“Dynamic,” she supplied.
“Si. This Lorenzo admires. But Lorenzo, he has his mother’s gentleness and concern for people. This is something that Don Francisco could not find in his wife—in Señora Elizabeth—that is in Lorenzo.”
Despite her sadness for the life Law had led, Catherine had to smile. “I think the last thing Law would consider himself to be is gentle.”
“Ahh, si. But you must remember Señor Sherrod is a caballero. Law, he is all rogue, no?”
All rogue. That worried her. Would the roguish part of him ever allow him to settle down? She rose to go, saying, ‘‘Thank you, Loco. For everything.”
She got as far as the perimeter of wickiups when the old Indian called out to her, “Señorita.”
She turned. “Yes, Loco?”
“You do not need an herb for the child.” He smiled. “One grows inside your belly now.”
CHAPTER 23
Catherine lay that evening in the darkness of the wickiup, waiting for Law to leave Morales and come to her. Her hand slid down her belly. There was not the slightest curvature to give away her secret. And yet she believed what Loco had told her was so. True, her flux was only two days late, and she thus had put little hope in the fact. But Loco’s words . . . and the nights of love . . . there was no way she could not have conceived! Oh, dear God, let it be so.
The blanket over the doorway was pulled aside, and Law’s tall frame stooped to enter the darkened wickiup. “Cate,” he whispered.
She watched him shuck his clothes, and it seemed the anticipation of his kisses, his arms, his hands was too much to bear. She rose to her feet, letting the blanket slide down around her ankles, and, naked, padded across to him. “I’m here,” she whispered and wrapped her arms about the narrow waist.
“You’ve become a shameless hussy,” he said and chuckled.
His hands cupped her bare buttocks and pressed her to him. She could feel the rough texture of his body hair against her thighs and beneath her palms where her hands spread on his chest. And there was his hard thrust against the lower portion of her stomach. Would she never get enough of wanting him?
“If I’m a hussy, then you’ve made me so,” she whispered and, taking his hand, drew him to their bed of fresh-scented boughs that by morning would be crushed by their bodies and damp with the musky scent of their lovemaking.
Dawn in the mountains was a glorious pageant of colors, she thought. She had not slept the few hours left before sunrise but had lain quietly, trying to savor and store away the pleasurable contentment of being held against Law as he slept . . . the warm, rough-smooth texture of his skin and the male odor of his body—sometimes overpowered more by leather, other times gunpowder or sweat or that sickening sweet smell of Sonoran tobacco.
Still, any of these scents or the combination of them all had the power to make her weak with sudden want. How fortunate for her that her body did not give visible evidence of how easily he aroused passion in her—as he quite obviously did—or he would really know how wanton a woman she had become beneath his tutelage.
He stirred now and mumbled at her ear. “Cate, why did you leave the Stronghold?”
She turned her head, trying to see his face in the darkness. “Why do you ask now?”
“It only occurred to me. That night you made the announcement, I thought you were running away from me. Then I saw my stepbrother’s face, and I was no longer so sure. You could have been running from your love for each other.”
She laughed. “It was a little of both.” She felt him stiffen ever so slightly beneath her hands, and she went on. “Oh, not like you think. I was running from you. You were a threat to everything I wanted in life. And Elizabeth thought I was a threat to her son's future. She was afraid I would cause him to lose Cristo Rey. So she ordered me out of the Stronghold.”
“You know,” he said, frowning, “I think my mother and Don Francisco, and Sherrod, I think we all could have been happy were it not for Elizabeth. Her hatred contaminates the Stronghold.”
Catherine rubbed her fingertip over his lower lip, feeling in the dark the indentation in its center. “When she dies, the hate will die with her, Law. And then you’ll be free to go home.”
He nudged the hair that had fallen across her face with his jaw. "Cate, if I were the type of man that settled down, you know—the type to work at a living, like Sherrod— If I—well, hell, you know, wanted children—the family man and that sort. Well, would you consider marriage . . . marriage with me . . . if I were that type? Mind you. I’m not saying I am.”
She thought he was going to rub the skin of her forehead raw, but she did not move or betray her mounting excitement. He continued to nuzzle her, saying, “Well?”
“I’d consider it—if you were that type, you understand. Only consider. ”
His jaw stopped the grinding, rotating motion. “Why only consider? What more do you want?”
She could hear the frustration in his voice. “Well, there’s love. There were several men in Tucson who professed their love for me.”
“Why the hell didn’t you marry them, then?”
“I was trying to make up my mind when Jeremy's—death— forced me to leave.”
She held her breath. Had she pushed him too far, wanted too much? But, dear Lord, it would be nothing without his love. He had to tell her he loved her!
“I’m not saying I’m marriage material,” he said after a long pause, “but after all this is over—I think we could be happy together, Cate girl.”
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “You are so much younger than I—only twenty-two, isn’t it? Marriage is a lot of responsibility to take on for a man who's only a little out of boyhood.”
"Dammit, Cate. You know our ages don’t make any difference! I want the responsibility of caring for you, don’t you understand?”
“And love?”
"Well, that too.”
It was good enough. She turned her lips up to his, smiling. “It's about time you’re making an honest woman of me.”
“Then you will?” She heard the joy in his voice and gloried in it.
Large substantial dwellings lined Buena Vista, Mexico’s streets with so many different-colored plaster-coated homes that Catherine was reminded of Easter eggs. Orange trees and flowering jacaranda filled the courtyard, and palm trees graced the streets.
Despite the tranquil scene, perspiration ran down the cleavage of her breasts. Her gaze swung nervously from side to side as she and Law, with Loco trailing behind, rode through the streets of the colorful pueblo that was located on the Rio Yaqui.
Although the Juaristas’ fortunes had improved greatly by the middle of that year, 1866, so that the liberals controlled the district of Alamos, the strategic northern villa of Magdalena, and numerous other pueblos, the imperialists controlled Guaymas, Altar, Ures, part of the district of Hermosillo—and Buena Vista.
What she and Law were doing was incredibly risky, entering the French-controlled pueblo to find a padre to marry them—for the Church usually sided with the imperial aristocrats rather than lose its wealth by distribution to the masses, as Juarez advocated. However, every so often a God-fearing padre could be found, and this is what she and Law were counting on, praying for.
Soldiers in the blue-and-red uniform of the French Foreign Legion lounged in shadowed doorways, entered and left the local cantina. Yet no one challenged the three as they made their way toward the iglesia, the massive sunbaked cathedral located on the plaza, the center of every pueblo. Its tiled dome roof sparkled in the sunlight, its pockmarked walls reflected the coolness within. The cathedral seemed to bid her and Law to enter its sanctuary.
The nave was indeed cool. A soft watercolor wash of light slipped in from the high-placed windows, scattering fragments of color—brown and ocher and rust. Law spoke quietly with the padre, clad in the brown robe of the Franciscan order, who came forward from the sacristy. After a moment Law beckoned her to join him at the altar.
; She said a prayer of thanksgiving that no questions were asked as she knelt with him before the padre. Behind him hung Christ’s cross of agony. Her mother had been from a prominent Irish Catholic family in Baltimore, but Catherine had rarely practiced the faith. Now she prayed with the long-unused words, her soul seeming to flow from her as she petitioned for God's blessing on her marriage.
So soon the words were said, the paper signed and blotted with sand. Law's reassuring kiss on her cold lips sealed the padre’s genuflection and benediction. There would be no wedding ring, but it was enough when they stepped out into the sunshine and Law took her face between his hands. At that moment his expression was very solemn.
“Cate,” he whispered, “ever since my mother’s death I have been confusing love with weakness. You have made me see that love is strength. For this, if for none of your other endearing qualities, I love you.” He kissed her softly. “I love you, mi alma, mi amada, mi corazon."
He set her from him then and lifted her up into Sonora’s saddle. Holding her hand, he looked to Loco, who waited, mounted, on the other side of Catherine. “I am entrusting her to you, my good friend. She is everything to me. Return her safely to Tucson.”
Catherine’s eyes widened. Her hand gripped Law’s with a tenacious strength. “What are you saying?”
Law looked back to her, his brown eyes luminous in the stark sunlight. “I’m saying that I love you very much, too much to risk losing you—ever.”
His voice became more brisk. He took the Arab’s bridle, saying, “If you are stopped, let Loco do all the talking. And when you reach Tucson, Loco will ride on to Cristo Rey and take Sherrod my message—that I am selling him my portion of Cristo Rey. The money is to be given over to you.”
“No!” she protested. “I won't have you giving up your share. I can take in laundry or something until your return.”
“It’s what Sherrod has always wanted, Cate—and deserves. He has worked to make Cristo Rey what it should be. We’ll build our own Stronghold somewhere.” He smiled. “Somewhere where there are plenty of Joshua trees.”
She bent low. She had not meant to tell him, to use their child as a piece of strategy. She had hoped after they married she would have time to change his mind about sending her back to Tucson, a day of travel, at least. But she had not expected him to send her away immediately. “You can’t do this,” she pleaded. "I’m carrying our child. Law! You can’t send me away!”
Shock registered in his eyes. But he was adamant. “Then that is all the more reason why you must return to Tucson. You must give thought to our child’s safety.”
She grabbed at his hand. “Law . . . without your love, there is nothing for me.”
“There is our child. Cate, you could wheedle your way with me—talk me into letting you stay here. But our child needs a home—a real home.”
“What kind of place is a home without the father?” she charged.
“I am coming home, Cate. Wait for me there,” he said gently. “This war is something I must do. I am the man I am. But afterward . . . now I have some place to go, a home to call my own. Wait for me, mi amada.”
CHAPTER 24
The doctor, who had traveled all the way from Calabaza’s Fort Mason, near the international boundary line, stood over Catherine. A frown etched grim canyons into his rawhide face. From her hemp-strung bed she pulled the often-mended blanket over her. “I already know what you’re going to tell me,” she told the middle-aged man. “I tried to convince Atanacia that sending for you would do no good.”
“You have malaria,” he said, the incredulity that a white woman could live under such poverty-stricken conditions making his voice rougher than he intended. “It has weakened you so much that I fear for the child’s delivery—and your life, Mrs. Davalos.”
“I have a stronger constitution—and will, lieutenant—than most people suspect.”
“Even the strongest constitutions won’t survive under the taxing work you are doing.” He picked up his medical kit. “With less than a month left before the child is due, you can’t continue to take in wash. You have friends who want to help. Let them.”
She ignored the advice. “How much do I owe you for the visit?”
“Nothing. A friend of yours, Mr. Lionel McCrary, insisted on paying when he learned why I was in Tucson.”
Dear Lionel, she thought, after the doctor had taken his leave. He had finally married the daughter of Manuel Orduno, the gunsmith. She was surprised by the concern of her friends, from Sam and Atanacia, who came over to check on her every day, to staunch Loco, who foraged at the marketplace for vegetables and fruit.
The old Indian even spoke to her about bringing in an arbularia, a woman with special powers who practiced “giving water”—which, Catherine learned, was forcing the saliva from the woman's mouth into the patient's!
“A certain cure,” Loco told her.
As a last resort he wanted to go for Sherrod, but she forbade him. ‘‘There is nothing anyone can do for me. But I will not die, I assure you. My heart beats too strongly for your Lorenzo, Loco, to give up on this weak body now.”
‘‘You should let the patrones pick up their laundry,” Atanacia admonished, as she walked alongside Catherine, helping carry the neatly folded stacks of washed clothes.
‘‘Then I would not have as many patrons. And Quong Chang’s laundry would have more.” She paused, out of breath. The baby was due any day now, and she found even the simple task of washing clothes on the new scrub board Sam had given her an exhausting chore.
‘‘Then you should stay in su casa—and in your bed,” Atanacia continued, “and let me deliver the laundry by myself.” The young Mexican woman had almost as much difficulty walking as did Catherine. At four months pregnant, she was carrying her third child . . . and she had yet to turn sixteen.
“I enjoy the chance to get out, Atanacia—-really.”
Catherine looked at her surroundings. Tucson had greatly changed. It was two years ago the month before last—September of ’64—when she had left Cristo Rey to come to Tucson. It was a Mexican mud village then, no more than eight hundred people. Now a distinct American flavor permeated the Old Pueblo.
The streets now had mostly Anglo names. Her own street, Calle de la India Trieste, was called Congress Street—for the Congress Saloon, so named because Tucson, which was now the territorial capital as well as the territory’s military headquarters, had held its first legislative session in the saloon. At Stone and Ochoa, where the Tully & Ochoa corral had been, stood a long adobe building—the territory’s new capitol building.
And Tucson now had its first hotel, the Palace. The Butterfield Overland Stage Coach Company was in operation again over on Pearl Street, which had been Calle del Correo. Then there were the many Anglo businesses that had sprung up like mushrooms— Fleishman’s Drugstore, Levin’s Brewery, Rothchild’s Confectionary—and even a privately owned bank, the Lord & Williams Store. All Tucson needed was a newspaper and a Protestant church, and it would be a full-fledged American town.
In the seven months she had been back, she had come to realize she no longer knew the city so intimately. New streets pierced the original walls, leaving them in fragmented ruins. And the town’s population had swelled to nearly fifteen hundred, so that many people had never heard of Catherine Howard, the murderess.
But then these adventurers that flocked to the city did not care about events of the past; nor did they care about what went on outside Tucson. They did not know or care, as she did, that a war still raged in Mexico. True, Law’s Fabian tactics, along with Martinez’s terrorizing macheteros, had forced the French to retreat to the port of Guaymas, thus freeing the state of Sonora. But the few newspapers that Sam subscribed to reported that Bazaine’s French troops were still in Mexico City.
Was Law fighting in Mexico City now? Seven months since she had seen him! Fear clutched at her heart. Did even now his bones lie along some roadside, bleached by the sun, picked clean by the vulture
s? The very thought hurt, stabbing at her as sharply as a knife, so that she clutched at her abdomen. The tidy stack of laundry she carried spilled into the dust. “The baby,” she gasped. “I think it’s time.”
Atanacia’s stack of clothing tumbled down to join Catherine’s. The young Mexican woman grabbed her friend about the waist. “Hurry, Catrina, we return to su casa. Pronto!"
It seemed to Catherine that it took hours to follow the narrow, winding streets back to her jacale, which was no longer on the outskirts of town. Then, as she went into the first stages of labor, she realized that it had taken only a few minutes, maybe ten, for Atanacia to lead her back home. It was the labor that took hours. And hours.
Atanacia bathed her face with a wet cloth, gently urging her to relax when the pains struck like lightning. Where was Law? Catherine twisted and knotted in the throes of the hand contractions. Why wasn’t he here when his child was about to be born? She doubled into the fetal position and clenched her fists against her dry mouth. Law, Law, Law. It was a litany her lips formed in tribute for the child that was already asserting its rights as it squirmed in the birth canal.
“You are very narrow of the hips,” Atanacia said, concern shadowing her pretty face. Then she brightened. “But the child, it will come. I know. After two, I know there is the dolor. But soon it will pass, mi amiga. And you will forget the dolor. You will want more ninos—maybe as many as I do.”
Catherine groaned. “That is the last thing I want right now, fifteen children.”
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