She gazed at his hands for a moment, wishing there was some way to know if this was all a joke to him, a chance to tweak his betrothed wife's nose before marriage, or just an attempt to annoy his daughter. There was too much she didn't understand about this situation. Perhaps sitting down with him would give her answers. She raised her eyes to his. "I would make a suggestion for the meal," she hazarded, "but you'd simply ignore it."
"I would," he acknowledged with a nod.
Well, she'd gotten that much right, at least. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, sir."
"At noon," he said. "Don't be late this time."
She nodded but didn't bother to answer. Imogen made noises indicating she wished to leave, so Lourdes took one last look at Nevada, contentedly grazing farther out in the paddock, and headed back toward where one of the hands was holding the buggy's reins. Imogen clambered up and then waited for her to do so as well. Imogen took the reins and set the patient horse off at a trot, not speaking.
Lourdes felt she should explain everything, but she didn't know how the relationship between father and daughter stood. She had no way of knowing who was in the right. Despite her earlier resolve, she'd set herself squarely in the midst of the family's problems, so she had better come up with a good argument to handle Imogen's obvious qualms.
Imogen's mother hadn't been married to him. Nor had he lived here until a little over a year ago. Imogen's accent hinted that she'd lived in the area all her life, so Finn hadn't been around to help raise her. That meant their relationship probably wasn't like that of most fathers and daughters. "Did he know about you?" she asked Imogen, the first words either of them had said.
"No." Imogen sighed softly. "Please forgive my temper, Mrs. Medina. He brings out the worst of it. I'm sorry I'm not being a more gracious hostess."
"I don't mind. My father and I had occasional angry times. Then again, we were always close."
"Finn and I are not close."
They had almost reached the drive to Hawk's Folly Farm. "He wasn't here when you were a child, was he?" Lourdes asked.
"No," Imogen admitted. "He only learned of my existence about a year and a half ago, and showed up on my doorstep expecting me to adore him."
Exactly what she'd thought. "But you don't?"
"It's difficult. He's not very fatherly," Imogen said. "More like an irritating older brother who thinks he's my father and therefore I should obey his every word."
Lourdes nearly laughed at the frustration in the woman's tone. She could understand the metaphor. Chuy had pressed her unwisely, and she had fled Texas. Imogen didn't have that option. She and her father must come to terms of some sort, even if it was simply forcing promises out of each other.
"We are, perhaps, too much alike," Imogen added, a hint of guilt in her tone.
"And yet you think I shouldn't accept him?"
Imogen drew the buggy to a stop. "I just…I don't know what he's playing at. He's been putting off this marriage thing all year long, no matter how many times I've urged him to find a bride. Two weeks ago this Doherty woman shows up and says she's his mother's pick. Finn dislikes her, I can tell, but he hasn't told her no. And now he's importuning you, which confuses the issue."
Lourdes asked the obvious question. "Why does he have to marry at all? What would happen if he defied his mother's wishes?"
Imogen shot her a glance that was fraught with anguish. She flicked the reins and the horse started moving again. "He made a bargain with his mother. She had taken my son. Finn promised to marry to win Patrick's return. He did that for me."
Lourdes shook her head, bewildered. Finn's mother had stolen her grandson? What sort of grandmother would do that? And what dire thing would befall Finn if he didn't marry by midnight on Friday? Would his mother take Imogen's son back? Whatever would happen, apparently both he and Imogen took that threat seriously. What an odd family they were.
Finn apparently had some interesting talents, but refused to call himself a witch. Lourdes wasn't certain what to make of the episode with the horse, but she was inclined to think it had happened. She wasn't given to fancy, even if she had come all this way because of a dream. That would mean that Finn had, somehow, become a horse for a short time. She'd never heard of any witch being able to do that. Then again, for all she knew, it might be common.
The buggy reached the stable yard and Imogen stopped the horse. One of the hands took the reins while Lourdes climbed down and waited for her hostess. Imogen walked with her back to the house, her mouth in a tight line, as if she were still troubled. Once they were inside the house, Imogen said, "I need to go up and check on the baby. But may I give you a tour of the farm afterwards?"
Lourdes agreed, thinking they could air out the difficult topic of Finn later.
***
Dinner proceeded in a friendly fashion as the hands came in to eat at the overlarge table in the sunny dining room. Several had gone with the race horses to another track for an upcoming meet, but there were still a handful left. Mr. O'Donnell kept up a light banter that helped set Lourdes at ease among all these strangers. And Imogen seemed less upset about the meeting with her father that afternoon. After the meal, she offered to help Lourdes unpack her trunks. Hoping they could discuss Imogen's reservations, Lourdes accepted readily.
Back in the guest bedroom, Imogen shook out one of the winter skirts Lourdes had packed. "I reacted poorly this afternoon, for which I must apologize. I'm angry with my father for drawing you into this. I am not angry with you, Lourdes. This cannot be your fault."
That was a relief. "I did nothing to discourage him," Lourdes admitted. "I enjoyed his company, quite honestly."
Imogen paused, lips pressed together. "Were you serious about considering his offer?"
"He didn't actually offer," Lourdes pointed out. "And Miss Doherty is his mother's preference, isn't she?"
"Brighid Doherty treats him like a hired hand, like he's inferior, and so he despises her." Imogen trailed fingers across the blue bedspread absently. "His mother's motives have always been foreign to me."
Imogen didn't refer to his mother as her grandmother, another interesting revelation. "I can't imagine him tolerating that sort of treatment," Lourdes said.
"Me, either. Gorey pointed out he'd far rather have you on a neighboring farm than Miss Doherty, and I agree. I simply don't know that it would be best for you, Lourdes."
Lourdes couldn't blame her for that conclusion. She didn't know, either.
"My father isn't a bad person," Imogen added apologetically. "He annoys me terribly, but he's never set about to hurt me. I don't want to give you a bad impression of him."
"There are some odd things about him." Lourdes sat on the edge of the bed next to her, hoping she could actually get some answers now. She told Imogen of the burn on his cheek and the moment where he'd disappeared from her sight. "So what exactly is your father's…nature?"
Imogen's eyes met hers. She seemed unable to answer. Her lips moved, but no sounds came forth.
That inability reminded Lourdes of one of the hands who'd insulted a bruja in Del Rio. The witch had cursed him, and the man hadn't been able to speak for days. "Are you compelled somehow not to answer that?"
"Yes," Imogen said, sounding relieved. "We made a bargain not to reveal anything about each other. I can't break that."
Can't, not won't. It must truly be a physical restraint, like someone who'd had a brainstorm and could no longer speak words properly. Still, Finn insisted he wasn't a witch. So what made him different? Lourdes tried working around Imogen's bargain. "What can you tell me about yourself then?"
Imogen pressed her lips together, then pronounced, "I am half human."
Madre de Dios! Lourdes stared. Half human meant half…something else. All Lourdes knew of other than humans were angels and demons. "Are you half…demon?" When the other woman shook her head, she asked, "Are you half angel?"
"No," Imogen said patiently. "Did you read stories when you were a child?"
; Her abuela had told her stories, not read them. "Fables?"
Imogen shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"You can't say the words, can you?"
Imogen shook her head again. She drew in a deep breath and then rose. "Let me go get Patrick."
Lourdes watched the woman sweep out of the guest room. She supposed that Mr. O'Donnell had been sworn to secrecy as well, but no one had ever thought to make a child give such a promise. She removed the garments laid out on her bed. They would serve well enough until winter became serious in this part of the country. She'd hung the last skirt when Imogen returned with her toddler in her arms.
The boy struggled to get loose, and she set him down on the bed. He immediately began to bounce up and down, which reminded Lourdes of Rosa's penchant for jumping on beds. Did all children do that?
Imogen touched Lourdes' shoulder. "Ask him about his puppy."
What she'd seen that afternoon had seemed more like a full-fledged dog, but children weren't as exacting. "I saw your puppy this afternoon. What is his name?"
The boy continued to bounce happily. "Snowball."
That would be a proper name for a white dog, not a piebald one. "Where did you get him?"
"Grandmama sent him for me," he said, with the easy acceptance of a child who was universally loved. "She said I could have him and he came."
"She said he could have his heart's desire," Imogen inserted, but then qualified it. "Once he was old enough to understand what to ask for."
"Puppies," the boy said and flopped back onto the bed. "Grandmama said."
"What is your grandmama like?" Lourdes asked.
"She's magic," Patrick said, and then yawned hugely. He belatedly covered his mouth. "Sorry."
"Magic?" Lourdes asked. "Like a witch?"
He yawned again. "No, she's a fairy."
Lourdes glanced over at Imogen, who neither nodded nor spoke. Perhaps the compulsion laid on her prevented her from even verifying his words. Instead, Imogen retrieved her son from the bed. "I think it's time for you to take a nice long nap, Patrick."
And that was her confirmation, Lourdes supposed.
Finn's mother was a fairy? A fairy? Fairies actually existed?
Fairies weren't something people in Texas talked about, at least not anyone she knew. Lourdes thought of fairies as an English belief. She'd never once before considered they might actually exist. Even so, she'd read many of the tales of the Brothers Grimm to Rosa. They'd had a number of fairies causing all manner of mayhem in their stories. Some were good and some were evil, she recalled, but all were dangerous in one way or another. Surely that couldn't be real?
But Finn had been, for a moment, invisible to her. He heard her speak to horses, yet denied that he was a witch. She was more certain now that, for a few minutes at least, he'd been a horse. All of that argued he was something beyond a man.
What exactly was a fairy? Lourdes glanced up when Imogen reappeared in her doorway, a book in her hand, one finger marking her place. Imogen O'Donnell looked human. She acted human. What was there that was different about her that made her half-fairy?
"I can't say some things," Imogen said quietly. "I simply can't." She took the book she held in her hand and laid it on the bed with its spine up. "I'm sorry, Lourdes."
Lourdes waited until Imogen shut the door to pick up the book, careful to keep it open to the same page. The book's fabric cover was worn, slightly frayed at the edges as if the book had been read many times. The Fae, it said on the spine, written by someone with the very important-sounding name of Armstead Winston-Howell. Fae was, if Lourdes remembered correctly, another way of saying fairy, so clearly Imogen had wanted her to know…something.
Lourdes turned the book over and gazed at the page marked. There were several entries, each detailing a specific type of creature, but one caught her eye--the puca.
The puca, the book claimed, is one of the Lesser Folk who can take on many shapes, most common of those being a dark horse with glowing eyes.
She dropped the book on her lap. A dark horse? There hadn't been glowing eyes, but the horse she'd seen before Finn's appearance had been dark. It might explain why he could hear her talking to horses; he would almost be part horse himself. She had no idea what 'Lesser Folk' meant, though, so she picked up the book and tried to sort that out. An index at the back provided a starting point.
Lourdes took off her shoes, plumped the pillows at the head of the bed, and sat back against the headboard. If Imogen thought this might help her understand, then she would read this book cover to cover.
Part 4
September 6, 1909
Lourdes woke with light streaming in through an east-facing window. She raised her head from the pages of the book where it was pillowed, feeling groggy. She hadn't finished reading the book before the previous night's lack of sleep caught up to her, but she'd read enough to make her head spin. She felt detached from reality, as if she'd woken this morning in a different world than the one from which she'd come.
Fairies had rules. Their many rules governed their lives, like an inability to cross streams or moving water. They had to keep their word, but only the exact terms of a promise, not the spirit of it.
And fairies were terribly sensitive to iron; that was why Finn's cheek had burned when she'd merely touched it with her hair barrette. That same rule explained why Imogen--and Finn, probably--drove an old buggy rather than a motor car. There was too much steel in a motor car. That limitation must pose all manner of difficulties on their lives. Everything was made of steel now.
How did creatures from stories live on in the Modern World?
Lourdes ran her hands about her waist, feeling the bones of her corset. Some corsets had actual whalebone, but the one she wore at the moment used steel boning and had a steel busk. The hooks at the back of her collar might be steel as well. Finn would never be able to seduce her simply for fear of being burned. No, that probably wouldn't stop him.
With that amusing thought, she rose from the bed. The mirror on the far wall showed that she had a mark on her cheek, a faint smudge of ink from the old book. She'd fallen asleep completely dressed, so she was terribly disheveled.
Lourdes stripped off the previous day's wrinkled clothes and, after some deliberation, chose something more appropriate to the working on the hacienda than to the hotel--a divided skirt of twilled blue wool with a panel that could be buttoned over the front. It was full enough that most wouldn't notice the difference until she was on a horse. She hoped her hostess wouldn't be offended.
She washed herself quickly in the chilled water left from the previous night and then dressed again. With a white shirtwaist and a black leather belt, she looked presentable. They weren't half-mourning colors, but as she'd been considering marriage, she should leave the mourning behind, shouldn't she?
Lourdes wrapped her braid about her head and pinned it in place, wondering about the composition of her hair pins as she did so. She had no idea if these had iron in them or not. They were supposed to be silver. Her pearl drop earrings had silver clips; she was sure of that. After a moment's consideration, she tucked her steel-boned corset away in one of her trunks. She generally didn't wear one while working horses anyway, so she wouldn't miss that. Once she'd laced up her shoes--the laces passing through steel grommets--she grabbed up her embroidered shawl and opened the door.
The smell of the kitchens immediately assailed her nose--bread and sausage. She stepped out into the hallway and saw no one around, so she followed her nose. The kitchen door swung open to reveal a large room where Mrs. Sanders, an older woman who must be the cook, and a young helper were preparing a large breakfast, apparently intending to feed all the workers on the farm again. They must have been up for hours now.
The cook, a solidly built woman with kindly eyes, spotted Lourdes there first. "Good morning, Mrs. Medina. Can I help you?"
"I came to see if I could help, actually."
The woman watched her two helpe
rs as they pulled more biscuits out of the oven. "We've got everything in hand," the cook said. "Mrs. O'Donnell's out in the side garden if you'd like to join her.
They'd likely prefer her out of their kitchen. Lourdes thanked the woman and, after eyeing the huge iron stove, headed out of the house. She followed the stone walkway around and paused at the wooden gate. When she opened the metal latch--copper--she spotted Imogen O'Donnell inside standing before a statue of the Virgin. The woman was tearing a loaf of bread into small pieces and setting them in the basin before the statue.
Under the dappled shade of a quartet of tall elms, the garden about her seemed to be a cross between an herb garden and a moonlight garden. White flowers nodded in the breeze. Mostly dahlias and chamomile this time of year, but Lourdes could make out little anemones blooming about the bases of the trees. There was rosemary and thyme and oregano growing nearby. Lourdes ran her hand along a sprig of rosemary and sniffed her fingers.
Wiping the last of the bread crumbs from her skirt, Imogen turned toward her. "Good morning."
Lourdes returned the greeting and pointed to the bread in the basin. "For the birds?"
Imogen seemed unable to answer that. She pressed her lips together, looking uncomfortable.
Lourdes tried a different question. "The statue is the Virgin, right?"
"Our Lady of the Snows," Imogen corrected. "The name is from a cathedral near Rome."
"There's one in Spain as well," Lourdes told her, "in Seville. My husband and I were married there."
"I should have guessed," Imogen said in a dry voice. "It must be nice to be able to travel, to see places like that."
Ah, she hadn't thought of that limitation. Steamers like the one she and Diego had traveled on were vast collections of steel. The same could be said of trains. "Have you ever been away from this town?"
"I was born in England," Imogen said. "My mother brought me over when I was an infant, but I was sick the entire trip. I don't remember it, fortunately. Gorey was transported from Ireland in the belly of a cargo ship, in a stall with iron bars."
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