Backlands (9 page)

“What's that for?” Patrick asked, astonished by her gesture. She hadn't deliberately touched him in years.

“You weren't lost as a child; you were abandoned.”

Patrick slowed the horses. “I wasn't talking about myself.”

“I think you were,” Emma replied softly as she removed her hand. “And I think that's why you hated me for leaving.”

Patrick stopped the team and turned to face Emma. “I've never hated you. You've hated me for what I did to you.”

Emma bit her lip, shook her head. “I take it back. It hasn't been hatred for either of us.”

“Then what is it?”

Emma paused, collected her thoughts, and sighed. “I'm just starting to make sense of it now. In different ways, I think neither of us ever counted on anything good happening in our lives, and we were dead certain if it did it wouldn't last.”

“I'll admit to that,” Patrick said as he flicked the reins to start the team. “But I don't see it in you, not with your spunk and boldness.”

Emma smiled plaintively. Acting brave and strong kept at bay the constant reality of being imprisoned, raped, and abused as a girl. That was how Patrick found her, yet he couldn't or wouldn't see the hidden damage it had done. She wondered how many untold women endured rape of one sort or another, and how many legions of men believed it to be their right. For Emma, forcing Patrick to accept the wrongness of his act had been a defiant moral crusade, one she'd been proud to win.

“You never liked my boldness and spunk,” she said.

Patrick glanced over at Emma. “That's unkind of you to say.”

Emma laughed.

“So is laughing at me,” Patrick added.

Emma laughed again. “I'm laughing because we've been talking, not squabbling, and you haven't lost your temper yet.”

Patrick smiled. “That's true, ain't it?”

“Keep acting nice and I'll start to expect it,” Emma cautioned.

Patrick snorted. “Don't count on it; I'm probably just off my feed.”

“My goodness, are you showing a sense of humor?” Emma asked, feigning disbelief.

“Trying to, I reckon,” Patrick answered with a grin.

“Did you read Gene's story about our roundup?”

Patrick nodded. “It got me remembering that there were good times between us—lots of them, as I recall.”

“It wasn't all dreadful,” Emma allowed. “And I don't say that to sting you.”

“Just to keep me at arm's length,” Patrick ventured. “I've finally got that one figured.”

There was no hint of bitterness in Patrick's voice. Emma searched his face. “Have you?”

“Yep.”

“It would be nice if we could stay friendly, especially for Matthew's sake.”

“I'd like that,” Patrick replied.

Up ahead, the fringe of the Jornada gave way to the upward slopes of the San Andres Mountains, a far gentler incline than the rugged eastern face of the mountains. In the distance where the road curved out of sight behind a grove of junipers, Matthew patiently waited on Patches.

“How come you've been just dillydallying along this morning?” Emma queried. “That's not like you. You're always in a hurry to get back to the ranch.”

Patrick flicked the reins and the ponies picked up the pace. “I hired on a man to help me get ready for spring works,” he explained. “No need to rush; he's keeping an eye on the place.”

Not convinced of Patrick's truthfulness, Emma let it go by. “Still, I'd like to get there before nightfall,” she said. “Are you ever going to get a truck or a motorcar?”

Patrick shrugged. “Maybe someday I will. A used army truck might do once the county gets around to building decent roads. I remember Cal telling me after he saw his first automobile that he didn't want to be part of a world where folks stopped riding ponies. I guess I feel the same way.”

Emma giggled.

“What?”

“It's too late. That world is already here.”

Patrick grunted disgustedly.

“Are you becoming a cantankerous old man?” Emma asked.

Patrick urged the ponies into a smooth trot. “There are worse things a man could become,” he answered, thinking about the hard cases at Yuma Prison and Vernon Clagett at the ranch. Maybe it hadn't been smart to hire him on. “We'll hurry along for a spell, if that will please you,” he added.

***

A
fter a short, late stop for a lunch of ham sandwiches packed by the hotel's cook and a box of Barnum's Animal Crackers that Matt single-handedly devoured before loping ahead on Patches, they turned onto the ranch road for home. Emma always loved the way through the high country and the astounding view of Victorio Peak hovering over a hidden basin nestled inside mountainous folds. But she loved best entering the horse pasture those last few miles to the ranch, with the entire Tularosa stretched out below her. Today it seemed more beautiful than ever under a bank of high clouds lit by a sinking sun, long, drifting shadows on the ground curling across sugar-white dunes.

Although she'd lost sight of Matthew for some time, it caused her no worry. He knew his way along the ranch road through the pasture, and although he might tarry here or there, he wouldn't stray. She'd fallen silent since that first glimpse of the Tularosa, as had Patrick. Despite all their years living on the land, the grandeur of it still could make talk superficial, words inadequate. Emma let the joy of seeing it again soak into her.

A faint whoop and a holler carried along on the breeze, and the sound of approaching horses on the road captured Emma's attention. Patrick reined to a stop, and out of a swirling cloud of dust came Matthew and five riders, who quickly circled the wagon. She looked up to see Al Jennings, Juan Chávez, Earl Hightower, Flaviano Armijo, and Miguel Chávez smiling down at her.

“Look who I found at the ranch, Ma!” Matthew said, grinning with excitement.

“Señora,” Juan Chávez said in Spanish, removing his hat in a courtly gesture. “We have come to escort you to a fiesta in your honor. Many guests await your presence.”

Emma's heart fluttered in her chest. Never had anybody ever done such a thing for her. She looked at Patrick, who smiled and cocked his head in the direction of the ranch house.

“Want to ride in and see what all these gents are talking about?” he asked.

Emma nodded, almost speechless. “Lead on, if you please, gentlemen.”

“As you wish, señora,” Juan replied with another grand sweep of his hat.

The horsemen formed up around the wagon and the procession began. As they drew close, Emma saw Teresa waving from the veranda, along with Dolly Jennings; Addie Hightower; Juan's wife, Adelina; Cristina Armijo; and her daughter Evangelina. Everyone, including the children who lined the railing, called out greetings. Bunting and a dozen lanterns festooned the veranda. A cow roasted on a spit above the hot embers of a freshly dug pit.

To keep from crying, she reached out and grasped Patrick's hand. “Is this your doing?”

“Only somewhat,” he replied quietly, reining in the ponies.

Surrounded by the women, who quickly spirited her away, she was given no chance to thank him.

T
he fiesta continued deep into the night. Flaviano started the party going with his guitar, and the dancing began when Juan, Teresa's oldest son, took out his fiddle. A late meal served by the women gathered everyone at long tables on the veranda, a full moon cresting the distant Sacramento Mountains, sprinkling the basin with a silvery glow. Platters of tender beef strips, bowls of frijoles, stacks of tortillas, plates of steamed cactus leaves that tasted like green beans, and tureens of green chili stew were passed around the table. There were hard-boiled eggs, roasted potatoes, and bread fresh from the oven. Everyone ate their fill and then some.

After dinner, the men remained at the table long enough to finish the last of the homemade wine served with the meal. The children scurried off to play before the women corralled them for kitchen chores. Caught up in conversation with women she dearly loved, Emma didn't worry about keeping an eye on either Matthew or Patrick. Occasionally Matthew whizzed through the kitchen with Al Jr., both boys enjoying a rare late night up with no bedtime and a seemingly endless supply of
biscochitos
and bread pudding to feast on. Down at the roasting pit, the men congregated around the warmth of the glowing embers, jawing between sips from flasks of bootleg whiskey. The notion of Patrick getting drunk gave Emma pause for a moment, but she shrugged it off, deciding not even that could spoil such a wonderful surprise party.

When the mealtime chores were almost done, Dolly Jennings and Addie Hightower shooed Emma and Teresa out of the kitchen. They adjourned to the living room and settled on a couch that faced the window overlooking the veranda. Reflected moonlight on the faraway white sand dunes sparkled like countless earthbound stars.

“I've been meaning to tell you that Evangelina will be your housekeeper until you and Matthew return to Las Cruces,” Teresa said.

“That's ridiculous,” Emma sputtered, completely taken by surprise. “I don't need any help. I can't allow it. Was this your idea?”

“No, it was Patrick's,” Teresa replied with a smile, tickled as always by Emma's unflagging gumption to stay independent no matter what. “He came to the hacienda asking if I knew someone he could hire for the job, and I suggested Evangelina. He knew it would be best to arrange something before you arrived so you couldn't reject the notion, just as you are trying to do now.”

Emma squared her shoulders. “Well, it's just unnecessary.”

“I don't think that is so,” Teresa replied with a gentle smile. “I can see you tire easily.”

“Only a bit now and then,” Emma grudgingly admitted. “Was it your idea to have a fiesta?”

“Patrick and I teamed up on it.”

Emma raised an eyebrow.

Teresa laughed off Emma's doubtfulness. “I proposed it,
realmente,
but he needed no encouragement, and it was his suggestion that it should be a surprise.”

“That I can almost believe,” Emma said. “Although it's surely not what I'm used to from him.”

“
Sí,
it is not Patrick's nature to think to bring gladness to others. I hope you will not disappoint Evangelina and send her away when we depart tomorrow. Before we left Tularosa, she told me how happy she would be to escape from her parents for a brief time. They are very strict with her.”

“Well, I can't spoil it for her, can I?” Emma said with a sigh. “Besides, it will be nice to have the companionship of another woman here during our stay.”

Teresa clapped her hands. “Excellent.”

“She is a pretty girl if you look past the birthmark.”

“Yes, but she does not believe that to be so,” Teresa replied. “Flaviano has tried often to arrange an engagement for her but without success. So many of the young men have left the village, there are now only a few unmarried ones left. None of them have an interest in her as a wife. Some think her birthmark is a sign of a sorcerer. She has been shunned all her life by the village boys, and none of the gringos who show interest have honorable intentions.”

“How sad,” Emma said.

“Patrick insisted she should stay in the casita,” Teresa said, “which pleased Flaviano. He is very protective of her. He thinks men try to take advantage because of her appearance, believing she might be willing to give away her virtue in the hopes of achieving marriage.”

“Do you think she is inclined to do that?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Teresa said with a small smile. “But she is neither silly nor stupid.”

“Didn't we all have such foolish thoughts when we were young?” Emma conjectured.

“
Sí,
but luckily the boys didn't know it,” Teresa replied. As a new bride, she'd lived for a year at the Double K in the casita her husband, Ignacio, had built for her. She remembered how frightened she'd been at first to be taken so far from home, and what a happy year it had been. “Do you miss this place?” she asked.

“Sometimes very much,” Emma replied.

“It holds many good memories,” Teresa said. “Tonight I think the children should do something special to remember this fiesta. The night is so beautiful and calm, perhaps we should allow them to sleep under the stars bundled up on the veranda.”

“What a wonderful idea!” Emma said. “If I could, I'd sleep outside every night for the rest of my life.”

Teresa laughed. “Always the maverick.”

“
Bold
is what Patrick calls me, and not to flatter,” Emma replied. “Tonight you'll share my bed. We'll pretend we are silly young girls and gossip and whisper secrets to each other into the wee hours.”

“Yes,” Teresa exclaimed. “It will make me forget how old I've become.” Her lighthearted expression turned serious. “Let me start the gossip now by asking, who is that man who works for Patrick?”

Emma shook her head. “I don't know. I haven't met him, nor have I seen him at all tonight. Has he caused trouble?”

“No, but I find him not pleasant,” Teresa answered. “Perhaps it is nothing.”

“I'll keep my eye on him, especially around Evangelina, and ask Patrick to do the same.”

“
Gracias,
my dear friend,” Teresa said as she stood. “Now, shall we tell the other ladies of our plan? Morning will come soon enough, and it's way past time to put the little ones to bed.”

“Let's,” Emma said, getting to her feet. “What a wonderful day this has been.”

“
Perfecto,
” Teresa replied as she embraced her.

They stepped onto the veranda. Below, the women and the children had joined the men around the roasting pit, now a luminous, crackling fire lighting up the night. As if on cue, Juan began to sing “The Ballad of Reyes Ruiz,” accompanied by Flaviano on his guitar. When the last notes faded away, a moment of warm silence prevailed. In that moment, the sight of Matthew and Patrick standing side by side, Patrick's hand resting gently on his son's shoulder, made the day flawless for Emma.

Her eyes filled with tears. “
Perfecto,
” she whispered.

***

B
efore first light, Patrick found Vernon asleep in the tack room and shook him awake. “I want you to gather the wagon teams from the horse pasture and feed and water them before folks sit down for breakfast,” he said. “They'll want to be heading home soon after they eat.”

“Can't the Mexicans take care of their own livestock?” Vernon asked peevishly as he pulled on his boots.

“Those folks are friends and my guests,” Patrick snapped, in no mood for back talk. His last drink of whiskey at the fiesta last night had given him a headache that hadn't let up. The right side of his head throbbed in sharp pain, his nose felt stuffy, and his blurry eye wouldn't stop watering. “Do as you're told or get off the ranch.”

Vernon held up a hand to ward off more criticism and smiled weakly. “I meant no offense; I'm just tired is all. I didn't get much sleep last night what with the music, singing, and such.”

“You could've joined in,” Patrick said unsympathetically. Vernon's excuse made no sense. “I didn't see you once last night.”

Vernon shook his head. “I don't much fit in with most of them folks. Besides, I didn't want to risk getting drunk and having you fire me, so I just stayed put right here, away from temptation.”

Patrick held the lantern closer to Vernon to see if he'd been drinking. He looked back at him with clear eyes and a smug expression on his face. “There's a fresh pot of coffee on the stove, and Evangelina will fix you breakfast. Have something to eat and get to work.”

“Is that the name of the Mexican girl who's staying on as a housekeeper?” Vernon asked as he tucked in his shirt. “I bet she don't get much male attention what with that awful mark on her face.”

“Don't get any notions,” Patrick said.

Vernon chuckled. “Keeping that one for yourself?”

“Get a move on before I kick you down the road by the seat of your pants,” Patrick replied gruffly.

“Don't get all riled,” Vernon sneered as he made for the door. “I'm going.”

“When you finish with the horses, load the salt blocks on the wagon and drop them off where I showed you in the south cow pasture,” Patrick added. “Don't put them where the grass is scant.”

“You already told me that half a dozen times,” Vernon replied.

Patrick followed behind, wondering why Vernon, who'd been meek until now, had suddenly become belligerent. He returned to the tack room and took a quick look around for a bottle stashed somewhere, thinking maybe booze was supplying Vernon with liquored-up moxie. There was no hooch to be found, not even under all the horse blankets and bandage rolls in the trunk. He eyed the old wooden army locker with his name painted on the top. It showed smudge marks on the lid. He jiggled the lock hard, but it held firm. Still, the smudge marks bothered him. He hadn't touched the locker since who knew when. Had Vernon been snooping? Patrick didn't doubt it. Where else had he been poking around?

As he crossed from the barn to the house, Patrick determined to be shucked of Vernon no matter what. He would pay him his wages and send him packing at week's end. The decision eased his mind considerably.

In the kitchen, Vernon sat at the table wolfing down a plate of
huevos
and beans, his eyes fixed on Evangelina as she moved around the room. A slender, well-formed girl, she moved with a natural ease pleasing to the eye. Patrick asked for some coffee and Evangelina brought it to him quickly, with a small smile on her face.

“I am very happy you gave me this job, Señor Patrick,” she said.

Patrick took the cup from her and nodded. “And I'm glad you're here to help out.”

At the table, Vernon smirked and wiped a sleeve across his mouth to try to hide it.

Patrick nodded at the kitchen door. “Get going.”

“I'm hurrying,” Vernon replied. He gulped his coffee, pushed back from the table, gave Evangelina a last once-over, and headed out the door.

“Was he bothering you?” Patrick asked. His headache had eased up and his eye had stopped watering.

“No, señor, I am used to such men. They look and I say nothing.”

“Okay.” Before he could say more, the kitchen filled with bustling women intent on rousing sleepy children out of their bedding on the veranda and getting started on the business of fixing breakfast. He studied Emma as she stoked the cookstove firebox. She gave him a happy look and he smiled in return, pleased to see her in good spirits. Maybe it would last, maybe not. With Emma he never knew, but at least this visit had started out as the best ever since their divorce. He hoped it would stay that way.

***

E
xcept for Teresa and her youngest son, Miguel, who—much to Emma's delight—would stay over another day, everyone departed before midmorning. As the last wagon left, Matt plucked at Patrick's sleeve and reminded him of his promise to start training Patches right away.

“It's a promise I aim to keep,” Patrick said, turning to Miguel, who'd sought out his company as a safe haven away from the womenfolk. “Are you disposed to climb on a pony and go ahorseback riding with me and my boy?”

Miguel grinned. “I'd like that.”

“I already know how to ride,” Matt said, frowning in disappointment.

“Sure you do,” Patrick replied. “But we need to start slow with Patches and see what he knows, what his habits are, before we start working him. Maybe he's got a wrong idea or two in his head that needs fixing, or maybe he gets out of sorts if asked to do something that upsets him.”

“He's not like that at all,” Matt said defensively. “He's a good pony.”

“I believe it,” Patrick replied. “But I need to see him in action with some cows, savvy?”

Matt brightened at the idea of working Patches with cows. “I know he'll do just swell with them.”

“Then let's give him a chance to prove himself,” Patrick said with an appraising glance at Miguel, whom he knew to be farm raised but no horseman. “I've got an easy-riding buckskin that might suit you, unless you'd like a pony that's a bit more lively.”

“The buckskin is best, I think,” Miguel replied.

“Good choice,” Patrick said, clapping his hands together. “Let's stop wasting time, cut out our ponies, and get them saddled. It's a good hour's ride to the south cow pasture.”

After promising to return in time for dinner, they left with lunches of thick beef sandwiches fixed by the women and packed in their saddlebags. As they moseyed along, Patrick talked horses—a subject he loved—especially cow ponies. He praised Calabaza, the pumpkin-colored cayuse he rode, as one of the three smartest cutting horses he'd ever owned. He described how Calabaza could spin and dart quickly to separate a calf from an angry mother or keep a wild-eyed, snot-snorting steer from bolting the herd.