Rio (3 page)

He sighed heavily. “Now that’s one chore I could do without. Reckon I could just sit in the buggy while you do it?”

“You are planning on coming tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, looking over the menu.

“
Si,
but I’d rather be horsewhipped than get all dandied up and mix with these gringo city snobs. Honestly, Turquoise, I don’t know why this means so much to you.”

“Because all Texas girls of good family have to be presented as debutantes, or so the Austin papers say.”

“Huh,” he reminded her, “we sent you to mix with those snooty girls once at that fancy school, and you were home in a week.”

She winced, not wanting to remember that painful time. However, she was grown now and her guardian would be with her. At the debutante ball was where she would meet the most eligible of Texas bachelors, rich, important, and influential, some handsome gringo who would protect her
from slights and continual questions about her white complexion but Mexican name. “What looks good?” she asked.

“I’m having Mexican food, myself,” he said, “with a cold mug of
cerveza
and plenty of chili peppers.”

“If Cimarron were home, she’d be telling you you might get heartburn,” Turquoise chided.

Trace grinned. “But she and the kids are gone ’til July to the big World’s Fair thing.”

“Philadelphia Centennial Exposition,” she corrected. “And it’s going to be a very educational experience for both your wife and the children, celebrating our country’s one hundredth birthday.”

“I don’t understand why you passed up the chance to go with them,” Trace grumbled and closed his menu.

“Because I wanted to be part of the debutante ball,” she reminded him.

“I hope you enjoy it. It cost me enough to get you on the list. Besides being from the best gringo families, they must all be rich to pay that fee.”

“And I can never thank you enough.” She smiled at him and then nodded to the patient waiter. “I’ll have the cold cucumber soup, those tiny chicken sandwiches, and a very tall glass of iced tea.”

“What about dessert?” Trace asked as he gave his order to the waiter.

She sighed. “Maybe. That chocolate mousse looks excellent but so does the strawberry tart.”

The waiter left and she sipped her water and thought. Somehow it was not as refreshing as that she’d had from the tin dipper at the blacksmith shop.

She felt the admiring gaze of many of the gentlemen, but she ignored them. A high-class white girl would only meet gentlemen on respectable terms, such as an introduction from a friend or relative or perhaps tonight at the debutante ball. That was what she yearned for, a gentleman who would
love her in spite of her Mexican name and questionable blood, and who would protect her from all the hateful taunts of mean-spirited gringa girls.

Tonight she would be the beautiful girl from the fairy tale
Snow White,
and a handsome, rich, and successful prince would fall in love with her and beg for her hand in marriage.

She frowned. Yes, that had been her goal for some years now. Then why did her mind keep returning to that dark, muscular Mexican vaquero with the four-leaf clover tattoo whom she had met this morning? He was everything she did not want: poor, of no social standing, and yet, in her mind, she saw that half-naked body gleaming with sweat and her mouth wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him. Uncle Trace stared at her. “What’s the matter? You’re blushin’.”

She felt guilty and flustered. “It’s probably a touch of sunburn, that’s all.”

She hid her face behind her napkin and coughed, annoyed with herself that she couldn’t get the vaquero off her mind.

After lunch, Trace ordered a rental buggy and Turquoise shielded herself from the sun with her parasol on the ride to the La Mode Dress Shoppe.

A middle-age, elegant lady approached them as they entered. “Hello, I am Mrs. Whittle. Welcome to my shop.”

“Oh, yes,” Turquoise said, “you’re the one we sent the paperwork to.”

“And all that money,” Trace grumbled and took a chair.

“Well, sir”—Mrs. Whittle drew herself up proudly—“if we didn’t keep the fees high, just anybody could take part and the society committee only wants the very best girls.”

“That depends on who you’re callin’ the very best girls,” Trace answered but Turquoise gave him a pleading look and he hushed. “Just sell my ward a proper gown.”

Turquoise smiled and curtsied. “I am Turquoise Sanchez.”

Turquoise noted Mrs. Whittle was now staring at her with a pronounced frown. “Sanchez?” asked Mrs. Whittle. “You don’t look Mexican. I thought there might be some mistake in the paperwork and wrote it down as ’Sanders.’”

So here it was again—to be humiliated because she looked like a gringa but had a Mexican name. “I am
Mexican.” Turquoise stuck her chin out stubbornly. “Does that make a difference?”

“Uh, well, it’s just that we’ve never had one at our ball before.”

“Well, now you do,” Uncle Trace snapped and buried his nose in the newspaper.

Turquoise could almost feel the sudden coldness from the shop owner. She decided to ignore the glare because she was so excited and delighted with the shop. There were racks and racks of fine gowns, all fit for a fancy ball. Perhaps no one wore home-sewn dresses anymore.

Mrs. Whittle gave her a smile that didn’t seem genuine and her voice dripped like ice water. “Now what did Mademoiselle have in mind?”

“I—I don’t know,” Turquoise stammered. “I have no idea what the other girls will be wearing.”

“Umm, understandable.”

Was she being insulted? She looked over at her guardian, but he was engrossed in the paper. Turquoise abruptly felt like an ignorant peasant, a Mexican girl who had grown up on a ranch in the Texas hill country. She certainly didn’t want to make a fool of herself. She looked toward Trace but he had leaned back in his chair and was reading. He looked ill at ease in this most feminine of places.

“Now,” said Mrs. Whittle, clasping her hands together, “let me help you pick out some gowns to try on. Does the senorita have a price in mind?”

“I—I don’t know,” Turquoise stammered.

“Give her anything she wants.” Trace yawned.

The owner pulled a very bright, large-flowered dress from the rack. “Just perfect for a fiesta.”

Turquoise blinked. Was that sarcasm in the lady’s voice? “This isn’t for a fiesta. I’m going to the debutante ball.”

“The committee needs to be more careful,” Mrs. Whittle murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing, my dear.” Again the glib smile. “How about a bright color to go with your dark hair?” She began to pull dresses from the rack. There were many white and pastel ones, but the lady passed those by. “Here’s a purple one, a red one, and a turquoise one in silk.”

Turquoise looked at them. “They seem a little bright.”

“You’ll surely be noticed in any one of these gowns.” Mrs. Whittle smiled at her.

They did seem a bit too much, but who was she to argue with a fashion expert like Mrs. Whittle? She wished she’d brought her friend Fern along, but after all, Fern had never been a debutante and wouldn’t be much help. “I think I’ll try these on. Are you sure this is what the other girls will be wearing?”

“Of course. My own daughter, Maude, is a debutante and most of the girls got their dresses here.” Mrs. Whittle nodded. “Now I’ll help you into them and you can decide.”

Trace let out a soft moan. “I presume we’ll be here all afternoon?”

“Well, after all”—the haughty lady drew herself up to her full height—“this is the social event of the season here in Austin. All the best people will be there.”

It looked for a moment like Trace would say something again, but Turquoise gave him a pleading look and he sighed and returned to staring at the ceiling.

Turquoise took the dresses and went behind a screen. “Which one do you think?”

“What about the bright red one?” Mrs. Whittle suggested and reached for it.

“All right, if you think so.” She took off her pink dress.

“Good choice!” The clerk helped bring the red dress up over her head. “You’ll really stand out in this one.”

Turquoise looked in the mirror while Mrs. Whittle buttoned up the dress. “I don’t know. It seems so bright.”

“I assure you, you’ll cause a stir in this one.”

She didn’t want to cause a stir; she only wanted to be accepted by the gringas in spite of her Mexican name. Turquoise surveyed herself in the big cheval mirror. “No, this isn’t it.”

“What about the turquoise one?” Mrs. Whittle said. “Of course, it’s a bit more expensive and if you think your gentleman friend would balk—”

“He’s not my gentleman, he’s my guardian,” Turquoise corrected her as she began to pull off the scarlet dress.

“Of course, anything you say.” The lady was smiling, but her voice was sarcastic.

Whatever was the matter with this clerk? Of course, Mrs. Whittle was used to dealing with snooty, upper-class patrons and maybe they all acted this way. Uncle Trace was now dozing in his chair. “I think the turquoise is the one. I can wear all my jewelry with it.”

“Perfect,” said the clerk and took the dress off the hanger.

Turquoise put the dress on and stared at herself in the mirror. It was a gorgeous dress that brought out the color of her eyes, but the bodice clung to her figure and was very low-cut, revealing a generous curve of breast. “I don’t know. This one is a bit daring.”

“Well, if it’s too expensive for you, perhaps—”

“It’s not the money,” Turquoise protested. “It’s just so— so bare.”

“Of course.” Again the woman’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Of course, you could put a shawl around your shoulders. Let me get one.” She disappeared and was back in a moment with a paisley silk scarf, which she draped around Turquoise.

“Oh, that does help.” Turquoise smiled at herself in the mirror, knowing she looked very curvacious and feminine
in the low-cut gown. “I don’t know what Uncle Trace will think.”

“Oh, just surprise him with it,” the clerk urged her. “Shall I wrap it up?”

Turquoise nodded. “You really think I’ll fit in at the ball? I don’t want to do anything socially incorrect.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Whittle reassured her. She took the dress into the back room to box while Turquoise put on her pink frock and returned to the front area.

“Good.” Uncle Trace yawned. “Can we go now?” He stood up. “You want to show it to me?”

“I want to surprise you,” she said. She was already feeling uneasy that Uncle Trace would think the turquoise silk too daring. Maybe Fern would come by the hotel this afternoon and give her an opinion.

When they left the shop, her guardian carried the big box.

“Thank you, Uncle Trace.”

“And I reckon I have to put on a monkey suit and escort you,” he grumbled.

“Well, I guess I could go alone.”

“In a town like Austin at night?” Trace snorted as he helped her into the buggy and she opened her parasol. “Not on your life.”

“Uncle Trace, there’ll be dancing and all the society people will be there.”

“Sounds dull to me,” Trace complained as he put the box in the back of the buggy and climbed in. “I don’t want to dance with anyone but Cimarron, and society people are all dull snobs. I don’t know where you get these high-falutin’ ideas.”

Tears came to Turquoise’s eyes and she blinked them back. She had never asked Trace or any of the Durangos about her questionable birth except that she was certain old Sanchez, the ranch boss, was not really her father and with her parents both dead now, there was really no one to ask.
She was determined to reach a pinnacle of respectability so that no one would ever gossip about her again. A proper gentleman would give her security from the whispers.

They had barely returned to the hotel when her chubby, red-haired friend, Fern Lessup, showed up and the pair retreated to the bedroom to look over the dress while Trace left the hotel on business.

“Just look,” Turquoise said conspiratorially as she unpacked the dress.

“Oh my word, it is beautiful!” Fern breathed and ran her hand over the turquoise silk with its sassy bustle. “It must have cost a fortune.”

“It did, but the owner assured me I would be the best-dressed girl at the debutante ball, and that’s important. Why, I might meet my future husband there.”

“Imagine!” Fern gasped. “Just like Cinderella.”

“Or some high-society Austin man. It is at the governor’s mansion, you know.”

“I know.” Fern’s brown eyes widened. “Except I’d rather go to a barn dance with Luke Jeffries. Neither of us would feel comfortable at a fancy shindig like this.”

“Well, this is my first ball,” Turquoise reminded her. “I’ve always dreamed of being married to an important man and no one sneering at me again and wondering if I’m really Mexican.”

“Oh, Turquoise, half the people in Texas are part Mexican. They just don’t talk about it.”

“Well, I want to marry someone so important, no one would dare make rude remarks about me.”

“You really want to marry some stuffy city man?” Fern asked.

For just a moment, she remembered the man she had met this morning, the sweaty sheen of his muscular brown body, the way his dark eyes had devoured her. She shook
her head to clear it. “I’ve got to wash up. Then would you please help me with my hair?”

“Sure,” Fern said. “I can hardly wait to see you in that dress. Get your curling iron and I’ll get a lamp.”

Turquoise washed and dried her long black hair while Fern put the curling iron over the oil lamp to heat. Then they curled her hair and put it up on her head in a mass of ebony curls with several turquoise and silver combs.

Next Turquoise put on a fine lace petticoat, a lace bodice, and long silk stockings under her lace drawers. “Do you think I dare put on makeup?”

Fern rolled her eyes. “You want to be taken for one of those girls on the street?”

“Good point. I’ll just pinch my cheeks and bite my lips to give them some color.”

“At least you don’t freckle like I do,” Fern said.

Turquoise looked in the mirror again. “I hope Uncle Trace doesn’t forget and comes up in time to get dressed.”

She took the dress out of its box and Fern helped her slip it on.

“My word!” Fern gasped as she surveyed the low bodice. “Your uncle let you buy this?”

“Well, actually, he didn’t see it,” Turquoise said defensively, “and I do have a shawl and some jewelry.”

“Maybe you won’t look so bare with the jewelry,” Fern suggested.

She was having her doubts as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The silk clung to her generous curves. She wasn’t sure Uncle Trace would let her leave the hotel if he saw her in this dress. “It is the latest fashion, Mrs. Whittle assured me. She said I’d really fit in among the debutantes.”

“I don’t know about that,” Fern said, still wide-eyed and doubtful.

Turquoise looked at the clock ticking on the bureau,
sprayed herself with forget-me-not perfume, and put on the fine turquoise and silver jewelry she owned.

Next door, she heard the key turning in the lock as Uncle Trace came into the adjoining room. “Hey darlin’, are you about ready?” he yelled.

She looked at Fern and now she was spooked, too. “Actually, I’m ready, Uncle Trace. Why don’t I go on ahead and you meet me there? I think there’s supposed to be some kind of practice for the girls.”

“Alone at night in a big city?”

“Stop worrying about me. I’ll get a carriage and go directly to the ball.”

“All right.” He sounded uncertain. “It’s at the governor’s mansion, right?”

“
Si,
” she said and picked up her tiny reticule and her shawl. “Fern, walk down with me.”

“Sure.”

The two girls walked out into the hall and down the stairs. Turquoise had draped the shawl around her shoulders, but as they passed gentlemen, the men turned and gave Turquoise a wide-eyed look.

“My word,” Fern whispered, “you are attracting attention, all right. I reckon I’m just too old-fashioned to keep up with high style.”

Turquoise put her head in the air and walked proudly, as a society lady should, as she went to the desk and asked for a carriage.

The boy at the desk blinked and stared as he nodded.

Then the girls went outside to await the carriage. It was dusk and many people were coming and going.

“Well,” Fern said, “I reckon I’d better be headed for home. Daddy will worry about me if I’m not home by dark.”

“Come by the hotel tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.” Turquoise hugged her friend.

“Oh, I want to hear every word about all the dances and
the high-class gentlemen. Do you think they’re that much different than cowboys?”

Again the vaquero from this morning came to Turquoise’s mind. “I—I don’t know. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

About that time, her carriage arrived and Fern said goodbye and left as the driver helped Turquoise in.

“The governor’s mansion,” she said grandly and he nodded. Turquoise took a deep breath to quiet her nervous stomach. Maybe tonight there would be a Prince Charming at the ball who would fall in love with her and make her so respectable, no one would ever whisper about her again.

It was a warm dusk outside as the carriage moved down Congress Avenue. Turquoise was so nervous, she kept fiddling with her shawl. “Stop it,” she warned herself. “You look as good as any of those gringa girls. Isn’t Mrs. Whittle an authority on how to dress? Think about meeting the man of your dreams.”

The man of her dreams. The Mexican vaquero came to her mind unbidden. He’d been so masculine and virile as he labored over Silver Slippers’s hoof, and the way his dark eyes had looked into hers was bold and inquiring. Without thinking, she licked her lips, wondering what his kiss would have been like.

“We’re here,” the driver leaned down to announce as he stopped before a gigantic house with white pillars. Lights gleamed from every window and dozens of carriages were stopped out front.