Dust Devil

by Bonds, Parris Afton

  The following week Rita and Jiraldo visited, bringing with them their daughter, a beautiful infant, weighing already thirteen pounds at two months. Once the two women were closeted in Rosemary’s office, Rosemary burst out, "Rita, do you — do you mind having to — ” she twisted her hands together and paced the floor before Rita who sat contentedly in the rocker nursing her daughter.

  Without someone to share her intimate thoughts with, Rosemary often felt she would dry up and whither there on that limitless prairie like the uprooted sagebrush. But now these thoughts seemed outrageous. At last she whirled on her friend. "Does it bother you having relations with Jiraldo?”

  "So that’s it, Rosita.” Rita’s broad smile turned to gentle laughter. "No, because my dear snores through most nights. If I want pleasure, it is I who must arouse him!”

  "Oh, Rita!” Rosemary’s laughter joined that of her friend’s. They talked like conspirators, laughing one moment, bemoaning the fate of womankind the next.

  "Have you heard, Rosita — Clara Caden, she has left her husband?”

  "I knew she wasn’t happy here, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. She could not conceive of leaving Cambria.

  "Si'” She went back to the United States. They say her family is of the blackblood.”

  She laughed. "Blueblood, you mean. Did Libby go with her mother? Stephen tells me Grant Raffin is courting her.”

  "That is so. And, ay di mi, gossip whispers that he is a very handsome man!” Then, "Your husband, Rosita, he is not a bad-looking man. But you do not enjoy his . . . .”

  Rosemary nodded, and Rita said, "At least not every night, eh?”

  "Never,” Rosemary admitted miserably. It was not the first time she had thought she was perhaps abnormal. "Sometimes I wonder if I truly have the instincts of a female. I feel more like a — ” her hand slapped her desk — "as neuter as this block of wood, Rita!”

  "Mi amiga, mi hermana, for you are more like a sister than a friend—what you need is to take yourself un amado . . . a lover.”

  Her eyes grew wide. "You have done this, Rita?”

  The velvet brown eyes gleamed mischievously. "It will do wonders for your — what do you call it—female instincts.”

  "I could not do it.”

  Rita’s eyes narrowed, and Rosemary hurried on. "’Tis not that I be judging you, ’tis just the manner in which I was raised, Rita. ’Tis beyond my wildest— ”

  “Mierda!” the older woman cursed. "Don’t tell me the idea has never crossed your mind, Rosemary Rhodes. Not with that Navajo caporal around you!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Captain Grant Raffin raised his wineglass in a toast. Its ruby contents glistened in the prism lights of the chandeliers. "To the heir of Cambria,” he said, inclining his head in Rosemary’s direction at the table’s far end. "And to the Union’s glorious victory over the Confederacy.”

  "I concur with both,” Stephen replied with a grand gesture of his own wineglass. "And to the New Year of 1862.”

  Only Rosemary could tell that Stephen had imbibed more than his usual. But then, she thought, he had a right to do so. Hopefully, within a week or so, his longed-for son would be born. Her hand slipped to her greatly extended stomach. This time the months of waiting had slipped by with few problems, only the discomfort which accompanied her size . . . waddling like a duck, no riding allowed, no sleeping on her stomach.

  But confined as she was, she had been able to accomplish much more. Her ledgers were up to date, the store, with Miguel’s help, doing a booming business in trading, and a small school-house, already under construction. Best though — through a letter from her uncle — she was able to persuade Stephen to breed out the churro sheep and introduce the Rambouillet, a breed of the Spanish Merino which her uncle claimed could thrive where there was little food.

  Everything she did at that time seemed to work for the best, like Midas’s touch. She almost wished she could stay pregnant forever. Not only did her cheeks glow with the bloom of pregnancy and her eyes and hair shine, but, to her great relief, she was once more reprieved from Stephen’s nightly visits.

  "The var vill never touch uz,” Louis Goldman declared, and Rosemary returned her attention to the dinner. Louis swallowed another spoonful of the cherry compote, saying, "Ve got too many forts — Stanton, Marcy, Union, Craig — and now thiz Fort Sumner. The yellow Confederates vould not dare invade the Territory!”

  "You had best hope not, Senor Goldman,” Jiraldo said. "If your Union troops are forced to retreat, your Trading Post will lose its contract with the government, will it not?”

  She could see the trouble brewing between the Mexican and the German. "But if it comes to that, gentlemen,” she interposed smoothly, "surely we will all suffer. Our sheep, our cattle, even our homes may be requisitioned —”

  "And your Mexican land grants vill be vorthless,” Louis charged. "Vorthless as the yellowed paper they are printed on!”

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Stephen interrupted and, when he had their attention, went on evenly, "Your bickering is spoiling our dinner party.” His gaze moved to rest on Governor Caden’s pasty face. "Besides, I’m sure that when the governor becomes our representative in Washington, he will be seeing to it that the deeds to our land grants be properly filed and recognized. We want every possibility covered, aye, Caden?”

  Cornered, the elderly man tugged at his white goatee. "I shall do all I can, Stephen, to see that your interests are protected.”

  He would be only too happy to comply, she thought tartly. In going over the old, musty accounts she had come across the governor’s I.O.U. to Stephen in the amount of five thousand dollars. No wonder Stephen wanted the man in Washington instead of the Governor’s Palace. How much more could be accomplished through the direct channels to the White House!

  She had never been able to like Caden. He had the gray, oily look of soft cheese, she thought, and his daughter’s baby-doll face was irritatingly stupid. Her glance slid down the length of the table to watch as Libby fluttered golden lashes at Grant, who seemed to be listening intently to what the young woman was saying.

  In a way, Rosemary thought, Grant was much like Stephen. An opportunist. Already Grant seemed to have inveigled his way into the Santa Fe Ring, or the Casa, as Rita discreetly called it. She had heard that Grant had arrested the cowboy who had killed the Mexican probate judge . . . but somehow the cowboy had conveniently escaped from the fort’s jail some months later. Now Grant had the appointment as captain at Fort Sumner, which was under construction on the southern edge of Cambria territory.

  Grant caught her gaze on him, and his lips formed a smile that excluded everyone but her. However, his words were for the guests in general. "There will be no need to worry about confiscation of your property,” he promised in a firm voice. "You have my word that not one Rebel foot shall cross into our Territory.”

  "Bravo!” Rita said, and her eyes flashed flirtatiously across the rim of her wineglass. Rosemary knew her friend knew nothing and cared nothing for politics and the foolish war going on in the United States. But the captain, now . . . obviously, Rita found him a very handsome man.

  "We shall certainly rest easier, Captain Raffin,” Libby said, dabbing at her small, bowlike mouth with the fine linen napkin to cover her flush.

  Grant flashed each lady a reassuring smile, charming them; yet Rosemary was curious as to what Stephen thought about Grant, if he had underestimated Grant as she first had. But apparently not, or he would not have asked her to issue the officer an invitation to the New Year’s dinner.

  Next year, when she was no longer large with child, Stephen had promised her there would be more parties, more people, not just the intimate dinner with friends. The night before he had surprised her, coming to her bedroom just to talk with her. They had discussed small things — the feasibility of a windmill, the possibility of telegraph wires — and lightly debated the idea of improving on their cattle herds, which Stephen was against; Rosemary hoped to persuade him tha
t cattle and sheep could feed together on the same ranges, that the sheep could eat the finer grass the cattle missed. "Mark my words, Stephen Rhodes, cattle will one day be more important in the Territory than sheep!”

  Stephen, who by nature she had learned, was reserved and undemonstrative, had pulled her into his arms and laid his hand on her greatly rounded belly. "You are beautiful as you are now . . . carrying our son.”

  Rosemary had blushed in pleasure, and she blushed now with the memory of the intimate moment as her gaze sought Stephen’s. He nodded discreetly. She understood. It was time for the women to withdraw.

  The talk would now be centered entirely on the War Between the States. And with all tempers near the breaking point due to the uncertainty of the people’s allegiance in the Territory, the table would be no place for the women.

  "Rita,” she said, "do you think Inez is awake yet? The women would like to see the baby.”

  She knew the last thing Hilda wanted to see was the Mexican baby, and she felt a small measure of guilt at the perverse satisfaction she received in baiting Louis’s wife.

  Although Hilda’s lips folded together, Rita took the cue. "Si, Rosita, it is time for her feeding.”

  As if a silent signal had been issued, the latest servant girl, the Apache child Magdalena, appeared with a tray of brandy glasses and a decanter, and the men began to draw out their cigars. The women made their way toward the double doors of the drawing room. But Rosemary heard Jiraldo demand, "And what of los indios, Captain Raffin? Not three weeks ago a band of Navajos raided mi campo del sur. Thirty head of sheep they stole! What will you do about them?”

  "I have special plans for the Navajo and Apache, gentlemen,” Grant replied with a calm assurance. "Even now in Washington, negotiations — ”

  But the pig-tailed Magdalena closed the drawing-room doors, and she did not hear the rest, part of which would have the greatest of effects on her future.

  Rita stayed with her until her child was born, five days later. It was an easy birth, and Stephen was jubilant. The child was a son, James Gallagher Rhodes.

  "Your husband, Rosita, he is very good to you, is he not?” Rita asked as she watched her suckle the infant at her breast.

  True, a jubilant Stephen had presented her that morning with earrings of pure gold nuggets taken from the mines at Rincon. And while the baby was given the name of Stephen’s father, Stephen did suggest bestowing the middle name of Gallagher on their son; but she suspected that was an astute gesture made in tribute to his partnership with her uncle rather than out of deference to herself.

  "I shall miss you, Rita,” she said, avoiding answering her friend’s question.

  And she meant it, for Rita’s vivacity kept Rosemary’s loneliness at bay, stilled the emptiness that gnawed within her — an emptiness that could not be assuaged by Stephen’s gifts or his intense attentions when he was not occupied by his political affairs, for he could be overwhelmingly charming when he chose to do so.

  And as she thought about Stephen, it dawned on her that he would soon be directing his more intimate attentions toward her; for a healthy man like Stephen could not go long without sexual release. And Rosemary sensed Stephen was the type of man who would want a long line of children to glorify his existence and his name.

  But on this point she erred. For Stephen did not deign to visit her bed as she had expected.

  One morning, when Jamie was almost seven months, she teasingly questioned Stephen about brothers and sisters for Jamie.

  Stephen paused in sipping the thick, black coffee. "I have me son,” he answered and went back to reading his weekly New Mexican newspaper.

  And have his son he did, for Stephen spent every free moment with the child, pitching him in the air and rough-housing with him until Rosemary’s breath caught in fright for the baby. She sensed that Stephen planned to monopolize his son; that he would exclude her from his son as much as she was excluded from his office.

  She told herself she should be happy that Stephen cared so much for their son. And did she not have what she wanted— a healthy son, a husband, and a home . . . Cambria? In the space of less than two years she had come a long way from the penniless waif she had been.

  She would repeat these blessings to herself at night, like counting sheep, to bring the escape that sleep offered. But some nights even sleep was denied her, for Jamie would wake screaming, and she would hurry to him.

  Jamie awoke continually one August night, which was so hot even the thick sandstone walls could not keep out the heat. Rather than relinquish the maternal role to one of the servant girls, Rosemary herself went to the baby’s side each time he awakened. For a few moments she held the small, precious form, feeling his soft breath in the hollow of her neck. "’Tis all right, my pet,” she whispered as he whimpered in his sleep. She laid him back in the crib, wiping the damp auburn curls from his forehead and fanning him until he quieted.

  Instead of returning to her adjoining bedroom, she padded to the kitchen on bare feet in search of the fresh water preserved in the large adobe jarra. From beyond the kitchen in the direction of Stephen’s forbidden offices came the staccato bursts of sobs. Rosemary set aside the dipper, straining to listen for the soft recurring sound that was almost lost in the the vast house.

  She thought she caught the crying again and felt her way through the darkened hallway to the sound’s source, Stephen’s office. Light seeped from beneath one doorway. When her light knock brought no response, she opened the door.

  Shock washed over her like ice-cold water. The sputtering candlelight in the wall sconce flickered on the horsehair sofa opposite the desk. The sofa’s two occupants, their nude bodies pale in the room’s dimness, turned to stare—revealing Stephen’s enraged face and Magdalena’s tear-stained one.

  One of her pigtails unraveled, the little girl huddled against one end of the sofa, her head hanging abjectly. Stephen sprang up. "What the bloody — ”

  Rosemary took a step backward from the man who snarled like a rabid dog. "You bitch—what be you sneaking about me place?” He took a step toward her, and she whirled and ran. Behind her she heard him groping for his pants, swearing vile words, the meaning of which she had not the slightest idea.

  Her hands clapped over her ears to shut out the shouted curses even as her bare feet sped across the Castle’s hardwood floors out onto the veranda, and down the pebbled drive. The stones ground into her feet. Somewhere behind her she heard voices. A lantern flashed in the darkness.

  Driven by animal instincts, she fled the wide road that wound down toward the village and struck out in the darkness across a sparsely vegetated slope. Moments later she stumbled over a greasewood bush and went sprawling in the gritty sand. She sat up, gasping. Her knee burned where she had scraped it, and her flannel gown was ripped up one side.

  Then Rosemary began to become sick to her stomach. The sight of the child, naked and crying...and Stephen—dear God, her husband, what kind of man was he? She had heard whispered words about people such as he—perverted—but her own husband? And the poor child... and how many other children?

  She retched, feeling as if the dry heaving of her stomach would tear her insides out. When at last there was no further churning, she crawled weakly to her knees, then her feet. Behind her every window in the Castle was alight.

  Run! Run! a voice within her screamed. And once again instinct directed her steps down the slope toward the more sluggardly swing of the Pecos, where its sandbars afforded a crossing.

  The rest of the night she kept her feet moving through sheer volition. One foot in front of the other. With no sleep she moved blindly across the terrain, only vaguely aware of the sharp rocks of the lava beds that bruised her feet or the juniper-covered hills that crowded in on her. Thirst ruled her tormented mind and nagged her parched throat — a thirst that blotted out everything as the torturous sun began its climb in the bright cobalt sky.

  Sometime that day, when the sun seemed like a red-hot coal pulsatin
g just above her head, she sank to her knees. In the distance what looked like a tornado of sand, a dust devil, danced on the rim of a red mesa. A dust storm may come, her brain recorded numbly. My footprints will be blotted out. Then thickets of withered, dead-looking cactus and patches of wild pumpkin rose up to meet her as she sagged forward with the final thought—one of relief— I will not be found.

  But she was.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rosemary awoke to find black heavy-lidded eyes that regarded her inquiringly. "You are all right?” Lario asked.

  She nodded. Tentatively she raised up from the blanket and rested on one elbow, her long hair spilling over one shoulder like blood red wine. White-plastered walls of a one-room adobe hogan encircled her. "Where am I?” It came out like a croak.

  "In my home, Senora. The pueblo of my people. I brought you here this evening — out of the sandstorm.”

  The dust devil, a preamble to the sandstorm — it was the last thing she remembered. Rosemary’s hand went to her head, only to feel the grit encrusted on her skin and scalp. "My husband — ” she began, not knowing exactly how to phrase her thoughts.

  "He does not know you are here.” The eyes, so bottomless black she could fall into them, were shuttered, revealing nothing of the Indian’s thoughts. He rose from where he crouched over her and said, "You are hungry. Soon we will eat. Rest.”

  Relief flooded her that Lario did not seem to expect an explanation from her. Indeed, it seemed he expected nothing, and she was only too willing to lay there as he moved about the room — gracefully, leisurely, but with purpose.

  From the firepit in the room’s center drifted the mouthwatering odor of roasting mutton. The blazing pinion logs painted red shadows on the plain white walls. Above the fireplace were indented shelves where blue candles burned in their tin holders. Her gaze strayed upward to fasten on the cinnamon-colored shafts of pine which held up the low ceiling. These vigas carried with them the memory of forests—Irish forests—and Rosemary shut her eyes. Ireland. She should have stayed there. She had been foolishly willful to come to a strange country, to a strange man, and hope to make a home.