Harvest of Fury

by Jeanne Williams

  “Yes,” agreed Tracy. “Some of those society weddings and benefit galas were pretty weird. I like doing an occasional article, but I’ve decided to concentrate on children’s books. Mostly photos with a little text.”

  “I can’t think what you’ll find to photograph around here,” said Vashti with a lift of dark eyebrows.

  “Why, there’s horses and cows!” roared Patrick. “Nothing on God’s earth prettier than a little foal. And vaqueros mounted up, cattle in good graze, mesquites greening after a hard winter, a full water tank after a rain—where you going to find things better than that?”

  “Now, darling, don’t get all worked up,” soothed Vashti. “Most children live in cities, you know. I should expect them to be more interested in sports, moon flights, things like that.”

  “I did some market research at libraries in Houston, seeing what kids actually read, rather than what adults thought they should.” Tracy laughed, squeezing Patrick’s hand. “The age I’m thinking of was very big on dinosaurs.”

  “Then Gila monsters and chuckwallas ought to go over real big,” chortled Patrick. Tracy stepped back so Geronimo could put a glass in his hand and the old rancher peered uselessly toward the young men. “You lads got your drinks?”

  “You bet,” said Geronimo, taking an iced beer from Shea, who held its twin.

  “You, Tracy?”

  “I’ll just have a sip of yours, Patrick.”

  He lifted the amber Mexican glass, iceless since he claimed that was the only way to drink tequila. “Happy days!”

  “Happy days,” echoed the young men.

  Tracy bent to drink from her great-uncle’s glass. “Happy days,” she told him.

  He moved his thumb against her cheek. “I’ve missed you, honey. Glad you’re back.”

  She kissed him in answer. He looked exhausted. Vashti took charge, straightening the coverlet. “I’ll send up a tray, dear, after you’ve had a little rest. If the rest of you will come down, Henri should have lunch ready.”

  “No offense to Henry,” muttered Patrick. “But tell Concha to rustle me up some steak and biscuits. And a bowl of chili or posole if she’s got some made.”

  “Oh, she’ll have some,” predicted Vashti irritably. “The only reason we keep her is to cook for you.”

  “Best reason there is,” Shea remarked. He clasped his father’s hand. “See you later, Dad.”

  “Listen, boy, we need to have a talk.” The old man almost clung to his son’s scarred hand. “Judd tells me you’re not running a single head of cattle on El Charco. Or on the grazing lease!”

  “Sounds like for once Judd’s got the straight of things.”

  Patrick dropped Shea’s hand. “God a’mighty!” he rumbled weakly. “Ten thousand acres at El Charco gone to waste, and thirty thousand leased! While this has been such a tough winter we’ve been feeding hay! Listen, boy—”

  “Dad,” cut in Shea. “I’m not wasting that land. I’m trying to keep it from going desert like that Judd’s overgrazing.”

  A vein swelled in Patrick’s temple. “You’d rather see us sell cattle at a loss than run a few on ground you’re not using?” His voice quavered with weakness and anger.

  Shea swallowed. Muscles tautened in his lean jaws. When he spoke, his tone was under tight control. “Dad, Judd’s your manager. Let us try to work this out.”

  “You damn well better!” Patrick seemed ready to choke and Tracy moved anxiously back to him, casting Shea a look of reproachful pleading. “I’m going to have to study hard as it is to leave part of Socorro to someone with ideas as crazy as yours.”

  Shea’s hands clenched. Lightning seemed to flash deep in his gray eyes. He wore a stunned look, as if he couldn’t believe what his father had said. Then he shrugged.

  “I’ve tried to explain what I’m doing, Dad, but you don’t want to hear it. Look, let’s not talk about it. I promise you this. If Judd’ll be reasonable, so will I.”

  “Do come along!” hissed Vashti.

  Tracy cradled Patrick against her and kissed his forehead. “Finish that tequila and have a nice snooze. I’ll be back later.”

  He didn’t speak, but the frustrated grief distorting the mobile side of his face was so great that she cursed Shea for causing it, whatever the merits of his case. But Patrick rallied and patted her cheek before he reached for his glass.

  “Run along, honey, and tuck in enough of Henry’s food to make him feel good. It’s fine if you go for kee-chays and sou-flays, but I’d rather have meat and beans and handmade tortillas.” He squinted approvingly at her. “You’re a mite thin but otherwise I’ll bet you’re just as pretty as a speckled pup!” He gestured toward the portrait above a carved chest at the far end of the room. “Always thought you were the spittin’ image of my mother. Hope you’ll have as good a life.”

  Tracy looked at her great-grandmother, painted as Santiago’s bride. With child by the murdered Johnny Chance, haunted by the slaughters in Cananea and Tomochic, which had twice in her life made her hysterically blind, the young woman in the painting was indeed beginning the happy, productive years she’d have with Sant. Her dark bronze hair fell over one shoulder, rich against her creamy skin. It was a triangular face, broad at forehead and cheekbones, narrowing to a cleft chin. The deep-set amber eyes seemed even larger because of dark eyelashes and determined eyebrows that winged slightly at the ends. The mouth was fully curved, and though Christina’s expression was sweetly grave, there was a hint of tough, earthy humor.

  I’ve done nothing but survive, Tracy thought, staring almost combatively at the portrait. But don’t write me off, Christina Riordan-Scott y Revier! She laughed, swept a kiss across Patrick’s ear and used her childhood name for him.

  “I don’t know how good my life is going to be, Paddy, but I intend to make it interesting!”

  He was chuckling as she hurried downstairs.

  Rather crossly, Vashti pointed down the wing of the L-shaped house and told Tracy that her room was the first on the right. “I hope you’ll find it comfortable. Patrick insisted on moving over the tacky handmade stuff you had at the old place instead of letting the decorator do something tasteful.”

  Tracy raced to brush her hair, a short springy crown of soft waves. A touch of lipstick, a quick stop in a bathroom that was bigger than her living room in Houston, and she started for the dining room, which Vashti had said adjoined the vast living area.

  Shea and Geronimo, disreputable hats in hand, waylaid her in the hall. “We’ve got things to do,” Shea said. “See you around.”

  Why that pang of disappointment? It was clear he had a hard time even being moderately civil. “Thanks,” she said coldly. “I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.”

  “It was our pleasure, chica,” Geronimo assured her.

  “Sorry I couldn’t pick you up,” drawled a resonant voice behind them. Tracy whirled and looked up into tawny eyes that flickered with sudden intrigued interest. “I’m really sorry,” the tanned, broad-shouldered man repeated.

  Placing his hands on Tracy’s back, he drew her close and kissed her. His body was hard against her, but his mouth quested sensuously over hers for a moment, before, as she stiffened, he laughed and moved away. “Greetings, Tracy! If I’d known how pretty you’d gotten over in Texas, I’d have skipped business and picked you up in the plane.”

  “I got here just fine,” she said, trying not to show how his kiss had shaken her. He probably guessed, though, from the way his eyes glowed.

  Not quite so tall as Shea, he was heavier. Close-fitting tan rancher’s pants stretched to outline powerfully muscled thighs. He reminded Tracy of a mountain lion, brain and body perfectly coordinated, lazy of movement till action called for speed. “You must be Judd,” she added lamely, when he only watched her with happy anticipation and didn’t seem inclined to put anything in words.

  With a touch of frost, Vashti called from the dining-room entrance. “For heaven’s sake, do come and have lunch before
it’s totally ruined!”

  “In a second,” Judd tossed carelessly over his shoulder. “Shea, you going to let some Socorro cattle on your place?”

  “Have you thinned out that thousand head?”

  Judd flushed angrily. “You know damn well I haven’t! Everyone’s dumping beef now. I’d sell at a loss.”

  Shea’s lips tightened. He turned to go. Judd caught his arm. “Damn you, you really mean to keep your gates locked while my cows starve?”

  “You’re the one who overstocked.”

  Square jaw thrusting out, Judd bit off each word. “It’s got to rain sometime. When grass is decent, the range’ll carry every head I’m running.”

  “The grass hasn’t been that decent since 1880.”

  Judd’s hands made knotty fists. His chest swelled heavily. “El Charco’s yours, I guess. But the grazing lease is meant for just that, running stock. I’ll pay you double the lease.”

  The gazes of the half-brothers clashed. No love lost, Tracy decided. The only similarity between them was a hint of Patrick in stubborn jaws and that indefinable masculinity radiating from them both. For Patrick’s sake, she dreaded the battle they seemed set on waging.

  “No deal, Judd.” Shea turned again.

  Judd took a long swinging stride to block his way. “If you don’t have the gates to the leased land open in the morning, I’m going to call the Land Commissioner and the Cattle Growers’ Association—get that lease taken away from you!”

  “Lots of luck,” Shea said, stone-faced.

  Judd swore. “Look, Shea, you know this kind of wrangling tears the old man up!”

  “It’s not been me who tells him all about it.”

  Veering around his half-brother, Shea didn’t look back at Tracy. He clamped his hat over his fiery hair and moved through the door with his loose, easy gait. Geronimo flourished his black hat at her and grinned.

  “Hasta!”

  Until. As good a farewell as any. “Thanks again,” Tracy called after him. Uncomfortable at Judd’s smoldering presence, she walked quickly down the hall and murmured some apology to Vashti.

  Vashti managed a stiff smile and took the chair at the head of the table, deferentially held for her by a slight, handsome young man in a spotless white jacket. Tracy slipped into the indicated place at her right, while Judd occupied the armed chair at the other end of the polished oak table. They began on the salads already at their plates.

  “I don’t care so much what Shea does with El Charco,” he growled. “Piddling ten thousand acres. But that thirty thousand leased acres will carry easy the thousand head he wants me to sell!” He rubbed his broad chin. “Wonder if the old man could talk sense into him?”

  “Your father threatened to disinherit him,” Vashti said, covering a yawn. “In your own way, Judd dear, you’re fully as tedious as Shea, though, thank God, not as sanctimonious.” She appealed to Tracy. “I’m trying to make all these hardheaded Scott men see that they’d be ahead to sell the whole place for development, move to town and forget about cattle, drouths and grass.”

  Judd gave her a hard look. “The only way I’ll move to town will be in a coffin. If the old man agrees, I don’t mind getting rid of some acreage that’s pretty well worn-out for grazing, putting the money into irrigating hay and alfalfa so we’ll have plenty of feed. But don’t get any funny notions, madrecita. You can move Patrick to town if he’ll go. I never will.”

  Color burned in Vashti’s cheeks. “As I’ve said before, you and Shea are equally tiresome!”

  He shrugged and threw off his ill-humor, grinning at Tracy while the white-coated young man served slices of fragrant quiche, redolent of herbs, with a crisp golden crust. He refilled Vashti’s wineglass and brought more hot, crunchy sourdough rolls.

  “Too bad you had to walk into a family feud, Tracy,” said Judd, tearing off a chunk of the hard bread and chewing hungrily. “No reason you should get involved, though I’d like to take you around, get you reacquainted with the ranch. You’ll see for yourself that Shea’s way out of line.”

  “Tracy scarcely qualifies as an expert on range management.” Vashti’s tone was acrid. “I certainly hope she’ll spend a good deal of time with Patrick so I can have a chance to rest. You and Shea are no help. Whichever one of you he sees, he’s upset for days.”

  “Maybe you ought to hire Geronimo to keep him happy on tequila,” Judd suggested ironically. His golden eyes brushed negligently past his stepmother to rest on Tracy. “You can’t be with Patrick all the time. I’m flying up to Phoenix tomorrow to see the land commissioner and some friends of mine, may be gone a few days. But when I’m back, let’s have the tour.”

  She did want to go all over the ranch again, though it seemed Shea wasn’t going to welcome her to his part of it. His attitude made her appreciate Judd’s wish to share and so, in spite of Vashti’s puzzling disapproval, Tracy nodded and smiled.

  “Let’s do it.”

  She refused more quiche but couldn’t resist hot Mexican chocolate, spiced with cinnamon and whipped to a froth.

  “Why don’t you unpack and rest?” asked Vashti, graciousness returning. “Then maybe you could keep Patrick company later in the day.”

  It seemed to Tracy that her great-uncle would have been happier, more in touch with what was going on, had he been shifted to a room downstairs, but perhaps it made him nervous to hear a lot that he couldn’t see. Tracy didn’t like Vashti but had no reason to doubt her devotion and concern for her stricken husband.

  “I’ll be glad to stay with him,” Tracy promised. “After all, that’s why I came.”

  Vashti gave a wan smile. “Very good of you, dear. But having gotten worn to a nub myself, I shan’t let it happen to you! We’ll have some lively people down and when it gets too boring here, you can have a few days in Tucson.”

  Tracy frowned slightly. Living in this splendid mansion with plenty of household help didn’t seem such a martyrdom to her, though Patrick probably could be a demanding and trying patient, caged as he was in his own body and blind as well.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she told Vashti, rising. “If I can ride and swim, that’ll be recreation enough.”

  Vashti looked incredulous but didn’t argue. Judd got to his feet, bowing slightly. “See you later. Have a nice rest.”

  Somehow, the innocent words managed to hint regret that he wouldn’t be with her when she lay down. Muttering something, Tracy fled in confusion.

  Concha would be hurt if she didn’t seek her out, so before she went to her room, Tracy located the withered, tiny old woman in her room adjoining the kitchen. Keeping tight hold of Tracy’s hand even after they had embraced, Concha peered at her with amazingly bright, sharp eyes.

  “You belong here, Teresita. It is not good for a woman of our blood not be at the ranch.” Her lip curled in scorn. “Don Patrick’s señora, she likes this big house like a hotel or hospital. She has a French cook! It is not right.”

  “My uncle certainly prefers your cooking,” Tracy said. “How are your children? Uncle Patrick told me your grandson’s about to graduate from the university.”

  “Ay, he is,” said Concha delightedly. “He will work with Shea at El Charco.” Then she shook her head and snorted. “Think what they are doing! Raising plants that don’t need water, or much of it. Tepary beans, jojoba, buffalo gourds. These all grow wild. My grandfather grew teparys and he couldn’t write his name.”

  “Maybe it gets harder,” Tracy suggested.

  They talked a little longer. Concha gave Tracy a dish of quince and nut candies. “You’re skinny,” she said critically. “But we’ll feed you up on good tamales and tortillas.”

  “You’ll be sorry when I have to be trundled around in a wheelbarrow,” Tracy warned. Concha’s cracked, gleeful laughter followed her as she cut through the inner courtyard and entered the bedroom hall from the outside door.

  She changed into a pair of the soft old jeans that filled one dresser drawer, found an outsize swea
tshirt in another drawer, and quickly put away the garments she’d brought from Houston. She wouldn’t need her city things much here so it was lucky she could still wear the stored shoes, boots and everyday ranch clothes. They felt wonderfully comfortable and in a strange way took her back to her teen years. Life had seemed so simple then. She was going to be an ace journalist, travel a lot, and after she’d gotten well-established, come back to live at the ranch between such fascinating assignments as she chose to take.

  She was back. But far from being at the apex of her profession, she had about decided she was climbing the wrong pyramid, that she should try another direction. She’d felt that way before she was attacked, so fear wasn’t at the root of her decision.

  Weddings and teas might be boring, but she’d found she didn’t like covering murders, fires and break-ins. Especially she hated asking people questions she didn’t think were her business or anybody else’s, except perhaps an investigative officer’s. Television could give close-up, full-color blood and pain, of course, which was hard for papers to compete with.

  She frowned at the camera bag she’d extracted from the duffel, and then smiled as her gaze traveled slowly around the room, grateful that Patrick had insisted on salvaging the familiar furnishings vaqueros had made from hand-hewn oak and walnut for Talitha and Caterina before the Civil War. Apart from the carved bed, armoire, rawhide-bottomed chairs, chests and writing table, there were shelves of books and other treasured keepsakes.

  The twin cradleboard Mangus Coloradas had given Socorro for her sons hung with its fetishes of bone, fur and turquoise beside the plain one in which Talitha had carried her half-brother, James. From a corner shelf, the doll Patrick O’Shea had given Talitha smiled mysteriously from the lace of her mantilla. In the window ledge perched a little blue bird, the one Caterina’s Papago half-brother had given her, and poised above it was the red-tailed hawk carved by James before he became Fierro and terrorized the settlements after the slaughter of Apache women and children at the Camp Grant Massacre.