A Lady Bought with Rifles (38 page)

“Hush!” I scarcely knew my own voice—or my child. I wrung the whip from him, dropping to my knees. “Oh, Jon! Jon! Will you hit men who can't hit back?”

His breath jerked his small chest, and even in the shadows I knew those eyes, glinting turquoise; oh, God, I knew those eyes and I heard Court chuckling, knew the vaqueros waited, and I thought bleakly,
Trace, why did you leave me a son if you couldn't help me raise him?
What if Court took the force inherited from Trace and warped it to cruelty, to imperious self-will?

Jon pointed to the men who stood shamed in the flickering light cast from the fires of the merrymaking. “They hit Caguama, Mama. They knocked him down and kicked him because he's a Seri.” He blinked manfully at tears he couldn't stop. “Mama, I have to take care of Caguama.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “And you were right to stop the vaqueros. But a word from you would have done it. You didn't need the whip.”

He stared at it longingly. “I wanted it. I wanted to hurt them. I still do.” Again he looked past me to Court. “I can whip them, Papa? Or you will?”

Court lifted amused eyebrows. “Well, my love?” he asked softly. “The boy has more aptitude for this country than you will ever learn. Don't you think he should demonstrate that his servants are not to be mistreated?”

“The vaqueros are his people, too, Court. Will you let him, at five, think he can beat men who displease him?” It conjured up those old nightmares—of Trace being whipped, of Lío dying—and white-hot anger mixed with grief as I threw words at Court with as much intent and precision as if they'd been knives. “Why are you doing this? If you think that ruining my son will break my heart, you're right, but I don't think you'll care for the other results.”

“Careful, my dear,” warned my husband.

I turned to Lázaro. “These men who attacked a stranger shall have no more share in the
fiesta
. They shall go at once to their homes.”

Lázaro bowed and spoke sharply to the skulking men who ducked their heads toward me and faded into the night. Caguama had risen now and put his hand on Jon's shoulder.

“Thank you, Juanito,” he said slowly. “I do not argue with your mother. She is right. The others, these of Las Coronas, are your men, too. It is not good to begin as
dueño
, on your first feast day here, by using the whip.”

His face was bloody. I sent him to wash up and get salve from Catalina. Lázaro and Enrique went with him, evidently constituting themselves as a bodyguard to see no more roisterers took out their high spirits on Jon's companion. Jon glanced from Court to me, still scowling.

“If they do it again—”

“If you had kept Caguama with you instead of taking up with your new friends and making him feel awkward, this wouldn't have happened,” I said firmly. “Go back to the
fiesta
or to bed, if you're tired.”

He dug his boot in the ground, very winning in his soft leather and silver “May I have my whip?”

Before I could say no, Court took it from me and restored it to Jon, who was sensible enough not to cast me a look of triumph as he ran off.

“You should admire the way Jon defended his servants,” Court observed.

“I'm glad he defended his friend, but not that he was ready to use the whip once the men had stopped their bullying.”

Court shrugged. “He will have power. He must learn to use it.”

“Exactly.”

Sweeping my stiff body into his arms, Court nuzzled my ear. “Well, then, sweetheart, don't you see you're far more likely to get the gentleman you want by sending him east? In the long run, you'll be pleased with the outcome. Shall we dance for a while in the firelight before I take you to that incredible Spanish bed with its pillars that could hold up a roof instead of a canopy?”

I danced because I knew the people would like it, and it was in my mind that I might never be back, though I hoped Jon would someday come to claim his heritage. So I danced with Court, clapped and laughed and sang with my people, and even managed a smile when Court rose, his fingers tight on the pulse of my wrist, and led me to the house.

We got back to Mina Rara to learn that, predictably, Díaz had won the election, with Corral for his running mate. “Díaz and Death” was what that combination was popularly called, but Madero and other liberals were trying to persuade Díaz to name a more acceptable vice-president before time to take new office on October 4.

Dr. Trent thought Díaz would have to listen, but Court scoffed. “Not the Strong Man! Corral's his boy and he'll keep him. There'll be an explosion. We'll just have to hope Díaz can ride it out and that the revolutionaries are all as softhearted and dreamy as Madero, or too damn disorganized to pull down the government.”

“Corral's dying of syphilis,” said the doctor. “Two years at most. I've heard. The pair of them may die soon enough to head off real trouble.” He snorted. “Looks like that's the only way Mexico will ever be rid of Diaz and his slave-selling whoremasters—begging your pardon, Miranda.”

After Dr. Trent had gone to his quarters, Court rose to stare out at the night. “We'd better get Jon settled as soon as possible. We'll have to get new clothes for him in the United States, so you needn't pack much. Can't have him wearing leather breeches and boots at a proper New England school.” Turning, hands behind him, Court looked at me in a way that forbade argument. “Can you be ready next week?”

If I yielded too readily, he might grow suspicious. I'd be ready next week—had to be—but not for what Court intended. For a long moment, as if debating argument, I gazed into those golden eyes and found them alien and remote as a hawk's. I was no longer angry with him; since my decision to run away, he'd become less a human enemy and more an obstacle like the long, arduous miles between here and California. I wouldn't try to plead or reason or consider him anymore except as a hazard that had to be assessed as coolly as possible, then coped with.

At last, when Court's mouth hardened and he took a step forward, I inclined my head. “As you say, I won't need to pack much. We can be ready.”

“That's my darling,” he approved, caressing my cheek. “We'll stop in New York and give you a few days in the shops, eh? Anything you want.”

I didn't point out that he was being generous with my money. The less energy I spent on minor quarrels, the better. I felt I was scarcely there when he swept me up and carried me to our room.

I had to get away. By next week. But how?

Jon protested, first angrily, then with tears, when Court told him about school. “Can't I take Cascos Lindos and my pony?” he demanded.

“No, son. They'll be better off waiting for you here.”

Jon gnawed his lips and blinked mightily before he tried again. “But Caguama, he can stay with me, Papa?”

Court shook his head in sympathetic amusement. “No, Jon. He's too old and you'll have your lessons and new friends. My aunt will spoil you terribly, I imagine.”

Jon's sniff left little doubt of his valuation of aunts. “I can't leave Caguama. You've got Mama, Papa, but he doesn't have anyone but me.” He glanced appealingly in my direction.

Feeling treacherous, I said nothing. It would be too dangerous to tell him he wasn't going north, not if I could help it; for the time he must believe he was indeed bound for school in the United States.

“I'll hate it,” he said wildly. “I—I'll be so bad and stupid they'll send me back. I will, I will—”

Court had never struck or spanked Jon. Now, as if maddened, he slapped the child. Not hard, but the fingermarks stood out livid on Jon's reddened cheek. Gasping, Jon slipped from his chair and dodged past Court, running outside. I started after him, but Court caught my arm.

“It's high time he had some discipline, Miranda. Let him come to terms with what has to be.”

“Strange that the only time you think he needs discipline is when he defies you,” I couldn't resist saying, furious at the unnecessary brutality.

Court flushed. His broad shoulders hunched defensively. I suspected he was beginning to admit the truth of Jon's fathering, if only beneath the level of rational thought. How could it be otherwise when Jon was every day a more faithful mirroring of Trace?

“Be ready Wednesday,” Court said, turning.

Resigned to a fate he didn't fully comprehend, Jon kept slipping treasures into the leather trunk standing open in his room. Bits of ore, the harpoon Caguama had made him, his rawhide reata, the old stuffed bunny he slept with, and, of course, that damned whip. I was tempted several times to clear his woebegone face by telling him he wasn't going to the school, but I still had found no means of escape and time was getting terrifyingly short.

Then one evening when Colonel Ruiz stopped for a drink and Court said that we were taking Jon to the United States, the colonel's elegantly expressed regret at our coming absence gave me sudden inspiration. I knew Ruiz had at least the obligatory
macho
interest in me. Could that, without too much risk, be nurtured into his preventing our departure in the name of national security, our own safety, or some such excuse?

A frail hope, but my only apparent one. Delay while I looked for some means of escape, someone to help. If that failed, my only desperate alternative was to plunge myself into the wilderness and hope it took Court a long time to find me. I couldn't take Jon on such a dangerous flight, but it might jolt Court into realizing that his only way to keep me was not to send away my son. And it might also harden his resolve; he could send Jon north and keep me virtually a prisoner.

The circular maze always fetched me back to the grim knowledge that none of my choices were good. But I would start with Ruiz. The morning after he'd stopped by, I went to visit Chepa's mother, who lived near the small garrison. The soldiers had built adobe barracks for themselves, a storehouse, and headquarters, on the slope above the miners' homes. Anytime I was in the area, Ruiz usually appeared as if by chance and escorted me home after my errand or call. This kept me away from the village, except for sickness, births, deaths, or weddings, but today I drew a dizzying breath of relief when I saw him coming out of headquarters, saying something to the sentry that made the young man straighten as if he had had a bayonet for a spine.

Saying good-bye to Chepa's mother, a widow who supported her younger children by doing laundry for both soldiers and miners, I started homeward, pretending surprise when the colonel called my name.

He bowed over my hand, which I didn't withdraw. “I am devastated, señor, that you will be gone for what will seem eternities.” His white teeth flashed and his dark eyes clung to my mouth. “
Por favor
, entice your husband to bring you again to your own land as quickly as may be.”

I sighed. “Colonel, if my powers of enticement were as great as you flatteringly seem to think them, we would not be making this trip at all.”

“Indeed, señora?” He knit his brow and I could almost see the lightning play of speculation in his mind. “Then I both condole with and envy your husband.”

“Colonel?”

He smiled, in his lean ranginess reminding me of a black panther so controlled that one was prone to treat him like a house pet till the claws arced into their prey. “Who would not envy the husband of such a beautiful lady?” he murmured. “And who would not pity him for incurring her displeasure, though doubtless for a necessary end?”

“Forgive me, Colonel, but I cannot feel if necessary to have Jon educated in a foreign country. This is home. I believe he should grow up here.”

“Your patriotism does you credit,” said Ruiz, scanning me carefully.

I gave him a look full of suffering and wistfulness. “Alas, sir, I know the pain of being alien in two countries. I would spare Jon that.”

He pondered as we walked along. “Since the election there is much unrest,” he mused. “Not a good time for traveling. And if foreign investors appear to be leaving Mexico, it would not be healthy for the economy.”

“That's true.” I nodded, hardly daring to breathe while I looked vastly impressed with his grasp of the situation.

We passed the school, the store, the doctor's house, paused at the entrance of my home. “I will think about it,” Ruiz said. He bent his dark handsome head over my hand, which I felt like jerking free in a stinging rush of disappointment and chagrin.

“There's not much time, Colonel Ruiz. This is Monday. We are to leave very early Wednesday.”

“That
is
soon,” he agreed. His fleeting smile showed that he knew quite well that I'd been maneuvering for his help. “Perhaps, most charming lady, if we both think on the problem, we will be inspired. “I would be glad, of course, to reason with your husband, point out the difficulties—”

“You know he'd ignore that!”

Ruiz shrugged. “You are doubtless correct, señora. A man who will not be moved by your wishes could scarcely heed a plain soldier's unofficial advice.”

Now …

Forced to it, I tried to frame words while he watched me blandly. “You have said there might be undesirable results from our going, Colonel, apart from our personal safety. Do you not have discretion to prohibit acts you judge contrary to the country's interests?”

“Oh, I can prohibit. But your husband would go over my head and no doubt he could present the matter so that it would sound beneficial to Mexico.”

I knew that but had frantically searched for even a delay. Defeat sour in my mouth, I kept my head high and managed a smile. “Thank you for your concern, Colonel. If you will excuse me, I must be about our packing.”

“But there might be other circumstances,” he went on.

I halted. “What?”

His eyes caressed my throat and breasts as he gave a lazy lift of his shoulder. “Perhaps you have noticed irregularities in the señor's conduct? Mysterious visitors, puzzling details it should not be too hard to get servants to vouch for?”