Beverly Byrne (34 page)

There
was a sour taste in his mouth, and all thought of a present for Amy was gone.
Nor did he want to go home just yet. He'd be there in the morning when the
children woke. That was the only part of Christmas that mattered to him. This
year Tom Junior was three and Kate was four. They'd really appreciate the tree
and all the toys. He intended to be with them for that, but there was plenty of
time.

Suddenly
he wanted to be away from the tinsel and the hearty bonhomie of the season. He
headed for a small private club where he knew he'd find a card game. Santa Fe
had always been a gambling town; it still was.

The
club was in a dark basement devoid of any concessions to the December madness.
One table of players was full, but at another the day's big loser was happy to
give Westerman his seat.

"Five
card stud," a grizzled man said. "Jacks or better to open, no limit
on bets."

"I'm
only in for a couple of hours," Tommy said. "Win or lose I quit by
four. Have to get home and spend Christmas with my kids." The other
ranchers nodded agreement.

He
played insanely, without caution. and he won big. "Money goes to
money," one of the losers said.

Tommy
scooped the pile of bills into his pockets and rose to leave. "Yeah, ain't
it the truth."

He
climbed the stairs into cool dusk and breathed deeply to clear away the smoke
and the taste of illegal tequila smuggled over the border. Money goes to money
was probably true, but only after you had your first stake. The memory of how
he'd acquired his wouldn't leave him. It was there like a dull ache in the back
of his head, made worse by the memory of the letter he'd mailed. "I need a
couple of aspirin," he muttered. Then he realized what he really craved.

He
thought of driving out to see Rosa. She was convenient and on the way home, but
she wasn't what he wanted now. He got his car and drove to Dona Zia's.

"Merry
Christmas, Don Tommy." The woman greeted his warmly, as befit an
infrequent, but respected customer.

Tommy
hated being addressed by the Spanish title, but he let it pass. "Is Claudia
free?" he asked.

Dona
Zia laughed. "She is not free, but for you she is available."

Tommy
grinned and took out his wallet. At Dona Zia's everyone, without exception,
paid before they went upstairs. He handed over twenty dollars, then put another
twenty on top of it. "A little present for you."

"Thank
you, Don Tommy. You are very generous. Wait a moment. I will send someone to
tell her you are coming."

After
a few minutes she nodded to him. He climbed the stairs and walked past many
doors to the one numbered six. Ordinarily muffled grunts and groans of pleasure
escaped the confinement of the bedrooms and seeped into the narrow corridor.
Today the hall was quiet; neither had he seen anyone in the downstairs salon. The
piano was silent and the bar empty. On Christmas Eve the ladies of joy were
left alone, while their clients sampled the delights of family life.

Westerman
pushed open the door. Claudia was waiting for him. She was the only girl in the
house not of Mexican ancestry. Her accent was pure East-Coast. Tommy didn't
know if it was real or a careful affectation and he didn't care. She was small
and had long black hair and dark eyes and an expression of perpetual innocence.
She was, in fact, very like the Amy he'd known in Cross River. He'd spotted the
resemblance the first time he'd gone to Dona Zia's; now it was only for Claudia
that he returned.

"Merry
Christmas, Tommy," she said in her soft girlish voice. "I'm wearing
the outfit you like."

"You're
a good girl,
memsahib
," he said.

Claudia
didn't know why he called her that, or what it meant. She didn't let it trouble
her, anymore than she was troubled by his insistence that when he came to her
she wear the pale blue negligee and nightgown which he'd bought for her. Some
of the men who visited her had far crazier ideas. She waited while he
undressed, then poured them each a glass of chilled champagne. That was part of
the ritual too.

Finally
he touched her, and his touch was pleasant. He fondled and petted her as if
they were teenagers on a back porch swing. Obligingly Claudia giggled and
sighed. After a few minutes she let her fingers flutter between his legs and
she felt that he was rock hard and ready. She kissed him once more, her lips
primly closed the way he wanted them, and got up and removed the things she
wore. Then she crawled under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her neck,
and waited.

Tommy
lay down beside her and trailed his hands over her skin. It was nice and soft.
It didn't have quite the incredible silkiness he remembered, but that couldn't
be helped. When he rolled on top of her she sighed softly. Tommy fumbled for a
moment, then pushed himself inside her. She didn't help, because he'd told her
never to do that.

He
had learned control over the years. That part wasn't like the night in the
hotel in Niagara Falls. Now he used his skill to tempt her into betrayal. His
thrusts were slow and ever deeper. She was small and tight, and shudders of
pleasure passed through his body. Claudia did not respond. She lay absolutely
motionless and compliant beneath him, the way he hoped it would be. When he
grasped her shoulders and pumped his seed into her in rapid staccato bursts,
she still didn't move. '''You're a good girl,
memsahib
," he
whispered after it was over.

He
gave Claudia fifty dollars out of the poker winnings and wished her a merry
Christmas before he left.

Outside
it was dark except that small fires burned everywhere and turned the night into
a glittering fantasy. It was a Santa Fe tradition. On Christmas Eve people made
little pyramids of brushwood in front of their houses to "light the way of
the Christ Child."

The
fragrant scent of pinon filled the air, and sputtering flames reached toward
the vast star-filled sky. Tommy walked toward his car. He passed an open church
door and saw an altar banked with poinsettias and a manger scene arranged
nearby. For a moment he stood looking. Behind the altar a light burned steadily
beside the tabernacle. It appeared to him as something he was seeing across a
wide chasm in the earth, an abyss he could not cross. He remembered all the
midnight masses of years gone by, and he thought of the opulence of St.
Ignatius, and of the simple little church in Cross River where the names of
Jessie and Roland Norman were carved on the wall. Then he turned and walked
away.

25

IN
MARCH 1922 THE DROUGHT ABATED. THE RAIN WAS not as heavy as they needed, or of
sufficient duration, but it was something. Rick arrived at the ranch at eight
in the morning of what promised to be the first dry day in a week.

"What
are you doing here at this hour?" Amy asked him in astonishment. "You
must have left Santa Fe before sunrise. What about your patients?"

"I
left at five," he told her. "I couldn't sleep. I put a sign on the
door saying I was taking the day off. I'm entitled to a holiday."

She
grinned. "I'm glad you're here. What shall we do?"

"Go
back to Chaco Canyon," he said unhesitatingly. "Five years ago we
promised ourselves a return trip. It's time we took it. Just the two of
us." He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Sometimes Amy went
out of her way to avoid being alone with him. This time Rick had reached a
decision during a long sleepless night. He had no intention of bringing the
children on this outing.

Amy
made no protest. She wore a maroon silk dressing gown tied tightly at the
waist. When she moved it betrayed enticing glimpses of skin. "Give me ten
minutes to dress," she said.

"I
wish you'd undress instead," Rick answered softly.

Amy
acted as if she hadn't heard. "I won't be long," she said. "Go
say hello to the kids. They're in the kitchen with Maria."

She
returned, wearing a denim skirt and chambray blouse which made her look like a
fetching feminine cowboy. Rick was on the patio with Kate and little Tom. They
were laughing together under the scented shade of the gum tree. It had bloomed
in the rain three days earlier. Just that morning Amy watched the sunrise set
its flowers afire. Now a young maid was sweeping away the fallen blossoms.

"It
lasts such a short time," Amy said wistfully. "When the war ended I
wrote to my father's old lawyer in Africa. I wanted some seeds of a flame tree.
He never answered."

"Too
bad,
pobrecita
," Rick said gently. "Perhaps the old lawyer has
also died. It happens to people as well as flowers." He scooped up a
handful of the faded petals that littered the patio and let them sift through
his fingers. Tom Junior giggled and tried to catch them in his pudgy
three-year-old hands.

The
morning was cool, freshened by rain and bright with promise. They were easy
with each other, and had no need to talk. The familiar scenery rolled by the
open top of Rick's new car. It was another Pierce-Arrow. This one was called a
runabout and had room for only two passengers.

They
used Amy's flivver when the children were with them. The Runabout, however, had
all the latest features. It boasted hydraulic brakes, and a convertible roof
that could be folded away as it was now. Its lines were rakish, symbolic of the
times, and they were emphasized by the spare wheel set jauntily atop the rear
fender. The car was painted sunny yellow. "It's your best color,"
Rick had said when he bought it. Today Amy wore a yellow blouse. It was
astonishing how much pleasure she took in finding little ways to please him.

At
Pueblo Bonito a few men were working on part of the wall. Restoration had been
slow since the war, but steady. "I'm so glad they're doing
something," Amy said. "I'd almost forgotten how magnificent it
is."

They
wandered deep into the valley, far from the laborers. The silence was broken
only by the occasional call of a bird, or the soft papery sound of a scurrying
lizard. Amy sensed a change in Rick's mood. Earlier he'd been relaxed. Now his
quiet was laced with tension. She darted a sideways glance at his profile. His
rugged good looks hadn't changed in the years she'd known him. But today his jaw
was so set that he looked as if he were clenching his teeth. "If
something's wrong, you'd better tell me," she said finally. There was a
knot of fear in her stomach.

Rick
stopped walking. "It's the end, Amy," he said quietly. "Or the
beginning. That's up to you. I only know I can't go on like this."

She
couldn't answer. Her cheeks grew hot with more than the heat of the sun.

"I
love you," he continued. "I never thought it possible I could love a
woman so much. But I won't be used. Not even by you."

"I
never meant to use you. Surely you know that."

"I
know that you take, but you don't give," he said. His voice sounded
strangled. "You've never even told me what you feel. What am I? A
convenient escort? A salve for your pride?"

"Oh,
God ..." She moaned as if he'd struck her. "You don't know me. You
only think you do. You don't know what I've done."

"Then
tell me!" He turned and gripped her shoulders. He was shaking her and her
straw hat fell off and her short dark hair bounced around her face. "Tell
me, damn it! What terrible secret are you hiding? Why do you insist on staying
with a man who treats you like dirt?"

"I
can't talk about it." She forced the words out through chattering teeth.

Always
before he had drawn back when he saw how he was upsetting her. This time he
wouldn't. "No! You've used that excuse for the last time. Either you tell
me everything, the whole story, or I walk away now."

She
started to sob, and he relented sufficiently to lead her out of the sun into
the shade of the building. There was a pile of stone slabs waiting to be used
by the restorers. Rick made her sit on them and stood over her.
"Talk," he said. She still wept.

"Here."
He held out his handkerchief. "Blow your nose. Then start telling me the
truth. It's the last chance for us, Amy," he warned. "I mean every
word I say. There's no going back, not this time."

"Tommy's
brother Luke is a priest," she stammered. "Before he joined the
Dominicans I was in love with him. He loved me too, but he wouldn't admit it
until it was too late." The words poured out like water rushing over a
broken dam. "I married Tommy to spite Luke. He loved me, but I didn't love
him. I only knew that I couldn't have Luke, so I wanted to hurt him. I never
even thought about what that would do to Tommy."

She
paused for breath. "Go on," Rick said. "That can't be all of
it."

"Before
he took his first vows Luke came to see me. I was married by then, but Luke
said we'd made a terrible mistake, that he'd leave the priesthood and I would
get a divorce and we'd go away together. Only I was expecting a baby and I knew
neither of us would ever be able to forget Tommy. Not with his child always
there to remind us. Luke went back to the priory and took his vows. Then I saw
the advertisement for Santo Domingo."

She
told him about her inheritance and how at first Tommy didn't want to buy the
ranch. "Then he wanted to inspect it before we bought it. I wouldn't
listen to anything. I just wanted to get as far away from Luke as possible. The
war was on and I couldn't go home to Africa, so I was determined to come west.
When I lost the baby Tommy blamed himself, and because of that we bought Santa
Domingo."

"Was
it his fault you miscarried?"

She
shook her head and pressed the handkerchief to her face. It smelled of Rick,
and she held it very tight. "No. We had a fight about Luke. Tommy accused
me of wanting his brother to be the baby's father. I denied it, but it was
true. Tommy knew. Then I fell, and he didn't realize I was hurt and he stormed
out of the house. "

Too
long had Amy hidden from the past. She couldn't stop now that she'd started.
She explained about their disappointment when they first saw Santo Domingo, and
the way Tommy finally taught himself to ride and make a success of it.

"That
should have been the happy ending," Rick said. "Why wasn't it?"
His tone didn't soften. "Keep talking, I want it all."

"Tommy
knew about Luke coming to see me that time after we were married. I never told
him, but he knew. He must have wondered and wondered why I never mentioned it.
Don't you see? It confirmed all his worst fears."

"Ok,
so he knew you still loved his brother, even after your marriage. I still don't
see how things got the way they are between the two of you. When you were first
married, did he drink then? Run around with other women?"

"No,
nothing like that. It was only after I ..." She swallowed hard. This part
of it she could not tell him. "I can't," she moaned. "Let me be,
Rick. Please, I can't ..."

He
took hold of her shoulders again. They felt pitifully fragile beneath his
hands. "Yes, you can," he said. He searched her face for the missing
pieces of the tale. "What about sex?" he demanded. "How was that
between you and Tommy?"

Amy
shivered. "At first it was normal," she whispered.

"Normal!
What does that mean, for God's sake? And what do you mean 'at first'?"

"After
a while . . ." She moistened her lips and tried again. "It got so
..."

"Tell
me!" He shook her once, fiercely, then waited.

"I
couldn't stand for him to touch me," she said in a small voice. "I
couldn't help it. I tried to be a good wife, but I couldn't hide my feelings.
Tommy knew. He said I was still dreaming of Luke and he was right." She
let the humiliating admission slide into the space between them, then rushed to
cover it. "He said it was because I was part Indian. I've never told you,
but I had an Indian grandfather. That's maybe why I'm so unnatural. I never
wanted you to find out. I didn't want to see you look at me the way Tommy did,
not ever."

Rick
stared at her in horrified disbelief. "You little fool," he
whispered. "I don't know who's crazier, you or Tommy."

She
didn't answer, just kept crying. He crushed her to him and murmured
endearments. "
Mi amor, mi corazon
. It's nothing like you think.
You're the victim of ignorance." She was sobbing as if her heart would
break, great shuddering sobs that made her tremble from head to foot, and he
knew that she could not yet comprehend the meaning of his words.

The
sun had crept round and destroyed the shade in which they were sheltering. Rick
looked for some place cooler to take her and spied the opening of a
kiva
.
He gathered her into his arms, carrying her as if she were a small child.

"I
want to show you something beautiful," he said. "Almost as beautiful
as you are." He kissed her cheeks and her forehead and her eyes as he
walked across the empty courtyard. He stopped kissing her only long enough to
negotiate the descent into the underground cavern.

"This
is the place I promised to show you," he said. "It's the heart of the
Pueblo Indian world." They were in a vast pit dug out of the earth. Rick
spoke to her in a low voice, more as a calmative than anything else. She didn't
seem to hear. "First the
kivas
were only the scenes of religious
ceremonies," he said. "Eventually they became the place where all
social life of the pueblo centered."

This
one was a circle about seventy feet in diameter. It was lit by a series of
holes in the ceiling, and kept from collapse by four massive timbers. There
were many fire pits and stone benches, and numerous niches in the walls. Once
they'd housed statues of gods and saints. But even denuded of the pulsing life
it had formerly know, the
kiva
remained enormously impressive and
haunted by an air of mystery.

"Look
around you,
querida
," Rick said. "This place was built
centuries ago. Can you still think all wisdom is contained in the brain of
Tommy Westerman? Or that there's some shame in having Indian blood?"

Amy
studied his face as if the only answers she wanted were to be found there. Rick
realized that she was emotionally exhausted, that all her strength had been
used in the effort to tell him the truth. He was still carrying her. Now he
laid her gently on the cool earthen floor. He knelt beside her and bent and
kissed her mouth. When he lifted his head she started to say something, but he
put his fingers over her lips. "Don't speak," he said. "Just
close your eyes and trust me."