The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  She smiled. “Hullo.” She had made several attempts to become his friend, but the little boy was shy, and although he’d eaten the cookies with her several days ago, he’d merely mumbled a “yes” or “no” to her queries and run off. Now he sort of smiled. There was loneliness in that smile, and it pierced her. She thought he looked wistful, and an idea struck her. “Do you want to swim with me, Roberto?”

  His face brightened as if hundreds of electric lights had gone off, and he beamed, coming forward. “Sí, señorita!”

  “Do you know how to swim?” Lucy asked.

  “Sí.” He nodded vigorously. “Papa taught me. We swim together all the time.”

  “Take off all your clothes except for your underwear,” she instructed him. He complied readily and was soon wading in to paddle around her. Lucy smiled and splashed him. He laughed and ducked under the water, coming up like a porpoise blowing air.

  They paddled around and played like two children. Lucy was pleased to see that Roberto was truly enjoying himself. She thought that they should do this more often, and decided to find some other activities that they could share. That was when Carmen screamed at them from the bank.

  Lucy dropped to her neck in the water instinctively, but Carmen was alone. “What are you doing?” she shouted. “Get out, Roberto, get out this instant!”

  Roberto scrambled to obey, all the joy going out of his expression, which became solemn and closed. “Put on your clothes,” Carmen cried, pointing at his shirt, jeans, and moccasins. “You left them in the dirt!” She turned her wrath on Lucy as Roberto struggled into his clothes. “You! How dare you!”

  Lucy stood up, the water cascading off her. The other woman stared at her body, growing angrier, her eyes narrowing. “How dare I what?” Lucy asked calmly. “Take a swim? Invite Roberto to join me?”

  “Shut up! He’s my son—not yours! I didn’t give him permission to swim, do you understand?”

  Lucy had never hated anyone as she hated Carmen. She walked out of the water and paused to face her. “I understand. I understand that you do not deserve the appellation of mother.”

  Carmen blinked, clearly not comprehending exactly what Lucy had meant. “What did you say? Speak plain English!”

  “You do not deserve to have such a sweet little boy,” Lucy flared.

  Carmen glowered and stomped her foot, then, in a huff, she grabbed Roberto’s hand and ran to the house, dragging her son with her. Lucy watched them go. Inwardly she hurt for Roberto. But what could she do? Roberto was Carmen’s son.

  She had just towel-dried her wet clothes and hair and put on her skirt when Carmen reappeared—with a bundle of bright clothing in her arms. She threw the bundle at Lucy, and it fell to the dirt. “You want to swim?” She sneered. “Fine! You can swim while you do this!”

  Lucy looked at what was obviously Carmen’s gaily colored clothes. “What is this?”

  “Laundry!”

  “You expect me to do your laundry?”

  “Do it, puta.”

  Lucy stared at the other woman. She was fed up, as fed up as she had ever been in her life. “No,” she decided, “I won’t do it.”

  “What!”

  “I’m not going to do your laundry, Carmen,” Lucy said furiously. “You have washerwomen here who do laundry. I am not a laundress!”

  Carmen was shocked at her refusal, but only for an instant. Her hand swung out, but Lucy was ready, and she ducked, backing away.

  “I’ll give you to the men!” Carmen shouted.

  Lucy’s heart stopped, then it sped on. “No, you won’t,” she cried, much more bravely than she felt. “Because if you do, I will tell Shoz about you and Pedro!”

  Carmen blanched.

  Lucy knew she had just achieved a small victory, her first. Her elation was tempered by anxiety, however, and she backed away waiting for Carmen’s reaction. Carmen was so angry, it was fearful to behold; she was apparently incapacitated with her rage. Lucy seized the moment and hurried back to the house, expecting Carmen to chase after her at any moment. She didn’t. Once inside, Lucy leaned against the cool stone wall. Her heart was thundering. Would her threat work? Or would Carmen retaliate?

  Yet dinnertime arrived, and nothing had happened. Roberto appeared for his meal precisely at seven, anxiety in his gaze. Lucy reassured him with a smile. Fifteen minutes passed, and Carmen was late. Lucy decided to serve Roberto anyway. She hoped Carmen was sulking, although she doubted it. Roberto began eating with gusto.

  Carmen finally appeared, her mood black and foul. “Why does he eat without me?” she cried. Before anyone knew what she was doing, she had swept Roberto’s plate off the table and onto the floor. “Go to your room!” she screamed at him.

  But Roberto was already up and running away, into the sanctuary of his bedroom. The door slammed closed.

  “How could you!” Lucy cried, never more shocked in her entire life.

  Carmen advanced on her clenched fists. “If you say one word, I will kill you!”

  Later, Lucy never knew how she stood her ground, but she did. She didn’t move, she didn’t retreat, she stood there as Carmen stalked forward, until they were nose to nose. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

  Carmen spit out something incomprehensible and dropped onto the bench at the table. Lucy felt quite weak—and terribly relieved. Her threat had worked; she and Carmen had a standoff. Then she became aware of Linda cleaning up the mess on the floor. Abruptly she came to life.

  She hurried into the kitchen to serve Carmen. As soon as she had done so, she prepared another plate for Roberto, and, tension rearing again, she headed for his room. Carmen only looked at her in disgust. “You spoil him.”

  Lucy breathed easier and knocked on his door. There was no reply, so she walked in. He sat on the bed, very solemn, hands clasped in his lap. When he saw her, he looked relieved. “I brought you your dinner,” she said softly.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, searching her face. He was such an intense little boy. Then he looked at the plate, and his stomach growled.

  “Shall I keep you company while you eat? Tell you a story about my brothers?” Lucy asked, sitting beside him. His eyes went wide, and while he ate, she told him a story.

  That night, Lucy could not sleep. She was too wound up from her various confrontations with Carmen. She was still amazed at her own daring, at her bravery, but now, being calmer, she was also feeling somewhat triumphant. It felt good to be able to hold her head up, it felt good to fight back. She realized, with a start, that never in her life had she really had to fight for anything!

  She’d always had everything. Money, food, clothes, servants, gifts, beaux. Everything had been given to her upon her command on a silver platter. Even men! Every man she had ever wanted had fallen all over her, admired her, even loved her. Except, of course, Shoz.

  Her heart tightened. He should be back any day now. It was impossible to deny how much she anticipated his return. Just as it was becoming impossible to deny other feelings as well. Other traitorous, dangerous feelings, Lucy thought sleepily. But she would deny them, she would as long as she could …

  The next morning, the incidents of the day before overwhelmingly fresh in her mind, Lucy baked another batch of cookies for Roberto. “He is a good boy, no?” Linda asked.

  “He is a darling,” Lucy said, then stopped stirring the batter. “Linda, how can Carmen treat her son that way? How? It’s too awful!”

  Linda shrugged. “She should not be a mother, that one. She is too selfish and vain.”

  Lucy had forgotten they were cousins. It was hard to believe, Linda being so steady and patient and placid—completely the opposite of Carmen. Or had she just learned to accept reality? Lucy stared out the window at the corral. Before she had come to Texas this summer, the reality she knew had been so different from the one she lived in now. Never had she dreamed that this kind of life existed. Now her former life seemed so very far away—and even unreal. “Shoz should be back soon,” she
heard herself say. She looked at Linda. “Will he return as he promised? Is he sometimes late?”

  “Sometimes,” Linda said. “Sometimes there are problems.” She watched her. “Niña, you are going to make more problems for yourself if you are not careful.”

  Lucy blushed. Was she so transparent? “He is my captor. I want my freedom. Only he can give me that.” She was stunned at her own words, stunned because they were lies. She hadn’t thought about her freedom in days; she had only thought about his return.

  After lunch, which Carmen did not appear for—and Lucy had a good idea where she was, and with whom—Lucy presented Roberto with the tin of warm cookies. He was thrilled, and he ran off with his treasure clutched in his hands. Lucy decided to take a siesta, not wanting to go anywhere near the river today.

  Linda had left the house to go to her own cottage, and Lucy had last seen Roberto taking the cookies and racing outside. She was alone in the house, and the privacy was vastly pleasing. It was so hot and sticky, worse than ever, and she could not sleep, not even naked on top of the sheets. She pulled her damp clothes back on, wondering how anyone could live in such a miserable climate. Death Valley should be more appropriately named Hell Valley, she thought sourly.

  She had nothing to do. She had never been much of a reader, so the books she had glimpsed in Shoz’s room did not interest her overmuch. She would love a swim, but wanted to avoid that witch and her lover. Frustration soared with the temperature. It was so damn hot!

  Barefoot, a state she found herself in constantly these days, she stepped from her room into Shoz’s. It was only the second time she had ever been within, and she felt his lingering presence. Of course, that was nonsense. Still, there was something comforting about the stark room with the rough, heavy, masculine bed and bureau. Too bad signs of Carmen were everywhere, her dirty clothes on the floor, jewelry, powders, and rouges on the bureau, a scarf left on the mussed -up bed. Abruptly Lucy turned away.

  There was a bookcase against one wall, but to her dismay, all the books seemed to be textlike, encyclopedic volumes, not novels or poetry. She came closer and pulled a tome from its place and was shocked to find Bennet’s History of Law; the Anglo-Saxon Tradition. She pulled several other books down. Shoz had a collection of books dealing with jurisprudence! There was everything from actual case decisions to legal philosophy. She was stunned. It made no sense. And there was certainly nothing for her to read—not that she’d wanted to, anyway.

  She moved out into the hallway, lost in thought about her strange discovery, then into the living room. She stopped, surprised to see Carmen lolling on the couch, thumbing through the Sears catalogs. Carmen glanced at her, then ignored her, and reached into the tin for a cookie.

  For a cookie.

  She was eating Roberto’s cookies.

  Lucy froze, staring at the tin, staring at the cookies. She strode forward. “I gave those to Roberto!”

  Carmen looked up. “So?”

  “You took them from him!”

  “So? Make him more.”

  Lucy didn’t hear. For the first time in her life, she understood the expression “to see red.” She did see red, and she pulled the tin away from Carmen.

  Carmen gasped, leaping to her feet.

  “These are for your son,” Lucy cried before she could speak.

  Carmen grabbed the tin, but Lucy would not relinquish it. “Give it to me! You can make him more!” She yanked the tin out of Lucy’s grasp, and most of the cookies flew onto the floor, breaking.

  Lucy could not make him more, because they did not have any more white flour. She saw the cookies on the floor and something inside her snapped. With an outraged cry, she smacked Carmen as hard as she could across the face.

  It felt good.

  Carmen hit her back, just as hard.

  Lucy was only stunned for a moment. With another cry, something like the war cry reminiscent of her Apache forebears, she flew at Carmen, knocking her backward and onto the couch. She grabbed her hair and pulled hard. Carmen howled.

  Lucy was on top and knew immense satisfaction—until she saw Carmen’s long, painted nails flying for her face. She felt the stinging and knew she’d been scratched, and she released her hold to jerk back. Carmen took advantage cruelly, grabbing Lucy’s breast and twisting it painfully.

  Lucy cried out and tried to break away from the other woman. She fell on the floor, Carmen on top of her, still wrenching her breast. Lucy went motionless, tears of pain coming to her eyes. Carmen, recognizing victory, gave a satisfied snort and rolled off. Lucy lay panting, her breast throbbing, her cheek stinging. Oh God, she thought! What had happened? How had she wound up fighting physically with Carmen?

  “Don’t you ever try that again,” Carmen said, panting.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t take a knife to you!”

  Lucy sat up. Her hair had come loose and she tossed her head. She would not show Carmen that she had been hurt—or shaken by their fight. Oh no, never!

  Carmen stood, brushing off her skirts. The look she threw Lucy was dark, but it lacked its normal smug character. Lucy got to her feet slowly after Carmen had left, gingerly rubbing her breast. She undoubtedly had a hell of a bruise. It had been worth it—just to wipe that smug expression off Carmen’s face.

  A standoff had been reached. During the next few days, Lucy did her duties. Although she did not provoke Carmen, and in fact was careful not to, she did not let the other woman push her around or bully her. Carmen sensed the change, and retreated to her own sphere, eating the meals Lucy cooked and served with Linda. Lucy did not swim again with Roberto, and there was no more white flour, but she spent an afternoon churning fresh ice cream for him—with immense satisfaction. And every night she told him a story about one of her brothers’ various hell-raising escapades, sitting on the side of his bed while he was rucked in. Carmen knew, feigned superior indifference, and went her own way. Lucy was sure her trysts with Pedro continued, now at the midnight hour.

  Two weeks had passed since Shoz had left. With every new day that came without his return, she grew perturbed and angry with herself for counting so faithfully the days that had passed. She was no longer really angry with him for leaving in the first place. Instead, there was worry. What if something had befallen him? Linda would not say where he had gone, if she knew, and Lucy was not so stupid as to ask Carmen. What if the law had found him? What if he had already been jailed—even hung? She had to fight such desperate thoughts. Shoz was not in jail, he was not dead! But oh, it was so very clear—she was deathly afraid now for his safety, and every passing day increased her anxiety.

  It was unbearably hot, just before siesta time. Lucy had stood in front of the oven for the past hour, and she was flushed and wet with sweat. Her thin blouse and skirt were sticking wetly to her skin, and her hair was falling down around her face. Only Linda was in the house with her, working by her side. Lucy heard the horses and knew he had returned.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Her spirits soared high, excitement pervaded her. She fumbled to wipe her hands quickly on a rag, trembling. She heard the door slamming, she heard his booted footsteps. She flew to the kitchen doorway, and there she froze.

  He stood in the middle of the living room, filling it with his immensely magnetic, sexual presence. As usual, he wore tight, faded Levis and a worn, soft cotton shirt. His clothing was damp and clung to every lean muscle he possessed. He packed a low-slung gun on his right thigh, and his Stetson was pushed back far enough that she could see his eyes. He stood without moving and he stared at her.

  His eyes were silver, and a flame leaped in them the instant he saw her. Lucy couldn’t move or even breathe, trapped by his gaze. For a long moment they just looked at each other, gray eyes pinning blue. Shoz had returned, and now there was no escaping what she had known for so very long. There was no escaping the awful truth. Somehow she had fallen in love with the son of a bitch.

  30

  Shoz stared back at her, unable to move.


  The seconds ticked into minutes. Still, neither one of them moved.

  It had been a long two weeks, the longest of his life. Because shortly after he left Death Valley—and Lucy—he had to face a terrible truth, which had stayed with him from that moment on. His lust for Lucy had turned into something much stronger, it had turned into an obsession.

  She had been on his mind night and day, invading his thoughts at the most inappropriate times. The bitterness of their last argument had faded, crushed beneath the heavier weight of his obsession. So what if she considered him beneath her? Here they were on his territory, here they were equals. Tossing restlessly at night, hot and hungry for her, his pride seemed meaningless. There were other times when it was the most important thing in the world—because it was all he had left of the man he’d once been. But not anymore.

  He didn’t like being obsessed. He didn’t like it at all. He could write it off to unrequited lust, but secretly, fearfully, he remembered the last night he’d been in the valley, a night hotter and quieter and more unreal than most, when one could shed one’s inhibitions like a snake its skin. And somewhere deep inside himself there existed the young man who had gone East to go to the university, full of hope and eagerness and ambition. That young man had believed in love, and he would have looked at a woman like Lucy with more in mind than just a tumble in the grass. Unable to escape his deepest inner voice, his most potent needs, Shoz was angry.

  A part of him had counted the days before returning to the valley. Another part of him had dreaded going back to that hellhole—and all it stood for. But the part of him that foolishly still held on to a piece of the young man, and the part of him that was randier than a stud bull, that part of him couldn’t forget that Lucy was there. He had to remind himself that she was not exactly waiting for him. He had to remind himself that he had abducted her and he had brought her there against her will. She was his hostage, not his woman. She would never be his woman. The most he could aspire to was a few hot interludes of lusty lovemaking.