“I’m sorry, Ginny. How in hell can I blame you for trying to escape when I’d have done the same thing myself?” His voice sounded flat, and oddly bitter, and since she had never heard him make any kind of apology to her before she could hardly credit her hearing.
“You’d better get dressed—as quickly as you can. No point staying around here now that there’s a chance your friend George might start thinking about everything you told him. Once he’s sober, he could start talking.”
“But you’re still going to take me with you? Is that what you are saying?”
“Ginny—I’m not going to argue! Put your riding clothes on, we’re leaving in about half an hour.”
How quickly his moods could change! From black rage to what had almost been contrition, and now back to impatient harshness.
Wearily, Ginny dragged herself from the bed. How could he expect her to ride feeling like this? Wasn’t he capable of pity? Of anything besides anger and ruthlessness?
She began to understand him better in the weary, endless seeming weeks of riding, and hiding, that followed; and even began to build up her own reserves and strength and stubbornness like a shield against his unpredictability.
Supporter of Juarez or not, he was an outlaw, she knew that by now. And he was used to running, to being hunted. Sometimes, she’d taunt him with that—ask him if that was all life had to offer him and if that was enough. And perhaps in his own way he had begun to understand her better too, for now he hardly ever lost his temper with her, in spite of the gibes and insults she occasionally flung at him still—only laughed or shrugged and told her she was a shrew and he’d be glad to get rid of her some day.
Some day! But when would that be? Would he ever let her go?
Sometimes it was difficult for Ginny to imagine any other kind of existence—she rode now as if she was a part of her horse, and she had learned to light a fire that was virtually smokeless—even to skin and eat the occasional small animal that Steve shot.
“You make me feel like a squaw!” she told him once, sulkily. They were deep into Mexico again, somewhere in the foothills of the Sierra Madre, and he would not, as usual, tell her where they were.
“Squaws have other uses besides cooking and skinning game and carrying all of the heaviest loads—” he answered her obliquely, pulling loose her braided hair. “And besides, you’re not tame enough yet—your tongue’s too vicious. Any self-respecting Comanche brave would have taken two other wives by now, and traded you for a horse.”
She ignored his teasing, but it was impossible to ignore the demands of his lips and his hands on her bare, sweat-slippery body. There was no denying by now, even to herself, the strange, almost unnatural physical desire she had for him. She despised him, but she could not resist the power that his lovemaking had over her, even when she hated him most bitterly. And as for escaping, she had put that thought aside for the time being—ever since the morning she had awakened first, and seeing that he slept heavily and deeply, had taken his gun.
After that, the gun safely beside her, she’d made coffee, lighting the small fire very carefully as he’d taught her to do. She watched him, and when he opened his eyes she could see them narrow when he found himself looking into the unwavering muzzle of his own gun.
He was careful not to move—perhaps he had read the grim resolve in her own eyes. And finally he said, “Do I get any coffee first, or are you going to shoot that thing right off before you lose your nerve?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she said calmly, and then, with barely suppressed fury, “I could kill you right now! Or I could shoot you where it would hurt a lot, and leave you here to die very slowly. It’s what you deserve!”
She looked for any sign of fear in his eyes, but saw none. They measured her carefully, almost contemplatively.
“Guess that’s quite a decision you have to make, isn’t it? But if I were you, I’d think about a few other things too—like how you’re going to survive out here by yourself.”
“I’m quite capable of looking after myself!” she said sharply. “You’ve taught me well, Steve. I can shoot this gun without missing, and I can read signs. We can’t be too far from a town or a village, and the French soldiers…”
“We’re in Juarista country, my sweet,” he broke in. “Think I’d risk getting too close to the French? There’s nothing to prevent your killing me, of course, but have you thought about what could happen to you when they get you? They’ll hear a shot, and they’ll come to investigate. It isn’t pretty, the things those guerillos can do to a woman—after they’ve used her, of course.”
Deliberately, he stretched and crossed his hands under his head, ignoring the movement she made with the gun.
“Make up your mind, love. I’m getting real hungry.”
She felt like crying with frustration. Why hadn’t he been afraid? Was he so sure she’d never have the courage to shoot him? And worst of all—had he spoken the truth about the Juaristas?
“Oh—damn you, damn you! Why’d you sleep so hard then?” Half weeping with rage by now, Ginny threw the gun at him, barely missing him. Biting her lip she turned her back on him and began to pour the coffee.
Surprisingly, he chose to act as if nothing had happened. Having buckled his gunbelts around his waist and replaced his gun in its holster, he came to her, hunkering down on his heels beside her, and took the cup of coffee she held out to him silently.
But before they saddled up to ride on again, he surprised her once more by producing another handgun from his saddlebags and handing it to her. She took the small gun, a serviceable-looking, two-shot derringer, and stared at it unbelievingly.
“You can keep it in the pocket of your riding skirt,” he told her shortly. “Just remember, for God’s sake, that it’s loaded. Never can tell, in this neck of the woods, when you might need a gun. Even my friends the Juaristas could shoot first, if they caught sight of strangers, and not stop to ask questions later.”
Not knowing what to think, Ginny dropped the gun into the pocket of her skirt. I’ll be damned before I thank him for it, she thought stormily, but he had already turned away from her.
As they travelled deeper into central Mexico Ginny could see that Steve became more careful. The country to their left appeared flatter, hotter, and more like desert than the foothills. But he told her it was the best cattle-grazing land in all of Mexico.
“But where are the cattle, then? And the people? I’m beginning to think Mexico is a land of ghosts and bandits—or that this is a nightmare I’m having!”
“With all the fighting that’s going on, I guess the people who aren’t directly involved try to hide themselves,” he reminded her. “And as for the cattle, I guess the hacendados in these parts are smart enough to see that they’re grazed close to home. Everybody’s hungry these days—even the French!”
Ginny remembered her comments about Mexico when they were surrounded, a few days later, by a small armed band of incredibly villainous-looking men.
She sat her horse frozen, terrified, while Steve engaged in a long and heated argument with their leader, and tried not to notice the leering, lecherous glances of the others. Finally, when Steve produced a small, folded and creased piece of paper from his boot top, the leader of the Juaristas began to grin widely, and the conversation became obviously more friendly, while the men who had been pressing closer to Ginny moved back reluctantly.
Some of her fear left her and she began to listen more closely to the conversation, understanding only a little of it.
They were discussing the French, and troop movements in the area. The French were retreating, they had evacuated Chihuahua already—General Escobedo was too clever for them—Ginny did not believe any of it!
Nor did she believe what Steve told her later—that on Bazaine’s urging the Emperor Maximilian had signed an infamous decree which ordered the death of all suspected Juaristas without trial. She had heard of torture and mutilation practiced by the Juaristas—to imply t
hat the French would stoop to that and worse was an obvious lie! She told him so, and he shrugged carelessly, but only a few hours later he forced her to ride with him to a hilltop, from where they could see a small village.
“Just visited by your friends, the French soldiers,” Steve said grimly. “Take a good look, my love!” He handed her his field glasses, and what Ginny saw made her retch weakly, unable to stop herself. The tiny, doll-like figures scattered grotesquely in broken heaps in front of the thatched adobe huts resolved themselves into the bodies of men, women, and even children. She saw a tiny baby with no head—another with a pulpy mass where its head had been. Buzzards hopped clumsily over the carnage, their beaks ripping into flesh.
“Did you see how they had the women staked out?” His inexorable voice went on while her shoulders heaved. “Can you guess what agony they went through before they were killed? And you know why? Because those damned Frenchmen thought, only thought, mind you, that they’d given shelter to Juaristas.”
The terrible scene he had forced her to look upon stayed with her that night and all of the next day, following her even when late the next night they rode cautiously into a small town.
Since it was dark, Ginny could not make out much of the town, such as it was. What amazed her most was the utter darkness and the stillness. There were no street lights—under their horses’ hooves the winding street appeared to be dusty and deeply rutted. What buildings there were seemed to crouch squatly against the velvet dark night sky, and there did not seem to be any planning in their placement—just a scattered collection of buildings with gap-toothed spaces between them.
Ginny was tired, but she had learned better than to complain. She dismounted when Steve signalled her to do so and followed him, leading her horse, as he stepped into the squalid darkness of an alley between two buildings. An odor of rotten garbage and decaying vegetation made her clap her hand over her nostrils. A good thing it was so dark—she daren’t look down to see what she was standing on. If only he’d hurry!
Steve had found the door he had been looking for and was tapping on it lightly, his fingers moving in a strange, off-beat rhythm which was obviously a signal of some kind. But the fat woman who opened the door was cautious. She lit no lamp or candle, and as the door swung rustily inward Ginny could barely see the faint gleam of metal.
“No need for a gun, Mama Vera—it is Esteban.”
“Esteban? Esteban Alvarado?” The woman’s voice sounded incredulous at first and then she broke into a soft chuckle. “Still a rascal—still full of surprises, eh? But who is this with you? You bring a friend?”
“You’ll see when we get inside,” Steve said briefly. Lamplight suddenly flared in the gloom behind the woman, and a small boy, grinning widely, ran past her.
“I see to the horses, yes, Señor?”
“You take care of them, or I see to you!” Vera shouted after him.
Her feet dragging with weariness, Ginny followed Steve inside. Mama Vera’s cantina doubled as a saloon, a hotel, and a whorehouse. The rooms she rented upstairs were tiny, with no pretensions of elegance. The one small window that overlooked the street had wooden shutters, and the room itself contained only a bed and a rickety table that barely held a pitcher and a small basin. Even so, the narrow bed was like heaven compared to the rough ground, and the warped, clumsily made shutters let in the fresh night air.
Stripping off her dusty, travel stained clothes, Ginny only took the time to wash her face and arms before she collapsed onto the bed. She slept deeply and dreamlessly, not knowing when Steve came back upstairs.
22
Dusty streamers of sun, touching her face, forced Ginny awake. For a moment, when she first opened her eyes, she had a feeling of panic, not knowing where she was. As memory came back, she turned instinctively in bed, looking for Steve, but he wasn’t there. Flinging aside the roughly-woven cotton blanket, Ginny ran across the room to try the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked. She stood looking at it for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. So he had decided to trust her, had he? Or was it only because he was very sure she would not have a chance to make good an escape? It was stiflingly hot in the room, and Ginny still felt drugged from her long sleep. Even thinking seemed too much effort at the moment. Shrugging, she turned away to the small washstand and began to scrub the trail dust away from her body, using one of Steve’s neckerchiefs as a washrag. She was unembarrassed by her own nudity now, and it seemed quite normal to stand there unconcernedly naked, washing herself. She had grown thinner. Except for her breasts, which had never been overly big anyhow, and the curve of her hips, she told herself that she could easily pass for a boy. There were hollows at the base of her throat, and when she surveyed her face in the small cracked mirror that hung above the washstand, it too seemed thinner; its gypsyish contours more pronounced.
A sudden commotion on the street outside made her forget herself and rush to the window, tugging at the heavy wooden shutters until they swung open. No sooner had she put her head outside than Ginny found herself looking into the barrels of at least five rifles, held by French soldiers who looked just as surprised as she.
Their smart red and blue uniforms made her feel homesick, and when a tall soldier wearing sergeant’s chevrons called out to her in broken Spanish, begging her pardon a thousand times for having thought that the sound of her window opening might have meant an ambush, some spirit of mischief made her answer him in French.
The soldiers, horses rearing and prancing in the dust of the street, cheered delightedly, pulling off their kepis to wave at her. But it was only when a young man, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant, came galloping down the street to find out what was keeping his men, that Ginny realized the precariousness of her position. She had forgotten her own nakedness, the hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, until his eyes made her conscious of it.
Her cheeks burning, Ginny drew back hastily, trying to ignore the laughing, admiring comments being made by the Frenchmen. She banged the shutters closed and hoped that they would go away. And then she thought, contradictorily, that it could not possibly have been these same laughing men who had destroyed the Indian village. She had only Steve Morgan’s word for it, after all—it might have been the Juaristas themselves who had done it. And now—the thought struck her, driving away her embarrassment and mood of lassitude, that she was safe at last. Those Frenchmen would rescue her, she was sure of it! She could go to Mexico City with them, and let Steve try to stop her if he dared! Most likely, when she told them he was a Juarista himself, he would be shot….
Rummaging quickly in her saddlebag, Ginny had barely pulled a thin chemise over her body when the door opened and Steve came in. Whirling around, she faced him defiantly, her chin lifted.
He banged the door shut behind him and leaned against it, his face like a thundercloud. He had grown a beard during the weeks they had spent travelling, and she thought it made him look more like a pirate than ever.
“Your soldier friends are all downstairs,” he said sarcastically, his voice a cold drawl. “They’re calling for Madame Vera’s new French whore. Shall I send them upstairs to you, Ginny?”
Her face paled a trifle, for she hadn’t thought of that—that they would naturally jump to the conclusion she was one of Vera’s girls. But after all, and the thought was as bitter as gall, what else could they think?
“Ginny, you little fool! For all that they’re Frenchmen, don’t you realize that they’ve probably been without even seeing a white woman for months? Don’t you realize what they want from you?”
“What difference does it make? It’s the same thing you want me for, isn’t it?” Ginny snatched a yellow silk dress out of the saddlebags and held it up against herself protectively. “Don’t look at me like that! There’s not a thing you can do about it now, Steve Morgan! Besides, when I talk to their lieutenant, when I explain, he’ll protect me. I’m sure of it. And as for you…”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He crossed his arms n
egligently as he stared searchingly at her with a disgusted look spreading over his face. “Is that what you really think? Are you still naive enough for that? It’s entertainment those men want right now—not some hard-luck story that might take months to prove—are you willing to provide their entertainment?”
“You always try to twist things around!” she screamed at him. “And if you think to frighten me, you’re mistaken. I’d rather go down and brave those French soldiers than continue to be your captive whore!”
To her surprise, he shrugged, hands dropping to his sides.
“Very well, Ginny. If that’s how you want it. But if I may, I’d advise you to dress first. There might be some misunderstanding if you went downstairs so scantily attired!”
It was hard to believe that he’d give in so easily, and Ginny stared at him suspiciously until a shout from downstairs made her jump.
“I think your friends are getting impatient,” Steve said softly. “You’d better hurry, before they come up here to look for you. Seeing you like this—the bed so conveniently in the background—they might not want to wait for explanations from you.”
“You bastard!”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You know what I’ve told you about swearing, Ginny. What’s more, they wouldn’t understand it either. Especially if you intend to tell them you’re a lady in distress.”
“Damn you, get out!”
Her fingers shaking with rage, Ginny slipped the dress over her head and shrank away as he approached her.
“I wouldn’t dare attack you, niña. Not with all those French soldiers downstairs, ready to come to your rescue! No, I merely meant to offer my help, your fingers seem very clumsy this afternoon.”
Before she could protest, he turned her around impatiently, and she was forced to hold still, feeling his warm fingers brushing her skin as he hooked up her dress at the back.
Sweet Savage Love Page 25