," he finished. "And in that case, I'm sure my vaqueros could provide --"

  "Ohh!" Kathleen's hand came up to deliver an intended blow. But the memory of another time she had struck him and Simon's resulting anger halted her. Abruptly she swung her hand across his desk, scattering the papers on the floor.

  "You bastard!" she hissed.

  Simon's green eyes narrowed dangerously, and a cold shiver rippled Kathleen's spine at the intensity of the anger she saw there.

  He stretched out a hand, and Kathleen flinched. Lightly tracing the scar that ran along her cheek with one finger, he laughed softly. "And you, Cataline, are no lady. We're rogues, both of us."

  At his touch that seared like a hot iron, Kathleen's mouth parched. "Don't!" she croaked.

  Simon's gaze ran over her face, as if baffled by something. "You're right," he said. "What we are is neither here nor there. We both understand how we feel about one another."

  He reached into a drawer and handed her a sheaf of papers. "There's a list of names included. Make out invitations to the families for the fiesta next week. When you've finished, Diego will see that the invitations are delivered."

  Kathleen glanced at some of the names on the list, names of the most prominent families in the California province. Many she had met at the Escandón fiesta: Carrillo, Bandini, Pico -- liberals who favored secularization and separation of political and military commands; Vallejo, Alvarado, and Castro -- conservatives who supported the rule of militarism.

  Kathleen looked up at Simon. "I'd not thought you the type of man to pretend interest in politics."

  Simon quirked a brow. "You, yourself, ought to understand the benefits of pretense."

  "No better than you, vaquero!" she retorted, whirling from him and slamming the door behind her.

  * * * * *

  The first guests began arriving early that morning, in time for the horse races and the games of chance, such as monte and chuza, which resembled roulette, and the games of skill, the most popular being the carrera de gallo.

  In the carrera, Diego told Kathleen, the horseman would ride at top speed toward a line of roosters, buried neck-high in the sand fifty feet apart, and grab at the roosters' heads. The rider who unearthed the most roosters won the contest. Later in the afternoon a barbeque was to be held, followed by the bear-baiting and rodeo.

  None of these games did Kathleen watch. Not only because she was busy seeing that everything ran smoothly, but also because she found the sports of the caballeros cruel. It was bad enough when Amelia told her that the magnificent brown bear had been defeated, had been gored to death by a gret black bull.

  However, as Kathleen helped Maria Jesus in the kitchen, the flat faced old woman gently shoved at Kathleen's back. "Vaya, Señorita Catalina. You're young -- enjoy yourself!"

  Kathl
een would have protested, but the cook practically pushed her out onto the veranda. From the arena came the musical calls of the vaqueros: "Hooch, hooch, hooch! Who-hah! Who-hah!"

  With a sign of resignation, Kathleen wiped her hands on her black broadcloth skirt and made her way to the crowd gathered about the arena. Rather than join the guests in the stands, she found a vacant spot near one of the stalls, where she had a much better view anyway.

  Inside the corralled area the cows bellowed and puffed and tossed their heads at the vaqueros. Dressed in a Mexican beaded vest of porcupine quills and in concho-ornamented chaparejos, Simon looked impressive as his Spanish cow pony cut first to the left and then the right, finally cornering a monstrous Andalusian bull. With a swish of the slender rawhide riata, Simon lassoed the bull's rear legs, bringing the animal to the ground in a whirlpool of dust.

  Any moment Kathleen expected one of the sharp-horned bulls to gore a vaquero. But there occurred in the following minutes a mishap of a different nature. Amelia's novio, Julio, had just lassoed a calf, when the turn of his delavuelta about the saddle horn hopped, pinching off the first joint of his thumb. He half-slid, half-fell from his horse, and before anyone realized what had happened, Kathleen, who was nearest the vaquero, slipped through the slats and ran to him.

  Within seconds Simon was there also, whipping his black handkerchief from his neck and tying it about the wrist of the doubled-up vaquero.

  "I'll see to him," Kathleen said, "Get back to the rodeo."

  Simon gave her a peculiar look, but allowed her to lead the young man away.

  It was a gory sight, with the bone gleaming through the jagged rim of flesh, but Kathleen managed to clean it before Amelia rushed into the kitchen, her brown face ashen with fear.

  "Quítate!" Maria Jesus told Amelia, pointing her finger at the door. "You'll only make matters worse! Get out!"

  Amelia hesitated, looked to Julio, whose acorn-colored eyes were glazed with shock, then to Maria Jesus. The frown on the cook's face won out, and Amelia retreated from the kitchen.