Renee Simons Special Edition (46 page)

Callie chose not to press him. The time wasn't quite right for her either.

"Who died in a hospital?" Luc asked after another short silence.

"Two parents and two sets of grandparents, minus one."

"Which one?"

"Lucinda. She died at home, in bed with an open photo album on her lap." She glanced at his profile for a moment before turning to stare at the tumbled rocks bordering the road. "Gram had a heart attack while looking at pictures of The Mansion. I found that fact a little unsettling."

"I can see why this restoration is so important to you."

"Can you?" Her heart thumped in her chest. Was it possible he might have altered his stance on The Mansion's future? That she wouldn’t have to choose?

"Let’s say you thought the place was the last thing on Lucinda's mind and her dying like that a message. You might feel compelled to grant a last request. She placed quite a burden on your shoulders."

"Restoring The Mansion isn't a burden. It's a labor of love." Callie tried to keep disappointment from her tone.

Apparently his feelings hadn't changed. "And the idea didn't develop out of her death. We dreamed and planned for years."

"Why was it so important to her?"

"It was her girlhood home, a place filled with memories she wanted to bring to life again."

"Happy memories?"

Although she didn't feel able to tell him the whole story, she couldn't lie to him, either. "Some. Not all."

He nodded and seemed oddly satisfied, although she couldn't begin to guess why.

"I'm sorry I've let you down," he said softly.

There didn’t seem to be an adequate response so she offered none, gazing again at the profile that recalled his father's patrician features gentled by his mother's earthy beauty. She glanced at his hands on the wheel and remembered her body’s fevered response to his ministrations. Her skin tingled with the memory, sending an echo to that most intimate of places. She crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to hold herself together in spite of her errant impulses.
What a swift recovery
, she thought.
Broken arm and all, you’d jump the man’s bones, if he’d only give you the word.
She held back a giggle
. How do you make love with a broken arm?

She turned to look out of the window just as they reached the
Moreno
ranch. Luc pulled through a stone archway and parked beneath a tree.

"Come," he said. "My mother will be waiting to greet you."

He helped Callie ease out of the vehicle. "What are the men doing with all those lights?" she asked.

"They're getting the place ready for fiesta."

She stiffened. "I don't belong here at such a busy time. Or when your folks are having guests." She felt a flush return to her cheeks. "Please don't insist I stay."

"If my son does not, I will." Dorotea had approached without Callie's notice and now stood beside Luc. "This is a special time for our village, a time steeped in history and tradition. I can think of no better way for you to get to know us than to observe the festivities."

"You mean well, Mrs. Moreno, but, as you can guess, I'm not at my best right now."

"We expect nothing from you except your presence, which would give us pleasure." She took Callie under the elbow and steered her toward the house.

"Your room is upstairs facing away from the courtyard where the noise will not reach you." She pointed to the second story. "And there will be a table and chair, where you can watch the celebration — if you wish. When you become tired you must return to the quiet of your room."

She examined Callie's face. "That is where you should be now." She slipped an arm across her shoulders. "Come. You will rest and later have something to eat."

"It's been a long time since anyone fussed over me."

Dorotea tilted her head to one side. "Is this fussing a good thing?"

Callie smiled through the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her. "It is."

"
Bueno
." Dorotea tightened her grip and led Callie toward the courtyard. Over her shoulder she addressed Luc. "I'll leave you in charge of getting the table and chair,
hijo
. From the storage shed. I'll show you where to place it."

"I can probably figure that out for myself,
mamacita
. Then I have to go to work."

"No lunch?"

"Not today, but I'll try to make it back in time for supper."

* * *

Callie slept soundly in an old iron bed piled high with mattresses and featherbeds. When she woke, she wandered downstairs, glancing through open doorways and rooms warmed with old but sturdy hand-crafter furniture and colorful fabrics.

On the ground floor, the fiery glow of a setting sun drew her into a gallery-like space walled in glass on its western side. An easel stood near the window. Three walls held portraits, some of familiar faces, some not, and landscapes of the local countryside and beyond. Beautifully rendered by a loving hand, they told a story of the strength it had taken to survive in a rugged environment.

She saw herself in two paintings and in a work in progress on the easel that caused her cheeks to flame. The artist had depicted her as she must have appeared to him on that rainy morning when their love-making had been interrupted by the vandal. So, of course, she knew she was looking at Luc’s work and Luc’s emotions at the time – love, longing and passion. She hadn’t been wrong about the way he felt about her. She’d give anything to know why he held back.

* * *

In the darkness that evening, Callie looked down on the patio. After a long nap Dorotea assured her was very much the traditional siesta and a small lunch she enjoyed despite her flagging appetite, Callie had decorated each round table with a colorful striped
serape
and a votive nestled in a pierced tin
lumineria
.

Now the lights cast flickering shadows on faces and bathed the scene in shimmering waves of color. Strings of red and yellow bulbs outlined archways and chimneys and ran up the staircase and along the balcony's lower edge. Some might have considered the use of the state colors too deliberate and even a bit naive, but she liked their gentle, festive glow.

A trio of musicians softly strummed guitars in one corner of the patio. Several couples swayed in an area cleared for dancing. The mariachi band sitting on the steps to the second story suggested more spirited dancing yet to come.

As the last musical notes faded, players took center stage. Men in Spanish armor and simple Native American dress, priests in hooded habits and grand colonial ladies in satin gowns began to enact a scene Callie could only guess at until Luc’s soft voice in her ear narrated.

"In 1620, the King of Spain issued a grant of land to Francisco Moreno de Valencia as reward for his efforts to colonize the Valle d'Oro."

A gentle finger on her cheek turned her to face stage left. "The folks you see down there are portraying early settlers and the Indians they found when they got here. Francisco's the
muy macho
dude in the armor."

She nodded.
There are several macho dudes here tonight
, she thought. One, in particular, sat so close she found it impossible to relax.

"This grant," he continued, "covered an area of nearly three quarters of a million acres, bordered by two mountain ranges on the east and the west and extending southward through what eventually became the settlement of Blue Sky."

Luc's warm breath on her neck made concentration difficult. She struggled to ignore the wave of heat that sizzled through her and to focus on his words while the actor below spoke with expansive gestures and at great length to a group of "colonists."

“What’s he saying now?” she asked.

"Francisco is explaining that the grant includes several Indian villages and ancient cliff dwellings, much good land and mountains containing vast deposits of gold, silver and copper."

His hand caressing her cheek and his lips whispering against the side of her neck provided irresistible distractions. She pressed a soft kiss against the backs of his fingers as a picture flashed quickly through her mind. She remembered seeing one of those cliff houses, a complex of crumbling stone structures overlooking a deeply blue lake.

"Uh uh,
querida
. Pay attention to the action."

She sighed. "That's what I'm doing."

He chuckled and she felt his laugh vibrate against her neck. "In the courtyard."

Luc's melodious tones hummed through her blood as she watched the play. An actor in native dress cowered at the foot of a nobleman who raised an arm as if to strike him.

"The
hacendados
exploited the Indians cruelly," he said, "and the friars offered little protection."

Two actors rolled a mockup of a church facade to center stage.

"They were so eager to convert the natives, they forced them to build churches and to forsake their own religions."

She turned to look at him. He lifted his chin, redirecting her attention. In view of a "friar," an Indian prayed before the church. When the priest disappeared behind the door, the native picked up a rattle and addressed the four directions with a quiet chant.

"There you see an Indian who worships in the church on Sunday, yet follows his own religion when the friar turns his back to take inventory of corn and blankets.

"The
Pueblo
tribes suffered under a system of virtual slavery, paying tribute in crops and labor, tilling the colonists’ fields and tending their cattle."

With his head bowed, Francisco paced the stage, stroking his goatee, pausing to look off into the distance before resuming his walk.

"Se
ñ
or Francisco broods because he has come to hate the
encomienda
system of forced labor. So in the twentieth year of his stewardship, he returned most of the lands to the native peoples. He kept only what he thought would support his children and grandchildren through honest toil. And he kept the valley of gold, which had no value to the
Pueblos
either for its metals or the rocky soil they couldn’t farm."

With a great flourish, the actor portraying Francisco handed over a parchment to three Indians, who expressed gratitude by offering a boldly patterned blanket cradling a harvest of corn, melons and scarlet and yellow cactus flowers.

"Because he'd seen to their education, Francisco knew the Indians would fare better if free to pursue their own lives, under his protection from both the Church and the other colonists.

"This festival marks the day in 1630 when the tribes regained their lands and freedom. In August, we will celebrate the Pueblo Revolt of 1680."

"Why celebrate if the Indians turned against your ancestors?"

"Francisco and his family were spared because of his honorable treatment of the native peoples. They banded together to fight off marauding tribes from the north, an alliance that has never been broken. So you see, most of the land on that map you saw in my office reverted to the people who had first settled it, leaving only the smallest portion for the
Moreno
generations to inherit."

"What happened to him?"

"In his old age, he went off somewhere to die. No one knows where."

"Francisco" stepped into the light. The momentary glitter of his armor sparked an image of a similar figure lying as if in state.
Down there
. She pushed the memory to the back of her mind where she hoped it would stay until she could give it her full attention.

As the mariachis' horns played a measured melody, a procession wound through the patio, passing in and out of the darkness into areas lit by the candles and strings of lights. Colonists and Indians, side by side, carried baskets filled with blossoms and fruit. Youngsters in costume led calves and lambs. Bringing up the rear, the friars in their hooded robes carried crosses and icons from their churches in honor of the occasion.

Another memory flashed before her, of golden urns and bejeweled flowers. The tableaux had awakened images from her misadventure underground and what had been unexplainable there finally made sense.

"It's a wonderful history," Callie whispered. "You have a lot to be proud of."

"We can't afford pride. After three hundred years of being divided among Francisco's descendants, there's little left to provide a living for the family. We've been struggling for years to hold on to what remains."

"You can cherish his decision to do the honorable thing."

"I'll try to keep it in mind when my father grows too old to support himself and my mother. Or when we lose more of our legacy because of unpaid taxes."

"Is that why the mine is so important to you?"

"In part."

He passed a gentle hand down her cheek, enticing her to look at him. She could barely make out his features, so deep was the shadow sheltering them, but she felt an urgency of purpose emanating from him.