Golden Roses (19 page)

The bull made his first charge. A scream went up from the crowd as Armand spread his cape before the animal’s snout, swinging the cape past his body as the bull followed its sweep. Armand pulled the bull closer and closer. Suddenly, as the bull made a thrusting charge, Armand gathered his cape against his body in a half veronica. The bull stopped short.

Amber watched in awe as Armand turned his back in apparent disdain of the horns, walking away in a stupendous display of mastery over the bull. The crowd roared.

Maretta squealed, “He is the bravest matador to ever live!”

“No.”

Everyone seated in the box turned to stare at Allegra. For the first time, she showed an awareness that she even knew where she was. She was shaking her head, eyes dull no longer but flashing fire. “No! Your father was the bravest matador ever.”

“Well…yes, of course,” Maretta said slowly, stunned by her mother’s surprising show of spirit. “But Armand is the bravest matador of today.”

Diego leaned close to Amber. “She is probably right. Señor Alezparito was a famous matador. I saw him die. He was ripped apart, dead before they could even get to him.”

Amber shuddered. “And you enjoy this?”

Valdis glared at her but Amber ignored him, turning her gaze back to the ring. A feeling of weighted despair was settling about her, lightened only by the hope that, within a few hours, she might be free.

Chapter Thirteen

Amber forced herself to look at the ring. It would, she knew, take determination to learn to watch Armand in the ring without being terrified. But she would do it. He would expect it. Her new resolve was, she decided, smiling to herself, the one good thing about coming to Mexico. She was learning to be a woman, a strong woman.

Astride horses, the picadors made their challenges to the bull. “The junior picador will make the first delivery,” Diego told her. “See how he drives the small, sharp metal point of his lance into the tossing muscle as the bull charges?”

“Ahah!” he cried suddenly. “More lancing is required. He is a strong one, this bull.”

Valdis clapped his hands, and Amber looked to Diego for an explanation. “As the bull’s breeder, he beams with pride,” he told her matter-of-factly, “for his animal has the strength and bravery to push the picadors around. See? Señor Alezparito has reason to be proud.”

Averting her gaze as a horse was grazed, Amber wondered, “But doesn’t that mean the bull is unusually fierce?”

Diego did not answer her, for at that moment Armand appeared in the ring again. Diego said, “It is obvious Armand intends to be the star. Now you shall see some dexterous capework. Armand is known for his art with the cape.”

Amber watched, fascinated, as Armand waved his cape at the bull. Then, as the bull made his pass, Armand turned, quickly wrapping the cloth about his body in a sweeping, poetic movement. With a dramatic sweep of scarlet satin, Armand whipped about to cut off the return charge.

The screams split the air: “
Olé
!
Olé
!”

Diego waved an arm toward the spirited throng. “They adore him.”

Now Armand turned and strode to the waiting bearer, who handed him a stick over which a small piece of red cloth had been wrapped twice. Carrying his sword and muleta in one hand, Armand removed his montera from his head and marched toward a box on the far side of the ring, making a gesture. This was part of the ritual, as Armand asked permission of the plaza authority to kill the bull. Permission was granted. But instead of returning to the bull, Armand turned and strode purposefully to the box where Amber was sitting.

He stopped directly below, eyes warm and happy as he looked up at her, smiling. With precise aim, he threw his hat, landing it once again precisely in her lap. Hundreds of people looked to see to whom their favorite matador had dedicated his kill.

Valdis and Maretta, their expressions identical rage, turned to stare at Amber. Diego shrugged, barely managing to conceal his annoyance. “Well, señorita. Do you accept the dedication? He awaits a signal. You must do something. Either acknowledge his dedication or return his hat.”

As she returned Armand’s adoring gaze, Amber knew she wanted to accept his gesture. Remembering the late-blooming rose she had selected from the bouquet on her dressing table, she removed it quickly from her bodice. Standing, she pressed the flower to her lips, then tossed it down to Armand.

“
Gracias
!” he called up to her before making a sweeping bow. He straightened, kissed the flower while continuing to gaze up at her adoringly, then tucked it inside his collar before turning once more to the waiting bull, who was pawing the sand.

Valdis and Maretta sat rigidly as Amber took her seat, trembling in wonder at what she had done. Diego, maintaining his composure with effort, directed Amber’s attention to Armand, who now stood erect, holding the muleta with both hands as though flagging the bull by. He explained, “Watch as he presents the muleta, held in his right hand. It is more dangerous than if it were held in his left hand. It is done with the cloth, not aided by the sword.”

Amber watched, paralyzed, wishing she could just squeeze her eyes shut and not open them until it was over. Diego continued his comments, but his voice became a droning blur.

Suddenly the crowd screamed, and Amber leaped to her feet.

“I cannot believe he uses the
péndulo
.” Diego clutched her elbow to steady her. “It is an invitation for goring. Seldom does a matador do this!”

His words were drowned out by a great, rolling gasp that began slowly, then rose to a scream as the bull made his charge, and Armand’s brightly costumed body was hurled skyward.

Diego reached for Amber again but she backed away, shaking her head from side to side in rejection of the horror below. Clutching her throat, she fought oblivion. She would not faint. She could not do that to Armand.
Armand
.

“
Madre de Dios
!
Madre de Dios
!” Someone’s shrill cry reached Amber. “The horns are tearing him apart!”

The bullring was filled with swirling magenta capes as toreros rushed to Armand’s aid. Ring attendants rushed in from all over.

“Sit down,” Diego shouted. “Armand is being helped they have already driven the bull away. You must be calm.” He turned to Allegra, who was crumpled on the floor, moaning.

Amber clutched at Diego’s shirt. “I must go to him. Take me there, please.”

“Where is your shame?” Maretta cried. “Never have I seen Armand perform so. His attention was on you, not on the bull.”

Amber stared at Maretta.
Was
it her fault that Armand had been gored? Was it? “Take me to him, Diego. I must see him. I must,” she said woodenly.

Uniformed guards formed cordons to keep the spectators out of the ring. In a moment, a stretcher appeared. Amber knew that, in the confusion, she could escape Diego and Valdis. She did. She ran out of the box and down the steps, dashing into the crowd, and maneuvered her way toward the place she watched them carry the stretcher. Rounding a corner, she stopped at the sight of two burly guards positioned outside a heavy door. Pressing back against the wall, she watched, heart pounding wildly, as the door opened and a man in a white coat emerged. She saw the bloodstains and felt a quake of horror.

The man spoke to the guards and they shook their heads solemnly.

Amber knew it was now or never. Stepping into view, she said, “Please. I must see him. He would want to see me, I know.”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “Your name, señorita,” he commanded brusquely.

“Amber Forrest,” she told him, lifting her chin. “I want to see Armand Mendosa. We are…close. He dedicated the bull to me,” she added nervously, feeling ridiculous.

The doctor nodded. “He calls your name. Come inside.”

Grasping her arm, he steered her into the room. “Give what comfort you can, señorita,” he said grimly. “There is nothing more to be done.”

The room was small, stark, the walls of cracked, peeling plaster and the floor only dirt. A wooden table stood to one side, covered with bloody cloths and instruments. And in the corner, upon the single cot, Armand lay beneath a blood-soaked sheet. A man in white was bending over him, but straightened and gave Amber a piercing look.

“This is the woman whose name he calls.” The doctor with Amber spoke softly, and the other doctor nodded and stepped away from the cot.

Amber forced her quivering legs to take her across the small room, which was suddenly so awesome. Reaching the cot, she gasped. Armand’s face was grayish-blue, his lips white and drawn back in a silent grimace. His head lolled to one side, eyes open but unseeing. She commanded her hand to move, her fingertips to touch the red-stained fingers which poked from beneath the sheet. Only with great effort was she able to push the words past her heart. “Armand,” she whispered tremulously. “Armand. Can you hear me?”

His glassy gaze sought to focus, and she could feel the slightest pressure of his fingers against hers. His voice was barely audible. “My moonstar…how I love you…”

She knelt beside him as a great sob wrenched from the depths of her. “Oh, Armand, I love you. Dear God, I never knew how much until this moment. Please. You must be strong. You must get well.”

“No.” His voice was barely audible. He swallowed, coughed. Mustering the last of his strength, he whispered, “No. Today, the bull wins. I am the one to die.”

“No, Armand, no!” she cried, flinging her head from side to side, then lowering her lips to press his bloodied fingertips to her lips, holding his hand tightly. “You won’t die. I won’t let you. You must live!”

“It is the final joke of God, no?” The smile he forced was a grimace of pain. “But do not worry, my moonstar. For the dying, it is not hard. I feel no pain. Only a terrible weakness. And sorrow that I did not perform well for you today.”

Amber wept quietly, holding his hand against her face, for a long time.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up into the tight-set face of Cord Hayden. She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.

Armand moaned, and they turned to him. “Cord,” he said feebly. “My friend. You will look after her. Do you promise?”

Cord nodded quickly. “You know I will, Armand.”

Amber lowered her head to the cot, still cradling his hand lovingly. “No, Armand,” she sobbed. “You’re going to be all right. You…” She could not go on.

“My moonstar,” he whispered, struggling to caress her face with his fingertips. “How I love you.”

She felt his fingers stiffen suddenly, then go limp. She looked up wildly, at Cord, and then at Armand. He was quiet and still, his unseeing eyes fixed upon her.

Cord reached to take Armand’s hand from her and tuck it beneath the sheet. He stared hard at his friend for just a moment, then put his arms around Amber and drew her to her feet. The doctor moved quickly to pull the sheet up over Armand’s face.

Looking up at Cord in misery, she whispered, “Forget your promise to him. Let me go my own way now.”

Making no reply, his lips set in a grim line, Cord silently took her from the room, and they threaded their way through the mob of grieving people gathered in the corridor. When they were outside, the late afternoon sun streaming down upon them from a deep red sky, he began to walk faster, almost running, wanting to put as much distance between them and the arena as quickly as possible.

Amber stumbled, and he put his arm around her, urging her along. “Please,” she sobbed, trembling. “Just let me go, Cord. Let me go.”

“I’m doing what I should have done when I first found out that bastard was keeping you prisoner,” he said flatly. “I’m going to see that you get away.”

Making his way to his wagon, he hoisted her up onto the seat; she was too numb to protest further. He then climbed up himself, took the reins, and they headed down a narrow street leading away from the arena.

As they rode, Amber carried on a frenzied dialogue with herself. Where was Cord taking her? Was it right not to stay with Armand’s body? Should she make her way, somehow, to his aunt? Underneath these thoughts was the clear knowledge that she had no choice but to let Cord rescue her from Valdis. She couldn’t remain with Armand, or think of anything but escape. Beside her, Cord sat in silence. She needed those precious seconds to clear her mind and strengthen whatever was left of her will.

They hadn’t gone far when Cord pulled the wagon to a halt in front of a cantina. He helped her down and they entered, and Cord greeted a plump Mexican woman who looked up curiously from behind the bar. “I want my usual room, Rosita,” he told her in a rush. “I’m leaving the señorita here. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. A couple of days, maybe. I want you to make sure she stays right here.”

Rosita nodded, wiping a strand of hair back from her sweaty forehead, and stepped out from behind the bar. She led the way down a dark, narrow hallway and then opened the door to a small, shadowed room at the very end of the hall. The furnishings were crude—a narrow bed with rusting iron posts, a small wooden table, and two rickety chairs. There were no windows, and only a dirt floor.

“Why are you leaving me here?” Amber cried, whirling about to face Cord.

He snapped to the Mexican woman, “Bring a bottle of tequila. See that she has food when she wants it.” He watched the woman scurry away, then clutched Amber’s arms, drawing her so close that she could feel his breath. “I’ve got to make arrangements to bury Armand, and while I’m doing all of that, I’ve got to make sure Valdis doesn’t find you. A few more days, and you’ll be out of all this.”