Dorothy Garlock (18 page)

Jacy took a deep breath. What had to be asked must be asked now. “The . . . babe?”

Luis lowered his head, and his warm lips caressed her forehead. “The
niño
will have
madre
and
padre.
” He moved his hand down and gently stroked the mound that was the unborn babe. “I came to life much as this one,
amante,
but this one shall have a papa to guide it, to teach it, and to love it.”

Jacy felt tears coming to her eyes again. She raised her face for his kiss and felt for the first time the touch of a man’s lips on hers. Soft and gentle in their seeking, they lovingly caressed, and then sipped at her tears, making them his. As she looked into his blue eyes soft with love, strength flowed into the forlorn void she’d carried within her for so long and filled the hollows her despair had dug. She was filled with love for this man who had accepted her as she was.

A feeling of faintness then swept over her, and she clung to him, wanting desperately to shield and protect him. She clasped her arms about his waist, and her lips gently brushed his chest.

With his lips in her hair, he said softly, “Rest now,
querida.
We will be home soon.”

*  *  *

Luis’s house was built from earth, like the houses Mexicans had been building for hundreds of years. Massive beams held the structure together and protruded from the sun-browned adobe walls. A stone patio extended across the front of the house, which was set on a rise with its back to a steep cliff. Water flowed through a crevice in the dark red rock and into the irrigation system that Luis had developed. He’d channeled the water so that it flowed past the house and formed a pool inside his fenced pasture. Near the house, where the stream curved, willows offered shade from the hot afternoon sun. The horses were corralled down a slight incline to the right of the house. There was a bunkhouse to the side and the unmistakable outlines of a smokehouse, and inside the network of pole corrals were outbuildings of various sizes. An enormous number of horses milled about in a stockadelike structure, and several
vaqueros
were working with them.

Luis turned the horse toward the willow trees and pulled him to a stop. He placed his hands under Jacy’s arms and gently lowered her to the ground. He dismounted quickly, for she was hanging on to the saddle, her numbed legs having refused to support her.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

Jacy’s heart was so filled with joy that her laugh came bubbling up from deep within her. “I’m so all right, Luis, I’m afraid I’m going to die!" The happiness she felt was reflected in her face, and he bent to kiss her. His kiss was gentle, reverent, as though she were something infinitely precious. Her arms closed tightly around him as their lips touched and clung. Her shyness was gone, and her uninhibited desire to show him her love set him trembling.

“Luis,” she whispered huskily. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my beloved. You are my soul. Your smile fills me with the warmth of the sun.” The soft, caressing words were whispered in her ear. He led her to a seat under a willow tree. “I’ll take King to the corral.”

Jacy watched him go and her heart swelled with love and pride. She’d found her heaven at last. This peaceful hacienda, away from the ghost in the stone ranch house, was heaven. It was home. It was Luis.

T
en

W
illard Risewick sat atop the slick Arabian stallion and looked down at the distant stone house. The two men he had hired to accompany him sat their horses a distance away and talked in low tones. Willard neither knew nor cared what they talked about; their opinions were no concern of his. He was a man who had fought with the Union forces during the war and won a battlefield commission and two decorations. A shrewd man, he took no unnecessary risks, and he possessed an amazing knowledge of both military tactics and men. He had returned from the war with the reputation of being the best rifle and pistol shot in the command and an excellent swordsman as well. Ambitious but honorable, he had undertaken this mission with all the zeal he would devote to a major campaign.

He had followed the train of freight wagons from Fort Davis, in sight of the wagons, close enough to be seen but not close enough for contact. Risewick knew he and his men were being watched by the Macklin people, but it was of no importance to him. He carefully mapped the approach to the valley and then turned back to map and scout the entire area. Now he had returned.

He took out his glass to get a better look at the Macklin ranch buildings. A drab place, he mused, remembering the rich and colorful plantations he’d seen in the South during the war. He studied the country below and, as he’d expected, saw the rider hightailing it to the ranch to report on their progress. Boldness was the only policy now, so he swung his mount around, went over the rim, and started down into the valley. His men followed.

They went down through the forest. The trail was difficult to follow, but there appeared no other way to go. The trees around them were mostly Rocky Mountain nut pine and mesquite. Occasionally, when they rode out onto a knoll, over the tops of the trees they could see peaks and ridges at the timber line, and above that the white streaks of snow on bare rock.

Risewick set an easy pace. He calculated how far they had to go and how long it would take. He took a cigar from an inside pocket and bit off the end. It was then that he saw the Indians. They came like ghosts out of the shadowed trees, riding single file. There were four of them, and for an instant each Indian was starkly outlined against the sky as he reached the edge of the wash. In that brief moment a hoof struck stone and alert dark eyes swung in their direction.

The Indians wheeled and raced back into the shadows even as Willard’s rifle leaped in his hands. Spurring his horse, he raced for cover behind a boulder. He jumped from the saddle as his men joined him.

“Hold your fire,” he ordered sharply. Cautiously he studied the terrain before him. He gave it a quick glance, then scanned it methodically with his glass. He studied each rock, tree, and shrub with particular care, making allowances for the light and the length of the shadows.

He waited, his rifle ready, but there was no further movement or sound.

There was a stir behind him and one of his men moved up.

“Dirty, stinkin’ Apaches,” he whispered. “I ort to a-knowed it was too easy. What we gonna do?”

“Nothing,” Willard said calmly. “Nothing, until we see what they’re going to do.”

Squatting in the shade of the boulder, Willard took stock of their situation. There was a chance that the Apaches might retreat down the valley, but there was a greater chance that they would make a fight of it. It was doubtful that he and his men would last an hour against an all-out attack. He had never fought Indians, and he was beginning to doubt the sticking quality of his companions, who had insisted they were experienced scouts when he hired them. The very silence worried him, because the Apaches knew exactly where they were. Even now they could be circling to attack from the rear.

He shifted his rifle in his hands and checked the chamber, then removed his hat so he could peer around the boulder. As he did so a faint whisper of sound reached him. “Pssst . . .” With rifle ready, he scanned the area behind and on each side. Not a twig or a leaf moved. The sound came again. “Pssst . . .” Seconds later a low voice with a Spanish accent came from somewhere behind them.

“Stay down, señores. When you see Apaches, be afraid; and when you see no Apaches, be more afraid.”

“Who the hell are you?” one of the men growled.

“Luis Gazares. These men have come to trade with me, but they take your hair if they can.”

“Goddamn! There ain’t nothin’ worser than a goddamn Indian-lovin’ Mex.”

“That’s enough!” Risewick said sharply. Then, “Señor Gazares, we would appreciate your advice.”

“
Sí.
I will circle around and talk with them. Wait until we move out, then make for the stone house. That was your intent, was it not, señor?”

“It was. And
gracias.
”

“Go quietly, or it will be an insult that they let you go.”

“Will I see you to thank you properly?”

“It is likely.
Adiós.
”

Risewick settled down to wait. He was a patient man; he had learned to be so through experience. He sat still now, but alert, waiting to pick up movement. When the sound came, he motioned to the men. They mounted their horses and rode down toward the ranch.

*  *  *

Willard tied his horse to the hitching rail beneath the trees and walked up the path to the house. The old man sitting on the porch offered no greeting. He looked Willard up and down, then leaned over to spit in the can beside him.

“Willard Risewick, Mr. Macklin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He offered his hand. Mack took it and grunted a greeting. “I think you’re fast becoming a legend in the Southwest. My respect for you grows, sir, now that I see with my own eyes what you’ve accomplished here.”

Mack indicated a chair, but didn’t speak until Risewick was seated.

“You got somethin’ on your mind, or you wouldn’t have followed the wagons, or stayed on in my valley.”

Risewick hadn’t expected to have to jump right into his reason for being here. The old man was blunt and direct, he had to give him that. Several thoughts whirled through his mind, ways to postpone the proposal, but he discarded all in favor of being equally direct. He opened his coat, took out his cigar case, and offered it to Mack. The old man ignored the gesture and Risewick put the case back in his pocket.

“Girl!”

The bellow was so sudden and so loud that it startled Willard. A minute or two and several bellows later, the door to the house opened. A tall, slim woman came confidently onto the porch. She was lovely, with a calm face, blue eyes, and silver-blond hair piled neatly on the top of her head. She moved as if she were in the drawing room of a townhouse. Seeing her in this setting was even more of a shock to Willard than hearing the old man bellow. He got quickly to his feet.

“Whiskey.”

The woman walked toward Risewick. “I’m Johanna Doan, Mr. Macklin’s housekeeper.” She smiled and held out her hand.

“Willard Risewick, ma’am.” He took her hand and found her handclasp strong.

“Excuse me. It will take only a moment.” She went inside without even looking at the old man, and Risewick sat down again.

“You’re fortunate to have such a lovely housekeeper, Mr. Macklin.”

“Humph!” Mack snorted. “The girl’s no concern of yours. What brought you to my valley?” His voice was now tinged with hard impatience.

“I’m here to make you an offer for your holdings,” Risewick said briskly.

“They ain’t for sale. Leastways, I ain’t decided yet.” Mack’s eyes narrowed and he stared at Risewick, but Risewick had the distinct impression that the old man’s mind was busy with other thoughts.

“It’s my understanding, Mr. Macklin, that you have no family. I thought that perhaps you’d rather not have your holdings go into litigation until an heir can be found—that you would prefer to sell now and know that your life’s work will be continued.”

Mack was silent, and Risewick wasn’t sure the old man was listening to him.

“It’s understandable, sir, that you would wish to continue to occupy the ranch house. Our offer need not include the house and buildings.”

The old man still said nothing, and it was impossible to tell from his expression what he was thinking. The only visible emotion was in the big hands that gripped the arms of the chair. Risewick decided to say no more until Macklin spoke.

Johanna came out of the house with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on a tray. Willard got to his feet.

“Ain’t no need for you to go a-jumpin’ up and down like a jack-in-the-box for
her.
She’s just my hired help. I got her outta a saloon in Fort Davis.” Mack growled out the words, then lifted his sharp gaze up to Johanna’s face. She was smiling pleasantly.

“Mr. Macklin is quite right, Mr. Risewick. Please keep your seat.” She set the tray down and stepped back. “He’s right also about my former employment. I was a singer in the Wild Horse Saloon. A very lively place, by the way. If you happen to be going back through Fort Davis you might wish to spend an evening there. If you do, please give my regards to Mr. Basswood, the bartender.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am.” A glimmer of admiration flicked in Risewick’s eyes, and he returned her smile. There was definitely animosity between Macklin and the woman. The old man had wanted to embarrass her, but she had turned the tables on him.

“What do you want with my valley?” Mack poured himself a liberal drink and shoved the bottle toward his guest.

Aware of the old man’s rudeness, but ignoring it, Risewick uncorked the bottle and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey.

“The company I represent will bring in settlers to farm the land.”

Mack looked at him with disbelief, then his hard face crumbled as he broke into a loud laugh. The sound came harshly from his throat, but it was genuine. It had been years since the old man had laughed. The sound stopped as abruptly as it started.

“Plow up my land?” he asked.

“That’s the plan.”

Mack leaned back in his chair. The half-smile on his face reminded Risewick of a lynx he had once seen exhibited in a cage. Folding his hands over his ample stomach, Mack looked down over the valley, then back at Risewick.

“I’ll give it thought. Might be we’ll deal.”

There was a moment of silence while each absorbed the statement and its ramifications. Risewick’s mind pieced together all the scraps of information he had gathered about the man, worried that his opinion of Mack would be shaped by the uneasy feeling of dislike Mack engendered in him. He never allowed himself to be influenced by personal feelings when taking a man’s measure. He knew he must be dispassionate; he must examine the situation coolly before handing in his report.