"Good. The more I read about the original Onate land grant, the less sense it makes. Since you have to be here anyway, would you help me with the translation?"
"There's a lot about the old land grants that no one understands, no matter what the language."
"Is that a yes or a no on the translation?"
He looked up. "It's a possible maybe. What's giving you the most trouble?"
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe it's more a cultural question than a translation issue. The original Onate grant was passed along under the Spanish rules of inheritance, right?"
"Every son inherited equally, and under some circumstances, so did the daughters. Is that the sort of thing you mean?"
"Yes. It's confusing to me because the only family histories I've researched this far back have been under the British system where the oldest son inherits and the rest of the sons go into the military or priesthood or whatever, because in terms of any inheritance, they don't get much more than a few hundred dollars and a pat on the head."
"The British way is very effective for concentrating family wealth and power from generation to generation," Dan said as he removed the paper, turned it, and placed it on the scanner again. "The Spanish method was different. The grazing and woodcutting lands were held in common by all family members. Rights to the river and irrigated lands were divided so that each inheriting member of the family had a water source and fields for crops."
Carly hesitated. "Common lands? Like the Indians had?"
"Not quite." Dan hit the button on the scanner. "The Indians, whether they lived in pueblos or followed the old hunting, gathering, and raiding way of life, held all land in common-if they held any land at all." Carefully he set the paper aside and picked up another yellowed sheet. "The Spanish rules were more complex. They called for a combination of individual and common lands within the original grant. The common lands remained the same size. The individual lands got smaller and smaller with each generation. Big families dividing and subdividing the same land over and over again."
"Got it. But what happened to the land grants when political control passed from Spain to Mexico?"
Dan placed another fragile piece of paper on the scanner and carefully lowered the lid. "Mexican rules of inheritance were basically the same as Spanish, which meant that old land grants generally passed intact to the next generation despite the change in government. Other than the change from Spanish priests to Mexican priests and the resulting outlawry of the Penitente sect of Catholicism, New Mexico hardly noticed the change from Spanish to Mexican governors. In any case, by the time Mexico kicked out the Spanish in 1821, New Mexico had been around long enough as a frontier to think of itself as a separate entity."
"So the effect through time was to have more and more New Mexican families owning smaller and smaller patches of the original grant?" Carly asked.
"Yes, while still holding the mass of the pasturage and woodlands in common. Big common lands. Tiny personal lands."
"What happened when New Mexico became a U.S. territory?"
"The shit hit the fan."
She smiled wryly. "I gathered that much from reading the microfilm. But why?"
"Lots of reasons." Dan kept working as he talked. It was easier than looking into her changing, intelligent hazel eyes or watching her pink mouth shape words or her tongue licking moisture over dry lips.
Apparently his body had just decided that it was one hundred percent healthy and ready to ride.
"Under Spanish and Mexican control, taxes were pretty much avoided," Dan said. "A tax collector who was too diligent ended up beaten, dead, or run out of town. The taxes that were collected mostly stayed in New Mexico. In fact, throughout its history, New Mexico has been a fiscal drain on whichever government claimed it, right into modern times. That's the thing about frontiers. They're expensive to try to control."
"So the Spanish and Mexican governments let New Mexicans get away with not paying taxes?"
"That's modern thinking."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"We live in a time when communication is immediate, every trans-action is recorded, and the government gets its taxes at the same time a worker gets his paycheck."
"Sure," she said, "but governments throughout history have managed to collect taxes, no matter what the state of the communications."
"In towns and settled areas, yes. Frontiers? No. It's the nature of a frontier to be beyond the pale of society, of civilization, of control. Essentially, New Mexico spent more time after its 'discovery' as a frontier than any other piece of American real estate. New Mexico had three hundred years of being somebody's edge of the earth, somebody's dumping ground for outlaws, adventurers, city rejects, dreamers, and politicians." Dan's mouth turned in a wry downward curve. "While Oppenheimer and the boys were inventing the atomic age at Alamogordo, curanderos and brujos were still practicing their ancient trades in the rural areas, using natural drugs like morning glory, poppy, and mescaline, drugs that were outlawed by a culture that never understood them. Between formal wars there were still informal shoot-outs over land and water. Penitentes still carried heavy crosses and flogged themselves bloody following in the steps of Christ." He shrugged. "Some say they still do."
Fascinated by the light and shadow flowing across Dan's angular face, Carly watched his movements as he worked over the scanner. "What do you say?" she asked.
For several breaths the room was quiet. Then he looked up, pinning her with a glance. "I say it's better left alone. For every step you take away from a New Mexico city, you're going back in time. Frontiers are dangerous. Smart people leave dangerous things alone unless there's no other choice. You have a choice."
She tilted her head slightly. Light slid through her hair, picking out the gold among the shades of dark red and darker brown.
"Something wrong?" he asked, sensing her intensity.
"I think you believe a lot of things are better left alone."
"Sleeping dogs and land mines," he said under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing. Family joke."
"You don't look like you're laughing."
Dan put another sheet in the scanner and touched the button. "Once you begin thinking of New Mexico as a long-lived frontier rather than a modern state, its history makes a lot more sense."
Carly wanted to protest the change of subject, but didn't. She was here to learn about a family history, not this man's personal history. If she'd rather pry into Dan's affairs than the Quintrells', that was her problem.
"How so?" she asked.
He shrugged. "The pueblos might be the longest continuously inhabited structures in America, but they aren't Anglo. Santa Fe has a history longer than that of the United States, but three-quarters of Santa Fe's history isn't Anglo. We've been a state for barely three generations. My mother's grandfather lived on a frontier where men carried guns because there was no other law." He pulled out a sheet, replaced it. "Outside of Santa Fe and Albuquerque, the people of New Mexico live a lot closer to the bone than most Americans do. Closer to the wild lands. Culturally separate from our neighbors."
"I thought this was the great state of cultural mixing."
He straightened and faced her again. Deliberately he interlocked the fingers of his hands. "If you call this mixing, then we're mixed."
"So we're talking salad rather than melting pot?"
"Other than cuisine and art, the Indians, the hispanos, and the Anglos lead pretty separate lives. Side by side, but not together."
She frowned. "Is that good or bad?"
"It just is, Carolina May. It just is."
The sound of her name spoken in his husky, matter-of-fact voice raised gooseflesh on her arms.
Uh-oh. Not good.
She rubbed her skin briskly and told herself she was sitting in a draft.
But she knew she wasn't.
Chapter 10
QUINTRELL RANCH
EARLY MONDAY AFTERNOON
"THANK YOU,
MISSY," JOSH SAID, REACHING FOR THE SANDWICH MELISSA MOORE had put in front of him. "I didn't realize how late it was."
"Thanks, honey," Pete said as his wife put another plate in front of him. "I was getting hungry enough to start in on the leather-bound ledgers."
Melissa smiled at both men. "Beer, tea, coffee, soda, wine, whiskey, water?"
"Coffee," both men said instantly.
"Coming up."
Pete watched his trim, jeans-clad wife walk out of Josh's home office. Light gleamed in her fair hair and glanced off the colorful cowboy boots she wore. The Indian turquoise necklace shifted against her silk blouse and the full breasts beneath. The breasts, the tight butt, and the huge dark eyes were the legacy of her mother.
"Sometimes she's the image of Betty," Pete said.
Josh looked up from the ranch report, followed Pete's glance, and said, "Thank the Lord she didn't inherit Betty's taste for booze and pills."
Pete's smile flashed against his narrow, almost ascetic face. "Not my Melissa. She's as smart as they come and twice as gutsy."
"If it weren't for her keeping a lid on stuff here, I'd have talked the Senator into selling the ranch and living full-time in Santa Fe long ago."
"Never happen. Quintrells have lived here for six generations."
Josh shook his head. "This place is a money sink and a pain in the ass. I love Santa Fe and Washington, D.C."
"But you look so fine on horseback or walking over the fields with your hunting dogs and shotgun. Not to mention the ranch's yearly Founders Barbecue with all the cultural mixing and fireworks, costumes and deal-making. The photographers go nuts and the voters can't get enough of it."
The governor gave a bark of laughter. "Maybe I should make you my campaign manager instead of Mark Rubin."
"No thanks," Pete said quickly. "I'm a small-town guy at heart. So is Melissa."
"Good thing, or she'd be running for my office. That is one organized female you married."
Pete grinned. "A real terror."
Melissa returned with coffee cups and pot on a tray. She fixed each man's coffee the way he liked it, set the cup in front of him, and asked, "What else do you need?"
"More feed from less land, more rain on all the land, and peace on earth while you're at it," Josh said.
"Try church," she said.
"I do every Sunday."
"God has a lot to watch over." She pushed her long hair away from her cheek. "Maybe you should go twice a week."
Josh snorted. "You and Father Roybal."
Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she smiled again. "He's not my Father Roybal. I'm a Methodist."
"Methodist, Catholic, New Age, they're all the same in one way," Josh said.
"Spiritual?" Pete suggested.
"No." Josh tapped a computer printout. "They all want my money."
Pete looked at the list of charities Josh had told him to prepare, along with the Senator's annual contribution to each. "Everybody wants money. Nothing new about that."
"Including me," Josh agreed. "Running for president is damned expensive, and neither one of you heard me say that, understand?"
Pete and Melissa exchanged fast glances.
"Of course," Pete said.
"Nothing you say ever goes beyond this house," she added, smiling. "Do you need anything else?"
"No," Josh said.
Melissa touched her husband's shoulder and walked quietly out of the room.
Josh was too busy reading the charity list to notice if Melissa left or stayed. When he was younger, her gently swaying breasts would have required that he get in her jeans. No more. He had more important things to worry about than casual sex. After he'd married Anne, he'd stayed monogamous. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd known it was necessary, like eating rubber chicken at a thousand fund-raising dinners. Today a politician couldn't set one foot toward the White House without having everything about his sex life vetted on the evening news. So, like Caesar's wife, a candidate was required to be purer than pure.
And eat rubber chicken with a smile.
"About these charities," Josh said, frowning at the list. "I think several million a year is way out of line. What was he trying to do, buy his way into heaven? Most of the biggest contributions began when he was in his eighties."
Pete hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Considering the gross receipts of the Quintrell Corporation, the amount is generous but not excessive."
"Gross receipts be damned right along with generosity."
Pete started to object, swallowed, and thought better of it. "Whatever you say, sir. It's your money now."
Josh looked at Pete with the Senator's hard blue eyes. For a few moments he wondered if his accountant was the blackmailer, then decided it wasn't very likely. Pete was an outsider, and the only things worth paying blackmail for had taken place when Pete was in Florida discovering why girls had bouncy breasts. Melissa was an insider, of sorts. She also was the daughter and granddaughter of sluts and drunks who'd never thought further ahead than their next bottle. Hardly the stuff of blackmailers.
Winifred, however, was another matter. That old bitch was too smart and too mean. If anybody knew where the bodies were buried, she did. She also had plenty of reason to make the Senator and his son miserable.
All Josh had to do was prove it.
On the other hand, maybe the Senator was right to just pay. Even if every charity on the list was a blind for blackmail, it was only five million and change per year. A small price to pay for the presidency.
But first he'd make sure he had to pay it.
"I'm talking profit," Josh said. "The ranch is a charity case all by itself. I don't need to give millions to other fools who can't balance a budget."
"If you didn't make those contributions, you would lose up to fifty percent of the total difference to taxes of one kind or another."
"Which would still leave me with millions in cash that I don't have now."
"Agreed. It would also leave a long list of charities crying to various media about the Senator's stingy son, the one who wants to be president."
"Blackmail."
Pete blew out a long breath. "What is public opinion but a kind of blackmail? Your choice is whether you pay it or not. Some do. Some don't. People who want to be president-"
"Pay," Josh finished bitterly.
The accountant shrugged. His new employer looked really pissed off. Not a good thing.
"Okay," Pete said after a moment, "which charities do you want to cancel? The one that provides chickens and llamas to poor families in South America, or the one that opened a vaccination and prenatal care clinic in Africa, or the AIDs orphanage that-"
"Shut up, Pete."
Pete shut up.
Josh sipped his coffee and thought about possibilities. Only one led to the White House.
"Keep paying," Josh said finally.
Pete nodded and made a note.
"But while you pay," Josh added, "I want you to investigate every charity the Senator contributed to since 1990."
The other man hesitated. "Investigate? Do you think something is wrong?"
"Charities have public records. See which ones have passed along the most money to the needy, as opposed to entertaining wealthy officers and contributors at luxury resorts."
Pete nodded. "Got it. Then if you cut some charities from the list, you'll have a reason to give to the press."
Josh smiled like the combat soldier he'd once been. "Something like that."
Chapter 11
TAOS
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Carly's stomach growled.
Twice.
Dan looked over at her. "Need a lunch break?"
She hoped she didn't blush, but she doubted it. "Considering that breakfast was a protein bar scrounged from the bottom of my purse six hours ago, yes, I need lunch."
Surprise came and went so quickly from his face that she couldn't be certain she'd seen it at all.
"Odd," Dan s
aid, lifting a sheet out of the scanner. "The Senator is famous for his hospitality."
"The Senator is dead." Carly winced. She hadn't meant that the way it came out. "That is, there's so much going on with the funeral and, um, everything, that I…" She waved her hand and wished she'd just kept her mouth shut.
"I see."
And he did. Apparently he wasn't the only one in town who didn't want someone kicking around in the past. He wondered if that other person or persons was just being difficult, or if something darker was at work.
All things considered, Dan was betting on the dark side.
"Got any recommendations for a local lunch place?" she asked.
Before he could answer, someone knocked on the door and called down.
"Dan? You in there?"
"I'll be right up, Dad." Dan glanced at Carly. "Get your stuff. We can meet back here in an hour, okay?"
Her stomach growled.
"Was that a word?" he asked.
"Yes."
His mouth curved at one corner. The harder he tried not to like her, the more he knew he was kidding himself. Just by being herself, she seeped through his defenses. He still didn't know whether that made him glad or mad. It sure as hell made him uneasy.
While he shrugged into his shirt and jacket, she gathered up her coat and notebook, checked that her recorder didn't need a quick energy fix, and beat him to the bottom of the stairs.
"If you go up first, I can't catch you," she pointed out.
"I'll take my chances. The cellar door looks ragged, but it's plenty heavy. You'd have a hard time lifting it."
"After you," she said, waving him ahead.
A few moments later Carly felt a cold current of wind. She went up the stairs in a rush, only to collide with a solid body. Hands came out to steady her.
"Yikers, Dan," she said into his jacket. "You startled me. I thought you were holding the door."
"He is," said a voice that wasn't quite as deep as Dan's.
She jerked her head back and looked up. The man's hair was brown and silver, the shape of the face was different, he was inches shorter, and had flashes of jungle green in his hazel eyes.
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