A Lady Bought with Rifles (5 page)

He asked the child a question, shrugged as he turned to me. “Her mother's brothers went off to the sierra some months ago.”

“So they would be fugitives?”

“Rebels against the Mexicans, yes.” He answered my unspoken question. “The girl is best with you for a while. Even if she found a home with Yaquis, it might be torn apart and next time she might not be so lucky.”

“Lucky!”

“She's alive. That's where you start, Miss Miranda. And her name—at means flower in Yaqui.”

Flower. I bit my lip. If he could call this bruised and battered child lucky, what would he consider me? Yet he hadn't been unkind or scornful in the library, only unyielding and tough in a way that had given me a foundation.

“You said a Yaqui curer lives near you?” I remembered.

Trace nodded. “Cruz was suspected of witchcraft while he was still a young man in Torim, one of the old pueblos farther south. Yaquis tie up their witches and toss them in a fire. Cruz had power but used it only to heal and couldn't see being fried like that, so he traveled fast and far.”

“And he's lived alone all his life?”

“He seems to like it that way. Besides, people come a long way to be cured by him and often stay till they get well or die.” Trace touched the scar on his face. “Cruz saved my life a couple of years ago when some horse thieves left me for dead.” He touched the scar connecting high cheekbone to lean jaw. “I owe him for it still. We visit quite a lot. He's not what you'd call a hermit.”

“Would he do something for Sewa's foot?”

“He'd have to.”

“Why?”

“He told me he can't refuse to help anyone. If he should, his power will turn and kill him.”

I shivered. “Then I wouldn't want it.”

“I don't know that Cruz does. But he was born with it and accepts it as he does his pulse or breathing. Let me have a look under that bandage.”

Speaking in a gentling tone to Sewa, he took the foot she reluctantly extended and undid the wrapping with a swift deftness surprising in such a large man. The wound, puffy and blackened at the edges, was still draining. I couldn't tell whether my ministrations had made it better or worse.

“She gashed it with a stick,” he explained after asking her another question. “She hoped the soldiers would either kill or leave her, but they made her walk anyway and it's got maggots in it. I could cauterize it, but she'd have more faith in what Cruz would do.”

“Faith?”

“That has more to do with healing—and sickness—than anyone thinks. Anyway, let me take her to Cruz. That'll save at least a day and I'm afraid of blood poisoning.”

He redid the bandage, talking to the child. She didn't protest but seemed to shrink within herself even more and her large dark eyes clung to me. I knelt beside her.

“Sewa,” I began and stopped in frustration. She couldn't understand my poor Spanish and I had no word of hers but her name. I glanced appealingly at Trace. “Did you tell her Cruz is Yaqui, that he'll help her?”

“Yes, but she can hardly be expected to trust anyone right now. She may think I intend to get her away from you under that pretext, then give her to someone who knows how Yaquis should be treated.”

That went straight to my own tormented heart. Alone I surely was, but I could help this child. “Supposing I went with her to Cruz?”

The turquoise eyes narrowed. “You'd do that? For this little scrap?”

“Of course, if it will make her well. Could we get there tonight?”

He considered. “There's a full moon. We should do it by midnight and then I'll fetch Cruz to my place. Eat and change into riding things. I'll get horses. Can you ride?”

Miss Mattison believed every English lady should be a reasonable horsewoman so every week we had fared out for a decorous circuit of some country road. “Yes,” I said, never doubting I spoke the truth. A sudden thought struck me. “We—we'll have to stay the night.”

“You bet you will. In fact, you'd better plan to stay several days.”

“But—Is there a woman at your place?”

“I doubt it.” He grinned. “At least there wasn't when I left.”

The careless tone suggested that there could be and I didn't think he meant a cook. “Mr. Winslade,” I blurted, “I know this is Mexico but—”

“Good Lord!” he said, astonished. “Your reputation!” He threw back his head, laughing till I flushed and spoke in the iciest tone I could summon.

“It may be a humorous matter to you, sir, but I have no wish to be thought a—a harlot!”

“You know the word!” he cried and went off in another peal of delight. Sobering, he drew his dark brows together. “I can sleep outside. You and Sewa could probably stay in Cruz's hut. Or we can take along a
dueña
.”

A chaperone? Even Miss Mattison would have approved of that solution, considering the circumstances. “I'll see what my sister thinks,” I decided, already dreading
that
interview, though I could scarcely go off without any explanation.

Trace frowned. “She won't like it. But I reckon you two have to come to an understanding and this should supply a damn good battlefield.” He spoke briefly to Sewa, nodded to me. “I'll have the horses outside in an hour. If a chaperone's coming, send word to the stable so I'll have a mount for her.”

The prospect of what I was sure would be a battle with Reina took away my appetite, but I rang for a maid and asked for cheese and fruit and bread. While waiting for the food, I got out my riding habit, the most becoming outfit I owned and the only one that required a corset. To lace occasionally surely wouldn't kill me, but it
was
uncomfortable. It was velvet, a rich brown so dark it was almost black, exactly the shade of my eyes and hair. There was a matching hat with a pheasant quill slanting rakishly from soft gathers. The boots were suede, almost as soft as the velvet, and there was a creamy scarf to tuck in at the throat. Apart from the gray school uniform, I had only a few dresses and there had been no time to have anything made before leaving England. This riding habit was the only truly elegant thing I'd ever owned, except for those hand-embroidered undergarments Mother had sent.

When the food came, I motioned to Sewa to help herself, straightened my hair, stiffened my spine, swallowed hard, and marched out in search of my intimidating half-sister.

Trace Winslade must have just left the office, for Reina flung open the door at my knock. Her eyes were swollen as if with recent tears, but they flamed at sight of me.

“So!” she hissed and erupted into such a torrent of Spanish that I caught only the rhythm and general intent. That was enough.

I was a
sinvergüenza
, totally without shame—a disgrace to the family, though what could you expect from mongrels. My mother barely in the ground and I go chasing off with a
yanqui tejano pistolero
of no breeding and less morals—and all on a flimsy excuse of treating a trifling hurt self-inflicted by a sullen Indian brat who ought to be whipped till she earned her bread—

By then I was trembling with rage. “I came to ask your advice,” I interrupted, clenching my hands till the knuckles ached. How I longed to grab her shoulders, shake her till the ugly venomous words clogged her throat. “But I don't want it, you—you bloody-minded bitch!”

I swung about.

“Stop,
puta!
” she screamed at me.

I wrenched free of her clutching fingers, pushed the door shut in her livid face. As I walked down the hall, she shrieked things I'm sure it was better I didn't understand. Bolting the iron lock of my door, I hurled myself down by the beautiful habit and burst into stormy tears.

The beastly, wicked, hateful … I'd stay as many nights as were needed and to the devil with her opinion! But the awful things she'd said, the fact that my own sister could frame such accusations cut deeply and cruelly. In spite of her childhood enmity, I had longed to be friends; even when she behaved coldly at my homecoming, I'd hoped against hope that she would soften, treat me like a sister. But our mother's death had ended all restraint.

I had to face it. Reina hated me.
Hated
. It was no passing grudge or fitful jealousy. If it were possible, she detested me more because of our shared blood.

I couldn't stay under this roof, where she was bound to dominate. Anything would be better, though I was still resolved not to go back to England. When we returned from the curer, I would contact the lawyer, get funds, perhaps some advice; and leave Las Coronas forever.

There was a tug at my sleeve as if a bird had tweaked it. I peered up between my fingers. Sewa was offering me a peeled peach. The gesture from this child, who had suffered so terribly, cut through my self-pity.

Sitting up with a shaky laugh, I took the fruit, thanked her, gave her a bite, and felt the sweet, slightly tart lusciousness of the fruit trickle down my throat, found I was hungry, and devoured it.

Time to dress! Washing peach juice from my face and hands, I put my overnight needs into a small valise, located a shawl for Sewa to wrap in once the desert night cooled, and dressed in a hurry, fixing the hat firmly in place with several pins.

Bundling cheese and bread in a napkin, I tucked them into the valise. Would the curer want money? I had only a few pesos. Trace could pay, though, and I'd return it.

Taking Sewa by the hand, refusing to let her struggle with the valise, I bundled through the hall to the front veranda. Trace was there, standing at the head of a handsome steel-gray gelding. A boy held two mares, a burnished chestnut and a small yellowish one with dark mane and tail and a dark streak tracing the spine.

But what stopped my breath sharp in my chest was Reina. She sat erectly confident and graceful on a black horse that kept tossing its head. Her garments made me feel overdressed and foreign. She wore a divided skirt of soft creamy suede, a cropped matching jacket over a plain white shirt, and a low-crowned black hat secured under the chin with a thong. There was a sheathed knife at her belt and a carbine thrust in the saddle holster. Her long-roweled silver spurs gleamed like the mountings of her bridle, with its cruel-looking bit, and the ornate saddled. A bedroll was fastened behind her saddle as well as on mine and Sewa's.

“I'm going with you,” she informed the air above my head. “No one shall say I neglected my duty to my sister or failed to do my utmost to keep her from folly.”

“Your sacrifice passes belief,” I said smoothly. “Now people can gossip about both of us.”

She gave me a furious stare and sent the black horse stepping forward. Trace tied my valise behind his saddle, then gave me a strong hand up before lifting Sewa on the little yellow horse, showing her how to hold the reins and standing by her till she seemed reassured.

“So you have a
dueña
,” he said to me with a droll droop of one eyelid. “Don't worry about trying to ride at her pace. In fact, I'd be obliged if you stayed close to Sewa. We can't go faster than our slowest rider. If your sister wants to ride circles around us, let her have her amusement, but don't tire yourself. It's a long way.”

He swung up himself and kept his magnificent gray tuned with the mares, though enough in advance to point the way. My chestnut had a harder mouth than the gentle mounts I was used to, and though it seemed unmalicious, I had to concentrate on handling it. At first Sewa had held on for dear life but gradually loosened and began to timidly stroke her horse's dark coarse mane, crooning softly.

Our saddles were very different from those I'd used in England. They had deeply embossed skirts, and the stirrups had leather-covered fronts to protect the feet. I worried about the cruel-looking bits. Trace explained they were Spanish spade bits, which must be used with care or the horse's mouth could be butchered. He used a plain bit and had found these for Sewa and for me.

“Why does your saddle have two girths?” I wondered.

He looked puzzled. “Oh, you mean cinches. I was raised in Texas where we use double-rigging. What the rest of you have are Spanish single-rig with one cinch. Does it sit funny for you?”

“No. I think once I get used to having so much cantle and horn, I'll feel more secure.”

He nodded approvingly. “And you will be. Those little English pads are fine for jumping and fairly short rides but for hours in the saddle, stock saddles are a damn sight better.”

Reina kept well ahead of us for the first miles, but when she apparently decided Trace was not going to match her pace, she fell back and summoned him to her, saying she wanted an account of the horses.

They rode a little ahead and to the side, Trace obviously determined to keep an eye on Sewa and me, but our horses' hooves and the creaking saddles blanked out most of their words. Left to mull the situation over, I was more than ever convinced that Reina was infatuated with Winslade, no matter what scornful names she called him. She had been enraged at the prospect of my being with him for a few days and had seized the role of chaperone to prevent that—and to give herself time with him?

What his feelings were for her, I couldn't guess from his behavior. They were a striking pair on their spirited horses. I thought with a pang that Reina was a fitting woman for him, beautiful, fiery, exciting. Beside her, I felt prim, plain, and foreign. He was kind to me as he was to Sewa for much the same reasons.

I drew such comfort as I could from a certainty that Reina would want to marry a man of wealth and family. If Trace stormed her, passion might overcome her pride, but I felt he would never stand for being thought a fortune-hunter and any advances would have to come from her.

She seemed to have decided to ignore my existence. Her throaty laughter floated back now and then, and though Trace kept a watchful eye on Sewa and me, he seemed content enough to stay near Reina.

We had left in the heat of the June day. I was soon miserably hot in the snug velvet and knee-high boots. My hat might be fetching, but one with a wide brim would make more sense. I envied Sewa the loose chemise and bare legs. There was no shade and I thought with longing of oak forests and lanes where trees made a thick cooling arch on the warmest days—not that anyone in England could even imagine heat like this.