The Storm Family 6

by Matt Chisholm

  When the tap on the door came and Serafina entered, she spun around in her chair and said sharply, “What is it?”

  The woman was smiling.

  “This gringo ...” She giggled. “This gringo ... por Dios, little one, I never saw one such before. His Spanish, it has a so much elegance ... were it not for other things, I would think him a true Christian.”

  “You will give him a room, Serafina,” Linda said. “Pull yourself together, woman. Have you never spoken to a gringo before?”

  “Not such as this, I swear. I feel ten, twenty years younger.” She gained a grip on herself and said: “No, my darling, you do not understand. He is not one of those. Praise God, he is not one of those. I have had enough of those to last me until I am with the angels.”

  “By God,” said Linda fiercely, “if you do not stop this nonsense, you will be with the angels quicker than you think.”

  “This is the gringo whose life you saved, little one. He is asking for you.”

  “Then he will wait. I am busy now as you can see.”

  “Oh, he will wait. Never fear. He is talking to Gregorio just as if they were old friends and he is flirting with Juanita. My love, it is an outrage the way that man flirts.”

  “Enough, woman. Stop your prattling and go about your work.”

  Serafina looked astonished.

  “Work, sweetheart? Do you not remember? I am the housekeeper. It is not for me to do the work. Blood of Christ, I wish I were twenty years younger.”

  “Serafina!”

  The housekeeper chuckled fatly and disappeared.

  Linda stared at her account book and in English said a loud and emphatic: “Damn it to Hell.”

  Serafina said, with a coyness that cloyed, “You are angry. That shows that you are interested in this man...”

  Linda stood up.

  “You seem to think that your position is privileged, woman,” she said. “One more word and you will see just how much you are mistaken, Never forget that you could find yourself cooking for the riders or caring for that no-good husband of yours.”

  The fat woman stood there, the look on her face that of a woman who has inadvertently walked into a trap. Her eyes were frightened and her fat shook a little.

  “Serafina’s little joke, señorita,” she said.

  “Serafina didn’t make a little joke, my fat one,” Linda retorted. “She just made a big mistake. Go now as fast as your fat legs can carry you and find some other work for your mischievous mind.”

  “I go,” the housekeeper cried. “With all haste, gracious lady. Anything you say, darling señorita.”

  She heaved herself around and padded away.

  Linda was shaking. That fat fool of a woman. The eyes of the whole estate would be on her and this damned gringo. She knew how the woman talked. By God ...

  But she must see him. She would take the leer from his lips and chill the heat of his heart. She would go down to him and put paid to him now. But when she reached the door, she looked down at herself and knew that she didn’t want to be seen in this heavy riding skirt, these boots. She would make little impression on him looking like a tender of cattle and a rider of horses. She would show him the grand lady side of her and the grand manner that went with it.

  Hastily, she turned to her closet and ran her eye over her dresses, dismissing the pink as too young, the black as too old, the white as too dramatic, the green as too harsh. Her eyes fell on the blue, the finest silk—elegant, subdued, yet an astonishing color, halfway between a green and a blue. She slipped out of her riding clothes and put the dress on, surveyed herself in the mirror and saw to her pleasure that it made something of her small breasts and a lot of her waist and hips. It clung to her lean thighs and whirled out from the knees, Mexican fashion. She reached for a velvet ribbon and latched it around her long column of a throat. The face above it, lit by her large dark eyes would command any man. She looked every inch the woman who could own this place and command the men and women on it. Quickly, she adjusted her dark hair and took a last look at herself. She knew that she would see the man with her confidence strong. She took her ivory fan and went down the stairs.

  At the foot, Gregorio waited. His eyes showed that he was aware of her as a woman; they showed that he knew she had changed for this gringo, but he was too wise to say anything.

  “Where is the American?” she asked.

  “He is in the patio, señorita.”

  “Show him into the salon. And Gregorio …”

  “Yes, señorita?”

  “You will announce him. Properly—with a flourish.”

  For a second he looked indignant. It was not his place in life to announce visitors like a lackey. But then he smiled and said: “I will do it so that it is a thing of beauty.”

  She turned into the cool half-light of the salon and walked to the far end of it and stood by the fireplace. Here hung the portraits of the dons of old, haughty and cold-faced Spaniards every one. The walls were hung with pikes and cross-bows, Indian carvings, some banner of old Spain, tattered and faded yet somehow proclaiming its pride. The gringo would be suitably awed by it all.

  A moment later, she heard them coming. Their spurs crashed and, damn them, they were laughing together as only men could. Her confidence drained from her and she stood cold, alone and frightened.

  The door swung open. Gregorio entered, erect, puffed up with the pride of a top-ranking minion.

  “El Señor Don Martin Storm,” announced loud enough for a hall full of several hundred people. The fool, she thought. He was standing aside, bowing. Perhaps this would throw the gringo off his stride.

  But no, if it had any effect on the gringo at all, he didn’t show it. He entered, except for the sound of his spurs, with a quietness and dignity that could have belonged to a man long-accustomed to such places and such entrances. He looked around for her, Gregorio gestured with one hand, Martin Storm turned, found her, registered no reaction whatever and came toward her without hurry.

  She saw that, out of courtesy to her, he had removed his gun outside. He was unsmiling, calm, almost stern. When he halted several paces from her, he gave her a slight but most polite bow. He could, she thought, have been one of those haughty Spaniards on the wall condescending from his height. Her temper rose a little, both at herself and him.

  When he spoke, the gringo used English.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “I take it very kindly, you receivin’ me this way.”

  “Surely the least I could do after your riding so many hot miles.”

  “I came, ma’am, to thank you—it isn’t every day that a man has his life saved, still less often is it his good fortune to be saved by so gracious and beautiful a lady.”

  She thought: The sonvabitch is laughing at me.

  He thought: You want to play this game, gal—I’ll play it till your hair turns gray.

  “Any other woman in my position would have done it for anybody, sir.”

  “Ah, but when, ma’am, would a lady on her lonesome have had the courage to rescue a sorely wounded man and a stranger in such wild country? I insist, ma’am, that I owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”

  “I could have done no less.”

  “Ah, I refer now, not to your rescuing me, but for introducing to me a lady of such charm and beauty.”

  He was going too far. He’ll get nowhere smarming over me this way.

  “I can only surmise, sir, that your recent suffering has caused you to suffer from light-headedness.”

  He came back quickly with: “I assure you, ma’am, that if I was in the supremest health I would have become light-headed at the sight that is now before my eyes.”

  This was taking Texas gallantry too far. She looked toward the door and found Gregorio still standing there.

  “Did you want something, man?” she demanded.

  “I was waiting, señorita, to conduct the señor to his horse.”

  “It would perhaps be more courteous to offer our guest som
e refreshment. You will perhaps take a little wine with me, sir?”

  “Purely delighted, ma’am.”

  Gregorio made a preposterous bow. She swore she would bring him down to size later. He clanked away through the house.

  “Please be seated,” she said coldly, and gestured to a chair. He chose an elegant chaise-longue covered in gold brocade so that they could sit together, so she sat in a chair on the far side of the fireplace. She inspected him. He had the drawn peaked look of a man who has recovered from a serious wound; his clothes were worn and, though he had attempted to beat the dust from them before entering, he still bore traces of the trail on them. He was not, she considered, a handsome man in any sense of the term, but there was about him a self-contained air, a way he had of carrying himself, a look about him of having seen the world and all manner of men, that sat well with a woman. She reckoned that he was nearer forty than thirty and had no doubt sampled the women of the frontier towns to the full. There was too a complete awareness about him, as if he missed nothing and never failed to carefully weigh the situation he was in. She knew from the night when she had first seen him that he was a man of some physical hardihood. In the language of the men who sought sanctuary in her house, he was tough and he had grit. Which was what a man in this country needed.

  As for him, he saw a woman who at once sparked his imagination. She was original and he liked originality. He was a man who liked to taste experience and the newer the experience, the better. Till now, he had known what were termed good women and those who were termed bad. As for himself, he never judged women by what other men thought of them. He liked to make up his own mind. He got along with both kinds fine. In fact, Mart got along with women. They saw there was enough danger in him and enough trustworthiness in him to make him both interesting and somehow comforting. What more could a woman ask for? Women, kids, horses and dogs felt the same way. Maybe, it was because they respected him. Men felt somewhat differently about him. That was because he possessed a gun and upon occasion it could be turned, cocked, in their direction. Now this Linda Aragon presented something of a challenge and Mart Storm hadn’t been really stretched to the limit of his capacity with a woman for many a long year. He knew instinctively that she was neither a toy nor just a pretty face. In fact, she wasn’t pretty at all. However, there was no getting away with the fact that she was one Hell of a woman. Her little finger could mean more to a man like him than the whole of any other woman. That was because she had to be met on equal terms. Which was unusual in that day and age. The West was a good land for men and horses, but it was sure Hell on women. Except this one. She had mastered it. She had created civilization here in this valley.

  In short, Mart Storm, erstwhile gunfighter, gambler, cattleman and outlaw was caught, hooked, trapped and was, to all intents and purposes, getting around to the time when he would meet his maybe justly earned comeuppance.

  And maybe he didn’t mind too much that all these things were happening to him or about to happen. Just so long as they happened to him on his own terms.

  As for the lady—her pulse was high, her breathing a giveaway and her emotions all shot to Hell. So her face remained cold and she sought what refuge she could from the fate which she was trying hard to convince herself she had no wish to suffer.

  No, she told herself, this was no good. This fellow was a saddle bum who had a way with him. No more.

  Mart looked her over two or ten times and told himself that this was one of those hard to get women and she could play other men for suckers, but not him. No, sir. Martin Storm had his wits about him.

  The wine came, brought in on a silver tray by a plump, smiling and nubile girl of around eighteen with the eyes of a wanton, the figure of an Arabian houri, bare feet and the carriage of a princess. Mart, being Mart, could not keep the appreciation of so much pulchritude from his eyes. Which Aragon did not miss. Neither did the girl herself, for, after placing the wine on a small table, she offered Mart a smile so full of promise before she left that that susceptible fellow promised himself that if the mistress proved inaccessible, by God, he’d have the maid. Which showed that he was a man who didn’t like to agonize in his own defeat, if nothing else.

  He poured wine for the two of them, their ringers touched as he handed her a glass and they drank.

  Mart’s toast was as gallant as his previous words.

  Looking into her dark eyes, he raised his glass and said: “To the happy bullet that brought such a beautiful woman into my life.”

  She didn’t reply, but downed her wine like a trooper (or like a woman who needed a drink) and slammed down her glass so hard on the table that she nearly shattered it.

  She looked at him long and hard.

  Finally she said: “All right, Storm, we’ve had the smooth talk. Now let’s get down to cases.”

  Mart raised his eyebrows and laughed. He liked her shock tactics. First the entrance she had made for him, then the picture of her like a grand lady in her salon looking desirable in her fine dress, now this.

  “That’s great,” he cried. “I like that. What cases did you want to get down to, Aragon?”

  “First, you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Why did you get yourself shot?”

  “Crazy question,” he said. “Ask the feller that did it.”

  “I don’t know who did it.”

  “Neither do I, girl. I come on them in the dark and they just cut down on me, put one slug through my guts and creased me with the other. I didn’t fix it just so’s I could meet you, you know. Though it would of been worth it.”

  “You can cut out that kind of talk. I don’t have too much patience with insincerity.”

  He tossed off his wine. It was heavy and strong. It hit him smooth and hard. He stood up, took three paces and looked “Aragon,” he said, “let’s quit foolin’ around. Life’s too durned short for that. I think you’re the most woman I ever saw in my life. You don’t find me repulsive.”

  Maybe she looked startled, maybe she looked just mad.

  “The conversation’s gone the wrong way,” she said, craning back her head so she could look up at him. He didn’t know whether to look at her thrusting breasts or her wonderful eyes.

  “This ain’t a conversation,” he declared. “This is a man an’ woman talkin’. We ain’t neither of us kids and we know the answers. The minute I set eyes on you, I knew you were the one.”

  “The one for what?” she demanded. She liked directness, but this man went to the mark with a speed that left her breathless. Did the brute have no finesse?

  “That’s for you to say.”

  She wanted him out of her sight. She wanted to think, time to call herself a fool.

  “You’re mistaken if you think that when I found you wounded I experienced any such emotion. You were just a man hurt. Nothing more. To read anything more into the situation is ridiculous. You have the imagination of a schoolboy.”

  “Girl, what I’m thinkin’ right now don’t have no place in a schoolboy’s head.”

  “I think I shall send for Gregorio and have you shown off my land.”

  He looked at her for a moment, wooden-faced.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  He turned abruptly and headed for the door.

  With his hand on the knob, he turned.

  “There’s just one thing before I go,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Who are the men you have here in the house?”

  Chapter Four

  For a moment, there was silence. He reckoned he’d run that round with credits and, having scored a victory over her, at once regretted it. She said: T have several gentlemen staying in my house. If you put the question more politely, I might have answered it.”

  “Americans?”

  “If you mean Anglos—yes.” She stood up. “Mr. Storm, I think you’re presuming on your gratitude to me. So that there shall be no misunderstanding between us, it is only right t
hat I should tell you that I find you brash, ill-mannered and somewhat irritating.”

  He smiled.

  “And I find you ill-mannered, arrogant, infuriating and damnably beautiful, ma’am,” he replied. “I also find that you have failed to answer my question. Which seems to mean that you don’t want me to know the answer.”

  She was mad all through now.

  “It means, sir, I don’t think you have the right to the answer. What business of yours is it who my guests are?”

  He said: “If one of them asks you who I am, would you tell them?”

  “I think you’d best go. Now.”

  The door opened and Gregorio stood there. The woman added: “I pray that you’ll not return.”

  Mart chuckled.

  “You said that with real fervor,” he said and left the room. Near the main entrance, he found his hat and his gun. He buckled on the weapon under Gregorio’s quizzical gaze, slapped on his hat and walked out into the brilliant sunshine to find Old Stocking awaiting him. He mounted and Gregorio said: “God go with you, señor.”

  “And God go with you, my friend,” Mart returned.

  “Do me the favor of remembering what the señorita said,” Gregorio told him, “and do not return.”

  “That,” Mart returned, “is impossible.” He kneed his horse forward and rode away. Gregorio shook his head. The gringo would return—he could feel it in his water.

  Mart rode slowly back across the valley, lazing along the dusty trail apparently without a care in the world and certainly in no hurry. He let his thoughts drift and they strayed mostly to the woman. He knew that he must have her and he knew also that he would be cornering a female cougar. She would give him one Hell of a run and he would need a long and strong rope. But, wait—maybe this one couldn’t be caught on a rope. Maybe she couldn’t be caught at all. Could be she was like the wild ones and if they were caught they were spoiled. He would have to meet her on her own terms. That was something new for Mart. He was a man who attempted to be frank with himself and he saw that for the first time in his life he had his mind set on a goal. His brother Will always said that it would take a woman to get him around to that. Will was usually right, damn his eyes.