Sun God (8 page)

Now they remained where they were.

On a hot afternoon a couple of weeks ago, Luiz had turned to Amy as she started to disappear into the privacy of the willows and said, “Would it offend you if I stopped wearing a shirt and these heavy trousers when we swim?” He plucked at the sides of his hot, heavy pants.

Wondering what he had on underneath, she had shaken her head. Swiftly he had whipped off his shirt, unbuttoned the heavy trousers, and sent them to the ground. He kicked them aside and stood there, smiling at her, wearing nothing but a skimpy suede breechcloth.

It was the first time Amy had seen him without his shirt, much less without his trousers. Holding her own folded bathing attire in her arms, she stared openly at him. It seemed gloriously strange that his chest and legs were as bronzed as his face.

She had seen her father hurriedly wash up in the kitchen on occasion. While his face and throat and his heavily muscled arms were sun darkened, his chest, where a shirt always covered him, was pale. Tonatiuh, unlike her father, had no hair on his chest. It was smooth and hairless and beautiful. He was long waisted. His gleaming torso tapered into corded ribs and a flat, hard belly. His legs were long, the thigh bones strong-looking beneath the coppery skin. The briefness of his breechcloth afforded revealing glimpses of his firm bronzed buttocks.

Like the innocent she was, Amy blushed, realizing that what most fascinated her was that part of his anatomy which was barely concealed beneath the skimpy loincloth. She felt her face go crimson when her eyes fell on a tiny string of leather tied atop his bare hip. It struck her that with one quick jerk of that loosely tied knot, Tonatiuh would be totally naked.

Her embarrassed gaze flew up to his face.

Stammering, she said, “I … ah … I’ll go put … my—”

“Don’t,” he said, and took a step toward her. “You’re wearing underwear, aren’t you?”

“Certainly!”

“Then why not swim in it? When you get out, the sun will dry it within minutes.”

She stood there for a moment, looking at him, undecided. It was hard to think clearly with a tall, bronzed, near-naked Sun God standing there before her.

“Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

Luiz smiled, reached out and touched her cheek. “I’ll go on and get into the water while you undress.”

She nodded. “All right.”

But he didn’t move. Stayed right where he was. Amy dropped the clothes she held and turned away from him. Her hands shook a little as she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped her arms out of the sleeves. She bent and pulled off her boots and stockings, then straightened.

Still undecided, she stood there feeling his eyes on her back, wondering if she should put her blouse right back on. Her hands went to the buttons of her trousers. They were easier to unbutton than to button, and then she was left with nothing more to do than to take them off.

She put her thumbs into the sides of the waistband, wiggled her firm little derriere from side to side several times, and twisted free of the trousers. When they slipped down over her hips to her knees, she bent forward, pushed them to the ground, and stepped free of them.

And didn’t realize just how much her companion, watching every move she made, had enjoyed the performance.

Slowly Amy turned around and the grin that was playing at Luiz’s lips began to fade. Amy stood there facing him in a lace-and-ribbon-trimmed cotton chemise and underdrawers, with the cutest little smile of shyness he’d ever seen on her lovely face. The chemise’s straps were narrow, its bodice was very low, revealing delicate ivory shoulders and a swanlike throat and slender arms. The fabric pulled tightly across her high, full bosom, the lace perfectly positioned to hide the crests of her breasts.

The narrow sash of her underdrawers was tied securely at her small waist and filmy lace, at midthigh, decorated the hem of the underwear—a provocative little garment far more daring than anything he could have imagined. Her naked legs were long and pale and her thighs were so firm and perfectly formed he felt his throat grow dry.

“I—I … think we’d better get into the water, don’t you?” she said.

“The sooner the better,” he admitted.

Now on this oppressively hot July afternoon, they stripped down to their underwear and eagerly climbed the steep, vine-covered rocky trail up to the huge flat boulder overhang beside the rushing falls. In seconds they stood there in the fierce sunlight, high above the cold, deep pool.

Luiz waited while Amy wound her loose, golden hair into a thick rope and pinned it haphazardly atop her head. When she’d finished, she squinted up at him and said, “Ready at last. Shall we dive? Want me to go first?”

“I have a better idea,” he said, and knelt down on the smooth rock. “Climb on my back, we’ll go down together.”

“Yes!” Amy quickly agreed. After stepping around behind him, she promptly wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his back. Luiz’s arms came up under her knees and he rose to his feet, shifting her high upon his back. While Amy laughed he moved to the rock’s edge. He positioned himself directly on the rim, his bare toes hanging over.

“Hold on tight,” he cautioned, and stepped off the ledge.

Amy screamed all the way down. They hit the cold, smooth water and went straight down, almost to the pool’s rocky bottom. Amy clung tightly to Luiz’s neck, her legs locking around his waist. He scissored his feet and shot to the surface, pulled her around in front of him, kissed her wet, laughing lips, then threw her over backward.

For a time they played happily in the cold, invigorating stream, racing across its width, water fighting out in the middle, doing acrobatics below the surface. When Amy came up coughing and choking after an endurance test of breath-holding underwater, a worried Luiz gathered her up in his arms, swam to the banks, and carried her out of the water.

“You all right?” he asked anxiously as he gently sat her down on a blanket spread on the shaded grass.

“F-fine … fine,” she managed between coughs, and smiled appreciatively as he helpfully patted her back.

But soon the coughs ceased and the back pats changed to caresses. Then the kisses began and in moments the afternoon’s refreshing swimming excursion turned into the stirring, sensual exploration that could only lead to growing frustration.

Or to fulfillment.

H
ER NEAT, UPSWEPT HAIR
was still a light golden hue. Not a single strand of gray marred its shimmering blondness. Her tall, willowy frame was as slim as when she was a girl. Her pale, oval face was remarkably unlined, the skin as dewy fresh and flawless as when she had been a vain young Texas beauty.

Only the eyes gave her away.

A respected New Orleans spinster, Miss Margaret Ann Sullivan was still considered a handsome woman. Her eyes had not faded from the vivid blue they had always been. But in their indigo depths was that telling expression; a knowledge of life gained solely from living it, a quiet sadness that comes only with the passing of years, the loss of youthful dreams. The silent acceptance of one who has quietly settled with life.

Margaret Sullivan had lived, since age twenty-five, in comfortable loneliness in a luxurious, two-story white mansion on tree-lined St. Charles Avenue in the Crescent City’s enchanting Garden district.

The immaculate house belonged to her. Her older brother, Walter, had generously bought it for her the year she left Texas, the summer of 1839 when she was twenty-four years old. Now she had passed her forty-first birthday and all those years had been spent in this white, iron-lace-trimmed house.

She had never been back to Texas.

For more than a decade Margaret Sullivan had held a research position in the genealogy department of the university library at nearby Tulane. Not that she needed money. Walter Sullivan was a very wealthy man and saw to it that his only sister was well taken care of.

Margaret spent her days at the library, where she enjoyed her work. She loved the absorbing research and the bright young students and the pleasant three-block walk to the vine-covered university.

She loved having a reason to get out of bed each morning.

At the stroke of three every afternoon, Margaret Sullivan put on her hat and gloves, unfurled her parasol, and walked home. And always, as she ascended the steps to the wrap-around gallery, she offered up a silent prayer that when she walked into the foyer, she would see a letter lying in the silver calling card basket atop the hall table.

If she saw no letter, she proceeded directly up the stairs to her room, changed her clothes, and came back down. She went into the sunny drawing room where the curtains were of purest white lace-embroidered and oyster damask, the fine gray carpet was Brussels, and the oyster fireplace imported Carrera marble. She sat down on the silk-covered couch to wait.

Within minutes her housekeeper, Stella, entered bearing a gleaming silver tea service. When Stella had placed the tray on the tale before Margaret, the aging black woman shrugged sturdy shoulders and said apologetically, “No letter today, Miss Meg.”

Margaret smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Yessum, tomorrow.” Then Stella would add sorrowfully, “Sho is quiet ’round here since Miss Amy gone back to Texas. Yes, suh, mighty quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me.” Muttering, she would go back to her kitchen while Margaret leisurely sipped her tea.

A letter was waiting one sweltering day in July when she reached home, weak from the three-block walk in the humid Louisiana heat. Her eyes fell on the square white envelope with the small, neat handwriting and immediately she felt revived.

Smiling, she took off her gloves and hat, dropped them carelessly on the table, and snatched up the letter. Like a young, excited girl, she flopped down on the second step of the carpeted staircase and eagerly ripped open the envelope.

Auntie Meg,

Is it as hot in New Orleans as it is on Orilla? I hope not, because I’m sure the kind of summer we are having would kill all your beautiful begonias.

Oh, Auntie, it seems ages since I left New Orleans. So much has happened! Can you keep a secret? I know you can, and you must! For a while at least.

Remember me telling you about how Tonatiuh always ignored me and acted as though he was much older than I, when in fact there is only a year’s difference between us?

Well, all that’s changed. And
he
has changed! He’s a man now and so handsome it takes your breath away.

Aunt Meg, we’re in love! Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve never been so happy before, but
please
don’t tell Daddy. You know Daddy, he would say we’re too young and don’t know what we want. But we do. We want each other.

I’ve told no one and neither has Tonatiuh. Everyone here thinks we are just friends and that’s best for now.

I must close. Pedrico is leaving for Sundown and I want him to post this for me. Besides, it is almost time for Tonatiuh and me to ride up to Sunset River. We go there every afternoon to swim.

I miss you so much! Come home to Texas and Orilla where you belong!

Your loving niece,

Amy

Smiling, Margaret lowered the letter. Carefully she refolded it and placed it back in its envelope. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, crossed the deep-rose rug to the set of white louvered doors giving onto the small back balcony. She pulled the doors open and drew a deep breath of the heavy, moist air.

She turned and placed the letter atop her rosewood writing desk, then picked it up again. She sat down, took out the letter and read it, then read it once more. She stopped smiling.

Pressing the letter to her breasts, her blue eyes clouded with worry. Should she immediately write Walter and warn him to keep a closer eye on Amy? No. It wouldn’t be fair to Amy to reveal the secret she had shared. Besides, it was probably nothing more than a girlish infatuation born of the long separation between the two children.

And, should it prove to be a serious, lasting relationship, it might be the best thing. From what Walter said, there was no finer man than Don Ramon Quintano, no better-mannered, harder-working boy than Luiz.

Margaret Sullivan hoped she was doing the right thing in keeping quiet. Amy’s happiness was all that mattered. God knew she did not want Amy’s life to turn out like her own.

Cold, solitary Christmas Eves while everyone gathered with their families. Sultry summer nights alone in a bed meant for two. Bleak Sunday afternoons that stretched on endlessly. Sudden tropical storms blowing up out in the Gulf, and where were the sheltering arms to protect her?

Alone. Always alone. Eating, sleeping, laughing, crying.

Margaret Sullivan had grown used to it, and she didn’t mind anymore. But she wanted better for Amy. Amy must have all the happiness she herself had missed. A full, rewarding life that a woman could not hope for without a husband. Her own faithful, loving husband.

Only hours after Baron Sullivan had seen Amy and Luiz ride away from the ranch that July afternoon, he went in search of his father. He found Walter Sullivan in the upstairs library behind his pine desk. He was not alone. Don Ramon sat across from him. Baron stiffened when he saw the
don
sitting calmly smoking a long brown cigar as he looked over an Orilla account book. It had never sat well with Baron that Orilla was co-owned by the Spaniard. He’d heard the story, many times, of how the
don
had come to his father with the proposition: “I divert my water, you share your land.”

Baron thought Walter Sullivan had gotten the short end of the deal. He should have claimed Quintano’s water and kept all the land. It rankled Baron that the green-eyed Spaniard and his half-breed Indian son considered themselves his equal. As far as he was concerned, they were not and would never be.

Walter Sullivan looked up when his oldest son entered the library. “Yes? What is it, Baron?”

Baron crossed the room. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Baron glanced at the Don. “A family matter, Dad.”

The Don politely rose. “
Con permiso
…”