He emptied Valdez’s guns, got him up on his horse, and sent him on his way.

  “Should’a killed him,” MacCorkendale muttered. “Gonna make more trouble.”

  “But not today,” Slocum said gruffly.

  He left MacCorkendale, Juan, and Bill to work on the fence and Curly on guard while he unloaded the rest of the wire so that he could haul Jorgé back to town in the buckboard.

  “Sorry to make you so much bother, amigo,” Jorgé said.

  “Don’t speak so soon,” Slocum said as he sucked at yet another barb-punctured finger. “I ain’t loaded you in the wagon, yet.”

  Jorgé’s brows furrowed. “Sí. That will smart quite a bit, I think.”

  Slocum split one of the fence posts into thinner strips and made a crude splint for Jorgé’s leg. Then he, with MacCorkendale’s help, loaded Jorgé into the wagon bed. This was naturally accompanied by a great many curses from Jorgé.

  “Ride back’s gonna be fun,” Slocum muttered.

  MacCorkendale said, “Hit a rut for me.”

  From the back of the wagon came, “I am hearing you, you friends! ¡Mierde!”

  Slocum climbed up into the wagon’s seat, tipped his hat to MacCorkendale, and set out for town.

  Halfway there, he slugged Jorgé into insensibility, just to keep the noise level down to a dull roar.

  18

  Later that night, while a newly casted and sedated Jorgé was at the hotel under Samantha’s care—Slocum had only had a moment to speak to her privately but found that he hadn’t needed to, for she had figured the situation out for herself and had now resigned herself to stick with Jorgé—Slocum lay in bed with Maria snuggled under his arm.

  They had made love twice already, and most satisfactorily, and Slocum was enjoying a decent cigar and a bottle of champagne that Maria had surprised him with. Sweat glistened on their nude bodies, and Slocum had balanced his ashtray on her belly.

  The night air was still, and he blew smoke rings, through which Maria lazily poked her fingers as she tried to collect them, with little success. He whispered, “How big a wedding does your sister expect to have?”

  Maria’s brow furrowed prettily. “And how do you know that my sister plans to marry? I just learned this myself this afternoon!”

  He grinned. “Juan told me.”

  “But why do you want to know how big her wedding will be?”

  He hugged her shoulders. “It’s a long story, honey, but it looks like I’m payin’ for it.”

  Juan had taken off for town once the workday was done, but MacCorkendale could hardly wait to get back to the ranch and his unborn heir. Well, Helga, too. Valdez had sent a couple men—unarmed—to pick up the bodies, and they’d left, with no further incidents.

  Today, at least.

  MacCorkendale was tired. They’d strung at least another mile of wire, and it was the sort of work that he wasn’t at all accustomed to. But Juan had been reasonably good natured about explaining what had to be done—and in what order—and they had proceeded.

  Now he lay in bed, in the dark, beside Helga, the future mother of his child.

  He felt something new, something grand and special for her. Something that he had expected to feel all along, but had not, at least, not until today. There was suddenly a tender place in his heart, a place that only Helga could fill.

  “Helga?” he whispered. “Helga, my love?”

  She stirred slightly, and he repeated, “Helga?”

  “What is it?” she asked sleepily. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothin’, honey,” he said as he felt his erection growing. “Just wondered if you were awake, that was all.”

  Daintily, she yawned. “I am now. What time is it, Ralph?”

  “Don’t know. Helga, when the doc was here, he didn’t say nothin’ about . . . about you makin’ love, did he?”

  The question seemed to surprise her, and she hesitated a bit before she said, “He did not.”

  “I mean, he didn’t say as how it would hurt the baby?”

  “Nein.”

  He rolled toward her and put his hand on her cheek. The moonlight from the window bathed her face in pale light, and he wondered how in the world he had been wed to her for two years and never noticed what beautiful skin she had, what lovely coloring, and what lovely, light eyes.

  “Helga, would you, that is . . . would you mind . . . ?”

  She seemed to soften toward him. Something passed over her eyes—he couldn’t decipher it—but then she whispered, “I would like to, Ralph. It has been many weeks.”

  She let him take her nightgown all the way off—something she had never done before—and she lay there beside him, all naked and ripe and voluptuous, like the model in a painting. He trailed the tips of his fingers over one full, creamy-skinned breast, then the other, and he heard her little intake of air, almost a gasp.

  He let his hand drift lower, then lower as he watched her eyes grow round.

  “R-ralph, what are you doing?” she stammered.

  “Just tryin’ to make it . . . nice. For you, too, I mean.” He dipped his fingers between her legs and found her moist and slippery, wetter than she’d ever been for him.

  His erection was about to explode, and so he eased himself over her, parting her thighs with his knees. “You’re sure I won’t hurt the baby?” he asked as he positioned himself.

  “Yes, I am sure,” she said and smiled at him. The smile of a madonna.

  He entered her as if for the first time.

  Pablo Valdez sat, shirtless, on the edge of his bed while Salma fussed with his bandages. He hadn’t needed a doctor. He’d been lucky, she’d said, lucky that the bullet had passed cleanly through him, without so much as chipping a bone.

  In the old days, he supposed they might have run a hot poker through the wound to cauterize it and keep it from rotting him from the inside out, but Salma had ointments she applied that could heal like magic. She had brought them with her when they came from Mexico City, and her mother had brought them before, when the family came to the New World from France.

  His shoulder still hurt like the devil, however, and she had made him some tea to help with the pain. It tasted as bitter as death itself, although he was too polite to admit it, but he had to confess that it was easing his pain somewhat.

  Thank goodness for Salma.

  But damn that Slocum, and especially Jorgé! His men were deserting him like rats climbing down the ropes of a sinking ship! If he ever saw that Juan again . . .

  Salma finished and stood up, taking his soiled bandages with her. She touched his face and said, “You will live, my darling. Did the tea help?”

  “Yes, Salma, it seems to. Thank you.”

  “Pablo?”

  “Yes?”

  “You must divorce yourself from this anger you are feeling. Times change. We must change with them.”

  As always, her words made sense. And, as always, he did not want to hear them.

  “Salma?” he said. “Send for Miguel Cordura. He would be at the bunkhouse.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Do not trouble yourself. Just send for him. I wish to speak with him.”

  Salma nodded and departed. And ten minutes later there was a knock on his door.

  “Come,” said Valdez.

  In walked Miguel Cordura, who had been with Valdez since the beginning. Miguel was a seasoned man, a fast and accurate man with a gun—or at least, he once was—and a man he could trust.

  Not like Juan or Jorgé.

  “¿Patrón?” Cordura said, sweeping off his hat and bowing.

  Respect, thought Valdez. There is nothing like a little old-fashioned respect.

  “Miguel, you are still a good man with a pistol, no?”

  Cordura stood a little taller and smiled, just slightly. “Yes.”

  “And you are not opposed to using it for your employer?”

  Miguel’s smile widened. “Just what did you have in mind, patrón? You know I will do whatever you bid.”

  Slocum awakened still entangled in Maria’s arms. When they had finished their lovemaking the night before, they had been too tired to move another inch and had fallen asleep with Maria’s legs still wrapping his back, his arms still hugging her tightly, and his head cradled upon her breast.

  He tried to disentangle himself without waking her, but found it about as easy as uncoiling a sleeping snake.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. “Good morning, my Slocum,” she whispered huskily.

  He slumped down into the position he’d woken in. “Mornin’ yourself, baby.” He brushed a kiss over her temple.

  She trailed her fingertips across his jaw. “And how is your shoulder this morning? There is a chance you would take a day off from your labors to rest it?”

  He smiled. “Sorry, honey. Its healin’ up fine. No excuses for me.”

  She sighed. “It was worth a try.”

  “You know what I could use?”

  “Don’t tell me. Breakfast?”

  “Right again, Maria,” he said with a grin, and rolled off of her.

  She sat up, gathering the sheet to her. “You men,” she said, shaking her head. “If it is not the sex, it is the food.”

  “Shameless, ain’t we?” he said, grinning.

  She laughed, stood up, and walked about the room, gathering her clothing. “¿Huevos?” she asked. “With some nice smoked bacon, and maybe those potatoes, the way you like them?”

  “Home fries. Yes’m. That’d be great.” He pulled on his britches, then sat down to tug on his boots.

  “And you have everything settled with the señorita? The one across the way?”

  He started a bit. He thought she’d forgotten all about Samantha. But he said, “The misunderstandin’s all took care of, honey.”

  “I thought so,” she said, nodding. “I just wanted to hear it from your lips.”

  He stood up and walked around the bed. “And I only want to kiss yours, baby.” He kissed her deeply, running his hands up underneath the blouse she’d just put on, cupping her breasts, running the flat of his thumbs over her nipples.

  She giggled, then pushed away. “You had better watch yourself, Señor Slocum, or there will be no food fixed and no fencing for the whole of this day.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, grinning. “Consider my wrists slapped.”

  She backed up a step and tucked in her blouse. “And Slocum?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful when you piss out the window, my darling. Yesterday you hit my second cousin’s mule. He was not amused.”

  “Your cousin or the mule?”

  She opened the door. “Neither one.”

  By the time Slocum got downstairs, Jorgé was waiting for him, his crutch leaned against the wall, with Samantha in tow.

  He noticed that she made certain to sit as close to Jorgé as possible and didn’t speak to Slocum unless it was absolutely necessary.

  She was, perhaps, smarter than he had given her credit for.

  Juan joined them just as Diego came to take their order, and he was in fine fettle, indeed.

  “I tell Conchita you are paying for our wedding,” he said happily. “She is very glad, very grateful.”

  Slocum didn’t ask just who she was grateful to. The smile plastered onto Juan’s face told the whole story.

  “You pay for their wedding, Slocum?” Jorgé asked.

  Slocum explained, briefly.

  “Hell,” said Jorgé. “Juan, I would have thought better of you. But if Slocum’s paying, I will pay, too. You saved my bacon as much as his.”

  Slocum arched a brow at this unexpected bit of generosity but didn’t say anything to get Jorgé to change his mind. It was fine with him if Jorgé wanted to split the bill.

  Diego came out from the kitchen soon enough and set a steaming, fragrant plate before each of them, along with a pot of coffee. There was also a tall glass of orange juice, just for Slocum.

  “Why does he get orange juice and we don’t?” he overheard Samantha ask Jorgé in a whisper.

  “He sleeps with the squeezer,” was Jorgé’s reply.

  Slocum smiled and dug into his eggs.

  19

  Jorgé had hobbled off to the hotel—his crutch under one arm and Samantha under the other—and Slocum and Juan had departed the cantina for their fence a good half hour before a worried Diego came into the cantina’s kitchen.

  “Maria?” he asked in an odd tone.

  She crooked a brow. “What is it?”

  “There is a man.”

  “There are many men, Diego, and they all want tequila or cerveza or breakfast or all three.” She slid another pan of enchiladas into the oven. “What is so different about this one?”

  “He asks for Slocum. And Jorgé. And Juan. And he looks like he is up to no good.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and scowled. “Is he Mexican or American?”

  “Mexican, Maria. His name is Miguel Cordura.”

  “What did you tell this Señor Cordura?”

  “I say that I do not know. I say that I will ask you.”

  She nodded. “You did right, Diego. Is he out front now?”

  “Yes, at the corner table.” Diego slanted his glance out the little window behind the bar. “He watches us, so no slipping out the back door.” He winked at her.

  Damn! That had been her first thought, to waylay Cordura as long as possible, but if he was watching her . . .

  “Tell him that I am very busy, Diego,” she said. “But that I will come and speak with him as soon as I have the time.”

  She immediately picked up the plate of flour tortillas she had just finished making and began to fill them and put them into a baking pan. As Diego left, she called—just loud enough that it would be heard throughout the cantina—“Tell him I am a busy woman with much work to do, Diego. My time, she is at a premium!”

  From the corner of her eye she watched the man scowl. Too bad. He would have to wait. She didn’t like the looks of him, anyway. He was ugly, mean-looking and hardfaced, as if in his day he had killed many a man and not cared a bit about any of them.

  She did not look forward to speaking with him, but she would have to.

  And she would have to lie to him. Would he know?

  Probably.

  That kind usually did.

  When Ralph MacCorkendale left for work the next day—taking along Bill and Curly—he left behind, for the first time, a tearful Helga. Not that she hadn’t cried when he’d left before, but that had been in relief or frustration. Or both. This time, it was that she hated to see him leave her sight.

  He had been wonderful last night. So tender, yet masterful, and for the very first time, he had made her feel that incredible, special pleasure that before, she could only bring to herself in secret.

  For the first time, she had felt as if she were truly loved.

  She wiped away her tears with a corner of her apron. If only it could go on like this forever!

  Her hand dropped to her stomach, and she let it linger there, thoughtfully. How soon, she wondered, would she feel the life stirring within her? She willed it to move, to do something that would prove to her that it was there. But there was nothing, no tangible sign of life.

  “In time,” she whispered to herself. “It will come in time.”

  Ralph and his tiny dust cloud had disappeared over the horizon by the time she closed the screen and went back into the house. She had decided to make him something special for his dinner. One of his favorites. Chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy, she thought.

  She smiled and, humming, made her way up the stairs to take a little nap. She was tired already.

  Slocum and Juan reached the fence line only moments before MacCorkendale and his men. Slocum had brought back the buckboard, and they spent the first ten minutes reloading the baled wire.

  Once again, he sent Curly up on top of the hill to watch for any danger from the south. He wouldn’t put it past Valdez to send someone.

  The bodies had been hauled off with no trouble, however, and he was glad of it. He wasn’t sure why, but even MacCorkendale seemed to have relinquished control of the situation and looked to Slocum to be told what to do.

  With Curly on guard, Slocum set MacCorkendale and Bill to setting posts again, while he and Juan followed with the wire. They made good time, and while they all agreed that it didn’t look like much, it was strong and would serve the purpose.

  They made about four and a half miles that day, their best yet, and by the time they were done, Curly and his rifle had moved down a line of at least ten hills. He was also the only one who wasn’t tired to the bone and sweated through.

  They parted for the day. As usual, Slocum unhitched the horses from the wagons and led them back to town. Tomorrow would be their last day of work, and also as usual, he would lead them back loaded with water and grain for the day.

  He was glad to be nearly done with this mess. He wanted to wash his hands of it and relax and let his aching shoulder and punctured hands heal all the way. Possibly while he played cards and sipped champagne.

  He and Juan had traveled perhaps a mile toward town, engaged in the lazy sort of small talk that tired men are prone to engage in, when he heard the echoing pop of a distant shot.

  “That came from behind us,” Juan said.

  “Shit,” Slocum muttered and quickly tossed Juan the string’s lead ropes. “Get ’em back to town.”

  “Why?” asked a puzzled Juan.

  “If you wanna live long enough to get hitched, just do it,” Slocum shouted as he wheeled Concho and set off for the MacCorkendale place at a gallop.

  Miguel Cordura had lazed away half the day waiting for Maria, then finally given up on the bitch. It was time that he got to work, and Valdez hadn’t set out any particular order for the killings, had he?

  And so Cordura had ridden out of town and toward the MacCorkendales’ ranch. Once there, he had stayed just out of sight of the house for a good hour, watching to see who was home and what hands were around the place.