A Mating of Hawks (25 page)

“She loved him,” Tracy said. “But she couldn't handle what happened to him.”

“She's still a bitch.”

“Why, yes, I think she is,” Tracy agreed. “Let's not worry about her. What do you want to do now?”

“I've saved most of my wages. Enough to finish up my mechanics' course if I can find a job in Nogales that'll pay room and board.”

“Poor Geronimo!”

Mary sniffed. “Maybe when I'm certified, he'll believe I'm good, and we might work something out. But I'm going to be a mechanic and I won't put up with a macho dude who wants to keep me barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen!”

“I can see it now,” teased Tracy. “When you have a little girl, you'll give her a tool set instead of a doll.”

“It'd do her a lot more good!”

Comforted by each other, they got supper and did the dishes. Mary got out her texts and studied while Tracy worked on her notes. The busy, companionable silence gave Tracy an idea. She'd already been trying to figure some way to advance Mary the money to finish her training without offending her. What might be more acceptable would be to rent a house they could share till they were both through with their projects. Tracy could plead her ankle as a reason for needing someone to help cook and keep house.

Le Moyne came to put his big head on Tracy's lap. Unless Shea really wanted him back, she would keep the dog. He'd need a big yard, which would complicate things, but she'd become too fond of him to give him up unless she had to.

And Güera? A pang shot through Tracy but she hardened herself. She could board Güera at a stable, but the mare would be far happier and healthier running free. Shea would have to take her and Sangre.

Mary yawned for the third time in five minutes. Tracy put down her pencil. “Do you kick?” she asked.

“My sister always said so.” Mary grinned.

Tracy shrugged. “I moan and groan. We ought to do just fine.”

XVII

At Shea's insistence, the funeral was held in the
sala
of the old ranch house. It had been Patrick's home, and the vaquero families felt welcome there. Patrick had belonged officially to the Episcopal church in Nogales, whose priest read the service. Then Judd, Shea, Geronimo and Chuey Sanchez carried the coffin up the slope to the little iron-fenced cemetery.

Patrick was buried between his second wife, Judd's mother, and his own mother, Christina. His father, Sant, was beside Christina, and a little distance from them was Johnny Chance, Christina's lover and the father of Tracy's offbeat side of the family. Caterina and James had markers, as did Shea, the San Patricio. Strange. A little turquoise bird, discolored by time, was nestled by the earlier Shea's cross. Here was the legendary Talitha beside her patient Marc, and there was the first grave of all, that of Socorro, the Spanish girl who'd become the ranch's patroness.

Tracy felt an overwhelming surge of kinship with these people of her blood whose stories she'd grown up with. How good that Patrick would rest with them! She wept as the grave was filled, not only for Patrick, but because she must go away.

The lawyer had come down for the funeral and had asked if he could read the will that evening before going back to town. Tracy had told him she was a foster-child with her own inheritance, so there was no use in her waiting, but balding, rosy-cheeked Mr. Phelps asked her to stay, and Mary waited with her.

The will began with a surprise and kept on with them. Judd inherited the main part of the ranch, but Shea was left the old ranch house and several hundred acres along the highway.
“Maybe he can reclaim the land,”
Patrick's words ran.
“However that may be, I charge him to never sell the house but to pass it to his children.”

Judd recovered first. “I think you'll agree that land's past redemption,” he said. “But it's worth plenty commercially. I'll bet Fricks—”

Mr. Phelps held up a hand for quiet. Vashti received property in Tucson and Phoenix and assorted investments along with life tenancy of the new house. If she ceded that right, Judd was to remunerate her.

There were small legacies for all the vaquero families and a provision that they should be employed for life.

“To Mary O'Rourke who has brightened my night, I leave $20,000 to complete her mechanic's training or buy a trousseau or for whatever she chooses. I also ask that she be allowed to work at the ranch if she desires.”

Vashti, though she'd been left rich, glared at the amazed young Apache woman. Tracy laughed with delight and squeezed her friend's hand. Good for Patrick!

Then came the biggest surprise of all.
“Since my foster-daughter, Tracy Benoit, has found a home at Last Spring, I do give and bequeath to her the hundred acres comprising that part of the ranch. I remind her that she is the last woman of our blood on the ranch, and it has been our women who often have preserved it.”

Tracy's heart swelled. Knowing how fiercely protective Patrick was of the Socorro, she'd never dreamed he would leave her a portion. Tears blurred her eyes. She promised him silently that there was one part, at least, that would never go to the developers.

“But Last Spring's the core of Vistas Unlimited's acquisition,” Vashti cried. “The whole plan revolves around that hot spring as an attraction!”

Mr. Phelps spread his palms. “That's what wills are for, Mrs. Scott. A person is allowed to dispose of what he or she owns.”

“But that land's vital!”

Phelps peered at Vashti over his spectacles. “I would suggest to you, Mrs. Scott, that your husband left you well enough off so that you scarcely need be concerned about maximum profits from what he chose to give his foster-daughter.”

Vashti's mouth thinned. “I may challenge that will! Claim undue influence. She came back here, buttering him up, doing that homestead act he thought so spunky, visiting him every day! She—”

“She kept him company while you lounged around the pool or played tennis with your buddies,” Mary cut in. She gave Vashti a look that made the other woman flinch. “Take it to court, Mrs. Scott. There are things a jury would certainly be interested in hearing about you.”

Judd said smoothly, “Look, everybody's on edge. We can work out details later between ourselves. Mr. Phelps, how about a drink and dinner before you start back?”

“The drink would be welcome,” Phelps said thankfully.

He sat down by Vashti. Judd moved toward the bar. “What would you like, Tracy?”

“Nothing, thanks.” She paused near the door with Mary. “We're going home.” It really was home now. Hard to realize, but wonderful.

“I'll be over soon,” Judd promised. “Shea, is it still bourbon on the rocks?”

“I've got to go.”

Judd frowned slightly. “Brother, we've got some talking to do.”

“I don't know what about,” Shea said. “But you know where to find me.”

Outside, he slowed down long enough to give Mary a quick smile. “Thanks for all you did for Dad.”

Tears sparkled in Mary's eyes. “I enjoyed being with him.”

His face was unreadable as he looked down at Tracy. “I suppose you'll make a killing with Vistas Unlimited.”

His assumption that she would rasped on her overstrained nerves like sandpaper on raw flesh. “It's my land,” she flung at him. “I'll do what I judge best with it.”

Now why, when he'd made such hasty conclusions, did he look as if she'd slapped
him?
She almost softened her words, but he turned his back abruptly and strode to his pickup.

“The hell with him!” she said under her breath, but she was fighting tears.

Mary shook her head. “How come you two can't just level about how you feel?”

“The way you and Geronimo do?” Tracy gibed.

“We know how the other one feels,” Mary said grimly. “Maybe that's our trouble. And I'd guess this money will really get his macho up. But you and Shea are different. Say mean things and hold yourselves apart like you were scared to come close.”

“I've gone as far toward him as I can till he shifts a little in my direction.”

Mary grinned ruefully as they got in the Toyota. “Got your mule up? Patrick sort of hoped—”

“What?”

“That you'd—well, you know, marry one of the sons.”

“I don't know if I'll marry anyone,” said Tracy darkly. “But, bless Patrick, I do have a home!”

“You're really staying?”

“Maybe not all the time, but it'll be my base. I'll get some remodeling under way. And you can stay as long as you like.”

“Best offer I've ever had,” Mary said. “Though I'm not sure Judd'll offer me a job.”

“You could keep pretty busy just on Shea's and Geronimo's pickups.”

“I'll get certified first.” Mary lapsed into silence, but when they parked at Last Spring, she looked soberly at Tracy. “If I ever have a boy, I'll call him Patrick.”

“So will I,” said Tracy.

In the days that followed, Tracy would find herself planning to tell Patrick something that would entertain him, then wince as she remembered. Apart from grieving for him, his death made her feel aimless, unnecessary. Sometimes it had been difficult to get over to see him, but she realized now that it had been good to feel that someone needed her.

When Tracy thought of Vashti's last cruel words to Patrick, she grew so angry and depressed that two days after the funeral, even though her ankle was still weak, she began forcing herself to stay in her blind and wait for pictures. Just being outside helped, but she missed Patrick more than she could have imagined.

Mary had enrolled in classes in Nogales and would be gone three days a week, starting that day. For the first time at Last Spring, Tracy felt lonesome.

Thoughts of Shea plagued her, too. Maybe she should have told him she had no intention of ever selling Patrick's amazing and wonderful gift, but why should she explain when he was so ready to think the worst?

She loved him, there wasn't much she could do about that, but she wasn't about to be his doormat. If there was any hope for them, he had to show a little faith and trust.

One night she was playing her guitar when Mary looked up from her books and squealed. Tracy looked, too.

A pale small heart-shaped face peered in at them, large round eyes staring. The head bobbed back and forth. “Why, it's one of the barn owls!” Tracy said. “But he's surely too young to scavenge on his own. I'll bet he fell out of the nest.”

“Think we could raise him?” Mary asked.

“His parents could do it better.” Even if it hadn't been true, Tracy shrank from catching the mice and boned hairy things the owlets needed to cast properly. Tracy stood up a bit reluctantly. “I'll get the ladder and put him back in the nest.”

She wasn't enthusiastic about risking the adults' ire if they caught her near the nest, but there was no telling how long the little guy had been without food so she didn't want to wait till morning.

“I'll bring the ladder and flashlight,” Mary offered.

Tracy put on a jacket, a hat to shield her head, and got an old shirt to swaddle the waif. He made alarmed clicking sounds with his beak and tried to flop over, extending his claws, when she started to pick him up. She dropped the shirt on his talons, gave it an extra thickness, and picked him up.

Fortunately, there was full moonlight. “If we don't need the flash at the nest, don't turn it on,” Tracy said. “No use bringing the parents down on us.”

Though the tree was in shadow, they located the hollow. Mary braced the ladder and Tracy started up. There was a blood-curdling screech, a swift rush of wings, and claws swept the hat away. As she clung to the ladder, a second fury scudded above her, talons plowing through her hair.

Mary put the flash on full beam. In the second's respite, Tracy reached up to thrust the stray into the nest, shielded her head with her arm as the outraged adults dared the light to attack again.

She reached the foot of the ladder, grabbed it and ran. The owls, content at having driven off an invader, left off the chase.

“Did they scalp you?” asked Mary.

Gingerly fingering through her hair, Tracy felt a slight moistness. “Just a scratch. That steamwhistle of theirs, though!”

“Next one falls out, we'll have owlet soup,” said Mary. She stopped. “Do you hear a motor?”

In a minute Tracy did. Headlights showed spottily through the trees as a vehicle nosed up the canon. Maybe it was Shea.
And maybe it isn't
, she warned her racing heart. It could be another hoodlum.

“Let's go in and lock up till we know who it is,” she said.

“It's times like this I'd like to have a shotgun,” Mary said.

“Hey, now, descendant of Nana! Where's your confidence?”

“About where yours is,” Mary retorted.

They barred the door, pulled the curtains, got out their most formidable knife and a chunk of firewood that could make a club. “The hell with being a picturesque homesteader,” said Mary. “When are they installing that phone?”

“Next week,” said Tracy, laughing in spite of her nervousness. “We're acting silly! That's probably Geronimo, or at least someone friendly.”

“Probably,” granted Mary. “But I still get the creeps over our blond friend. Here, let me put something on that owl scratch.”

She used peroxide followed by Merthiolate. The motor had cut off. The two women looked at each other, sighed with relief as blithe whistling approached. Tracy's worrying took a new track. Judd was the only one of the ranch men she'd heard whistle, and she didn't feel like an encounter with him.

While he was still a distance from the house, he called, “It's me, ladies. Put up the kettles of boiling oil and raise the portcullis.”

Mary put up the breadknife and started to collect her books. “You stay right there!” Tracy hissed. “Don't leave me alone with him!”