Beverly Byrne

by Come Sunrise

  Wilkins passed him a note. "Don Rico" was written on the unsealed envelope. Inside it said, "Do not imagine that I did it for you. It will be a peaceful end for both of us and I am content." It was ambiguous and no doubt she'd intended it so. Rick looked up. He felt tears sting the back of his eyes, but he didn't know whether he was crying for Beatriz or her mother or himself. Maybe for all of them.

  Wilkins had obviously read the message. "Any ideas?" he asked.

  Ibanez shook his head. "She was a strange and very intense woman. She'd had a hard life. Perhaps it all got to be more than she could bear."

  "Yeah." Wilkins produced a small bundle and held it out for Rick's inspection. It was a freshly laundered child's sunsuit made of blue and white checked gingham. "We found this in the kitchen. Seems to me it fits the description of what the Westerman child was wearing the morning she was abducted."

  "Maybe. You know more about such things than I do," Rick said. "But I'd risk a guess that this sunsuit can be bought all over Santa Fe. I think my own daughter has one just like it."

  "You're just bound to obstruct justice, ain't you, doc?"

  "For God's sake, Pete! She's dead. Kate's safe and sound. What the hell do you want?"

  The sheriff threw the sunsuit on the table in disgust. "I'm just doin' my job. If anybody'll let me."

  Rick put a hand on his arm. They'd known each other since childhood. Both were products of the amalgam that made up the city. In his own way each was able to cross the invisible lines separating the different worlds of Santa Fe. "Let it be," Rick said. "It's nothing to do with anybody else, and it's not a matter for the law. Not anymore."

  Wilkins shrugged. "Ok, you say so and Westerman says so. Old blood and new money in cahoots against me. I'd be a fool to buck that." He softened the words with a sour grin.

  "Thanks," Rick said. "You're not welcome."

  "I'll remind you of that next time your trick shoulder acts up." He left the sheriff scowling at his back and went into the shop. A few women dressed in the perennial black of the barrio stood silent among the bright frippery of the display. They were ready to mourn as soon as the men left.

  "What are we to do with all this, Don Rico?" one of them asked. "No one knows of any relatives except Manuel and Purisima. They have their own troubles."

  "Yes," Rick agreed. "Listen, tell Purisima I think the clothes should be distributed among the girls here. Dona Beatriz would want that."

  "It is a good idea," the woman said. "I will tell her. The church will not bury her, you know," she added. "The mother, yes, but not the daughter. Suicide is a grave sin."

  "Leave it to God to decide what is a sin," he said tiredly.

  "I will." She nodded solemnly. "And I will see that there are flowers on her grave."

  On Sunday afternoon Tommy watched Ibanez ride toward the house. The Mexican sat a horse the way his ancestors had, with absolute grace and mystery. Time was when that might have made Tommy jealous, but no longer. He rode just as well.

  "We expected you before this," Tommy said, taking the reins from Rick and passing them to a nearby cowhand.

  "I couldn't get away. I had to see Estella, and there were a lot of patients waiting. Is Kate all right, and Amy?"

  "Both fine. Come inside. They'll want to see you."

  "In a minute," Rick said. He took off his broad-rimmed black hat and studied Westerman. "Have you heard?"

  "About the woman who killed herself and her mother? Yes, Wilkins came to see me. He said you weren't very forthcoming."

  "There didn't seem to be any point. There still isn't, as far as I'm concerned."

  "Ok," Tommy said easily. "She'd tried earlier to get me killed you know. Found a way to pressure Diego, my foreman."

  "How can you be sure of that?" Rick demanded.

  "It figures, that's all. She was a cousin of one of the guys I bought out a couple of months ago."

  "Look, Westerman, you seem hellbent on making enemies out here. There's no need. New Mexico is big enough for all of us."

  Tommy cocked his head. "Are you really such an innocent, or is it an act?"

  Rick realized how wide was the gulf between them. He would not try again to bridge it. "It doesn't matter now, does it? She's dead. Let her rest in peace."

  "That's your choice. You earned it." They started for the house, but Tommy halted before they reached the door. "Listen, I don't know what Amy's told you, but there's some things we'd better get straight."

  Rick stiffened. "What things?"

  "I'll never let her get a divorce," Tommy said.

  "That's between you and Amy."

  "Maybe. But it concerns you too."

  "I'm not your wife's lover, Westerman." Rick couldn't keep the loathing from his voice. "Whatever ideas you've got, you're wrong."

  "No, I'm not," Tommy said easily. "Don't answer, just listen to me. I owe you. That's not a comfortable position for me, but it's a fact. I won't forget it as long as you follow my rules."

  "You listen!" Anger was a white heat in Rick's belly and a red haze before his eyes. "Amy is too good to breathe the same air as you. And if I can do anything to get her out of this sham you call a marriage, you better believe I mean to do it."

  Tommy laughed. "Too good? You've got a lot to learn, amigo. I'd like to be around when you find it all out. Come to think of it, I probably will be. I'm not going anywhere and neither is she."

  **

  Rick found Amy in the patio. The two children were playing nearby. "Hello," she said. Her voice sounded distant, removed from him. "I'm sorry about your friend Beatriz," she added, but the words conveyed no warmth.

  "So am I," Rick said. "She was a fine person, despite what happened."

  "She's the one who took Kate, isn't she?"

  "Forget it, Amy. It doesn't matter now."

  "No, I suppose it doesn't." She rose and went to retrieve a toy lying on the tiles beneath the gum tree. "I just keep wondering why she did it."

  "She was very unhappy and confused. A lot of bad things happened in her life," Rick said. "Besides, one of the ranchers Tommy forced out was her cousin."

  Amy nodded gravely. "It will be hard for you now that she's gone, won't it?"

  "She was my friend," Rick said.

  Amy turned to stare at him. The terrible emotions of the week still showed in her face. There were lines of fatigue and strain that had not been there last Sunday night when she joyously danced in his arms.

  "Were you in love with her?" she suddenly blurted out.

  "With Beatriz? No," he said. "I was never that."

  "But you were lovers, weren't you? That's really why she stole my child. She hated me." Amy spoke the words in painful wonder.

  Rick didn't meet her eyes. "Why are you doing this? Do you just want to pick a quarrel with me?"

  He saw her shiver, despite the heat of the midday sun. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know why I'm doing anything these days."

  The conversation with Tommy was still fresh in Rick's mind. He had a sudden urge to say, "I wasn't in love with Beatriz, I'm in love with you," but he didn't. He said nothing.

  Amy broke the painful silence. "I'm a fool to think I've any right to an explanation. Your private life is your affair." Her tone belied her words, and her jealousy was impossible to hide.

  "You have a right to any part of my life that you want, querida." He moved toward her and took both her hands in his. The touch of her flesh burned his fingers. She leaned toward him with a movement that seemed beyond her control, a response to a magnetic field neither of them could escape.

  "What am I to do?" she whispered. The words seemed more for herself than for him.

  He let go her hands and took her face between his palms, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I know what I want you to do," he said. "But the decision must be yours. "

  She moistened her lips with her tongue, as if preparing to speak words that parched her mouth. Rick was suddenly afraid. His first instinct had been the right one. This was not the
time to talk of the future. "Don't," he said. Then, because he wanted to smother a declaration that might be irrevocable, and because he couldn't resist, he covered her mouth with his.

  For a moment she didn't respond, and it was as if he held a ragdoll in his arms, but suddenly she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her body against his. A shock of recognition passed through each of them. The knowledge that here was fulfillment and peace and the satiation of all hunger passed from one to the other, and welded a union that seemed, for a brief moment, unbreakable. Until Tommy's voice broke it.

  He wasn't on the patio with them, they merely heard him in the house, speaking to one of the hands, but Amy pulled away with a fierce movement that bespoke rejection and fear. Rick let his hands drop to his sides. "I don't want to make you afraid," he said. "That's not the way I want you."

  "I know, but ..."

  "No," he interrupted quickly. "Don't say anything. There's time, querdia. A better time than this one."

  "Yes," she nodded. "A better time."

  The memory of that moment's revelation remained between the two of them, a shared secret neither spoke aloud. Amy knew that Rick was waiting for her to choose the "better time" they'd promised each other. Sometimes she was half-wild with anticipation and hope, sometimes she despaired. Once before she'd dared to dream of a life of love. It had been pointless then and it was pointless now, she told herself. She'd made her choice and she must suffer the consequences. Whatever Tommy had become was her fault. How could she hope for happiness built on a wreckage she herself had made?

  * * *

  Two months later her evaluation was confirmed. She was pregnant again. Once more she carried Tommy's child in her body. This was a life conceived in anger and loveless lust, the fruit of Tommy's half-rape the night of the party and the kidnapping. It had to have happened then, for he'd not touched her since. But whatever its origin, it was a life. The circumstance served to convince Amy that there was no way out of her dilemma. Once more she had given a hostage to fortune, and once more she must pay the penalty and protect the innocent.

  She wanted to tell Rick, but the thought that now he might cease even to be her friend was terrifying. She kept promising herself that she'd do it "next week," then the week after. The right time, a moment when her courage and her sense of honor would converge to overcome her fear, never arrived. Neither did she tell Tommy. He was away most of the time, working hard to consolidate the three ranches he'd made into one, and he seemed hardly aware of her existence. There was a kind of peace in the limbo in which she found herself, and having nothing else, Amy was reluctant to give it up.

  Toward the end of April she finally accepted that she must tell both men that she was expecting. She was starting her fifth month. Few of her dresses fit, and she could not continue to disguise her pregnancy. Besides, a few days previous, Rick had been on the verge of pressing her for a decision.

  They'd gone riding, one of the rare times they were together without the children, and when they stopped to admire a particularly beautiful view, he'd lifted her down from her horse and not Jet her go. They stood together for many seconds enjoying the silent symphony of their touching bodies. Then he'd kissed her again.

  Afterward Amy needed only to close her eyes to feel once more the joy of it. His lips on hers were infinitely gentle, and the taste of him was an aching sweetness. She'd pressed close and clung to his strength and the promise of delight in his touch. She wanted to drown in the beauty of it; she wanted to melt and open to him, to deny him nothing of herself that she might have all of him.

  But she'd done none of those things. Instead, once more she'd pulled away.

  For a few moments he'd stared at her and waited. Then he'd said, "You can't sit on the fence forever, querida. You've got to make up your mind."

  "I can't," she'd said hoarsely, knowing even as she spoke that it was a lie. The decision had been made for her. Only she couldn't bear to communicate it to him. "Not yet," she'd whispered. "Please not yet."

  So another opportunity for truth had passed. Now the end had come. She must face reality or make Rick hate her as a liar and a cheat. That would be worse than saying goodbye to him forever. Amy prepared herself to deal with the inevitable.

  A golden spring Sunday dawned. Amy woke alone in the big bed and heard Tommy downstairs playing with the children. She glanced at the clock. It was after nine. If Tommy planned to ride out, he'd already be gone. Very well, she'd tell him today and see Rick tomorrow.

  She stretched out her hand and felt the warm sheets Tommy had vacated. Nowadays they never touched.

  Even in sleep they stayed rigidly apart, like two strangers forced by circumstances into the imitation of intimacy. Amy sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was then the pain attacked, a roaring beast whose name she knew the moment it bit. Amy felt blood running down her thighs and she screamed.

  "I'm having a miscarriage. Get Rick," she cried between gasps:

  "I'll carry you downstairs," Tommy said. "We can drive to the hospital in town."

  "No." She couldn't say more.

  Tommy looked at her, then ran from the room yelling for Diego and Maria.

  When Rick arrived she was hemorrhaging and close to death. His surgery was of necessity drastic and final.

  "No more children," he told Tommy when he emerged grim-faced from the bedroom. "She's had too many pregnancies too fast. We're lucky she's alive at all."

  "Yes," Tommy said. "I guess we are." He looked pointedly at the other man. "Just as well, I guess. I'd never be sure if it was your kid or mine."

  Rick clenched his fists, but his voice was cool. "You're pure bastard, aren't you? There's no room for truth or decency. "

  "What is truth?" Tommy laughed mirthlessly. "Sorry, I never can resist the apt quotation."

  Ibanez wanted to punch the smug face opposite him. He didn't because he knew that would make it worse for Amy. He spun on his heel and returned to his patient.

  During his wife's convalescence Tommy moved out of her bedroom. He never returned.

  For a while Rick was her doctor first and the man who loved her second. He wouldn't let her talk about anything until she was again up and beginning to regain her strength. Then one day he said simply, "I want to take you away from here, querida. Are you ready to go?"

  Amy folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with all the love in her heart. "I can't, my dearest," she said softly. "I never can."

  "In God's name!" he exploded. "Why not? What else does he have to do to you?"

  "It's not Tommy's fault that I lost the baby. You know that. "

  "All right, but you're begging the question."

  She shook her head. "Don't shout at me, Rick. It won't do any good. I'm sorry if you think I led you on. I never meant to do that. But I'm Tommy's wife, and I can't change it. I made my choices a long time ago. Losing another baby, losing even the chance to have any more, just confirms it."

  He stared at her in anger and pain and stormed out of the house without saying another word. Three days later he came back. "I was on the verge of transferring you to another doctor, of never coming here again," he admitted. "I couldn't do it. What we have what we could have together-it's too precious to give up."

  "We have to give it up," she said. "Oh, Rick, please believe me. I'd give anything if it could be different, but it can't be."

  "I think you're mad," he said grim-faced. "I think that bastard's bewitched you."

  "I'm sane. Maybe for the first time in my life."

  "What do you want me to do, then?"

  "Whatever you want," she said dully. "Whatever you think you must do. But I'd be very happy if we could still be friends," she added in a small and wistful voice.

  "Friends," Rick said, as if it were a foreign word. "When I touch you you tremble like a leaf in the wind. Do you think we can simply be friends?"

  "I don't know. I'd like to try."

  He made a wordless sound of disgust and turned away.


  Amy stared at his back and saw the way his shoulders rippled beneath his shirt. She wanted desperately to go to him, but she made herself be still. Losing another baby, almost dying herself-it was a warning from the vengeful God whose face she had glimpsed in New York. Amy understood that now. Her hands remained clenched in her lap. If she reached out to Rick, they would all fall into some terrible destiny.

  Not just the two of them, the children as well. Amy clung to her resolve and their safety, a tenuous thing she gripped in her slender fingers.

  "Very well," he said at last. "Not because I think it will work, only because I won't let you throwaway everything we might have together." He turned to look at her, and he managed a smile. "I'll wait a little longer, querida, but I won't wait forever."