by Linda Ladd
But Tomas had noticed the way Chaso's face had hardened when he spoke her name, as if he didn't like her very much. If that were the case, why did he go to so much trouble to arrange for her safe passage? The whole situation was rather mysterious, but soon Tomas would know more, for he intended to find out the answers from the gringa herself.
When he entered the grassy yard, there was a flurry of activity beneath the long, thatch-roofed porch as several of the Gomez girls ran down the steps and eagerly called out greetings to him. He grinned, foolishly pleased by their fond reception. He did like the pretty, raven-haired muchachas with their happy, giggly ways.
"Tomas! We did not think Don Chaso would send you for Carlita!" cried the oldest one, named Juana. "Can you stay here for long?"
"No, niña," he said, dismounting and rumpling her shiny black hair. "Only long enough to rest and have something to eat. Chaso wants the gringa taken to the city, pronto."
"Come, we will tell Papa that you're here," she said as the soldiers dismounted behind Tomas with a great deal of creaking leather.
Juana's sisters greeted Tomas with equal enthusiasm, then went on to the young Nacionales, who were more than happy to be served cool milk and frijoles by such pretty girls.
Instead of taking Tomas around the side of the house to the kitchen, Juana led him up the front steps of the veranda, then around to the side of the casa which faced the mountain valley. Papa Gilberto sat there in his big wooden rocker, and Tomas pushed his hat back as the old man rose. After the customary abrazo, Papa Gilberto held Tomas an arm's length away, shaking his grizzled head as if he could not believe his eyes.
"You have grown, mi hijo," he said, his voice full of affection. "You will someday stand as tall as Don Chaso."
"Chaso sent me here for his friend," Tomas said, but inside, he was very proud of Papa Gilberto's compliment. Any comparison to his half brother pleased him immensely. "Is the gringa better, Papa Gilberto? Chaso said she was very sick."
Papa Gilberto's brown skin was as tough as leather, and his face became grave, twin furrows cutting into his weathered brow.
"She has had a bad bout with the malaria fever. You must take her to a doctor in the city. I have given her my remedios, but she does not get back her strength. She is very sad and lonely, even here, with all the niñas to cheer her. Come, I will take you to her."
On the porch spreading across the back of the house, a red-and-green serape had been hung from the rafters as a privacy screen. When Papa Gilberto held back the curtain, Tomas saw the girl where she lay in a net hammock. At first, he was struck by how small and frail she seemed, lying motionlessly in the wide swing.
"Carlita?"
Papa Gilberto addressed her softly, and the girl turned her head and looked at them. As if thunder-struck, Tomas stared at her face. Never in his sixteen years had he seen anyone who looked like Chaso's gringa. He found himself embarrassingly tongue-tied as her huge green eyes settled on him. She was so incredibly lovely, she didn't seem real, with all that shiny red hair framing her pale face.
"Carlita, Don Chaso has sent Tomas for you." Interest sparked in the girl's eyes, Tomas could see it clearly, but he still stared mutely at her. A moment later, he remembered his manners and bent at the waist in a courteous bow, trying to hide how profoundly her beauty affected him.
"Buenos días, Dona Carlita. I am Tomas Ricardo Jimenez y Morelos. Don Chaso is my brother. Well, actually, he's my half brother, and I have come to see you safely to my mother's casa in Mexico City."
Carlita smiled slightly, and her even white teeth made her even prettier, despite the pallor of sickness and the violet shadows beneath her eyes.
"You are Tomas, the matador?" she surprised him by asking. "Esteban told me once that you were very good with the bulls." Her expression suddenly looked pained. "Esteban is dead now, did you know? I feel so sorry for poor Conchita."
Tomas nodded, a wave of sadness rolling over him, but when she suddenly looked away, wiping her tears, he was filled with compassion for her suffering. He surprised himself by wanting to put his arm around her thin shoulders and comfort her.
"Do not worry, Dona Carlita. Chaso has gone to punish the guerrilleros for killing our friend."
Her delicately arched brows drew together with worry, and her extraordinary eyes searched his face. Is Chase all right?"
"Sí. He has taken troops to San Miguel. I wanted to go with him, but he said he needed someone he could trust to escort you. "
To his disappointment, she didn't seem overly impressed with his reliability.
"Can he still see all right?"
"Sí, but I think his eyes hurt him very much, even though he does not complain."
The gringa looked to the distant hills. "And his hands? Are they better?"
Tomas stiffened with anger. "Sí. The guerrilleros will pay for what they did to all of you. Chaso will not rest until they are dead."
Their gazes touched again, briefly, and her expression was so strange and desolate that Tomas was filled with unsettling questions. Who was she? What part had she played in Chaso's life? Was she his latest lover? As much as he wanted to know the answers to these questions, he could not bring himself to ask.
"Did he say what was to become of me?" Her voice was so filled with hopeless despair that Tomas's heart was touched. She watched him closely, as if what he said was very important, and he became desperate to reassure her.
"Do not be afraid, por favor, senorita. You will be safe from the guerrilleros. There are many soldiers who will accompany us to Mexico City."
His answer didn't seem to be the one she was hoping for. Perhaps she was eager to go home to the Estados Unidos, he realized suddenly, and was quick to put her mind at rest. "And then you're to go home at once. I'm to book passage for you at Veracruz to the port of New Orleans."
Her face fell, and he knew at once that he had said the wrong thing. Moisture gathered in her eyes, and one tear rolled down her cheek as she wearily laid her head back against the hammock. Papa Gilberto took his arm and led him down the porch.
"Dona Carlita weeps often. It is not your fault. It is the sickness that makes her melancholy. We will let her rest now while we join the niñas. Will you stay the night with us? We would be honored."
"No, we must go as soon as possible. There is a carriage waiting for Dona Carlita in Saltillo."
"Bien, but she will have to be carried there. She is much too weak to ride. And I will send Juana to nurse her, for the journey will be long and tiring for the poor gringa."
A little over two hours later, Tomas bade the old man and his pretty hijas adios, and reined his mare to one side of the litter Papa Gilberto had fashioned by securing a blanket between two sturdy tree limbs.
Juana walked beside her patient, and without appearing to, Tomas observed Dona Carlita from beneath the brim of his sombrero. She no longer wept, or spoke at all, but her sadness showed plainly on her face.
As they made their slow descent, Tomas's fascination with the gringa grew. He'd met a good many norteamericanos since Chaso had been the foreign advisor to El Presidente, but none of the ladies looked like Dona Carlita. No woman he'd ever seen compared with her. He wondered how old she was. He wanted to ask, but the potion Juana had fed Carlita made her sleep during the entire trek to Saltillo.
They spent the night in a small hotel in the town, and in the morning Carlita was so racked by chills and nausea they could not continue until the following afternoon. Tomas paced the hotel arcade endlessly, though Juana assured him Carlita had survived many other attacks of the malaria. When they were finally able to lift her into the feather bed stretcher across the interior of the coach, her face looked so ashen and drawn that Tomas was afraid. What if she did not survive the journey?
"Juana? She is truly all right? She will not die, will she?"
Impatiently, Juana shook her head. "You do not listen so good, Tomas. I know what to do. Papa taught me. She will be better when she wakes up, so do not look so s
cared, like a lovesick novio."
"I am not scared, Juana," Tomas said sharply, but Juana only laughed at him as she climbed into the coach.
At midday, they stopped at a small hacienda for food and rest, and Carlita felt well enough to step down and stretch her limbs. Tomas made certain he was there to support her.
"I am so relieved you are feeling better, senorita," he said gallantly as he ladled a cup of cool, water for her from their host's spring-fed well.
"The fever comes and goes, Don Tomas," she answered. "Juana said it will stay with me for a long time."
Tomas watched her drink, pleased she used his name so familiarly. "You have been through much since you came to my country. You will be happy to go home, no?"
"No, I won't be happy to leave." Sighing, Carlita looked down into the tin cup she held. "Chase hasn't told you much about me, has he, Tomas?"
"No, senorita. He said nothing, except that you were very sick."
Tomas felt himself leaning forward, anxious for her to speak again. To his disappointment, she stood.
"I'm so tired. Would you help me to the coach so I can lie down?"
"Sí, senorita."
He helped Juana settle her comfortably in her makeshift bed, then decided he had to know more about her. He'd ask her more questions the next time they stopped, especially about her relationship with Chaso.
In the days and nights that followed, however, the gringa's condition worsened, and more often than not, she writhed in her fevers and terror, calling often for Chaso, and with such desperation that Tomas realized with sharp dismay that she must care deeply for his brother.
Despite Juana's excellent nursing skills, Tomas was relieved when they topped the last bend of the sierras and were able to see the great plain of Mexico spread out below them. The lakes shone in the afternoon sunlight beneath the twin volcanic mountains that reared up behind them. He hurried his small troop onward, eager to reach the Casa Amarilla and enlist his mother's aid in caring for Dona Carlita. She would know exactly what to do.
The Casa Amarilla was in Tacubaya, a suburb of Mexico City reached by the long, wide avenue called the Paseo. When they finally clattered to a stop at the foot of a hill where the large yellow mansion had stood for many years, he pounded on the outside gate until the portero swung open the doors and allowed the caravan into the inner courtyard. He yelled for his mother, but it was Adolfo, her old Indian retainer, who came running, his wide-browed face alarmed.
"Dónde está mi madre, Adolfo? Where is she? Dona Carlita needs a doctor!"
"Calm yourself, Tomas," came his mother's cultured voice from where she stood in the open door of the salon. Dona Maria Jimenez y Morelos was a small woman, barely over five feet, with gray-peppered black hair parted in the middle and swept back in elegant wings to a heavy bun at her nape. Her face was relatively unlined by age, though she was nearing fifty. Her eyes were black and perceptive, and at the moment, she was frowning at the uproar her son had created inside her quiet domain.
Tomas was relieved she was at home and not out on some social call. "Mama! I have brought Chaso's amiga here, and she is very sick!"
"Then why, mi hijo, is she still out in the carriage? Have her brought inside the casa at once."
Her cool directive made him feel young and foolishly incompetent, but he was more than willing for her to take charge. He was very worried about Carlita's condition.
"Mama, Juana has come with us, too. Papa Gilberto asked for your hospitality for her."
"Well, of course, his niñas are always welcome in my house. But why has Papa Gilberto been caring for this girl? Who is she?"
Juana was already on the sidewalk, and she curtsied respectfully the moment she saw the older lady.
"Dona Maria," she said. "It is very good to see you again."
"Gracias, Juana, and welcome to the city," Dona Maria replied with a gracious nod.
But she gasped when she caught a glimpse of the girl inside the coach.
"Tomas!" she exclaimed in dismay. "What are you thinking of? The child should not have been traveling in such a condition! Run and fetch the doctor quickly! And, Juana, muchacha, go tell Adolfo to ready a bedchamber for the poor child."
Relieved now that his mother had taken over, Tomas swung atop his bay and rode at a gallop for the nearby dwelling of their family physician.
Dona Maria supervised from the foot of the elaborately carved pine bed as two of her young Indian maids fussed with the crisply starched bedcovers. They tucked and plumped vigorously, though the girl lying in the sea of white linen remained oblivious.
The gringa was striking, she thought, even as sick as she was. But who was she? And why had her son put her into her care? Chaso was so unpredictable!
"Dona Maria? I came as soon as I could."
Dona Maria turned as her old friend, Dr. Francisco Alvarado, hurried into the room. He had been her family doctor for many years, even before he had delivered Tomas into the world. He was tall and lanky, his long, wavy hair liberally streaked with white, and he had an aristocratic grace about him, though he often worked in the outlying villages of the city, tending the campesinos free of charge.
"Gracias, Doctor. This poor girl arrived here very ill. I hope you can help her."
Dr. Alvarado frowned, peering intently at his patient as he set down his weathered medical bag. "It looks like the paludismo fever, but I'll have to examine her."
"Oh, no, malaria? Poor niña. I will wait outside.
By the time Dona Maria motioned the servants out of the room and shut the door behind them, Dr. Alvarado had already removed his black frock coat and was leaning over the girl. She found Tomas outside, his handsome young face twisted with concern.
"How is she, Mama?"
"The doctor will tell us that soon enough." She looked him up and down, then arched a brow in disapproval. "For shame, Tomas. You look as if you have not bathed for days. Cecilia, prepare a bath for my son at once, but first, Tomas, come with me. I have much to ask you about Chaso."
Tomas seemed reluctant and gave one last look at the sickroom door before he followed her down the carpeted hallway to her private sitting room. Dona Maria seated herself on a low blue damask couch beside the pink marble fireplace. As her younger son sat down in the tall-backed chair opposite her, she studied his face.
Tomas appeared very tired and worried. He should not have accompanied the soldiers to Saltillo. She had made the wrong decision. But when Tomas had accused her of treating him like a baby, she had known he was right. She was often overprotective of him. Tomas had always been such a sweet child, so easy to love and care for. Completely unlike Chaso, who had been wild and headstrong since the moment he'd begun to walk.
For a brief instant, she allowed memories to swirl around her, memories she rarely let surface, of Chaso's father, Burl Lancaster. They'd both been so young! And so foolish to defy her father and run away together. Burl had been so handsome then, with every woman telling him so, just as the ladies told Chaso now. But she'd been naive and blind to Burl's faults the drinking and insatiable wanderlust, the obsessive gambling.
For eight years she'd put up with his unstable, dangerous way of life, because she loved him. She'd made her home with him in America, on the decks of steamboats and in seedy dockside inns, until she could stand no more and had returned with Chaso to her father's great hacienda.
Her annulment had cost her father dearly, but his gold had persuaded the Church to allow her to marry again. Thank God, the man her father had chosen for her had been kind and good. Poor Hermando had never stirred her passion the way Burl Lancaster had, but he had been quiet and wise, and he had treated Chaso as his own son, helped to raise him in a stable environment of wealth and privilege.
"Tell me about Chaso," she said brusquely. "Where is he? Is he well?"
Tomas's brown eyes evaded her gaze, and Dona Maria felt her muscles grow stiff. "Dios mío, Tomas, tell me what has happened to your brother!"
"Chaso is all righ
t now, Mama," Tomas reassured her quickly, but his mother waited warily, every nerve on edge. "He was captured by the guerrilleros." He studied,the flowers on the carpet.
Ghastly tales of the atrocities suffered during the war filled Dona Maria's head. She was stricken with terror for her older son. "What did they do to him, mi hijo?
Tomas obviously did not want to answer, and he stood, moving agitatedly around the room, his face flushed with anger. "They tortured him," he said, his voice choked. "They drove nails through his hands, like the blessed Cristo."
Sick horror rushed like a torrent through Dona Maria, bringing her to her feet. She took a few jerky steps toward the windows. Chaso, her beautiful son. How could such things still happen? Why did the suffering continue? The war was long over! She fought to calm herself.
"Are you sure Chaso is all right now? Do not be afraid to tell me the truth. I must know."
"Sí, Mama. Esteban rescued him from them, and the girl upstairs, Carlita, she helped Chaso when he couldn't see."
Dona Maria blanched. "Couldn't see? Tomas, what do you mean?"
"His eyes were injured in an explosion when they escaped. But now he is all right."
"His sight is back? You're sure?"
"Sí, Mama. His eyesight is still weak, but he is no longer blind."
"Oh, gracias a Dios, but where is Esteban? Is he watching over Chaso?"
Tomas shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, Mama, but Esteban is dead. The rebels killed him."
"Oh, not dear Esteban! I don't understand any of this! Why was Esteban not at the ranch with Conchita?
"Chaso would not tell me everything, but some of the Nacionales say the guerrilleros took Carlita from him, so Chaso and Esteban had to rescue her. She has suffered very much, Mama."
"I believe others have suffered even more," Dona Maria said coldly, noting with consternation the flush of angry color that rose in Tomas's cheeks.
"Dona Carlita is very sick and very sad, Mama. Surely you cannot blame her for what happened to Chaso and Esteban?"