Golden Roses

by Patricia Hagan

  Cord shook his head firmly. “There isn’t time. Bullfights are the one thing that start on time in Mexico. Now, tell me what went on between you two last night.”

  She stared at him. “It is none of your business, Cord.”

  “He’s my friend and I know him, Amber. Something is very wrong.”

  She glared at him but said nothing, and after a moment Cord taunted, “What happened, Amber? Did the playboy, Diego, make you a better offer than Armand?”

  Her hand rose slightly, but she saw the quick flash in his eyes and knew she mustn’t slap him.

  “Your trouble, Cord,” she said, barely controlling herself, “lies in the fact that you are obviously used to having women throw themselves at your feet. Does it really bother you so much that you can’t have me the way you had Maretta?”

  Surprise flashed in his eyes but left just as quickly. “Perhaps I can,” he said softly. “I have held you, Amber, kissed you, awakened the fire in you. It was much too easy. You need a stronger man than Armand. I just might be that man.”

  She gasped, but there was no time to answer him. Diego was approaching. He extended a cup of water to her, which she accepted gratefully.

  “Diego, I’m ready to go inside now,” she announced.

  As he led her away, Diego studied her face in silent concern, then asked, “Is something wrong? I feel you are upset. Is it your ankle?”

  “No. I am fine.” She quickened her step. “I’m anxious to get inside and sit down, though.”

  Frowning, Diego mused, “Señor Hayden has quite a reputation with the ladies. You would do well not to be in his company. I did not like him asking you to dance last night. I will see that he keeps his distance tonight.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Diego,” she informed him. “I won’t be bothered by Señor Hayden again.”

  They walked along a corridor and then made their way up the steps of the arena. Diego held Amber’s arm tightly in case she should stumble again. She saw that they were heading toward an impressive-looking box and hesitated as she asked, “Are we sitting there?”

  “Sí, but it is not my family’s box. It is the box of President Juarez himself,” he told her proudly. “He personally invited me to sit in it. He was to be here, with his wife, but there was, I am told, pressing government business. He chose to go to his office, and his wife is preparing for tonight’s fiesta.”

  They entered the presidential box, and Diego greeted the Alezparito family jubilantly. Maretta glared at Amber, then returned her gaze to the ring. Allegra continued to sit with head bowed, lost in her own secret world. Valdis wore a smug expression, pleased to be in the president’s box.

  The music grew louder, and Amber turned her attention to the ring as the procession began. When the matadors made their entrance, Maretta squealed with delight. “Valdis, look!” She pointed. “Armand stands on the right! This is his first time to do so! Oh, I am so proud!”

  Valdis leaned close to her to whisper, “Do not make a spectacle, Maretta. People watch the presidential box, and we must maintain dignity at all times.”

  Amber quietly asked Diego, “What is Maretta so excited about?”

  “Armand Mendosa is the matador of the day, with the most seniority,” he explained. “He will kill the first and fourth bulls. It is an honor.”

  “The first and fourth bulls?” she echoed, stunned. “You mean he has to fight two bulls today? But why?”

  “It is the custom on such a day of fiesta. He has done so before. The junior matador, the one standing in the center, will kill the third and sixth.”

  Amber looked at Armand as the matadors approached the president’s box. His eyes were for her and her alone. When he smiled—so anxiously, so hopefully—her heart warmed. She would, she suddenly realized, run away with him. And whatever happened, would happen. They had to have the chance. They had to know, once and for all, if their love was real.

  Suddenly Maretta leaned forward. Plucking a flower from the garland adorning the edge of the box, she flung it directly at Armand. His smile faded and his hands flew up to catch it before it hit him in the face. “He caught it!” she cried exultantly.

  “I am warning you,” Valdis snarled, jabbing her cruelly with his elbow.

  Amber was confused. There were so many customs of the country she did not understand. Beside her, Diego sensed her bewilderment and whispered, “Poor Maretta. It is common knowledge that Armand Mendosa does not return her love and does not intend to honor the pledge of marriage made by his parents. But she does not give up.” He shook his head in disgust. “She throws him the blossom to emphasize her love, and he catches it by surprise, and she pretends he acknowledges her intent.”

  Maretta turned to smile ever so smugly, but Amber pretended not to see her.

  At last, the arena was cleared, and the crowd screamed as the gate was opened and the first bull came thundering into the ring. He was huge, strong, and very frightening.

  Amber felt a cold stab of fear. “Do you think this bull might be more dangerous than another?”

  Diego gave her hand a reassuring pat. She wished he would stop doing that. “Armand is good matador. He is watching and will know what kind of fighter this bull will be.”

  Amber’s eyes searched the cluster around the gate to the bull pens. She could see Armand leaning over the railing, watching. But he was not watching the bull. His head was turned in the direction of the presidential box, and he was looking straight at her. A man standing next to him said something, and he moved away from his position to reappear seconds later. As he strutted proudly into the ring, he removed his montera and waved at the crowd as they screamed in adulation.

  He took his stand, holding his scarlet cape before him, his profile toward the bull.

  Her hands gripped tightly in her lap, Amber turned to Diego. “Why is he out there now? I thought those other men came out first, with pics, to weaken the bull.”

  “They will,” he assured her. “Armand is merely displaying his skill with his cape.”

  The bull made his first charge. A scream went up from the crowd as Armand spread his cape before the animal’s snout, swinging the cape past his body as the bull followed its sweep. Armand pulled the bull closer and closer. Suddenly, as the bull made a thrusting charge, Armand gathered his cape against his body in a half veronica. The bull stopped short.

  Amber watched in awe as Armand turned his back in apparent disdain of the horns, walking away in a stupendous display of mastery over the bull. The crowd roared.

  Maretta squealed, “He is the bravest matador to ever live!”

  “No.”

  Everyone seated in the box turned to stare at Allegra. For the first time, she showed an awareness that she even knew where she was. She was shaking her head, eyes dull no longer but flashing fire. “No! Your father was the bravest matador ever.”

  “Well…yes, of course,” Maretta said slowly, stunned by her mother’s surprising show of spirit. “But Armand is the bravest matador of today.”

  Diego leaned close to Amber. “She is probably right. Señor Alezparito was a famous matador. I saw him die. He was ripped apart, dead before they could even get to him.”

  Amber shuddered. “And you enjoy this?”

  Valdis glared at her but Amber ignored him, turning her gaze back to the ring. A feeling of weighted despair was settling about her, lightened only by the hope that, within a few hours, she might be free.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amber forced herself to look at the ring. It would, she knew, take determination to learn to watch Armand in the ring without being terrified. But she would do it. He would expect it. Her new resolve was, she decided, smiling to herself, the one good thing about coming to Mexico. She was learning to be a woman, a strong woman.

  Astride horses, the picadors made their challenges to the bull. “The junior picador will make the first delivery,” Diego told her. “See how he drives the small, sharp metal point of his lance into the tossing muscle as t
he bull charges?”

  “Ahah!” he cried suddenly. “More lancing is required. He is a strong one, this bull.”

  Valdis clapped his hands, and Amber looked to Diego for an explanation. “As the bull’s breeder, he beams with pride,” he told her matter-of-factly, “for his animal has the strength and bravery to push the picadors around. See? Señor Alezparito has reason to be proud.”

  Averting her gaze as a horse was grazed, Amber wondered, “But doesn’t that mean the bull is unusually fierce?”

  Diego did not answer her, for at that moment Armand appeared in the ring again. Diego said, “It is obvious Armand intends to be the star. Now you shall see some dexterous capework. Armand is known for his art with the cape.”

  Amber watched, fascinated, as Armand waved his cape at the bull. Then, as the bull made his pass, Armand turned, quickly wrapping the cloth about his body in a sweeping, poetic movement. With a dramatic sweep of scarlet satin, Armand whipped about to cut off the return charge.

  The screams split the air: “Olé! Olé!”

  Diego waved an arm toward the spirited throng. “They adore him.”

  Now Armand turned and strode to the waiting bearer, who handed him a stick over which a small piece of red cloth had been wrapped twice. Carrying his sword and muleta in one hand, Armand removed his montera from his head and marched toward a box on the far side of the ring, making a gesture. This was part of the ritual, as Armand asked permission of the plaza authority to kill the bull. Permission was granted. But instead of returning to the bull, Armand turned and strode purposefully to the box where Amber was sitting.

  He stopped directly below, eyes warm and happy as he looked up at her, smiling. With precise aim, he threw his hat, landing it once again precisely in her lap. Hundreds of people looked to see to whom their favorite matador had dedicated his kill.

  Valdis and Maretta, their expressions identical rage, turned to stare at Amber. Diego shrugged, barely managing to conceal his annoyance. “Well, señorita. Do you accept the dedication? He awaits a signal. You must do something. Either acknowledge his dedication or return his hat.”

  As she returned Armand’s adoring gaze, Amber knew she wanted to accept his gesture. Remembering the late-blooming rose she had selected from the bouquet on her dressing table, she removed it quickly from her bodice. Standing, she pressed the flower to her lips, then tossed it down to Armand.

  “Gracias!” he called up to her before making a sweeping bow. He straightened, kissed the flower while continuing to gaze up at her adoringly, then tucked it inside his collar before turning once more to the waiting bull, who was pawing the sand.

  Valdis and Maretta sat rigidly as Amber took her seat, trembling in wonder at what she had done. Diego, maintaining his composure with effort, directed Amber’s attention to Armand, who now stood erect, holding the muleta with both hands as though flagging the bull by. He explained, “Watch as he presents the muleta, held in his right hand. It is more dangerous than if it were held in his left hand. It is done with the cloth, not aided by the sword.”

  Amber watched, paralyzed, wishing she could just squeeze her eyes shut and not open them until it was over. Diego continued his comments, but his voice became a droning blur.

  Suddenly the crowd screamed, and Amber leaped to her feet.

  “I cannot believe he uses the péndulo.” Diego clutched her elbow to steady her. “It is an invitation for goring. Seldom does a matador do this!”

  His words were drowned out by a great, rolling gasp that began slowly, then rose to a scream as the bull made his charge, and Armand’s brightly costumed body was hurled skyward.

  Diego reached for Amber again but she backed away, shaking her head from side to side in rejection of the horror below. Clutching her throat, she fought oblivion. She would not faint. She could not do that to Armand. Armand.

  “Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios!” Someone’s shrill cry reached Amber. “The horns are tearing him apart!”

  The bullring was filled with swirling magenta capes as toreros rushed to Armand’s aid. Ring attendants rushed in from all over.

  “Sit down,” Diego shouted. “Armand is being helped they have already driven the bull away. You must be calm.” He turned to Allegra, who was crumpled on the floor, moaning.

  Amber clutched at Diego’s shirt. “I must go to him. Take me there, please.”

  “Where is your shame?” Maretta cried. “Never have I seen Armand perform so. His attention was on you, not on the bull.”

  Amber stared at Maretta. Was it her fault that Armand had been gored? Was it? “Take me to him, Diego. I must see him. I must,” she said woodenly.

  Uniformed guards formed cordons to keep the spectators out of the ring. In a moment, a stretcher appeared. Amber knew that, in the confusion, she could escape Diego and Valdis. She did. She ran out of the box and down the steps, dashing into the crowd, and maneuvered her way toward the place she watched them carry the stretcher. Rounding a corner, she stopped at the sight of two burly guards positioned outside a heavy door. Pressing back against the wall, she watched, heart pounding wildly, as the door opened and a man in a white coat emerged. She saw the bloodstains and felt a quake of horror.

  The man spoke to the guards and they shook their heads solemnly.

  Amber knew it was now or never. Stepping into view, she said, “Please. I must see him. He would want to see me, I know.”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “Your name, señorita,” he commanded brusquely.

  “Amber Forrest,” she told him, lifting her chin. “I want to see Armand Mendosa. We are…close. He dedicated the bull to me,” she added nervously, feeling ridiculous.

  The doctor nodded. “He calls your name. Come inside.”

  Grasping her arm, he steered her into the room. “Give what comfort you can, señorita,” he said grimly. “There is nothing more to be done.”

  The room was small, stark, the walls of cracked, peeling plaster and the floor only dirt. A wooden table stood to one side, covered with bloody cloths and instruments. And in the corner, upon the single cot, Armand lay beneath a blood-soaked sheet. A man in white was bending over him, but straightened and gave Amber a piercing look.

  “This is the woman whose name he calls.” The doctor with Amber spoke softly, and the other doctor nodded and stepped away from the cot.

  Amber forced her quivering legs to take her across the small room, which was suddenly so awesome. Reaching the cot, she gasped. Armand’s face was grayish-blue, his lips white and drawn back in a silent grimace. His head lolled to one side, eyes open but unseeing. She commanded her hand to move, her fingertips to touch the red-stained fingers which poked from beneath the sheet. Only with great effort was she able to push the words past her heart. “Armand,” she whispered tremulously. “Armand. Can you hear me?”

  His glassy gaze sought to focus, and she could feel the slightest pressure of his fingers against hers. His voice was barely audible. “My moonstar…how I love you…”

  She knelt beside him as a great sob wrenched from the depths of her. “Oh, Armand, I love you. Dear God, I never knew how much until this moment. Please. You must be strong. You must get well.”

  “No.” His voice was barely audible. He swallowed, coughed. Mustering the last of his strength, he whispered, “No. Today, the bull wins. I am the one to die.”

  “No, Armand, no!” she cried, flinging her head from side to side, then lowering her lips to press his bloodied fingertips to her lips, holding his hand tightly. “You won’t die. I won’t let you. You must live!”

  “It is the final joke of God, no?” The smile he forced was a grimace of pain. “But do not worry, my moonstar. For the dying, it is not hard. I feel no pain. Only a terrible weakness. And sorrow that I did not perform well for you today.”

  Amber wept quietly, holding his hand against her face, for a long time.

  Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up into the tight-set face of Cord Hayden. She coul
dn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.

  Armand moaned, and they turned to him. “Cord,” he said feebly. “My friend. You will look after her. Do you promise?”

  Cord nodded quickly. “You know I will, Armand.”

  Amber lowered her head to the cot, still cradling his hand lovingly. “No, Armand,” she sobbed. “You’re going to be all right. You…” She could not go on.

  “My moonstar,” he whispered, struggling to caress her face with his fingertips. “How I love you.”

  She felt his fingers stiffen suddenly, then go limp. She looked up wildly, at Cord, and then at Armand. He was quiet and still, his unseeing eyes fixed upon her.

  Cord reached to take Armand’s hand from her and tuck it beneath the sheet. He stared hard at his friend for just a moment, then put his arms around Amber and drew her to her feet. The doctor moved quickly to pull the sheet up over Armand’s face.

  Looking up at Cord in misery, she whispered, “Forget your promise to him. Let me go my own way now.”

  Making no reply, his lips set in a grim line, Cord silently took her from the room, and they threaded their way through the mob of grieving people gathered in the corridor. When they were outside, the late afternoon sun streaming down upon them from a deep red sky, he began to walk faster, almost running, wanting to put as much distance between them and the arena as quickly as possible.

  Amber stumbled, and he put his arm around her, urging her along. “Please,” she sobbed, trembling. “Just let me go, Cord. Let me go.”

  “I’m doing what I should have done when I first found out that bastard was keeping you prisoner,” he said flatly. “I’m going to see that you get away.”

  Making his way to his wagon, he hoisted her up onto the seat; she was too numb to protest further. He then climbed up himself, took the reins, and they headed down a narrow street leading away from the arena.