He and Priscilla had played together as children. They’d roughhoused, then, back when they were young. Friendly competitors, like the best of brothers and sisters, they fought over who could shoot the straightest, who could run the fastest, who could ride the wildest bronc. Then Priscilla grew up to become Charlie’s tophand and heir apparent, and Joaquín turned bad.
At least, that’s what folks around the territory said. Priscilla had her doubts. Disillusioned, perhaps. But she knew he hadn’t turned bad. He was searching for his identity, Mama claimed. Priscilla couldn’t recall precisely when she realized the key to Joaquín’s identity was the word father.
It had taken her even longer to understand the underlying injury that resulted from, not the fact that he didn’t have a father, but from the obvious truth revealed by his clear blue eyes. A truth denied by the very father he sought to claim.
Joaquín didn’t belong to either world—not the white man’s world with his Apache coloring and features; nor to the Apache world with those startling blue eyes. His shame was obvious to the most casual observer. It couldn’t be hidden by clothing or masked with war paint.
Joaquín—unlike his half-brother José Colorado, an honored Apache warrior—belonged nowhere. Not even to the one place in the world he yearned to call his own—Spanish Creek Ranch.
He took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked off the ash, and shoved it back between his slightly parted lips.
“How’ve you been?” she asked.
He chuckled, but the sound was derisive rather than mirthful. He glanced around at the cell he’d occupied for three days straight. “Never cared much for locked doors.”
“You’ve never been in jail before, but I guess it wouldn’t matter—”
“I’ve been locked up all my life, Jake. And locked out.”
She ignored his petulance. “Pa wants to help.”
Joaquín’s blue eyes turned as hard as flint. If she hadn’t known him well, his expression would have been frightening, or at the very least, intimidating. “I don’t want anything from Charlie McCain. I don’t need his help.”
“Yes, you do. Will says—”
“Will?”
“Your lawyer. Will Radnor.”
Joaquín snorted. “Charlie teamin’ up with the Haskels? Never thought I’d see the day. Of course, he’d take sides with the devil himself against me.”
“That isn’t true.”
Joaquín reached through the bars and caught a loose strand of blond hair, which he tugged through callused fingers. “Don’t worry your pretty blue eyes over it, little Miss Priss. You’ve got Spanish Creek. That oughta be enough for you to count coup over.”
“Don’t—” She reached to touch his hand, but he dropped her hair and pulled his hand back inside the cell. “You’re hurt, Joaquín. You have reason to be, but—”
Joaquín turned his back abruptly. “I don’t want your damned sympathy. Or Charlie’s. Especially not Charlie’s.”
Priscilla studied him from the rear. His shoulders bunched forward, tensed, as if against physical blows. His hands gripped in fists at his sides. It was a stance of defiance. She tried to recall what Joaquín had been like before he turned bitter, but the only image that would come to her was of a small dark boy with clenched fists.
“They said the horses were unbranded,” she told him.
“I didn’t take anything that wasn’t mine.”
“I know you aren’t a horse thief,” she said again. “But if you won’t help Will, how can he prove it?”
Joaquín remained silent and motionless. He stood that way for long moments—his back to her, his shoulders hunched. Finally he ground out the stub of his cigarette on the stone floor. He stalked toward the mattressless bunk, where he picked up a tobacco pouch and a pack of cigarette papers. With his side to her, he rolled another cigarette, licked the length of the paper edge, and stuck it to the other side. When he turned back, it was to look past her. She might as well have been invisible.
“Newt! Where the hell are you? Bring me a damned light!”
Priscilla hadn’t been aware of Will, standing in the shadows of the corridor. At Joaquín’s call, he stepped forward, struck a match on the heel of his boot—as casually as though he had been born to the Western gesture—and offered the flame to Joaquín.
When the cigarette took light, Joaquín stepped back. Priscilla watched Will shake the flame out and toss the burned match to a spittoon near her feet. It missed. Without looking at her, he bent at the knees, picked up the match, and tossed it into the spittoon.
He rose slowly, coming at length face to face with her, eye to eye. She felt weak at his intense, searching perusal. When he spoke, it was a low, soft command.
“Introduce me.”
Priscilla stood mesmerized. She stared into Will’s questioning gaze. At length, she complied with his command, hoping her voice wouldn’t quiver.
“Joaquín, this is Will Radnor. He’s been appointed by the court to defend you.”
“I know who he is.”
“The Haskels had nothing to do with hiring him.”
“The Haskels had everything to do with it.”
“With your capture, maybe, but not with appointing Will—”
“Who the hell did the appointing?” Joaquín demanded. “You think Judge Sanders isn’t in Oscar Haskel’s pocket?”
“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” She immediately regretted the outburst. In a lower voice, she said, “Will wants to defend you. He can get you out of here. But you have to help him.”
Joaquín turned hooded eyes to Will.
“She’s right, Joaquín. Horse theft is a hanging offense. If you’ll cooperate, I can help you.”
“What can I tell you, lawyer? You learned my name.” He glared at Priscilla, then back to Will. “From the looks of things, you two are thick enough that you’ve learned every damned thing about me.”
“I’ve heard a lot of gossip, yes. Priscilla says you’re no horse thief. I’m inclined to believe her. But whether or not you are, you deserve a fair chance. If you’ll help me, I can convince a jury of your peers—”
“A jury of my peers?” Joaquín hissed. “Who the hell are my peers?” Coming forward he stopped in front of Will, glared into his eyes. “Take a good look at me, white eyes! Who are my peers?” He turned those furious eyes on Priscilla. “Look at me! Who am I? NOBODY!” Joaquín’s barbaric cry echoed through the empty room.
Priscilla shrunk back involuntarily. Will took her by the shoulders, stopping short of drawing her into the protection of his arms.
“Joaquín, please, talk to Will,” she begged.
“Come on, Priscilla.” Will turned her toward the hall.
Joaquín stared, stolid, his face revealing no emotion. Will dragged her down the hallway.
“Talk to Will, Joaquín,” she called. “It’s your only chance. Talk to him. For Pa’s sake. And for yours.”
When they entered the front office, Newt Haskel greeted Will with a slap on the back.
Newt was a jolly sort, Priscilla recalled, if he liked a person. Obviously, he’d taken a liking to Will.
“Will, I’ve been lookin’ for you, son. You know that little matter we were discussing?” Newt’s mustache, thin though it was, waggled when he talked. He clapped Will around the shoulders like they were the best of friends.
Joaquín’s accusation sliced through Priscilla. She knew it was true. The Haskels owned every lawyer and official in this territory, why not the judges?
“Need a word with you, son,” Newt was saying, “’bout that little piece of business.” He remembered Priscilla, then. His eyes traveled over her, reminding her of the silk blouse she wore…and of the wispy bit of lace beneath it.
Something that felt like fear welled inside Priscilla in a sickening rush. It clogged her throat and brought moisture to her eyes. She jerked free from Will’s hold and fled.
“Priscilla, wait,” Will called. But she didn’t dare look back.
Not until she and Pa were seated in the wagon and headed out of town did she regain her sensibilities enough to realize Red Avery wasn’t with them.
“Where the hell is that worthless—”
“Calm down, Miss Priss. When he came back from looking at those bones, I sent him on home ahead.”
“Ahead? On what?”
“Joaquín’s horse. Don’t figure he’ll be needin’ it anytime soon. Since it was wearin’ a Spanish Creek brand, Newt couldn’t very well refuse to give it to me.”
Priscilla eyed him sharply, then turned her attention back to the road. As usual Pa didn’t miss a lick.
“You gonna tell me what happened inside that jail to set you off like your mama’s steam kettle?”
Will watched Priscilla rush out of the jail. “I want to see that sworn statement against my client, Sheriff,” he demanded. “And the information on those horses.”
Newt changed the subject in tones that sounded accusatory. “Looks like you an’ that little gal are gettin’ thick. Don’t know what a feller could see in a woman who dresses like a man—”
“You’d do well to stop right there, Haskel.”
“Oh, I’ll stop all right, son, if that’s what you want. Figure you bein’ down here without family o’ your own, though, someone oughta look out after you. There’s some things about McCain you might wanta know.”
Will glanced through the open doorway. Priscilla was helping Charlie across the street. Except at the clip she was dragging him, Charlie might end up with more injured than one gunshot arm and leg. Lordy, that was one spunky lady. She might act tough, but that didn’t keep her from fighting for those she loved.
“McCain ain’t his real name,” Newt was saying. “Of course, that ain’t uncommon out here. Lot of folks shed a bad reputation by buryin’ the name of the perpetrator. Rumor has it, murder’s what he’s accused of. ’Course it was a while back. In Philadelphia.”
The sheriff had Will’s full attention for the first time since Priscilla sashayed out the door. He watched Newt stroke his mustache.
“Suppose you knew that, though,” Haskel allowed, “bein’ from Philadelphia yourself. And a lawyer, to boot. McCain was a lawyer, so they claim.”
For some unfathomable reason Will found himself taking offense at Newt Haskel’s allegations, truth that they were. “I’ll want directions to where those horses are being held, Sheriff, so I can ride out and have a talk with the man who claims them.”
“What for? Ain’t my word good enough?”
“One person’s word is never good enough when a man’s life is at stake.”
“That half-breed’s no man, son. You’re new to this country—”
“I’m not new to the law. I want those directions and the claimant’s sworn statement on my desk before closing time.”
Outside, Will looked after the McCain wagon, which was by this time no bigger than a thumbnail in the distance. He grinned, thinking of the ride he’d had earlier today on that same wagon. Ol’ Charlie’d better hold on.
In no more than three minutes, he’d crossed the plaza, climbed the back staircase of the cantina, and walked the length of the corridor to his room. The door was open. He stopped in the portal.
“You oughta slow down, Will.” Jessie stood beside his open French doors. Obviously, she’d watched him cross the plaza. “You can run around like a headless chicken up North. Weather’s cool, it won’t hurt you. Down here it’s too hot. You oughta slow down.”
“Thanks for the concern, Jess.” Will stepped inside the door, tossed his Stetson to the hatrack, where it landed next to the bowler he hadn’t worn since arriving in Santa Fé.
She stared at him with a funny, knowing sort of expression that made him uneasy. He wondered what she wanted.
“I’ll buy you a drink of real whiskey for what’s on your mind, Will Radnor.”
“My mind?” Will hoped the heat racing up his neck at the prospect of sharing his thoughts wasn’t a glowing confession.
“Come on in. I won’t bite.”
Will cast doubtful eyes in the direction of the jail. “Thought you and ol’ Newt were, uh, thick seems to be the word around here.”
Jessie laughed. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy talking to a handsome man. In fact, I might be able to help you out of your present dilemma.”
“Dilemma?” But Will was intrigued, more by the information Jessie promised, than by entertaining a beautiful woman in his room. Something warned him that he might need just such a woman to dispel the magic that was inching its way under his skin and into his heart.
Magic that would surely turn to a curse before his task was finished. Will motioned Jessie to the one chair. He took the bed. Sitting on the edge he studied her. Jessie Laredo, voluptuous, sensuous, the kind of woman he’d envisioned meeting in Santa Fé. Before that fateful stagecoach ride. Before the magic of looking into Priscilla’s eyes and kissing her lips.
“She’s grown into an intriguing woman,” Jessie was saying.
Will knew it would be best to let his mind wander in other directions. He rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin.
“I hope you took notice of the way she dressed up for you.”
Will’s head popped up. “She told you that?”
“Will, querido, she didn’t have to tell me. I’m a woman. An older woman, to be sure.” She shrugged her still smooth shoulders. “A woman learns to detect such things.”
“I’ll bet you do. Some of you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, querido.”
“As it was meant.”
“Her silk blouse,” Jessie continued.
Will started to tell Jessie that explanation was unnecessary. He had noticed every enticing morsel of Priscilla.
“And her perfume,” Jessie continued. “I’ve known her all her life, Will, and I can say for a certainty, Priscilla McCain has never, ever worn perfume before today.” She cocked her head, teasing. But he detected a serious tone beneath it. “There were other…more subtle signs beneath the silk, if you catch my meaning.”
Will laughed. “What are you, the town matchmaker?”
“If that’s what it takes. Priscilla needs someone and something of her own, something besides her parents and that ranch.”
“Newt took the opposite tack. He spent the last half hour trying to discourage me from becoming interested.”
“Newt?”
Will kept his silence. He wondered how much Jessie knew, how much more he could learn from her. A woman of her ilk likely knew a lot. “Newt objects more to her father than to Priscilla,” he revealed at length.
“That’s a bone of contention between Newt and me. It’s like Charlie says—the Haskel Land Grant Company is after all the land up and down the river. If you look into it, you’ll discover that they have a valid claim to a lot of it. The old Spanish land grants.”
“To Charlie’s place?”
“Charlie says not. And he should know. He’s a—” Jessie stopped abruptly, then cleverly changed the subject. Clapping her hands as if in sheer delight, she rose and stood in the open French doors. “Isn’t this the most magnificent afternoon. Don’t you just love our sky? All the layers and shades of blue. And the lazy white clouds. Every time I see the sun stream through little holes in the clouds, I know there’s a heaven up there someplace.”
“Charlie’s a lawyer,” Will prompted. “Is that what you started to say?”
“What did Newt tell you?”
Will tried to keep his voice noncommittal. “That McCain isn’t his name. That he’s wanted for murder.” He left out the part about Philadelphia. The folks in Santa Fé could gossip all they liked, but he didn’t intend to tip his own hand. He’d waited too long for this opportunity.
“Newt’s repeating what he heard,” Jessie said. “You know how gossip is, it starts out with the truth, but by the time it’s gone through several repeatings it changes color. Charlie’s story has had a good twenty years to
become distorted.”
Will inhaled deep drafts of piñon-scented air. Jessie had told him it came from centuries of campfires that had burned around the plaza. Santa Fé was an old town.
And Charlie McCain’s story was an old story. A story not believed by all, Will discovered.
“Charlie is no murderer,” Jessie said flatly.
“Seems there’s more than one opinion.”
“There’s a difference between opinion and knowledge. I know. I was in Santa Fé when Charlie arrived.”
Will pursed his lips, struggling to keep his interest undetected. “From Texas?”
“Texas?”
“Priscilla said her father came from Texas.”
“Priscilla doesn’t know the story.”
“Come on, Jess. Do you take me for a greenhorn, too? If the whole town is gossiping about it, she has to know.”
“The McCains keep pretty much to themselves out at Spanish Creek. They’re friendlier with Victorio and his Apaches than to most folks in Santa Fé.”
“With Apaches?” Will didn’t even try to hid his surprise.
“Something that happened a long time ago,” Jessie dismissed. “The whole town isn’t gossiping about Charlie. Oscar Haskel would like to use it against him, but he can’t figure out how. He doesn’t know enough of the truth. Only a handful of people ever knew the story. And they’re gone, for the most part. I figure I’m the only one left in these parts, other than Kate and Charlie, who knows the truth.”
“The truth? How do you know the truth, if—?”
“Charlie told me.”
Will froze, his eyes on the patterned carpet. “Charlie told you?”
“We were friends, back then. He was new in town, lonely and determined to build a new life. Lonely men need a woman to talk to, Will.”
“So he told you he murdered—” Will stopped short of revealing any information he hadn’t heard in Santa Fé. Newt, after all, hadn’t revealed the name of Charlie’s victim.
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