by Henke, Shirl
His blood chilled to ice. “Have you taken feverish again, Mother? I'll summon Lupe.”
“My mind is clear. Summon no one, for I do not think you will wish them to hear what I have to say.”
“And that is?” he prompted, taking a seat on a hard wooden chair beside her.
“I have watched you since your return, watched how everyone accepted you, listened as they rejoiced in what a fine and dutiful patrón you had become. Even Mercedes has been pleased with how hard you work, toiling as she does to reclaim the hacienda from ruin.” Her dry chuckle eerily broke the silence. “That was your biggest mistake. Lucero, like your father, cared nothing for responsibility. He would not have brought his bastard here and ensconced her in our family home, or forsaken his whores in favor of his wife, a wife whom you allow to demean herself laboring beside peons. You are far too soft.”
“The war gave me a new outlook on life. It can do that for some men—make them appreciate what they've left behind, make them want to return and rebuild.”
She shook her head. “Lucero is not such a man, is he?” Her gaze riveted on him, unblinking.
Nicholas sighed. “No. You're taking quite a chance confronting me, you know? What if I simply smothered you with one of these pillows? No one would question your death.”
“But you will not, will you? That is part of the reason I know you are not my son. For you see, he would kill me or anyone else who got in his way.”
Nicholas cocked his head, studying her. “True. Ruthlessness he inherited from you, perhaps?”
She scoffed. “Certainly not from your weakling father. Anselmo was too indolent to be ruthless, too mired in his own debauched pleasures.”
“But you admit I am my father's son.” He was puzzled, waiting to see what she would do, all the while turning over in his mind ways to counter her accusations. “What are you going to do?”
“Why nothing, nothing at all,” she replied serenely.
“I don't understand.”
“Think of it, bastard son of Anselmo Alvarado!”
In spite of himself, he flinched at her insult, but remained silent, impassive.
“Your father despoiled a magnificent hacienda and dishonored his marriage vows, but he always took great pride in the Alvarado name, in our pure undiluted bloodlines. The very thought of a child born nameless, the son of one of his light skirts, inheriting Gran Sangre, getting more illegitimate heirs on Lucero's wife, passing on the Alvarado heritage through them—this will make him writhe in hell such as no other punishment on this or the other side of eternity could ever do.” Her voice was cool and calm, as considered as if she were explaining household duties to a servant.
Nicholas Fortune thought he had seen all the faces of hate after growing up destitute and surviving the carnage of war on three continents. But he had been wrong. This was a more terrible visage than any he could ever have imagined. Twisted. Malevolent. Ice-cold. Without a word he stood up, but before he could quit the room, her voice called out after him.
“Did you kill Lucero?”
“No. I regret to inform you I didn't perform that service for you.”
After the door slammed, she closed her eyes wearily. The silence in the room was broken only by her raspy uneven breathing. This unexpected interview had taken a great deal out of her. She would pay, in the next world as well as this one, but then, had she not always been the one to do so? She looked down at the rosary lying unused in her lap.
Suddenly the sun's rays caught the diamond beads, which blazed like fire, accusing her of sacrilege. She picked them up but could not pray. Father Salvador would have to do that for her from now on.
* * * *
Nicholas sat staring at the brandy bottle, which he had nearly emptied that night after everyone else retired. Tomorrow Bart McQueen and Fletcher's band of immigrants would be leaving. Yet the troublesome and expensive hospitality, even the federal agent's blackmail, did not trouble him half so much as the ugly scene with that old woman this morning.
What a nest of vipers his brother had grown up in! He raised his glass in salute, then tossed down the contents. No wonder Luce had turned out the way he was. With parents like Anselmo and Sofia, what child stood a chance!
Of course his own haphazard upbringing shunted between Lottie and her father hadn't exactly made him into a paragon. Fortune had always blamed his bitter and violent life on them. Perhaps his Alvarado blood was more significant than he could ever have imagined. By comparison to Doña Sofia, Lottie Fortune no longer seemed so bad. Pitiable and weak, yes, but his mother could never have been capable of the awful vengeance old Sofia believed she was wreaking on the House of Alvarado. Using him and her daughter-in-law.
Mercedes.
“Admit it,” he muttered to himself with a slurred oath. “It isn't what she did to Luce that's really eating you—it's what you're doing to Mercedes.”
If Hilario and Bart McQueen knew his secret and Doña Sofia had guessed it, how long would it be before his wife—no, his brother's wife—guessed it, too? How would she feel, having given herself to a man who was not her husband? A nameless bastard with blood on his hands? What if there were a child? She might already be carrying his seed. No matter if it bore the Alvarado name, it would still be as much a bastard as he was.
And Mercedes, by lying with her husband's brother, had committed incest in the eyes of her church. Nicholas had been raised outside the Roman faith but when he lived in Italy and Mexico, he had picked up enough of Canon Law to understand the ramifications of his deception. Luce had even explained it to him when he instructed his brother about how to handle Father Salvador and any religious observances he might be forced to attend.
Fortune had long ago abandoned hope for his own soul, but he was becoming increasingly concerned about anything that could hurt Mercedes. She was everything Sofia was not, a true Christian who practiced her faith devoutly. Damn! It had all seemed so easy, this exchange agreed upon by two hardened men. Now they had drawn innocents into their web of deception. Mercedes. Rosario. Perhaps an unborn child.
But Nicholas would not give them up. Certainly their lives would be far worse if his brother had returned instead of him. Even that twisted old woman had admitted as much. He was ensnared in the web he himself had helped to spin. There was no answer.
* * * *
Mercedes lay in the big bed alone. The hour was late and still Lucero had not come upstairs to his room. She had long ago abandoned waiting in her own quarters for him to claim her. He had made it clear that he would do so every night. The humiliation had been worse when he strode through her door and arrogantly commanded her to follow him.
If nothing else, she had been certain that he desired her body. Until tonight. Was he with Innocencia or one of the other servant girls? She had observed the way women looked at him, devouring his dark dangerous virility, seducing him with slumberous eyes and often in even less subtle ways. Sweet merciful heavens, she sounded jealous—after all the anguished nights of praying he would stop making love to her before she succumbed to his skillful touch!
Her troubling reverie was suddenly interrupted by the sound of footfalls coming down the hallway. Lucero's steps, yet they sounded erratic—almost as if he were...drunk! Brandy fumes preceded him as he opened the door and walked into the moonlit room, weaving slightly, then stumbling against the heavy oak wardrobe. With a muffled oath he began to strip off his clothes, throwing them carelessly hither and yon, not at all his usual tidy way, but more like she would have expected the old Lucero to respond.
Accustomed to the darkness, her eyes watched the play of his muscles as he shed shirt and pants. He was a splendid male animal whose hard, hairy torso and long sinuous limbs were made even more virile and appealing by the mysterious scars that marred what would otherwise have been unreal perfection. It was dangerous to dwell on such thoughts, but she could not seem to tear her eyes from him as he climbed into bed beside her.
She tensed expectantly as he lay down
, wondering if he would reach for her. Instead of drawing her possessively into his embrace, he simply lay spread-eagle across the wide bed and fell fast asleep. Soft male snoring quickly fell into a steady low rhythm.
Never since his return had she known Lucero to get drunk, although he had when they were first wed. Somehow she sensed that this was different. Could it be related to her husband's morning visit with his mother, about which Father Salvador had told her? There had been no time during the busy day to talk with him in private with a house full of guests.
Mercedes feared Lucero and his mother would never make peace. As a child who had enjoyed a loving relationship with both parents and mourned their loss, Mercedes had always felt the bitterness between Lucero and Doña Sofia was tragic and inexplicable and that it must have begun when he was very young. Perhaps at the moment of conception.
She leaned up on her elbow and tentatively reached one hand out, her fingers itching to brush the errant lock of dark hair from his brow. He muttered in his sleep, something low that she could not understand, then tossed his head restlessly, as if having a bad dream.
“Shh, don't let her trouble you. You need not pay for your father's sins.” She smiled sadly, realizing he had enough sins of his own for which to atone.
* * * *
The Fletcher party left just after daybreak, in route to Durango. The small caravan, now riding rested and well-fed mounts, vanished in the distance. Mercedes watched Lucero pensively stare after them. “Do you think they'll make it?”
“To Durango? I suppose so,” he replied absently. His head pounded so badly from the excess of brandy last night that he scarcely heard her question. He had been wondering how he would implement Bart McQueen's orders, glad to have the unnerving man gone from Gran Sangre. Then he continued, “If you mean will they survive resettlement in the valley and become assimilated as Mexicans, no. They're Americans. Hell, they don't even speak enough Spanish to communicate.”
“What about the emperor's new immigration plan? You don't believe it will succeed anywhere, do you?”
“Not with people like those,” he snapped irritably.
“You act as if you've known many Americans.”
“More than a fair share fought with the contre-guerrillas” he replied guardedly. “You don't want to know about the war, Mercedes.” You don't want to know about me.
She could see he was not feeling well but hesitated to bring up his solitary drinking binge last night or the possible cause for it. Worry about the survival of Fletcher's party was the least of his concerns. She was certain of that much.
He stalked off toward the stables, leaving her standing alone in the courtyard, perplexed.
“Why should I care what's troubling him?” she murmured to herself. He is your husband, the voice of duty reminded her.
The only way to find the answer lay in asking her husband's mother, something she was loath to do.
Chapter Thirteen
Mercedes went through her morning chores, still preoccupied with Lucero's troubling behavior. As noon drew near, she grew eager for Rosario to finish her lessons and join her in the kitchen as was their routine. The child had been blossoming, overcoming her shyness and growing into a bubbly curious five-year-old girl.
When she entered the kitchen, Angelina set down her heavy stirring ladle with a worried expression on her face. “My lady, Rosario is late. Did Father Salvador keep her because she did not recite her lessons properly?”
“She isn't here?” Mercedes chewed her lip. “I'll go see, but she's been doing so well, I doubt it. He seems quite pleased with her progress.”
The priest had dismissed Rosario at the usual time and knew nothing of where she might be found. Now he, too, was concerned and they instituted a search of the house. Mercedes, remembering the little girl's love of the flower beds, found her a short while later huddled in between the high rows of hollyhocks by the trellises. The child was sobbing forlornly.
“Tell me what's happened,” she said after sending Lupe to call off the search. Mercedes stroked the small dark head and held her close.
Rosario hiccupped, then dug two small fists into her eyes. “I'm s-sorry. I did not mean to make her angry.”
“Who, sweet one?” Mercedes asked, thinking that if Innocencia had again spoken harshly to Rosario, she would personally flog the nasty whore.
“She...she is my papa's mother, isn't she?”
The question took Mercedes completely by surprise. “You mean Doña Sofia?” A sudden ugly suspicion began to form. At the child's woebegone nod, she asked, “Did you go into her quarters?”
“I only wanted to see her...to ask her if...if...”
Mercedes hugged Rosario. “Ask her what?”
“If she was my grandmother. My mother is dead but I have my papa now and I have you. He said we were a family...but I overheard Lupe and Angelina talking about his mother who is so sick she never leaves her room. I thought she might be lonely so I brought my new primer. I wanted to read to her, to cheer her up. I only wanted her to like me.”
Mercedes’ chest tightened painfully as she imagined the scene unfolding—a small waif in search of her long-lost grandmother, wanting to show her she was worthy, to belong. And Sofia, enraged at the temerity of a bastard with no right to the vaunted Alvarado name daring to approach her.
Mercedes held Rosario tightly and rocked her back and forth, crooning as the child sobbed, offering assurances that Grandmother Sofia was too ill to know what she had said and it was not Rosario's fault that the old woman had been angry.
Everything the twisted old woman touched withered with her hate. Lucero had come away from his last conversation with her so upset he tried to drown himself in liquor. Now even this innocent child had been hurt. “Come, let us get you some lunch. Angelina has made sopapilla. I think there is some fresh honey to go with it Would you like that?”
Rosario nodded sadly.
In a few minutes Mercedes had climbed the stairs and approached the door to her mother-in-law's room. Without even knocking she opened it and stepped inside, too angry for any pretense at amenities. “I wish to speak with you, Doña Sofia,” she said, striding across the room to where the old woman sat in her high-backed chair, facing the window.
Something in her daughter-in-law's tone of voice alerted the old patrona even before Sofia saw the blazing anger pinkening her cheeks and darkening Mercedes’ amber eyes. Surely that fool had not confessed to her—but no, of course not. If so the chit would have come to her with incredulous tears, not mantled in righteous indignation. It must have been that damnable child. “What has so beset you that you barge in rudely unannounced?” she asked, taking the offensive.
“I am most beset, yes,” Mercedes replied, pacing agitatedly by the window, trying to marshal her scattered thoughts. “Rosario isn't even five years old. I regret that she disturbed you, but she only wanted to meet you—”
“She is not even your child,” Sofia scoffed.
“She is my husband's daughter—your granddaughter.”
“I do not acknowledge his indiscretions any more than I did those of his father. You would be well advised to heed my example. Provide Lucero with legitimate heirs as is your duty. And pray you do not prove barren, else he would be forced to seek an annulment.”
Her words fell like chips of ice, dispassionate, yet threatening in a veiled sort of way. Mercedes stood in front of the chair, her head held proudly as she looked down at the cold shell of a woman. “If there is one thing I know, it is that my husband will never put me aside, barren or not.” He had sworn it to her in the heat of passion. Was it really true?
Intuiting Mercedes’ underlying uncertainties, Sofia replied, “Do not be so certain. Barren wives are easily dealt with in a noble house such as Alvarado. If God does not bless your union with fertility, then it is a sign that there was no true marriage.”
Beneath the sanctimonious platitudes, Mercedes sensed the viciousness, brutal as a slap. “I know my husband bett
er than you know your son. I've seen him with his child. If we have no children, he will make Rosario his heir.” Let her choke on that!
Sofia's small black eyes studied the haughty Sebastián woman with malice. “You are a fool if you believe that. Admittedly he has grown bizarrely fond of the child, but he will never let her inherit Gran Sangre. The estate has become his passion. Do not deny that you have seen it. I myself have watched him ride out every morning. He is rebuilding this place to be as glorious as it was in the days of old Don Bartólome. He will wish a son of his loins—a legal heir recognized by criollo society—to become the next master of Gran Sangre.”
“He cares nothing for criollo society,” Mercedes retorted. “If he did, he would not have broken so many of their sacred rules of propriety—bringing Rosario into the household, giving poached beef to starving farmers instead of having them whipped—even aiding Juarista soldiers!”
“Bah! None of that matters,” Sofia said dismissively. “Perhaps it was the war that changed him thus. Once he was a wastrel. Now he knows what is important. Only do your duty to the House of Alvarado. That is what women of our class are born to do.”
“I am more than a brood mare to Lucero,” Mercedes said stubbornly, fighting to remain calm.
“If you wish to remain patrona of this hacienda, you had best pray you are precisely that. Forget about that insignificant bastard child.” Her admonitions were clipped with finality. The discussion was over.
“I would be tempted to hate you, Doña Sofia...if I did not pity you so much,” Mercedes said as the old woman turned her head away and closed her eyes.
* * * *
That afternoon the bitter exchange with her mother-in-law replayed itself over and over in Mercedes’ mind as she rode out to inspect the irrigated crops, which were growing lushly in the late seasonal heat. While Rosario was taking her afternoon nap, Mercedes had enticed Bufón to lope along with her, feeling a need for some silent, unquestioning company on her solitary excursion.