Wild Sierra Rogue (17 page)

He dipped into the ink pot. “I told you. I want Lisette back with me, and I knew I could depend on our daughter.”

“Ye coulda gone after yer wife all by yerself.”

“Maisie, America is on the verge of war,” he said tiredly and rubbed his eyes. “You know I can't leave the capital. Not for any reason. Not even for a footloose wife.”

Footloose wife. Hmm. Maisie fell in love with the patient and serene Lisette on that first day she'd laid eyes on the blonde, in Kansas, in September of '69. Sometimes she feared she loved the German girl more than Gilliegorm himself loved his wife. He tended to be tense, overzealous in his undertakings, too earnest and serious in the making of money or peace. Too neglectful of family. He assumed—and expected—they would understand him and all the things he held in high regard. Personally, Maisie figured him for a jackanapes.

And for all the lass's strength, Lisette was as soft as a marshmallow on the inside. It hurt her to play second fiddle.

It wasn't Maisie's intention to quiz him about the couple's relationship—that would be seeking more trouble than Charles Stuart got at Culloden Moor—but this centenarian
would
get to the bottom of her concerns, or she'd be buried alive in this confounded uncomfortable rocker.
Devil a bit! 'Tis no good for a coffin.

“Did she leave ye?”

He gripped the pen until India ink sprayed on his letter. “Why don't you go back to bed?”

“Canna sleep.”

“I'll fix you a hot toddy”

“Nay. Ye doona have t' answer me in so many words.”

She knew the answer. And it hurt. It hurt, like when she'd lost her Sandy And their sons. And their other grandchildren. And the great-grandson also known as Gilliegorm. Having her family out of her control—having them where she couldn't make everything right—well, what was the use in living a hundred years?

Her gnarled hands gripped the rocker arms as if they were a mooring device. “I willna be bothering ye about our darlin' Lisette again. But I will be telling ye—Ye were a selfish lad, sending our Margaret off t' Mexico at a time like this.” Maisie sucked her teeth. “Ye know how she was needing t' get ready t' take on that job at Brandington College. And ye know she ain't fit o' body That sawbones Woodward said—”

“Goddamn it, Maisie, leave go with your nagging.” He slammed the pen to his desktop. “I know my own daughter's problems, thank you very much.”

“I think ye sent the lass t' . . .” Maisie felt the gullies of her face spreading as she smiled. “T' match our lass up with that nice lad Rafael.”

Gilliegorm patted Deniece's head; she purred. “Rafe Delgado is a good man, for a Casanova. Needs some direction, but if Margaret can't get him directed, no one can.”

The tension easing, Gil and his grandmother shared a laugh, for Margaret was the consummate in bossiness.

“If she and Delgado do make a match,” her father said, Deniece rousing, “I won't be offended. Little Maggie needs a husband. And ole Rafe, well, he's strong enough to match—and conquer—her hardheadedness. The way I call it, they'd complement each other.”

“Ye always did like him. Would that be why ye gave him horses and cattle for his ranch?”

The Persian pussycat's tail brushed Gilliegorm's nose; she extended a back leg in a feline stretch; he sneezed before replying, “Don't push me on the subject.”

“Doona ye be telling yer granny what t' do.” Maisie hunched her shoulders. “Why did ye renege on yer promise t' send him back t' Mexico with guns and ammunition?”

“He got paid. With the stock you mentioned.”

“What made ye think he would be wanting cows instead of war supplies?” Uh, oh. Maisie didn't like the look on her grandson's face. Not one bit. “Ye dinna believe the mad rumor about the lad and our Olga, did ye?”

“It wasn't a rumor.” Gil stroked the pussycat's white fur. “Olga wrote me. Asked if I'd help Rafe get started.”

“How do ye think our Olga would feel if she found out ye set the lad up with her sister?”

“If you must know, it was her idea. She asked me to keep tabs on Rafe. She's concerned he'll never settle down. And it goes without saying she's worried about Maggie. Olga knows her triplet was infatuated with him.” He leveled a look at his grandmother. “If Maggie and Rafe are thrown together, nature will take its course.”

“Are ye as blind as our Olga? He willna be settling for our delicate Margaret.”

“How do you know he won't?”

“I doona like this. Not at all. That Rafe has an eye for the pretty lasses.” Secondly, goodwill didn't sound like Olga. Sympathizing with her loss of sight, her father couldn't see her flaws. Besides, there was more here than met Gilliegorm McLoughlin's eye. “Olga isna the main reason ye got them together.”

“You're right.” Gil pushed his chair back and lurched to stand, pacing back and forth. “I fear Olga will want Rafe. Again. I fear she'll leave Leonardo. Maisie, there is trouble in the House of Granada. I wouldn't be surprised if she divorces her husband. It wouldn't come as a shock if she travels to San Antonio. To be with Rafe.” Gil rubbed his forehead. “That's why I had to get him out of the country.”

“Olga? Travel? Have ye lost yer marbles? She's blind as a bat. She willna be traveling anywhere wit'out her husband.”

“Are you forgetting that she sprang from her indomitable mother? That she sprang from determined stock, both Scottish and Teutonic? Are you forgetting Olga is your great-granddaughter?”

“Ye dinna have t' put it that bluntly, lad.” Maisie, fretful, reached for her cane and pushed the bag of bones that was herself off the seat, to join her grandson in his pacing.

“Maisie . . .”

“Aye?”

“That's not the worst of it.”

 

 

Rafe had requested a ten-minute head start. It took a whole day for Margaret and her brother to leave the Villa encampment and to repair their disabled wagon, thanks to more wheel trouble. After Rafe dumped her with Villa,
et al
, Margaret cried. And cried. And cried. But she refused to shed those tears. She wouldn't allow outsiders to witness how much the humiliation hurt.

It was only after she and Tex had taken their leave in the patched up wagon that she let go her tears. Buckets of tears couldn't wash away the pain, though.

How cruel, life. How many times had Rafe ordered her to keep quiet? He should have taken his own advice. Did he know it was sadistic to praise so lavishly, then do as he'd done? Did he even care? Whatever the case, he had well and truly left for more than a smoke.

Somewhere along the path to the city of Chihuahua, Margaret became aware of a bitter irony. Bullfights were fought in three stages. The lancing was but the first. The second part had to do with planting the darts. That's what Rafe had done to her when he'd dressed to flee—planted hurting, subduing darts. His leaving had been the coup de grace. The
suerte de matár
. The slaughter.

“Sis, honey, you've got to think about something else,” Tex suggested softly, when they were riding into the outskirts of the city of Chihuahua.

Anything would beat thinking about Rafe's desertion or their last night together. She looked around. Rafe, during their trip to Pancho Villa, had told her about the prosperous and bustling town, a center for cattle and mining. As for the natural beauty, he'd been expansive. “He did brag on this place.”

“It looks like a right nice town.”

“He said the sky is as big as the heavens.” She couldn't help lacing her words with references to Rafe. “ ‘It rains sunshine over the plaza.' ” Not as arid as its neighbor to the north, El Paso, Chihuahua city in some ways resembled Juarez, but not really. This place was much nicer, much more genteel. “Rafe said palaces line the avenues near the aqueduct. He said the cathedral is lovely and grand with its golden chandeliers.”

“I reckon he knew what he was talking about,” Tex said, as he drove toward the Naked Rooster grogshop. “Don't reckon he was yarning.”

“Not in regard to the town.” Margaret wiped more tears and blew her nose on a rag—she'd boo-hoo'd into the last clean hankie this morning. Rafe had lied when he'd told her how much he'd wanted their . . . their—What did one call lovemaking without the love?

Sex.

Fornication.

Heavenly days.

The wagon veered as Tex drove around a small object that darted into the road. “Damn lil ole dog!”

The strange tiny
canis familiaris
, similar to Rafe's own Frita, made the opposite side of the street, and put up a large fuss. It was joined by a half dozen of its kind, each acting as if he would tear the wagon apart, single-pawed. Dynamite did come in tiny packages. They were enough to make a tormented woman chuckle.

“What was it ole Rafe said about them lil ole dogs?”

“ ‘Ever since the Apaches who raised them as pets were forced from the
apacheria
and were driven into Arizona Territory, the
perritos
chihuahuenses
have roamed wild and free. Chihuahua dogs make pests of themselves, yapping, snapping, and getting in the way of wheels and ankles.' Or something on that order.”

“He weren't lying.”

Chihuahua city
was
a place all its own. “It's where he said he'd take me, in late '89.”

And in late '97.

She never dreamed she'd see the town without Rafe at her side. Oh, Lord, how it hurt, losing him. This must be how it felt to have a heart yanked from a chest. Daft described her, because she wanted more of Rafe. She couldn't imagine why.

Sapped of strength for the tough journey of life, Margaret felt every one of her years. Plus a few more.

In the days following Rafe's abandonment, Margaret vacillated between anger and indignation. He'd forsaken her as well as the mission she paid him
five thousand dollars
to complete.

More problems surfaced. The journey progressed much slower than she'd anticipated. One more stumbling block, and her professorship could be in jeopardy. Then where would she be? Unlucky in love, unlucky in life.
That's me
. She had a word with herself not to sound like Charity.

Charity. How she missed her sister all of a sudden. And Olga. She missed her, too. In establishing the Wild West show, Charity, luckily, had found an outlet for her outgoing personality, had become wildly famous on three continents. Olga, too, had found her own brand of peace.

As youngsters, the triplets had fought like cats and dogs, but wasn't that the way with sisters? Margaret tried not to think about it, but if the truth were known, she felt as if a part of her was missing, when Olga and Charity weren't within reach.

Dang!

At times, here in the city of Chihuahua, Margaret got snide, like when she refused to eat a taco her brother had bought at the Naked Rooster while they awaited one Hector Flores, guide. They had been becalmed in the city for three days. It was now the evening of the fourth day.

January loomed closer and closer.

“Maggie, honey, you ought to eat. You're getting more drawed. And your cough . . .”

“No tacos for me.” She jerked up her nose. “I've heard Mexicans are such barbarians they grind up those pesky little dogs for the meat filling.”

“Did you hear that from ole Rafe?”

“No.”

“I bet it ain't true.”

“Oh?” She gave a superior look around the less-than-respectable-looking tavern. “I wonder why they don't have any dogs sniffing around in here?”

Tex put his own taco back on the table. Uneaten.

She didn't feel the least bit proud of herself. All she felt was awful. But she managed to hold back on another bucket of tears until late that night, after she and Tex had gone to their rooms in the lovely hotel that presented a marvelous view of the distant Santa Alicia Mountain.

The village of Santa Alicia—Rafe's hometown—hugged the side of that jagged mountain. She damned herself for wanting it, and knew the reason ridiculous, but she itched to visit the sight of his flying from his “golden bassinet” to “rain wheat on the hungry villages.”

Margaret didn't visit Santa Alicia.

Amazingly, Santa Alicia came to her the next evening, in a manner of speaking. Tall, handsome, and with hair of steel gray, Soledad Delgado Paz de Aguilar called at the hotel room. Her bearing spoke pride and sharp brown eyes.

The question was: what did Rafe's mother want?

 

 

A photograph in her skirt pocket, Soledad Paz followed the wraithlike
gringa
to a cluster of burgundy-velvet chairs in a suite at the Hotel Chihuahua. The Countess of Granada showed no surprise upon reading the name of her lover's mother on a calling card. Pleasantly cordial, she offered chocolates and laurel tea, but Soledad disliked her anyway. Which had nothing to do with the woman having aged mightily since sitting for the photograph.

What did Rafito see in her? While her features had nothing out of kilter, drawn and pinched fit her; dark crescents lay beneath large and fatigued blue eyes. Rafito appreciated the buxom. Buxom blondes.
But she was lovely, once upon a time, when she hurt my Rafito.
Hurt him to the core. If not for this hag, Rafito would have come home.

But he is in Mexico. I know he is. But where? And she is here. What does all this mean?
Upon receiving her son's coded message, Soledad had made a beeline to the Naked Rooster and the mysterious woman who'd spread the cryptic message. It had taken several minutes of wide-eyed staring through the window, before she'd realized this woman was Rafito's cherished Olga.

It took Soledad another day or so to come to grips with her son's poor choice in women.

The
gringa's
face going pale, she grabbed a handkerchief, turned away, and began to cough. When the racking spasm had spent itself—even though the handkerchief got shoved away quickly—Soledad didn't fail to notice the crimson stains.

“Please excuse me.” Pink spots suffused the chalky cheeks. “Little touch of el
resfriado
, it seems.”

A simple cold? Soledad thought not, and made the holy cross. As a mother who had lost her daughter, she knew the signs. It would take a more hard-hearted person than Soledad Paz not to feel sorry for the doomed Olga.

With shaking hand the dying woman reached to a table littered with brown apothecary bottles and poured some sort of syrup into a glass, swallowing the contents. Collected, she asked, “Did someone send you to call on me?”

“I was told you seek Hector Flores.”

“Yes, I do. He was supposed to be at the Naked Rooster cantina, but hasn't been. Do you know where I can find him?”

The teacup set aside, Rafe's mother replied, “Señor Flores died last month. He died in the dungeon of this town. You see, the late señor dared to stand up to Arturo Delgado for what he thought right.”

“My God.” The
gringa
shuddered. “What is wrong with this country that a man cannot speak his mind?”

“Liberty has never been our privilege.” Soledad leaned to plug the stopper into the bottle. “May I be blunt? By your asking after Hector Flores, my Rafito has sent a message. I—”

“A message? And what would that be?”

“That he is in Mexico.”

“I—I see.”

What a peculiar reaction. Soledad studied the other woman. “You seem surprised.”

“If I am the bearer of messages, I am surprised.”

Once more, Rafito had, it appeared, used a woman. More than likely, this was his way of repaying the hurt she'd wreaked on him. Oh, how he hurt when the truth won out, that the countess wouldn't be returning to him.

That aside, he would expect his
madrecita
to look out for this woman, for old time's sake, if for no other reason. “Tell me, are you in need?” Soledad asked. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Only if you know a good guide. My brother and I are on our way to a retreat called Eden Roc, near the Eye of the Canyon.”

“I may be able to help. But I would advise you to stay away from
El Ojo
. Some of the slaves from the Santa Alicia silver mine have escaped, have taken refuge with the Tarahumara Indians. Arturo has set the Federales on them. There could be trouble.”

The shaking hand took on more of a palsy; the waxy face lost any semblance of color. “My, my m-mother. She's there.”

“She will be fine, as long as she doesn't leave the confines of Eden Roc.”

The
gringa
stood, scoured her elbows with her fingers, then hugged her arms. Slowly, she began to pace the room. If she had been this concerned for Rafito, he wouldn't have wasted his life in Texas.

Soledad spoke. “The question remains, where is my son?”

The noblewoman opened her mouth, but clamped it. Taking a seat once more, she picked a piece of lint from the chair's arm. “He, uh, he's . . . I understand he seeks his brother.”

Xzobal. Poor Xzobal. Fated for an early death, like this Lady of Granada. Fated like Rafito. Fated like María Carmen.
What I would give to see my boys one last time!
Though resigned to losing all her children, Soledad mourned them nonetheless.

Curious about many things, she asked, “May I be so bold as to ask, what happened to your husband?”

“I don't have a husband.”

“Did he die, Condesa?”

“Condesa?” A pained looked appearing to have no relation to physical discomfort crossed the ravaged face. “You mistake me for my sister. I am Margaret. Margaret McLoughlin of New York City.”

Confused, Soledad pulled the photograph from her pocket. “This is not you? Several years ago.”

“No. That is my sister.”

Relieved, yet not quite certain how she should feel, Soledad buried the photograph in its hiding place, and wondered why
this
sister had traveled to Mexico.

“How did you come to have a picture of Lady Hapsburg?” asked the sister.

“I insisted my son give it to me when I visited San Antonio. That must have been four or five years ago.” Soledad leaned toward Margaret, taking the cold and bony hand in her fleshy one. She smiled, now finding no reason to dislike this
gringa
. And, strangely, wishing she could give the gift of health. “Forgive me for mistaking you.”

“What did . . . What did Rafe tell you about my sister?”

“That he stayed in Texas because she promised to leave her husband and join him there. He put together a
vacáda
for their future. The photograph was a too-sad reminder of what was not to be.”

“How nice for her, to be so loved.”

What did she say in that remark? Then Soledad knew. From the facial expression, from the set of Margaret's frail body, she knew.
Madre de Dios
. She'd made a grave error in being blunt, for Soledad now saw the truth. This woman, this poor unfortunate loved her son. She begged the Blessed Virgin's mercy on Margaret McLoughlin. In health and in love, she was fated to hopeless punishment.

“Take heed of loving Rafito too much,” Soledad warned. “If you trust his word, you will be hurt.”

The
gringa
wilted on the chair, her knuckles whitened on the velvet-covered arms.

“All the women love
El Aguila Magnífico.
He waits for but one special lady. He loves none but the Countess of Granada. Go back to Texas or New York or wherever you came from. Go back before it's too late.”

 

 

He'd even given Olga's picture to his mama.

“Can you believe it, Tex? Rafe abandoned me—us—and that Hector Flores business served no one but himself!—but he was profoundly sentimental when it came to a married woman. I should have expected nothing more from someone who wouldn't even protect himself, much less a lady.”

Less than an hour after Soledad Paz had taken her leave, Margaret lay abed, spent. It had taken a storehouse of energy to be angry, furious, and embittered, and those grievous feelings still raged. Soledad Paz had reinforced what she'd known already: He was Olga's man.

“May all the demons in perdition dance on his soul!”

“Honey, settle down.” Tex bathed her forehead with a cool cloth. “We always knew he weren't no upstanding feller.”

“If that's meant to make me feel better, you didn't.”

“I'm just trying to make you see both sides of the story. What all he's done, well, they be awful things, but—”

“Angus Jones McLoughlin, you studied grammar. You attended fine boarding schools. You know better than to say ‘they be' !” Margaret rolled to her side and yanked the cover over her shoulder. “I thought you'd take to arms, hearing about the rogue and our sister. Damn him. Not only did he insult me—us—he didn't even have the courtesy to visit his own mama.” Margaret shook a fist. “I hope his whacker falls off!”

“Sis, you oughtn'ta be talking nasty.”

“Nasty? I heard you use the word in front of some cowboys at the Four Aces.”

“That's man-talk.” Tex shuffled his feet. “Sis, honey, talking about ole Rafe ain't gonna help us outta the pickle we be, uh, we
are
in. With that Hector feller dead, what are we gonna do about getting to Mutti?”

Shame stilled Margaret's purple snit. “You're right. I've been thinking of myself; it's Mother we need to worry about.”

“Maggie, we oughtn'ta borrow trouble. Mutti, why she's a strong lady. She knows how to take care of herself.”

“True. But we aren't in Mexico to sit on our behinds in a Chihuahua hotel.” Margaret pushed the covers away, got to unsteady feet, and began to organize her belongings. “We must pack. And make Eden Roc in all haste.”

“How we gonna find our way?”

“We'll find our way.” She certainly wouldn't depend on Rafe's mother to find them a guide. “Our mother needs us.”

 

 

As Margaret and Tex descended the curving staircase to the hotel lobby, it was the hour of the day when Mexicans stirred from siesta. A man with an overlong face and large ears cut across their path. Instantly Margaret recognized something—she didn't know what—about him.

She said to her brother, “That man—doesn't he look familiar?”

“Nope.”

“But he . . . well, I don't suppose you would know him, now that I think about it. But I swear he looks like Felipe Apodaca of Granada. He's one of Leonardo's aides.”

“You're seeing things, Sis.”

“Maybe you're right. What would Señor Apodaca be doing in Chihuahua?”

From the street entrance, a mustachioed man of about fifty shuffled toward Margaret and Tex. His clothes could have accommodated another person or two, it seemed. He had mousy hair streaked with gray; he had little of it. So gaunt was he, Margaret thought of Ichabod Crane.

“Are you Señorita McLoughlin?” he asked. When she nodded, he turned a hat around in his hands. “I am Luis Rivera. Señora Paz sent me.”

Margaret whispered in English to her brother, “Apparently the females in Rafe's family are the more trustworthy.”

“You want to go to
El Ojo de la Barranca?
Luis, he will take you there.” Luis tapped a finger against his chest. Smiling an uneven smile, he said, “Señora Paz, she says you know
El Aguila
.”