The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  The woman was most definitely a whore. She was practically rubbing her breasts all over him.

  “Food, hot, good food,” he said, glancing at Lucy. “A hot bath. And some whiskey.”

  “That’s all?” she asked, sliding her hands under his worn shirt.

  He didn’t smile. “That, too, later.” He pushed her away. Just as he did so, there was a child’s shriek and the pounding of running footsteps. Lucy saw, with more shock, a young, black-haired boy leap right into Shoz’s arms. The child was screaming. “Papa! Papa!”

  And Shoz was beaming as he whirled the youngster around. Never had she seen such a smile on his face. It came from his eyes, from his heart, from his soul. The child clung to him. He was about six years old, small and dark—dark like his father. Like his father and his mother.

  She could not watch. Suddenly she felt sick. He and the child were chatting happily, but she did not listen to what they were saying. Shoz’s joy—his love—was evident. She stumbled to the corral. She could not cry, not now, not with that woman watching her. That woman. Was she his wife?

  Lucy leaned against the fence. The answer was obvious enough.

  25

  “I have something for you, niño,” Shoz said. His tone was gentle. They were still outside, in front of the house.

  “What?” the child asked excitedly. “For me?! A present?”

  Shoz smiled and went to the bay, removing an object from the saddlebags. Lucy watched. She knew what it was. He’d been whittling at nights, whittling a rearing horse. Now he knelt again to hand it to his son.

  His son.

  The pain was vast.

  Carmen shot her a malicious look.

  “I know it’s not store-bought,” Shoz said, “but next time I’ll get you some new toy soldiers, I promise.”

  “A horse!” His son began jumping around. Shoz laughed and ruffled the boy’s short, black hair. “Have you taken good care of your mother while I was gone, Roberto?”

  “Sí, Papa.” He had stopped dancing and was very solemn. “Just as you said.”

  “Bueno”. It was soft. He turned to Lucy. “Come on.”

  The look she directed at him was mutinous, incredulous, and despairing all at once. She found, for the first time in their relationship, that she was completely at a loss, unable to respond to him, too tired to fight. She came, and he went into the house. Lucy followed, as she was apparently supposed to do.

  “What are you doing?” Carmen ran after them.

  Shoz ignored her, walking through a living area with a couch, two chairs, skin rugs, and a very cozy adobe fireplace. A short corridor led off the room. There were two doors facing each other, and a third at the end of the hall, between them. This he opened, directing her in.

  Lucy saw a single bed, a scarred table and lamp, a very small bureau with washing utensils. There was one large window, shuttered. The room was dark and dusty. Were the shutters nailed closed? Now she understood. This was to be her prison.

  She is my hostage, he had said. He had only spoken the truth.

  “This is your room. Carmen will bring you clothes and soap, and I’ll have a tub brought in.” His gaze swept over her.

  “You mean my prison,” she mocked.

  “No, I mean your room.”

  “Am I confined here?”

  “Do as you please.” He turned and left.

  Stunned and just for a moment distracted, Lucy stared after him. From within her room, she could see down the corridor into the living room. Carmen was staring, waiting, with her hands on her round hips. Lucy stared back. She expected to see Shoz walk into her arms. He didn’t. He opened the adjacent door and disappeared inside.

  When she heard him moving around, heard his boots hitting the floor as he took them off, Lucy leapt up and slammed her own door shut. Then she sank on the bed, uncertain. She was trembling. She just sat there, waiting for her own reaction to the worst crisis in her life to set in.

  No tears came. She was either too exhausted, physically and emotionally, or she was becoming too hardened. She took a few breaths. How could he! All the time that she had known him, there had been Carmen, here, waiting for him. Carmen and his son. She was so hurt—and so mad.

  At least now she knew where she stood.

  Not that it mattered. He was a bastard and a thief and a felon. And married. Oh God. She shouldn’t care, not at all, but faced with Carmen, she did! He had made love to her, twice. He had used her. And it had been obvious from the way he had treated her afterward, but she hadn’t wanted to see it. Oh, why had she been so foolish—why was she still so foolish?

  She breathed deeply to calm herself. Was she a prisoner? He had said she could do as she pleased. Lucy didn’t believe him. Abruptly she got up to see if the wood shutters were nailed shut. They weren’t. When she opened them, sunlight streamed into the room. She had a wonderful view of the broad, sluggish river, but it was ruined by the immense yellow walls of the valley towering over it on the far side. She shuddered, thinking about how they were lower than the sea, about how those walls, from this angle, looked like the giant jaws of a trap. She quickly turned away.

  At least now she knew what she wanted to do—what she would do. She would bathe and wash her hair as soon as they brought her bath, and don fresh clothes. And burn these rags as soon as she could.

  Lucy sat on the bed in the sunlight pouring through the window. She would dearly love to jump out of all her filthy clothes, but she didn’t dare. She tried not to think while waiting for the clothes Carmen was supposed to bring, and for her bath. But the minutes stretched into what surely must be an hour, and no one came.

  Lucy went to the door and leaned against it, listening for sounds in the house. She didn’t hear a thing. She unbolted her door and opened it a crack. The door to the room adjacent to hers, where he had gone, was closed, no sound coming from within. Lucy walked into the living room, for the first time looking around. It was dusty, even dirty in the corners, and quite untidy. A violet scarf had been left on one chair, an empty tin full of crumbs on the couch. Dirty, unwashed cups with encrusted coffee sat on the low wooden table. A pair of high-heeled shoes was on the rug, a comb on another table, a pot of rouge on top of a pile of old Sears catalogs. On the other side of the room was a heavy wooden table with two long benches on either side—and one chair at its head. It was covered with dirty dishes and glasses. Lucy heard women’s voices and turned to see the entrance to the kitchen.

  She went and stood in the open doorway.

  A big, heavy older woman and Carmen were obviously hurrying to prepare a meal. Vegetables, both fresh and tinned, flour, meat, and pots and pans lay out upon the counterspace and the big, rough worktable that dominated the room. Both women stopped what they were doing to turn and stare at her.

  Lucy let them get their fill even though their inspection would have made her uncomfortable in the best of circumstances. She feigned haughty indifference, which wasn’t exactly easy when she could imagine how awful she looked—when she could even smell her own sweat. The older woman smiled and went back to work. Lucy watched the highly visible progression of Carmen’s rage. It started with malice and became full-blown fury. She was holding a cleaver, and she whacked it as hard as she could on the table. Lucy jumped.

  The thought flitted through her mind—this woman is capable of hurting her enemies, and you are her enemy. Be careful. But she said, “Shoz said you would give me clothes. And where is my bath?”

  Carmen smiled nastily. “The men are emptying the tub now. Not too soon. You stink!” She wrinkled her nose. “And that ugly red hair!” she added in Spanish.

  “At least my hair isn’t a nest for rodents,” Lucy said calmly—in fluent Spanish. She had learned the language as a child during the summers she had spent in Paradise.

  Carmen’s eyes widened, then she stomped over, pushed Lucy rudely aside, and marched through the house.

  Lucy followed. When Carmen flung open the door adjacent to hers, to the room tha
t was apparently Shoz’s, she felt her heart sink yet again. So they shared a room. Somehow, she had stupidly hoped they slept separately, with Carmen in the room across from his.

  Lucy stood in the doorway to their room, her face impassive. Her heart was pounding ferociously. Shoz was lying on the bed, shirtless and freshly washed, his hair still damp. He sat up. Furiously Carmen flung open an armoire. Lucy refused to look at him, but she knew he was looking at her.

  Carmen was muttering angrily as she shoved through her clothes, once, twice, three times. She whirled, her skirts twirling to show all of her calves. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out as she saw Shoz regarding Lucy.

  She grabbed his arm. “Why do I have to give her my clothes?”

  “Because I said so.”

  Carmen turned sullenly and yanked out a brilliant orange blouse, one Lucy knew would look awful with her red hair. She threw an ugly brown wool skirt on top, one much too hot for this climate. She smiled in triumph. “Take it.”

  Shoz got up, moved her aside, and went through her clothes. Carmen screamed and ranted; he ignored her. He finally removed a green blouse that Lucy knew would do wonders for her coloring. A red petticoat followed, and then a rainbow-hued print skirt. He went to a bureau and opened a drawer. This time Carmen was trying not to jump up and down. “You cannot give her my beautiful silk drawers from Paris!”

  “Why not? I bought you the stuff.” He calmly took out a pair of gorgeous white, sheer, short, lacy things and added them to the clothing on the bed. “Sorry, princess, but Carmen doesn’t wear chemises, camisoles, corsets, bust bodices, or any of those other things you ladies seem so fond of.”

  “Of course not,” Lucy said stiffly. “She wouldn’t.” She took the clothing and, head high, turned her back on him. She might be a mass of overwrought nerves on the inside, but outside she would be all aristocratic disdain and dignity. She was Lucy Bragg from the Braggs of New York and Texas, and damned if she would let anyone forget it.

  Lucy entered her room, closing the door behind her. She was trembling again. She walked to the bureau and grimly surveyed herself in the round mirror hanging on the wall. It was a mistake to do so. She was not surprised at what she saw, she was beyond that. Yet she was taunted with Carmen’s exotic—and erotic—image.

  Lucy knew she had never looked worse, but what did it matter in this hellhole? Her face was sweaty, dusty, grimy. Her hair hung in the one ponytail, knotted the best she could. Tendrils were escaping riotously everywhere. Her cheek was bruised from her fall into the gorge. She shrugged out of her ripped jacket, letting it drop to the floor. The shirtwaist followed, then everything followed, until she wore only her thin chemise and shortened skirts.

  Now she appeared as indecent as Carmen. Lucy cocked one hip out and placed her hand on it, then thrust her chest forward. Her breasts were firm and full, straining against the thin chemise, molded precisely by the fine, expensive fabric. Her nipples were visible, darker shadows, now becoming hard and pointed. Lucy eyed the size of her waist, a tiny twenty-one inches on her five foot eight inch frame. With her broad shoulders and full breasts, it looked even smaller. She felt a small surge of satisfaction. Carmen didn’t have anything that she didn’t have. She was merely a slut to show it off, while she, Lucy, was a lady born and bred—and much more than that, she was a Society heiress. She gave her reflection a reassuring smile.

  “Put some clothes on.”

  Lucy whirled to meet Shoz’s angry expression. She froze; his glance settled on her barely clad breasts and then he picked up her jacket and threw it at her. Lucy saw a man’s leering face behind him, and she hastily held it in front of her. Shoz gave her a hard look and stepped aside so that two dark, dusty men could bring in an old wooden tub.

  The two men looked unsavory, like the worst sort of outlaws, and Lucy pretended they were invisible. She was clearly visible to them, however, for they eyed her lasciviously, as if they could see through her skirts and the jacket she held so protectively over her bosom. Then Shoz called out an order, and they dropped their gazes as they put down the tub and strode out, quickly enough.

  They had frightened her in a way Shoz never had. Lucy lifted her wide blue eyes to his.

  He kicked the door shut. It reverberated like thunder cracking right overhead. Lucy jumped. “This isn’t Paradise!” he shouted.

  “No, it’s not, is it?” To her horror, she heard her voice crack, for she was suddenly so close to tears. Lucy sat down on the bed, the jacket slipping to her lap. She didn’t look at him. She struggled for control. She would die and be damned before he would know how upset she was—and why.

  “Lucy …”

  The intensity of his tone made her look up. His gaze was riveted to hers. She was held there against her will for an endless moment, while inside she wanted to scream at him for being a bastard and a liar and for having a wife. His gaze slipped. Lucy recovered, shielding herself with the jacket once more.

  He recovered, too. “Don’t flaunt yourself—not here!”

  “Flaunt myself?” She was on her feet. He would accuse her of flaunting herself when his wife paraded around without chemise, corset, or anything else?

  He pointed at the jacket she clutched to her nearly naked chest. “I can control my men—usually. But not if they’re given unholy provocation.”

  “Unholy provocation!” she screamed.

  “Or were you flaunting for me?”

  She threw the jacket at his head. He caught it and tossed it to the floor. “You conceited ass,” she said, hitting him as hard as she could right across the face.

  It felt so good. It had nothing to do with his accusing her of flaunting herself; it had everything to do with his having a wife. He was stunned. For a second he just stood there, in disbelief, the crack of the slap echoing between them. Suddenly realizing what she had done, Lucy backed up, but her legs hit the bed, and she sat down, hard.

  She didn’t stay sitting for long. He jerked her up, against his body, and she could feel every muscular inch of him, from the tip of his toes to the jut of his chin. “You bitch,” he said, arid he kissed her.

  Lucy did not want to be kissed. His mouth was very hard and very aggressive, but she refused to open hers. He was very hard, and equally aggressive; Lucy tried to twist her body away from intimate contact with his. He wouldn’t let her. He clamped down on her buttocks and kept her pressed against his hot, hard erection.

  Fortunately, and Lucy knew it was fortunate because damn him, he still had power over her, one of the men knocked on the door, calling out. Shoz went still; Lucy went still. He was panting; so was she. He set her away from him, his grip hard and bruising. Then he found her jacket and shoved it at her. Lucy grabbed it and scooted as far from him as she could get.

  The man entered with two buckets of steaming water, his partner behind him with two more buckets. Shoz strode out as they filled the tub. His strides were long and hard, and she heard his door adjacent to hers slam closed. She didn’t move. The two men grinned at her and left. Lucy raced to the door and shut it. Thank God it had a bolt; she threw it down.

  She leaned against the wall, trembling. Anger, fear, and even arousal coursed in her veins, the emotional jumble nearly overwhelming. It was a long time before she was calm enough to shed her clothes and bathe.

  26

  It seemed as if Lucy had sat on her bed with her knees drawn up and cradled in her arms for a small eternity. Her hair had dried, and outside, the sun was completing its descent.

  Lucy didn’t know how she felt anymore, so she had stopped thinking. Her thoughts had only been tortured and confused. Not thinking was a relief. Instead, her back against the wall, facing her bolted door, she sat like a zombie in an exhaustion as emotional as it was physical. She turned her head slightly to watch the sunset through the open window. She found that she couldn’t see it. Of course. The light outside was dimming rapidly, but the monstrous walls of this dead valley monopolized her view. Soon it would be dark.


  The delicious aromas of spicy stews and fried tortillas began wafting into her room. Lucy sat up straighter. Nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. What she wouldn’t give for a good meal. Thinking about food was also a relief; it gave her a new focus. Would she be summoned? She waited a few minutes, the aromas becoming stronger. And then there was a knock on her door. It was the old woman. “Señorita, come to eat.”

  Lucy hesitated, more to fortify herself with strength than with uncertainty, then stood and went to the door. She slid the bolt and walked out.

  Carmen, Shoz, and the little boy sat at the big table, with Shoz at its head.

  Her heart sank. The three of them were eating and had apparently just started. Now everyone paused to regard her. Lucy looked away before she could meet Shoz’s gaze. There was no fourth place set for her, and even if there were, she could not join them. She would not. But was she to eat in the kitchen like a maid? It was one blow after another. The thought occurred to her that she could take a tray to her room; then she reminded herself that this was not New York. They undoubtedly did not even possess trays around here, and even if they did, they would surely think she was sulking. The kitchen seemed to be the only alternative. She started that way, but not without glancing once more at the cozy scene.

  “Who’s that, Papa?”

  “Her name is Lucy. Where are you going?”

  She froze in her tracks. She turned slowly to face him. “I’m going to get some food.”

  “The food is here on the table. Linda, bring another plate.” He began eating with the absorption of someone long denied adequate fare.

  Carmen gasped and began protesting angrily to the indirect invitation. As if Lucy would accept! “No, thank you, I prefer to dine alone.” She hurried into the kitchen.

  She wanted to hit something or someone, she wanted to weep. As if she could sit there at that table with them—with him and his family.

  But of course, she did neither. Instead, she inspected the pots and pans, found a plate, and helped herself to hefty servings of everything. There was a stool by the work table, which hadn’t been cleaned. Lucy sat down there. Grimly she took stock of the situation: eating at a meat-stained worktable covered with bits of flour and raw vegetables in the kitchen, like a servant. While that criminal dined like a king, outside—with his whorish wife and his son. She picked at her food, no longer quite so hungry. Somehow, through all of this, she would have to maintain her dignity. It seemed to be all she had left.