“Come!” he said thickly.
He caught me high in his arms as I tried to evade him, carried me down the hall with his mouth pressed so hungrily to my throat that I felt as if he had tapped my blood.
He never left me all day long.
Even for those of us who knew that the heavenly body glaring in the sky that spring was Halley’s Comet and that it would duly pass from sight, its brillance was disturbing. The workers muttered, and though I explained it to my pupils and to Chepa and Raquel and the household, they obviously pitied my educated ignorance and went on believing that the comet meant war, famine, death, and plague.
Court traveled down to Las Coronas to reassure the people and make one of his periodic inspections. I hadn’t been back since I ran away that night with Sewa. Lázaro Perez was foreman now. Soon I must start taking Jon there, acquainting him with the people and the work, for it would one day be his. But the place held unhappy memories for me, of Mother’s dying, of Reina, whom I had so longed to love, and I had never asked Court to let me accompany him.
I endured Court’s unpredictable cycle of remote courtesy and unleashed sensuality, ignored Ruiz’s gallantries, and absorbed myself in Jon and the little school. I knew most of the mothers by now, and though our communication was mostly silent, I felt that it was warm.
Except for rare, shamefully frightening responses to Court, the woman part of me seemed dead, blighted by the bitter realization that Trace wasn’t coming back. I was Jon’s mother and la señora, but the Miranda who had fiercely desired and loved a man seemed as dead as the other people in my past.
In 1910, though, things were changing, perhaps because Jon spent more time with Caguama and his playmates, perhaps because the comet above lit up the dark recesses of hearts and minds, perhaps because of the restlessness pervading all Mexico that year of the centennial, when people remembered how ill the promises of the revolution against Spain, the dreams and laws of Juárez, had been kept.
Dr. Trent had lent me a book published in 1909 by András Molina Enríquez. Los Grandes Problemas Nacionales put into words the terrible inequities of life under Díaz. He had said only three occupations were open to educated mestizos: governmental employment, the professions, and revolution. To an increasing number of even these comparatively fortunate Mexicans, the last option seemed to offer their best hope.
No one, not even Madero, seriously expected Díaz to lose the election that summer. The practical question was who would be vice-president and take over when death finally claimed the Strong Man. Limantour, the Secretary of Finance, had hopes. So did handsome General Bernardo Reyes, favorite of the military, university students, jobless professionals, the remaining old Juárez liberals, and businessmen who lacked entrée to the present rulers.
Madero continued to travel and speak to enthusiastic crowds whenever he could thwart official repression. I began to hear other names from Court, Ruiz, and Dr. Trent. Alvaro Obregón, a ranchero and mechanic, was rousing people in his part of Sonora, and down in Morelos the big sugar hacendados began to feel nervous about young, surly Emiliano Zapata, who made no bones about his fury that some of his village’s land had been taken over by one of the large owners.
Ironically, as conditions grew unbearable for more Mexicans, the situation had improved a little for the Yaquis. In 1907 there had been orders to deport all Yaquis north of Hermosillo. Only about two thousand were left in the valley of the Eight Sacred Pueblos. There were possibly 150 rebels in the sierra. Thousands had been killed or sent to Yucatán. The rest had settled in the northern provinces or escaped into Arizona. Former Governor Yzábal ferreted out hundreds of peaceable men and women and sent them to bondage, but in 1908 a banking crisis affected business and cut the demand for henequen and slaves to harvest it. This same crisis brought competition for jobs in Arizona and the United States agreed to deport back to Mexico all illegally entered Yaquis.
During 1908 Governor Torres tried to bargain with the rebels to make peace, dealing with Luis Bule, one of the leaders. Succumbing to pressure from Sonoran hacendados and employers, Torres halted deportation except for punishment; any raid would be followed by the shipping away of five hundred Yaquis.
By 1909 Bule had made peace for the Yaquis and passports were issued. Bule’s men were put in Special Forces groups in the Army to hunt out those of their comrades who still persisted in defiance, but at least indiscriminant persecution of the Yaquis had stopped for the time. As always, when the country was in turmoil, the Indians fared best.
Spring came with the Easter ceremonies performed by the Yaqui workers of Mina Rara. The processions began on Ash Wednesday and accelerated week by week as the soldiers of Pilate and masked fariseos with their wooden swords pursued Jesus. Tantalizing smells of stew, beans, and tortillas floated from the outdoor communal kitchen where even the Mexican soldiers were fed, for this most important of celebrations was open to all. Those giving it gained “flower” or spiritual grace.
Jon loved to go and I often attended with him and Caguama, laughing at the pascolas, clown dancers who kept the ceremonies moving and made ribald jokes, or admiring the flag girls and the matachines crowned with flowers who danced for Mary, but most of all delighting in the ancient rite of the deer dancer who embodied the primeval wild spirits.
On Saturday, after Jesus had been betrayed and killed, there was a battle between the forces of evil and good who fought swords with flowers. When the flowers won, the fariseos’ masks and swords were burned in a great fire where an effigy of Judas also blazed, but I never stayed for that. It reminded me too much of Cruz. But I never missed Easter morning when San Juan bowed to Mary and told her that her Son was not dead, but was down there in the fiesta and Mary cried out to all her followers, “Let’s go see my loving Son and meet Him in the middle of the road.”
To a people that had lost so many sons and daughters, the hope of reunion was especially poignant and I envied their faith, for I couldn’t believe I’d ever see Trace again, and our meeting in some heavenly fiesta couldn’t help me now. I longed for him in the flesh with my flesh, wanted him to know our son, be his father and my man. I had no other, no matter how many years I was married to Court.
Summer followed Easter and unrest grew. In Sonora, newsmen critical of the Díaz government were jailed as were the officers of the Cananea Anti-Reelectionist Club. In San Luis Potosí, Coahuila, Aguascalientes, and Nueyo León, Maderista rallies were forbidden and all anti-Díaz publicity was banned.
Hundreds of Madero supporters were in jail all over Mexico, and Court predicted that their leaders would shortly join them if he wasn’t assassinated first. I prayed for the life of that small, gentle man as I had for nothing since I abandoned hope for Trace. Madero was a chance for justice with peace in Mexico—a bloodless revolution. If he died, whirlwinds would rage, destroying the oppressed with the oppressors.
Early in June, Madero was imprisoned in Monterrey. Fearing he’d be secretly murdered, his wife stayed in jail with him. At the same time there were uprisings in Yucatán, which were ruthlessly crushed. The primary election would be held June 26 and there was absolutely no doubt that Díaz intended to win.
I told Court I would like Jon to have his birthday at Las Coronas. Mexican-style, we celebrated his saint’s name day rather than his actual birth date in May. The Day of San Juan was also Midsummer’s Night, June 24, and the best of feasts for a boy on a ranch because there were contests of vaquero skills. I had never seen the merrymaking, but this year I wished to take my son and make him known to the leather-tough men who would greet him one day as dueño—if our world lasted.
Court considered my request. I seldom asked for anything. When I did, it gave him a sensation of power he savored to the utmost, a subtle tyranny that pleased him more than the physical dominance he could exert over my will.
“An excellent idea, my love.” His tawny eyes were unreadable and I had learned long ago that a smile on that long well-shaped mouth meant nothing. “As you say, he shou
ld become acquainted with Las Coronas. It will give him something to remember.”
Though my lips smiled on, something cold fixed about my heart. “Of course, it won’t be long before we should go again. He needs to understand the life of the ranch, since he’ll own it one day.”
“Don’t be old-fashioned, Miranda,” Court said, yawning. “He can hire a foreman if the place is still in the family when he grows up. What he needs now is a gentleman’s education.”
I stared. The chill had entered my heart and seemed to freeze it to stillness. “I—I teach him. And he’s very young.”
“So were you.”
Just that For seconds. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, comprehend.
“You were Jon’s age when your father took you to that English school,” Court said blandly.
“England? Court, you—you won’t.”
“No need for that,” he agreed kindly, rising to help me sit down and keeping my hand in his steel-hard fingers. “There are good schools in New England. An excellent one in a town where I have a maiden aunt. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to have him for weekends now and then. And he can come to us for long holidays, naturally.”
A maiden aunt of Court’s instead of Caguama and his playmates, a village and household that loved and indulged him? Remembering my own lonely childhood exile, I made an animal sound.
“Court, you can’t mean this! It—it’s cruel!”
He laughed. “Was the sainted Jonathan Greenleaf cruel then?”
“That—that was different! He was English. He hoped I’d stay in England. But he’d never have done it if he’d known how lost and afraid I felt.”
“What you say confirms my fears, darling. You spoil the boy. Clinging to a mother’s skirts is very well for a girl, but a boy must learn to keep his chin up even if he is lonely.”
Clenching my hands, I tried to think of some appeal, some argument to reach this man. I knew he was enjoying my distress and I hated him for that, hated the complete control he had over my life. Open defiance would only harden his resolve.
Swallowing, I said thickly, “Could I go with him? He could live with me and go to day school.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” drawled Court, idly tracing the line of my jaw. “No, dear wife, I’ll never let you go.”
Something snapped. “You—you’re jealous of him,” I blazed. “You can’t bear me to love him!”
Court gazed at me, eyes dilating till the gold was almost obscured. I feared him, but hate was stronger. I spat the words at him: “You know he’s not yours. You know—”
Court slapped me so hard that my ears rang. Blood trickled from the side of my mouth. Calmly, he produced a snowy handkerchief and stopped the flow.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but when you exhibit such hysteria, I must check it. Jon, of course, is my son. Fortunately.” His eyes gripped mine; I could scarcely breathe. Court went on in velvet tones more terrifying than rage. “If Jon were not mine, he wouldn’t be celebrating his feast day this month. There are countless poor women who will nurture a child for a few pesos and I fear even a mother would never find him.”
Would there never be a a time he couldn’t gag me, force me to bow to his will? If I made continuing trouble about Jon’s being sent to the United States, my son could vanish. I knew well enough I’d been incredibly lucky that Court had decided to acknowledge him.
Open battle would bring disaster. I must play for time and think.
“Surely he needn’t leave for school till fall,” I said.
Court looked surprised but relaxed slightly. “There’s more to it than simply school, Miranda. When Diáz is reelected, as he will be, all hell will cut loose unless he names an acceptable vice-president. We’d better get Jon out of the country while we can.”
“But—but he can have his day of San Juan at the ranch?”
Court kissed me, and when I was quiet, he lifted me in his arms. “Yes, love. We’ll celebrate his feast, and then as quickly as possible, we’d better get him off to New England.”
That was one of Court’s more inventive nights, but though I obeyed his wishes as if drugged, I couldn’t think of anything except that I was losing Jon.
Unless I could think of something. Unless I could find a way.…
17
We arrived at Las Coronas the night before San Juan and attended Mass early on the saint’s day, with Jon squirming between us in the suede charro suit old Emilio had lovingly hand-stitched and adorned with silver braid and conchos. Jon was impatient to mix with these people who called him Juanito and were already by way of spoiling him. Enrique, married now to Consuelo who had two little boys, had promised to teach Jon roping. Lázaro, the foreman, had a pony gentled for him, and Catalina, Consuelo, Lupe, and the other women were stuffing him on pan dulce, brown sugar candy, and orange conserve.
The chapel was crowded with folk of the hacienda, most strangers, all clean and dressed in their best. After Mass, guitars sounded from the shade and girls tucked flowers in their long shining hair while several beefs and two young goats barbecued over smoldering pit fires down in the clearing by the main corrals.
I’d explained to Enrique that Caguama was Jon’s companion and asked the vaquero to make sure he was well received. Seris, because of their reputed cannibalism and lack of exposure to Christianity, were despised and feared by Mexicans, and Jon was so enthralled with new sights and people that his five-year-old sense of responsibility for his big friend might not be dependable.
Enrique assured me he’d look after both Jon and Caguama. “I am your man forever, lady,” he said extravagantly. We both evidently felt it would be poor taste to recall that I had protected his wife from casual rape by the man who was now my husband.
I would have liked to forbid the cock fights, but Court pointed out that if I banned them from the fiesta, they’d simply take place in secret. The racing and roping and bull-tailing would be better held after the heat of the day, so while Court strode about playing patrón, I went to chat with Consuelo and Catalina, who were making tortillas by the dozen.
Time had gnarled Catalina even more, but Consuelo was plump and matronly, very happy, she confided, with Enrique, who never got drunk or beat her or chased other women. It was almost six years since I’d seen them and let them do most of the talking, for I had no wish to explain why Reina had been at Mina Rara when she died, or how she’d betrayed me after I went surety for her, or how Trace had vanished in Yucatán and why I was married to Court Sanders.
“Ay, señora, when we heard the Yaquis had you, we burned many candles,” remembered Catalina, shaking her gray head. “We were glad to hear you were at the mine, though we wished you were with us. However, one must live with one’s husband. It is a joy to see the little Jonathan. You named him for your good father?”
“Yes,” I replied, a tight feeling in my throat. I always grew sad when I thought of how much father would have loved his grandson.
Catalina nodded. “There is your father’s way of holding his head. But those green-blue eyes, ay de mi! And the hair black as a raven!”
Consuelo was frowning. “I only knew one with eyes like that. The tejano, Trace Winslade.” Her own eyes widened as she glanced up at me, startled at what her unthinking remark suggested.
“No doubt it is a common color among the English,” her mother said quickly while my face burned.
I was extremely grateful that Court hadn’t overheard. If others observed Jon’s striking resemblance to Trace and whispers grew to rumor, I was terrified at what he might do.
No, even if he hadn’t determined to send Jon away, the days of comparative peace were over. I must get away with Jon. Somehow. But where?
Bitter, bitter, that I couldn’t take refuge in my own ranch. Supposing I announced to Court that I would remain at Las Coronas with my son? Legally he was my master; he could make me leave, and if those who remembered my parents resisted, he would see they died for it.
There was one way. I could mu
rder him. Or Enrique might do it for me. My heart leaped at the thought of freedom even as it chilled at the means. I would kill Court if he threatened Jon or was a serious danger to him, but it was not in me to kill in cold blood and I wouldn’t put it on someone else.
The only thing for it was to run away with Jon. And at that point my brain whirred like faulty machinery. Who could help? Dr. Trent was too old, even if his drinking hadn’t made him a dubious support. I had no money but it seemed reasonable that I could get some in exchange for bits of the curious twisted pieces of almost solid gold Court kept in a specimen case, locked in his office. He never made any effort to hide his keys from me.
I was less worried about money than where to go. Court would find me in any Mexican city and had enough business contacts in Arizona to make that nearby part of the United States seem hazardous. California appealed to me most. The thin strip of northern Mexico leading toward it was desolate and wild, but Court would never dream of my attempting that route.
Nor could I, without a guide.
For a desperate moment I thought of asking Enrique, but discarded the notion at once. He didn’t know that region. Besides, there was a chance we’d be caught, and though I’d already tasted the worst Court could do to me, he’d kill anyone who tried to help me.
Consuelo’s words drew me back to the present. “… if she could be the child you sheltered? Very beautiful, they say, but La Grulla has only one foot.”
“La Grulla?” I questioned, heart thudding. “Has she been to Las Coronas?”
“Not that we know of!” Catalina crossed herself. “She and her man made very cunning raids on the railroad and other haciendas but never here. And they have not raided at all since the ruling that five hundred pacíficos would be deported for each attack.” She lifted one thin hunched shoulder as she expertly slapped a tortilla thin. “Who knows? Perhaps La Grulla is dead. Perhaps she had a baby and stopped fighting like a man.”
A Lady Bought with Rifles Page 28