A Lady Bought with Rifles (37 page)

Court considered my request. I seldom asked for anything. When I did, it gave him a sensation of power he savored to the utmost, a subtle tyranny that pleased him more than the physical dominance he could exert over my will.

“An excellent idea, my love.” His tawny eyes were unreadable and I had learned long ago that a smile on that long well-shaped mouth meant nothing. “As you say, he should become acquainted with Las Coronas. It will give him something to remember.”

Though my lips smiled on, something cold fixed about my heart. “Of course, it won't be long before we should go again. He needs to understand the life of the ranch, since he'll own it one day.”

“Don't be old-fashioned, Miranda,” Court said, yawning. “He can hire a foreman if the place is still in the family when he grows up. What he needs now is a gentleman's education.”

I stared. The chill had entered my heart and seemed to freeze it to stillness. “I—I teach him. And he's very young.”

“So were you.”

Just that For seconds. I couldn't, wouldn't, comprehend.

“You were Jon's age when your father took you to that English school,” Court said blandly.

“England? Court, you—you won't.”

“No need for that,” he agreed kindly, rising to help me sit down and keeping my hand in his steel-hard fingers. “There are good schools in New England. An excellent one in a town where I have a maiden aunt. I'm sure she'll be delighted to have him for weekends now and then. And he can come to us for long holidays, naturally.”

A maiden aunt of Court's instead of Caguama and his playmates, a village and household that loved and indulged him? Remembering my own lonely childhood exile, I made an animal sound.

“Court, you can't mean this! It—it's cruel!”

He laughed. “Was the sainted Jonathan Greenleaf cruel then?”

“That—that was different! He was English. He hoped I'd stay in England. But he'd never have done it if he'd known how lost and afraid I felt.”

“What you say confirms my fears, darling. You spoil the boy. Clinging to a mother's skirts is very well for a girl, but a boy must learn to keep his chin up even if he is lonely.”

Clenching my hands, I tried to think of some appeal, some argument to reach this man. I knew he was enjoying my distress and I hated him for that, hated the complete control he had over my life. Open defiance would only harden his resolve.

Swallowing, I said thickly, “Could I go with him? He could live with me and go to day school.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” drawled Court, idly tracing the line of my jaw. “No, dear wife, I'll never let you go.”

Something snapped. “You—you're jealous of him,” I blazed. “You can't bear me to love him!”

Court gazed at me, eyes dilating till the gold was almost obscured. I feared him, but hate was stronger. I spat the words at him: “You know he's not yours. You know—”

Court slapped me so hard that my ears rang. Blood trickled from the side of my mouth. Calmly, he produced a snowy handkerchief and stopped the flow.

“I'm sorry, my dear, but when you exhibit such hysteria, I must check it. Jon, of course, is my son. Fortunately.” His eyes gripped mine; I could scarcely breathe. Court went on in velvet tones more terrifying than rage. “If Jon were not mine, he wouldn't be celebrating his feast day this month. There are countless poor women who will nurture a child for a few pesos and I fear even a mother would never find him.”

Would there never be a a time he couldn't gag me, force me to bow to his will? If I made continuing trouble about Jon's being sent to the United States, my son could vanish. I knew well enough I'd been incredibly lucky that Court had decided to acknowledge him.

Open battle would bring disaster. I must play for time and think.

“Surely he needn't leave for school till fall,” I said.

Court looked surprised but relaxed slightly. “There's more to it than simply school, Miranda. When Diáz is reelected, as he will be, all hell will cut loose unless he names an acceptable vice-president. We'd better get Jon out of the country while we can.”

“But—but he can have his day of San Juan at the ranch?”

Court kissed me, and when I was quiet, he lifted me in his arms. “Yes, love. We'll celebrate his feast, and then as quickly as possible, we'd better get him off to New England.”

That was one of Court's more inventive nights, but though I obeyed his wishes as if drugged, I couldn't think of anything except that I was losing Jon.

Unless I could think of something. Unless I could find a way.…

17

We arrived at Las Coronas the night before San Juan and attended Mass early on the saint's day, with Jon squirming between us in the suede
charro
suit old Emilio had lovingly hand-stitched and adorned with silver braid and conchos. Jon was impatient to mix with these people who called him Juanito and were already by way of spoiling him. Enrique, married now to Consuelo who had two little boys, had promised to teach Jon roping. Lázaro, the foreman, had a pony gentled for him, and Catalina, Consuelo, Lupe, and the other women were stuffing him on
pan dulce
, brown sugar candy, and orange conserve.

The chapel was crowded with folk of the hacienda, most strangers, all clean and dressed in their best. After Mass, guitars sounded from the shade and girls tucked flowers in their long shining hair while several beefs and two young goats barbecued over smoldering pit fires down in the clearing by the main corrals.

I'd explained to Enrique that Caguama was Jon's companion and asked the vaquero to make sure he was well received. Seris, because of their reputed cannibalism and lack of exposure to Christianity, were despised and feared by Mexicans, and Jon was so enthralled with new sights and people that his five-year-old sense of responsibility for his big friend might not be dependable.

Enrique assured me he'd look after both Jon and Caguama. “I am your man forever, lady,” he said extravagantly. We both evidently felt it would be poor taste to recall that I had protected his wife from casual rape by the man who was now my husband.

I would have liked to forbid the cock fights, but Court pointed out that if I banned them from the
fiesta
, they'd simply take place in secret. The racing and roping and bull-tailing would be better held after the heat of the day, so while Court strode about playing
patrón
, I went to chat with Consuelo and Catalina, who were making tortillas by the dozen.

Time had gnarled Catalina even more, but Consuelo was plump and matronly, very happy, she confided, with Enrique, who never got drunk or beat her or chased other women. It was almost six years since I'd seen them and let them do most of the talking, for I had no wish to explain why Reina had been at Mina Rara when she died, or how she'd betrayed me after I went surety for her, or how Trace had vanished in Yucatán and why I was married to Court Sanders.

“Ay, señora, when we heard the Yaquis had you, we burned many candles,” remembered Catalina, shaking her gray head. “We were glad to hear you were at the mine, though we wished you were with us. However, one must live with one's husband. It is a joy to see the little Jonathan. You named him for your good father?”

“Yes,” I replied, a tight feeling in my throat. I always grew sad when I thought of how much father would have loved his grandson.

Catalina nodded. “There is your father's way of holding his head. But those green-blue eyes,
ay de mi!
And the hair black as a raven!”

Consuelo was frowning. “I only knew one with eyes like that. The
tejano
, Trace Winslade.” Her own eyes widened as she glanced up at me, startled at what her unthinking remark suggested.

“No doubt it is a common color among the English,” her mother said quickly while my face burned.

I was extremely grateful that Court hadn't overheard. If others observed Jon's striking resemblance to Trace and whispers grew to rumor, I was terrified at what he might do.

No, even if he hadn't determined to send Jon away, the days of comparative peace were over. I must get away with Jon. Somehow. But where?

Bitter, bitter, that I couldn't take refuge in my own ranch. Supposing I announced to Court that I would remain at Las Coronas with my son? Legally he was my master; he could make me leave, and if those who remembered my parents resisted, he would see they died for it.

There was one way. I could murder him. Or Enrique might do it for me. My heart leaped at the thought of freedom even as it chilled at the means. I would kill Court if he threatened Jon or was a serious danger to him, but it was not in me to kill in cold blood and I wouldn't put it on someone else.

The only thing for it was to run away with Jon. And at that point my brain whirred like faulty machinery. Who could help? Dr. Trent was too old, even if his drinking hadn't made him a dubious support. I had no money but it seemed reasonable that I could get some in exchange for bits of the curious twisted pieces of almost solid gold Court kept in a specimen case, locked in his office. He never made any effort to hide his keys from me.

I was less worried about money than where to go. Court would find me in any Mexican city and had enough business contacts in Arizona to make that nearby part of the United States seem hazardous. California appealed to me most. The thin strip of northern Mexico leading toward it was desolate and wild, but Court would never dream of my attempting that route.

Nor could I, without a guide.

For a desperate moment I thought of asking Enrique, but discarded the notion at once. He didn't know that region. Besides, there was a chance we'd be caught, and though I'd already tasted the worst Court could do to me, he'd kill anyone who tried to help me.

Consuelo's words drew me back to the present. “… if she could be the child you sheltered? Very beautiful, they say, but La Grulla has only one foot.”

“La Grulla?” I questioned, heart thudding. “Has she been to Las Coronas?”

“Not that we know of!” Catalina crossed herself. “She and her man made very cunning raids on the railroad and other haciendas but never here. And they have not raided at all since the ruling that five hundred
pacíficos
would be deported for each attack.” She lifted one thin hunched shoulder as she expertly slapped a tortilla thin. “Who knows? Perhaps La Grulla is dead. Perhaps she had a baby and stopped fighting like a man.”

By no stretch of mind could I imagine Sewa killing, people, but La Grulla's sparing of Las Coronas sounded as if the legendary leader might indeed by my onetime beloved sister-child. Once again I had a brief spurt of hope, of trying to escape to the old stronghold and beg refuge.

But Court might think of that; if he pushed Ruiz, there could be an all-out effort to crush the little band. Another thing to remember: when I left, I must leave a note or message telling Court I was leaving Mexico so he wouldn't harass my friends.

Smiling crookedly to myself, I decided to tell a prodigious lie while I was at it, say I was returning to England and that he was welcome to divorce me for desertion. But the sharp spur of urgency deflated such grandiose plans. First—and within a few weeks—I must find a way to escape Mina Rara.

Musicians were tuning up outside, playing guitars and fiddles, tooting out bright brassy music on their trumpets.

He is a little purple bull,

And has a dun back.

They have not been able to rope him

And they blame it on the horse.

As the most oppressive heat waned, the races began. Fleet horses, skillful riders. I remembered when Trace had taken me to see the
manadas
, and even now a warm languorous sensation ran from my center through my thighs and legs. Trace, my lover, my man. I would never love again as I had loved him; I did not think that I would love at all.

Enrique won the races with a rangy coyote dun. Lázaro had asked me to present the prizes, and it was a special pleasure to give an old friend a pair of ornate silver spurs. He was so fine a horseman they would be mostly for show.

Next the men tailed bulls, flipping them if they were lucky, coming out of the saddle into churning dust and a fast scramble from sharp horns if they were not. That prize, a silver-trimmed
fiesta
hat, went to Angel Contreras; Consuelo whispered that he was the oldest son of Felipe, the man who had loosened my girth at Reina's order but then died trying to defend me at the train robbery.

And as dust turned the sunset orange-crimson, rawhide reatas looped on the forefeet of untamed mares. Lázaro Pérez, as might be expected of one so long in charge of horses, bowed deep, teeth flashing beneath his graying moustache, as he claimed a suede vest with silver buttons.

The long twilight settled in. Music grew louder and barrels of tequila and pulque were opened while all the hacienda people feasted. Ordinarily I had little appetite, but this night I hungered for a plate of barbecue beans, and tamales with some of Catalina's good tortillas. Court indulged me and we sat on a serape-spread bench while Jon ate with Enrique and Consuelo's boys. I didn't see Caguama and was deciding to have a look around for him after the meal when a commotion broke out down by the dark corrals.

“Only tequila and some real or imagined insult,” Court said in my ear, taking my wrist as I started to rise instinctively. “Don't fret about it, love! This is
fiesta!
”

But it sounded more desperate than that. Then I saw Jon diving into the shadows, shouting outrage. Wresting free of Court, I ran after my son as Lázaro, Enrique, and several other vaqueros hurried to the brawl.

Caguama lay crumpled by the corral. Three young men crouched dazedly as Jon laid into them with the whip Court had given him. I dragged him back. He struggled and sobbed against me. “They were kicking Caguama,” he cried furiously. “I'll kill them, Mama. Let me go.” Glimpsing Court, who was close behind, Jon panted sobbingly, “You'll let me whip them, won't you, Papa?”