A Mating of Hawks (23 page)

“He didn't rape me,” Tracy answered shortly.

“But to drive into that concrete tank! When he had a gun!”

“I hoped he'd be too busy with the truck to kill me.”

Vashti shook her head. “I couldn't have done it.” Her tongue touched her upper lip. “Judd says he was young. Was he good-looking?”

Tracy gave Patrick's wife a stare of surprise. “He might have been, cleaned up.”

“Don't look so prim,” Vashti giggled. Tracy realized that the older woman had been drinking, though it was only ten in the morning. “If you must be abducted, dear, better it be by a handsome brute than an ugly one!”

“At times like that, you don't care what anyone looks like,” Tracy said. She pulled up, awkwardly manipulating the crutches that had been unearthed for her.

With the help of the handrail, she was halfway up the stairs before Mary ran down to help. “If you can stand some raunchy stories, Patrick's telling some good ones!” Mary laughed.

“That's just what I need,” grinned Tracy, and thrust Vashti almost forcibly from her mind. Why was Patrick stuck with a woman like that instead of one who could have brightened his darkness?

A few days later, Judd flew to New York for the talk show and some business. Though he hadn't crowded her, Tracy was more comfortable without him around. She hoped she could move back to Last Spring before he returned.

“You really like that little place, don't you?” Patrick asked when she was describing the ringtail, the owls, the blue-bellied lizard who did push-ups to dazzle his lady love.

“I love it.” She pondered a moment and thought aloud, in surprised realization, “I guess it's the first place I really felt at home.” She added hastily, “I loved the old ranch house, Patrick, and you were all tremendously good. But I missed my mother and—well, it was home to all of you, but I was just sort of tucked in.”

Patrick chuckled, not in the least offended. “Some places belong to some people and some people belong to some places. Maybe you've found yours.”

“It's been wonderful but I can't stay there forever.”

“Why not?”

She laughed. “You know how that is, Patrick. I have to go out in the wide world and seek my fortune.”

“What if your fortune's here?”

Her heart turned over as she thought of Shea. “I doubt I'll be that lucky,” she said wistfully, then laughed to cover it. “I come from the roving-stranger side of the family, Patrick. We never have stayed put.”

“It's about time you did,” he said crossly. “And it's time those boys of mine, both of them, got married. It would tickle me pink if you decided to have one of them.”

“I don't think they're the marrying kind,” Tracy countered lightly. “And I don't think I am, either.”
Not unless it's Shea
. She changed the subject to Mary's mechanics course, much safer ground.

Shea came one evening and played Christina's piano. It sounded beautiful to Tracy. Mary sat in rapt delight, and Patrick smiled dreamily.

“You've got a gift,” he said, when Shea paused. “I swear, listening like that, I'd think you were my mother playing, except your touch is stronger and you've got more flair.”

Shea forced a grin. “You're an encouraging audience, but hell, I sound so bad to myself I almost hate to play.”

“You don't do it often enough,” Patrick argued.

Shea stared at his scarred hands. “That's not it, Dad.”

Patrick was silent a moment. “Yeah. But practice would help, wouldn't it?”

“Sure. If I practiced up to the best of what I can do now, I might be good enough for a roadhouse or a country church.”

“You're good enough for me,” Patrick insisted.

“Me, too,” said Mary.

Tracy just looked at Shea, aching to make up to him the pain he'd had.

“Play some more,” said Patrick. Shea did, and they listened in the twilight that was soft and enfolding as a mother's arms.

Hal Fricks was back with a higher offer from Vistas Unlimited, but though Patrick refused it, Fricks stayed on as Vashti's guest, swimming with her, playing tennis, mixing her drinks. His sandy hair and moustache were streaked yellow from the sun and, bronzed and fit, he could have posed for bathing-suit ads.

He clucked over Tracy's ankle and obviously set himself to be charming, but she avoided him all she could. Vashti was furious at Patrick's refusal of the developer's offer, but Frick's attentions diverted her to the point of leaving Patrick alone.

Four days after his arrival, the developer intercepted Tracy as she came down from lunching with Patrick and Mary. “Too bad about your ankle, but it's clear that your foster-father's glad to have you back. He worships you.”

“He always wanted a daughter,” Tracy said, and started past, but Hal Fricks caught her arm. “We never have a chance to talk. Let me get you a glass of wine and let's visit a few minutes.”

“I'm rather tired and—”

Taking her crutch, he almost forced her to sit on the long couch. “I won't beat around the bush, Tracy. You have influence with your uncle, probably more than anyone. If you can get him to sell Last Spring and the land near the highway, you get not only a free luxury condo, but a percentage of the profits on the subdivision.”

Astonished that he'd approach her again, she stared at him. “Big bucks, Tracy!” he smiled, caressing her arm.

Dry, harsh anger rose in her. “No.”

She reached for her crutch but he put it beyond her. “Come on!” His tone was incredulous. “I know you've got a trust fund, but it's not enough to turn up your nose at a condo worth a couple of hundred thousand and a lot more cash!”

“I wonder how you draw up contracts for bribes.” She raised her voice. “Le Moyne!”

The big dog trotted out of her room, looked inquiringly at Fricks, who reddened and got to his feet. “Craziness runs in the family,” he snorted and stalked off.

With difficulty, Tracy retrieved the crutch, patted Le Moyne and was starting for her room when Vashti came running from the pool, a lavender towel clutched over her bikini.

“You little bitch!” she choked breathlessly. “I wish you'd never come back! Cosying up to Judd, bringing in that Indian slut, and when you could be a little help, oh no, you're too good to want money!” She shook her fist. “Well, let me tell you, Miss Priss, the only reason you're so high and mighty about money is because you've always had it. I wasn't so lucky.”

“You're drunk, Vashti.”

“And you're not, you damned goody-goody!” Full breasts heaving, eyes blazing almost black, Vashti hurled her words. “This damned ranch is losing money, not making it! Offers like Hal's don't come along every day—”

She collapsed on the couch and began to cry. Physically nauseated by the woman, Tracy went down the hall to her room, called in Le Moyne and locked the door.

“My friend,” she told him, rubbing the broad head between the pricked-up ears, “we'll stay till that charm-boy landshark leaves, but then we're heading for home! Otherwise, I may wrap this crutch around that female's conniving head!”

He made a soft sound of approval, but Tracy felt so dirty and disgusted that she took a shower.

To her relief, Fricks said good-bye next day at breakfast. Vashti was flying him to town and would stay in to shop and see friends for a few days. The house was much more relaxed without them. There was singing from the kitchen and giggling among the young women who did the housework.

Tracy didn't want to make it clear to Patrick that she was avoiding Vashti, so she announced that day that her ankle was much better and she needed to get back to her photography. A good publisher was interested in her idea, but wanted to see some pictures and text.

Patrick squeezed her hand. “I won't interfere with your rise to fame,” he said. “But I still expect to see you every day. One of the Sanchez lads can chauffeur you till you can drive yourself.”

Tivi took her and Le Moyne home, helped her across the creek, and promised to come for her about nine next day. He also pumped several buckets of water and fetched in cookwood.

Tracy thanked him. When he was gone, she looked around the little cabin with pleasure and a sense of peace. “Good to be back, isn't it, Le Moyne? But I hope you haven't gone off soyburgers while you were eating steak bones!”

Her ankle was well enough now that she could limp around the tiny cabin. She puttered for a bit and then settled in the rocker with her photographs and notebooks. What she really wanted to do was climb to the owl blind and see how the owlets were, but she was going to have to be cautious. Her picture-taking, for a while, would be limited to whatever came close to the house.

She sighed impatiently, but was soon absorbed in the pictures. Out of hundreds of exposures, she had sifted two dozen. These would have to be screened again by the editors, for she simply couldn't, herself, reject any of them. The owls were her favorites, except for the doe and fawn touching noses, but the foxes were such beautiful creatures, and the little ringtail—

Le Moyne got up and moved to the open door. Alerted, she heard the sound of horses. When she hopped to the door, her heart went into her throat.

Shea, on a big iron-gray, was leading golden Güera. “Heard you were back in residence,” he called, dismounting. “Since your left ankle's okay for mounting, maybe you can ride easier than you can drive a car.”

“It'll save my life.” Tracy's voice was so fervent that she blushed. “It's really kind of you to bring Güera.”

He grinned. His gray eyes made her tremble inwardly. He had such a power with her, such a power, and he didn't seem to care. “I thought I'd better bring her myself,” he said. “Seems she belongs to a very pernickety lady who looks gift horses in the mouth.”

Without waiting for her response, which was just as well, because Tracy couldn't think of one, he led the horses to the corral. Tracy's breath came fast. He was unsaddling the gray, too!”

When he strode to the cabin, he took her in his arms. She drew down his head, reaching up to press against him, lose herself in the harsh sweetness of his kiss.

He was her man. When he came to her, she couldn't ask questions or bargain or stand on her pride. Lifting his head, he smiled into her eyes. “That day you rode over, we were just starting something important when we were rudely interrupted. Want to try again?”

A tremulous laugh was all the answer she could make. That, and clasping her arms around him as he gently picked her up.

He stayed for supper, making them an omelet and salad from the food Concha and Henri had loaded her with. Topped off with coffee and some of Concha's flan, it was a feast. Anything would have been, shared with Shea, together in this little cabin that was more a home than any she had had.

“You're not afraid here?” he asked. “After that guy, I wouldn't blame you for being nervous.”

“There's Le Moyne.” She gave a little shrug. “Anyhow, I'm not going to let what's over keep me from enjoying what's now.”

The words were out before she realized he might take them as a criticism, but his smile was approving. “That's the way to get the most out of catching butterflies.”

She blinked. “Catching butterflies?”

“
Coger mariposas
. It's a phrase for what we just did.” The edges of his eyes crinkled. “Nicer than the English slang?”

“By a long way.” She laughed back at him, blissful.

This was the first time he hadn't left her immediately after making love, the first time they'd talked easily and joked. Was he starting to trust her? His gaze traveled slowly around the room.

“Pretty Spartan. Are you trying to be like Thoreau at Walden?”

“I'll confess I'm beginning to wish I had a refrigerator. But there's no use getting in electricity and plumbing unless I stay into the autumn.”

“And that depends on?”

“Patrick. Mary's made a wonderful companion for him, but I'll stay as long as he seems to want me.”

Bronze eyebrows lifted above his straight nose. “You're not just itching to get back to Houston?”

He didn't know what had happened to her there and she didn't want, not yet, to tell him. Repressing a shiver, she shook her head. “Whatever happens, I doubt I'll go back to Houston. Traffic's horrendous and that steam heat wilts me. Maybe I'll try San Francisco. That's an interesting place.”

“Should be.”

He got up and began doing the dishes, his usual reserve settling around him like an invisible shell. Perching on a stool to wipe after he rinsed, Tracy tried to banter him into the relaxed mood that had just inexplicably ended.

“Speaking of Thoreau, you guys have a pretty basic setup there at El Charco. Do you sleep in the ramada?”

“Till it gets cold. Makes sense in this country to live outside in warm weather. You need a roof for shade, but walls only hamper the breeze. And the roof needs spaces for ventilation. We don't put a mattress over the springs of a cot. That keeps the air from reaching and cooling you, and there's no cloth to get fouled by mice or birds. When it gets really hot, a hundred or so, which seldom happens at this altitude, you can throw water under and around the cots for coolness and keeping down the dust. As long as there's plenty of water to drink and you get enough salt and minerals to replace your electrolytes, you can cool yourself by sweating.”

“And siesta half the day?”

“Why not? We're working by five in the summer. We can knock off by nine or ten, cool it in the ramada till three or four, work till dark, and get in a full day's work.”

“That doesn't sound much like Thoreau.”

“It's not
Walden
. However, he had his cabin furnished so it could be swept out in two minutes. He didn't believe in letting things own you. If he'd lived down here, I bet he'd have had a ramada, a clay water
olla
and bare spring cot.”