Dust Devil (11 page)

Lario leaned from the saddle to draw the young woman up before him. He saw the compressed lips that only that morning had willingly offered him their warmth. Was she once again reverting to the grand lady of Cambria?

Mentally he shrugged. It was no more than he had expected. He had played the part of the stag for her. And yet he had to admit she had surprised him through the duration of the one night. There had been no false reserve that he had encountered among some of the women of the
Dine’e
, nor the dignified facade that had masked the wantonness of the Spanish women who, he surmised, had been intrigued by his race.

No, the young woman had behaved differently. Something in him had responded to her spirit. She had reached beyond the needs of his body
— and it disturbed him. He was angry that he should feel anything for the Anglo woman... and angry that he should feel the old hurt at the white man’s disdain.

Enui
—it was well she was returning, as he had known she would. He had seen the light in her eye at the mention of her son. And he had sensed in her the need for her home— for the land, as if she drew her strength from it even as he did.

When she pulled away at contact with him, he said harshly, "You can tell your husband the dust storm delayed our return.”

She sat rigidly astride the horse, keeping her eyes on the horizon before her. The wind had fallen at sunrise, and the air had cleared to a crystal sharpness. "So much sky,” she murmured, then as if coming back to the present, tilted her head upward so that she could see Lario’s unyielding eyes. "Don’t be judging me,” she said, her voice as harsh as his. "You know only what you see and hear — and that is not enough!”

Their anger was their defense. "I know what kind of woman barters her body for a house.”

"And what kind of man tries to be something he’s not?” she snapped. "No man at all!”

She
could feel the anger rising off his skin like heat off a curling iron, and she was half afraid he might kill her then and half hopeful he would. She saw no way out of the whirlpooling dilemma.

She knew she should be weighted down with shame. She had sinned in adultery. Yet the people of that primitive, virginal land could condone that, she knew. For life in the Territory was lived on increments of dangerous seconds, plateaus of higher, sustained emotions where nothing was more important than surviving the next moment
. . . and everything was important — from the overpowering fragrance of the pink verbena strewn like a huge rug over the desert in spring to the solace offered by another human. As long as that solace was not sought with an Indian. For that was admitting the Indian as a person with feeling . . . and that was forbidden.

And to love Lario was forbidden. Not just by her own race, but even by himself. His beautiful lips that fascinated her so had offered no words of love, only a temporary haven from the world to which she had to return.

She steeled herself to face Stephen. Sitting on the stallion before Lario, she rode down the street of Cambria’s village, her chin held high. Tentative smiles mixed with curious stares greeted her. When Lario halted his Arab before the veranda steps, she slipped down off the horse and went into the house without a last look or parting word.

She went directly to Stephen’s office, not even stopping to wash up or repair her gown, which revealed one long leg and the curve of one breast. Stephen looked up when she entered and slowly raised the whiskey glass to his lips to give himself time to digest the sight of the woman who stood so rebelliously before him. The proud tilt of her chin, the tumbled hair, the blazing eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, and she said, "Don’t make excuses to me, Stephen. I am not interested.”

"Not making any excuses, my dear.” He rose and came around his desk to stand before her. His breath was foul with the whiskey as he sneered into her face. "Understand me now, Rosemary. ’Tis marrying you I did for one reason only — to breed! You’re a prize ewe or heifer I be ordering for breeding —t o produce a line of pure Anglo blood to rule Cambria. Nothing more!”

She
turned away and went to stand at the window that looked out on the gristmill Stephen was having built. But she saw nothing. She longed only to flee, to clap her hands over her ears and escape the cutting words. Just as she had longed to cry out
No!
to every mile that had brought her closer to Cambria . . . to turn to Lario and beg him let her stay with him in his pueblo. But fear and pride and so many other things forbade her. It was not she whom Lario loved and, yes, needed. And she saw again the lovely dark eyes of Adala.

No, her home was there at Cambria. It was the only home she had, and she would not relinquish it. No more than she could relinquish her son. Her words were brisk when she turned back to Stephen. "With Jamie you have your dynasty. I only request
— nay, demand — two things. Leave me alone . . . and leave the children alone. There will be no more children as servants in the Castle!”

The whiskey glass shattered against the wood-paneled wall only a fraction from her head. "You dare dictate terms to me!” he roared.

"I dare and I do!” Rosemary advanced on Stephen with clenched fists. "Because, for one, you will want no tales that Stephen Rhodes’s wife forsook him to besmirch our son’s inheritance.”

Stephen’s blunt hands came up to grab Rosemary about her neck. "I could easily silence any tales
— ”

"About your perverted cavorting?” She laughed and shoved his hands from her. "Like all tyrants, Stephen, you are a man of great imagination. And like all tyrants you tend to overlook the small things
— but ’tis those small things that can collapse an empire. I keep your accounts, Stephen. Remember?”

It had taken
her only a few months of going through the books to derive a clear picture of Stephen’s finances. In effect he had a mortgage on everything in Cambria. By simply demanding payment of the debts on his books he could take every ranch and waterhole and every head of stock within two hundred miles. But there was not enough cash market for anything. And any concerted effort on his creditors, namely her uncle and a few others, could force Stephen to sell his holdings, drive him out of his kingdom, Cambria.

"My uncle, Stephen, is an astute man.
I have written him regarding my concern about your books.”  A lie but Stephen wouldn’t know.  “My untimely death might precipitate his financial backing to be withdrawn. If he were able to persuade the rest of your creditors to follow suit . . .” She let her words trail off, hoping Stephen would accept her bluff.

She could only count on the fact that Stephen, though he could never love Cambria as she did, wanted it just as greatly. For
her husband Cambria was a symbol of the power and wealth he had coveted as a child of the mines.

Hi
s jaws clenched, and his eyes blazed, but his words were deadly calm. "I be wanting a loving wife and mother for Cambria — at least as far as the outside world is concerned. If ever it appears otherwise, then you be worthless to me.”

She
understood all too well. "Then we are in agreement.”

Over the next few weeks
she tried to ignore whatever thoughts she had of Lario. She would not let herself admit to shame or guilt. Yet whenever she happened to see him, a hot flush would rush to her skin. She remembered too vividly the warm touch of copper skin beneath her fingers, the corded hardness of his stomach and thighs, and the midnight eyes that made love to her as passionately as did his gentle, knowing fingers.

Those few times she did see him
— when he came to the Castle on business or she passed him on her daily visits to the now-completed one-room schoolhouse — his eyes gazed at her in a strictly impersonal manner, as if the two of them had never come together in an intimate act of nature.

Once, when she had stopped by the store to return the ledgers, she gathered her courage and asked Miguel what he knew of Lario. The old man paused in shelving the adzes she
had ordered. He squinted his rheumy eyes and scratched at his thatch of white hair. "That one, Lario, I remember more than the others. He is of the
Tahtchini
Navajos. When the DeVegas had the land—I was younger then,
Senora
, and more patient—the
nino
s used to come here for candy sticks. All but Lario. He would stand and watch, but when I held out a stick for him—that one would stubbornly shake his head. But I could see the hunger for the
dulce
in those black eyes of his.”

"Where is Lario’s father?”

Miguel made the sign of the cross. "One day when Lario was maybe four, he was in the fields with his father when
los Rurales Mexicanos
— lawless Mexican soldiers they were — tried to take him to sell in Saltillo. He fought and kicked and yelled.  When the father attempted to stop them, they killed him, but that Lario escaped through the tall grass.”

The old man shrugged. "After that, I do not know, Senora. Some say a Man of God took Lario with him to a place called Ramah. When Lario Santiago returned, he was the man you see now.”

Miguel’s grandson scampered into the store, ending the conversation between the two adults with his raucous, whistling imitation of a cottonwood dove. Rosemary tousled Pedro’s thick hair and thanked Miguel before leaving.

She felt she knew little more about Lario than before.

CHAPTER 13

She
now hired all the house servants, mostly men and women from the village. Stephen never acknowledged her existence unless they entertained, which was now not as often, as he spent more and more time in Santa Fe forging his political ties.

He was, however, always polite and unfailingly courteous to her, whether they had as a guest only one old codgery prospector who chanced upon the Castle in his wanderings or fifteen tired, rough, trail riders.

For the Mexican celebrations of All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days on the thirty-first of October and the first of November, Stephen did suggest a small dinner party. Grant came in unexpectedly from Fort Sumner that afternoon, and she persuaded him to stay for dinner. But the way he looked at her when she greeted him, the way his eyes followed her, made her uneasy. It was as if he were aware that she had had more than one man, as if the scarlet letter were indeed etched on her forehead.

She left him with Stephen and Jiraldo, relieved to escape his watchful gaze, and joined Rita to sit on the veranda swing and watch the two children play, for though November was already upon them, the days were unusually warm and lovely.

"I think Inez will make a good mother,” Rosemary said, sipping at her fruit punch as her gaze rested on Rita’s two-year-old who tried to help Jamie walk.

But Jamie, almost a year now, wanted to crawl. Shouting "Ma—Ma,” he fell to his pudgy knees and began crawling toward Rosemary. She was glad Stephen was closeted with Jiraldo and Grant in his office. Too many times she had seen Stephen’s dark frown when Jamie refused to walk.

"He’s not yet a year!” she pointed out at these times. "Don’t rush him!”

"Jiraldo and Rita’s daughter walked at ten months,” Stephen would counter.

"But girls mature earlier than boys, Stephen. Do not be so demanding with Jamie.”

"I’ll not raise a weakling. I had the roughest life possible, and ’tis a better man it made of me.”

The first time Stephen had brought this up, Rosemary had turned away, incredulous that Stephen should so deem himself. After that it was all she could do to keep from sneering when their argument reached that point.

Still, she wondered if she was being too protective of her only child. Jamie was such a darling baby, soft and round, with auburn hair and hazel eyes that took in everything with such a solemn expression. It was impossible not to want to cuddle
him.

"Inez adores Jamie,” Rita was saying. "Forever she pesters me to bring her to see him.” The woman stopped as her daughter toddled to her and offered the little girl a sip from her glass. Beneath a cap of blue-black ringlets peered the softest brown eyes. She had inherited her father’s tall, spare frame— a promise she would not run to corpulence as most Mexican women did in later years. With her gentle but awkward movements she reminded Rosemary of a fawn.

"Your daughter is so lovely,” Rosemary said. "I envy you.”

"And how I envy you,
mi amiga
."

"Me?”

"Si, your own beauty. You are so — willowy, I think it was Libby said once.”

A rueful smile curved Rosemary’s lips. "I think she meant skinny.”

"And now more than ever you have
chisp
a, you sparkle. Your cheeks — ”

"Are lovelier than wild roses,” a voice behind the two women supplied.

Rosemary turned about in her swing to see Grant standing at the door. In his blue military uniform he always looked so handsome that she found it difficult not to be swept off her feet by his continued flattery and charm — until she looked into the eyes. Blue rock.

"Why don’t you join us for some sangria, Grant?” she said. Grant took a seat in one of the leather-tooled chairs, and Rosemary clapped her hands, bringing a Mexican man of forty to take her order in Spanish. He returned with a
jarra
of the native beverage and a clean glass on a silver tray, and Rosemary wondered if the tray was one of those fashioned by Lario in his spare time.