Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  He gave a soft, long whistle. “Is it, now? I do assure you that all men do it, though they may not announce their verdicts.”

  Vicente brought coffee and poured the steaming brew into cups of soft blue-and-gray glaze. There was hot milk and coarse sugar to add to this, a basket of crusty, hard rolls, and crisp, thin, sweet bread sprinkled with spices and nuts.

  Falconer spread orange conserves on a roll and frowned as he looked across the table. “Remember, you have this day to change your mind. You needn’t feel obligated for whatever I buy you. One thing you perhaps haven’t understood is that there is danger from the Mayas, though they’ve never raided the hacienda. My workers have never joined the fighting and much prefer not to, but I can’t promise that trouble will never come—and if it did, it would be terrible.”

  There’d been no Indian fights for years in Mercy’s part of Texas, but farther west Comanches and Kiowas still took their toll of settlers, and no one mentioned Arizona without a shudder for Apaches.

  “Who’s ever safe anywhere?” Mercy asked. “If I decide not to go, that won’t be the reason.”

  The bread was tasty and filling. After a second cup of strong coffee, Mercy fetched her reticule and they stepped out into the street.

  Mérida wore a different aspect for her now than it had only yesterday. Flat-roofed stone buildings dazzled white against the brilliant blue sky. Church towers rose above these, and down one street Mercy saw the bastions and walls of what Zane told her was the fortress of San Benito.

  “It’s built on the foundation of the principal pyramid of an ancient Mayan city, T-ho,” he explained. “Don Francisco de Montejo the Younger, whose house you’ll see on the plaza, struggled to make his way here in 1540 and was visited by Indians who told him that more Indians were coming against him than there were hairs on the skin of a deer. Montejo went out hunting them, won a battle and a few submissions, but in June, on the feast of the apostle Barnabas, about two hundred Spaniards watched thousands of Indians gathering. The next day about forty thousand Mayas attacked. Spanish horsemen trampled them down, crossbows and arquebuses made a great slaughter, but the Indians kept coming all that day until the bodies stretched in all directions and kept the Spaniards from following when the Mayas finally ran. That was the last great effort of the Indians to shatter the intruders.” He smiled grimly. “Of course, the Mayas came down on Mérida in 1848 and would have taken it, too, except that great clouds of winged ants appeared. These mean rain, and the Mayan fighting men told their leaders they were going home to plant corn. They did. The respite gave the ladinos a chance to recover, and that summer and fall they recovered much of the territory the Indians had taken.”

  They were nearing the plaza, with its vast, looming cathedral. Mercy glanced about the huge square, wondering how it had been during that siege almost twenty years ago, and she felt cold at that and how the Mayas must feel to see this city built on the ruins of their own.

  Unreservedly, she wished the Mayas had beaten the Spanish soldiers during that long-ago Feast of Saint Barnabas, just as she wished the eastern Indians had driven the Pilgrims back to England. But once generations had grown up in a place, once it became home to them, too, full of the old and children and babies, it became a lot more complicated.

  She wished, for instance, that back in Texas the Comanches could keep their hunting grounds, but how could that be when they slaughtered women and babies on isolated farms? That brought the army to protect the settlers, and it looked as if eventually the Indians would all be forced onto reservations. Mercy felt a sort of vague guilt about it just as she had never felt comfortable with slavery.

  Her father had never owned a slave, openly saying no man should own another; yet he had died defending his homeland. That must be among the strongest instincts, going back to an animal’s fighting for its home.

  What happened when the same region was home to two hostile peoples?

  “You mean the Indians would have taken the capital if they hadn’t gone home to plant corn?” she demanded, scarcely knowing where her sympathies lay.

  “It’s a certainty. Hordes of Mayas had taken all the outposts and driven the survivors into Mérida. There were maybe one hundred thousand people in the city, half refugees, and the encamped Mayas were estimated at about twenty thousand. But when those winged ants appeared, the men just said, ‘Shickanic’—‘I’m going,’ put their blankets in their food pouches, tightened their sandal thongs, and headed for their corn patches.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “Not if you know that if the Mayas don’t plant and get a harvest, their families starve. When it’s time to plant, they plant as they have for centuries. Besides, the ordinary fighters probably thought Mérida could be gone back to later and conquered when there was no corn to plant.”

  He drew her against an arcade to watch the thronged plaza jammed with carriages, mules, casts, horses, and what amounted to an open-air bazaar. To the east rose the great cathedral, with its towers and bells. Zane glanced at the shops behind the arcade. “I hope we can find what you need, but it’s a marvel business is going on at all. As soon as the fiesta of San Cristobal was over, with its nine days of masses, bullfights, and dances, there was the feast of Todos Santos, or the Day of the Dead, and right upon that was the victory parade for Colonel Traconis.” He laughed a bit cynically. “I guess you know that he’s the commander who was responsible for defending the city of Tihosuco, near my plantation, against a Mayan siege just last year. There’ll be another parade the twelfth for his troops, but after all the fireworks and dancing and reading of patriotic poems celebrating the heroes of Tihosuco, that outpost will be abandoned. The Mayas will have their slow victory, exactly as the jungle creeps over and reclaims the pathetically arrogant structures of man.”

  Mercy’s scalp prickled at that prophecy. But today she was in Mérida and wanted to enjoy it, to put away the past and the numb hurt that gripped her when she thought of Philip, and avoid trying to imagine the life she’d have at La Quinta Dirección as Falconer’s virtual bond-servant. At least she had been allowed to choose that or destitution.

  Vendors were selling tamales, pumpkin seeds, and sweets along the arcade. Mats displayed jewelry of coral, tortoiseshell, silver, shells, beads, bright scarves, mirrors, belts, and other small goods. Zane steered Mercy past these, the barber shop, cantina, and billiard room, evading sellers of lottery tickets and Indian boys eager to polish his boots.

  “Here,” he said, drawing her into a small, long shop with lengths and bolts of material of every kind, from silk to fine hand-wovens. “Pick out enough for a half-dozen dresses, and if you see anything you judge suitable for Jolie, get that, too. I’ll step out to the tobacconist, but I’ll be back long before you’re through.” He spoke in Spanish to the rotund merchant, who murmured understanding and smilingly signaled himself ready to serve Mercy’s slightest whim.

  With a wistful look, Mercy dismissed the silks, the rich brocades, satins, and velvets. Muslin should be good for this climate. To this she added gray-blue poplin and enough blue challis for herself and Jolie. The merchant displayed a length of satin that shimmered the very shade of a storm sky. Mercy could not resist putting her hand against it, admiring its beauty next to her over-browned hand, but at the urging of the storekeeper, she firmly shook her head.

  “No, gracias.”

  “Sí, por favor,” said Falconer, returing from the tobacconist’s shop. As the pleased merchant folded up the satin, Zane looked down at Mercy. “Be sure to get plenty of lace and trimmings. I can’t stand dowds.”

  “I’m sure I don’t see why my mode of dress should concern you.”

  “I have eyes.”

  “If my appearance depresses you, Mr. Falconer, I’ll make every effort to spare you.”

  Those smoky eyes went over her slowly. Her breath seemed trapped in her chest, and she felt as if he were touching her throat, her breasts, and thighs before that cool stare came back to her face. “Let’s
not play games, Mrs. Cameron. You know you’re a damned tempting woman, made all the more so by that style you have of the lady. Apart from my own tastes, we will very occasionally have visitors. I want them to be impressed.”

  Turning back to the merchant, he engaged in brief conversation, produced a small pouch, and paid with silver. “He’ll send the material, trimmings, needles, thread, and buttons to the hacienda.”

  They were in luck. A rich lady with feet the size of Mercy’s also had a husband, weary of bills, who’d sent back a pair of quilted gray satin slippers, a pair in bronze kid, and elegant, high-laced shoes of gray kid.

  “These are much too fine for every day,” Mercy protested, though the delighted shoemaker was already noting down their address.

  “Most days you’ll probably wear sandals,” Zane agreed. “But when those travelers pass through every second or third year, you’ll need footwear to match your dresses.” He produced a slim gold watch and frowned at the time. “If I’m to find you a dress and tend to my business, I must get you back to the house. I’d advise you to rest this afternoon. We have a long day’s journey tomorrow to a friend’s, hacienda near Uxmal, and we should reach Tekax the next day in time to see something of its fair. The third day will bring us to La Quinta. By then, believe me, you’ll have scant trouble sleeping in a hammock—or anywhere else.”

  As they made their way back to the house, Zane pointed out a brightly painted wooden flamingo perched atop a corner house. “You’ll see some such images on the corner house of each street,” he said. “Most people can’t read, but it’s simple to find the street of the bull or the old woman or the elephant.”

  Mercy smiled at the rather dumpy flamingo. “I like that,” she decided. “It’s much better than naming streets with numbers.”

  “Much more confusing.” Zane’s tone was irritated and his stride lengthened so that she was hard put to keep up.

  Did he regret spending so much on her? Mercy winced at the thought and grew angry. He’d insisted on the gorgeous satin and opulent shoes. He’d made it plain that he wasn’t doing it for her, but so that her appearance would impress his visitors. If he’d spent more than he should, it certainly wasn’t her fault! The almost happy mood of the morning soured. Mercy grew even angrier at the tightness in her throat.

  Cry because of this high-handed man who’d appropriated her much as he might have a horse or mule? How could she be so silly? She must become as impervious to his tempers and whims as he was to her feelings.

  She swept into the house the instant Vicente opened the door. “Vicente will make you lunch,” Zane said. “If I can borrow a gown for you, I’ll have it sent so that you can do any altering that’s necessary. There must be a few maids around the house. I’ll tell Vicente to tell them to help you with the dress and to help you get yourself ready.”

  “I’ll try to do you credit.”

  His eyebrows jerked up at her cold tone. “Isn’t it a woman’s fondest desire to outshine other females?”

  “No more than it’s a man’s to be the strongest or most powerful.” It was hard to meet his dark gray eyes, but Mercy did, her chin raised high. “Tonight, sir, because of my ambiguous position, I shall be glad to escape attention.”

  “Forget that,” he said and shrugged. “Your situation will seem romantic and dangerous to the ladies and provocative to the men. To top it off, you’re a foreigner. You’re going to be watched. Don’t mope in the shadows or try to hide.”

  The prospect of a barrage of curiously disapproving or lustful stares gripped Mercy in an icy spasm. “Please …” she whispered.

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought you Confederates had courage. If you can’t face Mérida society, Mrs. Cameron, what will you do if the Cruzob ever attack the hacienda?”

  With a short bow and briefer nod, he left her.

  Smoldering, Mercy was determined to look as striking as she could that evening, to show Zane Falconer that she was not the spiritless, shrinking creature he seemed to judge her. A hip bath embellished with gilded scrolls and bronze-claw legs had been placed in her room, half full of pleasantly warm water. Arranged beside it were copper vessels holding towels and a bar of perfumed soap.

  Mercy touched the water with the soap, rubbed it slightly, and instantly a rich lather appeared. This must be rainwater, she thought. Undressing, she brushed out her hair, which shone in spite of feeling dusty and dirty, then knelt by the tub and washed it, rinsing it with water from the other containers. Patting it as dry as possible with the towels, she draped the last one like a turban to leave her neck and shoulders bare.

  She washed her face with clean water, then climbed into the tub and soaked luxuriously before she scrubbed her body with a rough cloth, rinsed off the soapy water, and toweled dry till her flesh glowed. She sighed with the wonderful feeling of being clean from head to foot for the first time since leaving Texas.

  Standing naked where the sun reached in through a high grilled window, she stood, legs flexed, head down, and fluffed her hair, tossing it with her hands to speed its drying, reveling in the freedom of no confining garments.

  The sun made her skin look like pale honey. As she straightened up, she drew in her breath and let her hands trace from rib cage to hips. Philip thought her skinny, but her breasts and hips surely curved enough. She was glad that all her muscles, including those of her loins and thighs, were firm and strong. Women who swooned had never been that admired in Texas, and the war had put them completely out of fashion.

  She brushed her hair now and swayed sensuously with the tugging, her eyes shut, enjoying the delicious cleanliness and fitness of her body. Her father had brought her up to regard bodies as marvelous, complex systems to be used intelligently and respected.

  Once when he’d occasioned the wrath of a minister for treating a prostitute, Dr. Elkanah McShane had erupted in a way that brought a crowd flocking, including some avid ladies who later protested that they’d never been so shocked and claimed it a scandal that such a man was bringing up a daughter with no genteel female on the premises.

  “Hattie’s done this town a sight more good than you have, Parson,” Elkanah snapped, his jaw thrusting forward like the bulldog he somewhat resembled. “What you call her vile body has comforted many a man. You bet I’ll try to get her well so she can get back to her business, because compassion and common sense is what you never give anyone!”

  “A harlot’s body would better suffer in this life if it’ll lead her to escape the pains of hell!”

  “The body is the temple of the spirit,” said Elkanah. “And Hattie’s helped men escape their hells on this earth. I reckon God will mark that in her favor.”

  Mercy’s eyes stung as she remembered her father. Busy as he was, he’d taught her to ride, paddle a boat, swim, and fish, as well as hearing her lessons and listening to her perplexities. He’d discussed things with her that Mercy now realized he’d have shared with his wife, had she lived—his theories of medicine, lore he’d picked up from old women and a Caddo Indian healer who lived deep in the bayous.

  Oh, Father! I can’t believe you’re dead! I never saw you that way, never saw your grave. Do you mind it, lying up there in Yankee soil?

  It was some comfort that he probably didn’t mind.

  She remembered how he’d written, not long before his death, of marching through a shady Pennsylvania town and how a young woman—“she reminded me of you, Mercy”—ran out, waving a Union flag and defying the soldiers to take it.

  The commander took off his hat to her, flashing a look back to his men, who all did the same, so gallantly honoring their enemy and her flag that at last she called after them, “I wish I had a rebel flag! I’d wave it, too!” A woman like that might put flowers on Father’s grave.

  Mercy no longer cried when she remembered him, but the high exultation faded and she felt suddenly tired. She decided to lie down in the hammock for a little while. She dozed off at once, then awoke with startled awareness.

  Zane st
ood beside her. He tossed a sparkling bundle of green cloth onto the nearby chest and swept her from the hammock. “You need a lesson,” he said huskily.

  Branded by his hands, Mercy fought vainly as his mouth took hers, ruthlessly plundered, forcing her clenched jaw to relax, opening her lips. The sound of a crashing torrent roared in her ears. She felt as if she were drowning, caught in the force of cresting waves powered from unfathomable depths.

  Then she was on her feet. Though Zane supported her till her dizziness passed, he had put distance between them. She sensed withdrawal of the essence of himself that had reached, tested, and dominated her in that kiss.

  Trembling, shaken to her center, she stood before him, feeling so utterly vulnerable in spirit that there seemed little use in trying to hide her body. Picking up one of the towels, he draped it roughly around her.

  “Do you understand?” His voice grated as if he were battling to control it, and the pupils of his eyes had swelled to almost hide the irises.

  She reached for anger but could not find it. What she’d felt in his arms was too elemental, too deep and primal a thing. But he watched her with the eyes of an accuser, and she resisted the urge to stretch out her hands.

  “Understand?” she echoed.

  “What the sight of you like that does to a man … or, perhaps,” he added with a pitiless laugh and a long step forward, “you do know.”

  She retreated, the ache in her heart spreading through her. How could they blend like that, fire with fire, and then he speak this way, watch her with contemptuous hatred?

  “I … I don’t understand at all.”

  “I mean you must bar doors when you’re unclothed. What if Vicente had come in, or someone from the street? At La Quinta you must never let the workers find you like that. If you do and their hunger overcomes wisdom, you won’t get a sympathetic hearing from me.”

  Mercy drew herself up. That fierce, overwhelming sweetness, then, had only stirred in her. For him, it had been lust, the kind to vent on a whore. “Thanks for your … impressive warning,” she said. “It hadn’t occurred to me that men might come bursting through a woman’s closed door.”