“They can live in this country. They give fleece and meat. Of course they’re worth it!”
She wondered if such a practical assessment would annoy the Don, but his laughter was approving. “Madonna, these sheep don’t look it, but they have a proud history. The five thousand Coronado brought into what is now the United States were lost, but those Oñate brought a little later have flourished and inherited all this country, on either side of the Rio. They are churros, the common sheep of Spain, though I’ve smuggled in a little merino blood. The churro on his migrations from winter to summer range marked out the roads Hannibal followed as he marched across Spain and around to Italy. Churros gave the Romans wool. They can forage and multiply in country that would starve prettier, fatter sheep, and their meat is very good. You’re right not to despise them because of their looks. Will you have sheep for your meadow now you’ve seen them, or would you prefer cattle?”
Rachel gazed at frolicking leggy young, sedate mothers, questing rams. “I’ll have as many as eight hundred American dollars’ worth of Mexican silver will buy.”
The Don spoke to Inocencio, the mute shepherd, who looked sad, but bowed. Wheeling the carriage, Don Celestino said, “He’ll pick out a flock of the best ewes and finest bucks. They’ll be ready in two days, and I’ll send enough men to drive them to your valley. One of the shepherds who has a tongue will go with you and teach you all there is to know about tending sheep. A pair of our best dogs must stay with them, of course.”
“You mustn’t give me more than I can pay for,” Rachel objected.
He looked full at her, smiled as blood came to her cheeks. “That,” he said with a note of regret, “would be impossible.”
As they drove to the stable, a handsome little boy ran up, clambered on the carriage and occupied the Don’s knee as if it were a familiar perch.
“Tío!” he commanded. “Let me drive! I’m a big boy! Please, Tío!”
He was so small, about two years old, Rachel guessed, that his earnest entreaty to handle mettlesome horses inspired admiration as well as laughter. The child had shining black hair and clear olive skin, but his eyes were gray—storm blue-gray that made Rachel gasp. Her husband’s eyes stared at her beneath the boy’s imperious dark eyebrows until they dismissed her as a person of no particular interest and fastened on the Don.
“Tío!” It was both command and plea. “Roque drive!”
“No,” said the Don pleasantly, tossing the boy to the ground and climbing down himself while a stable-hand assisted Rachel. “Roque will have at each age the right horse, which is now your gray pony. And Roque must acquire manners. Doña Rachel, this is my nephew. Roque, this lady is the wife of my friend, Don Mateo.”
“The Tejano of whom the vaqueros sing?” frowned Roque.
“The same.”
Don Celestino scowled at his nephew, and it was like seeing an old eagle tower over a ruffling fluffy eaglet. Roque turned. With a sigh of resignation, he bowed over Rachel’s hand.
“A sus ordenes, señora,” he rattled glibly, then pounced on his uncle. “May I go with Luz for the bandidos? May I, Tío?”
The Don gave him a solid but affectionate smack on the seat of his suede trousers. “You may run tell Maria to give you some flan and put you to bed.” Roque balked, panting. The Don smacked him again, harder. “Men need their rest, old one. Sleep sound and we’ll ride in the morning before anyone else is awake.”
Roque hugged the Don’s leg and hurried for the house with one backward glance of those Norteño eyes.
“He’s a beautiful child,” Rachel said.
“Yes. We spoil him, but he’s my heir, desired for a long time.” The Don chuckled but Rachel thought he seemed uneasy. “The young and old have the habit of early rising, one my sister abhors. So Roque and I are morning companions.”
“That’s nice for both of you,” Rachel said, and meant it, though a slow subtle poison seemed to spread through her.
She mustn’t jump to conclusions. There were, surely, other men with eyes that peculiar violent gray. But Roque, was of an age to have been sired during the months Matt spent at Tres Coronas.
“Does your brother-in-law live here?” Rachel asked.
Startled for a moment, the Don recovered to say smoothly, “It is sad, Madonna, but my sister is a widow.”
And was years before this child was born! Rachel set her teeth to keep from blurting out her suspicions. Could hidalgo pride accept a bastard as an heir? Rachel couldn’t believe the aristocrat beside her would tolerate looseness on the part of his sister. And to speak so warmly of Matt—Rachel’s head spun.
Had Matt loved Doña Anatacia and returned to the meadow only out of duty? Rachel’s lip quivered. She bit it savagely, blinking back the tears stinging her eyes. She didn’t realize the Don was watching her until he stopped by the portal.
“Madonna.” He took her hands, made her look at him, into eyes that seemed infinitely wise, somewhat cynical and caressingly kind. “I think you have guessed. I will not insult you by pretending. Best you know how it happened and why, though I trust you will not speak of it to my sister.”
“I—I don’t want to know! If Matt ever comes home, he can tell me!”
“And you’ll wonder if it’s as he says and if he, God forbid, doesn’t return, his memory will have a bitterness.” The Don held her in his powerful grasp and told her the fantastic truth.
“I can’t think of any other man from either side of the Rio who would have been acceptable both to me and my sister,” he finished.
“It all sounds so calculating! Like—like—”
“Maintaining a blood line is a matter of plan and choice,” the Don said.
But my child by Matt never even lived! If he didn’t come back, that would always haunt her, that she’d lost her baby while this glorious fortunate boy grew up at Tres Coronas.
“Perhaps now you do not want to meet my sister?” suggested the Don.
Rachel considered. “No, I’d rather see her.”
“Otherwise you’d always wonder,” he said.
Nodding, Rachel gave him a crooked smile. “I suppose I should feel honored you selected my husband.”
“You should,” said the Don gravely, but his mouth twitched at the corners. “How old are you, Madonna?”
She actually had to think a moment. In the meadow, waiting for Matt, age didn’t seem to matter. “I was twenty-one in April,” she said.
He shook his head. “So young! So much before you! In truth I don’t know whether to envy you or be thankful I don’t have all those years to traverse! But since I am more years your elder than I care to admit, allow me this advice, Raquelita Madonna. You and Mateo are paired like eagles. There can be for each of you, really, no other mate.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Mateo will give you children, strong and handsome and beautiful. Do not, I beg you, begrudge the one he gave me.”
Rachel steeled herself against the hurt burning inside her. It hadn’t been casual lust or a love Matt denied for her, but formalizing mating, a way to get an acceptable heir for this vast hacienda. If she had a child, she could have been more reconciled. As it was Roque’s eyes would turn a knife in her heart each time she saw him. And Anatacia—
“Come,” said the Don, taking her arm. “You will want a few minutes before dinner. Remember, Raquelita, when you look at my sister, that her bloom is fading. Roque has brought her joy. And she has no man.”
She’s had better use of mine than I have, Rachel thought. Excusing herself, she hurried to her room, threw herself on the bed and sobbed with jealousy, hurt, self-pity, anger, waves of one feeling surging over the last, until she was spent, emptied—and red-eyed and swollen-faced, as a look in the silver-framed mirror proved.
Splashing her face with cool water, she combed her hair and decided candlelight would conceal the effects of her outburst. At least she was too exhausted to feel much of anything.
Or so she thought until she saw the queenly woman sitting opposite D
on Celestino. The sheerest of mantillas softened the severe purity of her features, and her long pale neck rose from the perfect swell of her bosom.
Rachel ached. Matt had been the lover of this regal woman. He might have left her, but how could he ever forget?
Somehow, though, she managed to respond graciously to the Don’s introduction and exchange a few polite remarks before the Don took charge of the conversation.
But Rachel had seen a flicker in the depths of those brilliant dark eyes. She felt them studying her covertly. She knows that I know. Anyway, Matt hadn’t serviced an ordinary woman. There was a bitter satisfaction in that, along with the stinging envy. Rachel knew without being told that Matt could have husbanded this lady had he wished to renounce his wife north of the Rio.
The Don’s attentiveness, though, acted like balm while they enjoyed lamb with rice and rich sauce, boiled milk candy, fruits, cheese, tortillas of blue meal and crisp little cakes full of nuts.
Don Celestino had read widely in French and Latin, and by the end of the meal they were arguing Rousseau and St. Augustine till Anatacia yawned and excused herself.
Rachel and her host sat very late, talking over brandy. By the time he saw her to her door, Rachel felt witty and beautiful, gratifyingly admired by this very masculine man. Matt’s siring a child from another woman was a throbbing wound, but there were other feelings in Rachel now which made the hurt easier to bear.
“You see?” The crow’s-feet deepened around the Don’s keen eyes. “You’ve met my sister, she’s no mystery, and you’ve thoroughly appalled her with your French and Latin. I would judge you will treat each other with mutual respect and bewilderment.”
Rachel gave a heartfelt nod. Ridiculous, but this hidalgo who made her feel so much a woman also reminded her of her father, except that Don Celestino was worlds more experienced and, of course, powerful. He gave her a sense of security that Bradford, bless him, had not been able to, for she’d often had to be the provider and always the practical one.
“Good night, Madonna.” The Don raised her hands to his face. “Thank you, Raquelita, for the most enjoyable evening I’ve had since Mateo was here.” He paused, added with a twinkle, “May I alter that to nearly the most entrancing hours I’ve ever spent?”
Before she could answer, he touched her cheek and whirled away, as if he were afraid.
Rachel went to her bed with powerfully mixed feelings. Matt had a son by enchanting Anatacia. But the Don thought that she, Rachel, was intriguing. He was starting her with sheep through which she and Lupe might prosper, and he had sent Luz to track down the remaining bandits. All this was a marvelous change after the hard shifts of the past. How wonderful to be prized and cherished by such a man, if only this once, this little while.
As she undressed, she let her hands smooth her body, feeling the caressing warmth of the Don’s eyes before she stretched luxuriantly in the great bed and slept with the warm sense of his protection around her.
Next morning after breakfast, the Don took Rachel by carriage around some of the ranch, showing her the manadas of horses, the special cattle herds, the kingdom he ruled. And though he spoke no word of his desire for her, awareness burned between them.
They ate at a cow camp and didn’t get back to the big house until after Anatacia had dined. When Rachel spoke of leaving the next day, the Don said Inocencio required more time to select her sheep. Besides, he, the Don, was loath to see her return to the meadow until Luz brought word the last raiders were dead.
“But that might be weeks—or never!” Rachel objected. “Lupe’s there, and Juanito. I can’t stay much longer or they’ll worry.”
“One more day,” insisted the Don.
The following morning he showed her his extensive library. That afternoon they took another drive. Apparently Roque had been cajoled into being content with his dawn outings with his uncle. He would wave from wherever he might spy the Don and Rachel but made no attempt to join them.
“How strange it is,” Rachel said that evening after Anatacia had brought the boy to say his good nights and disappeared with him. “I could adore him if he were given to me. He’s so like Matt! And yet he hurts my heart.”
The Don watched her with an odd light in his eyes. “What would you say if I told you that’s how I experience you?”
Her hand went to her throat, shielding the pulse that throbbed like a captured bird. “Surely I don’t hurt you, Don Celestino!”
“It’s a pleasant hurt. One I had never expected to feel again. Can you understand, Raquelita, that at my age it’s reassuring to know my blood can quicken and I can ache with longing like a boy for his first love?”
As long as nothing was declared, it could be an exciting, flattering game. Rachel had never dreamed the Don felt more for her than he would for any new and attractive woman. At her sound of distress, he shook his head.
“Don’t be sorry, Madonna. You are my last dream. And that’s so much happier than having none.”
“But—”
“You know I would like to keep you forever,” he said roughly, his fingers tightening on the stem of his goblet. “I would try if Mateo were not my friend.” He sighed. “Don’t look frightened, my sweet. Can I offer violence to my soul? Just know that the memories you’ve given me these few days will shine in my heart the rest of my life to lighten that final darkness.”
Rising, he offered his arm, escorted her in silence to her door, brought her hands to his lips. “Good night, Raquelita,” he said, releasing her.
She touched his eyes and his gaunt carved cheeks, sensing the spirit behind his austerity. “Please,” she whispered. “I—I want to give you one more memory.”
With a groan, he swept her close, taking her mouth. She felt like a living fountain from which he drank, nourishing long parched fibers. But then he put her from him.
“No,” he whispered. “You are Mateo’s. But I will always remember you offered and that will be my joy.”
He turned quickly. She watched him with tears in her eyes and a kind of relief in her heart.
At breakfast it was hard to believe this hidalgo had almost lain in her arms. Food stuck in her throat. She felt oppressively sad. For a brief time the Don had cherished and helped her, been her father and friend. Now she must go back to the meadow, hold it till Matt returned, if he ever did. The sooner she left, the better.
After breakfast was over, she went for the silver to pay for the sheep, but the Don looked at her almost angrily.
“I don’t want money,” he said. “No! I won’t for any consideration take it.” He checked her protest with a raised imperative hand. “Also, Luz returned this morning. Have no fear of those bandits, Raquelita. They will raid no more ranches.”
She had already told Anatacia and Roque goodbye. María brought her belongings and Luz fetched her horse.
Don Celestino helped her mount. She rode away from Tres Coronas with four hundred sheep following, tended by dogs and shepherds, and when she turned a last time to wave, Don Celestino answered her salute, bowed to the waist, and stepped behind his heavy door with its three crowns, out of her sight.
XVII
Juanito was proud of himself. He’d coaxed a gourdful of milk from the old gray longhorn cow, and it was the first night she’d stayed still without being tied and bawling as if she were being murdered. He gave her a slap on the rump as she ambled off with her calf, dewlaps flapping, her curved horns bowing forward. Juanito had first lured her into the corral by roping the calf and dragging it inside, two weeks ago. Then he’d tied her hind legs so she couldn’t kick, rubbed her and talked soothingly, pulling her teats, though of course she’d been too furious and scared to let down any milk. After several days of leaving her in the corral, tying and soothing her, he’d begun tugging and squeezing on the leathery teats, coaxing out thin squirts of milk. Tía Rachel and Mamacita enjoyed the milk and praised him for getting it. They called him the man of the ranch.
Juanito frowned. He couldn’t reme
mber any man well except Changa, who used to play with him and teach him to rope. There’d been the bandits who’d killed Changa and later the men who drove Tía Rachel’s sheep into the valley, dressed in leather with peaked hats. One had given him half a hard brown sugar cone and a lesson in casting the rope. Santiago, the shepherd, was a man, of course, but he was very old and stayed with the sheep, seeming to be more like them than a human. He was kind when Juanito visited him, but it was as if he scarcely remembered how to talk.
Dimly, from so long ago he couldn’t be sure if he’d remembered or had built their pictures from hearing his mother and Rachel talk, Juanito recalled two big men, the strength of their arms as they tossed him in the air or hoisted him on to a shoulder, the laughter coming from deep within their chests. One had skin almost the color of wild plums, the other, though sunburned, had paler skin than Juanito’s and strange gray eyes. Quil and Matt.
Some day they were supposed to come back. When the war was over. There was no war in the valley, and Juanito didn’t understand what one was except that men fought and killed, as the bandits had. Whether he really remembered them or not, Juanito hoped Matt and Quil were not dead. For he, Juanito, was not quite seven years old. He might milk cows and be able to catch almost anything with his reata, bring in firewood and water, and look after the sheep, but he was not truly a man.
As he started toward the house, pleased at the slosh of milk in the gourd, he heard hoofbeats, looked up the valley to the narrow pass and saw a rider. He squinted, poised to run if a string of horsemen came in view, breathed freer when he saw it was only one rider. It wasn’t Tía Rachel out for a quick canter.
It was—a man! A broad-shouldered man who waved and shouted a greeting. Careless for once of losing the tediously gained milk, Juanito ran forward.
Quil, discharged after serving with Union forces in Missouri and Arkansas, had no news of Matt, but he could tell the women the war was over. It had ended in April with the South defeated.
A Woman Clothed in Sun Page 21