Dust Devil (22 page)

"What are you two talking about?” Libby asked
, and Rosemary knew Libby suspected the intimacy that had existed between the her husband and Rosemary, that seemed to still exist in spite of Rosemary’s haggard appearance.

"An old friend,” Grant said, and for the first time Rosemary actually liked Grant. Perhaps there existed a spark of compassion in Stephen’s
protégé after all. It gave her hope.

Now that Stephanie’s stomach was full, she began to look around at the strange surroundings, her eyes wide with interest but wary at the same time. And her eyes crossed the inquisitive gaze of Wayne, only to come back. The boy, four months younger than she, was the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld. Below golden curls that seemed to her as bright as the sun were vivid blue eyes in the pale face that made her want to reach and touch them to see if such a color was real.

When he continued to eye her steadily, she became uneasy, wondering if there were something wrong with her. Had she sprouted antlers as old War Blanket had promised she would if she spoke with untruths? Stephanie stuck out her tongue at the boy and grinned at the frown that suddenly crinkled his face.

Losing interest in him, she finished inventorying the room with its hard, colorless walls, then turned to her mother, asking in a very grown-up tone, "Where is my father?”

"Your father’s in Santa Fe,” Grant said.

With a start Rosemary realized Stephanie meant Lario. She forestalled her daughter from any further questions, saying, "Stephanie, ’tis bedtime.”

"But, mama, I just woke up.” However, her lids were having a difficult time staying open. She yawned, stretched, and wandered off into the other room without any further protest.

"Stephen won’t return to Cambria for two more weeks, I understand,” Grant said. "Why don’t you stay with us? I’ll send a courier to Cambria to leave word for Stephen to come for you.”

Rosemary saw Libby grimace at Grant’s invitation to stay with them. But that did not make any difference to her.

She had two weeks to make Grant change the orders regarding his captive.

CHAPTER
23

"It must have been awful for you, dear,” the quartermaster’s wife ventured. Her protruding eyes darted a furtive glance at Rosemary and quickly returned to fix their attention on the blanket she quilted.

"It was difficult at times, Mrs. Pettigrew,”
she said in a noncommittal tone. She jerked on the thread of the gown’s hem she was letting out. The dress, Libby’s, would still be too short, but it would serve its purpose for the rest of the week.

One week left. Dear God, what was she going to do?

Molly Mallory, the fort’s washerwoman, put down her patchwork. Her small mouth pursed in indecision, then opened to blurt out, "Were you — that is, did they . . .” She broke off and looked about the sewing circle for assistance.

"No, I was not raped.” Rosemary replied, each word falling like a drumbeat in the silence of the avid listeners.

"You hear about them doing such horrible things to women,” Libby said, unwilling to let the subject drop.

"I suppose so,” Rosemary said. Her stony gaze went from one lady to the next in the circle. "But then I personally saw atrocities committed against the Indians by our glorious soldiers. Things like
. ..” And she halted, seeing the skepticism that claimed the women before she had even begun. She realized they did not want to know. Surely they had seen for themselves the suffering the Indians were enduring right there on the Bosque Redondo Reservation.

The memory was clear enough in her mind from when Grant had driven her out to the reservation earlier that week. The insects that swarmed in spite of the cold, almost devouring the babies. There was no game, no food except the unfit maggoty beef issued them by the Indian Agent
— and Rosemary gritted her teeth at that thought, for it was Stephen who supplied the beef to the Indian Agent.

The Navajo and Apache tried to be farmers, like the Pueblo, but they were pastoral
— sheepherders and cattlemen — and the worms ate their corn. Grant mentioned that the trading post Stephen had established on the reservation was selling liquor; and if that was not bad enough, smallpox had broken out, so that Grant refused to let her go among the Indians in search of Guayo and Lario in spite of her protest that she had already had the dreaded disease.

Guayo had disappeared from the reservation several months earlier and no one knew if he had succumbed to the disease and famine or if he had escaped. But Grant had located Lario from among the eight thousand Indians and had summoned him to the trading post. And that was the worst of all.

The trading post was set on a flat, bare buttress of sand and rock. It was an L-shaped, one-story house of adobe and stone with a corrugated iron roof. Around it was nothing green. Behind it was a corral with six-foot-high sides.

With Grant,
she had waited inside, nervously warming herself before the pot-belly black-iron stove sitting in a sandbox that also served as a spittoon. Grant had dismissed the old clerk so that the two of them were alone when they heard the smart knock at the door. She jumped. The door opened and a grizzled soldier saluted Grant. "I have the prisoner here, sir.”

"That’ll be all, private. Dismissed.”

She had watched the doorway, unaware of the bleak wind that swept through it to rustle her hoop skirts. Her heart had pounded like a locomotive. She had heard him before she saw him. With shuffling steps Lario stepped into the doorway. Iron clamps riveted his ankles and wrists.

"Your days of striking and running are at an end, Santiago,” Grant
had said, and she had seen the delight play on his handsome face, delight that he had at last outmaneuvered the Indian.

Lario
had said nothing, his bronze face maintaining its Indian
sang-froid
. Nevertheless, she had recognized with a start the deep hate that flared in the eyes that were as black as the smoke of hell.

And the hate was directed at herself!

Seeing her at Grant’s side, he believed she had betrayed him. Suddenly she could think of nothing to say, nothing that she had wanted Grant to hear. "Could we be alone for a few minutes, Grant?”

One blond brow arched. "A lovers’ tryst? I suppose so. I’ll wait outside.”

"No,” Lario had said, speaking for the first time. "It is ended.” He had turned his back on them and begun to move away. She had opened her mouth to call out, and Grant warned, "Don’t, Rosemary. At least leave him his pride.”

She
looked around the sewing circle now and said, "I’m sure you would be more interested in figures and facts than my own personal observations.” Her gaze halted on Libby’s face. "Your husband informed me that the United States government has spent nearly thirty million dollars so far in its war to exterminate the Apache and Navajo and has actually succeeded in exterminating less than two hundred, including women, children, and old men. Two hundred out of seven thousand. Your tax money is being wasted.”

* * * * *

As Rosemary tasted the spicy potato soup that evening at dinner, she became aware that Grant’s gaze followed her. She had looked in Libby’s tarnished mirror that morning and was almost satisfied with what she saw. Another week of forced eating and her weight would be back to normal; no more protruding pelvic bones or prominent ribs exposed. The gauntness and haggard look were easing into supple and firm lines. Before dinner she had pinched some color into her cheeks.

Now, if no one looked into her eyes and saw the numbness that grew in her heart like mold in the dark, they would never suspect her life was nothing more than an existence. It could never be more if Lario were executed.

One week left.

"Grant,” she began. "There are people, Apaches, I wish to say good-bye to before I return to Cambria. Could you arrange for me to visit the reservation once more?”

The way Grant’s gaze moved over her, her feminine instinct told her he would accede to her request. If only Libby would not ask to go along. Rosemary held her breath, but Libby relieved her fears, saying, "I don’t see how you can stand to be around those filthy people. All those flies — and the odor. It’s just horrible!” She pressed her linen napkin to her nose as if she could actually smell the reservation’s stench.

Surprisingly, Rosemary found herself almost enjoying the ride in the spring wagon the next day
. . . if she did not let herself think about the task that lay ahead of her. Since the March air was brisk, she wore a woolen shawl, but there was the hint of spring everywhere. The sun burst forth like a glorious yellow daisy. Froths of wild plum blossoms relieved the majestic desolation of the russet-hued landscape. There was a primal charm about the country that served Rosemary’s purpose.

Grant had driven from the fort, out
of sight of the watch-towers, and then she saw it — the barn that was really nothing more than a lean-to. The first time she and Grant had passed that way the week before, it had almost escaped her attention. But later she had recalled it. It was perfect for her purpose.

“Gra
nt,” she said and laid her hand on his, which held the loosely gathered lines. When he looked at her questioningly, she said, "Stop.”

The wagon rolled to a halt, and
she looked about her, satisfied with the place. The Pecos wound closer to the road there so that the few stunted cottonwoods partially shielded the small barn. "Can we walk, Grant? I—I want to talk to you.”

He lifted a perfectly arched brow. 
"All right.” He edged the wagon off the dirt road between the cluster of trees.

She
managed to get down from the wagon on her own, avoiding his proffered hand. Taking her time, she walked on ahead of him in the direction of the barn. Inside the ramshackle structure shafts of sunlight streamed through the roofs cracks, and there was the warm smell of manure and hay.

He
caught her arm and turned her to face him. "What is it you have in mind, Rosemary?”

Her eyes searched the arrogant, brash face. Excitement glistened in his dark blue eyes. She did not need to pretend then. "Seduction,” she said with a derisive smile.

His eyes narrowed, as if not quite believing her. He caught her to him. "You mean it?”

She placed her hand against his chest, feeling the scratchy sky-blue kersey greatcoat, which, flapped back over the other shoulder, made a gallant display. Her voice warned him of her serious intent. "I’m negotiating a business deal with you, Grant. Much as you and Stephen do with your bankers, your politicians, your flunkies.”

"It’s Lario, isn’t it?”

She nodded, never taking her eyes from his, and he said, "You must love him terribly—to come to me like this.”

She saw the pain in his eyes. "I do. But I respect you enough to be honest. I would not use you. I am giving you what you want. In exchange for what I want . . . his life spared.”

His smile just as derisive,
he set her from him. "I’ll match your honesty. I’ll accept your — bribe. But you must fully realize I cannot promise anything. Only that I’ll try.”

Her
fingers went to the buttons at her throat. She had chosen not to wear hoops and stays. She wanted to get the affair over as quickly as possible. Grant laid aside his belt and saber. But when he removed his clothes, she was surprised. She had been prepared to martyr herself, to endure Grant as she had Stephen. But Grant was superbly built, like a Greek statue, all golden rather than copper.

And that made the coming act that much worse. To a
ctually enjoy making love to Grant would be a betrayal of Lario. She closed her eyes as he came to her, lifting her in his arms and laying her on a mound of musty hay. The contact of his skin sent shivers through her.

"Jesus, but you’re beautiful!” he whispered, his voice husky with passion. He stroked her body, her long, rigid back, her hips that curved softly, the small but perfectly rounded breasts.

Her eyes flew open. "No, Grant,” she protested as he began to kiss her all over.

"Yes. I want you completely. No holding back. It must be a fair exchange,” he reminded her.

She closed her eyes and willed her mind to be a complete blank. But Grant would not let her off that easily. His hands and lips teased her. She could sense he was forcing himself to be patient, to wait for her as if he knew he might never have this chance again . . . as if he meant for her to remember it, as he meant to remember it.

"I didn’t want it to be like
— ”

"Sweet Jesus, Rosie, you should have been a courtesan!”

"Ohh!” Her breath caught short and in the midst of her shuddering she wished the pleasurable feeling could last forever.

When it was all over, when they lay spent, drawing deep breaths and drenched in steaming perspiration in spite of the coolness,
She knew that it had changed her, for better or worse. She had to acknowledge that she had enjoyed it, as she never had with Stephen. It was to be the burden of guilt she was to bear.

Yet a small spark inside her flickered and burst into a steady flame, fanned by the knowledge that, though her body had responded to Grant’s undeniable expertise in lovemaking, her heart, her spirit, had remained dormant.