Beverly Byrne (19 page)

She
shook her head, and he looked at her and laughed without mirth. Then he took a
long deep swallow.

15

"WHY
DO YOU SUPPOSE LOPEZ LIED?" AMY asked. She smoothed the threadbare blanket
over the cot. Her nails snagged on the shredded wool.

"Don't
know." Tommy put down his razor, wiped the last of the soap from his face,
and carried the chipped enamel basin to the door. "But I sure as hell mean
to ask."

"Don't!"
she called swiftly.

"Don't
ask?" He turned to her in amazement, still holding the basin.

"Don't
throw out the water. We have to conserve. Here, I found this bucket to collect
slops."

He
stared at the dirty water. "Am I supposed to wash in this again?"

She
managed a despairing laugh. "No, I'll use the second-hand water for
cleaning this place."

It
was a two-room adobe shed; low-ceilinged, dirt-floored, with a cot, a table,
and a chair in one of the rooms, and a rudimentary kitchen in the other. An
outhouse out back provided the only sanitary facilities, and near the
splintered and sagging front door a hollow scooped in the earth held evidence
of past cook fires. It was the home DeAngeles made for himself when he left the
rotting hacienda. Now it was theirs.

Tommy
dumped his offering into the tin bucket she indicated, and went back to stare
at the sunrise.

Finally
he turned his back on the splendor of the morning. "I'm going into Santa
Fe. Lopez will have to help get our money back."

"Do
you think he will?"

Tommy
shrugged. "I don't know. But I can threaten him with disbarment. Lawyers
can't practice if they get tossed out of their private club."

"Well,"
she said, "it's worth trying. And I'll give you a list of things to get in
Santa Fe."

"Listen,
let's talk about that some more. The hotel in town isn't bad. For God's sake,
Amy, you can't mean it about staying here."

They
had spent all the previous afternoon and most of the night arguing that
question. Now she squared her shoulders as resolutely as she had yesterday.
"I mean it," she said. "We made our bed, Tommy, and we're going
to lie in it until something better comes along. At least I am," she added
quietly. "I can't make you stay."

"I
can't very well leave you here alone. You're not offering me any real
choice."

Amy
didn't bother to answer. She went to the open trunk in the corner and looked
for something to wear.

Tommy
made a gesture of disgust, then walked off to check the gasoline tank in the
flivver. It was low, so he topped it off from the spare can on the running
board. Amy came out. He looked up from his task and stared at her in
astonishment.

"Clothes
from home," she said. "What all the ladies wear in Africa. What do
you think?"

She
was dressed in buff-colored cotton twill. The blouse was simple and
loose-fitting. She had rolled up the sleeves and left the neck unbuttoned. The
skirt had a center seam that divided it into wide-legged trousers.

"You
look like you're wearing pants. Like a man," he said.

"It's
practical. You're always having to climb over things in a place like this. Good
for riding too."

He
busied himself with some adjustment to the car. "You ride well, don't
you?"

"I've
done it all my life."

"Yeah."
He wiped a tool with an oily rag. "Good for you. Any chance of getting
some breakfast around here? Or don't you do that sort of thing when you're
dressed like one of the boys."

She
started to say something, then changed her mind. "It will be ready in a
few minutes. Tommy, you mustn't go bare-headed out here. Never. It's the first
thing people have to learn in a climate like this." She touched the
broad-brimmed straw hat she wore. It was styled like a nineteenth century pith
helmet. "I've got another one of these you can have."

"No
thanks. I don't fancy looking like a fugitive from Zulu land." He went
back inside and came out wearing his fedora. It looked ridiculous, and she bit
her lips so she wouldn't laugh.

"You
could get some clothes while you're in Santa Fe," she said over coffee and
the watery gruel she had produced in an attempt at cereal.

"I'm
not ready to dress up in cowboy clothes," he said. "You may enjoy
this charade, memsahib, but I don't." He spat out a mouthful of coffee,
and it made a dark stain on the parched earth, then disappeared. "God,
this stuff's awful."

"I'm
not much of a cook yet. I'll learn. I promise."

He
grinned at her. "Sorry I'm being so foul-tempered. It's not your fault. None
of it."

"Yes
it is," she said softly. "You wanted to see the place before we
bought it. I wouldn't wait. It is my fault. "

"You
had your reasons," Tommy said. "Good ones. Besides, Uncle Donald said
we could trust this guy Lopez. Don't worry." He smiled. "It'll all
come out ok. "

She
returned his smile gratefully and he added, "How come you had those
African clothes with you? They can't have been your idea of what to bring to a
girls' school in Boston."

"They
were. I packed all my bush clothes. Then Mummy found out and made me leave most
of them behind. She thought it terribly funny. I remember the way she
laughed." Amy picked up a pebble and fingered it. It was a perfect oval,
red brown and beautiful. "She only let me bring this one outfit as a
concession. It's the first time I've worn it."

"I
don't wonder," he said, looking at the flat-heeled sturdy boots that came
halfway up her calf. Her legs looked slim and elegant despite them. "They look
good," he admitted. "But I don't exactly see them as suitable for
Fifth Avenue."

She
stood up and gathered the soiled dishes. "I wonder if I dare wash these in
second-hand water? Maybe I can put it through some kind of strainer."

He
looked at her anxiously. "The water butt's full," he said, pointing
to the storage barrel under the roof of a nearby shed. "I checked. Don't
go drinking that used stuff."

"Of
course not."

"You're
sure you're going to be all right while I'm gone? You could at least ride into
Santa Fe with me. We'll come back right after I've seen Lopez."

"I'm
staying here," she said firmly. "There's a lot to do. I've got to
make a start."

"That
Indian must be around here somewhere." Tommy looked, but there was no sign
of Diego. He had disappeared the previous afternoon. "What about the
horses?" Tommy asked suddenly.

Amy
gazed in the direction of the corral. "Don't worry, I'll look after the
horses." She tipped out the remainder of the inedible cereal. "I know
more about them than cooking."

He
got ready to leave, and she made a list of things they needed to flesh out the
meager supplies Diego had brought on the buckboard. "How long do you think
you'll be?" she asked before he left.

"I
can probably do the trip in about three hours when I'm not following that
damned buckboard. Still, there's Lopez. And I've got to go to the bank."
He patted his breast pocket. It held the certified check that represented most
of their working capital. "We've got to get this in an account so we can
draw on it. And there's your shopping. Not until nightfall, I'd guess."

"All
right." She looked at him, then looked away, lest he see fear in her eyes.
"I'm counting on you," she said softly. "I'll be waiting."

He
flushed and jerked angrily at the Model-T's spark and throttle lever.
"Stop worrying. I'll be back."

There
was one outbuilding she hadn't inspected. It turned out to be a tackroom of
sorts. The structure was as delapidated as the rest of the ranch, but the two
saddles she found were well oiled and carefully hung. She took one from its peg
and studied it, noting the features she wasn't used to. Then she carried it
toward the corral.

The
horses were penned some distance from the main house, behind high adobe walls.
There was a door, the only piece of wood on the place not rotted and
splintering. Eight horses grazed peacefully inside. Amy selected a gray about
twelve hands high and started toward him, carrying the saddle and making
clucking noises under her breath.

"I'll
catch him for you," Diego's voice said from behind. She turned to see him
sitting on the wall.

He
looked the same as he had yesterday. He had straight short black hair framing a
round face, and he wore a faded chambray shirt and tight blue-denim trousers.
There was a beat-up Stetson in his hand. He jammed it on his head when he jumped
down into the corral. "You know how to ride?" he asked.

"Of
course."

Amy
stood her ground until Diego had hold of the horse; then she went forward. He
took the saddle from her and fitted it expertly. Neither of them said anything.

Amy
led the gray to a nearby rock, obviously used as a mounting block, and swung
easily astride. Diego continued to watch in silence. "Open the gate,
please," she said.

He
did as she bid. Amy didn't look at him. She knew well the shape of the small
drama they were enacting, and she was neither cowed nor alarmed. "When you
go to a strange land and take what belongs to another man," her father had
told her years before, "you must convince him you are worthy. And you must
do it according to his rules."

Amy
prodded the gray lightly. He moved forward. She walked him for a few yards,
getting the feel of his gait and the unfamiliar saddle. After a minute she
urged the horse into a trot; then she stopped and pulled on the reins to see
how well he backed. The gray was obedient. Amy started to canter and soon to
gallop. In minutes she had left the ranch behind. She was no longer performing
for Diego's benefit, but for her own. This was riding as she had been born to
it, wild and free, with nothing but herself and the horse and endless open
earth and sky. It had nothing in common with prancing along a bridle path in
Central Park.

She
returned in an hour. Diego was waiting for her by the corral.

He
helped her to dismount.

"You're
good," he said. "But I was afraid you'd get lost. You went pretty
far."

She
looked at him scornfully. "Not without sighting landmarks,"  she
said. "I've been doing this, in a place every bit as tough as this one, as
long as you have. Since I was born." She adjusted her hat and tucked up a
couple of strands of hair that had come loose. "Water him," she said.
"And the others while you're about it."

"I
already watered the others."

"Very
well. Take care of the gray. Come see me after you've put the saddle
away."

He
joined her while she was trying to make some order out of the scant supplies.
"You didn't bring enough food with us," she said. "And where did
you disappear to yesterday?"

"I
figured your husband didn't want me around. And I didn't bring more 'cause I
didn't think you'd stay. "

"Mr.
Westerman," she corrected. "Don't say 'your husband.' And we are
staying. Do you want to work for us?"

"Sure,
why not?"

"What
did Mr. DeAngeles pay you?"

"Sixty
dollars a month and my keep."

"We
can't afford that. Not until things are sorted out. Fifty dollars."

"And
my keep?"

She
grimaced. "That's not worth much. I'm a terrible cook. Where do you
sleep?"