Authors: Shirl Henke
* * * *
Mercedes reined in her mare and looked over the valley where the vast adobe house lay shaded by stands of willows, wondering if her husband had arisen yet. He had certainly been soundly asleep when she slipped from his bed last night. After hours of restless tossing, she had given up any attempt to sleep. Before first light she was at the stable, saddling her own mount. She had to escape, if only for a few hours.
Last night replayed itself in her mind over and over. She could still feel his hands and lips on her, his body filling hers. Perhaps he had already planted his seed inside her. That would mean he could quit her bed in a short while and return to carousing with
putas
. The thought caused such pain that it frightened her. She had hated her marital duties, been degraded by the way he used her before he left for the war. But last night everything had changed. He had made her feel things she had never known existed, experience urges she had never needed to have appeased.
He had made her desire him.
In his absence, she had gloried in her hard-won independence and self-reliance. Now that he was back, he could overrule her decisions about the
hacienda
, but if she grew to crave his touch, to want his love, what a powerful weapon it would be in his hands. Her plight would be even worse. He could mock and taunt her, wield frightening power over her. Thinking about it made her chest tighten with pain. And yet that was the old Lucero who had thought her unattractive and boring.
Last night he had certainly acted differently. He had desired her and had taken the time to seduce her. Perhaps the way a man might a bride on her wedding night? Of course, she had no way to be certain exactly how a wedding night should go, but hers—Mercedes gave herself a mental shake.
“I'm spinning girlish dreams just as I did when first I saw his portrait.”
Her guardian had brought a miniature of Lucero to her at the convent school when he explained the marriage alliance he had made for his charge. Seeing how splendid looking he was, she had spun foolish fantasies about love and devotion. Her hopes had turned to ashes when she met him. Was she being given a second chance now?
How would she act when she had to face him? What would she say after the intimacies they had shared last night? One thing Mercedes had learned over the past years as
patrona
was to face her problems head-on. With a flicker of renewed hope she kicked her mare into a trot and headed home to confront her husband.
When she entered the dining room he was waiting for her, seated at the table, sipping from a cup of steaming black coffee. She felt the heat stealing into her cheeks when he rose.
“Good day. I trust you enjoyed your ride...this morning.” She was beautiful when she blushed that way and the flames leaped in those big golden eyes. He could not resist the chance to tease, arrogantly daring her to approach as he held out a chair for her.
“Good morning.” She held her voice steady and met his eyes, ignoring the wicked innuendo. “I ride every morning. One time is much like another,” she added with feigned indifference, accepting the proffered seat and reaching for the coffee urn.
“You left me in the night. Were you afraid to awaken by my side, beloved?” He brushed her jaw with his fingertips.
She did not flinch as once she would have, but neither did she deign to meet those mesmerizing eyes again. “I'm used to sleeping alone, Lucero. I always have.”
“So you told me. A pity. I'll remedy that lonely deficiency when I return from Hermosillo in a few days.”
A small frisson of disappointment that he was leaving her so soon surprised her. “Then you're going to hire more men?”
His expression clouded. “Yes, that and I have another matter to attend. Yesterday I received a letter from Hermosillo about a woman with whom I was involved before our betrothal.” He could see the wariness in her eyes as her chin lifted proudly.
“You've had many ‘involvements,’” she stressed the word scornfully, “both before and after our marriage, Lucero.”
“But only one child by such a liaison.” No use trying to sugar the medicine for her. He could see her stiffen in outrage but gave her no chance to lash out at him. “Rosario has been raised under the care of the sisters at the Ursuline Convent where her mother was employed as a cook.”
“You sent her away when she became pregnant,” she said with accusation in her voice.
“My father arranged it,” he conceded with a shrug. “But the mother has died and Rosario is alone—a four-and-a-half-year-old child.”
“What will you do with her?” she asked in an icy voice. How many other children had he gotten on serving wenches and other gullible women? She doubted he counted—or cared. His next words stunned her.
“I'm bringing her home with me. To be raised as my daughter. Of course, I'll hire a nurse to care for her. I'll see that they're given private quarters in the guest house out beyond the creek as soon as it can be made habitable.”
Mercedes could not believe what she was hearing. “You actually plan to acknowledge her this way?”
An angry expression hardened his features. “My mother has already advised me of the impropriety of my intentions. Rosario is a small child with no one to care for her.”
“I wouldn't have thought you would even note her name, much less care what becomes of one orphaned girl child,” she said. Oddly, her mood softened as she studied him.
“Perhaps I've seen too many orphans in this hellish war,” he replied obliquely. “Or...I've made too many. Whatever the cause, I'm leaving for Hermosillo this morning. It should take a week to hire the riders we need and to engage a suitable nurse. Until then.” He sketched a bow and raised her hand for a brief salute, then turned to go.
She bit her lip and cried out, “Lucero, wait. Let me come with you.”
He turned in amazement as she stood up and walked toward him. “Why in God's name would you wish to do that? It's two days' hard ride and as you've already pointed out to me, we have precious little money to waste on divertissements such as new gowns—if such were even available with the Juaristas waylaying every trade caravan to and from the city.”
“I don't want divertissements. I want to bring Rosario back myself.”
He looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “You can't be serious.”
“Yes, I'm serious. You're right. We have little coin to waste on nonessentials and a nurse for Rosario is unnecessary. I can care for her. I was often given charge of the younger girls at the convent school. I know how to care for a child.”
“Rosario isn't
criolla
. Her mother was a serving girl with Indian blood.”
“And her father is an Alvarado,” she countered.
“Why do you want to do this?” He could not fathom her motive. She was too proud for tears or pleas, but as the daughter of a
gachupín
, she should have been appalled and furious at this insult.
“Let's just say I'm pleased to see you develop some shred of conscience in your tarnished soul and I want to encourage it,” she replied primly, embarrassed by his scrutiny. “Do you think me so selfish as to condemn an innocent child for your sins?”
“My mother did.”
She had learned over the years of his absence just how thoroughly his mother had detested her son, even as a little boy. “Dona Sofia and I frequently do not see eye to eye,” she said gravely.
He measured her with a steady gaze for a pregnant moment, then said, “We leave within the hour. Can you be packed to travel in that short a time?”
“If I leave my ball gowns at home,” she replied dryly.
“Leave not only your ball gowns. The countryside is dangerous, swarming with guerrillas and
contre-guerrillas
. We don't want to attract any attention.”
“I told you, I've overcome my aversion to guns. I know how to use a shotgun.”
“You'd better pray none of the local banditti get that close. If they learn you're a lady, it would be twice as hard to drive them away. Pin your hair up under your hat and wear those
paisana
clothes you had on the day I rode home.”
“Might I bring along one change of respectable clothing for Hermosillo?”
“Only remember we travel light.”
“I've learned to be extremely practical over the past years.”
Her tone was accusatory but he chose to ignore it. Perhaps in time they could make a real marriage of this charade. No more had the thought sprung unbidden into his mind, than he quashed it. Who was Nick Fortune to know anything about marriages—felicitous or otherwise?
“I'll be at the stables seeing to the horses, what precious few we have available.”
True to her word, Mercedes brought one small valise which Nicholas strapped behind her saddle. She was dressed in a loose
camisa
and full cotton skirt, clothes normally worn by lower-class females. A gray
rebozo
or long muffler was draped over her head and shoulders and secured in a loose knot at her waist, thickening her figure. Her face was disguised by a battered old straw hat beneath which she had pinned up all her golden hair.
The small group set out in barely over an hour. Nicholas instructed Hilario to ride point, staying well ahead and to the side of the other riders. Five vaqueros, two older than the wizened horse breaker and three beardless youths, accompanied them. All were heavily armed. Their mounts would once have been culled out and sold off in better days at Gran Sangre, but now the fat old mares and spiritless geldings were all that were readily available. If they had taken time to bring in some of the better stock, it would only have attracted the attention of bandits. Nick even left Peltre behind and rode a thick-legged bay with an uneven gait.
The way was grueling and monotonous, crossing vast arid stretches of trail and climbing over jagged outcroppings of rock on a trail that was more a thing of imagination than substance. The Sierra Madres loomed in the east as the little band plodded through thick yellow dust and crumbling gravel. They forded a few shallow streams, muddy and desultory in the scorching heat, but sufficient to quench the thirst of the riders and their mounts. Grease wood and mesquite grew in bleak greenish-gray clumps amid the rocks, along with wind-twisted pines whose gnarled limbs reached heavenward as if in supplication for mercy.
Sonora was harsh and unforgiving yet starkly beautiful at the same time. Towering spiky cacti stood tall as cathedral spires. All around them the big blue bowl of sky reflected dazzling white light and the high thin air was perfumed with the fragrance of acacia.
Mercedes kept up with the steady pace, enduring blistering heat and searing wind uncomplainingly. She watched Lucero's eyes repeatedly scan the horizon for the silhouettes of riders. Whenever they approached a narrowing of the trail or were hemmed in by the topography, he called a halt while Hilario circled to be certain there was no possibility of ambush. Her husband's wary demeanor cast a chill of apprehension over the older men and even the young boys responded with alacrity to his low, terse orders.
No wonder he survived those years as a contre-guerrilla
.
After the sun reached its zenith and began to move toward the distant Pacific, they discussed the best site for their overnight camp.
Tonio had made the journey to Hermosillo many times. The old vaquero with leathery skin and watchful eyes said, “There is a fork in the trail a mile or two ahead. The higher way will remain difficult for the horses, but it is less traveled. I know a hidden pool of the hot muddy waters just off of it near the base of that mountain.” His callused hand with broken blackened nails pointed to a rise several miles in the distance.
“Good. We'll use that route,” Nicholas said. His eyes were fixed on the trail stretching ahead of them. “I'd prefer going to high ground for the night.”
“Do you anticipate danger?” Mercedes asked her husband.
“There's always danger. That's why Hilario's riding point for us.”
“What about when we camp for the night?” He turned to her with a slumberous look in his eyes and she blushed, stammering furiously, “I...I meant, will Hilario have to stay out there on lookout all night?”