Guayo had disappeared from the reservation several months earlier and no one knew if he had succumbed to the disease and famine or if he had escaped. But Grant had located Lario from among the eight thousand Indians and had summoned him to the trading post. And that was the worst of all.
The trading post was set on a flat, bare buttress of sand and rock. It was an L-shaped, one-story house of adobe and stone with a corrugated iron roof. Around it was nothing green. Behind it was a corral with six-foot-high sides.
With Grant, she had waited inside, nervously warming herself before the pot-belly black-iron stove sitting in a sandbox that also served as a spittoon. Grant had dismissed the old clerk so that the two of them were alone when they heard the smart knock at the door. She jumped. The door opened and a grizzled soldier saluted Grant. "I have the prisoner here, sir.”
"That’ll be all, private. Dismissed.”
She had watched the doorway, unaware of the bleak wind that swept through it to rustle her hoop skirts. Her heart had pounded like a locomotive. She had heard him before she saw him. With shuffling steps Lario stepped into the doorway. Iron clamps riveted his ankles and wrists.
"Your days of striking and running are at an end, Santiago,” Grant had said, and she had seen the delight play on his handsome face, delight that he had at last outmaneuvered the Indian.
Lario had said nothing, his bronze face maintaining its Indian sang-froid. Nevertheless, she had recognized with a start the deep hate that flared in the eyes that were as black as the smoke of hell.
And the hate was directed at herself!
Seeing her at Grant’s side, he believed she had betrayed him. Suddenly she could think of nothing to say, nothing that she had wanted Grant to hear. "Could we be alone for a few minutes, Grant?”
One blond brow arched. "A lovers’ tryst? I suppose so. I’ll wait outside.”
"No,” Lario had said, speaking for the first time. "It is ended.” He had turned his back on them and begun to move away. She had opened her mouth to call out, and Grant warned, "Don’t, Rosemary. At least leave him his pride.”
She looked around the sewing circle now and said, "I’m sure you would be more interested in figures and facts than my own personal observations.” Her gaze halted on Libby’s face. "Your husband informed me that the United States government has spent nearly thirty million dollars so far in its war to exterminate the Apache and Navajo and has actually succeeded in exterminating less than two hundred, including women, children, and old men. Two hundred out of seven thousand. Your tax money is being wasted.”
* * * * *
As Rosemary tasted the spicy potato soup that evening at dinner, she became aware that Grant’s gaze followed her. She had looked in Libby’s tarnished mirror that morning and was almost satisfied with what she saw. Another week of forced eating and her weight would be back to normal; no more protruding pelvic bones or prominent ribs exposed. The gauntness and haggard look were easing into supple and firm lines. Before dinner she had pinched some color into her cheeks.
Now, if no one looked into her eyes and saw the numbness that grew in her heart like mold in the dark, they would never suspect her life was nothing more than an existence. It could never be more if Lario were executed.
One week left.
"Grant,” she began. "There are people, Apaches, I wish to say good-bye to before I return to Cambria. Could you arrange for me to visit the reservation once more?”
The way Grant’s gaze moved over her, her feminine instinct told her he would accede to her request. If only Libby would not ask to go along. Rosemary held her breath, but Libby relieved her fears, saying, "I don’t see how you can stand to be around those filthy people. All those flies — and the odor. It’s just horrible!” She pressed her linen napkin to her nose as if she could actually smell the reservation’s stench.
Surprisingly, Rosemary found herself almost enjoying the ride in the spring wagon the next day . . . if she did not let herself think about the task that lay ahead of her. Since the March air was brisk, she wore a woolen shawl, but there was the hint of spring everywhere. The sun burst forth like a glorious yellow daisy. Froths of wild plum blossoms relieved the majestic desolation of the russet-hued landscape. There was a primal charm about the country that served Rosemary’s purpose.
Grant had driven from the fort, out of sight of the watch-towers, and then she saw it — the barn that was really nothing more than a lean-to. The first time she and Grant had passed that way the week before, it had almost escaped her attention. But later she had recalled it. It was perfect for her purpose.
“Grant,” she said and laid her hand on his, which held the loosely gathered lines. When he looked at her questioningly, she said, "Stop.”
The wagon rolled to a halt, and she looked about her, satisfied with the place. The Pecos wound closer to the road there so that the few stunted cottonwoods partially shielded the small barn. "Can we walk, Grant? I—I want to talk to you.”
He lifted a perfectly arched brow. "All right.” He edged the wagon off the dirt road between the cluster of trees.
She managed to get down from the wagon on her own, avoiding his proffered hand. Taking her time, she walked on ahead of him in the direction of the barn. Inside the ramshackle structure shafts of sunlight streamed through the roofs cracks, and there was the warm smell of manure and hay.
He caught her arm and turned her to face him. "What is it you have in mind, Rosemary?”
Her eyes searched the arrogant, brash face. Excitement glistened in his dark blue eyes. She did not need to pretend then. "Seduction,” she said with a derisive smile.
His eyes narrowed, as if not quite believing her. He caught her to him. "You mean it?”
She placed her hand against his chest, feeling the scratchy sky-blue kersey greatcoat, which, flapped back over the other shoulder, made a gallant display. Her voice warned him of her serious intent. "I’m negotiating a business deal with you, Grant. Much as you and Stephen do with your bankers, your politicians, your flunkies.”
"It’s Lario, isn’t it?”
She nodded, never taking her eyes from his, and he said, "You must love him terribly—to come to me like this.”
She saw the pain in his eyes. "I do. But I respect you enough to be honest. I would not use you. I am giving you what you want. In exchange for what I want . . . his life spared.”
His smile just as derisive, he set her from him. "I’ll match your honesty. I’ll accept your — bribe. But you must fully realize I cannot promise anything. Only that I’ll try.”
Her fingers went to the buttons at her throat. She had chosen not to wear hoops and stays. She wanted to get the affair over as quickly as possible. Grant laid aside his belt and saber. But when he removed his clothes, she was surprised. She had been prepared to martyr herself, to endure Grant as she had Stephen. But Grant was superbly built, like a Greek statue, all golden rather than copper.
And that made the coming act that much worse. To actually enjoy making love to Grant would be a betrayal of Lario. She closed her eyes as he came to her, lifting her in his arms and laying her on a mound of musty hay. The contact of his skin sent shivers through her.
"Jesus, but you’re beautiful!” he whispered, his voice husky with passion. He stroked her body, her long, rigid back, her hips that curved softly, the small but perfectly rounded breasts.
Her eyes flew open. "No, Grant,” she protested as he began to kiss her all over.
"Yes. I want you completely. No holding back. It must be a fair exchange,” he reminded her.
She closed her eyes and willed her mind to be a complete blank. But Grant would not let her off that easily. His hands and lips teased her. She could sense he was forcing himself to be patient, to wait for her as if he knew he might never have this chance again . . . as if he meant for her to remember it, as he meant to remember it.
"I didn’t want it to be like — ”
"Sweet Jesus, Rosie, you should have been a courtesan!�
�
"Ohh!” Her breath caught short and in the midst of her shuddering she wished the pleasurable feeling could last forever.
When it was all over, when they lay spent, drawing deep breaths and drenched in steaming perspiration in spite of the coolness, She knew that it had changed her, for better or worse. She had to acknowledge that she had enjoyed it, as she never had with Stephen. It was to be the burden of guilt she was to bear.
Yet a small spark inside her flickered and burst into a steady flame, fanned by the knowledge that, though her body had responded to Grant’s undeniable expertise in lovemaking, her heart, her spirit, had remained dormant.
She waited to be reignited by Lario’s fire.
CHAPTER 24
Rosemary put her hand above her eyes, shielding them from the sun’s glare. Two figures stood on the veranda and waved their arms.
"Must be Rita,” Stephen said. "When the news came you were alive, she hustled over to wait for your return.”
He pulled in on the buggy’s reins and turned to her. "See here, Rosemary, if anyone asks — well, I’ve told everyone that the Navajo sold you and Stephanie to a Mexican family in El Paso. And that the Cavalry found you after you had escaped — wandering the Tularosa Valley.” His sharp eyes fastened on her. "I told them that you were well treated . . . in all respects.”
"Then that should satisfy their curiosity about my matronly virtue, should it not? No breath of scandal must touch the Rhodes name. ’Tis a pity we dinna die, is it not? It would have saved you explanations. I am surprised you took us back.”
But she really was not. As long as she was alive, there was the chance she would inherit Lord Almsley’s fortune.
Stephen’s thin lips stretched cruelly. "A husband rejecting his wife is not a good image for the Rhodes name — or I would have.”
Her bitter laughter lashed out at him. "And bribery and misuse of tax funds is? Tell me, Stephen, how did you resolve that matter? Buy off the Territorial Auditor?”
His smile was frightening. "I did not need to. Mr. Stewart met with an accident.”
She drew back, realizing only at that moment the extent of Stephen’s power. "This is the kind of empire you be building for our son?” she asked in a horrified whisper.
"Mama, mama,” Stephanie demanded, pulling on Rosemary’s sleeve. "That boy on the veranda—is that my brother? Is that Jamie?”
Some of the tension slipped from Rosemary. She had carefully coached Stephanie before Stephen’s arrival at Fort Sumner.. .that she was not to mention her father, Lario, under any circumstances but to remember that she had a brother and another home. Yet when it came to teaching Stephanie to call Stephen "father,” it was more than Rosemary could do. Stephen would just have to accept the fact Stephanie had been too young to remember him when they were taken by the Indians, which was true.
"That be Jamie,” Stephen answered. "Look at the boy — he be almost as tall as Rita and not even six yet!”
Rosemary had forgotten how short Rita was until she stood on the veranda with her arm about the woman. Her friend’s head barely cleared Rosemary’s shoulder. "Bienvenido, mi amiga, mi hermana!” Rita said with tears glistening in her eyes.
Rosemary found it difficult to speak with the emotion that choked her. "I’ve missed you, Rita.”
She turned to Jamie, who had backed off at her approach. "Jamie, come here,” she pleaded. She held out her arms, and the tears came to her eyes for the first time since her return.
Jamie shook his brownish red curls. "I don’t have a mother. She left me.”
Rosemary whirled on Stephen. "Is that what you told him?” she demanded.
Stephen scowled. "Should I have told him you be dead? How did I know you weren’t?”
"It would have been better if he thought I were dead,” she exclaimed, "than to believe I dinna care enough to stay with him!”
Rita went over to Jamie and took his hand. "Jamie, Tia Rita has never lied to you before. This is your mother, believe me — and your sister. They couldn’t help it that the Indians took them.”
"She kept her with her,” he declared, pointing accusingly at Stephanie. "Why didn’t she keep me?” And he spun out of Rita’s hands and ran around the comer of the veranda, out of sight.
Rosemary bit back her cry, dropped her outstretched hand. Three life-changing years had passed since she had last seen him, she told herself. It might take that long to make him remember her, to make him forgive her.
Later that evening, after an uncommunicative dinner with Stephen, Rita and she sought out the privacy of her office. For a long time she only rocked, letting the repetitive motion of the rocker ease away the pain and difficulty of adjusting once more to what Libby had called civilization. She only half-listened to what Rita told her about the things that had happened in the three years of her absence.
"We now have daily mail service with the East, amiga. And the Sisters of Loretto are building an academy for young women in Las Vegas, imagine! Did you know that a Captain Martin, or was it Miller, he drilled a well in the Jornada del Muerto and discovered water? Oh, and did Esteban tell you that the Goldmans sold out their half of the Santa Fe Trading Post to him and moved back to the States — gracias a Dios!”
Rosemary let her ramble on. She knew her friend was trying to make it easier for her and thought she had no wish to talk about what had happened. But Rosemary felt she had to talk to someone or she would go crazy from worry. And at last Rita broke off her discourse, seeing Rosemary’s preoccupation.
"What is it, Rosita?” She laid a comforting hand on Rosemary’s, now browner than her own. "If you wish to tell me anything, you know your words will be safe.”
"Rita, those three years I was away, I — Stephanie and I — we lived with the Navajo first, then the Apache . . . not as slaves in a Mexican household. And for all purposes I was Lario’s wife those three years.”
Rita’s lips formed an 0, and Rosemary had to smile. "You told me to take a lover, did you not? As I recall, you even mentioned Lario.”
"Dios mio,” Rita breathed. "If Esteban ever found that out, he would—”
"He would have me flayed alive. He could never forgive that I willingly preferred an Indian over him.”
She proceeded to tell her friend what had transpired the past three years, everything but the fact that Stephanie was Lario’s daughter. If Rita ever inadvertently let that knowledge slip out, if Stephen ever discovered the truth, Rosemary knew he would kill the bastard girl as easily and with as little compunction as he had had the auditor, Stewart, killed.
No, she would keep that one secret until the time came that she could join Lario — once he was freed. But this time, she would take both Stephanie and Jamie with her. Together she and Lario would find a place where they could live safely from society’s vindictiveness.
She never let herself think that Lario would not be set free, that he could be executed, hanged or shot before a firing squad. Grant had promised her he would try.
So she waited with trepidation as the month’s end came and April arrived and she still received no word of Lario’s fate. She did know that most of the military telegraph lines were finally completed and that Grant should have been able to contact Brigadier General Carleton, who was in Arizona Territory at that time.
She found herself making errors in the ledgers, dropping stitches if she knitted (which frustrated her worse now than rug-weaving had), and speaking sharply with the servants and children — something she never had done before
* * * * *
One evening at dinner, Rosemary she snapped at Stephanie for climbing to the top of tamarisk and ripping the sash off her dress.
Stephen said, "You be awfully touchy, Rosemary.”
She looked away. "I suppose I am. After so many years away, ’tis difficult adjusting to life again at Cambria.”
He inhaled on his Dundee. "Then it’s time you put in an appearance at Sante Fe.”
"Why would I want to go there?” she asked wit
h obvious listlessness.
"For one, it would be killing the people’s curiosity and getting your mind off things.”
"I don’t care what other people be thinking!” she snapped.
"For another,” he continued, "I’ve just been appointed president of the First Santa Fe Bank. I’ve been thinking about letting a place there for six months — just so I can be keeping my finger in the pie. Besides, I want Jamie to get an idea about what politics is all about. What better place than the Territory’s capital to learn?”
His wife glanced at Jamie, who sat silently pushing his food around on the plate. He had inherited the Welsh dark looks. But none of Rosemary or his explosiveness. It irked Stephen to no end that the boy feared him . . . and it also pleased Stephen that their son hated his mother.
"I really think it’d be better if we stayed here,” she said. "’Tis peaceful, and I think we all need to adjust to each other before we try the capital. Besides,” she added, "who would run Cambria while we’re gone for six months?”
"Cody’s been running it for three years now and done a bloody good job of it. Hasn’t he kept the cattle rustlers off Cambria?”
But he did not press her further. All too well his imagination summoned the pleasures he had enjoyed in her absence — staying up all night playing monte or chuza, betting an entire flock of sheep against a land grant when he felt reckless. And then there had been the children found in the jacales, the thatched-roof huts, of Santa Fe’s poor district who were easily bought for a night of pleasure.
And the month before he had installed his most recent henchman in the office of Territorial District Attorney — as easily as dealing a deck of cards. There was nothing to stop him now. He controlled the major businessmen and politicians. His dynasty was keeping up with the timetable he had set. If only his beautiful wife would be more cooperative and play her part. It would look better if she appeared with him. Damn, if he didn’t need so much money to keep the wheels turning. Still, there was something desirable about her that had not been there before.
Dust Devil Page 16