by Denise Dietz
“Yes, Maman.” Luke refilled his plate and walked toward the kitchen.
Cat stretched his long legs under the table and reached for a piece of toast. “You are right as usual, Mother. I should change my wet clothes before—”
“Stay right here. This won’t take long.”
“I’m sorry I brought Miss Adams without your permission, but she had no place to go.”
“Couldn’t she have returned to France?”
Too bushed to wrangle, Cat disregarded Dimity’s sarcasm. “May I retire to my bedroom now, Mother? I need sleep more than food.”
“It isn’t your bedroom.” She walked over to the sideboard, poured a cup of tea, returned to her seat. “I have decided that you shall sleep in that old cabin near the bunkhouse, with your wife. It requires some fixing up, but your wife—”
“Ruthie and I aren’t married.”
“Bridgida can start with lye soap. A broom should take care of any spiders. The mattress is despicable. Since I believe in Christian charity, I shall give Bridgida a brand new feather mattress.”
“What does Bridgida have to do with anything?”
Dimity patted her neat bun of braided hair. “Mon Dieu, you don’t know. You’ve been gone, chasing strays. How many strays did you rope and brand, Cat?”
“From your tone of voice, I gather Percy told Papa I was working in Canon City, not riding the range or visiting Denver. What don’t I know about Bridgida?”
“She carries your child.”
“That’s impossible! Bridgida and I never . . . how can I put this without offending your sensibilities? Bridgida and I kissed once or twice, but that’s all. If she’s with child, it’s not my child.”
“You were born evil, Cat. You may have fooled John and the others, but with God’s grace I have seen through your lies.”
“Does Bridgida say the child is mine?”
“Yes.”
“Then she lies.”
“No, Cat. At first she said Lucas forced her, but after many hours of prayer she recanted. She wept and begged forgiveness and confessed the child was yours. She said she was afraid you might whip her with your belt or cut her with your spurs if she told the truth. She showed me bruises, which didn’t surprise me.”
Cat threw his toast across the room. “Luke rode Bridgida like he rides the horses. If she had bruises from a belt or cuts from a spur, they were caused by Luke.”
“Liar!”
“Mother, please listen.” Cat walked around the table and hunkered by Dimity’s chair. “If Bridgida’s wounds were new, it had to be Luke. I’ve been in Canon City these last eight weeks.”
“That’s why you rode away from the ranch. You were afraid Bridgida might tattle.”
“I left because I fought with Luke.”
“Then you admit you have a temper.”
“Yes! You’ve always babbled on and on about bad blood, but if I’ve inherited anything, it’s your temper.”
“Nonsense. See how calmly I sit here and discuss your sins.”
“I have many sins, but beating a girl to make her conjoin with me isn’t one of them. When did Bridgida confess?”
“Three days ago. Her wounds were still raw.”
“Then it couldn’t have been me. I’ve been in Canon City and I can prove it. Ruthie . . .” He swallowed the rest of his words at the sound of Dimity’s shrill laughter.
“You defend yourself with your whore? That’s priceless, Cat.”
“I’m not defending myself. There’s nothing to defend.”
“You visited the ranch under cover of darkness. You’re a coward, a sneak, just like Cherokee—” Dimity’s hand shook as she lifted her teacup. “Just like an Indian.”
“Why would I make the long trip back and forth, Mother? That’s insane. If I wanted to bed a woman, I could easily find one who’s willing. And I don’t play an Indian unless I’m acting. I’ve been a motion picture actor these last eight weeks. I played an Indian and a hero, and I was damn good at it. Now I want to help Papa run the ranch. That’s what I was born to do.”
“You were born to hang from the end of a rope. You were born to get a girl with child then disappear.”
Cat strove to keep his voice on an even keel. “You said Bridgida had cuts made by spurs. I don’t use spurs. I don’t even own spurs.”
“Of course you do. I am well aware that you won silver spurs at a rodeo.”
“Take a look in the barn. Luke rides with spurs. Percy will tell you that he has to salve a horse’s flanks and belly after Luke rides it. Are you so blinded by your hate for me that you can’t see Luke for what he really is? He’s greedy and cruel and sly. His face is scabbed with the sores he picks open. You, who are so fastidious, watch him shovel food into his mouth with his fingers. Papa won’t even sit at the same table—”
“Shut up!” Dimity slapped Cat’s face. “How dare you slander your brother! I want you to leave the ranch today. This is no longer your home.”
“Wrong, Mother. As the eldest son I shall inherit from Papa.”
Dimity rose from her chair. Biting her lower lip, she grasped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles whitened.
“Thank you for breakfast, Mother. I shall now retire to my bedroom.”
“He always thanked people.”
“Who?”
“Your father. He had a habit of thank—”
“Had?”
“Yes. Your father is dead.”
“Have you lost your mind? Janey said Papa’s inside the bunkhouse, eating breakfast with the hands.”
“John McDonald is not your father!” Dimity shouted.
Rising, Cat grasped his mother’s arms above the elbows. “What are you saying?”
“Your father was the devil!”
“Now you sound like Tonna.” Cat felt relief course through him. “She says my father was the Chinook wind and my mother the mountain lion.”
“John McDonald is not your father.” Dimity shook herself free from his grasp.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Your father was the devil, but he came in the guise of a man. He was a murderer. He had Indian, Mexican and Negro blood running through his veins, just like you. Bad blood. His name was Cherokee Bill, and he was hanged for his evil deeds on the day you were born.”
“I don’t believe—”
“Yes, you do. You know I would never invent a story like that. I wouldn’t have told you now, except you provoked me. Eighteen years ago, God tested my faith and I failed. I gave in to temptation, but afterwards I prayed for absolution and God rewarded me with Lucas. Lucas was a gift to prove I had become worthy of God’s grace.”
Cat paced from the table to the sideboard. He remembered how at the age of seven he had nearly lost consciousness from a whupping. He wished he were seven again so that he could blot out his mother’s wordy whiplash.
She stood there, fingering the huge cross she wore on a chain. Her eyes glittered, but once again she worried her lower lip with her teeth. Did she believe Cat would run to her husband with this wild tale?
Yet if Dimity spoke the truth, it would explain so many things. Cat’s “bad blood.” Her dislike and neglect.
Suppose he did tell Papa? She’d deny every word. Furthermore, the accusation would come from a boy who had attacked a ranch hand’s daughter.
Poor Bridgida. Although she had mature curves, she was tiny, barely five feet tall. Luke would savor overpowering a smaller adversary, and a girl to boot.
“If God gave you Lucas as a gift, he was still testing you and again you’ve failed,” Cat said. “Surely God would not commend your disregard for Luke’s cruelty. Mother, he raped Bridgida!”
“If Bridgida were not Rosita’s daughter, I would have sent her away. Instead, we shall post the bans immediately and my cleric will say the words to make you man and wife. A Catholic ceremony, Cat, binding you forever.”
“I will not father Luke’s child. I will not wed Bridgida.”
“
Yes, you will. I have talked this over with John, and he agrees. If you do not assume responsibility, John will disinherit you. Make no mistake about that, my son.”
It was the first time she’d ever called him son.
*****
As Cat entered the kitchen, the swinging door knocked Luke backwards. He’d been spying, uninterrupted, so Tonna must be inside her small house, tending Ruthie.
Ignoring Luke, Cat walked outside. He managed a few steps before his legs weakened and he slumped against the wash table.
A murderer, Dimity had said. An outlaw named Cherokee Bill. No, she wouldn’t invent a story like that. Cat’s father was a murdering outlaw who’d been hanged for his crimes, and Cat had his blood. He felt bitter bile lap at the back of his throat, swallowed it down, and brandished his fists at the sky, dimly aware that the storm had blown away.
“Gato?”
As Cat turned away from the wash table, he saw a yellow skirt and dirty toes, not quite hidden by a tree trunk.
“Did you speak con su madre, Gato? Are you angry?”
“No, I’m not angry. Come here.”
“I would not blame you if you were,” said Bridgida.
Cat watched the tiny girl approach. She wore her sister Maria’s embroidered blouse. Too large at the neckline, it fell from one shoulder. Her bare feet squished through the muddy yard.
Lowering her thick dark lashes, she murmured, “I did not want to say it was you, Gato, but Señora Dimity made me stay in a room with el padre until I changed my story. She said I would kneel there forever, without food or water. She swore she would send my mother and my brothers and sisters from the ranch, and she would stop Maria and Rodolfo’s wedding. When I fainted, she waved a feather beneath my nose, and el padre did not care.”
“Don’t cry, querida.”
“The day you left, Luke wanted to touch me but I wouldn’t let him. He waited until I was in the barn, watering the horses. Then he . . . there was nobody there, so he pressed his hand against my mouth and pulled me up the ladder and threw me onto the straw. Luke used his belt and spurs. I spilled blood, Gato, from my cuts. And blood ran down my legs, from . . . from Luke’s bicho. Luke saw the blood. It sickened him so he ran away.”
Launching herself at Cat, Bridgida buried her face against his shirt.
“Hush, querida, hush,” he crooned, stroking her back. “Don’t cry. It’s over.”
“It is not over, Gato. Luke follows me everywhere and he has used his belt and spurs three times. Blood does not sicken him anymore. I wanted to tell Señor Mac, but I told my mother instead. It was she who went to Señora Dimity. Now my mother says I am a bad girl, a puta. I am not a puta, Gato.
“No, Bridgida, you are not a whore.”
“I am so happy you are home,” she sighed, lifting her tear-drenched face. “What should we do?”
“For the time being, stick close to Rosita and Maria. Don’t let Luke find you alone.”
“But I want to ride. When I ride I feel better.”
“I’ll take you riding, little one. Luke will never touch you again, I swear. If he tries, he’ll wallow in his own vómito and I’ll castrate his bicho with Tonna’s dullest kitchen knife.”
*****
“So it’s true, Tonna.” Cat pounded his fist on Tonna’s kitchen table. “The blood that runs through my body is his. Bad blood.”
“There is no bad or good blood, John McDonald.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Quiet. You’ll wake the girl. Why shouldn’t I call you John McDonald? It is your name.”
“It’s his name, not mine.”
“You talk like a child. Even if what Dimity says is true, it does not take away your name.”
“Even if? You said she spoke the truth.”
“I said she did not lie about Cherokee Bill.”
“You play with words.”
“Do a few angry words from Dimity make you any less a man? Do they take away your name? You have not changed. You are still John McDonald, named for your father. Many years ago, on the long walk to Texas, children lost their parents. They were raised by others and became fine men and women.”
“They were not the son of a murderer.”
“How do you know this? Their fathers could have killed during a war raid.”
“That’s different.”
“The blood is not bad?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Oh, God, what am I going to do?”
“Right now you must drink sage and sorrel to help your fever, and eat some of the calf’s-foot soup I prepared for your friend’s awakening. You should not make a decision on an empty stomach.”
“My friend. I forgot Ruthie.” Cat’s laugh ended in a coughing fit. “What a fine mess. Ruthie and Bridgida. Percy once said I was too big for my britches.”
“You are big, Cat, but you must also be strong enough to forget your mother’s hurtful words.” Tonna sighed. “I shall talk to Dimity about Bridgida.”
“It wouldn’t help. In any case, I can’t leave Bridgida here on the ranch with Luke. I swore he’d never touch her again.”
“Are you planning to leave?”
“Yes. I’ve made my decision without your soup. I had the offer of a job from a man named Colonel Selig. I can’t return to Canon City because of another man, but I can make my way to California where Selig lives.” Digging inside his pocket, Cat pulled out a piece of paper. “Damn. It got wet from the rain and the ink’s faded, but I think I can read the numbers.”
“If you leave the ranch, Dimity has won.”
“What has she won? Luke? I’ll come back, but first I’ll make movies. Movies are spirits inside a camera. The camera captures a horse running or a bird flying or a man fighting. Then the pictures are shown on a screen, a paper window that many people can watch together.”
“A picture book that moves?”
“Yes.” Retrieving a small stick from the cookstove, Cat blew out the flaming end, turned over the paper with Selig’s address, and printed BILL PERCIVAL. “Reckon I’ll change my name. Bill for my real father, Percival for Black Percy.”
“My husband would be shamed. John McDonald has treated you well and does not deserve this dishonor.”
Cat scratched through the name and wrote another. Tonna glanced down and nodded. “Always remember,” she said, “that I keep a pot of Arbuckles’ on the stove, waiting for your return.”
“That pot over there?”
She nodded again.
“By the time I return, it will be too strong to drink.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But you will be too strong to care.”
Nineteen
An enormous tent housed the Cowboys’ Square Dance. Steers were penned nearby, their bucolic bellows competing with the ka-ping of spittle hitting cuspidors, the twang of guitars, and the plunk-thwack-plunk of a bull fiddle.
Bridgida had heard similar sounds her whole life. Mesmerized, she watched grayish-brown moths court death by fluttering their wings at suspended lanterns.
She wrenched her gaze from the moths, and stared at a long wooden table, where remnants from a potluck supper scented the air with fried chicken, crushed oranges and melted chocolate. Several dogs danced on their hind legs, trying to reach the leftover food. Bridgida smiled. The dogs looked like the dancers who twirled to the caller’s chant.
“Está es una buena comida, Gato,” she said.
“Eat your fill, sweetheart,” he replied. “It’s the last good meal we’ll have for a while.”
“Cat, come dance with me. Bridgida don’t mind, do you Bridgida?”
“No, Ruthie, I do not mind.”
Cat winked at Bridgida. He had once thought her shallow as a dry-bed stream, and yet it was Bridgida who kept their small band together. She washed their clothes, cooked their meals, and tended Ruthie when the actress sickened from too much drinking.
Last week Cat had left Ruthie at the Watering Hole Saloon. Returning to their hotel room, he’d found Bridgid
a huddled under the bed covers, tears coursing down her cheeks. “What’s wrong, querida?” he had asked. “Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Do you miss your brothers and sisters?”
“No, Gato. It is just that I can never be a woman.”
“You’re a lovely woman. Don’t you look in the mirror?”
“The mirror does not reflect what’s inside. Inside, I am coward.”
He lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Luke?” he asked softly.
“Sí. Luke has made me scared to love like a woman.”
Cautiously, Cat traced her full breasts then explored her curves through her cotton nightgown. When he caressed her taut navel with his thumb, she shivered.
“I am frightened, Gato.”
He knew he should rise from the bed. He had vowed to leave his two girls alone. What would a movie hero do in this situation? A movie hero wouldn’t be in this situation! Suppose he was? Cat pondered a plot. His hero would be worldly wise, gentle and tender.
Could he act that role?
“Don’t be scared,” he said, shedding his clothes and tugging her nightgown up over her head. “I won’t hurt you. You’re my pájara pequeña.”
“I wish I were a small bird, Gato. Birds know what to do.”
“Birds fly.”
Stretched out on his side, he wrapped her long braid around his neck like a noose and pressed his mouth against her mouth. She yielded slowly, her lips parting on their own volition, not from any pressure he exerted. Her breath was sugar-sweet, her kiss flavored with innocence.
He shifted positions, straddling her body, his body anchored by his knees. Placing his hand between her thighs, he caressed the soft inner skin, moving upwards. He felt her light touch, shy and curious. She stroked his hips and belly. Her fingers danced across his groin until she had him fully in the grasp of her hand.
Hard and ready, Cat slid through her fingertips and penetrated. She tensed. Sweat beaded his brow, and his temples pounded like a drum, yet he stayed inside, motionless, until he felt her relax. After what seemed an eternity, he began to thrust with a definite rhythm.
“Gato, I am not afraid,” she had cried.