“Let’s ride over yonder and take a breather. It’s too hot.”
We walked our horses, occasionally ducking our heads to avoid a low branch. There were several deep pools of shade, and a faint stir of wind was coming off the shoulder of the mountain. Our shirts were soaked, and when the wind touched them, it was mighty cooling.
We stepped down from the saddle and Owen Hardin took his rifle and walked out to the farthest point of shade and hunkered down to keep watch on the trail. We all took our time in sizing up our situation. There was no protection where we were, except for the occasional fallen trees or the tree trunks themselves. “Well take it easy,” I suggested. “No use killing ourselves or our horses. If you ask me, they’re holed up someplace, too.”
Monte stretched out on the thin grass and put his hat over his eyes. The water in my water bag was cooled by evaporation, and it tasted good. I took only a swallow.
“After sundown,” I said, “we’ll move on. Catch some rest.” Turning to Brodie, I said, “You want to give Owen a break in about an hour?” “Sure.”
With my back against a big oak, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, wishing for another breeze through my wet shirt. Finney was close by. “Couldn’t help but hear what Hardin was sayin’ last night,” he said. “Do you reckon that was your big man from near the palm springs?” “Isn’t likely there’d be two such. Not so close together.” There was silence for a while and then Finney asked, “Are you goin’ back that way?”
“Uh-huh. I love that country, Jake, and there’s nothing holdin’ me in Los Angeles.”
“Nothing?” He glanced at me.
I thought of Meghan again. “No, Jake, there’s nothing to keep me. I’m going back to the desert. I don’t want to have to kill anybody, and there’s nothing keeping me, nothing at all.”
Forty-four
For as long as she could remember, Aunt Elena had been rising at daybreak. She supposed it was her father’s influence. Although he had been an hidalgo with vast estates in both Spain and Morocco, it had been his custom to ride each morning with the rising sun. Often, as a small girl, she had ridden with him. Her breakfast was frugal. Habitually she drank one cup of mate, a tea imported from the Argentine, and ate one tortilla and a piece of fruit. She supervised the house of Don Isidro, although she and her brother had never been close. Each Saturday morning she checked her accounts as she had learned from Miss Nesselrode. She kept a careful record in one small book of what she was doing with her money, and on another page of the book she listed possible investments. She had learned from Miss Nesselrode but now went her own way, made her own plans, and in a time when much was growing and expanding, her small investments accumulated.
Although she went to mass regularly, she did not consider herself a religious woman. She loved the quiet of the church, the voices of the priests who officiated, and the subdued rustling of garments. Often she took walks along the zanjas or under the oaks. She loved the tranquillity of those moments alone. Occasionally she was joined by a young priest, Father Jaime. They were, she suspected, kindred spirits. It was a term she had heard but had never applied to anyone until meeting Father Jaime. On this morning she had walked alone, and upon returning to the house decided upon another cup of tea. Scarcely had she seated herself when she heard the jingle of spurs. For an instant, caught in the act of pouring, she hesitated, and a flicker of annoyance touched her eyes and mouth. She knew the step, the hard-heeled arrogance.
Don Federico, dressed for riding, came into the room. “Ah, Tia! You rise early?”
“As always.”
“I was not aware.”
“Of course.”
He gave her a sharp glance, but she was replacing the teapot. She did not offer him a cup.
“It will soon be over now.” He spoke with satisfaction. “Is anything ever really over? Do things ever really end? No lingering aftereffects?”
He shrugged. “Johannes Verne has ridden into the desert to recover some stolen horses.” His eyes were upon her. “He will not come back. The stain will be erased.”
She tasted her tea. “Yes?”
“This time it will be finished.”
“Have you talked to Don Isidro? Is he involved?” He made an impatient gesture. “He grows old! He is too slow to act, and we could not wait! He thinks too much, and sometimes I am afraid he weakens. No matter. I have done it.”
“You assume too much. Don Isidro wishes to be consulted.” “He wavers and hesitates. Besides, I know what he wishes done, and am I to sit idly by while this … this peon lives?” He turned on her suddenly. “You have never liked me, Tia.”
“What is there to like?” she asked mildly.
He flushed and his eyes turned mean. “You shall see! When I inherit—!”
“Ah?”
“Who else? They are gone. Consuelo is gone. Alfredo is gone. Now this other one, he who could never inherit anyway, he will be gone. Who else is there?” Her shrewd old eyes taunted him. “I shall be here,” she said gently.
He made an impatient gesture. “You are a woman. What can you do?”
“I can inherit. What will you do? Kill me, too?”
He stalked across the room, standing with his back to her. “You need not worry.
You shall have this place. I shall return to Spain.
“To Spain, do you hear? Who would live in this place when he can live in Madrid? Or Rome. Or Paris. I have thought it all out! I shall live in style! In elegance! Bah! What do I care what you do here? All but this house I shall sell.”
“Don Isidro is still alive. Have you plans for him, too?”
He shrugged. “He is old … old.”
“He is sixty-seven. His father lived to be ninety-five, his grandfather to eighty-nine. Don Isidro may live thirty years more.” Don Federico made an impatient gesture and strolled to the arch, where he could look into the patio, but he made no reply.
“He could live another thirty years, Federico, and you would be an old man then … if you live so long.”
“You talk too much.”
“If I talk, it is to stir some grain of sense in you. Do you not see? You dream. You cannot win. You build castles. You cannot defeat Johannes, as you could not defeat his father.
“You wished to marry Consuelo to ensure that you would inherit, but she would not have you. Then she married Zachary Verne.”
“A common sailor! A peon!”
“A man.”
“A man! Am I not a man?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Who knows?”
He took a step toward her, his face twisted with fury. “Someday I will-!” She showed him the small pistol in her sewing bag. “Be careful, Federico. I do not like you very much.”
“You talk the fool.”
“When your mother died, Don Isidro provided for you, sent you to school, treated you as one of us.”
“And I hated you! All of you! Why should you have so much and me nothing?” “What is so special about you, Federico? Is there any reason why you should have anything?”
He brushed it aside. “What is so special about you, then? Or Don Isidro?” She poured tea into her cup. “Not very much, Federico. Really, not very much. In Spain we are of the nobility, but what is that? It means that we had an ancestor or two who were bold men, energetic men. One fought against the Moors and so became wealthy.
“He was a poor lad who helped a tanner with his hides, and when war came he proved a good man with a sword. He killed a Moor and took his armor, weapons, and horse. He took a gold chain from his neck and a ring from his finger. He captured another Moor, and the man was ransomed, and our ancestor was no longer a poor peon, but a young man of wealth.
“He rode his horse to war, and with the money from the ring which he sold, he hired several men-at-arms who followed him. He fought with great strength, and perhaps with great courage, and was made a noble. He married well and his son was a captain in the armada, commanding a warship. He was one of the few to bring his ship back intact. Largely, I think, because he avoided battle and fled to a safe harbor at the first sign of a storm. His grandson was a skillful manager of their estates, and what he inherited, he doubled.” “So?”
“The one who began it all was a peasant. You have nothing, so why not do something yourself? Many of those whom you respect are the sons and daughters of leather-jacketed soldiers.”