A Lady Bought with Rifles (4 page)

Thank heaven it was easy. Our conversations were sure to be limited for a long time. Was there anyone about Las Coronas who spoke Yaqui? I wanted to know if Sewa had any relations or people she would like to go to, and it would help to have her told in her own language that I would not hurt her.

Casting around for some way of expressing goodwill, I took a large juicy peach from the basket of fruit by my bed. It was replenished daily, along with the flowers on the carved chest by the window. If I had to choose one or the other, I would have kept the fruit, with its mellow hues and delicious textures of plums, guavas, and peaches.

I offered Sewa the peach, took another, peeled away the fuzzy skin, and bit into the rich sweet flesh. Sewa nibbled, then took larger bites. As if each morsel whetted her hunger, she gulped the last mouthfuls, but she did not look at the fruit basket.

If she had been starving herself, too much food at once might be bad for her, but when the maid came from across the courtyard with two large copper buckets of hot water, I told her to dump them in the rose- and cherub-encrusted tub in my dressing room and to fetch some cheese and a bit of brown sugar.

As soon as she had brought these and a vile-smelling salve dispensed by the housekeeper for everything from broken legs to rheumatism, I gave Sewa the hunk of hard brown sugar and tried to coax her into the tub.

She balked. I washed my hands, trying to make the lathering soap seem delightful, but Sewa clamped her small jaws tight and would not be induced. Physical force was the last thing. I wanted to use with her, so at last we worked out a compromise. She soaked her sore foot in a small basin and let me scrub her with a towel wrung out in the tub. I longed to see the long oily hair clean and fragrant, but that would have to wait. She made no fuss about exchanging her torn and dirty garment for one of my chemises, which was just long enough for modesty's minimal needs.

Though her foot was so swollen and angry that the slightest touch must have hurt, she never winced while I applied green salve and bandaged the instep with some clean rags I'd found in the chest.

Where could she sleep? An ornate chaise longue at the foot of my bed was broad enough. I lay down on it, closed my eyes, rose, and pointed to her.

She went to the window and stared away at the mountains. Was that where she'd been captured? I might save her from beatings and feed her, but what could heal the inner wounds that must fester more deadly than the ugly secretions from her foot? Before I could decide what to do about her, I needed to find someone who spoke Yaqui.

Sighing, I came back to my own problems. It was time for the reading of the will.

“Sewa.” With signs and expressions I tried to tell her I must go but would return, pointed again at the chaise. I hated to leave her so soon but had to hope she sensed my friendliness and wouldn't run away. The priest might know Yaqui, or perhaps the lawyer.…

Neither did—in fact, Señor Otero, fiddling with his pointed gray beard and gold watch chain, behaved as if I'd asked him if he could speak coyote. Trace Winslade, standing at the back of the library, came toward me.

“I speak some,” he said, those turquoise eyes touching me so that I felt seared with quick flame. “And an old Yaqui healer lives in the canyon above my place. Why do you need Yaqui?”

I started to explain when Reina cut in sharply. “Let us hear the will. Señor Otero wishes to start back to Guaymas tonight.” She gave him a frosty smile. “Please read slowly, señor. My half-sister has forgotten most of her Spanish.”

I thought I was doing extremely well, considering my age when I left and the short time I'd been back. However, I was determined not to quibble with Reina over small matters; I suspected I'd need all my strength and resolution for vital questions.

The will was simple enough. Reina, whose father had added his holdings to the estate, was first heir to Las Coronas, though she was enjoined to offer me a home there. Mother's jewelry was divided between us. I inherited the mine, Mina Rara. Reina was to serve as my guardian till I was eighteen, six months from now. Trace was given a hundred acres of his own choosing, an Arab stallion, and five mares—“so that he may build his own herd while tending ours,” ran the will. There were bequests to the servants, provisions for their old age, gifts to several religious orders.

I scarcely heard the lawyer drone on. My stomach was knotting and I fought back tears, forced to admit how I'd hoped Mother might have left some miraculous instructions for me, the name of some friend or relative who could give me some guidance. Waves of the sense of desertion that had so often engulfed me as a child overwhelmed me now, intensified by my knowing Reina scorned me.

Why did she have to be the way she was? Why couldn't we comfort each other? But if she felt any of the same need, she didn't show it. When Señor Otero finished, she asked a few peremptory questions and dismissed him, saying that the housekeeper had a meal ready at his convenience.

The bearded little man bowed and expressed his hope that all would go according to Doña Luisa's wish. When he was gone, Trace glanced from Reina, who stood by the bookshelves, over to me.

“Will you be staying here, Miss Miranda, as your mother obviously intended?”

Involuntarily I looked at Reina, whose eyes evaded mine. “I would like to stay,” I said “But not if I'm unwelcome.”

“The house is big enough,” she said tersely. “Mother, wished it. As your elder, I have a duty toward you. I hope that you will stay at Las Coronas, Miranda, at least for a time, though I don't feel it's a suitable permanent home for one of your upbringing and character.”

It was as ungracious an invitation as could be imagined. “I wonder what you can know of my character,” I said slowly. “And perhaps I should remind you that I have never had another home.”

“Was it my fault your father insisted you be schooled in England?” she demanded. “You
are
a foreigner, and if you live in my house, you must respect my knowledge and experience.”

“Of what?” I asked, blood heating. “Ways to abuse orphan children?”

Her eyes shot green flame. “You are warned about that creature. If she slips a knife into anyone, I hope it is you. Would you please excuse yourself? I have things to discuss with Winslade.”

He came lazily forward. “You interrupted my talk with Miss Miranda. I'll come to you when we've finished.” She stared at his audacity. So did I.

“Oh,” I began, “you can see me later, Mr. Winslade.”

“Now,” he said. He held open the heavy carved door for Reina, regarding her with calm eyes as if there were no question of her obeying.

She swallowed, glared at him, and at last shrugged, crossed to the door, and paused.

“Winslade, don't return to your horses till we have discussed our business. I will be in the office.” She swept out.

He shut the door, came to me, pulled up a rawhide stool, and took my hands. “All right, Miranda. Tell me.”

To my utter confusion and shame, I began to cry.

3

At first I tried to fight back the tears but I'd held them in too long. Suppressed grief, anger, and fear kept welling up, shaking me with tumultuous sobs. I beat on the leather chair with my fists, past caring what this perplexing man thought. I'd already disgraced myself. I might as well try to get rid of this savage despair.

“Why?” I gasped. “Why is it this way? Why didn't Mother send for me when I could have known her, grown to feel at home here?”

“She wanted you,” he said slowly, and I knew he was trying to be fair to both my parents. “But she'd promised your father to let you finish school, and then she fell ill. Your father hoped you'd marry in England and stay there.”

I had to laugh bitterly. “Yes, one meets so many eligible bachelors in a Church of England girls' school.”

“If he had lived, he'd have seen to that, but your mother had no contacts there. Besides, though she deferred to your father, she always hoped you'd come back to Mexico.” He sighed, took out a large snowy handkerchief, and daubed clumsily at my face. “Whatever you think, she loved you. They both did.”

I considered that and, for all my resentment, could not deny it. “All right. But they kept me from having a home.”

“Hell!” he exploded. “You had a safe place to stay, food, and good care. That's more than most of this world gets.”

His wrath at my self-pity stung, mostly because he had said what I'd so often told myself. I repudiated his handkerchief and got to my feet, trying to hold my chin up. “I'm not asking you to sympathize. But I—I'll never feel I belong anywhere—”

In spite of my attempt at hauteur, my voice frayed. He came to stand so close that I felt physically overcome and those sky-water eyes seemed to probe the depths of my soul.

“Does anyone?” he asked. “Does anyone belong?”

I gave a doleful sniff. “Everyone seems to except me.”

“Few people belong to themselves. But that's the only way to have balance, to be heavy enough not to be blown away by changes. There are going to be big changes in Mexico.”

“I don't know what you mean,” I argued, though I did, a little. “Miss Mattison belonged in England. I can't picture her here at all. Mother fitted Las Coronas. So does Reina, in a different way. Father—” I pondered, was forced to admit rather shamefacedly, “He was rooted in himself. He must have lived successfully here, but when he was in England, that seemed to be his place.”

“Jonathan Greenleaf could rope with vaqueros, swear with miners, dance at a
fiesta
, or kill when he had to. Yet he was the gentlest man I ever knew.”

“I'm not like that.”

“Of course you're not,” he said with pitying amusement. “Lord's sake, girl, you have to
do
things to become.”

Knowing he was right but angry at him for detecting my self-pity, I stared wordlessly. His face changed, softened; his long lean hand came up to brush my cheek, lightly touch my mouth. “A woman has to love, Miranda, to be a full person. Understand what she needs, how to enjoy it, and how to give.” He stepped back, the scar showing livid. “Hell, why are you so young?”

Trembling, desolate because he'd taken his hand from me, I said with all the dignity I could muster, “I'm older every day.”

He laughed at that. Some of the tension went out of his tall spare frame. “So am I, Miss Miranda. Don't fret your mind about all this right now. Life sort of sneaks up on you and makes things natural that seem hard from a distance.” His eyes swept over me, sent that hot rush of awareness through my veins. “When you learn what you've got, Miranda, God help us poor men!”

I suspected he was trying to give me self-confidence but I liked the caressing way he said my name. It was the first time I'd heard it used as an endearment. Talking to him had helped. His matter-of-fact attitude had steadied me; so, in a different way, had the knowledge that he found me attractive. I managed a wavery smile and got to my feet.

“You said you speak a little Yaqui. Will you come with me?”

He frowned, shoving at the thick black hair angling across his forehead. “Don't tell me you've got a Sierra Yaqui camped out in your room!”

“Come see,” I teased, glad to bewilder him for a change.

He moved with little sound in spite of his boots. I was intensely conscious of him as we passed along the corridor to my room. As we reached the door, his fingers closed hard on my wrist, turning me to him.

“I wonder if I shouldn't teach you about being a woman.”

I could only watch him, captive to those strange storm-fire eyes. He let me go, but his breathing was jagged. “Forget that. I can't be your man. But I know what you mean about a home place, Miranda. You'll make yourself one. Sometime, somewhere.”

“Easy to say.”

“It'll happen.” He tilted my chin up. “Till then, you just remember this. People who get their identity from living on a certain piece of ground might as well be dead and under it. We've got feet to move on. If God had meant us to stick in one place, he'd have rooted us like trees.”

The absurd picture of earth's millions growing out of their soil like so many cabbages made me giggle. Trace laughed, too, and I knew he was trying to help me.

Before I could answer, he opened the door. My dressing gown had dropped to the bedside rug that morning, and in my haste, I had left it. Sewa lay curled up next to it, hugging it as if it were somebody. She jerked up as we entered, shaken from sleep, stared from me to Trace with eyes that widened but betrayed no fear—or hope, either.

Trace stopped a distance from her, dropped to one knee. He spoke softly in what I supposed was Yaqui. She didn't answer at first, but his third or fourth question evoked a hesitant word. He sat cross-legged, she relaxed slightly, and within a few minutes she was talking. He asked a question now and then, and though his voice stayed kind, I could sense growing anger in him.

He turned at last to where. I had taken a seat by the grilled deep window. “Some Sierra Yaquis—those are ones who've taken to the mountains to fight the Mexicans—have been raiding Mexican settlers, so the soldiers retaliated at this child's village. The men and older boys were sent off to be slaves in Yucatán, the married women were killed with their babies, older girls were kept by the soldiers. Young children like this one—I would guess her at eleven—were given away to be servants.”

I could scarcely believe such a thing. Sick to my bones, I heard two of the maids laughing outside and wondered how ordinary life flowed on when such horrors were so close.

“Her family?” I asked when I could speak.

“Her father and brother were taken away to be sold and sent to the plantations. Her mother was hanged and her baby sister brained against a tree.”

“There's … no one?”