Hers the Kingdom (32 page)

     Willa introduced him to each of our guests in turn. Connor did not dismount, but nodded at the men and touched his hat to each of the women, careful not to hold the eyes of any of them.

     No one had the least idea why Willa was insisting they meet the temporary foreman of the ranch. Only Joseph made any attempt at all to overcome the awkwardness of the situation, and of course made it worse by doing so. Connor rode off at a fast clip.

     Helen Emory, who was helping me fold a dinnercloth when it happened, said in a low voice, "Mr. McCord is quite the man, isn't he?"

     I looked at her, curious and angry. "What do you mean?" I asked.

     "I mean," she answered, "that if I were a single woman like you, Lena, I'd surely be interested in that bit of man flesh."

     Her words were so raw they made me shiver. I hated Helen Emory at that moment more than I have ever hated another human.

There was no letter from Owen that week, nor any the next. The third week in June a messenger arrived with a letter from Boston, written in a woman's hand, yet with Owen's name on it.

     I was sure that something was wrong. I paced, waiting for Willa to return from her afternoon wanderings, sure that something was desperately wrong. I tried to read a storybook to Thad, but my thoughts worked against my tongue, and the child finally tired of poking me and skittered off. I saw Willa as she made the turn and ran to meet her, waving the letter. She did not hurry. She took the letter but did not read it at once, sensing it was the beginning of the end, I suppose. She went to the barn to put Princess away. Connor might be there, they might pass in the dim light, as if they had not been together, as if they had not touched, but knowing. When she came back to the house she handed me the letter without a word.

     "My dearest wife," the letter began, "Cousin Minnie has graciously offered to practice her pensmanship and write to you for me. I know you will have been worried, and I am sorry indeed to be the cause of that worry. I have been ill. The doctors assure me that I am on my way to recovery now, that I will be up and about soon. I did not allow my aunts or my cousin to write to you until I could send good news. You must not blame them. They have been the most remarkable nurses. (I embarrass Cousin Minnie, I am afraid.)

     "I long to see all of you, but you must not think of coming East. I will return as soon as I am strong enough to make the journey. I'm afraid I will not be able to attend Sara and Charles' wedding. I am sure you will tell them how very much I regret not being there on that great day.

     "I am happy to know that McCord has worked out well after all and is doing an excellent job. Please ask him to stay on and assure him I will make it worth his while.

     "I will write in a few days, I promise. All of my love to my two good boys, to Lena, and, as always, to you. Owen."

     Cousin Minnie had added a postscript. "Dear Owen has been so frightfully sick," she said, "shaken with fevers and a weakness that we feel must harken back to his childhood. We worried so for him and for you! He does seem ever so much better now, and we feel sure he is going to be well again, but perhaps not so soon as he, or you, might wish. The doctor does not want him to travel for another four to six weeks, and we are urging Owen to heed him. My love, Minnie."

     Supper that night was more silent than usual. Willa was preoccupied. She would not have had time to tell Connor what had happened. I wondered if she would say anything at supper, in my presence.

     "We missed you last evening, Connor," I said, believing this to be a safe remark.

     "Yes, I too . . . I was in Calabasas," he went on, "as a matter of fact, I finally met the man they call the 'Basque Grandee.'"

     "You met Don Miguel Leonis?" Willa asked with some interest. "He's a dreadful man, I'm told—a smuggler."

     Before I could ask how Willa knew that—smuggling having become an interest of mine through my conversations with Soong—Connor said, "I don't know much about him, but I did hear an amusing story while I was there. His men feel that he knows magic. Seems one of his
vaqueros
stole Don Leonis' watch. The old man called his men out, lined them up, and stood before them with a donkey next to him.

     "'One by one, as I call your name,' Don Leonis said, 'you will come forward and whisper into the donkey's ear. If you have the watch of Don Leonis, you will say "guilty." If you are innocent, you will say "not guilty." This donkey, who is my friend, will know if you lie, and he will tell me.' With great solemnity, Don Miguel led the donkey aside and spoke into its ear. Don Miguel then called each man, in turn, and each came forward and spoke into the donkey's ear. When all had stated their innocence, or guilt, Don Leonis again took the donkey aside, listened to it, nodded several times, and, with a knowing look on his face, told the men, 'Now I know which of you is the thief. If the watch is returned by sunup, I say no more. It is our secret.' The watch was returned."

     "Is it true?" I asked, and Connor chuckled.

     "All I can say for certain is that the man who told me that story believed it. He swears Don Leonis can read men's minds."

     "Or donkeys'," Willa said sarcastically.

     "Or donkeys'," Connor agreed.

     "But what were you doing in Calabasas, Connor?" I asked, "I've heard that is a wicked town. Didn't the outlaw Murieta hide there?"

     "I was there on business," Connor answered evasively.

     "What kind of business?" Willa wanted to know.

     Connor concentrated on cutting his mutton chop. "I'm thinking of new lines of work, that is all."

     "Not ranching?" I inquired, only half joking. "Have we worked you so hard you've been cured of ranching?"

     "No, I haven't given it up, it's just that if I'm thinking to get ahead in this world, perhaps commerce . . ."

     "Are you saying you've grown tired of country life?" Willa asked.

     His answer was serious: "I could be perfectly content as the master of a ranch," he said, "it is a wonderful life . . . but I haven't the resources to own a ranch, so I will have to look elsewhere for an occupation."

     "You mean you are interested in owning a ranch but not in working one," Willa said sharply.

     "That's not what Connor said at all," I reprimanded her, "what he said was that he wasn't interested in working a farm he didn't own."

     "All right," Willa said, "I didn't know you were interested in some other
occupation
." She said the word as if it were obscene, as if Connor had committed an outrage. I realized what was happening; Willa had discovered a way to talk to Connor of the future, of his plans, without committing herself to divulge her own. I was the controlling factor. In front of me, they would have to exercise the utmost care. I was greatly annoyed at this turn of events. Connor did not like it either, for he excused himself abruptly, and left. For a moment I thought Willa was going to run after him, but she didn't.

     "Why didn't you tell Connor about Owen's illness?" I demanded. "He will have to know, and soon, to make his own plans."

     "Damn his plans," Willa said, and left.

Willa did not go out the next day, but stayed in the house, working on the ranch books, catching up on small chores she had slighted in the weeks past. Dinner that night was more silent than usual. Connor spoke quietly, mostly of ranch matters. He knew, now, about Owen's illness, about his delay in returning. Connor would have guessed the conflict it would create in Willa. I was touched,
that night, by the gentleness of the man. He left early, explaining that one of the animals needed tending. Willa raised her hand to him in a gesture that was at once grateful and loving.

     Neither did Willa go out the next day. Connor, we knew, was on business in Los Angeles. Instead she played with the children, looking at pictures of birds in one of her many books with Thad, sketching with Wen.

     We found ourselves alone at teatime for the first time in many weeks. Willa sat on the swing on the verandah, pensive, her hands quiet.

     "Are you worried about Owen?" I asked.

     "Yes," she answered, treading softly, honoring the silent agreement we had struck, "Yes, I am. Owen is my husband. I do not want him gone from us."

     "Gone?" I asked, not understanding.

     "Dead," she said bluntly, "I do not want him to die."

     I looked at her, and I had to look away. There was only the sound of the swing, then, between us, rhythmical and grinding.

The wedding was held in the garden of Charles' estate in Pasadena, before a bower of roses entwined in latticework trellises. Willa stood as Sara's witness, in my place. Phineas Emory, wheezing in the heat, gave his adopted daughter in marriage. Helen Emory stood opposite me, on the edge of the gathering, waiting. The smell of roses was suffocating, funereal. Behind me a man whispered, "Charles has it all, now." His wife said, "Hush."

IT WOULD BE August before Owen returned, more than four long months after the rodeo. A spring and a summer would have passed, days and weeks and months in which Willa and Connor, insulated in the expanse of the Malibu, would live their secret life.

     That life came to an end on the day that Willa took the open carriage into Santa Monica to meet Owen, as he had asked. She was to return with Owen and with Trinidad and her children, who had been staying at the house in Santa Monica for several days, since their return from Mexico.

     Willa left before daybreak. It was still, even then. It would be a hot day with no breeze blowing off the water. The light would be hard and flat, without even a shimmer on the edge of the waves. As the morning wore on, a light haze collected, as if the heat had solidified. Everything was too bright, too searing; I closed my eyes and longed for cool shadows and quiet. I longed to be away, I did not want to wait for what was to be.

     Standing on the verandah, waiting nonetheless, I fanned myself with a crude fan Wen had woven from the flat leaves of the flags in the flower garden.

     "Do you like the fan I made for you?" Wen asked, accusingly, daring me to say what we both knew, wanting me to say it was not a good fan, actually.

     "It does the job it was made to do," I replied.

     "But do you like it?" he insisted, taking a child's perverse pleasure in taunting me.

     "Look!" Thad called out, "There it is." We watched the carriage approach. The boys were curiously silent. I hummed a song, trying to lighten the mood.

     As the carriage pulled up to the fountain I whispered, "Go run to your Papa," and gave each a firm shove, but they would not move. I took them, then, by the hand and marched them down the walkway, determined they should greet their father warmly.

     So engrossed was I in the effort that I was almost upon the carriage before I looked up at its passengers. My stomach sank.

     Owen, wrapped in blankets, was gaunt. His eyes were deep-set in their sockets, his hair lank on his head. He was an apparition. I had never seen him so thin, so fragile.