Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  The Señor appeared at his side. “Find anything?”

  His neck was tight as he shook his head. He raked his gaze over the brush yet again, hunting for something, anything, he might have missed. “I haven’t found him or his trail, but he must have been here.”

  The Señor nodded. “Felipe and I will keep on as well.”

  Jace gave a sharp nod and moved off to hunt some more.

  Then he found it.

  A thin trail of blood, surrounded by hoofprints leading toward the high country.

  The Moreno household was in mourning.

  Catarina set her elbows on the kitchen table and rubbed at her gritty, swollen eyes. She’d been on her feet since… since she didn’t know when. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her head aching with her grief, but she managed to swallow the noises trying to escape her throat. She didn’t want anyone to hear.

  Isabel was upstairs in her bed. Dr. Blackmun assured them that she would wake soon and be perfectly all right. Catarina supposed he was only speaking of her body—Isabel’s mind might be another matter entirely. Their mother was upstairs with her, keeping watch.

  Joaquin was at the Obregons’ and not expected to last the night. Jacinto had told her the horrid details of the scene—both Carey brothers dead, their friend on the loose. She’d known those boys her entire life, and now they were gone. She’d never liked them, but even so…

  Even so, they’d tried to murder her sister. They may have succeeded in murdering Joaquin.

  She began to shiver, her teeth chattering with it.

  Their companion was still out there. What had he said at the barn dance? “A greaser ought not tell a white man what to do.”

  Joaquin might never again tell anyone to do anything.

  After Isabel was safely in her room and Dr. Blackmun had left, she did the only thing she could: she went to the kitchen and began to cook. There was albondigas on the stove, tortillas keeping warm in the oven, and a bowl of apples waiting.

  Felipe was the first to return, two hours after sunset, Franny trailing behind him. Catarina ladled the soup into the bowls, making sure they each got several albondigas, then handed it off to the both of them. They slurped for a few moments in silence before Felipe said, “We didn’t find the third one. Found his trail, but not him.”

  “We’ll try again at first light,” Franny said.

  “We won’t do anything.”

  “I track just as well—”

  “It’s too dangerous! Why can’t you stay in the house—”

  Catarina held up her hands. “Please, please. Where is Papa?”

  “Here.” Her father was in the doorway, looking drained. “It’s too dark to search any longer. Is… is Isabel—?”

  “The doctor said she would be fine.” Best not to mention Joaquin at the moment. She’d wait until morning, which would bring fresh news—hopefully cheering news. “Here, sit, Papa. Eat.”

  When they’d finished, their heads hanging with exhaustion, she cleared their plates and said, “Now, all of you up to bed.”

  As Felipe left, she grabbed at his arm. “Where is Jace?” she whispered.

  Felipe blinked as if trying to remember where he’d left him. “I don’t know. We got separated. He likely went home to care for his stock.”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course. Of course he must have done that.”

  Felipe left her alone then, among the dishes still to be cleaned. She put the food away, washed the dishes, and thought. Thought on how she could saddle up a horse and be at the homestead in half an hour, even in the dark. Thought on how she could be in her husband’s arms, safe through the night. She thought on all that, then went to climb the stairs to her childhood bedroom.

  She might want Jace, but her family needed her.

  She placed her foot on the first step and stilled. There was a strange noise, a sort of stuttering snuffling coming from somewhere down the hall. She followed it to the door of her father’s office. Setting a hand against the oak panels, she listened. Someone was weeping, desperately, the sobs sawing out almost against the person’s will, gasps jumping out after each teary whimper.

  Franny. It must be her—she always ran off to hide when she felt the need to cry.

  Catarina pressed her palm deeper against the door, but didn’t push it open. Franny would be cross if she were caught weeping.

  She pulled her hand back. Best to leave Franny alone.

  Several more heartwrenching sobs came through the door.

  But usually Franny didn’t collapse quite so completely when she did cry. At the very least, she would need a handkerchief.

  When the door swung open, the light from the hall revealed a woman sitting in her father’s chair, her dark head cradled in her arms as her shoulders quaked.

  “Franny,” she whispered, “I know you want to be alone; I’ve only come to bring you a handker—”

  Her mother raised her head.

  “Oh!” Her legs wanted to run right out, the sight of the tear tracks across her mother’s cheeks stopping her heart, but she held herself fast. “I—I thought you were Franny. I’ll just…” She turned for the door, then spun back again. “Would you like a handkerchief?”

  Her mother held up her own.

  “Ah.” Her mother didn’t need her at all. “Well, good night.”

  “Please.” Her mother gestured to a chair, her voice surprisingly steady, considering how hard she’d been weeping. “Stay for a moment.”

  Catarina carefully arranged her hands in her lap once she was seated, trying not to allow her anxiety to show. Her mother certainly wasn’t asking her to remain for an idle chat.

  Her mother studied her for long moments, the chill of her gaze somewhat dimmed by the redness of her eyes. “Your husband has not returned?”

  “No. He likely went”—she bit back the word home—“back to the homestead.”

  “When he came to the Rancho today”—her mother adjusted a cuff—“I told him who I was.”

  Catarina felt as if her heart were hardening to glass. “But—” Her breath left her lungs as if jerked out. “But why? I never would have told him.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. You are a loyal daughter, and it is not your story to tell.”

  She recalled Jace’s words from earlier—You never formed any ties to me.

  Her mother clearly thought Catarina would never choose her husband’s claim above hers.

  He’d claimed that he didn’t care about the cattle—that he’d only come for Catarina.

  “When did you learn who he was?” she asked. “And how?”

  Her mother tugged at her other cuff. “I had a copy of the license so that I might put the details in the family Bible. When I saw that name there…” Her jaw ticked as she pulled at the black silk covering her wrist.

  Something heavy settled about Catarina’s shoulders. A replica of her mother’s icy reserve? A poor copy of the power she wielded? Whatever it was, it spurred her on to the next: “And the cattle? Those sorry things he was sent? That was your idea, was it not?” Her father never had a thought in his head that her mother didn’t put there—her mother had been behind it.

  Her mother’s fingers released her cuff. “I had thought that when that herd arrived, your husband would be so angry as to leave this place. Or at least send you home to us.”

  “You must have been disappointed when nothing of the sort happened.” As coldly done as her mother would have.

  “Disappointed? No. Frightened? Yes. I knew his father quite well—at least before he turned his back on me after the inquest. William would have been enraged by such a thing.” She tilted her head. “And yet your husband said nothing. Did not return you to us.” As if she were a misplaced package. Her mother continued on, “Even today, he claimed himself satisfied with what he was given.”

  He’d meant her. He was satisfied with her. She bit her lip and swallowed that down. She’d take that out to marvel over later, when she was alone. “I’m going to return to
him, you know, when all this is resolved.” She felt as hard, as regal as her mother, making this stand for her husband. “He’s made mistakes and he’s not the man I’d imagined for a husband, but he is my husband. I am satisfied with what I’ve been given.”

  Her mother never betrayed herself by the slightest tic. Catarina might have announced her intentions to fry eggs tomorrow for breakfast for all the emotion her mother displayed. And then: “When I saw that name on the license,” her mother said, low and hard, “I had nightmares such as I haven’t had in decades. Isabel will likely have some of her own.” A pause. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear shouting tonight.”

  Her mother had experienced terrors Catarina had no conception of—but none of that was Jace’s doing. She rose. “I won’t be. And I would remind you, for all his sins, my husband won’t be responsible for any nightmares that might occur in this house. Good evening.”

  She remained a perfect mirror of her mother’s resolve until she hit the third step on the stair. Then the trembling began, threatening to weaken her knees and send her crumpling to the floor.

  Dear Lord, to have confronted her mother like that—and all in defense of her husband—after the emotional storm of the day, she was nearly overcome. She kept on, ordering herself forward, not allowing herself to sink down until she was safely behind the door of her room.

  Jace, Jace, Jace. She wanted him then more than she’d wanted anything in her life. To hold, to speak with.

  But there was so much between them left to resolve. Perhaps a lifetime’s worth of tangled histories to unravel. She knew all about keeping a house—a thousand ways to prepare a meal, a hundred ways to pickle things, a dozen ways to sew a stitch. But one husband? That seemed entirely beyond her knowledge.

  She curled in on herself, her back hard against the door, and waited. For the morning. And for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Señora greeted him again, only this time it was in the entryway, rather than the porch. A lamp set on a table at the foot of the stairs cast a feeble glow over her, making her more a creature of light and shadow than anything human. Jace had only meant to come inside briefly, to see his wife and remind himself that she hadn’t been at that bloody stretch of road, that she was whole and intact. But once he’d opened the front door, his fogged brain had finally reminded him that it was only a few hours until midnight—Catarina would be curled snugly into her bed, warm and safe.

  But he couldn’t turn around now, not with his mother-in-law staring at him so intently.

  “Mr. Merrill.” She gave Jace a cool nod. “Have you been searching this entire time?”

  He nodded back wearily. His knees weren’t going to hold him much longer. He’d have to try to bed down at Felipe’s or in the bunkhouse. Neither he nor Spot would make it home tonight. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I never found him.” His teeth ached as he admitted his failure.

  That trail of blood had led to the creek. And then—nothing. Up one bank, down the other. But he’d never seen any sign. He’d gone blindly for the high country then, searching for something, anything.

  Nothing.

  It was only when Spot—good, faithful Spot—stumbled at one point, nearly sending the both of them to the ground in a tangle, had he snapped free of his obsessive search. He realized then that the dark was pressing all around them, the moon absent from the star-scattered sky—and he’d turned back.

  “How is Isabel?” he asked.

  The Señora raised an eyebrow. “She awoke. She should recover. We cannot say the same for Joaquin, not yet.” A pause. “I didn’t think you liked Isabel well enough to search so diligently for her attacker.”

  “I’m doing this for all your daughters, ma’am.” For Isabel, because Catarina loved her. For Franny, because, well, she was Franny.

  For Catarina, because he loved her.

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, his head too heavy for his neck. He needed to rest soon. Or else he’d collapse on the floor here.

  But the Señora wasn’t done. “You look very much like him.” Her head tilted as she studied him. “William, that is. Not Thomas.”

  He could not breathe for the weight of that. “I am sorry, ma’am. So very sorry.”

  Something in her seemed to ease, though her spine remained stiff as ever. “It’s only physically that you resemble him,” she allowed. “The rest is not very much like.”

  And suddenly he could breathe again. If the Señora could see that, then there was hope to convince his wife. “Yes, ma’am.” He settled his hat back on his head. “Tell the Señor I’ll be back at dawn, to search again.” He went for the door.

  “Mr. Merrill.” She threw his name like a knife. He froze. “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” he lied.

  “Mr. Merrill, you seem to have lost your way. Allow me to assist you.” He turned to see her pointing up the stairs. “Catarina’s room is up there, second door on the right.” For half a moment her eyes went liquid, and she looked so much like her daughter, his heart twisted in on itself. And then she was gone, disappearing down the hall.

  The end of the stairs were shrouded in dark, the light of the lamp not reaching that far. He’d never been in that part of the house before; he’d no idea what was waiting for him there.

  No, he did know. She was up there. It was the welcome waiting for him that was uncertain.

  He climbed the steps slowly, pausing before her door. If he knocked, he might wake her. She must be asleep by now. He opened the door as quietly as he could, willing her to remain sleeping.

  Only she wasn’t. She knelt by the side of the bed, praying. She glanced up at his approach, eyes glimmering with tears.

  He couldn’t admit his failure to her aloud.

  “He hasn’t been found, then,” she said flatly at his continuing silence.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry, darlin’.” He couldn’t even say what he was sorry for, only that regret and sorrow were bone deep within him.

  She climbed to her feet, but remained by the bed. “He was at the dance, you know. He passed us there in the rose arbor.”

  He remembered. Remembered what the man had said, as well. “Nothing could make my own use of that word more distasteful to me than what happened today.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Your mother told me to come up here. If my presence offends you, I can—”

  “No.” She shook her head wildly. “Please don’t go.”

  He almost choked on the pleading in her voice, so deep was his own need for her. “If—I’ll stay then.”

  “Did you eat?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve a peach for you. The last fresh one for this year.” She took it from the nightstand and held it out to him, looking as if she were moving within a dream.

  That first bite was purest heaven—sweet and spicy and juicy. He passed it back to her. “Your turn.”

  She sank her teeth deep, her eyes closing as she did. Chewing slowly, she passed it back.

  They took turns until they were down to the pit, the two of them sticky with the juice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, the JM smooth under his fingers, and carefully wiped her mouth and hands, then his own.

  She led him over to the bed, spread with yet another quilt she must have made. She pushed him to sit on it and knelt between his legs, her nightgown pooling on the floor. She wrapped both hands around his ankle and tugged off one of his boots. Then the other. Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his shoulders, her hands the most wondrous touch he’d ever known. But there was nothing prurient in it—only care, concern.

  Perhaps even love.

  She slid her hands into his waistband and tugged him to a standing position. And then his pants were gone, leaving him only in his smalls.

  “You searched all this time, didn’t you?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Why?” As if she couldn’t
quite believe it.

  Because I love you. Because what hurts you hurts me. And you’re hurting.

  “For you.”

  He lifted her onto the bed then, tucking the blanket around them.

  “Was it terrible?” she asked. “Finding them?”

  “Yes.” He pulled her closer, breathing in the scent of peaches, clinging as much to him as to her. “It could have been you.” He pressed his lips to the silk of her hair. “It could have been you.”

  “But it wasn’t me. It was Isabel.” She began to sob and he knew that was worst of all for her.

  He held her close as she wept and swore once more that whatever it took, he would find that last outlaw. Would find him and prove to her and her family he was worthy of her love, of her loyalty. And then she might make space on the shelf in her heart that her family sat upon—space enough for him.

  After a time her breathing slowed, her body stilling. He held her close as she slept, thinking over his strategy for tomorrow. He’d head southeast, toward a pass that led to a valley on the other side of the Santa Rosas. The blood trail they’d found had led mostly south, but he might have gone—

  “Tell me about your childhood.”

  So she wasn’t asleep then. “Not much to tell,” he answered. And none of it particularly complimentary to the boy he’d been.

  The sheets rustled as she shifted. “You ran away at fifteen. How can there be not much to tell?”

  He gave a half smile to the darkness. And thought on where to begin.

  “I know you grew up on the Rancho Alvarado,” she reminded him.

  “I did. You never saw it, did you?”

  A gentle shushing sound as she shook her head against the pillow.

  “My memories of it are faded—it’s been so long. I remember beauty, though, grasses higher than my head, endless places for a young boy to disappear and daydream for hours at a time—up a tree, on some boulders, by the creek bank. My sisters joined me at times as well.”

  “What are their names?”