It was early the next morning that Teresa woke and dressed and wandered into the wreckage of her sala. The smell of tobacco still hung rancidly in the room and she grimaced at it, stopping within the doorway to survey the ruin of the mirror lying in a thousand glittering shards over floor and tables. She knew a return of her seething anger at Kelly Morgan.
He had made a dismal mess of her grand opening. After such violence most of the women had left in panic and half the men had gone out hunting Morgan. She pulled her shawl about her shoulders, shivering in the early chill, cursing the man under her breath. She heard scurrying footsteps in the rooms behind her and in a moment her maid appeared. Pepita was a tubby woman from Acoma, chronic perspiration making her round cheeks glow.
“Señorita, a man, at the alley door, the tall one with the yellow hair—”
“What broke your mirror last night,” finished Kelly Morgan, as he strode into the room.
Teresa whirled, unable to conceal her anger. But somehow there was more involved; she could not help feeling astonishment at his recklessness.
“Are you mad?” she said. “They’ll throw you in La Garita the minute they find you.”
“Exactly why I came in by Burro Alley,” he said. He walked over to the bar, looking down at the scattered pieces of the giant mirror. “How much was it worth?”
Her voice became venomous. “Five hundred American dollars. I had it shipped all the way from St. Louis.”
From his waist he pulled the fifty dollar bills he had taken from Ryker last night. He counted out ten of them and placed them on the bar. She tried to sustain her anger. She should be raging at him now, should have him thrown out, should call the troops. But somehow the anger would not remain. There was something too wryly ironic about the whole situation. She shook her head helplessly.
“What good would stolen money do me?” she asked.
“It ain’t stolen. You don’t find Ryker pressing charges, do you?”
She frowned. It was true. Ryker had acted strangely about the whole affair last night, had declined Governor Amado’s offer to prefer official charges. She questioned Kelly and he told her of Vic Jares, the poached furs, Turkey Thompson’s murder.
“But you have no proof,” Teresa said. “It would be only your word against Ryker’s.”
“There’s enough truth in it to hurt him,” Kelly said. “Cimarron and Jares thought I was dead. They made the mistake of letting a lot of people see them bring the pelts in. Add that to what I’d tell, and Ryker’d have a helluva lot of explainin’ to do. Seven hundred and fifty dollars is a cheap price for my silence.”
“How can Ryker be sure of it?”
“If I’d meant to blab would I take the money off him that way?” He grinned maliciously. “Ryker and me understand each other, honey. We made a deal last night and he knows it.”
“You mean to let the whole thing go for a few hundred dollars?” she said. “Trying to kill you, murdering your friend?”
His lips were still pulled back in the smile, but the humor was suddenly gone out of it. “I ain’t lettin’ nothin’ go. What good would it do me to talk now? When I git Ryker, it won’t be jist a story that’ll make a stink for him. When I git Ryker, it’ll be for good.”
The primitive emotion behind his words crept through Teresa like a frightening excitement. She looked at the money. An enigmatic smile formed on her coral-red lips. She picked up the bills.
“In that case,” she said, “I’ll let you pay for the damage.” She glanced obliquely up at him. So tall, so awesomely tall. “What will you do now?” she asked. “You can’t stay in town.”
“I got enough money left for traps and an outfit. Maybe I’ll summer at Bent’s Fort. Then I’ll be ready for the beaver come fall.”
She was always on the lookout for new sources of information. As yet she had no contact with any of the free trappers. This man, ranging through the vast and dangerous country north of Taos, would obtain knowledge no Mexican could bring her.
“Last night,” she said, “I was ready to have you drawn and quartered. Now I’ll invite you to breakfast.”
The humor returned to his face; his grin made creased leather of his cheeks and took the icy chill from his blue eyes. He followed her down the hall to one of the private rooms at the rear. Its walls were whitewashed with yeso, covered chest-high with calico print. In the dozen niches around the room were the inevitable bultos—the hand-carved statuettes of the saints.
They sat down at the heavy pine table, rubbed to a satiny finish with sand and left to gray with age. Pepita had come in behind them, carrying the silver box and the golden tongs. Teresa fingered a cornhusk hoja from the box and tapped the pale brown punche into it.
She placed the smoke in the golden tongs and Pepita lit it with a candle. She closed her eyes, drawing in a lungful, and let it flow from her nostrils. Pepita left to get the breakfast. Teresa opened her eyes part way, nodding at the box. Kelly shook his head.
“I like somethin’ with bite,” he said.
He was grinning wisely. It made her wonder if she had lied to herself. Had she really invited him in here because she thought he might provide her with information?
He had none of the striking, male beauty possessed by Captain Perea. Yet there was a magnetism to him that she could not deny, the indolent, smoldering magnetism of a wild animal. It disturbed her, as it had before. She rose restlessly and walked to the narrow, barred window.
“Will you be trapping in Arapaho country?” she asked.
“Likely.”
“Perhaps you can find out something. The Pueblos have never forgotten Villapando’s murder. There’s talk that they’re seeking an alliance with the Arapahos and the Cheyenne. If that happens we’ll have a worse uprising than before.”
He did not answer for so long that she turned to look at him. There was a cynical light to his chill blue eyes and he was grinning. It became a husky chuckle.
“I don’t like to be laughed at, señor.”
“And I don’t like to be included in your dirty little politics,” he said. He rose from his chair and advanced toward her. She backed toward the wall, watching him narrowly, ready to call Pepita. When she had reached the wall, he stopped six inches from her, thumbs in his belt, the wide grin still on his face.
“I heard about what was goin’ on down here, while I was up on the traplines. I heard about you.” He waved his hand at the room. “You couldn’t git all that so quick jist by sleepin’ in a few beds. I guess they don’t really understand it yet, but you’re probably the biggest politician in the whole province. And nobody can play politics as dirty as a woman.”
“Very well,” she said. “If we’re being frank with each other. You’ve pitted yourself against Ryker. The only one who can give you protection from him is Governor Amado. And I have the governor’s ear. If you’ll agree to bring me all the information you can gather up north, I will—”
“I don’t want any part of it,” he said.
There was something in his expression that should have warned her. His lips parted and went slack; little lights sparkled up in his eyes, half-hidden by the lids that crept slowly together.
His hands reached out and pulled her roughly, almost cruelly to him. Her body went rigid with it and both her hands started to rise to fend him off. Her hands were forced down by the embrace and she was lifted up till she stood on her toes against him.
The kiss and the hard, bruising pressure of his chest against her breasts should have hurt. But instead a wild flood of excitement swept through her. She had no control over it. Like a flower it blossomed within her, hot, shuddering, enveloping her. It was something she had thought she could never feel again. It was like that first time with Juan. The wanting, the not wanting, one part of her struggling bitterly against it, the other greedily accepting, the world contracting and expanding and tilting on edge.
She heard herself moan, felt her body writhe spasmodically against him, seeking to get even closer. He made a hungry sound deep in his throat. One hand slid up the curve of her back to cup her head. The red hair came loose from its comb and spilled through his fingers in a fiery cascade. He kissed her on the brow, the eyes, the cheeks, the neck. He was trembling against her and she felt his palms grow damp with sweat. He reached for her camisa.
Perhaps that was what brought back reality—the rough feel of his fingers in the neck of her blouse, pulling it down. With one of his hands cupping her head and the other pulling at her camisa, he had released her arms.
She made a strangled sound and put her hands against his chest, twisting away. It took him by surprise and she tore free before he could stop her. Pulling her camisa back over her shoulder, breasts heaving as she panted, she wheeled across the room from him, putting her back to the edge of the table. Her eyes were green as a cat’s in the dark.
“Get out,” she said.
He started toward her. His great chest rose and fell with his labored breathing and his face was diffused with blood.
He was but a foot away, and she started to swing free once more. The appearance of Pepita in the doorway stopped them both. The maid had a tray containing the breakfast. She stared at them pop-eyed and then started to retire discreetly.
“Pepita,” Teresa said. “If this man isn’t out of the house in one minute, get the dragoons.”
It held Kelly in check. He glanced at the maid, as if gauging his chances of stopping her. But she wheeled and ran before he could move. They could hear her voice calling the other servants, arousing the household. Slowly the ruddy hue of passion seeped out of Kelly’s face. The humor of the situation reached him and he grinned again, the broad infectious grin that spread up into his eyes and made them twinkle like diamonds in a bright sun.
“Ain’t that a sack o’ hell,” he said.