Authors: Nan Ryan
The menu included mountains of soft flour tortillas wrapped around strips of hotly spiced beef. Savory enchiladas
verde
covered with thick melted goat cheese. Bubbling pots of
frijoles rojos
seasoned with red chili peppers. Tostadas, crispy tortillas spread with shredded chicken, cheese and salsa. Green corn hot tamales loaded with tangy beef. Fiery chili con carne packing enough punch to bring tears to the eyes of the unwary. Quesadillas, a pair of fried tortillas with a thick layer of Menoniha cheese in between. And, of course, gallons of burning-hot salsa for dipping crunchy tostadas.
For dessert, Magdelena’s special light-as-a-cloud hot sopaipillas with warm, sweet honey, exquisite
flautas
, those small dainty pastries filled with dark sweet chocolate and rich whipped cream. Warm, golden flan, the delicious custard so loved by all Mexican. And plates of sweet, sugary pralines loaded with large pecan halves.
Along with the abundance of good foods, there were gallons of tequila, barrels of
cerveza
, and cases of Madeira and bourbon to quench the revelers’ thirst. Entertainment was planned as well. Not one but two mariachi bands would play, and a trio of talented flamenco dancers were coming all the way from San Antonio to perform. Pretty
señoritas
from the village had been invited to the fiesta as welcome guests of the troopers.
The site El Capitán had chosen for the festivities was the flat open plain on the Spanish-style hacienda’s west side, just beyond the stone-floored patio and vast side yard. A small wooden platform had been constructed as a stand for the musicians and entertainers. Long buffet tables were already in place to hold the food. Stacks of dry mesquite kindling had been gathered to build a giant celebration bonfire come nightfall.
By sundown all was ready.
And everyone was ready.
Everyone but Amy.
Amy had no intentions of attending the
Cinco de Mayo
fiesta. She had not been consulted on planning the party, nor would she have participated had she been asked. The night, the feast, the celebration—it all belonged to El Capitán. It held no appeal for her.
Now, as dusk crept over the old many-roomed hacienda, the entire household staff—including Magdelena, the servant girls, Pedrico, and even old Fernando—had gone out to join in the festival. Amy was alone in the
sala
, reading a book by lamplight as if the evening was in no way special.
She paid no attention to the steady stream of carriages arriving at Orilla to discharge excited female guests. She ignored the occasional shouts of the troopers or the laughter of women that carried faintly on the still May air.
Her blue eyes remained on the pages of her book, pretending concentration, her demeanor one of total absorption. Her pretense became real as the engrossing tale she read drew Amy slowly, steadily into its captivating fantasy.
The sounds from outside receded and Amy was fully swept back to another time and place where brave knights and their fair ladies presided over mighty kingdoms.
Lost in Scott’s world of derring-do and sweet magical romance, Amy could almost hear her own handsome White Knight softly speaking her name. She sighed gently and her lips turned up into a smile. Then she realized with a start that it was not her imagination. Someone
was
speaking her name. Fingers tightening on the book, the smile leaving her face, Amy slowly raised her eyes.
He stood framed in the arched doorway, his hands gripping the polished woodwork on either side. He was looking straight at her, a satanic gleam in his black eyes. His shoulder-length raven hair was secured with a white leather band behind his neck. A snowy white shirt of lace-trimmed batiste stretched across his wide shoulders, pulled tautly over hard biceps, revealing the darkness of his chest, bare beneath the delicate fabric.
The golden Sun Stone had been left upstairs.
A pair of tight black twill charro pants were molded to his slim hips and long legs, their cuffs breaking perfectly atop the instep of his polished back boots. Around his slim waist, a belt of silver conchos flashed in the twilight.
He was no apparition. No mythical knight come to spirit her away atop a shimmering white charger. He was the devil’s own, come here to torment her, raw flesh-and-blood masculinity with penetrating black eyes, cruelly sensual mouth, and utterly splendid physique.
And he never wanted to whisk her away to any place other than his bed.
El Capitán spoke, breaking the silence. Coolly he invited Amy to attend the
Cinco de Mayo
celebration. With him if she wished.
Coldly Amy informed the tall, lean man that she had no desire to go with him and promptly turned her attention back to her book. Unruffled by her refusal, Luiz nodded, turned, and unhurriedly walked away.
Amy continued to read after he had gone. But the Utopian tale of honorable knights and chaste ladies had lost its appeal. When finally she’d read the same paragraph half a dozen times, she gave up and laid the book aside.
Sighing, she rose and roamed restlessly about the big silent
sala
, searching for something to do, some way to occupy herself. She rearranged a bouquet of wild marsh pinks resting in a huge alabaster porcelain vase atop the cherrywood piano. She straightened a silver-framed picture on the wall. She brushed a piece of lint from the back of a rust-hued velvet upholstered chair.
She sighed again and left the lonely living room to wander aimlessly, stopping briefly in the deserted kitchen, taking a nibble of this, a bite of that, before conceding she had no appetite.
At nine o’clock Amy climbed the stairs to the master suite and made a face of annoyance as soon as she stepped inside the darkened room. Through the open balcony doors the sounds of music and shouting and laughter were far more intrusive than downstairs.
Amy was drawn across the room. She stepped onto the balcony and looked out at the crowd, her eyes searching. Swarms of men and women were laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. All were obviously enjoying themselves. After several minutes of scanning the sea of faces, Amy gave up. Turning away, she went back inside, sarcastically muttering aloud, “I hope you’re having a grand time, Quintano!”
Quintano
was
having a grand time.
While from the balcony, Amy searched in vain for his dark, handsome face, Luiz stood with his back to her, carefully sprinkling salt atop his left hand.
“
Salud
!” he said to the cluster of admirers surrounding him.
“
Salud
!” they echoed loudly as he put out his tongue and licked the salt away, took a large bite out of a lemon, then turned up a glass of fiery tequila and emptied its contents.
His admirers applauded. A bearded young trooper hurried forth to refill his superior’s glass as Luiz sprinkled more salt atop his hand. One of the pretty San Antonio dancers, moving suggestively close, placed her hand possessively to the small of Luiz’s back.
The mariachis played. Guitars and violins and trumpets provided loud, spirited music for the all-Mexican crowd’s favorite dances.
El galope. El Bule. El vals de la escoba.
Everyone participated. Including El Capitán. Between the rousing dances he drank tequila and ate tortillas and effortlessly charmed the women.
The San Antonio entertainers took the stage to perform a flawless flamenco, the two attractive women dressed in glittering red sequined gowns, the man in dark bolero jacket, red cummerbund, and tight trousers. The handsome trio pleased the shouting, whistling crowd, and no one applauded their performance more vigorously than El Capitán Luiz Quintano.
Darkness cloaked the desert.
Torches were tossed onto the big pyramid of mesquite branches. Fire roared to life, shooting bright orange flames high into the black night sky. The party grew wilder as the liquor flowed and the celebrating Mexicans yelled and yipped and whistled and laughed. Amorous couples openly kissed and embraced as they danced. Jealousies flared. Fistfights broke out. Knives flashed. Shots were fired into the air.
Everyone was having a wonderful time.
Everyone but Amy.
Attempting to sleep, she lay wide awake, the bedroom tinted an eerie shade of orange from the brightly burning bonfire below. Exasperated, she got out of bed and again went onto the balcony to watch the boisterous merrymaking.
A lone couple, framed in the intense glow of the giant bonfire, was dancing while a ring of approving spectators clapped and shouted and hooted.
A tall, lean man and a voluptuous Mexican woman. Their bodies touching provocatively, their hands raised above their heads, fingers snapping castanets, feet stamping the hard-packed earth, they were looking into each other’s eyes.
Amy needed no one to tell her that the tall, graceful dancer was El Capitán Luiz Quintano. Her intense gaze fastened on the handsome pair; she experienced an immediate flare-up of jealousy, just as she had when she’d seen Luiz escort her friend Diana Clayton into the La Posada.
Amy quickly turned away, telling herself she didn’t care what he did, whom he danced with. Or to whom he made love.
She went back inside. But the sight of the beautiful red-gowned dancer pressing her full breasts boldly to Luiz’s chest remained.
The air inside the bedroom seemed close, stuffy, stifling. There was no night breeze and Amy was uncomfortably warm. Her long white nightgown stuck to her prickly skin and she felt miserable. Telling herself she badly needed a breath of fresh air and that there would certainly be no harm done if she wandered down to the fiesta just for a few brief minutes, Amy hurried toward her dressing room.
After stripping off the hot nightgown, she dropped it where she stood and quickly slipped on a fresh white cotton chemise and some underwear. She yanked down a heavy, ruffled petticoat, shook her head decisively, and tossed it aside. It was far too warm for petticoats and cotton stockings. Besides, she would only be outside for five or ten minutes, then she’d come right back up and go to bed.
Amy chose a white Mexican-style blouse with blue embroidery on the yoke and a drawstring around the sleeves and gathered bodice. She drew on a full skirt of blue-and-white flowered cotton, made a face at herself in the mirror, then grabbed a wide, long sash of vivid scarlet silk and tied it around her small waist. She slid her bare feet into soft kid slippers, ran a brush impatiently through her long blond hair, and rushed from the room.
Attempting to appear casual and at ease, Amy ventured down to the party. El Capitán spotted her at once. But he did not go to her. Amy felt foolish and out of place. She wished she had never come. She was in agony.
After only a few miserable moments, Amy, her face hot with embarrassment, turned and started to leave. Anxiously pushing her way through the crowd, she gasped when someone caught her arm.
She whirled about and found herself face to face with El Capitán, his long dark fingers sliding down to encircle her wrist and draw her closer.
“Let me go,” she said with calm authority.
“Dance with me, Mrs. Parnell” was his easy reply.
“No. I can’t. It. … it’s getting late. … ” Her words trailed weakly away as her senses were assailed with his powerful presence.
His white shirt was damp with perspiration; it clung to his dark chest and shoulders. The effect was disturbingly appealing. His hard, handsome face glistened in the firelight.
The not-unpleasant scent of liquor on his warm breath, Luiz leaned down and said, “One dance. Then you’re free to go.”
He masterfully drew her into his arms as the band began to play a haunting Spanish love song. But Amy refused to put her arm around his neck. She refused to look at him. She stood stiffly in his embrace, unwilling to make a scene but wanting him to know that dancing with him was the last thing on earth she wanted.
Luiz simply smiled, amused by her futile attempts at coldness. He drew her slowly closer, wrapping a long arm securely around her waist, knowing she could no more resist him than he her.
His pulse quickening as he felt her soft curves settle against him, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of her perfumed hair, totally comfortable with their relationship. If she was not, well, that was her misfortune.
The beautiful woman in his arms looked almost angelic with her long golden hair and her limpid blue eyes and slender, lovely body. He knew better. She was a conniving little imposter. The well-respected young widow was anything but straitlaced and honest.
In his arms she was a fiery, responsive lover. That she was a liar and a cheat meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. She was another man’s heartache, not his. What he wanted from her, she gave him. And she would give it to him tonight, freely and eagerly.
Luiz began the slow, sensual steps of the dance. Amy had no choice, she followed his lead, but her left arm remained hanging limply at her side. She was determined to remain indifferent, wanted him to know she had no intention of staying.
But her temple was pressed to his cheek. Her eyes fell on his gleaming bronzed throat just as his hand moved up to caress the bare flesh of her shoulder and she felt her resolve start to melt. And knew, miserably, that he had somehow sensed it.
El Capitán abruptly stopped dancing. He leaned back to look down at her with sultry black eyes. He smiled sexily and urged her arms up around his neck.
“
Mi palomacita
,” he murmured huskily, his Latin blood beginning to heat from her nearness. “My little dove, I want you to stay here with me. And you want to stay. You want me. When will you admit it?”
Amy wondered if he was a little bit drunk. If not he would surely never have asked such a question. He would have known the answer.
“
El día que me muera.
The day on which I die!”
“A
H, SO SAD, SO SAD,
” he murmured softly, and then smiled easily. Stung by her cutting remark, Luiz was determined that before the evening ended, he’d have her shamelessly admitting that she did want him.
“You make fun of me,” she accused.