Authors: Shirl Henke
“He cares nothing for
criollo
society,” Mercedes retorted. “If he did, he would not have broken so many of their sacred rules of propriety—bringing Rosario into the household, giving poached beef to starving farmers instead of having them whipped—even aiding Juarista soldiers!”
“Bah! None of that matters,” Sofia said dismissively. “Perhaps it was the war that changed him thus. Once he was a wastrel. Now he knows what is important. Only do your duty to the House of Alvarado. That is what women of our class are born to do.”
“I am more than a brood mare to Lucero,” Mercedes said stubbornly, fighting to remain calm.
“If you wish to remain
patrona
of this
hacienda
, you had best pray you are precisely that. Forget about that insignificant bastard child.” Her admonitions were clipped with finality. The discussion was over.
“I would be tempted to hate you, Doña Sofia...if I did not pity you so much,” Mercedes said as the old woman turned her head away and closed her eyes.
* * * *
That afternoon the bitter exchange with her mother-in-law replayed itself over and over in Mercedes’ mind as she rode out to inspect the irrigated crops, which were growing lushly in the late seasonal heat. While Rosario was taking her afternoon nap, Mercedes had enticed Bufón to lope along with her, feeling a need for some silent, unquestioning company on her solitary excursion.
Would her husband put her aside in order to give Gran Sangre a male heir? The man she had married would always abide by the rules of
criollo
society, but the man who now made such fierce demanding love to her each night, who slept holding her close to him, who swore he would never let her go—would he?
Sofia had been right in saying that he was obsessed with his birthright. He loved this land, labored for it, gave his sweat and his blood to rebuild it...with a passion the indolent Lucero of old would never have imagined. But the Lucero of old would never have acknowledged Rosario or done any of the other things he had done since riding back into her life.
Mercedes rubbed her aching head, trying to ignore the troubling specter that her confrontation with Sofia had raised. The old woman said the war had changed him from a wastrel into the man he was now. Mercedes admitted to herself that it was true. But more than that, he was also a man whose touch no longer made her flinch in revulsion but rather ignited an answering response in her, a response she was terrified to acknowledge.
“What if—” She froze, pressing her fingertips to her lips and shaking her head in denial. No, it was absurd, ridiculous. She was upset by the way Lucero made her feel, that was all. Kicking her horse into a trot, she rode determinedly away from the river, where the peons were diligently hoeing between the tall rows of corn. The dog loped contentedly at her side.
An overpowering need to be alone seized her. Before long she was clear of the cultivated area, heading down a steep arroyo. Catclaw and mesquite grew, dusty gray in the afternoon heat as her horse wended its way aimlessly. The deep gully, carved by the force of seasonal rains, wound tortuously near the back of the great house. If she wished, she could return and wash up for dinner by taking the shortcut, but Mercedes felt unwilling to face Lucero just yet. He would be heading home from the south range any time now, intent on soaking his saddle-weary body in a big tub of warm water. She could still remember how his muscular frame had looked, glistening with water that fateful time she had interrupted him and Innocencia in the bathing room.
Innocencia
. Another troubling question—why did Lucero ignore his old mistress?
Suddenly, Bufón's loud bark echoed a warning from up ahead where he had disappeared around the curve in the gully. Forgetting her troubling reverie, Mercedes called out his name. The snarling of a puma blended with the low growling of the dog. Her horse reared up, frightened by the cat's scream. She fought to bring the mare under control, then urged it forward, reaching for the shotgun on her saddle. Just as she seized the stock of the gun, the horse bucked and twisted, pitching her from the saddle. She tumbled to the ground and rolled. The weapon clattered out of her reach.
Dazed and aching, Mercedes scrambled to her knees, then froze. Bufón stood between her and the large puma, who edged nearer, snarling low in his throat, ready to attack. Behind it stood the open mouth of a small cave, the cat's lair. The dog had stumbled on it as he emerged and tried to warn her away! If she spooked the cat it could well leap in any direction, even past the dog and directly at her. She had to inch her way over to the shotgun.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she stood up and took a step toward the gun. The cat caught the movement and leaped with blurring speed. Bufón blocked the beast's desperate move with his massive body but the cat's claws bit deep as he raked across the dog's back with a feral scream.
”Bufón!'' Mercedes cried, taking two quick strides to reclaim the shotgun. She tried to aim the weapon, but a blast from the LeFaucheaux would surely kill both animals. Dog and cat thrashed through the brush, rolling and twisting, growling and snarling, but never breaking apart long enough for a clean shot. Several times Mercedes sighted the weapon, only to give up with a sob of frustration. Bufón was covered with blood now, his growling low and desperate. Her pet was going to die for certain if she did not do something.
Just as she raised the shotgun again, a man's hand seized the barrel, shoving it down. “You'll kill the dog,” her husband said to her, slipping his knife from its sheath.
“Lucero, don't—” Mercedes bit back a cry of pure terror, reaching out to him, but he pushed her back. “Get the hell out of here!” He sprinted toward the embattled animals, that wicked blade gleaming evilly in the afternoon light.
The dog was tiring visibly, his great sides moving in and out like bellows. He was weakened from loss of blood.
Nicholas gave a sharp command for the dog to come to him just as the two disengaged.
But Bufón was too disoriented to do more than collapse on the ground, awaiting the cat's final killing pounce. Before the puma could spring in for his kill, Nicholas interposed himself. He flicked his knife toward the cat's throat, but only grazed it as the animal twisted agilely away. The man circled the crouching cat. Both were scarred veterans of many fights, wary, patient, deadly. Again Mercedes raised her weapon but Lucero was between her and the cat. Then before she could move around to take aim, the cougar sprang for her husband's throat and they went down in a blur.
Mercedes was silent, her throat parched bone-dry as she watched them thrash in the dust. If she had been desperate to save the dog, she was hysterical now! The big cat covered Lucero's body, ripping bloody furrows across his left shoulder. Her only chance to save him was to get close enough to shove the barrel of the shotgun into the cat's side. Holding her weapon steady, she drew closer.
The sharp yellow fangs sought his throat, but he blocked them and felt the agonizing sear as they sank deeply into his right arm. Using his left hand, Nicholas drove the blade in the cat's underbelly, sinking it to the hilt. Then he pushed it upward, through the intestine and deep under the ribs, through the lung and into the heart.
Fortune could feel the animal's death throes, could hear Mercedes’ scream as she called Lucero's name, but she seemed very far away. The cat's deadweight pressed in on his chest, restricting his breathing. He shoved it away, panting and struggling onto all fours, then shook his head to clear his vision and stood up.
“Oh, Lucero, thank God, you're alive—I was so afraid.” Mercedes flung her arms around his shoulders.
“Once you wished me dead in the war—does this mean you've changed your mind, beloved?” he asked with labored breath.
Ignoring his raspy jibe, she looked around frantically for something with which to stem the flow of blood oozing from the slashes and puncture wounds on his body. Her horse had bolted as soon as she had been thrown, leaving her afoot.
“You must lie down so I can tend your hurts.” They sank together to the earth. He held her in a fierce possessive grip, as if hanging onto the very essence of life. She was life—his life, and he had almost lost her to a senseless accident in this dangerous wilderness.
“Why were you out here so far from safety, riding alone down a blind arroyo?” he snarled angrily. Without giving her the chance to reply, he savaged her mouth with his, then dug his fist in her tangled hair and pressed her face against his chest.
Mercedes could hear his heart slamming against the muscled wall of his chest, smell the metallic sweet scent of blood—his blood. Sweet Virgin, he could have died, slashed to bits, his throat ripped away by that cat! Of their own volition her arms enveloped him, heedless of the blood soaking into her clothes. Her fingers dug into his back, holding him as fiercely as he held her, affirming that they were both alive.
From the instant he felt her hands pressing him closer, her body trembling with fright and desire, Nicholas could not feel the wounds the cat had inflicted. Yes, this was desire—she could not disguise it or control it. A brush with death often had a way of sharpening a person's awareness of the life force within.
“You feel it, too, don't you?” he said, tugging on her hair, forcing her face to tilt up to his. Luminous gold eyes, darkened by passion, stared up at him in mute, stunned entreaty. And still she did not release her fierce hold on him, even when he rocked his hips against hers and pressed his hand against the curve of her buttocks.
Mercedes could feel the hard bulge of his erection pressing into her belly, into the sizzling inferno that had bubbled up so suddenly in the wake of death. From deep within her, some mindless instinct overrode all caution, tore down every barrier that she had striven to erect between them. Her hips rotated against his and she was rewarded by his low ragged gasp.
Nicholas pressed her to the ground, his hands frantically shoving her heavy twill riding skirts up. The stiff fabric resisted, bunching thickly around her thighs. Ignoring it he pulled her soft white cotton underpants down, tearing the tapes, abrading her delicate pale skin.
Mercedes did not feel his roughness as she undulated her hips, assisting him in freeing her of the restricting clothes. All the while, her arms clung to his shoulders, feeling the slickness of sweat mingled with blood. She pressed her mouth to the raw gashes, kissing them voraciously, tasting the salty tang on his skin.
Feeling the velvety caress of her tongue against his fiery wounds almost caused him to spill his seed before he could free himself from his breeches. He tore the last button on his fly free and yanked the tight pants down, then reached beneath her bunched-up skirts, desperate to feel her answering feminine heat.
Soft. She was so damn soft, and wet. But there was no time for the surge of exhilaration he should have felt at this hard-won victory. He moved her thighs apart and guided his throbbing engorged phallus into the slick waiting warmth of her body.
The contact was like the spontaneous combustion of lightning striking a pile of straw. Scorching rivers of fiery pleasure rocked her with his first deep plunge. She cried out his name as he filled her with life, penetrating deeper than he ever had before, moving with a relentless desperate rhythm that she no longer wanted to fight. Instead her hips rose up to meet his as she opened wider, greedy for this melding together. For the first time she wanted—needed—to join him in this mad mindless surfeit.
The glory of it built and built until she thought she would go insane from the pleasure. His lips pressed on hers, and he tasted his own blood. Then he plundered inside her mouth, insinuating his tongue around hers, thrusting above as he did below. There was a frantic life-affirming desperation in their ancient mating dance. They clung together, giving and receiving, panting and moaning in animal hunger that echoed a far more profound discovery than the mere ecstasy of copulation.
She needed him and freely gave in to it for the first time, allowing herself not to think but only to feel with her body—and with her heart. And so she climaxed on the barren, dusty earth with the taste of his blood in her mouth.
Nicholas felt her stiffen, her rippling convulsions squeezing his staff, wringing his seed from him in long wrenching spasms that seemed as if they would splinter both their bodies with the intensity. Then he collapsed onto her. All he wanted to do was remain this way, holding her so intimately to him, covering her with his body, feeling the soft subtle aftershocks of her first orgasm. Now he had bound her to him in a way Luce never could. Mercedes belonged to him.