No light. He must already be stretched to his tall length on the bed they’d shared last night. Did he remember? Did he wish she was with him now?
She longed to steal across the clearing, enter his house, slip into his arms. For a moment she closed her eyes and imagined it before she made herself get into Don Buenaventura’s big bed.
There was always the chance of being discovered; but, more imperatively, instinct warned her not to crowd her lover. He needed time to get used to the truth bared between them.
Smiling in the dark, she skipped over that terrible beginning to remember everything he’d said, his caresses, the way he’d begun to like to kiss.
She was his. He was hers. One day the whole world would know it.
James had gone to work before they were ready to leave next morning, but Cat hurried into his house long enough to smooth his bed and look about, assuring herself that he couldn’t forget her with all the signs of herself she’d left him.
It was less than three months till the Roof Feast. Then it was nine months till her birthday, but surely she’d see him in between. And perhaps he’d change his mind if she could convince him she was really grown up before that.
She scarcely heard anything the twins or Belen said as they traveled the long miles home, arriving after dark. Hugging Talitha, Cat answered her unspoken question.
“James is fine. And, Tally, he says he’ll try to come for the Roof Feast!”
Talitha relaxed visibly. With quick sympathy Cat understood something of how Talitha had worried over her brother all these years. “He’s going to be all right,” she said softly, squeezing the older woman’s hand. “It’s going to be fine.”
But when she glanced up to find Jordan’s hazel eyes on her, hurt naked in them for an instant, she realized guiltily that for him it wouldn’t be happy.
From the first, territorial Democrats had believed the federal appointees were black Republican carpetbaggers out of political favor in their home states sent to Arizona to “fatten at the public crib.” The big issue that fall of 1870 was who should serve as territorial delegate to Congress, Richard McCormick, a former governor, or Peter Brady, a respected Tucsonan who’d been active in business and politics since coming to the region in 1853. Talitha remembered that he’d passed through the ranch with Gray’s surveying party and had been at the defeat of a large Apache raid on Calabazas. Selected by the Democratic convention that had met in Tucson September 17, Brady was certainly much more a man of the territory than McCormick, a New Yorker appointed to the governorship in 1866.
Two of the three territorial papers hurled nasty epithets at McCormick and his supporters, but he won the November election—through fraud, the papers accused. In Arizona City, four hundred ineligible Indians, men and women, had voted.
“We believe in the right of women to vote,” wrote the editor of the Weekly Arizonan, and went on to say that he thought it would have been more gallant of the merchandise company that had arranged the fraud to have “first extended this right to the white ladies of Arizona City and compelled the squaws to remain for next season.”
The paper gave McCormick a withering send-off to Washington, naming him a Republican “of the blackest dye,” a carpetbagger clothed in “apostasy and degradation” and “mired down in filth and debris of bartered principle.”
“Thank goodness that circus is over,” said Marc, who’d run as an unopposed Independent and been overwhelmingly elected in spite of having fought for the Union. He smiled grimly. “I see the way voting works here, the way the press and speakers try to stir people up rather than touch their reason, and I wonder if this is what I fought for so long ago in Berlin.”
“You were elected,” reminded Talitha. “So were lots of good men. Even with fraud and abuses, surely it’s better for people to decide who’ll make their laws rather than have them decreed by a king. And it’s something, after all these years of chaos, to finally have a government of our own rather than being an afterthought of Santa Fe or Mesilla.”
“You’re right.” Cheered, Marc nodded. “I think Safford will be a fine governor. I want to help him get those schools started.”
The ranch sold most of its beef that fall to Camp Crittenden and Camp Lowell in Tucson. The flare of autumn leaves along the creek and mountainsides faded, harvest was over, and snow crowned the Santa Ritas. It was time for the Feast of the Roof.
Cat helped eagerly with the preparations, helping Anita wrap tamales in cornshucks by the dozen, cracking thin-shelled piñon nuts for use in candy and cakes, grinding acorns for stew, spreading squash seeds to dry for use in pipian, the spicy sauce used on turkey and vegetables.
Cat had hoped James would come the night before, and as the day wore on she began to imagine all sorts of horrible things. Perhaps he’d been waylaid by bandits or Indians. Maybe he was sick. He could have been hurt or killed in a mine accident. He could have gone back to the Apaches.… One disastrous possibility after another chased through her mind. Of course, the feast wasn’t held till evening. It was a long day’s ride. If he hadn’t left till that morning, he could still be on his way.
It was almost sunset when she saw a rider coming from the east and ran out to watch him approach. Soon, from the way he sat his horse, she was sure it wasn’t James. Drooping, she was turning to the door when Jordan spoke, shielding his eyes.
“Wrong man, Katie? Looks like Lieutenant Frazier to me.”
Mouth sour with disappointment, she went to help Anita, leaving Frazier’s welcome to Talitha and Marc. They invited him to stay for the festive meal, of course, and he behaved as if he’d never stopped calling, though he hadn’t been at the ranch since the day he’d challenged James to help track Apache raiders. She heard him say that he’d been out with Governor Safford’s volunteers.
“We covered six hundred miles and stayed out twenty-seven days, but we never caught a single Apache,” he growled to Marc. “Most discouraging duty on the face of the earth.”
Helping serve the food, Cat managed to avoid him till after the meal; but when she sat down to listen to the singing, he found a place beside her, so close that she was flinchingly aware of his hard-muscled arm pressing against hers, of the taut, hungry eagerness of his young body.
“I’ve missed you, Caterina.”
She had no answer for that. He turned to her, his face only inches from hers. She smelled mingled male odors: tobacco, leather, sweat, and soap. In spite of his youth, sun and weather had formed lines at the corners of his gray eyes. He looked older, leaner, tougher, till a winning smile softened the lines in his face.
“There’s going to be a Christmas dance at Calabazas. Would you let me take you?”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, but …” She had no desire to hurt him, cast around for an excuse, and realized she did indeed have an unarguable one. “I’m engaged.”
His jaw dropped. “Engaged?” he echoed blankly. Glancing around, his gaze fell on Jordan, who was, undeniably, watching them. “To him?”
“No.”
Their eyes locked. The edges of his nostrils showed white and his lips thinned over his teeth. “I can deal with a refusal, Miss O’Shea. No need to invent an engagement.”
“I’m not inventing.”
A slim ash-colored eyebrow lifted. “If you’re going to marry the man, it’s strange that you seem ashamed to name him. Or is this … engagement a secret from your guardians?”
There was no way out, though Cat wished she’d simply refused the lieutenant’s invitation. Was it tempting fate to pretend that what she prayed for, what James had promised to consider after her birthday, was accomplished fact?
She was engaged; James wasn’t. But there was nothing for it but to face the young officer haughtily. “I’m going to marry James Scott, Lieutenant.”
“James Scott?” It actually wasn’t his name but was all that Cat could think of. Frazier’s eyes flicked to Talitha, then swept back to Cat with sudden shocked comprehension. “The half-breed? That Apache?�
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She brought back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could. His head snapped back. The white prints of her fingers showed in the redness staining his tanned cheek.
The music drowned out the sound. No one had noticed except Jordan, who was making his way toward them. Frazier’s breath came in a hiss.
“So you want to be a squaw?” he said in a murderous voice, beneath his breath. “I would have married you, made you a lady. Maybe, when he’s tired of you, I’ll buy the use of you for a bottle of mescal.”
Rising as Jordan loomed above them, Frazier bowed low and said very softly, “I hope I have the privilege of shooting your buck and bringing you his body.”
“Be sure I’ll kill you if you do,” Cat said just as quietly beneath the strum of guitars. “I’d rather have James dead than you alive, or twenty like you.”
His eyes blazed down at her before he straightened. “Need help getting your horse?” Jordan asked.
“I can manage, Scott.” Swinging brusquely away, Frazier made brief good nights to Marc and Talitha and was gone.
Jordan gazed down at Cat. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”
Tears choked her. She stumbled to her feet and started blindly for the door, needing to escape the crowded noisy room, to go where she could vent her frustration and anger—her fear, too. For Frazier was an officer in an army committed to hunting down Apaches.
Jordan put a hand beneath her arm and guided her out on the long front veranda where he’d kissed her that night of her sixteenth birthday which seemed so long ago. “What’s the matter, Katie? Should I go after Frazier and give him a trouncing?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve done enough to stir him up. He called James a half-breed again.”
“Now why would he do that, knowing what hot water it got him into last time? I’d have sworn he came in tonight bent on behaving mild as a lamb.”
“He probably did,” Cat said dolefully. “But when he asked me to a dance, I said I was engaged and then—Caray! What a mess I made of it!”
“And lied, too, Katie. You’re not engaged.”
“I am!”
He watched her steadily in the light splashed golden from the window. “I think you mean you coaxed, bedeviled, and beguiled poor James into agreeing that at some distant date you’d seriously talk about getting married.”
Exactly right. How could he know? She glared at him, spun away, and burst into tears.
“Here.” He brought her against his shoulder. “I’m better to cry against than that adobe.”
He let her sob till the storm was over, then got out one of the handkerchiefs Talitha kept the men supplied with and mopped her face, made her blow her stopped-up nose. “Want to tell me about it?”
Haltingly, she told him everything except how James had taken her that night by mistake. “And he promised to try to come for the Roof Feast,” she finished. “Maybe something’s happened to him. Maybe—”
Jordan said roughly, “Lord’s sake, Katie! He’s hoping you’ll get enough sense to see it wouldn’t work.”
She jerked away with an outraged cry, but he caught her wrists and held her inexorably. “He hasn’t said he’ll marry you. You badgered him into agreeing to talk about it after your birthday.”
“You—you don’t want me to marry him!”
“You bet I don’t. I want you myself.” He brought her hard against him. She heard the heavy pound of his heart, was overpowered by the male longing that radiated from him, barely under control. “Katie, Katie! I’m sure James loves you. But he’s man enough to want to save you from the troubles he’s pretty sure to have. By himself he can manage, move on when a place gets impossible. But with a wife, maybe children? Let him go, honey, for both your sakes.”
She said as if it were a vow, “I’ll marry him.”
Jordan sighed. “I want you to be happy. Whatever that takes. If you ever need me, Katie, don’t be too proud to ask.”
Her heart swelled with feeling for him. If it hadn’t been for James, she could have loved this man with the honest hazel eyes and kind, strong hands. He loved her with his body and with his heart, and both were sound and good.
Humbled, saddened, she lifted his hands to her lips and kissed them. “Thank you, Jordan. You’ll find a girl who’s lots nicer than I am—”
As if something had snapped in him, he turned up her face and stared at it as if he’d fix her forever in his mind. She closed her eyes to escape that desperate searching. His mouth took hers, achingly, savagely, before he turned away violently, striding off into the darkness.
Jordan was strong. He’d do very well without her. But James—James had no one of his own. She faced the bitter wind and fought back her tears.
Since he hadn’t come to her, she’d go to him. In any case, he needed to be warned that Frazier might make trouble for him if he found out where he was. Cat didn’t want to spoil tonight’s celebration, but tomorrow she’d talk to Talitha.
XVII
Once again Cat rode down the cañon trail into the mining camp. Marc had come to inspect the mine and Belen was along for protection. Patrick was preparing to leave on a prospecting trip to the north, so he’d stayed at the ranch. Don Buenaventura once again yielded his house to his visitors, and while he and Marc talked Cat hurried across the clearing in the twilight to invite James to eat with them.
Had he seen them ride in? Would he be glad to see her? Heart thudding till she felt choked, short of breath, she paused in the doorway and softly called his name.
No answer. He wasn’t there. And as she peered into the almost dark room, she saw that the madonna no longer hung above his bed. The cushions were gone from the bancos; gone, too, the mats, glass jug, baskets, and mirror she’d chosen so happily and arranged while pretending this was their house, hers and James’s.
She shrank against the wall. Why had he put her gifts away? Didn’t he want to be reminded of her?
Did he still live here? Kneeling, she touched the serapes on the pallet bed, recognizing the broad black and brown stripes. They were his, the blankets they’d slept beneath. She pressed her face to their roughness, trying to find some sense and smell of him.
What did it mean? Perhaps he had seen them coming and slipped away. That thought jerked her erect. A rush of angry hurt brought her to her feet. After he’d taken her as he had, called her gídí, and talked all night long, he hadn’t come to the Roof Feast. He’d even put the things she’d placed around his house out of sight. She’d go home tomorrow and forget all about him!
Yet, as she crossed to Don Buenaventura’s house, she remembered the renegade Apache who’d kidnaped her collapsing with James’s arrow through him, and how James had been shaking when she threw herself into his arms. She remembered how tenderly he’d nursed K’aak’eh, how he’d defied his Apache kin to save Patrick. And that night when, at last, he’d loved her with his strong, hard body, admitted that he cared for her.
Forget him? As well forget the blood in her veins, the air she breathed.
After the old woman and the girl had cleared the table, Belen went to visit friends, while Marc and the manager lingered over brandy and cigarros. Cat retired to the manager’s bedroom and looked across to James’s house.
No light showed. Maybe he’d gone to bed while she was at supper, or maybe he was staying out till he thought she’d abandon hope of seeing him that evening. Either way, he’d learn that when she came to see him, she was going to.
Determinedly advancing on the bed, she arranged the coverings and pillows to look like a reclining form in case Marc glanced in, took the packet of candies and little cakes Talitha had sent, and scrambled out the low, wide window.
James hadn’t come home. After putting Tally’s gift on the table, Cat paused by the bed. Should she wait for him there as she had before?
No. The way he’d used her as an importunate whore wasn’t a thing to bring to his mind. Besides, if he guessed who she was, he might go away and leave her sle
eping.
Shivering, Cat took a serape, wrapped in it, and settled on a banco to wait, leaning against the molded adobe of the fireplace. There were no embers. Either James hadn’t eaten at home or his meal had been cold. When they were married, she’d see he had a hot supper every night, all the things he liked.
Smiling, Cat pictured straight-backed little boys with James’s startling eyes, at least one with her father’s flaming hair; and a girl who’d look like Socorro, the mother she’d never known. Tired from the long day’s journey, she began to drowse and had to keep waking herself when her head drooped.
Late. So late. Why didn’t he come?
She roused to sounds of undressing. In the dim light from the door she saw a tall dark figure bend to lie down on the pallet. A heavy odor of mescal filled the place.
Cat had often seen vaqueros, even her brothers, drink themselves senseless at fiestas. She remembered her father’s methodical, steady drinking. Drunken men didn’t shock her, though they caused a certain disgust. She was realistic enough to know that the mescal might be her ally this night; it might loosen James’s iron control.
When he’d been breathing heavily for a time, she stood up and came to the bed. Putting the extra serape at his feet, she undressed, prickling from chill, and lay down with him, trying to escape the sour taint of mescal.
His body was strange at first, but, emboldened by his heavy slumber, she pressed closer to him, let her breasts touch his warm chest. That strangely frightening yet vulnerable part of him began to stiffen. She touched it wonderingly, and it throbbed beneath her fingers, a delicate velvet pulsing constrained and restricted by his flesh.
He groaned. Murmuring what sounded like her name, he raised himself to enter her, lunged deeply, quivered, buried himself within her, and was emptied.
His fluid laved the parts hurt by the violence of his possessing. Cat held him, head on her breast, oddly touched with pity. So much of a man went into that act, his whole force and energy, leaving him spent. But James was straightening now, shifting his weight from her.
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