Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  The dog paced before the open front door, whining as he did.

  “I said you could come, now come.” He gestured the dog forward, into the house. “Sit. Here.” He pointed to the rug at his feet.

  Perro peered at the forbidden interior of the house, paced and whined a bit more, then laid himself across the threshold.

  “Fine.” He flapped a hand at the dog. “Stay there.”

  He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the sense of contentment, of home, that had filled him that day by the pond. Before he’d confessed.

  Nothing came.

  Because she wasn’t there.

  Even having her here doing her best impression of the Queen of Winter was better than not having her.

  He watched the little clock on the mantel, the second hand tick-ticking along the nickel face. The Morenos would be having dinner soon. Catarina would be bustling about, ensuring that everything was in order. Maybe there’d be that barbacoa she’d made a few times. He liked that.

  They’d all be sitting down, everyone in their usual place, no one missing, all joining hands as the Señor said a blessing.

  And after, they would share the meal.

  His dinner was sitting in the oven.

  His wife was sitting among her family.

  He was sitting alone in his living room.

  He was tired of being alone.

  “Perro!”

  The dog lifted his head.

  “We’re going…” He searched for the right word, his tongue trying to roll it out. “We’re going home.”

  The Señora met him on the front porch of the Rancho, and from the expression she was wearing, Jace could see where Catarina had learned those frozen stares. She was all in black, as usual, but her dress was almost bright compared to the obsidian depths of her gaze.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her. She was his mother-in-law. “Is Catarina here?” As if he were a swain come courting and not an exiled husband.

  “You lied to us.” She managed to imbue something terrible in her voice, for all its gentleness.

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.” Direct. Candid. He’d nothing to hide, not any longer. “Catarina no doubt explained why.”

  “Catarina said nothing to us. My husband saw the name you wrote on the marriage license. I discerned the rest for myself.” A slight tilt of her head. “You’re William’s son, aren’t you?”

  He went still. She said William as if… as if she knew his father. “Yes, ma’am. And now you know who I am.”

  She studied him. “Do you know who I am?”

  He blinked. Of course he knew. Didn’t he? “Catarina’s mother?” he tried.

  She didn’t lift her mask of impassivity. “I was Thomas’s wife.”

  Every bit of his blood collected in his toes, leaving all of him sagged and chilled.

  “If that greaser wife of his hadn’t killed your Uncle Tommy, it would have all been different.”

  The Black Widow Alvarado.

  He swallowed that one down. She looked nothing like a spider. Or a murderess.

  She looked like Catarina.

  He cleared his throat, willing the blood back into his brain. “Catarina never told me,” he said weakly. But it explained her severe reaction to the news.

  And he’d asked how she was related to the Black Widow Alvarado. He closed his eyes at the memory.

  Idiot. Of course she’d never told him. She wouldn’t have wanted to risk her mother’s secret. He’d asked her to choose him, never knowing the magnitude of the choice.

  “She would know better than to do such a thing,” the Señora said. “Will you tell your father now? Is he still searching for me?” So coldly spoken. As if she might gun down his father as well if he ever dared to show his face to her.

  “No, ma’am. I ran away from him as well,” he said stiffly. But no matter how far he’d run, his father’s name had found him after all.

  Her spine lost a little of its starch. “When did you last see him?”

  “Thirteen years ago.”

  A raised eyebrow. “When did you last write to him?”

  “Thirteen years ago.”

  Her hands joined in front of her, the fingers deeply interlacing. “Was he cruel to you?”

  He remembered all his father’s stories of Thomas—all told with a fond smile, but they’d always seemed to end with a black eye, or a thumping, or a broken bone for his father.

  And this woman had had to share Thomas’s bed.

  “No, ma’am,” he answered honestly. “He wasn’t cruel.”

  “You came for your cattle, then.” Snapped off like an icicle from an eve.

  He sighed. This woman was determined to hate him—not that he could blame her. “I came for Sunday supper with my wife and her family.”

  “You’ve no complaints about your herd, then?”

  He had the strangest impression she was laughing at him, although her voice remained cold.

  “Oh, I’ve got complaints,” he allowed. “But Señor Moreno promised one hundred head and that was what was delivered. If you don’t wish to invite me in, I’ll wait here until Catarina is finished.”

  She looked puzzled then, as if he were a snake that refused to strike, no matter how she might poke at it.

  “Did you ever harm my daughter?”

  That one hit its target, because of course he’d hurt her. First with his confession, then with his reaction to the cattle. But harm?

  “Ma’am, your daughter is more precious to me than anything in this world. To harm her would be worse than harming myself. You ask her that yourself, and if she says yes, I’ll carve out my own pound of flesh.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, wrestling with something behind the mask of her expression. “I won’t invite you in.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.” He half turned to walk back down the steps.

  “But that is only because supper is over.”

  He halted.

  “If you intend to dine with us,” she continued, “please be certain to attend Mass next time. And stop pulling my daughter away from her spiritual duties. Sundays belong to God, Mr. Merrill.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He touched his hat again.

  “Catarina is down by the creek.” She pointed toward it. “Do you know the spot she prefers?”

  “I do. Thank you, ma’am.”

  He found his wife under the pepper tree, staring at the horizon. She was dry-eyed, her arms wrapped tightly around her, as if she were cold and trying to preserve every last bit of warmth. She wasn’t weeping, as she’d been that first time he’d seen her here, but her stillness concerned him more than her tears had.

  “This looks familiar.”

  She jumped at his voice. “I was going to return,” she said in a voice weighted with melancholy. “You didn’t need to come fetch me.”

  “I know.” He stepped closer, idly watching the creek as it sang on its path to the valley. “Just wanted to see you.”

  He studied her then. His wife. Embracing herself as if that were the only comfort she had.

  Her throat worked. “You see me all day.”

  “Not for the last few days.”

  “You came to speak with my father, then.” She slipped that through a clenched jaw. “To throw my dowry in his face.”

  “No. If you want to speak with him about what you deserve, you should. I don’t think those cattle were it, but that’s between you and him.” She flinched at that. He went on, “Your father’s already given me everything I ever wanted.”

  Her eyes closed tight, her breath hitching. “You don’t understand. I can’t simply confront him like that. And you… you left your family. How could I ever explain to you?”

  He set his fist against his thigh. “Speaking of that, your mother told me who she was. You didn’t think to say anything to me?”

  Her lips compressed. “I couldn’t betray my mother.”

  “I’m your husband,” h
e said tightly. Whatever lies and concealment were between them, that remained true.

  “And she’s my mother! When I cleaved unto you, I didn’t sever all ties with them.”

  “But you didn’t form any with me! I told you something I’d never told another soul”—he tapped his chest—“and you turned on me.”

  “You certainly kept your mouth shut before the wedding. You knew all along what you were, what your family had done to mine, and you still married me. Why?”

  God, how to answer that? He’d tried to stop her father, but not very hard. If he’d had any kind of honor, he’d had left this place as soon as he’d heard the name Alvarado, deed or no.

  He was no gentleman, but he was in love with her.

  He closed his eyes, his breath leaking from his lungs. Of all the times to have such a revelation—he was in love with her and she wanted nothing to do with him.

  “We’re married now,” he said. “You might have found some way to tell me. Or at least—” his voice failed him for half a moment, “—not turned from me.”

  Her frown had softened a bit, but her lips were still tightly pressed together. “What was I supposed to do?” she asked. “If your father ever found my mother, what might he do to her?”

  “He might be a son of a bitch, but he’s no murderer.”

  All went still at that. Christ, he wished he could snatch those words back. Among others he’d said to her.

  Her jaw twitched. “Perhaps not,” she spat. “But I’ve read the papers. I know what he thinks of my people. You obviously feel the same.”

  “I don’t.” His favorite person in the world was one of her people. “Catarina, I left them behind all those years ago. There’s nothing of him in me.” If he couldn’t convince of her of that, couldn’t convince her to see past his father’s name and see him, then he had to let her go.

  “He’s your father—how could there be nothing of him in you? You cannot cut out the root of them, no matter how long ago you left. If you believe that to be true, you have no understanding of family at all.”

  He was tired of talking about this, tired of being accused of his grandfather’s sins. “Catarina, let’s just forget all this. Come home with me and we’ll begin anew. You said yourself, we’ll make our own traditions.”

  She pondered that, her face tilting toward the ground as she did. “I always thought it so foolish of my parents to be so invested in the past. But when my mother told me what had happened to her—when you told me who you were—it didn’t seem foolish then. I felt foolish.”

  Oh Lord. He was the foolish one, not her. He came close enough for her skirts to brush his pant leg. “You shouldn’t feel foolish. It was my fault, for not telling you. And for using that word in anger.” He caught up her hand. “Will you forgive me and—”

  A cracking noise echoed across the hills. Her hand tightened on his.

  “What was that?” He suspected… but hoped he was wrong.

  She tilted an ear toward the noise, the rest of her canting toward him. “A pistol?”

  Just as he’d feared. “Who’d be firing a pistol?”

  “Joaquin?” Her voice was thin with tension.

  Their eyes met.

  More shots rang out, their reports careening off the encircling mountains.

  “One of those was a rifle.” Her eyes went wide.

  He pulled her closer to him, although the shots were clearly in the distance. “Where is Joaquin?”

  “He and Isabel went for a buggy ride.” She pointed in the direction of the shots. “They went that way.”

  “Shit.” Shit. Shit. Shit. “Is Felipe here?”

  She nodded.

  “And your father?”

  “Yes. They should both be in the barn.” Her voice wobbled halfway through, but she regained control by the end.

  Thank God he wouldn’t have to investigate those shots alone. He started off for the barn, then turned and came back to clasp her hand again. “Darlin’, your sister is just fine. It’s probably only some boys firing at bottles.” He squeezed her hand, gratified to see a shaky smile in return. “I promise, nothing’s happened to your sister.”

  Catarina loved Isabel—therefore he’d move heaven and earth to ensure she was safe. Even if he didn’t like her much.

  Catarina squeezed his hand back. “I know. You promised.”

  He left to go keep that promise.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The unnatural quiet was the first indication that something was terribly wrong.

  The buggy was a dim shape far ahead on the road. There should have been shouts, moans, cries from the wounded. He listened hard—nothing but the whistle of the wind. The silence squeezed his heart right out of his chest.

  It only grew stronger as they neared the buggy. A dark form slowly took shape in the road.

  Perro reached the buggy well ahead of the riders, baying mournfully when he did. The sound sent ice down Jace’s spine and set his gut to rolling. He concentrated on steadying his hands on the reins, willing himself to stillness so he might be prepared for whatever was coming.

  The scent of horse and blood was near to overpowering as he dismounted. He slid his rifle free of its holster, the barrel cool and the stock smooth under his clammy hands.

  The Obregon horse lay dead in the traces, a single shot placed right between its eyes. The bay had simply sunk to his knees and pulled the front of the buggy with him, making the back end tilt drunkenly.

  It was only a dead horse. He took a deep breath, searched for a steady place within. He’d seen those before.

  He strode over to the shape by the buggy—Joaquin Obregon. The poor bastard looked as if he’d been thrown there by a large, malevolent hand. The wound low in his torso was even now oozing a sticky blackness.

  The Señor knelt by Joaquin’s head, fingers searching for a pulse. Time slowed, stopped, then went backward, until the man finally spoke. “He’s alive.”

  Jace turned and headed into the brush. He’d promised her that her sister would be fine. He had to find her.

  “Isabel!” He put everything he had into his shout, willing the sheer force of it to find her.

  “Jacinto,” he heard the Señor bark. Some Spanish was exchanged. No doubt telling Jacinto to go for help.

  He pushed harder through the waist-high brush, the bristles of the buckwheat catching and pulling him back with each step. He shoved them away, the spines tearing at his palms.

  “Isabel!” He put everything and more into it.

  Come on, Isabel. I promised your sister.

  But nothing human nor animal answered—only the wail of the wind.

  “Isabel!” Felipe’s voice came from behind a stand of pines on the other side of the road, followed by the Señor’s more frantic echo.

  The tiny white buckwheat blooms exploded into the air as he brushed against them—Perro a low, whining shadow close at his heels.

  “Isabel!”

  Nothing.

  Nothing but chaparral as far as he could see, his pulse rising in time with the howl of the wind, not even the faintest sign…

  Then he stumbled across her.

  His stomach flipped at the sight of the woman laid out in the dirt and weeds, blood trickling through glossy black hair to stain her forehead and cheek. Shame burned his own palms at the livid marks circling her neck, at the long legs vulnerably exposed by the blood-spattered petticoats hiked up to her thighs.

  Don’t be dead. I promised. Please Isabel…

  He watched her carefully for the space of a moment, praying for her chest to rise. Praying for her to live.

  He nearly fell over with relief when she finally took a breath. Isabel was alive. Joaquin was alive.

  I kept my promise, darlin’.

  He gently tugged down her skirts, knowing his proud sister-in-law would rather have died than be seen in such a state.

  “I found her!” he called out. “I found Isabel!”

  Señor Moreno came crashing through
the brush. He knelt alongside his daughter, watching her intently. He gave a sigh of relief after a few moments.

  “She seems to have no gunshot wounds.”

  Neither dared say what the marks on her neck suggested.

  “I found one!” Felipe pushed toward them. “He’s dead—it’s Billy Carey.”

  “Goddamn it, I knew those Carey boys were worthless cholos,” the Señor muttered.

  “You think it’s likely the brothers did this together?” Jace asked.

  “Obregon was a good shot, and not a man to get caught by surprise. Besides, the Carey boys always got into trouble together.”

  Felipe sighed. “You’re right—I’ll keep looking for Tom.” He went off again.

  Señor Moreno gestured toward the rifle lying a few feet away from Isabel. “That’s Obregon’s rifle there. Isabel was likely trying to help him with it.” His face twisted in sudden grief. “We need to get the both of them to a doctor. It might be too late for Obregon.”

  Jace clasped his father-in-law’s shoulder tightly, trying to bolster him as best he could.

  “Once the doctor gets here, we’ll get them both looked at. And we’ll send Isabel home,” he promised his father-in-law.

  “Found another one!” Felipe called. “Seems Tom Carey followed his brother till the very end.”

  Two dead Carey brothers. Two insensate victims. The math of that didn’t tally properly. Something was missing.

  “Shit,” Jace breathed, rising to his feet, “there were three of them.”

  “That new friend of theirs they brought up from the valley,” the Señor agreed. “He must be mixed up in all this.”

  Jace remembered the man’s words at the barn dance, the twist of his voice as he’d asked after the “greaser sheriff.”

  If Catarina had gone with them, it could have been her lying in the brush like that. And all because of that word.

  He’d gone and used it himself, like an ass—and the bloody work here proved Catarina was right to react so strongly.

  He’d find the son of a bitch, if he was still alive. He’d find him and prove he wasn’t like the rest of them. He wasn’t a Bannister—he was hers.

  Jace began to methodically work his way through the brush, searching for any sign of the third outlaw. Perro followed him, his nose to the ground as he searched in his own way.