Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  “Netoc . . .” Her voice carried sweetly across the crisp air of the Sierra. “Netoc.”

  When she approached, quiet fell over the group. The fire’s orange flames lighting a cherished face, Netoc got to his feet. “My love,” he murmured. “My love . . .”

  Natalie extended her hand to him. “It is time.”

  He brought her fingers to his lips, feathering a kiss on her knuckles. There were tears in his eyes. Or were they in her own?

  She buried her face in his shoulder. “My native sweetheart. My Netoc.” Her eyes met his. “We will be together now.”

  He nodded imperceptibly, then pulled her into the cloak of his arms. “It is time.”

  Thirty

  The time grew near.

  The woman was ready.

  This was the new year.

  Noche Negro skittish, Arturo Delgado and his Arturianos, the mountain breeze whipping their sombreros, looked down at the gate to Eden Roc. A native with a serape thrown over his shoulder, waited expectantly in front of their mounts.

  For weeks Arturo had been waiting for the right moment. For his nephew to get back on his feet, so they could be shot from beneath him again. For Margaret to return to the flush of beauty. She was remitted. A sly grin pulled at Arturo’s mouth. I have seen you, tigresa, and soon I will tame you.

  “Tell me,” Arturo demanded from the spy. “Tell me everything.”

  The skinny Indian stepped up to Noche Negro, then patted the stallion’s sleek neck. His upturned palm lifted toward El Grandero Rico. Arturo tossed a silver coin—.925 from the Santa Alicia, of course—to the Tarahumara.

  “There is much discord.” Hipólito’s smile accentuated a missing upper tooth. “The Lord Hapsburg lives in fear of the Magnificent Eagle. The servants gossip that it is over Areponapuchi.”

  Arturo laughed. “I’d like to see that pene-head Hapsburg on the run.”

  He’d grown less and less infatuated with the idea of accompanying the condescending Hapsburg to Madrid, since the more he thought about balling the McLoughlin girl, the more he wanted to savor her favors, so Arturo had stalled Hapsburg on leaving for the court of the boy king.

  Hipólito carried on. “Señora McLoughlin, she is sad. Her tears fall. Every night she cries for her husband. But she has said she will go to Topolobampo with her family.”

  “What about the daughter Margarita?”

  “She will marry the Magnificent Eagle.”

  “I don’t think so,” Arturo muttered under his breath.

  “They are very pretty”—Hipólito grinned his gap-toothed grin—“the niñas of Señora McLoughlin.”

  Cantú laughed. So did the other Arturianos. The patrón didn’t laugh. “Get them out of your mind. They are too far above you, you little worm, for you even to consider. Get on with the facts.”

  “Sí. Señor Patrón.” Hipólito shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “The young señor, Tex”—the hard X in Tex proved beyond the skill of the informer’s tongue; the name sounded like teh—“he is unhappy. The Señorita Natalie, she has turned her eyes to Father Xzobal. But the padre, he wants to leave Eden Roc, because he is making”—Hipólito made a universal sign with two of his fingers—“with the hot tamale Natalie.”

  “What did I tell you about overstepping your bounds?”

  “But, patrón. I have tasted the hot tamale myself. Many times.” Lifting his shoulders as well as his palms, Hipólito grinned. “She is very hot.”

  Once upon a time Arturo would have shot a man for making a remark such as Hipólito’s. No more. His lip quivered. So, Natalie had her sloe eyes on yet another lover, this time the loathsome priest who’d led last March’s strike at the mine. They deserved each other.

  His love for Natalie had died five years ago, when she left him. No, that wasn’t so. His love didn’t die until later, when he learned the truth. About how she had taken on all comers. On the very night he’d asked for her hand in marriage, she’d gone to Areponapuchi. She paid each of the whores to leave, to let her handle all the trade.

  Sneering, Arturo told Hipólito, “Enjoy the tamale.”

  “Gracias.” The spy’s grin widened. “Señor Isaiah, he says the magic of the falls will go away, if Natalie goes away.”

  “I don’t give a fig about that old fool. What else?”

  “The Magnificent Eagle has promised not to tell the peons that Lord Hapsburg is here.”

  Hapsburg needs another New World lesson. “Go to the village. Tell the madam Pilar about Hapsburg. Tell her I said to spread the story . . . he’ll be in Areponapuchi. Soon.”

  “Sí, Señor Patrón.”

  Cantú spoke next. “Do you want us to go in after your nephew and the McLoughlin woman?”

  “Not yet. We’ve waited this long for them to recover—what’s a few more days? I want to see what happens to Hapsburg. And when the time is right, we will flush the covey of quail from the bush.”

  “What about the other woman?”

  Arturo turned the stallion, kneed him, and headed toward the village. Natalie could go to hell. She rode for a fall, anyway, so vast were her depravities. “She’ll destroy herself.” And if not, well . . .

  Miracles do happen.

  For months—for years!—Lisette McLoughlin had been yearning for this moment. Finally, her husband had shunned his mistress. In the seclusion of her cottage, as twilight fell, he stood before his wife—tall, silver-haired, hat in hand.

  Never had Gil looked so handsome to these sore eyes of hers.

  Thank you, mein Gott. If my husband had arrived one day later, the children and I would have been gone.

  She opened her arms wide. “Hello, my precious Liebster.”

  He dropped the Stetson and swooped her into his embrace. “I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand being without you. Why didn’t you tell me how much I depend on you?”

  “You weren’t listening.”

  “I’m listening now.”

  He carried her to her bed, stripped her clothes away, and made love to her with the intensity of their long-awaited reunion, mixed with love grown mature by age and experience.

  Later, they sat nude in bed, shared a bottle of cognac, and caressed each other’s various parts. Rearing back, Gil scrutinized his wife of almost thirty years. “You look different. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? I see you, well, like you were when we first married.”

  “I’m glad you noticed—I’ve been working on it. Oh, Gil, I have to tell you! I can’t wait until you see Gretchen. It’s like the hands of time have turned back.” Lisette waxed enthusiastic. “She’s a girl again.”

  “So are you. And I’m an old man.”

  “Nonsense. You’re barely sixty years old.”

  “I don’t like you looking all girlish.” It had been years since Gil displayed the jealousy that he’d had to work at constantly to keep under control, but it snapped tonight. “Who did you pretty yourself up for?”

  “For me.”

  “You’re sure it had nothing to do with Isaiah Nash?”

  “He had something to do with it, all right. If not for his Eden Roc, I’d still be fat and flabby.”

  “I liked the way you looked.” He poured her another cognac. And when he handed the glass over, his hand brushed her naked breast. The tip sprang under his fingers, and Lisette sucked in her breath. Gil groaned. “Aw, hell, honey. You look real damn good.”

  Saucy as a woman of eighteen, Lisette leaned toward him. “Is sixty too old for another round of lovemaking, Mr. McLoughlin?”

  “Sixty is not too old.”

  “Satisfied? Sixty wasn’t too old.”

  “Mmm, ja, Liebster, I know.”

  Sharing the fuzzy warmth of the moments after spectacular intimacy, Gil plumped the pillow and wiggled to sit up in his wife’s bed. A scowl etched his face anew. “Are you ready to answer a question—with no hem-hawing around? What’s going on around this place? And what in the name of blue blazes happened to turn you young?”

>   “Don’t glower.” The lovely spell was shattered, letting in the chaos of their family. But Lisette forced those thoughts aside. This was the moment for her and Gil, and for her and Gil alone. “You aren’t pretty when you glower.”

  “I’ve never been pretty, goddammit. So tell me what you’ve done to yourself.”

  “It’s Eden Roc. It makes the old young. And, Gil, I have the most splendid news.” She had a lot of news, little of it good, yet Lisette launched into a report webbed with the lace of enthusiasm. “What do you think about Gretchen marrying Rafe Delgado?”

  “That was the point of sending her down here.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lisette’s brow quirked, while uneasiness tugged at her newfound peace of mind. “Was I suffering under a wrong impression? I, well, I thought she traveled down here to talk me into going home.”

  “She did.” Gil rubbed his still-firm stomach. “But I figured—and Maisie agrees—those two will make a good match.”

  Amazed at her husband, Lisette smiled. “I never thought I’d live to see the day the big papa bear would match-make one of his cubs.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Lisette rolled her eyes, then got to the rest of the news. “We’re going to have a daughter-in-law. Of course, it’s not finalized yet, but Angus wants to marry Isaiah’s daughter.”

  “Isaiah’s daughter? Don’t you mean granddaughter?”

  “No. I mean daughter. Natalie.”

  “Wait a minute, honey. If I’m remembering correctly, Isaiah’s only got one child.” Gil blanched under his perpetual tan. “She’s old enough to be our boy’s mother.”

  “She’s ten years younger than I am. You wouldn’t know her age from looking at her.”

  “Haven’t you learned by now? You can’t go by looks.”

  Actually, Lisette had grave reservations about Angus and Natalie. She loved Natalie. Forty or not, Natalie would be welcomed into the family. It was just—well, Lisette had heard some unpleasant downstairs gossip about Natalie and men. I’d overlook those rumors, if I could believe she loves Angus.

  “Lisette . . . ? Is something wrong, honey?”

  She shook her head. “You know me. If I don’t have something to worry about, I worry about having nothing to worry about.”

  “Now that you mention problems, brace yourself, sweetheart.” He blew out a puff of breath. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s gotta be said. I’ve got a responsibility to our adopted country. The President counts on me. The American people count on me. And you know I don’t like welshing on things I ought to do. I need to get back to the White House. As fast as possible.”

  Argue, she wouldn’t. She’d gotten her message across. When push came to shove, her husband had chosen her over politics. That was what mattered, after all. She wasn’t looking to change him completely—if she did, she would be renouncing all that she loved about the complicated and intense man who was Gilliegorm McLoughlin. “What are the plans?”

  “A regiment of Federales waits not far from here to escort us away. The steamship Atlantic Fire is anchored in the port of Tampico. She’s waiting to sail us to Washington.”

  “All right, Liebster. Let’s assemble our children and leave.”

  The McLoughlin retinue left Eden Roc before the break of dawn, two mornings later. Margaret and Rafe refused to go along. If Tex left, he had informed his parents, it would be with his wife at his side.

  With every intention of asking for Natalie’s hand in marriage, Tex made one more trip to her casita. She hadn’t returned. She hadn’t been there all night. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. Where was she?

  He paced up and down the path fronting her little house. Her corn-colored hair in braids wound round her head, the buxom masseuse Helga clomped by and offered a vigorous good morning.

  “Have you seen Natalie?” Tex asked.

  “Young man, I do not make it my business to keep up with the young lady.” Helga frowned and pointed to his feet. “Take care! Do not be kicking the dust. You are getting dirt on your boots. Someone should spank you—should blister your behind!” Glaze melted over her eyes, and a line of drool seeped down her chin. “If you don’t behave . . .”

  Tex groaned and turned away.

  It was the worst kept secret at Eden Roc that Leonardo had been fooling around with that gal. Tex had even heard it said that his brother-in-law had let her put a diaper on him. And spanked him, while he sucked on a lollipop! Tex thought that downright odd—for sure worse than that old saw about Texas being where the men were men and the sheep knew it. Him playing a baby, no wonder Olga ran off and left ole Leo!

  Leonardo walked up. Tex asked after Natalie. In a sour mood because his wife had left with her parents, Leonardo didn’t bother to comment on Natalie. He disappeared into the woods, chasing after Helga.

  The Irishman, Hipólito in his wake, strolled by. Neither man had seen Natalie. An hour or so after the breakfast hour, Margaret and Rafe—with a saddlebag thrown over his shoulder, the walking stick in his right hand—approached Tex.

  “Last chance, hombre. We’re leaving as soon as we can get Diablo and Penny saddled up.”

  “Do come with us,” his sister appealed.

  “I’ve gotta talk with Natalie. Got to.” Fear clawed Tex’s heart. “I’m worried. I’m afraid something’s happened to her.”

  Rafe set their grips on the ground. “We can wait awhile, can’t we, querida?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tex didn’t know how long he could stall his sister and her man. He knew he shouldn’t, period. They were on pins and needles to get Xzobal to a safe harbor. “Why don’t y’all go on without me? I ain’t gonna give up on Miss Natalie.”

  As soon as Tex finished speaking, Isaiah rounded the bend that led to the lift contraption.

  Something was wrong.

  “Oh, dear,” Margaret murmured.

  There were tears in Isaiah’s angelic eyes. His shoulders shook. His hand trembling, he put it on Tex’s shoulder. The elderly man, who had always seemed so young, was now broken and sorrowful. “Come to the main house with me, Son. You and I need to talk.”

  “What’s wrong?” Shards of ice shaved Tex’s veins. “What’s the matter? It’s Natalie, isn’t it?”

  Rafe said, “Hombre, we—”

  “What’s wrong with Natalie!” the Texan demanded.

  Margaret faced the path Isaiah had taken; she paled. Rafe captured her hand. She stepped toward her brother. “Oh, Tex, I’m so sorry.”

  Tex started to take a look, but with determined force, Isaiah shoved Tex in the opposite direction. “Let’s get on back to the main house, Son. I’ve got some Tennessee sour mash—the good stuff, out of Lynchburg—hidden.”

  “I don’t want nothing to drink. I want to know about Natalie!”

  Isaiah gestured with his head to Rafe, who grabbed Tex’s upper arm.

  “Every once in a while,” Isaiah said gravely, “a man needs a shot of good whiskey.”

  Tex jerked out of his bonds. He spun around, intent on finding out what Isaiah shielded him from. The elevator. It topped the canyon wall, swaying like a bottom-heavy bell as it came to rest at its berth. No passengers were visible in the basket seat. Tex ran toward it. A putrid smell rolled toward him, making him gag. And what he saw stayed with him all the days of his life.

  Broken and bloody, two bodies covered the litter’s floor.

  That of the funny little Indian Netoc.

  And that of Natalie Nash.

  They had thrown themselves from the cliff.

  Thirty-one

  On the same brisk morning that the elevator deposited its gruesome burden at the crest of the canyon’s eye—and in back of the heartsick young cowboy being delivered into the numbing embrace of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7—Isaiah Nash took to his bed.

  Not a tear fell for his only child. But as each moment passed, as morning became afternoon and afternoon changed to the pale gray of twi
light, his skin turned lax and gray, his hair the color of snow, and a haunted expression—like that of a traumatized soldier—settled in his eyes. His spirit gone, the magic of Eden Roc was no more for him.

  When Margaret went to awaken him the next day, so that he could pay last respects to poor Natalie, he lay dead of a broken heart.

  When the burials were complete, Tex McLoughlin went to his sister. His eyes bleak and red-rimmed, both from alcohol and mourning, he said, “According to Papa, the U.S. Navy has a ship anchored in Tampico. It’s headed for Cuba. I think I’ll get on outta here, join up.”

  Margaret didn’t know what to say. She understood Tex’s grief. She understood how hurt he’d been upon learning Natalie and the likable little Tarahumaran man had been in love for many, many years. What to say to her brother was beyond Margaret.

  Frantically, her eyes implored Rafe; she hoped he had the answer.

  “Do you know much about sailing?” he asked.

  “Nope.” Studying the floor, Tex buried his hands under his armpits. “I didn’t know nothing about a broken heart, but I done come by experience quick enough.”

  There was no arguing his logic. Margaret hoped and prayed her brother would be all right. “If that’s what you feel you must do, then Rafe and I support you. Don’t we, Rafe?”

  He tightened his hand on her shoulder. “We do.”

  She stepped away to throw her arms around her baby brother. Her tears scalded her eyes as she buried her face in his shoulder. “I love you, kid brother. Please don’t let this be the last time we see you.”

  “I’ll come back so’s you can sign me a book.”

  What a strange remark. “Christopher Columbus and the Catholic Kings has been out of print for years. And you have a copy already, back home at the Four Aces.”

  “Maggie, I mean the new one. Sign the new one for me.”

  “What new one?”

  “The one ole Rafe here says you’re gonna write.”