Deep Purple (10 page)

He nodded grimly. “
I suppose ‘tis best.” Then, in an outburst, “But God help me, I'm tired of doing what’s best!”

He opened the door, and the street dust filtered in. Before he closed it, he half turned. “
Catherine, will you marry that officer—Rankin?”

She hesitated while the dust settled on h
er skirts and suffocated her heart. “I don’t know.”

CHAPTER 14

C
hristmas of '64; how desolate and lonely a time in Tucson.
Catherine put down her pen, wondering if she should worry her mother with such a confession. She nibbled at the pen’s tip, then resumed her letter.

With nine-tenths the population of Catholic persuasion, Christmas is not celebrated here until January 6, El Dia del Tres Reyes
—the Day of the Three Kings. The other tenth spend this time in drunken revelry in the multitude of saloons and gambling establishments.

Despite such a dreary description, please believe I am quite happy in this little outpost on the edge of the world. Here beneath the eternally
sunny skies I believe I have found my niche in life. My health continues good. For the first time this year the Santa Catalinas had a very light drift of snow to mantle their peaks. Tonight I shall attend a New Year's Dance—a baile in one of the older Mexican homes; a very formal affair, I understand
.

She finished the letter and, dipping the pen in the precious ink, affixed her signature. Her mother would most likely receive the letter as late as St. Patrick's Day, if she did receive it at all.

With so little time left to dress for the
baile
, Catherine hurriedly slipped into her one good dress, which did not have quite so worn appearance as the rest of her clothes. The lilac velvet bodice was cut low off the shoulders with a pointed waist and a fall of lace to cover her cleavage and upper arms. The dress still smelled of camphor, and she sprinkled the remainder of an almost empty bottle of jasmine cologne over the material.

Wanting a change in her coiffure for the important evening, she left the center part b
ut divested her chignon of its net; instead she pulled the hair atop her head into a mass of plaits, since curling the heavy tresses was nigh impossible.

Though she was going to the
baile
with Sam and Atanacia, she knew Jeremy would be there. And she knew he would ask her to marry him that night. All day she had been brooding over her decision. She told herself she did not have to accept his proposal. There were many more men now who called upon her—a Mexican
hacendado
from as far south as Magdalena, Mexico, and a merchant named Goldwater who came from as far north as Prescott.

Catherine paused in draping the heavily fringed purple silk shawl about her shoulders and put her fingertips to her temples. She closed her eyes to shut out the image of Law
’s passion-inflamed face hovering over hers. Could she lie in bed the rest of her life with one man . . . while her body ached for another?

Yes, yes, yes! Surely after weeks and months in the arms of her husband, she would forget Law. Tonight she would accept Jeremy
’s proposal.

The
baile
was held in the home of one of Tucson’s first families, Don Esteban Ochoa, partner in the freighting firm of Tully & Ochoa. The large oblong parlor had been cleared of furnishings save the wooden benches girding the walls. Surrounding a table were clustered men eager to sample the fiery Mexican brews that were little better than turpentine. For the señoritas and their duennas a blackberry cordial and homemade peach brandy were provided.

Both Mexican and American men who were the elite
of Tucson society had been invited—Bill Oury, an ex-Texas Ranger, Hiram Stevens, a wealthy merchant, and Charles Poston and Ross Browne, who had just returned from an exploring expedition of Arizona and the state of Sonora in Mexico. Representing the Mexicans were Jesus Elias, Don Solano Leon, and Ignacio Pecheco—all born in Tucson and now naturalized citizens by virtue of the Gadsden Purchase.

Three mariachis costumed in fine, gaudy velvets were already tuning their guitar, fiddle, and trumpet when Cather
ine and the Hugheses arrived. Like each previous guest who passed through the doorway, Catherine was pelted with
cascarones
, gaily colored eggshells filled with cologne or confetti.

“
I hope you're prepared to dance all night,” Sam told her, laughing as he brushed the confetti from his carrot-colored hair. He ushered her and Atanacia to an unoccupied bench, saying, "It’s the men’s one chance to hold an Anglo woman in their arms, and I assure you, Catherine, they will not pass it up.”

"Or let you out the door
until you’ve danced with every
hombre
here,” Atanacia added.

Catherine barely had time to remove her shawl and smooth her lace gloves over her fingers before she was besieged for the next dance
—what appeared to be a mixture of the waltz and polka, though her partner, a short, thin soldier, seemed to be doing a variation of the Pigeon Wing.

By the time the sweating musicians paused for potent refreshment, she collapsed on the bench, panting with the exertion of the dancing. "And it
’s only just beginning, not even midnight,” Atanacia said and laughed.

“
I’ll never make it. My feet have been trampled by the cavalry and all their mounts.” She wriggled her toes inside her blue broche slippers to see if there was any feeling left. But oh, it was such fun. Her years as a wallflower were laid to rest that evening, and she meant to enjoy every delicious moment as belle of the ball.

She looked up to find several cups thrust before her at once. From among the admiring masculine faces, she picked out Jeremy
’s and accepted the cup of brandy he offered. "I’ve missed your company,” she said, making no pretense at the art of flirtation.

“
Then let me have the next dance,” he cajoled in a voice slightly slurred with
pulque
, fermented juice of the maguey cactus. “This is the first opportunity I’ve had to get near you.”

Atanacia, looking lovely in black lace, slyly nudged Sam. and the giant took his cue and asked his wife to dance, leaving room for Jeremy to sit next to Catherine.

She fanned herself and sipped at the brandy, listening all the while as Jeremy told her of the patrol he had been sent on in the Santa Rita Mountains. His words were light and joking, but his eyes fastened on her face with adoration. Nervously she turned her gaze to the dance floor, where Sam and Atanacia danced with nimble feet to the ranchero song “Cuatro Milpas.”

Suddenly Catherine
’s gaze focused on the extremely tall man who came into her field of vision and moved toward her, blotting out all else. Law! She was unaware she breathed the name aloud or of Jeremy’s startled glance.

The sight of Law was like a blow to her windpipe. Her fan halted its lazy swishing. The brandy sloshed in her cup. She never expected to see Law again, especially moving among decent, civilized people. But there he was, standing
before her, dressed in an all-black
charro
suit bordered with silver conchos. The thick yellow-gold curls framed his face in profusion, softening its angularities but not the sardonic smile.

“
Miss Howard, I was sure you would have long since married by now,” he said.

Oh, the nerve! Any reply she could formulate would be extremely embarrassing to her and Jeremy.

“How are you finding Tucson?” Law went on easily with a smirk of amusement creasing his face.

“
I find it much to my liking,” she said stiffly.

“
And dancing?” He held out his hand, and she blanched at the scoundrel’s presumptuousness.

“
I’ve enjoyed the dancing very much this evening,” she evaded.

“
Good! Then you’ll dance the next one with me?”

It wa
s really more a statement than a question, and she was about to refuse. But Jeremy, hereto respectfully silent, said, “I believe she’s promised the next dance to me.”

Only then did Law acknowledge the man. “
Claramente
,” he said, reverting to Spanish. Even his stance altered, though she did not know how to describe the change; it was more of a Mexican Caballero’s lithe, lazy movement. “But the dance, lieutenant, is a Spanish bolero. Do you perhaps know the steps?

"Ahhh, I thought not,”
Law continued when Jeremy simultaneously shook his head and opened his mouth to protest. Then to Catherine, “It’s time you learned the bolero if you plan to remain m our hospitable Hispanic climate.”

Rather than make a scene, she nodded curtly. Her smile counseled patience from
Jeremy as she handed him her cup, but his left hand went to the hilt of his saber even as he tossed down her cup’s remaining brandy.

She sighed; mixing the brandy with the pulque, Jeremy would no doubt be sick before the evening was over and spoil the fie
sta . . . if it was not spoiled already, she thought, looking up at the tall blond who led her out onto the floor. She herself felt a pleasant warmth from the brandy.

Only the Hispanics in the room danced now to the repetitious and relentless melody of the
lone trumpet, and she hung back. But Law would not release her wrist, instead drawing her into the small circle of dancers. “The steps are not that difficult,’’ he told her as he faced her. “Follow my movements—and remember, you are the temptress. You are dancing the bolero atop a table while the men gather to watch you.”

The slow, steady cadence of the music, the mesmeric quality of Law
’s quiet, firm voice, could almost make her believe she was the temptress, the enchantress, as she tried to pantomime his movements. She, who had never danced before that night, was caught up in the music, forgetting all else, as she swayed and swirled. The music steadily accelerated in sound and tempo. Her taffeta gown flared above her ankles. Her arms entwined above her head. Now the guitar and fiddle joined in one long, gradual crescendo. The melody built inexorably, increasing the tension in the spectators.

But there were no spectators. There was only Law
’s impassioned face before her. She danced for him, this Mexican who had the coloring of pure European ancestry.

The music crescendoed to an unbearable height to be broken by the instruments
’ sudden shift in key to an abrupt end. The tension in the room was so strong that a breathless silence reigned until applause and shouts of
Bravissimo!
erupted from the spectators.

Glancing about her, she realized the other dancers had at some point retired from the floor, leaving her and Law to finish the sensuous performance. Her hands shot up to her flushed face. About her bare shoul
ders tendrils of loose hair feathered. Why, she must look like a common streetwalker!

She turned to Law, and the fear that she had made a fool of herself seemed to be confirmed by the quiet anger she saw in the sand-brown eyes. What must he think of her, a
woman who gave her kisses so easily? And now this! “You’re a most unusual woman, Cate,” he said, as he led her back to the others. But she detected nothing of a compliment in his statement.

Whatever disapproval Sam or Atanacia may have felt certainly did
not show in their smiles and congratulatory words. Jeremy’s gaze, but for the instant it crossed that of Law’s, burned with a passion that startled Catherine. In fact, all the men wore that same fervent gaze as they continued to claim dances from her.  All but Law, who appeared occupied with some luscious Mexican widow.

Catherine fortified herself with several more cups of brandy to help her get through the rest of the long night. It appeared the revelers would dance as long as the musicians continued, whic
h, she had been told, could well run into the breakfast hour. Her own strength was rapidly ebbing with the approaching dawn. So when Jeremy asked to escort her home, she acceded, not wanting to take Sam or Atanacia away from the
baile
.

Shades of orange and
pink already illuminated the Rincon peaks when Jeremy and Catherine reached her
jacale
. “Catherine,” he said thickly, catching her by her arm when she would have opened the door, “I won’t be distracted from my purpose this time.”

“
Let’s talk later,” she said gently. “It’s late—or rather, early.”

She opened the door, and Jeremy
’s unsteady weight propelled them through the doorway. She recovered her balance, but Jeremy caught at the rickety table to keep from falling. “Jeremy, you really must go,” she said, moving to help him. Her head ached miserably.

“
. . . just want the privi—-right to take care of you,” he mumbled. He unbuckled his belt with fumbling fingers, and the saber slid to the floor.

“
Jeremy! You’re not going to sleep here!”

He wavered toward her.
“You’re all ’lone, and it’s . . . not right.” His drink-fuzzed voice fell to a fervent whisper as his fingers clutched at her arms, accidentally tearing the lace sleeve. “You need someone, and I want it . . . it to be me.”

She was truly concerned now. She
knew Jeremy meant no harm, but the situation was getting out of control. Where was one of her “protectors” now that she needed help?—no doubt still celebrating the New Year. “Jeremy, get out!” Oh, why had she drunk so much? She was not handling this right at all.