A Mating of Hawks (19 page)

They sipped beer in the cooling evening. When Aniceto called, they lined up in the kitchen of the small adobe and filled blue enamel plates from the various pots on the wood stove. Jaime polished off the remnants and still had room for three helpings of warm flan.

“
Muy sabrosa
, Don Aniceto,” Tracy praised truthfully. After two cups of the aromatic, eggshell-settled coffee, she began to collect the dishes. Jaime barred her way to the tin dishpan.

“It's my turn for dishes, señorita.”

“Don't upset our system,
chica,”
drawled Geronimo. “Aniceto bosses the kitchen but the rest of us take turns cleaning up.”

With a smile, she surrendered her plate to Jaime. “Could we peek at the eagle? And then I need to get home and feed Le Moyne. I don't want him eating my photographic subjects.”

The eagle was already staggering drunkenly around the pen. Geronimo went to see if there were mice in any of Aniceto's traps and returned with two, which he dropped near the surprisingly long-legged bird.

“What do you think?” Tracy asked softly.

“She came out of that coma. Sometimes they don't. And she's got to be tough to have stood that catfighting with a bullet-shattered wing.”

As if suddenly making up his mind about something, Shea loosely clasped her wrist. “Shall I take you home?”

That fire ran between them. Her body felt weighted and sweetly heavy. Despairingly, she knew she loved this man. What did he feel for her, beyond this hunger? Even if that was all of it for him, she couldn't deny this wild tremulous longing.

Unable to speak, she nodded silently.

Shea turned to Mary. “Want me to drop you off at the house?”

“I'm taking her!” Geronimo yelped.

“Only if you stay on your side of the seat,” Mary told him.

He groaned. “You're one mean damn woman!”

“Shall I go with the others?”

He sighed. “No. Hell, if you want, we'll make you a chastity belt of barb-wire!”

They got in one truck, still arguing, while Shea boosted Tracy into his high-floored pickup cab. Before he put it in gear, he took her by the shoulders and kissed her. His tongue explored her mouth, thrusting, probing, sensuously teasing.

“Can you wait till we get you home?”

“I don't know.”

They didn't. Stopping a few miles down the road, he spread a blanket on the soft sand of a wash. She stripped as swiftly as he, trembling, pulsating. They came together in a kind of fury, delivered each other, then lay watching the stars, so much brighter here than in the city. Tracy's heart swelled with hope.

This was the first time he hadn't turned strange and hostile after lovemaking. Was there a chance he might get over his terrible mistrust of women? He wasn't holding her in his arms but at least they lay relaxed and companionably touching.

“How come you helped spring that eagle?” he asked.

She knew he was frowning, dared to lightly stroke the furrowed lines between his straight brows. “It's hard to resist Geronimo.”

“Maybe you thought you could get an article.”

Hurt, she said coldly, “Maybe I did.”

Sitting up, she reached for her clothes. But when they had parked beside the stream, crossed the log, and greeted Le Moyne, Shea didn't leave. When she had fed Le Moyne, he drew her into the bedroom and again there was the flame and the need that crested till the unbearable longing peaked like a fountain and diffused itself in soft ebbing flows.

I love you!
almost broke from her lips. His silence forbade it. But he didn't leave or utter some brutality. Perhaps in time—With a muffled sigh, she snuggled against her pillow and enjoyed the warm peace of him near her fulfilled body until she fell asleep.

XII

She woke in early light, unconsciously reaching for him. He was gone. Dazedly, she tried to remember if he'd been there or if she'd dreamed it.

The pillow held the mark of his head. His scent was on her. Rising quickly, she found no trace of him. The green pickup was gone. A wave of desolation washed over her. If he had just stayed for breakfast! For him to leave without a word like that made her feel used as a convenience, almost like a whore.

“If this weird affair is to continue,” she told Le Moyne sternly, “there have to be some ground rules.”

Le Moyne thumped his tail. She rubbed the wide dome of his head and began to fix breakfast.

Thoughts of Shea haunted her, but she determined not to use the eagle for an excuse to visit El Charco, at least not for a few days. On the other hand, she did care what happened to the creature and hoped to get some good pictures as it convalesced, so she wouldn't be stopping by just to see Shea anyway.

Since she'd moved to Last Spring, she'd heard the screech of barn owls, an explosive hiss like a steam locomotive, often enough to suspect there was a nest fairly close by. Ordering Le Moyne to stay at the house, she went on a search. They liked old barns and buildings but since there were none, she concentrated on hollow trees.

Towering above the rock basin was an oak blasted by lightning, mostly dead, though branches of it showed green against the sky. There was a big hollow about ten feet above the ground but Tracy couldn't see into it. She climbed up a smaller neighboring tree and was rewarded by seeing, snugly ensconced in a leafy nest, two fluffy white little creatures with prominent heart-shaped faces. It was harder to locate the parents, who were roosting in the densest foliage.

Exultant, Tracy clambered down, then frowned as she realized she'd need some kind of platform and blind. The most interesting pictures would happen at night while the adults were feeding their young.

Carpentry wasn't her strong point, so on her way to see Patrick that day she stopped at the Sanchezes and asked if Roque or Tivi could help her.

“It might be better not to put it up all at once,” she said. “I don't want to scare the adults.”

Tivi made an expansive gesture. “No problem. I'll put up the legs and platform today. Two, three days from now, I can fix on the sides and top.”

He promised to be as quiet as possible, even to the sacrifice of leaving his transistor radio at home.

When Tracy entered Patrick's room, Mary was regaling him with their eaglenapping. “Shea'll bring her round if anyone can,” he said, and returned Tracy's kiss by shifting the better half of his face toward her. “He always had a good hand with wild things. So did his mother.”

It was the first time Tracy had ever heard him speak of his second wife. “When did she die? Shea must have been pretty young. I can't remember her at all.”

“Doubt if he can, either.” Dry, ancient pain sounded in the old man's voice. “Elena didn't die. She left when Shea was four. Ran off with the foreman.”

“Patrick! I—I didn't know! I'm sorry—”

“All blood down the creek.” He hitched his shoulder. “At least she left me the boy and that shows how miserable she was, because she loved him. Guess I was too busy, and lots of the ranchwork—branding, cutting—tore her up. I was mad as hell. Wouldn't give her a divorce for a couple of years or let her see the boy.” He sighed. “Looking back now, I can't blame her much.”

“She never saw Shea again?”

“No. She died of cancer a year after I gave her the divorce.”

Tracy was silent, trying to absorb the shock. “Have you told Shea all this?” she asked at length.

“I tried a few times. But, hell, Tracy, it's hard! And he said he didn't want to talk about it.” Patrick brooded. “Of course, that made it extra bad when that flighty little Cele ran out on him.”

Yes.

Tracy had to sit down. She'd derided Shea for letting a girl-child's duplicity sour him on women, but to have been deserted by his mother—one who must have been loving and playful! It made his behavior much clearer, while giving Tracy a sense of defeat.

Even if, now, Patrick convinced Shea that Elena had loved him, could the knowledge filter from brain to heart? Could Shea, even if he wanted to, really trust a woman?

Devastated for a small boy's grief, Tracy reached for a happier subject to distract Patrick. “Did Geronimo keep on his side of the seat last night?” she teased Mary.

“Yes, but there's no way to keep him from going on about how we ought to get married!”

“He's a good lad,” Patrick soothed.

“With stone-age notions! His wife can't do dirty work, crawling under engines and so on.” Mary snorted. “He wouldn't care if I spent the day cooking his meals and washing diapers, though!”

“You really are set on this mechanic thing, aren't you, Mary
mía?”
asked Patrick.

“I am! I like it, I'm good at it, and housework bores me stiff!”

“Well, then be a mechanic. If you give up what you want to do, you and your man'll both regret it.” Patrick squeezed her hand. “We've got enough trucks and vehicles on the ranch to keep you busy. But hell, Mary
mía!
How'll I get along if you ditch me for a broken-down tractor?”

She laughed and hugged him. “I'm not leaving you, Patrick. But this summer I want to take a night class, drive in a couple of times a week.”

“Good God, girl! That's a fifty-mile round trip.” Patrick's right eyebrow scowled. “Don't call me Geronimo, but I don't like that much.”

“Tivi Sanchez is taking the same course. I can ride with him.”

“Mm,” said Patrick. “What does Carla think about it?”

“She thinks it's fine,” said Mary. “But that Geronimo!”

“In this case, I'm with him,” Patrick grunted. “Not that I don't trust Tivi, but I don't want my nurse worn out. Give me the phone.” A few minutes later, he had called a Nogales garage and arranged for their best mechanic to come over a few evenings a week and teach Mary, Tivi and any other ranch people who wanted to learn. “There,” he said contentedly.

“But you're paying him a fortune!” Mary protested.

“We'll make it back on work you and Tivi can do,” Patrick grinned. “Shucks, honey, I can't swing much these days! Let me manage what I can.” He chuckled. “I bet Geronimo takes the class just to keep an eye on you. Which could be kind of funny, because he walked off from the Army when it was trying to make a mechanic out of him.”

“Walked off?” Mary frowned.

“And never went back. He was over at Fort Huachuca and one day he just took off through those mountains. Army never caught him any more than they did old Pia Macheta.”

“Pia Macheta?” prompted Tracy. “Who was he?”

“He was a Papago who never really believed the United States had taken Arizona over from Mexico,” Patrick said. “This was back fairly early in World War II. Anyhow, the government got all scared about the chances of a Japanese force landing in Mexico and then coming up through Sonora and the Papago Reservation, taking Tucson, and marching on to attack California from the east. To be sure none of the Indians sided with the Japanese, the Papagos were supposed to take an oath of allegiance. Now old Pia thought Mexico was still in charge. When some local officials tried to get him and his people to take the oath, they roughed up the officials, ran up the Mexican flag, and skedaddled.”

“I don't believe it!” Tracy gasped.

Patrick chortled. “You better! Pia and his band dodged around awhile till a friend who worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs calmed him down and persuaded him to give himself up.”

“What happened?”

“He was tried, and even though a bunch of profs and civil liberties people went to bat for him, he was sentenced. Eighteen months, I think it was. Then he went back to the reservation and lived in peace and quiet.”

“It's about the wildest tale I ever heard,” said Tracy skeptically.

“All true,” Patrick vowed. “What's wilder, he and his fellow prisoners really liked the Pima County jail! Said it was very comfortable and they loved the food.”

Mary grimaced. “Bet they're the first and last to say anything good about that dump!”

Patrick was in a reminiscing mood that day. “You've heard of Santa Teresa, who cured my mother's blindness?” he asked. “Well, Teresita, as they called her, lived right near the customs house in Nogales after Díaz drove her out of Mexico. Later, she and her father lived for a time pretty close to Calabazas where Rio Rico is now. That's where my mother saw her, at a place called Bosque.”

He went on to tell how his parents had developed a grudging respect for Emilio Kosterlitzky, the Russian officer who had made General Díaz's
rurales
into a notorious but effective body of mounted police. According to his lights, the colonel had been just and had once compelled a
rico
to marry the peon girl he had raped, with the warning that he had better not hear of any mistreatment of the unwanted bride.

Tracy had lunch with Patrick and Mary before she left. She hadn't seen Judd since the disastrous plane tour, nor Vashti in almost as long. It was not a happy house, though Mary had made a tremendous difference. Strangely, it was the paralyzed blind man who seemed most at peace in the family.

His revelations about Shea's mother dismayed Tracy more the longer she thought about them. It was no wonder he was guarded. Maybe it was more than that, maybe he really meant all he said about not making a big thing of sex. He might be willing to oblige her several times a week, but that wasn't what she wanted, damn it! She loved him.

In stages, Tivi got the blind mounted where Tracy could set up her camera and he made holes through which she could observe or take pictures. Following remembered advice from her outdoor editor, she placed reflectors on the outside. The owls seemed to accept the box-like thing on stilts that had suddenly appeared in the vicinity, so Tracy went up the ladder at twilight and settled to wait. She would have liked Le Moyne's company in the dark but had shut him in the house for fear he might alarm the owls.