Harvest of Fury (55 page)

She hadn't brought anything Vashti would consider dressy, but one side of the armoire was filled with long skirts, lacy or embroidered blouses, and colorful Mexican and Guatemalan lounging gowns. Choosing a simple white drawstring blouse, she slipped on her favorite skirt, black-and-white coarse Mexican cotton, its extravagantly full hem trimmed with a wide band of scalloped black lace.

Her hair was too short for elaboration but brushing brought soft waves to a sheen. Her married lover had called her Rapunzel and loved to lock his fingers in her hair. When she'd gotten rid of him, she'd had her hair cut, too. Maybe it was time to let it grow again.

Her old jewelry chest yielded the black coral earrings and oval pendant she'd always liked with the skirt.

Smoothing the dark eyebrows that winged up questioningly above eyes that had been called sherry or amber, or now, by Geronimo, the shade of mesquite honey, she glossed her lips and left her room just as the clock struck seven.

Excellent vichyssoise, superb green salad, glorified pot roast, coffee and glazed strawberry cake. Lit by candles, the big table looked even larger, and the room rather like a cave except for the gleam of gilt picture frames. Vashti seemed abstracted but Judd took the opportunity to quiz Tracy.

“Wasn't it a drag, busting yourself to write stuff that went into a paper you knew would just be used to wrap the garbage?”

“Recycled, I hope,” she returned, smiling, though he'd hit a sore spot. “I never expected anyone to frame my articles, but I did a few that I hope made an impression. Like the one on West Texas water.”

He gave her a wary look, but Vashti set down her crystal wine goblet with some violence. “My God, Tracy, I hope that sanctimonious do-gooder streak in your branch of the family isn't surfacing in you! We've got troubles enough without a resident Ralph Nader.”

That slur on her family sent a rush of anger through Tracy. “Corny as it sounds, I prefer good to bad,” she said. “I think the only chance we have is to work for what we believe in.”

Vashti groaned. Judd's eyes glowed yellow as he leaned forward. “Now there we agree! Tell me, cousin, don't you think people have a right to defend themselves from thugs and gangs that rob, murder and rape?”

Could he know what had happened to her? She hadn't told anyone but the authorities in Houston and her lawyer. His words brought back that moment of helpless dread when she'd been choked past consciousness, and her voice flamed with outrage.

“Of course I think people should defend themselves! But it'd help more to try to get at causes.” Like not releasing a dangerous psychotic with his own little supply of downers. Or perpetuating poverty, hopelessness, racist injustice and a system that turned prisons into costly grad schools for crime rather than supplying job training and opportunities before people went wrong.

Judd ignored her proviso. “Then I'm doing something I think you'd be mighty interested in. It would at least give you a good feature.”

“What?”

“I'd rather show you.” His smile lingered on her mouth, traced the curve of her shoulders and breasts, making a sort of sweet warmth tingle through her. “There's a moon. Care for a stroll?”

She did, but a flash of Shea's mocking face cooled the magnetism surging between her and the man across the table.
Easy
, she warned herself.
Don't start something you aren't ready to finish
.

An involvement with either of her cousins was the last thing she needed, at least till she knew them better, felt herself able to handle what might follow. Not that Shea showed any sign of liking her! Still, she couldn't have mistaken that elemental attraction that had coursed between them.

“Thanks,” she told Judd. “But I'm going up to Patrick for a while.”

He shrugged, rose to pull out Vashti's chair before he did the same for Tracy's. His hands touched the back of her arms and as she rose he whispered in her ear, “Thank
you
, cousin, for wanting to come.” Aloud, he said, “When I get back from Phoenix, I'll take you around the ranch. But you'll have to wait a couple of weeks for your big story.”

“Judd,” cut in Vashti, in the flattering light seeming at least as young as his thirty-eight years. “Will you come to my study a moment? I've some matters you might attend to up in Phoenix.”

He looked slightly annoyed but nodded carelessly and stepped back to let the women precede him through the door. Then he followed Vashti down the sconce-lit hall while Tracy caught up her skirt and ran upstairs.

The moon spilled through the window, making a light unnecessary. Patrick lay so still that Tracy thought him asleep till half his mouth curved in that devastating way and he spoke her name.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, placing her hand over his.

“No, honey. And I don't want to talk. But I'd sure like for you to just stay with me, quiet for a while.”

Her eyes stung. How it must torment his imperious spirit to have this failure of body added to that of his sight! His sons' quarrel must weigh on him almost as much as not being able to judge for himself what was best for the ranch and take an active part, for Patrick had always worked right beside his men, been an expert rider and roper.

In the moonlight, she noticed lying beside his pillow the rawhide reata that he'd clung to long after nylon ropes replaced hand-plaited ones. It smelled of horses and sweat.

Sitting down by this man who'd lulled her childhood fears and griefs against his broad chest as tenderly as any woman could have, Tracy held his hand. At last, quietly, she let her tears fall.

Judd looked both ways before, without rapping, he entered Vashti's room. A triple mirror reflected her in a blur of multiple images, lace-covered breasts and luminous hair, as she whirled toward him. She screwed the lid on an alabaster jar with fingers that shook. He was amused at her discomfiture, caught with her face off, the way she tried to cover it with a provocative pout.

“Darling, you could knock!”

He shrugged. “You wanted to see me. I'm not going to stand around in the hall and let Concha see me come in. She'd love to take that to Patrick.”

“That old witch!” Vashti shuddered, rising. “Always padding around, watching me with those damned flat black eyes! I've tried to get rid of her but Patrick won't hear of it.”

“If she sees us, I'll get rid of her. Permanently.”

“Judd, you sound so dangerous,” Vashti teased. Her eyes deepened. Her expensive perfume floated up from between her breasts as soft arms closed around him. She filled him with the surfeited distaste he felt after a long night with her, though she knew all the tricks and, under his disgust, the familiar hot urgency was starting to build. Caressing his face and throat, she laughed softly. “You're as
macho
as any Mexican.”

“It wouldn't be funny if Patrick threw you out and disowned me.”

“He wouldn't, even if he guessed,” she said complacently.

Judd drew away, stared at her through narrowed eyes. She seemed suddenly old. Well-preserved, but used-up beside Tracy's freshness. He'd been a fool to get mixed up with her but she'd been convenient, lushly inviting, and he'd thought her experienced enough to handle it as mutual gratification. He hadn't expected her growing possessiveness, the way she was trying to turn it into some kind of grand passion. Even less had he expected to feel compunction, a kind of shame, when she flirted with him in front of his blind father. Contemptuously, he swung away from her, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

“Blind and paralyzed, Patrick's still a hell of a lot more man than you deserve. If he knew, he'd take care of us.”

“Judd! You're in a vile mood.”

“What do you want?”

She was silent. “I've got things to do,” he said, turning. “If it's skipped your mind, we'll talk later.”

She stepped in front of him, jaw hardening. “I'd like to know why you're taking such an interest in little cousin Tracy.”

“I'm not married,” he said brutally. “I can show an interest where I damn well please.”

She choked. Her eyes glowed like brimstone. “If you think you can just use me and—and—”

“Yes?” he mocked, rocking back on his heels and crossing his arms.

When she swallowed and clenched her hands, strangling back whatever stupidities she wanted to hurl at him, he said in a bored tone, “I didn't seduce you, Vashti. I don't owe you a thing. If you want to finish us fast, just throw fits or threaten me.”

She flinched as if he'd hit her, then smiled with obvious effort, putting her hand placatingly on his.

“Let's not quarrel, darling. I was only going to show Tracy around the place myself if you were offering out of hospitality or cousinly duty.”

“Considering how you hate the place, I'd never ask you to make that sacrifice,” he said sardonically. “Thanks, but I expect that little tour to be fun.”

At Vashti's stricken look, his instinct not to unnecessarily make an enemy led him to say more gently, “Tracy's got influence with Patrick. It's worth some trouble to get her on my side.”

The thought of Tracy touched off a wave of desire that transferred obligingly to Vashti's warm, full body. Grasping her robe, he started to husk it off.

Her eyes lifted; she understood.

Stepping back with a slight laugh, she said, “Sorry, dear. I've got a beastly headache. Maybe later.”

“If you're smart, you'll take it when you can get it.”

That beautiful mask-like face congealed.

“Enjoy your headache,” he said with a savage grin and let himself out. It was like escaping from the scented lair of a treacherous, fawning animal. But there was nothing she could do to him. He had what she wanted, not the other way around.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

On the Border with Crook
by John Bourke, a humane and educated officer, makes fascinating reading and covers the main part of the Apache wars (Bison Books, University of Nebraska Press, 1971).
Life Among the Apaches
by John Cremony (Rio Grande Press reprint, 1969) has interesting detail. Other helpful books were
Adventures in the Apache Country
by J. Ross Browne (University of Arizona, 1974);
Arizona Territory
by Jay Wagoner (University of Arizona, 1970);
Cycles of Conquest
by Edward Spicer (University of Arizona, 1972);
History of the Cattle Industry in Southern Arizona 1540–1940
by J. J. Wagoner (University of Arizona, April 1952);
Historical Atlas of Arizona
by Henry Walker and Don Bufkin (University of Oklahoma Press, 1979);
The Cowboy at Work
by Fay Ward (Hastings House, 1976);
Western Horse Behavior and Training
by Robert W. Miller (Doubleday Dolphin, 1974);
Verde to San Carlos
by William Corbusier (King, Tucson, 1971);
Mules, Mines and Me in Mexico
by Morris Parker, edited by James Day (University of Arizona, 1979);
Teresita
by William Curry Holden (Stemmer House, 1978);
Joe Hill
by Gibbs M. Smith (University of Utah, 1969);
Western Apache Raiding and Warfare
by Grenville Goodwin, edited by Keith Basso (University of Arizona, 1973);
Frontier Military Posts of Arizona
by Ray Brandes (King Globe Az., 1960);
The Apaches
by Don Worcester (University of Oklahoma, 1979).

I owe special thanks to two friends whose books were of tremendous help. For the Camp Grant Massacre I leaned heavily on Don Schellie's
Vast Domain of Blood
(Westernlore, 1968), a meticulously researched account of the event, giving all sides in the trial's reconstruction. For the Cananea strike, C. L. Sonnichsen's
Colonel Greene and the Copper Skyrocket
(University of Arizona, 1974) carefully sifts the evidence from participants and historians. Dr. Sonnichsen also kindly lent me
La Huelga De Cananea
by Manuel González Ramírez (Fondo de Cultura Económica, Mexico, D.F., 1956).

The following
Smoke Signals
, published by Tucson Corral of the Westerners, gave good background:
The Desert Dream of the South
by James Lee Neeley, Fall 1961, No. 4;
Aftermath of Cibecue
by Sidney Brinckerhoff, Fall 1978, No. 36;
Alamos … Sonora's City of Silver
by Rachel French, Spring 1962, No. 5;
The Military Posts on Sonoita Creek
by James E. Serven, Fall 1965, No. 12;
Clabazas of the Rio Rico
by Bernard Fontana, Fall 1971, No. 24.

The Arizona Historical Society was my help and refuge. Tracy Rowe and C. L. Sonnichsen gave many useful leads, and Don Bufkin supplied the map. Particularly useful was the Charles Morgan Wood Collection. I drew from his
Camp Grant Massacre
and also found
A Letter from Crittenden
by Petra Etchells (July 1872), a vivid recreation of life along Sonoita Creek in those troubulous times.

The
Bisbee Review
kindly allowed me to go through back issues and make notes of the summer of 1917. Dr. Evelyn Hu-Dehart sent me some material on Santa Teresa de Cabora and encouraged me with her interest. Julian Hayden, chief Pinacateño, is always inspiring.

Also helpful were Dr. James W. Byrkit's Ph.D. dissertation “Life and Labor in Arizona, 1901–1921, with Particular Reference to the Deportation of 1917,” and
Yoeme
, a collection of Yaqui tales and folklore by Mini Kaczkurkin (Sun Tracks, University of Arizona, 1977).

Joe Hill's songs have become part of America's folk-song heritage, but they were first printed in the Little Red Song Books published in various editions by the Industrial Workers of the World. I have allowed myself the anachronism of letting Johnny sing “I Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Night” before the song was written in 1925 by Alfred Hayes. Earl Robinson supplied the music a few years later, and it has helped keep alive the mythic story of the executed leader.