A Lady Bought with Rifles (24 page)

There were dozens of children in the village and I thought several times of starting a school, but it wasn't till I heard an uproar in the patio and investigated, finding that Sewa had just beaten half a dozen children at
monte
and that apparently she was developing a sinister genius at cards, that I was propelled into taking action.

“A schoolmarm, love?” teased Court. “Well, while we're blasting through the mountain would be a good time to get a school built.”

“I could have classes in a ramada while it's hot,” I suggested.

“All right,” said Court. “First a ramada, then a real building. When the men know you want it, they'll put it up in a hurry.” He gave me a measuring, slightly rueful look. “Since the pension plan was announced and especially since the men know you're blasting through the mountain so they can breathe, you're in danger of sainthood. But don't try to maneuver the men against me or ask them to help you get away. Trace Winslade's life is in my hand, and whether I smash it or put it in a safe place depends on the answer you must give me soon.”

I looked away from him toward the glittering slope. In the long run I'd have no real choice. Perhaps my resistance whetted his desire. Could I strike a bargain with what I was bound to forfeit anyway, in a manner that would let me ride away with Trace?

“Court,” I said slowly, forming each word and shoving it through my stiffened lips. “If I sleep with you till Trace comes, would you let Sewa and me go then?”

Though he didn't take an actual step nearer, he leaned forward, seemed to tower. A muscle throbbed in his jaw. He put his hands behind him and surveyed me in a way that sent hot blood to my face.

“An interesting proposition, Miranda. We'll talk about it later.”

In a few days the ramada was built and I began classes. Chepa and Sewa were my only pupils for the first day, but on the second morning several of Sewa's friends ventured in.

Dr. Trent had donated a big globe and Court had produced some slates and chalk. I taught penmanship, or rather printing, till the children tired and then told them what I knew about different countries on the globe, using as much Yaqui as I could and learning, probably, more from the youngsters than they did from me.

“So your school's a success,” Court said one evening while we were playing chess. “Perhaps now that it's running well you've had time to reconsider that fascinating offer you made me.”

Coloring hotly, I muttered, “You mean being your—”

“Yes,” he said. “Do you mean it?”

I could bear his glance only a moment. “Yes.”

“And you don't think you should marry the man who ends your maidenhood?”

I remembered Trace with sweet despairing joy, that afternoon on the mountainside. Should I confess that to Court? My veins shrank inside me as I wondered what he would do when he learned I was no virgin, feared the vile tricks he had threatened to make me learn.

Fixing my gaze on the chessboard, I said huskily, “No matter what you do to me, I'll never marry you, Court.”

His breath ejected in a barking laugh. “Who would expect such sentiments to come from a proper English school? What if you had a baby? Or is it in your mind to sleep quickly with Trace so you could name him the father?”

I hadn't even thought of a baby. That shocked me so that I had no energy to resent his proposed solution. I just stared at him. He took my hands, carried them roughly to his face.

“You're a baby yourself, Miranda. What do you know of life? Love, either? I'll teach you but not on your terms, though I could play a game with your words. Till Trace comes back,' you said. Well, my dear, I could see to it that Trace never came back.” As I flinched, he drew me closer. “But I won't play tricks with you. I don't want you for a few weeks. I want you always.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

This was more terrible, more hopeless, than anything I'd foreseen.

“You can't,” I protested. “You might not like me at all.”

He stopped my mouth with his, searing, demanding, pleading. “
Like
you,” he breathed. “You little fool—I want to mold you, teach you, shape you, keep you forever. Why do you think I've been so patient?” Releasing me, he leaned against the wall. “If you're still so set on Winslade that you'd sacrifice your virginity to me in order to go with him, there's nothing to gain by letting you dream up more such foolishness.”

I was afraid of what was coming, tried to ward it off. “Court—”

“We'll go riding early in the morning, Miranda. I want my answer then.”

He strode away, toward the cantina. I watched him with hatred. Answer! What answer could I give? I'd have to be his mistress, but I wouldn't marry him, not if I had a dozen of his bastards. And I'd get away.

Somehow, someway, when he couldn't hurt Trace, I'd vanish. Even if it was down the mine shaft. And that gave me an idea.

When Raquel woke me next morning with a cup of chocolate and the news that the horses were ready and it was a beautiful day for riding, I refused the chocolate and asked her to tell Court I was sick. I was, in fact. The prospect of giving him an answer had twisted my stomach into a tight mass, cramped my nerves and muscles into a tight-wound internal rack.

I
was
sick. And I could stay so.

Sewa came over to me, closed my hand between hers. “Is it your head? Can I rub your neck?”

Her eyes were wide and troubled. “It's not important, little flower. I shall be all right. Why don't you ask Raquel for breakfast and then go for a ride with Pretty Hooves and Chepa?”

“I'd rather stay with you.”

“That won't be necessary,” came a voice from the door. “Run along,
chiquita
. I'll look after the señorita.”

Sewa glanced at me. I managed a smile and touched her smooth brown cheek. “Get your breakfast. And see if you can find me some pretty rocks if you go riding.”

She dressed quickly behind the Japanese screen, gave me a hug, and went out with a backward stare at Court. “Warning me, the little devil!” he said with a chuckle.

He came to my bed, laid his hand on my forehead, took my pulse, his finger listening for the trapped rhythm of my blood. I felt exposed, as if he could sense the workings of my body no matter what I did. I kept my eyes shut, knowing he was watching me, aware of my quick shallow breathing.

If he would just believe I was sick, go away and leave me!

“No fever, love,” he said. “Your eyes are clear and your color divine. Let me see your tongue.”

I didn't respond. He set thumb and finger in the lock of my jaws, forcing my mouth to open. “Pretty little kitten tongue,” he said. “Pink and healthy.”

With a lightning motion, he threw back the sheet. “Will you ride?” His voice was husky. He leaned so close that I felt the heat of his body. “Or shall I teach you a different gallop?”

Defeated, realizing with visceral impact that I could not evade this man, I shivered under his gaze. My thin shift might as well have not been there.

“Up!” he said. “Or I'll take you this minute with no song and dance.”

I slid under his arm, scrambling up, snatching the clothes Raquel had laid out. “You must have breakfast,” he decreed as I moved behind the screen. “It'll be ready on the veranda in ten minutes.”

Why did he drag out this game? Why hadn't I defied him, let him rape me and get it over? His patience was gone. It was only a matter of hours.

Still, it's nature to hope as long as one can, to run to the end of a closed tunnel, to fight till overwhelmed. And part of my fight was not to show how frightened I was.

Facing my mirror image, I made my hair smooth, rubbed color into my lips, and fixed my chin high, shoulders back. It helped. When I looked brave, I felt stronger. And though my heart thudded as I marched down the hall, I stepped onto the veranda as if I owned it.

As indeed I did.

That truth helped. I poured out for Court like a hostess, knew from the swift gleam of admiration in his eyes that he would let me appear in control for a while.

For a while. Till the lion sprang.

We rode along the railroad track as it twined from the valley, reached the top of the mountain and ribboned the crest. As the sun rose higher, we entered a crumbling diadem of rock that sprawled like a fortress over one ridge. Long grass fluffed high and yellow under mesquite and ironwood. Court stopped his horse and came to lift me down, holding me off the ground a moment, enjoying his power.

But he didn't gloat. Loosening the girths, he hobbled the horses and spread a serape for us, getting out the lunch Raquel had packed: roast beef, cheese, honey cakes, and a flask of wine. He ate with gusto, but I nibbled cheese and gazed northwest.

Trace was in that vastness. He should be done in Arizona by now, perhaps was on his way back, though he might seek out Lío before coming to Mina Rara.

Lío. Was Domingo becoming the kind of Sierra Yaqui to make his sister proud? And what was my own sister doing, my sister who had told the general to kill the Yaqui hostages when she knew it would mean my death?

“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Court. “Or perhaps they're worth gold nuggets! But what can a man offer the queen of the golden mountain?”

“I was wondering about the people I know. About Reina—”

“She's a witch,” Court said, taking my hand. “But she can't hurt you now. No one can.”

“Except you?”

He shrugged, mouth curving down. “I'll cherish you like the best and dearest part of my own body. And the pain that makes you a woman—there are ways to lessen that.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“No,” he said impatiently, “you're choosing to feel martyred and abused. But that won't last long. So how shall it be, Miranda? Shall we marry? Will you take me for your lover? Or shall I send men to wait for Trace?”

The air was still and golden hot. A red
manzanita
twig seemed to bleed before my eyes. “What answer can I make?” I swallowed, willing my voice steady. “Of course I won't let Trace die. I'll be your mistress—and for all I care, you can take me now!” The words broke.

I stared into those golden eyes, might as well have searched for a soul in the eyes of a hawk. He straightened my clothes, bent his head, taking my mouth, opening it with his delving tongue. Holding me with one arm, he let his other hand find my breasts, my inner thighs. I was tense, not only because of his invasion but from fear of what he would do when he learned Trace had taken me. I held myself stiff, unyielding.

With an impatient sound, he opened my bodice, cupped my breasts, nipped them with soft little titillating bites, then plunged his head and sucked till it seemed he must be drawing out my very life.

His fingers pushed away my garments. When I tried to draw back, he held me, watching my face as he teased and played where only Trace had touched. Court didn't try to penetrate the moist pulsing hidden mouth his hand caressed, but I knew with frantic shame that he was aware of the building hunger in my loins, the pulsing beneath his skilled fingers.

“See, Miranda?” he said huskily. “You'll like it. You're ready for me now. You know that, don't you?”

“Court—”

“I won't take you here.” Straightening my clothes, he drew me to my feet. “I'll have you in bed, with ease and comfort after Dr. Trent marries us. You're my lady, not a wench I found in the brush.”

He bent to roll up the serape. I waited near the horses, aroused senses throbbing. No doubt at all that I'd respond to him, that he could own my body, do what he wished with it till I came to want whatever he did.

His rifle, as always, was in the scabbard. Stealthily, I moved toward it. His back was still turned. I grasped the rifle, sliding it free while holding the scabbard. Grasping the bolt, I pumped a cartridge in place as he heard and whirled.

When he saw the rifle, he laughed. “Put it down, love. You'll hurt yourself.”

“I'll hurt you if you come closer.”

He scratched his bleached hair, still grinning. “You've got the rifle, Miranda. Now what can you do with it? You know and I know you won't kill me if I stay put. But the second you try to ride away, I'll be on you. And you can't hold that gun forever. You'll get tired. You're tired already. Look how your hand's shaking.” His tone was hypnotic, coaxing. “Drop it, Miranda. Drop it and we'll go home.”

If there were some way to tie him up—I tried to imagine pulling the trigger, knew that I couldn't unless he rushed me. Damn him, all he had to do was wait! I hadn't gained a thing. Then I remembered the length of rawhide he'd used to tie up the serape.

“Take that rope and knot it around your ankles,” I commanded.

He gave a long slow whistle. “And then what?” he asked, shaking his head as if grieved at my stupidity. “I can't tie my hands even if I wanted to and if you try—”

I didn't have that solved yet myself, but if his feet were secured, it would hamper him.

“Do it,” I said.

With the air of a man humoring a maniac, he untied the rawhide and sat down, obligingly looped the cord around and about his ankles, making what seemed to be genuine knots. He looked up, laughing.

“All right, love. My hands?”

If I tried to stun him, there'd be a second he could lunge for me. I had to shoot him, hope my aim was good. I didn't want to kill him. But the right shoulder …

I sighted and fired. Eyes widening as he realized my intent, he flung himself forward, but the bullet was faster, took him in the upper right arm. The impact swung him around, carried him backward. The shot had gone right through his shoulder. There was a lot of blood on his white shirt. He seemed unconscious, though his eyes were partly open. His breathing was heavy, guttural.

I didn't want him to stop me, nor did I wish to leave him to bleed to death. Taking off my petticoat, I plugged both sides of the wound with flounces and wound the rest of the cloth around his shoulder.