by Henke, Shirl
“Is he truly my papa?” she whispered shyly in Mercedes’ ear.
“Yes, he is,” Mercedes assured the child.
“None of the other children had papas. I was the only one who had a mama...until…
Mercedes held Rosario pressed to her breast letting her sob, stroking her hair softly.
Feeling a suspicious tightness in his chest, Nicholas stood up and faced the old nun. “Would you have a place for my wife to sleep tonight? We cannot begin our journey to Gran Sangre until tomorrow and the inns and cantinas in town are unsuitable for a lady. Anyway I think it would be easier on Rosario if she spent the night with my wife, here in familiar surroundings.”
“She is welcome to share our accommodations while we remain. Within a fortnight the convent will be closed. I can only wish you Godspeed in your journey.”
Mercedes stood up, struggling to hold the leggy child, who was heavy for her.
“Here, let me carry her to your quarters,” he volunteered, reaching for the little girl, who weighed nothing to a man his size. Rosario went unprotesting into his arms. As the child's thin arms clamped around his neck, that nagging tightness in his chest returned along with a suspicious dampness in his eyes. He felt a kinship with Rosario that he could never have shared with his father or his brother.
* * * *
As dusk settled on the narrow street, the noises coming from inside the Snake and Cactus grew more raucous. The cantina was large with high ceilings and a second-story balcony around three sides of the floor. Upstairs were the quarters of the putas, who plied their ancient trade while the sounds of revelry echoed up from the card tables and bar below.
Fortune edged between two drunken workers from the silver mines outside the city and signaled the bartender to pour him a glass of foaming warm beer. Sipping it, he surveyed the smoky room with slitted eyes, noting the brightly uniformed French soldiers scattered in small clusters dallying with the women and playing cards. Sighing with relief, he recognized none of them, not surprising considering how isolated from the active war Sonora was.
Hilario sat in the farthest corner at a scarred pine table. He nodded unsmiling at his patrón.
Nicholas sat down beside him, casually polishing off the beer with a grimace of distaste. While serving in Sinaloa, he had acquired a liking for it served cold, chilled with ice from the caves outside Mazatlán. “Any luck?”
“Yes. There are many young men from poor families who do not wish to be the emperor's cannon fodder...or to join Juarez. At least not while they have hungry children or infirm parents to feed.”
“Have any of the French officers noticed you making inquiries?” Nicholas's eyes swept the crowded room. The French were mostly drunk, boisterously pursuing fleshly pleasures, oblivious to the undercurrents of dislike from the locals.
“I have gone places they do not know of, patrón,” Hilario said with a feral grin that revealed his blackened teeth. “Tonight about a dozen riders will meet us at moonrise outside the Santa Cruz Mines. I think they will like your offer.”
“If you approve their skills, we'll have enough men to begin our search for the remaining cattle and horses. I think we can winter them in those box canyons we found at the source of the Yaqui River.”
They exchanged ideas for a breeding program to improve the stock on the ranch. Hilario did not inquire about his patrón's daughter and his boss did not volunteer anything.
As the hour grew late, they finished their drinks and sauntered from the saloon, preparing to ride to the silver mines for their rendezvous. Across the big, dimly lit room a pair of colorless eyes watched them go but made no move to follow. The observer sat in a secluded alcove on the upper balcony overlooking the cantina.
Even had he not been sequestered, Bart McQueen was a man people seldom noticed. Chameleon like he blended into any crowd. Thinning sandy hair framed a face that was neither handsome nor ugly, merely innocuous. Like his visage, his body was neither large nor small, simply of a compact medium build. He habitually wore light neutral colors of clothing, purchased from a modest St. Louis haberdashery. His one vice was the ornately scrolled heavy gold watch he always carried well-concealed in the inside pocket of his oversized suit jacket. Equally well-concealed was the rare .31 caliber lever-action Volcanic pistol slung beneath his left arm. On the infrequent occasions he drew the gun, no one remained alive to remark on the unusual weapon.
Turning his attention from Nicholas Fortune, McQueen nodded at the man standing in the doorway, deferentially waiting for instructions. “My contact confirms the rumors, Porfirio. Juarez's wife left New York and every red carpet in Washington has been rolled out for her. The Johnson Administration has continued Lincoln's friendship with your little Indian and his lady. She'll address both houses of the American Congress and will no doubt receive a standing ovation.”
The other man scoffed. “Women and politicians. What do they matter? It is guns and soldiers that count.”
McQueen rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, then sighed patiently. “Only if used skillfully. Grant's already sent Phil Sheridan with over fifty thousand men—and guns. They're deployed along the Rio Grande. Our friends in Paris can't be too thrilled with that news.”
“It will make Napoleon very nervous,” the other man conceded thoughtfully.
“I daresay,” McQueen replied dryly, then shifted topics. “The tall criollo who just left here. Who is he?”
Porfirio Escondidas made it his business to know everyone who came to Hermosillo. “Don Lucero Alvarado is the heir to one of the largest haciendas in Sonora. He was summoned home from the war when his father died. The word is he looks for vaqueros.”
McQueen smiled. “Able-bodied men are scarce these days.”
“They are available for a price,” Porfirio replied cynically.
“Everything is available for a price,” McQueen replied without inflection. “You know where to deliver my news,” he said by way of dismissal.
After Escondidas had departed, the Americano sat staring across his steepled fingers. It's been a long time since Havana, Don Lucero. What dangerous new game are you playing this time, I wonder...and how could it be useful to me?
* * * *
Doña Sofia leaned forward in her chair, careful not to set off another spasm of coughing by moving too fast. Lupe hovered beside her, plumping pillows and wringing her hands. The old woman would have reprimanded her sharply for fussing if she had not caught sight of the riders approaching the main gate. Lucero and Mercedes had returned with his bastard. It was his responsibility to provide for the product of his sordid liaison, but to bring the child under Gran Sangre's roof was unthinkable. So was his wife's acceptance of the insane idea.
Better she give the House of Alvarado a male heir, but perhaps she prefers raising another's child to submitting to Lucero's lust. The old woman could understand that. Even under the best of circumstances a woman's duty was difficult, but she herself had done what was expected of her and given Anselmo his son. Mercedes could do no less. “It is that strange English blood that taints her,” Sofia murmured aloud, ignoring the serving girl as if she were no more than a stick of furniture.
She watched as the patrón and his wife rode up to the big courtyard door. He was actually carrying the sleeping waif in his arms!
“What remarkable tenderness he seems to exhibit for the child. Misplaced, but perhaps it augurs well for the kind of a father he will be for his legitimate heirs,” Father Salvador said as he walked up behind Doña Sofia.
The old woman's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene below her window, wishing her vision were not clouded by age and illness. “This is a scandal. The shame he brings down on our house!”
The priest sighed. “Has it not always been so? But he has brought a dozen new vaqueros back with him to work the land. One day he may rebuild Gran Sangre into the great hacienda it was in the past. I would not have thought it likely that such a wastrel could learn diligence, but war is obviously a more r
igorous teacher than ever I was.”
Pensively, the priest watched the young patrón place the sleeping child in his wife's arms, then dismount and hand both their horses' reins to a vaquero. He took his daughter from Mercedes and together they walked into the house side by side. “God has plans we often cannot understand, my lady. This child may be the means by which He brings together your son and his wife as befits a marriage blessed by Holy Church.”
“I will pray on that, Father,” she murmured softly, dismissing him and bidding the serving girl to leave her as well. She stared sightlessly out the window, waiting for the echo of footfalls down the hall, knowing they would not dare to come near her quarters.
An act of God indeed! Her lips thinned disdainfully. Lucero had always detested children, as had Anselmo, who made it quite clear to her the day of his son's birth that she need not bother him with the infant until he was old enough to introduce to the pleasures of the flesh. And Anselmo had kept his word. Upon Lucero's fourteenth birthday he had taken the boy all the way to Durango to one of the city's most expensive bordellos for his initiation into manhood.
How she had despised the pair of them as she lay isolated in her invalid's bed while they cavorted with whores. But now Lucero had returned, apparently a changed man who loved Gran Sangre and took responsibility for his wife, even his illegitimate child. Could it be...? No, for surely Mercedes and Father Salvador would know. Or would they? Over the many years of her illness, Doña Sofia had come to believe that people saw what they expected to see or what they chose to see...
A wintry smile spread across her face, emphasizing the deep hollows of her eye sockets and the desiccated skin across her cheekbones. It was a ghastly smile, serenely malevolent. “What a splendid irony...I shall have to share it with him...before I die.”
* * * *
“We'll have to decide where you will sleep, little one. How do you like your new home so far?” Nicholas asked as Rosario gaped at the lavish surroundings in the sola. He set the yawning child down and looked at her with a smile.
“The house is daunting for a little girl the first time she sees it,” Mercedes said. “I ought to know, for it quite frightened me the first time I saw it.”
“Did you live in a convent, too?” Rosario asked, holding onto the lady's skirts.
“Yes, I did,” she answered, glancing over at Lucero, who said nothing during their exchange. Did he remember how in awe of Gran Sangre she had been as a bride?
As the two adults' eyes met and held, Rosario's eyes grew round as saucers. She blinked and looked around the sala. The walls were whitewashed to a snowy brilliance and massive oak beams arched across a ceiling that seemed high as the sky. Beautifully carved furniture glowed, hand-rubbed with lemon oil. Ignoring the two adults, she slipped over to look at a figurine of a beautiful lady. She started to reach out to touch it, but drew back at the last second. Then the glittering candlesticks sitting on the credenza caught her eye. There was more silver in this great room than in the whole Ursuline chapel! And paintings, pretty paintings hung on the walls, not of religious subjects but of finely dressed lords and ladies.
“I can really live here?” Her voice was a high-pitched squeak of disbelief as she turned back to Nicholas and Mercedes.
“Really and truly,” the man who claimed he was her papa replied.
Then a loud woof sounded down the hall and Bufón came bounding toward them. Mercedes intercepted her pet, throwing her arms around him before he accidentally knocked the child down. "This is Bufón,'' she said, dodging great slurping licks to her face. "He likes little girls very much. Would you like to pet him?"
Rosario had instinctively moved behind Nicholas for protection, watching the behemoth who wrestled playfully with the lady. “He won't hurt you,” Nicholas assured her, kneeling himself to give one floppy ear a tug.
When both adults petted the shaggy dog he quieted and sat down, cocking his head inquisitively in Rosario's direction. She mimicked his action, then giggled. “He is funny.” Timidly she reached out one small hand and Bufón licked it. She jerked back in surprise but then quickly repeated the movement, this time letting his tongue thoroughly bathe her fingers. Step-by-step she inched closer until she could bury both small sets of fingers in the dog's thick fur.
“I think Bufón has made a new friend,” Nicholas said with amusement.
“That makes two in the past few days,” Mercedes replied, studying the way he was patting her pet with a thoughtful expression on his face.
Before Nicholas could reply, a smiling Angelina appeared in the doorway. “I have some fresh-baked bread sweetened with sugar and cinnamon just waiting for you,” the cook said as she walked into the room. She looked down at the child. Her eyes swept from the little girl's delicately chiseled features and distinctive eyes to the patrón's face and back. She nodded, extending a large work-roughened hand to Rosario. “I am Angelina, the cook.”
This time Rosario could not help placing her thumb in her mouth again. After leaving the convent, she had done so for reassurance numerous times. Neither Sister Agnes nor Mother Superior was there to forbid it. The beautiful lady and her papa did not seem to care. She clutched Bufón tightly with one arm. Too many strangers were offering her kindness. She was uncertain of how to respond.
“This is Rosario,” Nicholas supplied for the child who stared curiously. “But I fear you've made a mistake, Angelina.” He sighed. “Little girls must not like sweets.”
“Oh, yes!” Rosario pleaded, her thumb suddenly forgotten as she stood up. “I am hungry and I love cinnamon bread.” She looked beseechingly up at the tall man with the smiling face.
He picked her up and handed her into Angelina's open arms, knowing she had raised six daughters and would deal well with the little girl. Rosario went to the cook without protest, laying her head on the big woman's shoulder.
As they disappeared down the hall with Bufón padding patiently beside them, Mercedes said, “Your daughter does have a way about her when she holds onto you for dear life.”
“Echoing my very thoughts again. We're becoming surprisingly attuned, my love,” he murmured.
She looked up at him with frank surprise on her face. “I suppose we have dealt well together on this trip. You have a natural way with children, although I would never have imagined it likely.”
Nicholas chuckled. “Or me either, but I think I like being a father.” He moved closer. “Now we must work on making you a mother, eh?”
Mercedes could feel his breath warm against her cheek, but he did not touch her. She knew if she looked up he would have that mocking smile on his face again. Edging casually away, she ignored his comment. “I'll have Lupe prepare the room at the end of the hall for Rosario.”
“That's the nursery, for the heir you will give me.” He knew she had chosen the room because it was adjacent to her own bedroom.
“It's not in use now,” she countered evenly, not wishing to be drawn into his obvious opening.
“Neither will your bedroom be in use, for you'll sleep with me from now on.” He watched her body stiffen.
“Would you allow me no privacy? A lady is always granted her own quarters. That's how this house was designed.”
“This house was designed for the most infelicitous marriages of my forebears. I don't choose to live as they did,” he added with a touch of bitterness.
“You always have up until now,” she snapped as visions of him and Innocencia flashed before her eyes. “It would seem to me this has been a most traditionally infelicitous marriage.”
“Perhaps we've been given a second chance,” he replied in a silky voice, determined not to allow her to sleep in her own bed any longer. Lying beside her without being able to make love to her when they camped along the trail had not been nearly as difficult as he had imagined. On the return journey they had slept with Rosario between them. For the first time in his life, Nicholas Fortune felt protective of the two females who were now in his charge. It was a totally ne
w and unsettling experience for him.
She read the shuttered look on his face, and knew he would come for her that night and carry her back to his room if she resisted his plans. There was nothing she could do to stop him. If she wished to stop him. That shocking thought came unbidden. She looked away, murmuring, “I shall see to Rosario's room, then order you a bath lest those cuts fester.”
He grinned at her. “I'll expect you to come tend them when I'm finished bathing,” he replied, a dare in his eyes.
“You were the one who assured me they were shallow and you've had far worse. Merely keep them clean and there'll be no harm done.”
His softly mocking laughter followed her up the stairs as she called for Lupe to assist her with the nursery bedding.
Chapter Eight
Mercedes sat in front of the large oval mirror in her bedroom, brushing her hair, a ritual she had performed for herself in recent years since servants had become scarce and were so overburdened with other duties. She had grown to love the solitude and relaxation of the leisurely rhythm, a blessed respite after the long days of hard work. But tonight she could not relax, knowing that her husband would come through the door adjoining their bedrooms at any time.
Lucero had left her after dinner and retired to his study for aguardiente and cigarettes. She had gone to Rosario to be certain the child was not frightened in her new surroundings. Lupe had tucked the girl into her new bed and seemed genuinely fond of her quiet little charge. Once Rosario was sleeping soundly, Mercedes had nothing to do but prepare for the night ahead. A good stiff drink of old Anselmo's aguardiente might give her courage, but to reach it she would have to go to the study where Lucero was ensconced.
“I will never come to him,” Mercedes vowed, pulling the brush through her hair with faster, harder strokes.
She stared at the stranger's face in the mirror, hardly knowing herself anymore. Over the past four years a quiet, pampered schoolgirl had grown into a secure, strong woman, a woman who knew her worth and valued her freedom. The specter of Lucero's return had always hovered over her, but she had come to terms with it, feeling certain she could maintain her identity after they reached some accord regarding their cold and mutually unwanted marriage. He had made it clear before he left that she held not the slightest interest for him. She had expected to submit to him briefly in bed and do her duty by providing an Alvarado heir. Then he would move on, living a separate life, letting her raise his child and run Gran Sangre in peace.