Beverly Byrne (26 page)

Amy
giggled. "I'm flying under false colors. I didn't make any of this. Maria
did. lean't cook."

"No!
Impossible!" He laughed softly at first, then with gusto. Soon they were
both laughing. "You can ride a horse and drive a motorcar, and you know
all about Africa and diamonds, but you can't cook!" Rick gasped.
"Only in New Mexico could such a woman survive. "

"I
think maybe I'm a freak," Amy said hesitantly.

Rick
chuckled. then realized that she wasn't joking. He reached out and touched her
cheek. "You are no freak, lovely Amy," he said softly. "What put
that idea in your head?"

She
would not tell him more. Never could she tell anyone about the things Tommy
said and did, and the way he made her feel. Neither could she admit to the
possibility of having Indian blood. These days she was so ensnared in her
guilts and fears that she couldn't speak rationally of them.
"Nothing," she said. "I'm just being silly."

Rick
didn't take his hand away immediately. Amy could feel his strong but gentle
fingers against her flushed skin for a few more seconds. Then he pulled away
and they both stood up and started for home.

The
next time he lay with Beatriz, Ibanez was miserable. Physically she pleased him
as much as ever. But when it was over he was saddened by a sense of falseness.
He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling and wondered what to tell her, and
how.

"I
saw Manuel yesterday," Beatriz said. She sat up and pulled a silk shawl
over her shoulders and heavy breasts. The sweat of passion dewed her skin, and
Ibanez looked away as if it was a reproach to him. "You remember,"
she continued. "I told you about my cousin Manuel."

"Yes,
I remember."

"He
came to town to see me. He is in much trouble. It is a very evil thing this man
Westerman does."

"I
spoke with Amy," Rick said quickly. He did not want to hear a long
catalogue of Manuel's troubles. "That's Senora Westerman," he added.

"I
know."

"She's
very sorry about your cousin and the other rancher, but she has no influence
with her husband."

Beatriz
didn't meet his eyes. "That is sad for her. They cannot be happy together
if this is the truth."

"No,
I don't think she is happy." He didn't want to discuss Amy either.
"Manuel should talk to Lopez. He'll need a lawyer."

"He
has no money for a lawyer. Besides, Lopez works for the Anglo." She
shrugged. "It is to be expected; they share blood. One Mexican grandfather
does not make a man of one of us."

"Us
and them. That attitude spells death, Beatriz."

"Yes,
death," she agreed, pretending not to recognize that he was reprimanding
her. "Death for us. Anyway, Westerman pays Lopez a lot of money."

Ibanez
got up and dressed, and they spoke no more of the water rights and Manuel's
troubles. "Beatriz," he said, "I may not be back for a while.
I'm very busy at the office just now."

She
lay back against the pillows, and her face was in the shadows when she spoke.
"I understand. It has been good, Don Rico.
Adios
."

He
hadn't expected it to be so easy. "It has been very good, Beatriz,"
he agreed. "
Adios
." There was nothing more to say. He would
see her again because her mother was his patient. But it would be as if the
many nights of athletic pleasure in this room had never happened. "
Adios
,"
he repeated.

In
the alley across from the shop the girl with the guitar was singing the same
song. He wondered if she was practicing, or if an appreciative and silent
audience listened. " ... I don't look much like a lover, but she may never
love another ..."

The
lyric followed him home, and when he tried to sleep it still filled his mind.
"Spanish is a loving tongue ..." How did it end? Oh, yes, " ...
in her little sorry tone,
mi amor
,
mi corazon
." He'd never
spoken such words to Beatriz. At least he didn't have lies to repent.

20

ONE
DAY IN THE AUTUMN OF 1918, WHILE SHE AWAITED the birth of her second child, Amy
went to Santa Fe to have a checkup and do some shopping. Warm October sun
overlaid a hint of crispness in the air. It had rained the day before;
everything seemed fresh and new and sparkling. Even the newspapers were
cheerful. The allies were pushing deep into German-held territory-they called
it the Argonne Offensive-and columnists were predicting that the war would soon
be over.

"Good
news at last," Rick said when her visit was over and he escorted her to
the terrace door. He gestured to the folded newspaper she held.

"Do
you think it really will end?" Amy asked.

"Yes."
He looked pensive. "I wonder if everyone's ready for that." She
stared at him quizzically and he grinned. "Nothing for you to worry about.
I'm just thinking about the price of beef."

"You
mean it may not be good for ranchers like us?"

"Not
like you. Whatever happens, Tommy Westerman won't be caught napping." Rick's
voice was hard.

"You
don't like Tommy much, do you? Not since he fenced off the waterhole and bought
those other two ranches."

Ibanez
looked away. "I have patients waiting. We'll talk about it another
time." He took both her hands in his. "Meanwhile, remember there's
one thing about Tommy I admire very much. His choice of a wife."

Amy
left without answering. Sometimes she felt guilty about how important Rick was
to her. At other times she examined their relationship and found nothing to be
ashamed of. They were both lonely. Each met a need in the other. On this
occasion she wasn't thinking so much of Rick as of what he'd said, or at least
implied.

Two
months before Tommy had secured a court order breaking the treaty that governed
the rights to the waterhole. It was on Santo Domingo land, the judge had said;
henceforth it was reserved for the exclusive use of Mr. Westerman. The two
adjacent ranchers promptly sold out to Tommy. It was all fairly predictable.
Tommy was simply applying Wall Street business methods to New Mexico, As Amy
made her pensive way along the alameda toward the plaza, what bothered her was
the economics. Winning the legal battle took a good deal of money. Lopez and
the other attorneys had, as Tommy commented, extracted their pound of flesh.
The pair of ranches left waterless had dramatically decreased in value, but
they commanded a high figure. Where was Tommy finding the capital for it all?

Amy
thought about the unpaid bills she'd found in New York, and the sale of her
diamond ring. But it didn't seem Iikely that this was a repeat of that
situation. No shopkeepers accosted her on her trips to Santa Fe. On the
contrary, they made it obvious that her credit was excellent. The name
Westerman had become one to reckon with in these parts.

Her
ponderings brought her to the plaza more quickly than she realized. She looked
up, saw Moore's Men's Shop, and started to cross the road.

"I
tell you Tommy Westerman says so, what else do you need to know!"

The
words were spoken by a strident female voice. They echoed across the plaza and
stopped Amy in mid-step. She stared in the direction they'd come from and saw a
small crowd clustered at the door of Spitz's Jewelry Shop. The onlookers were
ranchha is in town to spend their wages and have a bit of fun. They were
laughing and egging the woman on.

"You
tell him, Rosa!"

"An'
if he don't do what you want, you can hit him. Ain't nobody 'round here gonna
get the law after Mr. Westerman's woman!"

There
were more shouts from inside the shop, but Amy could distinguish none of the
words. She remained where she was, in the shade of a cottonwood tree, as if she
too had roots.

"It's
ok , boys," someone said. "Rosa's won. Spitz is givin' her the
necklace."

More
laughter, then the crowd of cowboys began to drift away. One of them spotted
Amy and whispered something to his companion. She wasn't embarrassed. She was
too deeply shocked to feel anything.

Amy
stayed where she was. In a few moments a woman left the jeweler's. She was
about twenty-five and her features identified her as a mestiza-part Indian,
part Mexican. She had black hair piled high in an elaborate arrangement, and a
voluptuous figure barely covered by a flamboyant red dress. Amy stared at her.
This Rosa moved with a kind of insolence; as if daring any man to ignore her
full breasts, her wide, swaying hips. She wore a heavy silver and turquoise
pendant, and she left the plaza without glancing in Amy's direction.

Amy
told herself that she must move. She must go to Moore's and get the shirts
Tommy wanted. Hesitantly she put one foot ahead of the other. Then she caught
sight of her reflection in a shop window. She was heavy with child. Beneath a
neat straw hat her long black hair was coiled primly at the nape of her neck.
Her maternity dress was of brown cotton, sedate and subdued, as befitted a
young matron. "Oh, my God ..." she whispered aloud. Suddenly she
wheeled round and entered a door marked by a red and blue barber's pole.

"Afternoon,
Mrs. Westerman. If you're lookin' for Mr. Westerman, I ain't seen him today.
Was he plannin' to have his hair cut?"

"No,
Joe," Amy said. "I am. I want a bob. Will you do it?"

 "Well,
sure. If you're certain you won't be sorry afterward. "

"I
won't," she said firmly. She looked pointedly at the barber's chair. The
cowhand sitting in it rose hastily. "Thank you," she said and took
his place.

Joe
Turner's scissors flashed round her head. Great handfuls of shiny hair fell
unheeded to the floor. Amy stared into the mirror. Joe had draped her in a
protective white cloth. It hid her swollen shape. She saw herself as a
wide-eyed child. A foolish, innocent child, she thought. Reared in the African
bush, tainted by the blood of a savage; a child who knows nothing of the adult
world.

"That'll
be fifty cents, Mrs. Westerman. Looks real nice, if I do say so."

She
smiled at him, but didn't trust herself to speak. Carefully she stepped over
the debris of the shearing and extracted a coin from her bag. Then she put on
her hat and went out into the sunlight. Until now she'd been as if
anesthetized. Suddenly Amy didn't think her legs would carry her. She had to
drag herself to where she'd parked the flivver, holding on to the mellow adobe
walls of the buildings of the plaza for support.

A
few months ago, when she started to show, Tommy protested about her driving.
Amy ignored him. The Model-T was her link with the outside world. Since Tommy
had bought himself a Packard, the flivver was exclusively hers. She handled it
with the same confidence she sat a horse. Now she automatically turned the
starting crank, positioned herself in the driver's seat, and released the spark
and throttle lever. Just as automatically she headed toward the alameda.

 She
was still numb when she turned north on Castillo Street. Until she pulled up
she hadn't realized where she was going. The road there was narrow and skirted
a deep arroyo. That's why she usually parked in the plaza and walked to Rick's
office. This time she didn't care. Amy left the car on the street and pushed
open the familiar green gate. Through the gathering dusk she saw Rick's nurse
approaching.

"I'm
sorry," the woman said as she walked down the path, "Don Rico's
office hours are over for today. Unless it's an emergency." Then she
recognized Amy. "Oh, it's you Senora Westerman. Are you all right?"

"Yes,
but I must see Don Rico."

"I'll
tell him you're here." If there was any message in the woman's ready
agreement, Amy was too preoccupied to notice.

"It's
all right, Elena." Rick's voice floated across the garden. "I heard."
He came toward them and the nurse looked questioning. "Go on home,"
he said quietly. "I'm sure I won't need you." His eyes searched Amy's
face, and he seemed to understand that this wasn't a medical emergency. He led
her into the house and poured a brandy.

"Drink
this. Then tell me what's happened."

The
potent spirit made Amy cough, but it warmed her and melted some of the ice in
the pit of her stomach. "I saw Rosa," she said. She studied Rick's
reaction, but there was no hint of surprise, only sadness.

"I
see. I suppose you had to, sooner or later."

"You
know about her, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And
so does everyone else in Santa Fe," Amy said. It was a statement not a
question.

Rick
shrugged hopelessly. "This is a small town; you know that." He led
her to a chair. "Sit down. I'll get us both another drink."

They
were in a pleasant high-ceilinged sitting room decorated with Rick's collection
of early Indian pottery and woven blankets. He put a match to the fife. Pinon
logs burst into flame. "The nights are growing cool," he said.
"A fire is welcome."

Amy
ignored his attempt at ordinary conversation. "Tell me about it," she
said. "When did it start?"

Rick
sighed. "Do you really want to know, querida?" He had used that
endearment with her before, but it had never sounded quite so intimate.

"I
want to know," Amy said.

"About
a year ago, I think."

"While
I was carrying Kate." Amy folded her hands over her swollen belly.

 "I'm
afraid so."

 "Where
does she live? Who is she?"

"Her
name is Rosa Mandago. Her mother is from San Felipe pueblo and her father was a
Mexican drifter. Rosa has always been wild."

"She's
beautiful."

"If
you like the type," he said with a wry smile.

 "You
haven't told me where she lives now. Not in the pueblo, surely?"

"No,
she has a small house on the outskirts of town, near the Pecos Trail."

 "On
the way to our place," Amy said. "How convenient. I take it Tommy
supports her 'small house' ..."

"I
believe so. I think he bought it for her."

"She
was in Spitz's." Amy spoke in a high childish singsong that didn't sound
like her own voice. "She bought a necklace and charged it to Tommy. There
seemed to be some disagreement. you could hear her shouting all over the plaza.
A bunch of hands were outside. They thought it was funny, so they egged her on.
I just stood and listened. Afterward I watched her leave, but she didn't look
at me."

"Stop
talking about it. Stop torturing yourself. It won't do any good. Some men just
..."

"Do
you know what I did after I saw her?" Amy interrupted. "This!" Savagely
she pulled off her hat and displayed her bobbed head.

Rick
looked at her. The dancing fire was the only light in the room. It showed red
highlights in her short, thick hair. The cropped locks framed her face and made
her brown eyes more startlingly large. "You look like an elf," he
said softly. "A beautiful wood nymph."

Tears
filled her eyes and spilled over. Rick wiped them away, then put his hands on
either side of her heart-shaped face. "Don't,
querida
," he
whispered. "Tommy Westerman isn't worth one of your tears."

She
put her hands over his, then pressed his palms against her lips, kissing first
one and then the other.

"That's 
why I'm crying," she said. "He was once. He's changed. What he is now
is my fault."

"No."
Rick shook his head vehemently. "You mustn't fall into that trap. Don't
blame yourself, Amy. No one can take responsibility for someone else's
conscience."

"It's
a long story," she said as if he hadn't spoken. "I don't want to talk
about it. I'm sorry for coming here like this. I just didn't know where else to
go."