The Wildest Heart (43 page)

“Why, no,” I said sweetly. “
He
preferred me not to wear any clothes at all. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“You're a brazen slut!”

“And you, Mr. Shannon, are a foul-mouthed, ill-tempered boor!”

We faced each other, and my eyes refused to give way before his. He was making a tremendous effort to keep his temper in check.

“So it's true. Well, is it?” His voice, deceptively soft at first, rose into a bellow of rage. “Damn you to hell! I have a right to know what kind of creature I asked to be my wife, an' don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! You and Pardee—you and Cord—God knows how many Apache braves in between. Will you tell me the truth, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

“Lay a hand on me, and you'll regret it!” I said sharply. “And before you threaten me again, Todd Shannon, you might control your temper long enough to remember that I still own half of the SD, and that I can afford to hire as many professional gunmen as you can. It's high time you remembered that you are not dealing with some poor, frightened female who cannot fight back—if a quarrel is what you came looking for.”

I saw a stunned expression mingle with the rage in his face. “By God! Do you actually mean to stand there and threaten me?”

“I was merely replying to
your
threat,” I reminded him coldly, and then, as his rage threatened to burst its bounds again, I added in a reasonable voice, “Surely you can see that we are getting nowhere as long as we continue to quarrel and hurl insults at each other? If you had asked me sensible questions instead of shouting accusations at me…”

“An' what in hell do you call sensible questions? Sensible—when I've been made a laughingstock of—and that after I'd been half out of my mind with wondering what those bastards had done with you! What kind of man do you take me for, eh, miss? A weak fool like my nephew, who'd believe anything you tell him because he imagines himself in love with you? Oh, yes—he's spent the morning and half last night trying to explain, standing up for you. But, by Christ, I want to hear those explanations for myself! Are you going to give them to me or not?”

“I can give you the truth, although it may not be what you want to hear. Must you stand there glowering at me?”

In the end he listened, his face set in harsh and uncompromising lines. And it was I who found it impossible to sit still, so that I walked restlessly from one end of the room to the other while I told him as much as I dared. Not everything—there were some things I could not bear to talk about, much less think about. Must I be made to feel guilty for having loved? Todd would not understand, he would begin to shout and bluster again, and so I left my own feelings out of my dry and unemotional account

Except for a few blunt interruptions in the beginning, Todd had fallen ominously silent, his tension showing only in the way he chewed viciously on the end of his cigar. As for myself, when I had finished I felt drained of all feeling. I wished that Todd would go, and leave me to myself.

“An' that's all you're going to tell me?”

“That's all there is to tell! You may believe me or not, as you wish.”

He gave me a smile that was merely a thin curling of his lips, while his eyes stayed as cold as bits of green glass.

“I'll let you know what I believe and what I don't believe—when I've thought about it.”

Then he surprised me by leaving without another word, and his sudden quietness unnerved me more than his earlier shouting and abuse had done. As he had perhaps meant it to do. I turned back to the empty room, and the afternoon, already heavy with heat, stretched before me. I had had my first confrontation with Todd—what should I do next? My mind answered me. You came here with a purpose. Find the strength you thought you had lost, and find your answers. Face reality, as you once were capable of doing.

It was time, I told myself severely, for self-examination, and a methodical organizing of my time.

By the time I had eaten the light breakfast that Marta prepared, the feeling of unease that Todd's visit had left with me had disappeared. I had decided that I would spend what remained of the afternoon reading my father's journals, as I should have done before.

But after Marta had cleared the table and vanished into the kitchen, I found myself staring curiously at my reflection in the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.

Who was I? A dirt farmer's daughter, Todd Shannon had called me sneeringly. With my sunburned skin that made my eyes seem a darker blue than usual, and my black hair drawn into a careless knot at the back of my neck, I suppose I looked the part. The last time I studied my reflection so carefully, I had seen myself as an Apache squaw.

How had Lucas seen me? I caught back the forbidden thought quickly, angry with myself for my own weakness. Hadn't I promised myself that I would not look back? Over and done with—I must remember that. Never again would I let blind emotion rule me.

In spite of all my resolutions, it was almost with a sense of foreboding that I unlocked the drawer that held my father's journals—finding the one I was looking for pushed all the way to the back, where it could too easily be missed.

I forced myself to read from the beginning. No skipping and skimming over certain entries this time.

A man's whole life lay between the pages of these volumes, carefully numbered and bound in hand-tooled leather. His life—and part of some of the other lives that had touched his. How dared I treat the request he had made of me as lightly as I had done at the start? I had been far too lazy, and too full of the change in my own circumstances; now, for the first time I felt ashamed. He had given me everything he had, and made only a few requests in exchange. Not too much for a father to ask of his daughter, even one as self-centered as I had been. I had taken up a challenge, but for my own reasons. I had been too busy fulfilling my own ambitions and my own needs for
his
to seem of too much importance.

How strong I had felt myself to be! How contemptuous of what I had thought of as the weakness of others. But now that I had discovered my own weakness and my own failings, I could see my father as a man, instead of a kind of image—a human being who was human enough to acknowledge his own failings and accept the shortcomings of other people. A man capable of loving in the wrong place—of jealousy—yes, even of violence. But a
man
nevertheless. If only I could have known him!

I opened the book to the first entry, almost unwillingly, and a name leaped out at me.

“Tonight Lucas brought Ramon, a pleasant young man with impeccable Spanish manners. I found him well-bred and likable.” His pen had sputtered ink, and then, in parentheses, my father had scribbled, “Would Rowena think so?” And had added, “I must start learning to be a father all over again. She must not be pushed and reminded of her duty as I was. But how convenient if she should find Ramon as easy to like as I do…” More splutters, and then—“I am afraid, though, that she might find Lucas less easy to read, and therefore more intriguing…”

I turned the page quickly. Afraid, he had written. Of what had he been afraid? Had he begun to have doubts, or was it because he had begun to suspect how things were between Lucas and Elena?

I forced myself to read further, and found pages and pages that were filled with hope and anticipation. Plans for my future and my happiness. Never a mention of his illness, and the pain he suffered constantly.

Braithwaite writes that she is considered one of the fashionable beauties, and that in spite of all the adulation she has received, she remains cold and reserved. He says there are rumors that she has turned down the Prince of Wales himself… Beaconsfield has made her his protégé; it is said he has publicly stated that she is the most intelligent woman it has been his pleasure to meet…

Had the woman my father wrote of so lovingly and proudly really been me? How faint the memory of
that
part of my life seemed now! My eyes blurred, and I had to blink them back to awareness as I continued to read.

Mr. Braithwaite had, apparently, been tactful. There was no mention in the closely written pages of any rumors concerning my relationship with my stepfather.

There were references to Todd Shannon, and to Mark.

Todd is too busy these days to bother with an old, dying man. Sometimes I think he imagines me dead already. Todd has always stayed so vital, so young. But Mark remains the personable young man I have always liked, very much like his mother, and with her air of breeding. He can even speak, with a rueful kind of amusement, of Corinne's elopement, and admits that she was too much like a sister to have made a perfect wife. One of those family arrangements—how can I expect Rowena to understand what I have arranged for her? But perhaps, once I have had a chance to talk to her and explain matters, she will not think me too much of a hypocrite… the feud must be ended…

There were many blots and crossed out words. I thought, painfully, that there must have been occasions when my father had not known what he wanted to say. Interspersed with old memories and newly aroused hopes I read of everyday matters—how Jules had been sent to the store for supplies—there had been a letter from Elmer Bragg—a visit by Mark, a game of chess… Involuntarily I felt a quickening of my pulse when I saw Lucas's name again.

I have tried to talk reason and caution to Lucas, but he does not hear me any longer. I feel that there is something eating at him, but he will not tell me what it is. Sometimes I feel that he would prefer to make a stranger of me, for all that he takes risks to visit me. What does Lucas want? I have offered him enough money with which to make a new life, but he only gives me a frowning, closed look. He says Elena needs him. He hates Todd, and I am afraid that his hate will warp his whole life…

More trivialities, and then:

It is time, perhaps, that I should seek the advice, and the wisdom of my old friend who is the shaman of his tribe, and far wiser than I. I have been too long within these walls, with nothing but my own thoughts and impressions to guide me. How do I know that my daughter will feel the way I do? If she reads this, I beg her to forgive an old, sick man's doubts… there must be some way that I can ensure that the law of justice is fulfilled. A codicil to my will that Rowena can destroy if she sees fit? I will be able to think more clearly once I have breathed some of the clear mountain air, and have talked to my old friend…

There was a gap, after that, and several torn-out pages. A puzzling void before the last, and most confusing entry of all—his writing almost an indecipherable scrawl, obviously scratched across the page under great stress.

I have not been able to rest since my return from the mountains, where I went to seek, of all things, peace. It is my own fault for prying, for pressing, and now—I have given my word not to speak of what I have learned unless I must—but God, my God, when is must and how shall I recognize such a time? Why have I been blind, when the truth was always there for me to see? Do I have to judge now, when I still feel too strongly? I ask myself whether I have let myself be too much swayed by my emotions and my own desires.

Can I face the truth, even now? Was I deliberately lied to or did I close my mind against accepting what reason tried to tell me?

Oh, God, why do I have to keep imagining her as I first saw her? Must I love her still? Elena—a wild and primitive child, with the body of a woman; with the innocence of the wholly savage—naive and knowing, fierce and gentle—and what beauty! I was stricken and spellbound when I first saw her—am I equally bewitched now? Can I blame her? Or him? If any man knows how easy it is to love her and to be swayed by her, I do…

I do not think Lucas will listen to me, not even now. But I must speak with him, even if it turns him against me. He must see the nature of the unspeakable wrong he is committed to—he must be turned away—

There were more blots, and then, further down:

Oedipus—the tragedy come to life. I should have sensed it, recognized it, before. I am rambling. I must take hold of myself, for my daughter's sake. She must know the truth, and must be prepared. She must be warned against…

The next few lines he had written were so smudged and indecipherable, as if he had rested his hand on the page before the ink was dry. By straining my eyes, I thought I could make out a few words here and there, but nothing that brought me closer to understanding.

My own name, and then, almost certainly, making my heart beat faster: “Lucas is…”

Is what? What had my father found out that had upset him so? And then, farther down: “Hate corrodes… and in his case, how far he might go unless…” more blots, and then words that stood out clearly at last:

Whatever the consequences, I must act, for Rowena's sake; yes, even for Todd's. What I have learned changes everything. The letter I have written—yes, that must be destroyed. Later, I can write another that will explain, but I must wait until my mind has grown more clear. The first thing I must do, of course, is write a codicil to my will. I have put it off too long. There are certain matters that must be taken care of, and in doing so in this manner perhaps I might prevent—no, I will not accept it as inevitable. Lucas must be stopped…

I stared down at the page. It looked as if the inkwell had overturned and spilled, obliterating everything else that had been written—if, indeed, my father had been able to write more. The rest of the journal was blank. The pages that should have explained everything to me were so smudged and soaked through with black ink that the edges of the paper had begun to curl, and were hardly readable.

And I was left with a greater, and in some ways more frightening, mystery than I had started out with. The torn and ink-splattered pages, the letter to me that my father himself had destroyed, and the fact that his diary had ended so abruptly, on that last, ominous note, “Lucas must be stopped…”

Here were my facts, if I could piece them together to make some sense. What was the truth that my father had been afraid to face? He had learned about Lucas and Elena, that much was apparent, but I was left with the impression that his grief and disillusion went deeper than that. And now it was I who did not want to face the evidence I was confronted with, and an even worse thought that crept insidiously into my mind and would not go away.

I rose so abruptly to my feet that the chair I had been sitting on overturned and went crashing on the floor, bringing Marta running to me—a startled question in her eyes. I did not know and did not care what she must have seen in my face that made her start twisting her hands together, her plump face creasing with concern.

“Patrona! You are ill?”

I shook my head impatiently. “No, not ill. Only… Marta, would you ask Jules to come in for a moment? There are some questions that I must ask.”

I could tell that they were both uneasy. Jules's face was a guarded, impassive mask, but Marta looked frightened and began to shake her head as if to ward off more questions.

I had asked bluntly for details of my father's death. Had it been expected… was there a doctor with him? Did he die of his wasting illness, or—I could not help hesitating, the memory of Jesus Montoya's sly hints coming back to me with a new significance.

“Jules—was it sudden? Had he been… upset in any way before?”

I thought I saw Jules's eyes flicker, although he answered me straightforwardly enough. “Mr. Guy had not been his usual self since he returned from his trip into the mountains, ma'am. It worried me to see how pale he looked, and the way he'd pace around this very room, from one end to the other. Sometimes I thought he hadn't slept at all all night—I'd leave him sitting here when I retired, and find him sitting with his head in his hands in the morning, with—begging your pardon, ma'am—the bottle of brandy empty beside him.”

“But didn't he
say
anything? Didn't he…”

“I took the liberty of speaking to Mr. Mark myself, ma'am. About the advisability of asking the doctor to visit. Mr. Shannon was away on a business trip at the time, but Mr. Mark came over that very evening, and they sat talking for a long time. And afterwards, for a little while, Mr. Guy seemed calmer. But that same night…” Jules paused, and his face had grayed, as if the memory was still painful to him.

I said softly, “Go on.
Please.
It is not morbid curiosity that makes me ask all this, but—perhaps I will be able to explain later. There is a reason why I must learn as much as possible.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jules's tone was wooden, and I wondered how much he really
did
understand.

He went on slowly. “He was sitting at his desk, writing in his book, when I came to ask him if there was anything else he'd need before I retired. And I brought him his drops too, in the coffee he always had just at that time. I remember he looked up, but his eyes were—well, like he was looking somewhere else and didn't see me. He looked very tired, and he said something about the pain being worse, and he needed the drops tonight. And then he asked me to bring along another bottle of brandy and leave it by him, for he and Mr. Mark had finished half the bottle that was out already. And that was all, ma'am. Except…”

“Except what? Jules, I must know. All the little details, even if they do not seem important now.”

I heard Marta muttering to herself in Spanish, and did I only imagine that Jules sighed before he gave me his reluctant answer?

“He asked me to leave the door open, ma'am. It was seldom locked anyhow, for Mr. Guy—he was a man who trusted people. He was expecting Mr. Bragg early in the morning, he said, and…”

This time I did not imagine the hesitation in Jules's voice, the almost imploring look in his eyes. But before I could prompt him again, Marta burst out in a torrent of voluble Spanish, her mouth working.