Astonished that he’d approach her again, she stared at him. “Big bucks, Tracy!” he smiled, caressing her arm.
Dry, harsh anger rose in her. “No.”
She reached for her crutch but he put it beyond her. “Come on!” His tone was incredulous. “I know you’ve got a trust fund, but it’s not enough to turn up your nose at a condo worth a couple of hundred thousand and a lot more cash!”
“I wonder how you draw up contracts for bribes.” She raised her voice. “Le Moyne!”
The big dog trotted out of her room, looked inquiringly at Fricks, who reddened and got to his feet. “Craziness runs in the family,” he snorted and stalked off.
With difficulty, Tracy retrieved the crutch, patted Le Moyne and was starting for her room when Vashti came running from the pool, a lavender towel clutched over her bikini.
“You little bitch!” she choked breathlessly. “I wish you’d never come back! Cosying up to Judd, bringing in that Indian slut, and when you could be a little help, oh no, you’re too good to want money!” She shook her fist. “Well, let me tell you, Miss Priss, the only reason you’re so high and mighty about money is because you’ve always had it. I wasn’t so lucky.”
“You’re drunk, Vashti.”
“And you’re not, you damned goody-goody!” Full breasts heaving, eyes blazing almost black, Vashti hurled her words. “This damned ranch is losing money, not making it! Offers like Hal’s don’t come along every day—”
She collapsed on the couch and began to cry. Physically nauseated by the woman, Tracy went down the hall to her room, called in Le Moyne and locked the door.
“My friend,” she told him, rubbing the broad head between the pricked-up ears, “we’ll stay till that charm-boy landshark leaves, but then we’re heading for home! Otherwise, I may wrap this crutch around that female’s conniving head!”
He made a soft sound of approval, but Tracy felt so dirty and disgusted that she took a shower.
To her relief, Fricks said good-bye next day at breakfast. Vashti was flying him to town and would stay in to shop and see friends for a few days. The house was much more relaxed without them. There was singing from the kitchen and giggling among the young women who did the housework.
Tracy didn’t want to make it clear to Patrick that she was avoiding Vashti, so she announced that day that her ankle was much better and she needed to get back to her photography. A good publisher was interested in her idea, but wanted to see some pictures and text.
Patrick squeezed her hand. “I won’t interfere with your rise to fame,” he said. “But I still expect to see you every day. One of the Sanchez lads can chauffeur you till you can drive yourself.”
Tivi took her and Le Moyne home, helped her across the creek, and promised to come for her about nine next day. He also pumped several buckets of water and fetched in cookwood.
Tracy thanked him. When he was gone, she looked around the little cabin with pleasure and a sense of peace. “Good to be back, isn’t it, Le Moyne? But I hope you haven’t gone off soyburgers while you were eating steak bones!”
Her ankle was well enough now that she could limp around the tiny cabin. She puttered for a bit and then settled in the rocker with her photographs and notebooks. What she really wanted to do was climb to the owl blind and see how the owlets were, but she was going to have to be cautious. Her picture-taking, for a while, would be limited to whatever came close to the house.
She sighed impatiently, but was soon absorbed in the pictures. Out of hundreds of exposures, she had sifted two dozen. These would have to be screened again by the editors, for she simply couldn’t, herself, reject any of them. The owls were her favorites, except for the doe and fawn touching noses, but the foxes were such beautiful creatures, and the little ringtail—
Le Moyne got up and moved to the open door. Alerted, she heard the sound of horses. When she hopped to the door, her heart went into her throat.
Shea, on a big iron-gray, was leading golden Güera. “Heard you were back in residence,” he called, dismounting. “Since your left ankle’s okay for mounting, maybe you can ride easier than you can drive a car.”
“It’ll save my life.” Tracy’s voice was so fervent that she blushed. “It’s really kind of you to bring Güera.”
He grinned. His gray eyes made her tremble inwardly. He had such a power with her, such a power, and he didn’t seem to care. “I thought I’d better bring her myself,” he said. “Seems she belongs to a very pernickety lady who looks gift horses in the mouth.”
Without waiting for her response, which was just as well, because Tracy couldn’t think of one, he led the horses to the corral. Tracy’s breath came fast. He was unsaddling the gray, too!”
When he strode to the cabin, he took her in his arms. She drew down his head, reaching up to press against him, lose herself in the harsh sweetness of his kiss.
He was her man. When he came to her, she couldn’t ask questions or bargain or stand on her pride. Lifting his head, he smiled into her eyes. “That day you rode over, we were just starting something important when we were rudely interrupted. Want to try again?”
A tremulous laugh was all the answer she could make. That, and clasping her arms around him as he gently picked her up.
He stayed for supper, making them an omelet and salad from the food Concha and Henri had loaded her with. Topped off with coffee and some of Concha’s flan, it was a feast. Anything would have been, shared with Shea, together in this little cabin that was more a home than any she had had.
“You’re not afraid here?” he asked. “After that guy, I wouldn’t blame you for being nervous.”
“There’s Le Moyne.” She gave a little shrug. “Anyhow, I’m not going to let what’s over keep me from enjoying what’s now.”
The words were out before she realized he might take them as a criticism, but his smile was approving. “That’s the way to get the most out of catching butterflies.”
She blinked. “Catching butterflies?”
“Coger mariposas. It’s a phrase for what we just did.” The edges of his eyes crinkled. “Nicer than the English slang?”
“By a long way.” She laughed back at him, blissful.
This was the first time he hadn’t left her immediately after making love, the first time they’d talked easily and joked. Was he starting to trust her? His gaze traveled slowly around the room.
“Pretty Spartan. Are you trying to be like Thoreau at Walden?”
“I’ll confess I’m beginning to wish I had a refrigerator. But there’s no use getting in electricity and plumbing unless I stay into the autumn.”
“And that depends on?”
“Patrick. Mary’s made a wonderful companion for him, but I’ll stay as long as he seems to want me.”
Bronze eyebrows lifted above his straight nose. “You’re not just itching to get back to Houston?”
He didn’t know what had happened to her there and she didn’t want, not yet, to tell him. Repressing a shiver, she shook her head. “Whatever happens, I doubt I’ll go back to Houston. Traffic’s horrendous and that steam heat wilts me. Maybe I’ll try San Francisco. That’s an interesting place.”
“Should be.”
He got up and began doing the dishes, his usual reserve settling around him like an invisible shell. Perching on a stool to wipe after he rinsed, Tracy tried to banter him into the relaxed mood that had just inexplicably ended.
“Speaking of Thoreau, you guys have a pretty basic setup there at El Charco. Do you sleep in the ramada?”
“Till it gets cold. Makes sense in this country to live outside in warm weather. You need a roof for shade, but walls only hamper the breeze. And the roof needs spaces for ventilation. We don’t put a mattress over the springs of a cot. That keeps the air from reaching and cooling you, and there’s no cloth to get fouled by mice or birds. When it gets really hot, a hundred or so, which seldom happens at this altitude, you can throw water under and around the cots for coolness and
keeping down the dust. As long as there’s plenty of water to drink and you get enough salt and minerals to replace your electrolytes, you can cool yourself by sweating.”
“And siesta half the day?”
“Why not? We’re working by five in the summer. We can knock off by nine or ten, cool it in the ramada till three or four, work till dark, and get in a full day’s work.”
“That doesn’t sound much like Thoreau.”
“It’s not Walden. However, he had his cabin furnished so it could be swept out in two minutes. He didn’t believe in letting things own you. If he’d lived down here, I bet he’d have had a ramada, a clay water olla and bare spring cot.”
Tracy sniffed. “He lived at Walden only about two years. And he scarfed up a lot of Mama’s cooking even then, carried home lots of her pies.”
“Is nothing sacred?” Shea groaned.
“He doesn’t need myths. But I’ll bet you if he’d been less ascetic and had a wife, he wouldn’t have died in his early forties.”
“He might have died sooner.”
“Married men live longer,” said Tracy doggedly, though she wished she hadn’t tilted the conversation in this direction.
Shea nodded. “Maybe it just seems longer.”
Tossing out the dishwater, he hung up the pan, neatly draped the dishcloth over it and turned. He saw the photos and notes, came to look down at the one of the ringtail. “May I look?”
“Of course.”
Anxiously, she waited while he went through the pictures. He smiled a couple of times, but was frowning when he put them down. “I didn’t know you were so good.”
“It’s more luck and patience.” He was impressed, but the effect on him worried her. She laughed nervously. “I took hundreds of shots. These are the good ones.”
He gave her a long slow look. “Don’t apologize for what you are,” he said. A kind of tightness seemed to dissolve in him. “You can ride, probably, but you’re not up to saddling a horse. Shall I come back in a day or two and give Sangre a workout?”
“Sounds like fun.”
He didn’t kiss her, but at the door he stopped. “Maybe we could catch a few butterflies.” He laughed and went out into the dusk.
XVI
He was waiting next day when Tivi brought her back from visiting Patrick. Since it was close to noon, they made a quick lunch. Then he saddled the horses and, followed by Le Moyne, they rode up a trail that wound through the cañon and up a steep narrow way to a broad mountain meadow. He lifted her down and carried her to a pile of smooth rocks. After he had loosened the horses’ cinches, he untied the blanket from behind his saddle and spread it on the grass.
They made love, bodies sensuously laved in sun and air. Afterward, they rested lazily, while happiness glowed warm as the sunlight inside Tracy.
He must care about her. In time, if she didn’t crowd him, surely he’d admit it?
“A great place for butterflies,” he said, stroking her from breast to flank. She leaned over and kissed him.
“I wonder if Socorro and her San Patricio ever made love up here?”
“Who knows? But I’ve thought it’d be interesting to go to the Pinacates, where they rescued each other, and try to retrace the journey. Maybe go around by Tinajas Altas, where Judah Frost and so many others died, and then head south.”
“I’d love to do that!”
“Well, maybe we can. Before you go to San Francisco.”
She wanted to say that she wouldn’t go anywhere if he wanted her to stay, but that might jar his escape mechanisms. Maybe he’d become less wary since he thought she would be leaving and was no permanent threat to his Thoreau-ish desert-rat existence.
Sitting up, lips tightened, she began to dress.
When they rode up to the cabin, Judd was waiting. He stood proprietorially on the step, arms crossed, squarish gold-brown head atilt. Shea’s face closed.
“You’ve got company.”
Judd strode forward to lift her down. “You should have come to New York with me, doll! It was a blast. The calls and telegrams I’ve gotten! I’m going on a speaking tour and—”
“Shea, won’t you stay for supper?” Tracy asked desperately.
“You and Judd have catching up to do.” Shea’s tone was brittle. He didn’t look up from unsaddling Güera.
Tracy despaired. So quick to be suspicious! So ready to shut her out! Didn’t their loving mean anything? Fighting tears of furious hurt, she said brightly, “Thanks for the ride—and the butterflies!”
Back stiffly erect, she slipped her arm through Judd’s and let him help her to the house. Full of his talk-show triumph, he boasted about its results. Several prominent senators had invited him to Washington to testify at Congressional hearings and he was deluged with applications for Stronghold.
“That article of yours did it, Tracy.” His big hand closed over hers. “How’d you like to be my public relations honcho?”
“Honcha? Honchess?” She forced Shea from her mind and tried to smile, though she was appalled at her article’s apparently having had an effect exactly the reverse of what she’d intended. “Thanks, Judd, but I’m doing PR for some owls.”
His yellow eyes lingered over her. “Maybe I can make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Afraid of where that sort of talk might lead and preferring to stay on cordial terms with him, for Patrick’s sake, she got up and hopped over to the stove.
“Will you stay for supper?”
“Sure, but I’ll help.”
He built the fire and made salad while she put together enchiladas. They had a pleasant meal, but she was glad when he left early, saying he had to make a number of phone calls.
When he kissed her, she turned her face so his lips brushed her cheek. He laughed, apparently too exuberant to be put off, and went away whistling. Tracy sat down, propped up her ankle and patted Le Moyne, who came to lie beside her.
“Dog,” she said, “your former master is one hard-headed man!” Just when Shea’d seemed to be thawing, he’d frozen up again. She was damned tired of it.
All the same, when she lay down that night, she remembered the sun and air of the mountain meadow and used the memory of their loving as a shield against those nightmares that waited to engulf her in the darkness.
When Tivi drove her to the big house next morning, Tracy saw with a sinking heart that the plane was back so Vashti must be. The best to hope for was that she’d stay booze-numbed enough not to harass Patrick.
That expectation died as Tracy limped through the door. Vashti’s strident voice reached all the way downstairs, though Tracy couldn’t distinguish words till she started up the steps.
“… fantastic offer for that worn-out land and isolated spring! This is our last chance. Hal’s given us till Sunday. If you don’t see sense by then, he’s offering for another property.”
“He can offer right damn now!” came Patrick’s weak growl.
There was a hiss of rage. “You blind old fool! You miserable cripple!”
“Patrick!” Tracy called, gripping the handrail and taking the stairs as fast as she could. “Patrick!”
That should quieten Vashti. Mary must not be in the room. She ran down the hall, though, as Tracy neared the top of the flight, and when Tracy entered her uncle’s room, Mary was standing by Patrick, arm protectively around him.
“Quit shouting, Mrs. Scott. You’re upsetting your husband.”
Vashti was past restraint. “Husband!” she sneered. “Might as well be a fallen log, rotting away in the middle of the road, blocking everyone who can move!”
Tracy caught her arm, smelled whiskey on her breath, and shoved her toward the door. “Go sober up!”
Vashti sprang for her, hands clawed. Tracy dodged awkwardly. Mary grabbed Vashti, pinned her arm behind her back. “If you were a man, I’d kick you in the balls!” she said between her teeth. “Get out of here, Mrs. Scott, or I’ll kick your ass up between your shoulders!”
“You d
irty Indian bitch! You think I haven’t seen you rubbing yourself against that old wreck, letting him feel you up—?”
Mary slapped Vashti halfway across the room. In the same instant, there was a gasping, strangling sound from the bed.
Patrick’s body arched, convulsed. Tracy made for the phone, sure he was having another stroke, but as she dialed the doctor, he choked, “My—my heart—”
Mary ran to him. He died in her arms.
Vashti, unsurprisingly, ordered Mary off the place at once. “You can stay at the cabin,” Tracy told her. “I’m staying here till the doctor comes, and Judd and Shea.”
Weeping over Patrick, Vashti lifted her shining head. “I suppose you’ll tattletale! I loved Patrick! But he could be so goddam aggravating!”
“He won’t aggravate you anymore,” Tracy said. Her voice sounded as cold and disembodied as she felt. “Certainly I’m going to tell his sons what you said to him. You caused his death.”
“I never touched him!”
“That was part of the trouble,” Tracy said.
Brushing Vashti aside, she closed Patrick’s eyes and sat down to wait.
Husbands and wives quarrel frequently. That Patrick had died during such a fight was, of course, no legal charge against Vashti. Judd shrugged helplessly when Tracy told him.
“Hell, baby, it’s just lucky for me Dad didn’t do this when he and I would be arguing about managing the ranch!”
“An argument’s one thing,” Tracy said. “Calling him the names she did, making those filthy accusations—”
“She was drunk.”
“That’s an excuse?”
Judd stared as if amazed at Tracy’s implacability. “What the hell can I do about it? You want me to try to get her cut out of his will?”
“No.” Tracy drooped.
After all, realistically, what could be done? Vashti’s behavior since Patrick’s death had even convinced her that the woman had loved him, though she’d shrunk from his paralyzed body. “I guess I don’t want her to pose as a heartbroken widow and expect a lot of deference.”
A Mating of Hawks Page 18