The Wildest Heart (41 page)

“Exactly. You have not thought of this before? Lucas loves Elena, whether he would like to admit it or not. And Elena has expensive tastes. And hate? You know he hates Shannon, who was your fiancé. What better revenge than to have Shannon pay a great deal of money to get you back, and then—to make sure that Shannon knows you have been… shall I use the word ravished, for want of a better?”

“He would not! He wouldn't go to such lengths—no, señor. You stretch my power of
understanding,
as you call it, too far!”

I had meant my words to sound firm and contemptuous, but they only sounded pitifully defiant.

“Ah, but you are a woman of such pride!” Montoya sighed as I stumbled to my feet and turned towards the wagon where Luz and I slept at night. His soft, pitying voice followed me. “That is one of the reasons why I have such admiration for you, and why I would have you regain your power of rational thinking again. One day, niña, I think you will thank me for being honest with you.”

Even now, I can hardly bear to think of the endless days and long, sleepless nights that followed. For the first time in my life I experienced such anguish, such disillusion, that I almost wished for death. I think that I existed for a time in a daze of pain and hurt, not caring any longer what became of me.

Luz was sympathetic, but even she could not help reminding me of my own words of advice to her.

“Lucas has always been selfish—see that now. And you see how easy it is to forget when there is someone who really wants you? I am happy now, and you will be too, when you realize what a lucky escape you've had.”

She spoke to me as sagely as if she had been a married woman already, and the next moment, her eyes sparkling, she had begun to describe the fine mansion to which Montoya was taking her, the clothes and jewels he had promised her.

Why did I keep tormenting myself with memories that were better forgotten? Why couldn't I accept the fact that I had been deceived? But Lucas had promised me nothing, given me no assurances beyond the fact that he wanted me. And his angry words, uttered on that afternoon when I had kissed him and forced him to kiss me back, now came back to haunt me.

“Ain't been a woman yet I haven't tired of, once I've had her… an' when I'm through with you I'll make Shannon pay a ransom to get you back. Mebbe a trifle shopworn, but good enough for him!”

Oh, yes, I had been warned. And bitterest thought of all, I had only myself to blame for everything.

It seemed ridiculous to me that I should be taken all the way to Mexico, and then turn back again as soon as what Montoya referred to as “the transaction” had taken place. But he explained to me indulgently that such elaborate precautions were necessary because he didn't trust my partner.

“If we arrange a meeting in United States territory, what is to prevent Shannon from arriving with a deputy marshal, and a warrant for my arrest? No, as I have said before, I am a cautious man. In Mexico, we would meet on neutral territory? That is a good term?”

“As usual, you contrive to express yourself more than clearly,” I said slowly. I was learning all over again to school my features into a mask of cool indifference, and I saw Montoya lift an appreciative eyebrow.

“We will cross the border tonight,” he said soothingly, as if by questioning him I had revealed an impatience to return home, to safe and familiar surroundings. “Tomorrow, a message will be sent to Mr. Shannon, telling him that you are safe and well—and naturally anxious to be reunited with him. Perhaps you will prefer to send a note in your own handwriting, so that there can be no misunderstanding?”

I shrugged. Another week then, of waiting. But what difference would it make? A few more days in which to prepare myself, to armor myself…

The truth was that I had learned to mistrust my own emotions. The truth was something I had refused to admit to myself earlier when I lay in my lover's arms. I had confused desire with love, and made love an excuse for desire. Love! A much misused word, and one I had always been contemptuous of before. A feeling of helplessness, of being swept away, an emotion that left one terribly vulnerable to hurt.

And yet, in spite of all my rationalization and stern self-admonishment, I couldn't stop myself from feeling pain that was like a knife twist in my heart every time I thought of him, or heard his name spoken. What good did it do me to be sensible, to blame myself and the Dangerfield devil in my blood, when I could not stop myself from
feeling
?
Lucas—Lucas! Memories of his body claiming mine, his lips on my breasts and thighs while he murmured to me, his voice a husky whisper, that I was beautiful, that he wanted me. The rain and the fire. Cold and heat. Lucas kissing me; hungrily, desperately, as he told me: “There, doesn't that mean something to you?” But what had he meant to him beyond the slaking of his casual, momentary desire?

Whatever name I wanted to give an emotion that still had the power to wound and weaken me, it existed. I might make a frozen mask of my face, betraying no feelings on the surface; but inwardly I could no more force myself to feel indifference than I had before.

Jesus Montoya, I am sure, suspected what was beneath my coldly unconcerned exterior, for I had already betrayed myself to him, and he was not the kind of man who forgot.

I accused him once of deliberately trading on the weaknesses of others for his own gain. As I might have expected, he only smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely under his moustache.

“My dear señorita! And why not? One's enemy's weakness makes one strong—from strength, to power. As your partner, Shannon, discovered long ago. Of course,” he shrugged deprecatingly, “much money can help. Ah, yes. You have been born to wealth and comfort. You take these things for granted, do you not? It is only the rich who can say honestly that money means nothing to them, and who are willing to give it up for some altruistic motive.”

“You are a philosopher too,” I said sharply, and his smile twisted.

“You are kind to call it that. I call myself a realist. I was born poor, the son of a peon who worked in the fields of a certain Don Emiliano—a proud man who boasted of his pure Spanish blood, his illustrious family. He had daughters—beautiful, delicately bred, and just as arrogant, as he was himself. Yes—it was nothing for one of the young dons to surprise some peasant girl in the fields, take his pleasure of her, and then go laughing back to his fine
estancia.
This, you understand was the common thing. But for a
vaquero
to look upon the daughter of a
hacendado
with bold eyes, even if the daughter herself encouraged such a thing, and indeed, made a point of—well, it does not matter. A simple
vaquero
, a peon's son—such are less important than the fine-blooded horses of a
hacendado.
Like dogs, they can be flogged for insolence. Some, like gelded steers, will bow even lower when the patron appears in the distance, will crawl to show their insignificance. But others, men with pride and ambition and a certain greed, what is meant to be a punishment can act instead as a spur, a goad. When you have been poor all your life, then truly you understand the significance of money, and what it can buy. And so, you see, today I own the
estancia
that once belonged to a Spanish don. Just as I had the use of all that once belonged to him, including his daughters and his fat wife. Alas, poor Don Emiliano had met with an unfortunate accident, and did not live long enough to see such unbelievable, impossible things take place.” He broke off, watching my expression, and gave a sudden, almost soundless laugh. “I see you listen closely to my little parable. Has it taught you anything? Opened your eyes, perhaps? Alas for illusion, señorita, there are some people who would do anything for money, and all it can buy. Comfort—power—”

“It corrupts!”

“Yes, indeed. Even the incorruptible. Does this not tell you something?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “I think, señor, that you try either to instruct me or to warn me. You called yourself my friend—well then, I wish you would be frank. Which is it?”

“Are you sure you are ready for more honesty? I would not have you think that I deliberately drove you back to Shannon's arms.”

My breathing quickened. I wanted to hear and yet I did not want to hear.

“Your meaning, señor? Will you persist in evasions and hints? For if you are truly my friend you will tell me the unvarnished truth.”

I will never forget his look. Quizzical—half sly, half questioning.

“The truth, you say. You are ready to face it? Very well, then. Have you seen the codicil to your father's will? Has Lucas not told you of it? You look surprised. But I tell you that there was such a document. Part of it a letter, stating his wishes. When I was told that you were to marry Ramon, I thought you were aware of it. I would advise you to search more closely when you return. And to trust less easily. And apart from that—if you need help, you have only to send word to me.”

“There would be a price attached, of course,” I said bitterly, and he nodded.

“Of course. But what are a few dollars between friends? For I have this feeling, señorita—call it intuition, if you will—that once you have recognized your enemies, you will need friends.”

“And…” I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “Is Lucas my enemy now?”

Montoya shrugged. “Lucas has always kept his thoughts to himself. I think he is his own worst enemy. But—if you were to actually marry Todd Shannon—I can well imagine that he would feel no scruples about making you a widow. And then—do you not see it? The ranch, everything would belong to
you.
What a fortunate man your
second
husband would be, eh?”

I felt as if I had been dealt a blow, although
this
time I would not let Montoya see what effect his words had had on me.
No,
I thought fiercely. What Montoya had suggested was too devious, too monstrous—or was it carefully calculated, like everything else? Had they decided to gamble, not for my fortune and my share of the SD alone, but for the whole of it? Had it been my openly declared passion for Lucas that had made them plan such a thing?
Them
—Elena and Lucas. The black queen and her knight. And in this game, played by experts, it seemed that I was only a pawn. But where did Montoya fit in? What was his role?

The man continued to puzzle me. He told me parables to illustrate the lengths to which revenge and ambition could drive a man. (I wondered, what had happened to the lovely daughters of Don Emiliano? But I dared not ask.) He was taking me back to Todd, but hinted that I would be unwise to marry him. He warned me against both Lucas and Elena, yet called himself their friend. And called himself
my
friend at the same time. What did he want?

“Money, of course!” he answered me blandly. “I am no longer a young man. I am taking a wife who will give me children. Why should I not think of settling down—of… retiring, shall we say? And I have conceived an admiration for you, señorita. Did I not sense at our very first meeting that you were no ordinary milksop female? You have all the advantages: intelligence, birth, beauty, and wealth. A shame to see it all wasted.”

“You left out ambition,” I said bitterly. “And the desire for power. What makes you think I want to be involved any further in such a sordid business? I came here because my father wished it. Because I wanted to find out more about him. I intended to rest, to think, and yes… to find out more about myself. And instead I found myself caught up in a feud that had nothing to do with me. In violence. I have discovered that what I want is impossible to achieve, even with all the advantages you speak of. And, oh, God, I am sick of being used and manipulated. Of being pushed this way and that to satisfy the ambitions of others! The SD means nothing to me; why should it? This is not my country; these are not my quarrels. If I continue to use the intelligence you say you admire, then I should leave as soon as I can and go back to a world of civilized people. Perhaps I might even go back to India, as I had planned to do, once.”

“And do you say all these things to convince me, or yourself?” Montoya's voice sharpened to steel under his silky tones. “Will you continue to deceive yourself? You talk of running away from involvement because you
are
involved. And you have been, ever since you came here, escaping from a life of inexpressible boredom, I think! Is that what you would go back to?”

I stared at him, and he went on in a softer, insinuating voice: “And all these questions to which you have not yet found answers… are you not curious to know why your father suddenly decided to add a codicil to his will, a codicil of which, apparently, you know nothing. There was a letter, also—written just before he died… you have not seen that either? Do you not wonder why all these things were hidden from you, and to whose advantage? Or why your father died so suddenly, just before you were supposed to arrive, of an overdose of laudanum? He was in pain, yes, but he was used to pain, and he looked forward to seeing you… what made him a coward at the last moment? These are things which a certain Mr. Bragg was curious about too, and his curiosity led him to a murderer's ambush. Well? You grow pale and your eyes open wide with horror. Or is it fear? Are you afraid of what you might discover?”

There are certain segments in time, certain things that even now I find too painful to recall. I have to get up and walk around my safe, familiar room to remind myself that I live in the present. When I go back to my desk and take up my pen again, I feel an unwillingness to write of what happened. And yet, this is a task I have set myself, and I know I must continue to the end as I know it now. For on that day, when Jesus Montoya and I talked, I changed in some way. I made a choice, and in making it, faced the cruel harshness of reality. I acknowledged my weakness, and found the strength I thought I had lost. I see this now, but at the time I felt nothing but numbness that helped me to endure the days that followed.

Montoya was pleased with me. Luz was puzzled and jealous in turn. But as usual, she was easily distracted by the gifts he gave her—the thought that soon she would be mistress in a fine house, with servants to wait on her.

Among the wagons of the
comancheros
was one filled with tawdry finery, taken from God knows where, or at what price. Luz strutted as proudly as a peacock in her new clothes and her new sense of importance, and her manner towards me became faintly patronizing, even pitying.

For a short time, until Montoya found the priest who would marry them, I even acted as a
dueña.
Naturally, I did not tell Luz of a certain conversation I had with her
novio
on the day before I was to leave. He surprised me in the
sala
during the hour of the siesta, while Luz slept upstairs and asked me to join him in a glass of wine, and his black eyes held a strange, almost regretful look as they studied me over the rim of his glass.

“It is a pity that you have to go. You were turning my Luz into a lady, and I—I will miss our conversations.” He went on slowly, still watching me. “If I had had the good fortune to meet you before, and in a different manner, I think I would have married you myself. What a challenge!”

“And think what a man of your ambition and talents could have achieved with all the wealth I possess,” I retorted acidly.

We had taken each other's measure by now, and he gave his soundless laugh.

“Of course! That too. But to conquer a woman like you, to break through your defenses and your mask of coldness and distance—ah, that would be a challenge indeed!”

“Since you have removed whatever illusions I might have possessed, señor, I fear that even for you conquering me, as you call it, would prove an impossible task.”

He gave a regretful, exaggerated sigh. “True. Perhaps it is better that we remain friends, si? As you have requested, I will find out what happened to your Mr. Bragg, who was so curious. And you will seek solutions to the rest of the puzzle. I shall look forward to the time when we will be able to compare notes.”

I would not admit that I was afraid of such a time. I tried to think only of the immediate future—my meeting with Todd Shannon,
his
first reactions, and mine.