The Wildest Heart

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Lucas!”

  He shook his head almost angrily, as if in negation of my half-uttered cry of concern.

  “I’ll be all right, Ro. You go get some rest, an’ I’ll see you later.”

  I had ignored the others then. “We have to talk, don’t you see that? I won’t have you planning what’s to be done with me without even…”

  “You foolish, crazy children! Haven’t you been reckless enough? You can quarrel later. Now I must insist that you both rest and change out of those wet clothes.” Elena scolded like a mother, but the contempt in her eyes was meant for me. She wanted me to see myself through her eyes, a pitiful creature picked up in a storm.

  I looked away from her, back at Lucas, and there were beads of sweat standing out on his forehead as he leaned against the gallery pillar, his eyes half-closed. But how much of his pain was from his wounds, and how much because of Elena? Another wound reopened.

  “I am not too old to play the gallant yet, I hope! Come, señorita Rowena. To bed with you, and Luz will come with us to take care of the properties, eh?”

  I could almost imagine that Lucas had whispered, his voice husky and tired, “Stay here, Ro…” but perhaps that was only because I wanted to hear him say it, as he had that night when we had shared a blanket for the first time.

  Whatever he had said, or meant to say, it was too late. Montoya had already picked me up into his arms, firmly and purposefully, and I was taken upstairs like an errant child, to be laid gently in bed while Luz began to strip me of my borrowed garments, exclaiming at bruises and scrapes I had forgotten.

  “You should have a nice warm bath. You’re shivering!” And then, as I shook my head wearily, “You could very easily have been killed, you know! As it is, Ramon…” and then she compressed her lip as if she had said too much. “I’ll fetch some hot water, and sponge you down. And a hot drink. Please do not try to get up.”

  “Ramon?” I remembered suddenly that he hadn’t been downstairs to meet us. “Luz—what did you mean about Ramon?”

  I had sat up in bed, and she turned at the door, her face suddenly carefully without expression.

  “He went looking for you. There was guilt in him, I suppose. None of us knew, until the next day… oh, that was a terrible night, I can tell you! And the next day and night even worse. Elena was like a madwoman. She thought…”

  “Luz!”

  But I knew. “He had tried to cross the creek—you know how shallow and pretty it is. But Chato says it must have been a wall of water that came rushing down from the barracks—or perhaps a limb from the tree we found struck by lightning. I am sorry, Rowena, that I said anything. As usual, my tongue runs away with me. But I…”

  She turned abruptly and went out of the room and I lay there, drained. Would Lucas blame me? And Elena—how could she have pretended so well? There had been no trace of grief in her face or her manner to betray the fact that she had lost a son, or did her love for Lucas, and her relief at finding him alive, blind her to everything else?

  Suddenly I wanted to find Lucas again, to feel his arms close around me, and I half-sat up, then fell back again. Suppose his eyes looked at me in the same way Luz’s had done? Suppose he had already begun to hate me? Elena would be with him, bending over him, and I felt I couldn’t bear to see it. Perhaps his arms were around her at this very moment, comforting her, taking her back into that place in his mind that would always be hers. I was torturing myself, and I knew it. Oh, God, why had he brought me back here?

  And then Luz was back, bearing a tray with a steaming hot mug of chocolate, her eyes still deliberately averted from mine.

  “Drink this first, it will keep away a chill. I put some whiskey in it.”

  The whiskey made the chocolate taste bitter, but it was warming, spreading a burning glow all the way down to my stomach. I drank it down as quickly as I could, not caring if I burned my lips and tongue. I lay down again, suddenly feeling bone-weary.

  “There, that’s good. And now I will sponge you, and you will try not to think. Don’t worry.”

  In spite of the almost impersonal kindness of her voice, Luz’s hands were gentle. She was right, of course, I thought. Thinking, tormenting myself about something that had happened and could not be changed, would do me no good.

  Tomorrow I would see Lucas again, and force an answer from him. I had been letting my imagination run riot. He cared for me; hadn’t he shown me that much? Tomorrow, I thought, and then found myself too tired even to think.

  Thirty-One

  I slept haunted by one nightmare after the other. There was sound and motion and the orange glow of fire in my dreams. I felt myself picked up and held fast in the claws by a gigantic bird, then I was falling, from a tremendous distance, watching, paralyzed and powerless as the ground came up to meet me. For a while, there was nothing—a terrible, choking darkness—first heat, and then cold. And I was in a tumbril, being taken to the guillotine. I heard the creaking, felt the jolting—looked up to see the executioner waiting on the edge of the platform. Slowly, menacingly, he removed his mask, and the face was Ramon’s. I heard myself scream, and someone held a cup of blood to my lips. “Drink…” they said, “drink! It will help you…”

  And then, suddenly, I was awake again. I knew it, and yet my eyelids felt leaden, too heavy to open. I was still in the tumbril, the death cart, and my head ached with every jolt. I remember thinking that I must be dead, and I moved my hand to touch my neck. No, I was alive. I felt a breeze on my face, and motion under me—and then, with an effort, I forced my eyes open, and my nightmares had spilled over into reality.

  “I am sorry, truly sorry it had to be this way.” Luz’s voice was small and hesitant with guilt, and her face looked drawn and pale. “But do you not see that it is only for the best? You would have become hysterical perhaps, you would not have understood.”

  “And so you drugged me.” My voice sounded thick, and my head still ached, but I was beginning to think again, even though I did not want to.

  “It was the only way!” Luz said again. “You have always been so sensible, surely you can understand? Did you want to be a prisoner forever in the valley? With Ramon gone…”

  I interrupted her, my voice heavy and harsh.

  “Does Lucas know?”

  “Lucas? It was Lucas who suggested it.”

  I turned my face away from her and closed my eyes again, taking refuge in the headache that threatened to split my head in two. Not Lucas, not Lucas, my mind cried out, and then I remembered how adamant he had been. But without talking to me first? Without even telling me good-bye? Or had it been that as soon as he set eyes on Elena again he had known where his heart lay, and was anxious to put me out of his life?

  Later, when the effects of the drug they had given me had completely worn off, some of the self-possession I had once prided myself upon came back to me, and I found myself thinking more rationally. That night Lucas had been close to unconsciousness himself. Suppose the drugged chocolate and my virtual abduction had all been Elena’s idea? She had begun to hate me; she was jealous of me. Perhaps, after all, she was no longer as certain of Lucas’s wholehearted adoration as she had appeared to be. Grasping at straws or not, I hugged that thought to me as I waited for Jesus Montoya to give me an answer to the questions that still remained to be answered.

  The cart which I had imagined to be a tumbril was a small, crudely constructed, canvas-covered wagon. I learned that Luz slept beside me, and that I had been kept unconscious for two whole days. Luz seemed relieved that I hadn’t tried to make a fuss, and appeared so calm.

  “Jesus had to carry you most of the way. When we had to leave the valley he put the rope around his waist, and kept you in his arms. I was almost jealous, for a while!”

  How soon she had got over her passionate infatuation for Lucas! Could I ever stop loving him? Cruelly I said, trying to hide my own emotions, “So now you’re actually in love with the man you said you hated. Will you be married soon?”


  She gave me a rather embarrassed look, and said defensively, “As soon as we reach Mexico. And Jesus is good to me. He makes me feel as if I am a woman. Do you know that of all the women he has taken, I am the only one he wishes to marry? It means something. And I will no longer be a slave to that bitch Elena Kordes. Jesus has promised that I will have a large house, and servants of my own.”

  “He’s a man of ambition and far-reaching plans, it seems!” I murmured ironically. “Do you know what he plans to do with me?”

  But she only said hastily that Jesus would tell me himself, as soon as he returned to the makeshift camp with the rest of his men. Warningly she added that Chato had remained here, to watch over us both, and I wondered why they thought I might want to escape. Where could I go, anyhow? We were still in the mountains, camped among thick timber. I had no idea where we were, or in which direction the valley lay. And I would not think of Lucas—alone there with Elena. I must not, for I needed all my wits about me now.

  I shrugged, reassuring Luz, and she began to talk to me with a return of her old, friendly manner, although she still seemed wary.

  It seems to me, even in retrospect, that I was far too calm. It was as if I had lived on the edge of an emotional pinnacle for so long that now I felt drained of feeling. I had lost Lucas. In my heart I knew that he would not do as I secretly hoped he would, and come looking for me. Even if he hadn’t planned to get rid of me, he was bound to shrug his shoulders when he found out what had happened, and tell himself that it was for the best. And now I was alone again and forced to fend for myself, with only my wits to guide me. I thought all this without self-pity; in fact I was filled with an almost terrifying apathy soon after I had talked with Luz. I’ll soon have my cherished independence back, I thought. For surely Montoya meant to claim that huge reward he’d told me Todd had offered for any news of my whereabouts. What did it matter? Money had once provided my passport to freedom, and now I didn’t care about it. I would pay Todd back, and I would never marry him now. And Lucas, to whom I had offered everything, including myself, had rejected me.

  Jesus Montoya and the comancheros returned to camp that evening, and each man looked like a walking arsenal, with crossed bandoliers across his chests.

  Luz and I retired inside the wagon until, sometime later, Montoya came up and politely asked me to accompany him. He was as suave and sardonic as I remembered him, and his black eyes seemed to glitter in the firelight. He had taken my arm, and now as he led me forward, there was a sudden cessation of the talk and laughter among his men.

  My feeling of lethargy persisted, and I stood there passively, feeling the looks that were fastened upon me.

  “This is the woman for whom Shannon is willing to pay so much money. She is not to be harmed. In fact”—his white teeth gleamed for an instant—“I will kill the first man who touches her. I only wish to make this matter clear: that she will not be treated like the other captives we take, but instead as a guest. Comprende?”

  Apparently Montoya was sure of his control over his men. There were a few nods, a few muttered “si’s” but the curiosity in their eyes was almost a palpable thing. I found myself wondering if they thought I was or had been one of Montoya’s women, but what did that matter either?

  Tonight Jesus Montoya was just as immaculately dressed as he had been on the occasion of the fiesta. When he led me into the darkness just beyond the fire’s reach I could see the silver ornaments on his charro suit flash like stars.

  “Was it necessary to put me on exhibit?”

  “It was necessary to warn them. My men are impulsive at times. And as I’ve said before, I do have a great admiration for you, señorita Rowena.”

  “You certainly have a strange way of showing it!” I retorted. What was the man up to? It seemed to me he was playing a cat and mouse game with me, and I wished he would come to the point.

  He chuckled softly. “Ah, but I think that you will understand, once you have had time to give the whole matter some thought. You do not mind if I smoke?”

  I moved my head impatiently, and the tip of his glowing cigar lit his face for a moment as he puffed on it.

  “I had the feeling, from the first time I talked to you, that you were a wise and intelligent young woman, and I am glad that you have taken all this so calmly. Of course I owe you an apology for the methods I was forced to use in order to… rescue you, shall we say? I see how angrily you lift your head, but believe me, it was all for the best!”

  “Or because of the money you hope to get for returning me to Todd Shannon?”

  “That too, of course! I am no philanthropist—only a poor man who must earn a living. And why not in this way? The señor Shannon can afford to give away some of his money. I am sure he will think it well worth it to get you back. And even my stubborn friend Elena Kordes had to agree that with poor Ramon gone, and Julio caring more about his little tribe than the regaining of his family’s lands… well, what else could we do?”

  “There was Lucas,” I said defiantly. “She was so anxious to marry me off to one of her sons—why not Lucas?”

  Montoya was shaking his head at me with exaggerated patience. “But Lucas is not Elena’s son. Surely you will not pretend ignorance of the—er—rather unique relationship between them? Even so—yes, Elena did suggest that such a thing might be possible, but Lucas refused. He can be very stubborn, that one.”

  “But…”

  “You must face facts, señorita. Come, you are strong enough for that! Lucas attracted you. In spite of his rude manners, he has a way with women. And he wanted you, especially when he learned you were to marry Ramon. But be realistic. You imagine yourself in love with him at the moment, perhaps, because you gave yourself to him. You see, I am being quite blunt. But Lucas? Lucas has always been in love with Elena, and he always will be. He wants other women, he takes them—and then, when he is finished with them, he goes back to Elena. If you had not been Shannon’s fiancée, he would not have bothered himself with you in the first place.”

  “No!” I said, but the word sounded small and despairing. “You’re lying to me; you and Elena arranged all of this, because she was jealous of me. She was afraid that Lucas—that Lucas and I…”

  “And now you are speaking wildly of what you wish to believe!” Montoya said roughly. His cigar smoke stung my nostrils. “You deliberately try to blind yourself to the truth, but I think that you have always known that nothing could ever come of a relationship between you and Lucas except much unhappiness and hurt. What did you hope for? That he would marry you?” As if he had read an answer in my face Montoya gave a harsh laugh. “Por Dios! I did not think you so naive. A woman of your spirit and background—would you have been content to share him with another woman and receive the least part of his attentions? Would you have been prepared to live as a prisoner, just as my poor Luz was, and wait on Elena’s whims? Elena is a very strong woman, much stronger than you are. And Lucas would do anything for her; do you take my meaning, my poor little one?”

  I shook my head, refusing to accept what he was saying, kept shaking it until he seized my wrist with fingers that felt like steel.

  “Must I make it even clearer before you will listen? You hate Elena and blame her, but although it is true she has no love for you, she still feels a strong sense of obligation to your father, and so she agreed to your going. Count yourself lucky! For if she had insisted that Lucas must marry you, he would have done so—for her, you understand? As for Lucas, he is a dead man. He is as good as dead right now. I am careful, but Lucas is reckless, even with bounty hunters snapping at his heels. He thinks he will kill Shannon, but it is Shannon who, in the end, will have him killed. It is—how do you say it? Inevitable. But as long as he is alive, he belongs to Elena.” My earlier mood of apathy had disappeared, and I was sick with despair. Every one of Jesus Montoya’s caustic words seemed to pierce me like an arrow.

  I must have swayed, for immediately Montoya’s arm went around my waist, and his voice
softened. “I understand. You do not want to hear these things, but they had to be said, for your sake. I will take you back to the wagon now, and you will think about it and perhaps cry a little, no? It is good for a woman to cry. And then, if you are wise, you will try to forget Lucas. Forget everything that has happened to you, marry Shannon, and live like a queen. And perhaps you will one day remember me as a friend.”

  A friend, Montoya had called himself. But as more days dragged by and we traveled by “the smugglers’ trail” into Mexico, I began to wonder why he offered me friendship—this strange and enigmatic man who was a self-confessed desperado with little or no scruples. What did he want from me?

  He had advised me to put Lucas out of my mind, and yet it seemed as if he took a perverse pleasure in reminding me at every turn of how foolish I had been. I was not the first woman, after all, who had mistaken physical attraction for love. Perhaps the grief and hurt I had still not learned to cope with was a kind of punishment. If it was, I did not suffer it gladly. I tried to tell myself that I had been right to hate Lucas in the beginning, that I despised him now, and ended up despising my own weakness. For as the days passed I was shown more and more evidence of how little I had meant to him.

  Montoya, I learned, had undertaken to dispose of the silver that had been taken to the valley on that first day.

  “So you have become friends again?” I said acidly. “And I suppose you will also share the money that will be paid for my return.”

  He laughed softly, his black eyes speculative as they rested on me. “Ah, yes. That too. And why not, when it was Lucas’s idea? Come, there is no need to look so stricken, surely you had guessed it already? And there is a saying that the love of money makes strange bedfellows, you know.” His voice softened, becoming almost thoughtful. “Money, and love, and hate—these are the strongest emotions of all, si? And with hatred goes the desire for revenge. Lucas has all these motives; you must not blame him too much. He is what he is, just as I am what I am! You begin to understand, do you not?”