Bride of Fortune (17 page)

      
“Very much. I asked to accompany my husband here to bring her home,” Mercedes replied.

      
“This is most remarkable considering the circumstances,” Mother Superior replied dryly, looking at Mercedes with curiosity.

      
“No child is responsible for the circumstances of its birth,” Mercedes said, acutely aware of the child's father sitting so close beside her. “May we please see her now?”

      
“Very well. You will find her still grieving for her mother, but she is bright and quick for her age. Perhaps she will accept you,” the nun said, rising.

      
They followed her outside and down the porch, passing several doors until they came to a long low building with high, small windows and thick walls. It was cool inside and very quiet. Three girls sat in one corner with Sister Agnes, who was instructing them in saying the rosary. Once the Spartan dormitory had housed twenty children, but most of the children had been placed elsewhere with the loss of nuns to care for them, the Mother Superior explained as they stepped into the dim interior. She summoned Rosario. The smallest of the trio stood up, curtsied to Sister Agnes, then walked obediently down the long aisle between the empty pallets.

      
Rosario was tall for being a little past four years, a legacy from the tall Alvarado men, as was the curl in her thick raven hair. She moved carefully between the blankets, holding up the frayed edge of her coarse gray cotton skirt with one small hand.
Huaraches
flopped on her small feet, the leather straps tightened to hold the oversized shoes on. She kept her head down as she stopped in front of Mother Superior.

      
Mercedes’ heart went out to the thin little waif who stood obediently before them as the old nun said, “This is Rosario Herrera. Rosario, make your curtsy to Don Lucero Alvarado and Doña Mercedes, his wife.” She elaborated no further, leaving up to the
criollo
how he chose to acknowledge his child.

      
Nicholas stood awkwardly, feeling totally at sea as the girl complied. How did he talk to a little girl who was supposed to be his own? “Hello, Rosario,” he said quietly.

      
Mercedes, sensing his uncertainty, knelt and placed one hand on the child's thin shoulder, smiling at her as she said, “We've ridden a great distance to meet you. We would like you to come live with us at our
hacienda
.”

      
Rosario's small elfin face appeared from behind the curtain of curls when she raised her head. Her nose and mouth were delicate and pretty, her cheekbones finely chiseled. The only evidence of her mother's Indian blood seemed to be her slightly dusky complexion. She gazed at Mercedes with eyes that were large and solemn, black with silver irises. There was no doubt she was an Alvarado. She began to raise her right hand to her mouth, then quickly glanced at Mother Superior and dropped it into the folds of the shapeless gray shift she wore.

      
“I am your papa, Rosario,” Nicholas said softly, as he knelt beside Mercedes, unsure of what a child this young would understand. Had her brief life been as hellish as his own at that age?

      
“Mama said I have no papa. She is dead now. Sister Agnes told me I was going to live at another convent, to become a nun.”

      
“There is no need for that,” Nicholas replied gruffly, then added, “I'm sorry your mother has died, but I truly am your father. Now it's my turn to take care of you. You won't have to become a nun or live in a convent.”

      
The child looked warily from the tall man to the beautiful lady. Being raised in a world of women, she was uncertain of what to make of his declaration. “You're pretty as an angel,” she said to Mercedes. “They all have golden hair, you know.”

      
“No, I did not,” Mercedes answered gravely. “I think a few angels might have shiny black hair with curls like yours.” She touched one coarse springy lock, thinking how like Lucero's it was, then stroked the child's cheek and opened her arms. Quite naturally, Rosario melted into Mercedes’ embrace.

      
“Is he truly my papa?” she whispered shyly in Mercedes’ ear.

      
“Yes, he is,” Mercedes assured the child.

      
“None of the other children had papas. I was the only one who had a mama...until…

      
Mercedes held Rosario pressed to her breast letting her sob, stroking her hair softly.

      
Feeling a suspicious tightness in his chest, Nicholas stood up and faced the old nun. “Would you have a place for my wife to sleep tonight? We cannot begin our journey to Gran Sangre until tomorrow and the inns and cantinas in town are unsuitable for a lady. Anyway I think it would be easier on Rosario if she spent the night with my wife, here in familiar surroundings.”

      
“She is welcome to share our accommodations while we remain. Within a fortnight the convent will be closed. I can only wish you Godspeed in your journey.”

      
Mercedes stood up, struggling to hold the leggy child, who was heavy for her.

      
“Here, let me carry her to your quarters,” he volunteered, reaching for the little girl, who weighed nothing to a man his size. Rosario went unprotesting into his arms. As the child's thin arms clamped around his neck, that nagging tightness in his chest returned along with a suspicious dampness in his eyes. He felt a kinship with Rosario that he could never have shared with his father or his brother.

* * * *

      
As dusk settled on the narrow street, the noises coming from inside the Snake and Cactus grew more raucous. The cantina was large with high ceilings and a second-story balcony around three sides of the floor. Upstairs were the quarters of the
putas
, who plied their ancient trade while the sounds of revelry echoed up from the card tables and bar below.

      
Fortune edged between two drunken workers from the silver mines outside the city and signaled the bartender to pour him a glass of foaming warm beer. Sipping it, he surveyed the smoky room with slitted eyes, noting the brightly uniformed French soldiers scattered in small clusters dallying with the women and playing cards. Sighing with relief, he recognized none of them, not surprising considering how isolated from the active war Sonora was.

      
Hilario sat in the farthest corner at a scarred pine table. He nodded unsmiling at his
patrón
.

      
Nicholas sat down beside him, casually polishing off the beer with a grimace of distaste. While serving in Sinaloa, he had acquired a liking for it served cold, chilled with ice from the caves outside Mazatlán. “Any luck?”

      
“Yes. There are many young men from poor families who do not wish to be the emperor's cannon fodder...or to join Juarez. At least not while they have hungry children or infirm parents to feed.”

      
“Have any of the French officers noticed you making inquiries?” Nicholas's eyes swept the crowded room. The French were mostly drunk, boisterously pursuing fleshly pleasures, oblivious to the undercurrents of dislike from the locals.

      
“I have gone places they do not know of,
patrón
,” Hilario said with a feral grin that revealed his blackened teeth. “Tonight about a dozen riders will meet us at moonrise outside the Santa Cruz Mines. I think they will like your offer.”

      
“If you approve their skills, we'll have enough men to begin our search for the remaining cattle and horses. I think we can winter them in those box canyons we found at the source of the Yaqui River.”

      
They exchanged ideas for a breeding program to improve the stock on the ranch. Hilario did not inquire about his
patrón's
daughter and his boss did not volunteer anything.

      
As the hour grew late, they finished their drinks and sauntered from the saloon, preparing to ride to the silver mines for their rendezvous. Across the big, dimly lit room a pair of colorless eyes watched them go but made no move to follow. The observer sat in a secluded alcove on the upper balcony overlooking the cantina.

      
Even had he not been sequestered, Bart McQueen was a man people seldom noticed. Chameleon like he blended into any crowd. Thinning sandy hair framed a face that was neither handsome nor ugly, merely innocuous. Like his visage, his body was neither large nor small, simply of a compact medium build. He habitually wore light neutral colors of clothing, purchased from a modest St. Louis haberdashery. His one vice was the ornately scrolled heavy gold watch he always carried well-concealed in the inside pocket of his oversized suit jacket. Equally well-concealed was the rare .31 caliber lever-action Volcanic pistol slung beneath his left arm. On the infrequent occasions he drew the gun, no one remained alive to remark on the unusual weapon.

      
Turning his attention from Nicholas Fortune, McQueen nodded at the man standing in the doorway, deferentially waiting for instructions. “My contact confirms the rumors, Porfirio. Juarez's wife left New York and every red carpet in Washington has been rolled out for her. The Johnson Administration has continued Lincoln's friendship with your little Indian and his lady. She'll address both houses of the American Congress and will no doubt receive a standing ovation.”

      
The other man scoffed. “Women and politicians. What do they matter? It is guns and soldiers that count.”

      
McQueen rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, then sighed patiently. “Only if used skillfully. Grant's already sent Phil Sheridan with over fifty thousand men—and guns. They're deployed along the Rio Grande. Our friends in Paris can't be too thrilled with that news.”

      
“It will make Napoleon very nervous,” the other man conceded thoughtfully.

      
“I daresay,” McQueen replied dryly, then shifted topics. “The tall
criollo
who just left here. Who is he?”

      
Porfirio Escondidas made it his business to know everyone who came to Hermosillo. “Don Lucero Alvarado is the heir to one of the largest
hacienda
s in Sonora. He was summoned home from the war when his father died. The word is he looks for vaqueros.”

      
McQueen smiled. “Able-bodied men are scarce these days.”

      
“They are available for a price,” Porfirio replied cynically.

      
“Everything is available for a price,” McQueen replied without inflection. “You know where to deliver my news,” he said by way of dismissal.

      
After Escondidas had departed, the
Americano
sat staring across his steepled fingers.
It's been a long time since Havana, Don Lucero. What dangerous new game are you playing this time, I wonder...and how could it be useful to me?

* * * *

      
Doña Sofia leaned forward in her chair, careful not to set off another spasm of coughing by moving too fast. Lupe hovered beside her, plumping pillows and wringing her hands. The old woman would have reprimanded her sharply for fussing if she had not caught sight of the riders approaching the main gate. Lucero and Mercedes had returned with his bastard. It was his responsibility to provide for the product of his sordid liaison, but to bring the child under Gran Sangre's roof was unthinkable. So was his wife's acceptance of the insane idea.

      
Better she give the House of Alvarado a male heir, but perhaps she prefers raising another's child to submitting to Lucero's lust.
The old woman could understand that. Even under the best of circumstances a woman's duty was difficult, but she herself had done what was expected of her and given Anselmo his son. Mercedes could do no less. “It is that strange English blood that taints her,” Sofia murmured aloud, ignoring the serving girl as if she were no more than a stick of furniture.

      
She watched as the
patrón
and his wife rode up to the big courtyard door. He was actually carrying the sleeping waif in his arms!

      
“What remarkable tenderness he seems to exhibit for the child. Misplaced, but perhaps it augurs well for the kind of a father he will be for his legitimate heirs,” Father Salvador said as he walked up behind Doña Sofia.

      
The old woman's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene below her window, wishing her vision were not clouded by age and illness. “This is a scandal. The shame he brings down on our house!”

      
The priest sighed. “Has it not always been so? But he has brought a dozen new vaqueros back with him to work the land. One day he may rebuild Gran Sangre into the great
hacienda
it was in the past. I would not have thought it likely that such a wastrel could learn diligence, but war is obviously a more rigorous teacher than ever I was.”

      
Pensively, the priest watched the young
patrón
place the sleeping child in his wife's arms, then dismount and hand both their horses' reins to a vaquero. He took his daughter from Mercedes and together they walked into the house side by side. “God has plans we often cannot understand, my lady. This child may be the means by which He brings together your son and his wife as befits a marriage blessed by Holy Church.”