Several days later, Joaquin shifted in the saddle, straightening his legs to gain a couple of inches to check the location of the herd. From his spot under the sycamore tree, he could view most of the grazing cows. His brothers claimed similar positions in the shade in the north pasture to observe other groups of animals.
Since the supper on the visitors’ first night, Joaquin had a nagging sense that he owed Casta an apology. Concern for Tornado’s condition might have made his response a bit terser than he intended. But a woman who dabbled in herbs for colds and sneezes—if they even worked—couldn’t know what was needed for a bull’s hoof problem. Where could she have gained the expertise?
As the meal progressed, he realized he was desperate enough for an answer to follow up on their discussion. Every time he thought he might catch her attention in the parlor or on the patio in the evening, he was pulled into a different person’s conversation. Sharing a table while playing cards together was hardly the place for a private talk.
Soon, he would have to make a point of pulling her aside. Maybe tomorrow evening, when everyone drove to Aliso for the small community’s monthly gathering. The sling he, Cisco, and Pablo rigged from the barn rafters four days ago to keep Tornado’s rear legs suspended wasn’t having the curing effect they hoped for. Between the soakings in water from the mineral bath and the sling suspension, Joaquin was out of known options for a cure.
Emitting a complaining bawl, a steer dashed off toward the right.
With a click of his tongue and a tap with his boot heels, Joaquin urged Fuerte into the chase. If one renegade steer escaped, the risk for a whole-herd mutiny ran high.
Fuerte charged toward the runaway, his hooves digging up clumps of meadow grass.
From behind, Joaquin watched the steer’s head for a clue which way it might bolt. “Faster, Fuerte.” Hunching his shoulders, he kept his touch on the reins light as he closed the distance on the steer’s right side. Leaning forward, he gripped with his thighs and worked the coiled rope free from its lashing near his right knee. As he drew within the distance of a rod, he unfurled a length and swung the lasso in two easy circles over his head before snapping his wrist and letting it fly.
The loop dropped over the steer’s head and landed on the animal’s shoulders.
“Fuerte, whoa.” Joaquin tightened the reins.
The stallion stopped his gallop, stiffened his legs, and braced his stance against the pull.
Head flinging side to side, the steer fought being captured. It planted its front hooves and bawled.
Joaquin wrapped the rope around the saddle horn several times to secure the end. Then, he reached for the taut length with gloved hands. Hand over hand, he hauled in sufficient inches to make additional loops around the horn. Steady pressure slowly calmed the steer until only two arm’s lengths remained between the animals. “Andale, Fuerte.”
At a walk, the horse led the steer back to the eastern edge of the herd.
Seeing the slackened rope, he leaned far to the side and slid the lasso over the steer’s head.
Untethered, the animal tossed its head and scampered over to mix with the other cattle.
Throughout the day, Joaquin thwarted four more attempts to seek freedom. When he saw the sun hung just above the treetops, he rent the air with a whistle, signaling his brothers to move the herd into the west pasture. He rode a shifting pattern behind the moving cattle.
“Get on up, vacas.” Pablo waved his hat to hurry along the last three cows.
Cisco leaned over and slid the bar latch to close the pasture gate, then wheeled his buckskin horse around. “First one to the barn wins.”
Always ready, Joaquin let out a yell and slapped the ends of the reins against both of Fuerte’s shoulders, encouraging him to a gallop. At the base of the hill, he slowed the pace and maneuvered a zigzag path on the ascent.
Fuerte took a direct route to the bottom on the other side, gaining the lead.
Joaquin experienced no dust in his face along the lane. Pounding hoofbeats thundered from both sides as his brothers attempted to overtake him. Once the barn was in sight, he eased back on the reins so subtly that no one would notice. Sometimes, winning needed to be shared. Let the kid take the race.
Pablo shot ahead on Roja, holding his head next to the sorrel’s neck.
Libre, with Cisco whooping at the top of his lungs, wasn’t far behind.
Seeing they’d progressed a fair distance from his position, he loosened his hold on the reins and let Fuerte gallop full-stride the rest of the way. Some said his stallion was as competitive as he was, and the fact they came in second stood as proof.
“I’m first.” Pablo swung down from the horse, waving his hat over his head. “What did I win?”
Dust rose in small clouds around the horses’ hooves.
Laughing, Cisco swiped a palm across his forehead. “What do you think, hermano?” He glanced to the side. “We must outweigh him by thirty pounds. Was the race fair?”
Joaquin dismounted and pulled the reins over Fuerte’s head. “Fair enough as it’s ever been. Sometimes, size isn’t as important as skill.”
“Come on, Joaquin.” Frowning, Pablo faced his oldest brother. “The challenge was first one to the barn, and I was.”
“That you were, hermanito.” Joaquin walked into the shadowed barn and straight for his horse’s stall.
The teasing continued as the three unsaddled, then brushed down their horses.
Tossing the hoof pick into the grooming bucket, Joaquin straightened and rubbed a hand on his lower back. His body needed a long soak, but his thoughts had centered on Casta for the last hour. He wondered what she’d done with her day and looked forward to seeing her across the dining room table. When he refused her help with Tornado, he hadn’t expected to be intrigued by the defiant flash in her cinnamon eyes. Something about the stubborn lift of her chin made him want to see it jutted more often. “I’m headed to the pool.” He started out of the barn.
Pablo hurried to his side. “I’ll go, too. I want to talk about—”
“No.” Joaquin stopped and turned to face the youth, who was a decade younger. Sometimes, Pablo reminded him of a puppy, eager for attention and acceptance all the time. “I enjoy silence while I’m soaking. If you can’t just enjoy the mineral waters, then quietly wait your turn.” Without remaining to hear an answer, Joaquin strode toward the pool. Since guests were present, the family used the color-coded flags to designate the gender of bathers present or if the pool was unattended. Seeing the green flag allowed him to start stripping off his clothes as soon as he moved out of sight of the house.
By the time the aches disappeared, Joaquin had made his decision. Tonight, he’d apologize to Casta and invite her to the barn to assess Tornado’s injury. But when he arrived downstairs for the evening meal, he discovered both his sisters and Casta were spending the afternoon and early evening at the Fernandez Rancho. Berto Fernandez had been a thorn in Joaquin’s side since their boyhood years and Berto won Joaquin’s best agate shooter in a game of marbles.
After a meal that he assumed was delicious but couldn’t name the individual dishes after he’d eaten them, Joaquin tromped upstairs to the library. Although he wasn’t really cold, he started a fire in the hearth, just for something to do. How had Berto learned of Casta’s arrival?
Joaquin picked up a tome on cattle breeds. Possibly he’d discover a fact to solve Tornado’s problem. But he’d already consulted this book at least four times. He paced more than he searched among the books and consumed more than his usual single drink of Tennessee whiskey. Since the start of the de la Luzes’ visit, he’d become used to sharing a meal and spending the evening hours in Casta’s company. She was well-read, although her tastes tended toward romanticism and his to neo-classicism. She spoke intelligently on current affairs.
Leaving aside the non-fiction volume on cattle breeds, he searched the shelves for a diverting story. The Last of the Mohicans? No, he’d read it…twice. The rest of The Leatherstocking Tales? Those stories were known already. He trailed a forefinger along the leather-bound spines of Cervantes, Hawthorne, Scott, Reid, Eliot, Trollope, and Melville. At the last author, he stopped, then slid out a book titled The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade.
He selected a cheroot from a humidor on a nearby desk and held one end to the flames. When the tip glowed, he lifted it to his mouth and inhaled. Then, he lowered himself into an upholstered armchair by the fire and puffed on the rich tobacco before opening the book.
Through the open double doors to the balcony came the yip-yip of a faraway coyote, followed by the hooting of a nearby owl.
He’d barely settled into the tale of passengers on a steamboat headed toward New Orleans when hoofbeats and the rattle and clink of an approaching carriage entered his awareness. He set down the novel and stood. Something compelled him to move around the room, blowing out lamps, before he stepped onto the balcony and edged to the side, away from the fire-lit doorway.
Arturo’s barouche carriage, with torches burning at the base of the driver’s box, rolled to a stop near the house’s entrance.
A single horseback rider, sitting erect in the saddle, accompanied the carriage.
Joaquin leaned a shoulder against the house and gazed at the scene below. Arturo’s driver would have been a sufficient escort for the three ladies. But, no…Berto Fernandez had to play the attentive gentleman and tag along. His heartbeat rushed in his ears. Twelve years passed since Berto stole Joaquin’s novia, Teresa, at a community dance, and the betrayal still stung. How could a man like that ever be trusted?
Berto dismounted and hurried to open the carriage door, assisting each woman to disembark.
Ventura and Olinda called their thank-yous and waved on their way inside the rancho.
A murmured conversation between Casta and Berto didn’t drift upward, but his kiss on her gloved hand shone clearly in the silvery moonlight.
Joaquin stiffened and ground his teeth. Why does the sight bother me so?