One

Arizona Territory, 1891

Louisa Johnson was late slipping out of the house, but she knew Rico would be there waiting. She had come to a decision and she would not be denied, not even by her father—a man she had adored her entire life, but one who now stood in the way of her being with Rico. She had no idea how to make things right with her father. What she knew with more certainty than she had ever known anything in her nineteen years was that she loved Rico Mendez and he was devoted to her. If her father couldn’t accept that—couldn’t look past their differences and see Rico for the kind, hard-working man he was—then she would have to force his hand.

Dressed only in a nightgown that covered her from chin to ankle, she ran barefoot down to the creek. Clutched in her hand was the rosary she’d been given at her First Communion—long before she’d become a grown woman capable of making her own choices.

When she reached the creek, her breath came in gasps—a combination of the exertion of running, the chill of a spring night, and the excitement she felt for what she was about to do. Rico stepped out of the shadows. The moon lit the water behind her. She stood very still, knowing the blend of the thin fabric of her gown and the moonlight hid nothing from him.

“Louisa, no,” he whispered, but he did not look away. And he could not stop himself from walking toward her.

“Yes,” she replied. “It is time.”

Rico had always counseled waiting, giving her father the time he needed to adjust to the idea that they loved each other despite the differences in their backgrounds. But she knew her father was unlikely to change. He was waiting for them to change. “You say you love me, but—” she said.

“It is because I love you that I cannot disrespect you or your family,” he replied, interrupting her.

The two of them had spent long hours on this creek bank, lying on the soft grass, touching and kissing, but while they had found ways to pleasure each other, they had always stopped short of the final union. “Then make me your wife,” she said.

He smiled and touched her cheek. “I thought that a proposal was my job,” he teased.

She did not return his smile but stared up at him. “Then do your job.” She was trembling now with the dew wetting her bare feet and the realization that she might have gone too far and he might refuse. She thought she understood his hesitation—the differences in their stations in life, in their heritage. “I love you so, Rico,” she managed to say before she began to cry.

He pulled her fully into his embrace then. She felt the soft cotton of his shirt soak up her tears. “Oh, Louisa, do you know what you are asking?”

“Yes. I also know what it might cost me, but surely once we are legally wed…”

Rico rested his chin on top of her head, and she knew that he was considering her plea. “I don’t know, Louisa. Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But have you thought this through? Our life will not be easy. You must be very sure that this is what you want.”

“What I want is to be happy, and the only path I see to that is for us to be together openly—and legally. Papa will have to make his choice then, and at least we will know.”

“And if he chooses to fully disown you? To keep you from your sister and mother, and them from you—what then? How can you find happiness then?”

“We will find it together.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

He tightened his hold on her, kissing her with all the pent-up passion each of them lived with day in and night out. He stepped away, took in a deep breath, and slowly released it as he stared up at the dark sky. For a moment she thought he would refuse her. But then she saw his fingers working free the buttons of his shirt. He spread it on the ground. She knelt and waited for him to join her. Kneeling, he faced her and gently took the rosary from her. He twined it around her wrist and then around his own, joining them in simulation of the el lazo tradition that was a part of the wedding ceremony for people of his culture.

“Louisa Johnson, I will be your husband, caring for you, protecting you, loving you from this day forward.”

“And Rico Mendez, I will be your wife, caring for you, following you wherever you may go, and—forsaking all others—loving you with all my heart from this day forward.”

They kissed and he stretched out beside her, their wrists still joined.

“Can you get away tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Meet me here after dark. We will go to Tucson, to the justice of the peace, and make this official,” he continued.

“But let this be the wedding of our hearts,” she whispered as she raised herself onto one elbow and bent to kiss his bare chest. “Let this be our wedding night, Rico, in celebration of the vows we have just shared.”

He said no words, but answered her by opening the row of tiny pearl buttons that closed the front of her nightgown and branding her as his with a row of kisses that moved from her throat to her breasts. She arched, offering herself to him. He sat back on his heels and ran his fingers over the fabric of her gown, easing the hem higher and then finding the core of her—a place he had taught her to expect a pleasure so irresistible that she would cry out with sheer ecstasy.

She pushed his hand away. “We are one,” she said huskily, for in her mind no official service could replace the vows they had just given and received. In her mind they were man and wife. “Show me that way, my husband.”

Rico removed the rest of his clothes and then pushed her nightgown over her shoulders and down her bare legs. Once they were both naked, he stood, held out his hand to her, and led her to the creek. The water ran fast, still engorged with the runoff from the winter snows of the high country. It was cold but thrilling. Rico led the way to a place they both knew well—a place they had discovered as children was deep enough to swim in. A place where as adults they had stood in water up to her shoulders. He bathed her now, scooping water and caressing her shoulders, breasts, hips. She followed his lead, reveling in the sight of his naked body, which was so strong and so beautifully fitted with hers.

He lifted her and she felt his erection coaxing her to open to him. She braced her hands on his shoulders and he filled her. In that moment she accepted that nothing would ever be the same for them again. She was joined to this man forever now, and together they would face whatever challenges life might bring.

* * *

Two days later, on a beautiful April afternoon, Louisa and Rico arrived at the ranch after a courthouse wedding in Tucson and their first night as husband and wife, spent in a hotel. Louisa held Rico’s hand as they climbed the steps to the porch where her parents sat. Her father stood and stared at them for a long moment as they delivered their news. When Rico stepped forward and extended his hand, George Johnson ignored the gesture and without a word went inside and firmly closed the front door of the house. In the weeks that followed, he refused to see or in any way have contact with them.

Her mother counseled the need to give him time and suggested it might be best if they stayed with Rico’s family on the Porterfield ranch. But the days and weeks passed with no change. If her father saw her or Rico in town, he crossed the street or turned away. In the Catholic church both families attended, Louisa and Rico sat with his family. Louisa’s mother would glance over at her but made no move to speak with her in the churchyard following services. Her younger sister, Helen, sometimes slipped away for visits at the Porterfield ranch, but when their father discovered these meetings, he forbade Helen from going anywhere without being accompanied by her mother or him.

“I’m a prisoner,” Helen moaned one afternoon in June as she and Louisa walked along the banks of the creek that ran through both properties.

“Give him time,” Louisa advised. “Surely once he realizes he’s to be a grandfather, things will change.”

Helen squealed with delight. “When?”

Louisa smiled and laid her hand on her still-flat stomach. “Rico’s mother thinks sometime in January, and Doc Wilcox agrees.”

“Wait till I tell Mama!”

But to Louisa’s surprise, the news of her pregnancy only deepened her father’s resolve. She had been so sure once she and Rico started a family, all would be forgiven and the necessary steps for reconciliation would be taken. For the first time, Louisa doubted she would ever be reunited with her family.

“I don’t know what to do, Rico,” she admitted one afternoon as they worked together, whitewashing the walls of the anteroom that had been added to the Porterfield house. Mrs. Porterfield had offered them the space rent-free as her wedding gift. “Since they refuse to see me, I sent them each a note. I told them how happy we are and assured them I am in good health and we are so very blessed. The notes were returned—unopened.”

Her husband was a quiet man—tall, slender, with dark eyes that always seemed to hold answers somewhere in their inky depths. He continued to spread paint on the rough walls, but she couldn’t help but notice how his hold on the brush tightened.

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded.

But this time Rico had no answers, and Louisa began to fear this might be because there simply was no solution. Like Louisa and her mother—and his mother—Rico had assured her that with time George Johnson would accept their union. She knew Rico had always looked up to the man who had urged him to learn more of the business, had bragged to his friends and fellow ranchers about Rico’s talent with a lasso and branding iron, had even joked with the Porterfields that one day they just might find Rico leaving them to work his place full-time.

Of course there had been other signs, signs Rico always excused as the pressure of the times or perhaps embarrassment caused by some comment made about how close Rico was to the family. Louisa had not always heard of those incidents from her husband. Her mother-in-law, Juanita, had revealed the most telling episode one day as the two of them sat in the Porterfield’s courtyard waiting for their husbands to return from a day on the range. Louisa was mending one of Rico’s shirts while she spoke openly of her frustration that not even the idea of a first grandchild seemed to have penetrated her father’s resolve.

“I know he feels the pressure of others who believe—wrongly—that we should not be together, but honestly, Mama Mendez, this is his grandchild I’m carrying.”

The older woman was unusually quiet as her wooden knitting needles clicked off each stitch.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Louisa challenged.

Rico’s mother reached over and took hold of Louisa’s hand. “Mi’ja, I think perhaps you have underestimated the depth of your father’s feelings,” she said.

“But he always cared for Rico,” Louisa protested.

“Sí. What he did not care for was Rico with you. He thought he had solved that problem, and then the two of you defied him by running away.”

“Solved it how? I never once…”

Juanita hesitated for several seconds, her lips twitching as if she wanted to say something but was afraid. Finally she let out a long breath and began. “Do you recall a time, a week or so before you went away to Tucson, when Rico was injured? When you came here to see about him because he had not come to see you?”

“The time his horse threw him,” Louisa replied, nodding with certainty.

“Sí.” Juanita Mendez lifted one eyebrow and then returned to her knitting. “No horse threw him,” she said softly.

“What do you mean?”

Juanita glanced up at her and pursed her lips. “Your papá sent for him that morning, and when he arrived at your ranch, Rico went into the barn. Your father was waiting. He had a shovel and he struck him hard across his shoulders. It was a warning—one George Johnson had every reason to believe would be heeded.”

“I don’t believe you. It must have been an accident. Papa was surprised and thought Rico was an intruder or…”

“The other caballeros were right outside. There was no intruder—and no intrusion into what your papá was doing.”

“You’re accusing my father of trying to kill Rico?” Louisa fought to control the instinct to shout at her mother-in-law.

Juanita smothered a hoot of derisive laughter. “Make no mistake, mi hija, if your father had intended to kill Rico, my son would be dead.” She rested her knitting on her lap and continued her tale. “And then a week after that, the two of you…”

“It was me,” Louisa said softly. “I was the one who said we should run away. Rico was always the one trying to talk me out of it, reminding me of all the comments and insults I had had to endure already for just being seen with him or daring to dance a reel with him. He tried to convince me that it would only get worse if we married.”

“And that was exactly what your father feared—what he fears to this day, Louisa. You ask why the baby has not turned his mind around? It has doubled his fears. Your child will be branded as a mestizo, a half-breed, and for all that you and Rico must face, that baby will be caught in the middle as well.”

Louisa bit her lower lip. “So you agree with him that we have made a mistake, Mama Mendez?”

“Love is never a mistake,” she replied. “But it can be a challenge. You cannot go back and undo what has been done, Louisa—nor would I wish for you to do that. But you must face reality, and the reality is that for some people, perhaps for your papá, fear of the unknown makes them dig in their heels.”

“But you and Papa Mendez…”

Juanita smiled. “Our people are used to finding a way to come to terms with things we cannot change. I can see how much you love my son and how he loves you. Your journey will not be easy, but then few are, and you and Rico have the added blessing of the Porterfields standing with you. Just do not base your happiness on changing others.” She stood. “Time for me to start supper. Do not sit in the sun too long.”

Louisa set her sewing aside and hugged her mother-in-law. “Thank you for telling me this, but Rico and I will find a way,” she assured her. “Someday my family will just have to accept that I was the one who pushed Rico—not the other way around.”

Juanita cupped her cheek, her gaze filled with sadness. But she said no more, just gathered her knitting and slowly walked to the house.

Louisa found a place in the shade, folded the mended shirt, and rested her hands on the slight swell of her stomach. She and Rico had known each other since childhood, and her parents had welcomed Rico into their home on multiple occasions. George Johnson had relied on the cowboy to help out on the spread when he was shorthanded. And in spite of his work at the neighboring Porterfield ranch, Rico had never failed to do what he could. In fact, Louisa’s father had on more than one occasion referred to the young man as the son he’d never had. Given that history and her parents’ love for her, Louisa had to believe eventually her father would do what he had always done in the face of circumstances he could no longer control—he would find his way to acceptance.

But as sure of the future as she felt whenever she and Rico were together, he was often gone for days at a time working the herd, branding new stock, and driving the cattle to market. It was on those lonely nights that the full force of her decision hit her, and as summer turned to autumn, she could not help but question if her parents would ever forgive her.

* * *

Every November the Porterfields gave a party to celebrate the successful delivery of stock to market and the end of another season. Everyone from the area attended, and this year was to be no exception. Louisa had been pressed into service by her friend Amanda Porterfield to help with the plans—always elaborate whenever Amanda took charge. She was grateful for the opportunity to concentrate on something other than her estrangement from her family, now going into its seventh month and worse than ever. What had begun as her father’s refusal to accept Rico or their decision to marry had escalated over the summer and fall to include her mother and Helen and a good many of their friends and neighbors.

For months she had clung to the idea that in time her mother would persuade her father to see reason—Louisa and Rico were married and expecting a child. Right up to the moment when she crossed paths with her mother and Helen at Eliza McNew’s dry-goods store, she had believed her mother would finally stand her ground and take her side in the matter. Early one morning, she went to town with Amanda to shop for fabric for dresses for the party. Although Louisa’s pregnancy was advanced, Amanda had assured her Eliza would not open the shop to others while they were there. So when the bell over the shop door jangled and Louisa saw her mother and sister enter, she was sure Amanda had arranged this meeting, and squeezed her friend’s hand in gratitude.

“Mama,” she cried as she hurried forward, but she stopped when she realized the toll their estrangement had taken. Dorothy Johnson had aged, her usually dark hair now streaked with gray and her normally luminous skin sallow and lined. But the biggest surprise was she did not return Louisa’s joyous greeting. Instead she locked eyes on Eliza McNew, who appeared to receive the message as she steered Amanda to the far side of the store.

“Hello, Louisa,” her mother said finally. Helen said nothing, fiddling nervously with the strings of her purse as she pretended an interest in a display case near the front door. “You’re looking well,” her mother said, but this comment was delivered with a frown as she focused on Louisa’s obvious pregnancy. As was the custom, once Louisa began to show, she did not attend church or other gatherings. This was the first time she had left the Porterfield ranch in weeks.

“Amanda insisted we come today,” Louisa began, thinking her mother disapproved of a pregnant woman in public—especially when that woman was her daughter. “We came straight here and will go straight back,” she promised.

Her mother waved off any explanation. “Something must be done, Louisa. I agreed for us to meet here, because your father is distraught and unwell. Once I had thought to ask you to come to your senses and accept an annulment, but of course now it is far too late for that. We would be the talk of the territory. And so it occurred to me that perhaps once the child is born…”

“Rico isn’t going anywhere. He is my husband, Mama, and the father of our child.”

“And George Johnson is my husband and your father and deserves respect. Your actions have broken his heart, Louisa. Have you no pity for the man?”

“What would you have me do?”

“I would have had you wait and discuss this matter with your father and me instead of allowing that boy to persuade you to slip away in the dead of night. Honestly, child, those people…”

And that was the moment that Louisa understood Juanita Mendez had been right. She might never make this right with her parents. “And what would you have me do with this baby?” she asked quietly as she smoothed the fabric of her dress over her rounded stomach, deliberately emphasizing the evidence of her pregnancy.

“I am quite sure that Juanita would raise the child as her own. After all, this baby is her grandchild.”

“And yours,” Louisa reminded her, wanting to scream the words at her. She noticed Helen had joined Amanda and Eliza, and although all three were pretending to examine a bolt of fabric, there was little doubt they were hearing every word. “Mama, please. If you and Papa would only allow Rico and me to call on you, to sit down and talk calmly, surely…”

“If you refuse to follow the commandment that instructs you to honor your father, Louisa, then I give up. Helen, we should go.”

Louisa watched as her mother walked to the door without a backward look or word of farewell. Helen glanced her way, giving her an expression of helpless sympathy, and hurried to catch up to their mother, who was already outside, walking stiffly down the street.

The jingle of the bell over the closing door was the only sound inside the store. Neither Eliza nor Amanda said a word. Instead they waited to see what Louisa would do. Stunned by the encounter, she stared out the window until she saw her mother and sister climb aboard their buggy and pass by the store on their way out of town. Neither of them looked her way.

Then she felt her child move inside her, and as was always the case when she felt that life, she smiled. The meeting with her mother and sister was not the end of things, she decided. Once her parents met their grandchild—held their grandchild—everything would be all right. Another two months of this, coupled with the coming of Christmas, and everything would work out. She was certain of it. She turned to face her friends, then crossed the store to finger the bolt of fabric they still held.

“This is lovely. Amanda, it is the perfect color for you. You must buy it and perhaps a few yards of that wonderful lace as trim. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

As usual Amanda was distracted by the turn of their attention to her, and Louisa could see that Eliza understood exactly what she was doing, so she went along with her. “And now to find the perfect fabric for your gown, Louisa,” she said, turning to scan the bolts stacked on the shelves behind her. “Something in a rose, I should think. Or perhaps that lavender there.”

Louisa was sure her parents would be at the party, and she would not further embarrass them by making such a public display of her pregnancy. “I won’t need a dress for the party,” she said quietly. “I’ll enjoy it from the kitchen—helping Rico’s mother.”

Amanda’s eyes went wide with surprise. “But…”

“Please don’t fight me on this,” Louisa pleaded. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it to keep the tears at bay. But when Eliza and Amanda wrapped their arms around her, she lost the battle and let the tears come.