This was about the last thing she needed, Jacey figured, an irritated grimace replacing her tired frown. She shortened the reins on a suddenly skittish Knight. Just then riding back into town from her desert nights with Chapelo, she could only wonder what was going on in Tucson this evening. Happy and drunk and lurching and war-whooping folks, men and women alike, soldiers and civilians, Indians, Mexicans and American outlaws, filled the dusty streets.
Torches blazed from makeshift sconces to light the desert night. Under the lights, cloth-covered tables littered the street on Jacey’s route to Alberto’s cantina, and boasted some of the most mouthwatering foods she’d ever smelled. Cheerful, chattering women presided over the tables and over the hordes of giggling, racing children underfoot everywhere. From a band somewhere around the next corner, lively rhythmic music could be heard. Whooping and whistling accompanied the cheerful strains.
When some exuberant revelers began firing their guns into the air—all too close for Knight’s comfort—Jacey found herself suddenly forced into fighting a bucking bronco. Caught off guard and cussing up a storm, her felt hat flying through the air, her braid lashing her like the thick rope it was, she fought the reins, fought to get Knight’s head up, all to the drunken delight of the celebrants. Jacey’s determined efforts to stay in the saddle earned her sideshow status and drew a circle of clapping and cheering folks. Instant betting from the sidelines became the order of the day.
Finally, thanks to her superior skill as a horsewoman, or maybe because Knight was more tired than she was—Jacey didn’t care which—she was the victor. Within a few minutes of acting up, Knight smoothed out into a prancing canter around the inner perimeter of the circle that was their audience. Cheers and groans, apparently depending on which way the individual had bet, greeted horse and rider. Money exchanged hands as the big gelding heaved and blew and obeyed Jacey’s every command. Sweating as much as her horse was, and feeling just as frazzled, she glared at the happy folks.
Reining Knight in at the center of her impromptu arena, Jacey remained silent as she looked around the circle. As if she’d commanded it, the revelers quieted, and then shushed those who weren’t. When she had their attention, she called out, “Which one of you is holding the money?”
After a second’s hesitation, a squat-legged old grizzled man came forward, a fist of wadded greenbacks held up high in his hand. “That’d be me, ma’am.”
He stopped about twenty feet away on Jacey’s right. Keeping her spine ramrod straight, and knowing another quiet entrance into Tucson was already shot as full of holes as Rafferty was, she transferred her reins to her left hand and rested her right on the butt of her Colt. “Good. I’ll be taking my cut of the action, thank you.”
At the groans and shouts of protest that stirred the night air, Jacey pulled her Colt and fired it in the air. Knight went stiff-legged, folks squawked and cringed and grabbed for neighbors. “Does that sound familiar to any of you yahoos? You made me lose my hat, and you like to’ve cost me my life. Could’ve seen my horse injured, too. Now, I’m tired, and I’ve had a bad day. So just hand over my share, or get ready for a shooting display the likes of which won’t see all of you standing at the end of it.”
A moment of strained silence, backed by the music on the night wind and the laughter on down the street, followed her words.
Then the old man holding the money stepped up another few feet and addressed the crowd. “I don’t know ’bout the rest of ya, but I say the lady’s right. I say we cut her in. Hell, I’ll even give ’er my whole share—’cause I ain’t seen but a handful of men as could keep his seat on a buckin’ horse like she just did. Whadda ya say?”
Instantly won over, the crowd sent up a great cheer. And Jacey danged near had to fight Knight again. The mule-tempered gelding shied and fought to get his bit between his teeth. Again, Jacey prevailed and even managed to keep the horse mannerly while the money was counted and paid out. When the crowd finally began to disperse, she leaned over from her saddle to take her black slouch hat, full of greenbacks and held up to her by the same grinning old man.
“Ol’ Deadeye found yer hat over there and handed it to me.” Then, his rheumy blue eyes glinted and his gap-toothed mouth curled up in a grin. “I meant what I said—that was some mighty fine ridin’, ma’am.”
Jacey wadded up the money and poked it into her pocket. She settled her hat on her head and grinned at the old man. “Thank you. And I’m much obliged for the money. And my hat.”
The old man patted Knight’s shoulder. The gelding turned his head to warily eye the offender. “You and this here animal earned it. It was touch and go there for a minute, warn’t it?”
Jacey nodded. “Yep. Especially from where I was sittin’.”
The old man’s shoulders and little potbelly shook with his cackling. “I’ll warrant that’s true enough.”
“So, tell me, mister, which one of—”
“Name’s McGinty. Ed McGinty.”
Jacey ducked her head in acknowledgment. “Mr. McGinty, then. Tell me, which one of us—me or my horse—did you bet on?”
He eyed her a moment, then scratched at the white stubble on his cheeks. “Why, I bet on you, ma’am. I larnt long ago never to bet against a Lawless.”
Struck mute at hearing her name fall from his lips, Jacey watched the old man turn and wander into the milling crowd. Well, that did it. She wondered if she was kidding herself—was she the only one in Tucson who thought her identity was a secret?
Finally, she nudged Knight into a walk. Skillfully and absently threading the gelding through the foot traffic, she gave free rein to her grumbing thoughts. She had less than two weeks before Chapelo showed up, hell-bent on showing her what was worse than being killed. No one told her what to do. Who did Chapelo think he was? Give her two weeks to clear out of town. Well, she’d just see his two weeks and raise him another one.
Then she blinked, first seeing him shoot down Rafferty, and then feeling his lips on hers, his hand on her breast … Two weeks ought to be plenty of time to accomplish what I came here to do.
Providing, of course, that Zant Chapelo didn’t turn out to be the one she aimed to flush out.
* * *
After stabling Knight in the tiny corral behind Alberto’s cantina, after brushing him down while he munched on oats, Jacey paced tiredly through the deserted and dusty courtyard, only to find herself faced with a locked back door. Her saddlebags slid from her shoulder in defeat. Making a face, she retrieved the leather pouches, flung them over her shoulder again, and set out for the front of the squat adobe building. Just what she wanted to do—wade through the happy citizens again.
With her chip firmly back on her shoulder, and daring anyone to say she couldn’t set foot inside a saloon because she was female, Jacey pushed through the bat-wing doors to Alberto’s establishment. Stopping just inside, she frowned, going narrow-eyed at the cheerful and chaotic scene that greeted her.
Loud-talkin’, whiskey-drinkin’, back-slappin’, and cardplayin’ men. The place reeked with their sweat and exuberance. As she stood there, searching the crowd for a flash of color that would be Rosie, Jacey saw a few men catch sight of her, poke a neighbor, and nod toward her.
With studied indifference, she ignored them, sighting instead on Alberto. Dressed all in dirty white, bar towel over his shoulder, he chattered away and presided over the revelry. Finally he looked up from assisting a young, skinny Mexican male pour drinks up and down the length of the bar. Alberto glanced at her, looked away, and then swung his attention right back to her. His swarthy, mustachioed face lit up. “Señorita Law—Señorita! Madre de Dios! Where have you been, muchacha?”
Jacey tensed and then let out her breath when Alberto caught his own slip of the tongue. His arms raised in greeting, he stepped out from behind his bar, irritatedly shoving men out of his way, elbowing and fussing at others in rapid-fire Spanish. When a path finally cleared, he all but ran to her, enveloping her in his arms before she could protest.
Tired as she was, she wasn’t sure she could’ve stopped him, anyway. Or would’ve, because it felt good, just for a moment, to have someone glad to see her and to let someone … well, mother her. Right now, she suspected she’d even let Biddy cluck over her.
Alberto broke his hug and stepped back. And realized, after exchanging a look with her, that the oppressive quiet in his very packed and stuffy cantina was aimed at them. “Come, chica, we will get you to your room. Let’s go this way.” To his customers, he waved a hand in the air and proclaimed something in Spanish which made them all cheer. He turned to her. “I tell them the next round is on the house.”
Clapping and banging on the tables resulted from Alberto’s generosity and got him and Jacey ignored in favor of the remaining bartender. As the swarming men tried to belly up to the bar with their glasses, Alberto put an arm around Jacey’s shoulders and herded her, with loud fussing and a waving hand, through the sea of men.
“Where’s Rosie?” Jacey called out over the crush of noise.
“My Rosarita is right over there.” He turned Jacey with him to look. “No, she is over here, then.” He turned her in that direction. “Ah, there she is. Rosie! Look who has returned to us, mi vida.”
“I don’t think she can hear you,” Jacey offered, watching Rosie serve a table of surprisingly respectful men their drinks from a big tray she balanced at her waist.
“I think what you say is true, no?”
“No. I mean, yes.” Jacey shook her head in little mind-clearing jerks. “Don’t bother her. I’ll see her tomorrow.”
“Sí. Mañana. Now we will get you to your room, and then I will myself bring to you a nice plate of enchiladas and tamales. That sounds good to you, no?”
“No—yes. I haven’t eaten in so long that my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.” She then nodded in the direction of the street. “What’s going on in Tucson tonight? I never saw the likes of this in my life.”
Alberto shrugged as he switched his bar towel to his other shoulder. With his free hand, he opened the heavy oaken door into the short, musty hallway which led to Jacey’s room. “It is called a fandango—a party, a dance. All over Tucson, the people are happy.”
Accepting Alberto’s gesture for her to precede him through the doorway, Jacey stepped through. “I can see that. But why?”
Alberto followed her and closed the door behind him, significantly muffling the revelry. “Oh, mi querida, there is no why. There is a celebración for—how do you say?—um, just because? Just because someone sets out la comida—the food—someone else strums his guitar, and yet another begins to dance. Before you know it, all of Tucson dances and eats and drinks. And some even fall in love. Perhaps you would like to join in?”
Darned if that Zant Chapelo’s dark and grinning face didn’t present itself to her mind’s eye. Jacey shook her head, as much to rid herself of the image, as to turn down Alberto’s suggestion. “No, thanks, Mr. Estrada.” At the door to the room she thought of as hers, Jacey put her hand on the wrought-iron latch and depressed it. “I’ve already stabled Knight out back. So, if you don’t mind, all I want is to eat and get some shuteye.”
Alberto patted her arm. “I will see that no one disturbs you—this time.” He then drew himself up into a fine military stance, as if he were bravely facing a firing squad. “It is my fault that you have that ugly bruise on your jaw. I should cut out my own heart and—”
“Whoa! I hardly think all that’s called for. But there is one thing you can tell me.”
With his unblinking gaze focused just to her left, Alberto maintained his stiff pose and entoned, “Anything, querida.”
“Do you know an Ed McGinty?”
Alberto lateraled his gaze over to Jacey and then just as quickly snaked it away from her face. “Sí, he is known to me.”
“Mr. Estrada, look at me.”
He did. But his expression said he clearly didn’t want to.
“I met him tonight, out on the street. He knew my name. How would he know my name?”
Alberto grinned in a sickly sort of way. “Because I told him?”
Disbelief widened Jacey’s eyes. When she recovered, she asked, “Now why would you go and do that?”
“Because he is a friend of mine, and he always admired your father, as did I.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Estrada, but you’re not going to tell everyone in Tucson who I am, are you?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Just this one. You see, his son rode in your father’s gang.”
“He what?” Jacey’s screeching tone didn’t suffer any from her stiffening with her fisted hands at her sides. “His son? I never heard Papa talk of any McGinty. And I know all their names.”
Alberto continued the humble nodding he’d been doing since his confession. “He was with them only for one summer. Did you hear your father speak of … how do you say … Rooster?”
Now Jacey’s eyes narrowed. “Well, sure I did.” Then she straightened and held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Ed McGinty—that nice old man—his son is Rooster? Papa said Rooster was just a red-haired kid who hated guns, but wanted real bad to be an outlaw.”
“Sí.” Alberto nodded. “That was Rooster. Your father let him ride with them, but made sure the muchacho did not like the life. He came back to Tucson and married and gave my friend, Eduardo, many grandchildren. Señor McGinty always liked your father for what he did for his son. But poor Rooster. He is dead now. A fever took him.”
“Well, I’m sure sorry to hear that.” And she was. But her focus on the old gang being what it was, she mentally crossed one name off her list.
* * *
“No. I won’t do it. It is loco. You will get yourself killed—like this.” Rosie drew her finger across her throat and then hurriedly crossed herself. She next resumed her industrious sweeping of the cantina. Mid-afternoon heat mixed with the dispirited breeze coming in through the open windows and with the dust she was raising.
Jacey wrinkled her nose and swatted at the dry and choking miasma. “All I’m asking you to do is tell a few tall tales.”
“These tales, they are called lies, Catarina. You will get yourself killed and send all our souls straight to el diablo.” Her broom clattered to the wooden floor as Rosie reverently clasped her hands under her chin, closed her eyes, and sent a silent prayer heavenward.
Jacey stared levelly at her friend for a moment, looking her up and down from her tied-back black hair to her loose white blouse—what Rosie called her blusa—and plain, woven brown skirt. Jacey had on similar clothes, borrowed from Rosie. She slept in their bed, ate their food, and wore Rosie’s clothes. She’d been accepted as family by them. And now she wanted to damn their souls to hell for all their hospitality. According to Rosie.
Jacey braced an elbow on the cantina table and rubbed in resignation at her forehead. There wasn’t one dad-blamed thing that’d come easy here in Tucson. Not even her name. Jacey, as pronounced by these folks, was Hacey. And that was just plain dumb-sounding to her. So they’d settled on her middle name, Catherine. After a fashion. She was now Catarina to the Estradas and all of Tucson.
Jacey shook her head, hearing again their mid-morning breakfast conversation in the bright and airy little kitchen off their adjoining rooms behind the cantina. Over omelets heaped with ham and cheese and mild peppers, they’d listened to Jacey’s lie of a story about her disappearing to check out some leads on the stolen keepsake. All clucking concern—reminding her of Biddy back home—they’d made her promise not to take off again without telling them. Jacey’d made an easy promise, knowing that she hadn’t gone of her own free will to begin with. And didn’t intend to go again.
Tired of Rosie’s infernal praying and arguing with her, Jacey drummed her fingers on the table’s rough and scarred surface. “You done praying yet?”
Rosie lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “Are you still asking me to lie?”
“Yes.”
Rosie immediately raised her clasped hands again and closed her eyes.
Jacey banged a hand on the table. “Now, cut that out. Your father’s already said he’d do it for me, so why won’t you?”
Rosie again lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “Because, as you have seen, I must worry for my father. He is too kindhearted, and he tells everything he knows. My mother”—Rosie crossed herself—“God rest her soul, is not here to watch over him.”
Jacey quirked her mouth up in irritation. And maybe a little guilt. “All I’m asking you to say is that you served a drink to J. C. Lawless. That’s all. I’m not asking you to go up against the soldiers at the fort all by yourself.”
Rosie put her hands to her waist and stepped over her fallen broom. “At least God could understand that.” After that lofty pronouncement, she drooped her shoulders and came to stand in front of Jacey. “All right, mi amiga, it is as you say. My father has already agreed—only because he feels so bad for telling Señor McGinty who you are. But now? If I do not also say that what he says is true—that Señor Lawless himself was in our cantina—then he will be known as a liar. And so”—she shrugged her slender shoulders, showing a wealth of natural feminine grace that Jacey found herself envying—“I will do this thing for you. But you must do something for me in return.”
Jacey cocked her head at a wary angle. “Like what? Finish sweeping?”
“No. You must attend services with me at the mission church.”
Jacey came straight up out of her chair, causing it to thump over backward. “Like hell I will.”
Rosie gasped and crossed herself, looking around the cantina as if she expected demons to pop up all about them. When they didn’t, she arched a finely formed eyebrow and narrowed her eyes at Jacey. “Like hell you won’t, chica.”
“I will not. My sisters and I learned our Bible at home with Mama. And that was good enough for me. I’ve never set foot in a church in my life.”
“Then it is about time you did, yes?”
“Yes.” Jacey heard herself. “I mean no. And stop doing that yes and no thing. I haven’t gotten one right yet.”
“Then you must learn to listen better. Now, will you go to church with me or not?”
Jacey quirked her mouth into a straight and exasperated line. “Yes, I’ll go. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Ah, but you will.” Rosie dropped her tough stance and laughed as she tugged a resisting Jacey into her arms. She even kissed her on the cheek, much to Jacey’s outraged chagrin. And secret girlish delight. Rosie finally stepped back and sat down across from Jacey. “Now, Catarina. Tell me of this plan of yours to catch a thief.”
Her passion for her mission leaned Jacey over the table toward Rosie. “Well, it’s really simple.”
“What is so simple, Catarina?”
At the sound of Alberto’s voice, Jacey turned with Rosie to face him. He went behind the bar and began alternately checking his liquor stock and turning an expectant face to the girls. Jacey exchanged a look with Rosie and then turned to Alberto. “My plan to catch a thief.”
Alberto straightened up like something had bitten him on the behind. He thumped a whiskey bottle down hard onto the bar. “Catch a thief?”
“Yeah. I think I’m close to doing that already. You see, I didn’t quite tell you the whole truth this morning—”
Rosie gasped. “Do you see how it is with lying? You tell one lie, and then, the next thing you know, you are chasing off after dangerous thieves.”
Jacey rolled her eyes at Rosie and turned back to Alberto. “Like I said, I was going after a lead. That part’s true enough. But what I didn’t tell you is … I was with Zant Chapelo.” Jacey stopped talking. Even though neither Rosie nor Alberto had interrupted her, she felt their silence had somehow deepened. Looking from one to the other, and suddenly unsure of herself, she went on haltingly. “We were, um, riding for Sonora with his friend, Blue, and that Rafferty skunk—the one who hit me.”
Again, she looked from one to the other of them. No response. Just black-eyed stares and a heavy, censuring silence. Swallowing, feeling the day’s heat like never before, Jacey went on.
“Well, the second night at camp, somewhere out in the desert, Rafferty got into it with Zant and got himself killed for his insults. I tell you, I’ve never seen the like of that man’s quick draw. He made greased lightning look purely sluggish.” Shaking her head at the memory, she next recalled herself sleeping next to Zant and then kissing him the next morning. A sudden intake of breath forced on her by her conscience told her she’d best leave that part out.
But the rest of her words tumbled out of her like rolling pebbles in a swift-moving stream. “And then, yesterday morning, Zant told me to go back to Tucson and take care of my business and get out of town before he got back in two weeks. He said he’d kill me or worse—but I don’t know what that means—if I was still here. So, I hightailed it back here, and he went on to see his grandfather, that Don Rafael Cal … Calde … Calde-something.”
“Don Rafael Calderon.”
“Yeah, that’s him.” Grateful for Alberto’s breaking his silence, but aware that he said the man’s name like it was a sin, Jacey half grinned, half frowned. Clearing her throat, she added, “Now, from what I’ve learned so far, I think this Calderon is involved. I learned something else, too. Maybe you can tell me if it’s true. Was Zant in prison for the past five years?”
Jacey watched Alberto look past her to his daughter. She spun to look at Rosie. She was looking at her father, so Jacey turned back to him. “Well?”
He finally focused on her. “Sí, he was in prison.”
Jacey nodded, feeling one of the knots in her stomach unravel. She took a deep breath before asking, “And when did he get out?”
Alberto shrugged and shook his head. “Maybe a month ago? No more than that.”
As Rosie walked past her to go confer in low tones with Alberto, Jacey almost slumped onto the table, so great was her complete relief regarding Zant. He wasn’t a liar. He was innocent. Then, catching herself singing the man’s praises, she conceded that even though he might have his good points, she couldn’t forgive him for making her feel things for him she shouldn’t. Or for making her think of nothing but him and his mouth on hers.
Jacey jerked upright, fearing she wore some cow-eyed look on her face, like the ones she teased Glory about having whenever some boy fell at her feet in worship—as they always did. Well, except for Riley Thorne. Now, there was a man Jacey could respect. Riley didn’t let Glory get away with anything, and that just got Glory stomping mad—Jacey jerked upright again. What in the world is wrong with me that I’m giving myself over to daydreaming?
Jacey self-consciously looked from Rosie to Alberto, only to realize, by their expressions, that her fears were well grounded. She had given something away. Dividing her wary attention between the two, she asked, “Why are you two acting so funny all of a sudden?”
Rosie came back to the table, sat down, and reached across the table to take Jacey’s hands in hers. Unaccustomed to such intimacy, Jacey looked from their entwined hands, both sets small and long-fingered, to her friend’s earnest face. “What?”
“Catarina, do you hear yourself talking? Señor Chapelo is now Zant to you. And your face, when you speak of him, is very soft, very enamorada.”
Already fearing what that word meant, and afraid she knew, Jacey nevertheless sat back and pulled her hands out of Rosie’s grasp. “What does that mean—that enamorada word?”
Rosie gave her a soft smile. “In love, I believe you would say.”
A sudden hotness suffused Jacey’s face, catapulting her up and out of her chair. “I’m no such thing.” She turned at the sound of Alberto’s approaching footsteps. “Tell her, Mr. Estrada. Tell her that’s just crazy talk. Why, I care more about my horse than I do that polecat outlaw Chapelo.”
Alberto stopped beside the table, putting himself between Jacey and Rosie. With a hand on Jacey’s shoulder, he urged her to sit down. “Come, querida, what my Rosarita says is true for all to see.”
Jacey sat, but she wasn’t the least bit mollified. “Hogwash. The day I start getting all soft over the likes of Zant Chapelo—”
“Is already here, I am afraid,” Rosie cut in. “And this worries me very much.”
Jacey narrowed her eyes at Rosie. “You’re gettin’ a might too personal for me, sister. What I feel or don’t feel is my business.”
Mouth quirked into a grin, Rosie sat back and crossed her arms under her bosom. “Don’t worry, mi amiga. I will keep your secret safe.”
Angry heat exploded Jacey to her feet again and forced Alberto to step back. “I already told you—there is no secret. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. All I need from you is a yes or a no on helping me.”
Rosie’s smirk faded to a gentle smile. “All right, hermana—sister, as you call me, I will speak no more of it. I will help you. Tell me what to do.”
Jacey relaxed and sat down. She motioned to Alberto. “Get a chair and sit here a minute, Mr. Estrada. I’ll tell you my plan. And how you both can help me.”
* * *
Zant pushed his plate away and shook his head, signaling to Conchita that he didn’t care for more. The round little maid made a dissapproving-mother face as she stepped back from the long table, taking the serving platter with her to the richly carved sideboard behind Zant.
The clinking of china accompanied her movements and mingled with the trillings of a songbird perched atop the high adobe walls of the bougainvillea-draped courtyard. With the room’s double doors open to the afternoon breeze, the happy splashings of water in the tiled fountain kept the silence in the large, airy dining room from being oppressive.
For his part, Zant sprawled back in his chair, bracing an elbow on its armrest. Silently, soberly, he watched his grandfather’s meticulous gestures as he finished his meal.
As if he sensed Zant’s attention on him, the old man looked up, ran his gaze over his grandson, and then gestured with his silver fork, indicating Zant’s still-laden but ignored plate. “Is something wrong with your food? I can have Anna cook you something else.”
“No. Nothing’s wrong with the food.”
Don Rafael rested his wrists against the table’s edge and stared pointedly at Zant. “Then perhaps it is your appetite? Or the company?”
“Or both,” Zant came back.
Still holding his fork and knife, Don Rafael gestured as if helpless to figure out his grandson. “What have I done now? I am aware of nothing—”
“Bullshit.”
Don Rafael’s face darkened dangerously. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his utensils tightly. “I will not tolerate that language at my table.” He slammed his fist down on the table, making the silver candelabra jump and Conchita flee from the room. “And especially not in front of my servants. I did not pay a handsome sum to free you from prison just to have you—”
“Just to have me what?” Zant leaned forward, as hot and angry as the old man. “Come back here and not kiss your ass? I didn’t ask you to get me out, and I won’t thank you. The price is too high.”
Don Rafael stiffened and sat back, his black eyes glaring daggers at Zant. In the next moment, he took a deep breath and smoothed out his features. Zant knew this look by heart. This was not over, just glossed over. And only for now.
Don Rafael thinned his wide slash of a mouth. “Very well, then. I won’t ask you to thank me. It doesn’t matter. Because, thanked or not, the result is the same—you are out of prison.”
Zant snorted and leaned back against his chair’s high back. “I’m out of one prison, at any rate.”
Don Rafael stared a moment and then very carefully, giving the act his full attention, placed his knife and fork beside his plate, arranging them just so on the table’s polished-tile surface. Then he raised his large, white-haired head and turned his swarthy attention on Zant. “Why do you hate me so? You are my blood, the only child of my only child. My heart’s desire is whatever is best for you, mi hijo. Everything I do is for you.”
Zant said nothing, only stared. He’d heard all this before.
Don Rafael’s features melted into an entreating mask. “How can you call this a prison?” He made a broad gesture with his thick hand, indicating the elegantly furnished room, but meaning, Zant knew, all of the walled compound that comprised La Casa del Cielo Azul, The House of the Blue Sky. “How can you think of Cielo Azul that way? It will be yours one day soon.”
Zant smirked his contempt. He knew too much and suspected even more about Don Rafael to be fooled by his show of hurt. “I don’t want it.”
Don Rafael narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin out. He spoke in a low and deadly tone that reminded Zant of a hissing snake. “What you want does not matter. You are my blood. What will be yours, will be yours. It can be no other way.”
Zant stared levelly at the black-clad old man at the other end of the long table. For long moments, the creaking-squeaking of the breeze-stirred, overhead fans ruled the silence between them. Zant then breathed in deeply and let it out slowly. “Speaking of blood, why are you having the Lawlesses tracked?”
Don Rafael, in the act of picking up his fork and knife again, stilled and then leaned toward Zant. “Who says that I am?”
“Rafferty.”
Don Rafael raised an eyebrow, but then lowered his gaze to his plate. He very precisely sliced his knife through his steak’s all-but-raw flesh as he asked, “Where did you see him?”
Zant watched the old man raise the fork-impaled chunk to his mouth. “Tucson.”
Don Rafael chewed slowly, swallowed, and shook his head. “I know of no tracking going on. I gave no such orders.”
The old man’s lie nearly catapulted Zant to his feet. Exercising great restraint, but tensed like a mountain lion ready to spring, he clutched at his chair’s armrests. “That’s not what Rafferty said.”
“Then Rafferty lies.”
“Yeah, he lies … in a shallow grave about halfway between here and Tucson.” Zant shifted in his chair and crossed a black-booted ankle over the opposite knee. “I know because I put his worthless hide in it.”
Don Rafael closed his thick-fingered hand around his wine goblet, much as if he grasped a delicate, helpless throat. He raised the crystal to his lips, drained its contents, and then set it gingerly on the table. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
Zant shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice. He insulted me, my father, and my mother—your daughter.”
Don Rafael licked his lips, and worked his mouth, as if tasting the last of the wine that clung there. “I see. Tell me, Zant, why was Rafferty with you?”
Considering his answer as carefully as he would a chess move, and already anticipating his opponent’s surprised reaction, Zant replied, “Because the Lawless woman was with me.”
Don Rafael disappointed him by merely frowning as he leaned back against his chair. “I see. But where is she now? She was not with you when you rode in last night. Does she, then, perhaps share a grave with Rafferty?”
Zant’s hands fisted. His grandfather’s words confirmed his involvement, and yet gave nothing away. Zant’d forgotten how wily the old man was. And how much better he was at this game than he could ever hope to be. Or want to be. “I wouldn’t raise my hand against a woman.”
Don Rafael grinned in a cold and superior manner. “The day may come when you will, mi hijo.” He then placed his napkin on the table and stood, easily lifting his still powerful body out of the chair. “If you will excuse me on your second day home, I have business to attend to. I will see you this evening?”
“What choice do I have?”
Don Rafael nodded sagely. “True.” He then turned his back on his grandson and left the room.
Alone now, Zant slumped and exhaled heavily. It had always been thus between him and Don Rafael. Always the mistrust, the sparring. So what made him think this time would be any different? What a fool he was to hope that the old man, just once, would—Forget it, Chapelo. He’ll never change, and neither will you.
Knowing it and accepting it were two different things. Downhearted, Zant stared at the room’s arched entryway under which his grandfather had passed only moments ago. Finally shrugging off the old hurts, Zant chided himself for tipping his hand. He’d revealed far more than he’d learned. And he’d just made things worse for Jacey. A lot worse.
Zant ran a hand over his mouth and muttered, “Son of a bitch.”