Maria stood up, shaking her head. “Alberto, give it back. And don’t take it again, all right?” She didn’t know why it fell to her to discipline the niños half the time. She was not their mother. Although she reminded herself that their mother was undoubtedly drunk again, passed out on the childrens’ grandmother’s sofa.

  Family could be a burden at times.

  “Do I have to?” Alberto asked, his face practically wadding up with disappointment.

  “Yes, you do. And if you do not, your sister will tell me, and I shall tell your grandmother.”

  Alberto’s eyes grew wide. “I promise.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t tell Grandmama?” he asked. He looked frightened.

  Maria held back a smile and said, “I won’t, if you give back the doll and promise never to take it again, Alberto. ¿Verdad?”

  He looked down at the kitchen floor and tried to dig a sandal-clad toe into the wood. “It is under your bed, Consuela. Behind the stuffed horse.”

  Consuela tightened her grip on herself, shifting her arms upward. “It had better be there.”

  Maria knew that the threat of “Grandmother’s wrath” was enough to keep poor Alberto from even telling a slight untruth, and she said, “It is, Consuela. Go and see.”

  The little girl stuck out her tongue at her brother and vanished out the door, leaving Alberto to his misery and Maria to comfort him.

  “Would you like a sweet, Alberto?”

  He nodded in the affirmative, and she lifted him up and sat him on the edge of the table. “All right, my fine little torero.”

  He smiled. He always smiled when she called him a bullfighter. He was small for his age.

  In the drawer of the table, she rummaged for the paper bag of lemon drops she always kept, found it, and popped one into his eager mouth. His lips curled into a smile as he happily smacked on it.

  “Ah, torero, you remind me of your father a little,” she said, sighing. Paolo Alba had ridden into town one fine day, all talk and machismo and flash, and before she knew it, he had married her only sister. The boy was like his father in many ways: above all, in the delight he took in causing trouble, and the ease with which he escaped it.

  And Paolo had finally escaped her sister by just riding out of town one day when Alberto was one and Consuela was a newborn. And he hadn’t been back since. Conchita took her solace in the bottle and left most of the care of the children to whomever was handy, usually their mother. Who herself had a bad hip and probably couldn’t have kept up with a lame old cow, let alone two fiesty, constantly squabbling grandchildren.

  Well, such was life, Maria supposed. She needed to keep the cantina going. It supported far too many people. And she had been glad when she moved from her mother’s house and into the room upstairs.

  It was just one step farther away, but the room had been going to waste. Her father had let it out to strangers sometimes, when the hotel was full. Which happened perhaps once every one or two years, at the most. Jaguar Hole was not the most prosperous or commonly frequented of towns.

  At last, his candy half finished, Alberto had sucked up enough attention to suit him, and he jumped down from his perch. A monkey, that one was! Why, even from the moment of his birth, he had been covered with fine, soft hair, the color of a raven’s wing. It had all fallen out in days, but they all remembered it.

  “Go now, torero,” she said, smiling softly, then followed him to the door. She leaned out it, calling after him, “And leave your sister’s things alone from now on! You hear me?”

  Alberto scampered out into the street without even acknowledging her.

  Just like his father. Both of them were, when you got right down to it.

  Slocum piled the last of the load of fence posts on the wagon. Fence posts? They were a pretty ragged lot, these chunks of pin oak, but he figured they weren’t going for looks so much as function.

  Apparently, Jorgé agreed.

  At least, he had loaded some pretty shabby posts himself. He had no idea what Juan and Carlito thought, except that Carlito wasn’t any too happy with the whole operation.

  Of course, Carlito hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. Waves of animosity fairly rolled off his back as he worked.

  Slocum leaned against the wagon’s shady side, took a pull off his canteen, then rolled himself a smoke. Carlito aside, what he couldn’t figure out was why nobody had come up with this idea before.

  Especially MacCorkendale. After all, he was the one losing his damned cows.

  “Hola, Slocum,” Jorgé said as he walked up, his arms full of saws and axes. He tossed them up into the wagon seat, one at a time, then slouched next to Slocum. “I think we are done, no?” he asked as he ran a sleeve over his forehead.

  “For today, anyhow.”

  “When does the wire come?”

  Slocum exhaled a long plume of smoke. “I’m hopin’ for tomorrow. Where you wanna start stringin’?”

  “Good question, amigo. The land of Señor Valdez, it starts about a mile west. Señor MacCorkendale’s land starts over there, right about where the horses are tethered.”

  Slocum nodded. “Okay, let’s back up a half mile to the west, then. Split the difference.”

  Jorgé grinned. “My plan exactly. Slocum, we should start a business together. We would never argue.”

  Slocum returned the expression and added a chuckle. “Except maybe about what kind of business.”

  “Yes, you have maybe got me there,” Jorgé admitted. “So, we start in the morning?”

  “Yeah, guess we could start setting postholes even if the wire don’t come in. They’re freightin’ it in from Bisbee.”

  “Bisbee?” Jorgé asked, arching one brow. “When was the last time you were there?”

  Slocum shrugged. “ ’Bout a week ago. Maybe a couple’a days more.”

  Jorgé’s face lit up. “Then you have spent time in the brothels there?”

  “Yeah,” Slocum replied, and took a last drag on his quirley before stamping it out underfoot. “This time I stayed up at . . . the Regal. Miss Daisy Thompson’s place. Why?”

  Jorgé began to laugh, then he slapped his thigh. “At Miss Daisy’s? Slocum, the world is too small for such as you and I.”

  “Huh?”

  “Two weeks ago, I stopped at Miss Daisy’s, too! Ah, and spent many an hour in the pleasant company of her girl Samantha.”

  Slocum stared at him. “This is gettin’ spooky, Jorgé. I was with her just last week.”

  Jorgé laughed again. “You are not fooling me, Slocum? A little girl, only this high?” He held his hand just below shoulder level. “Red hair and blue eyes, with the body of an angel?”

  “And the tenacity of a badger,” Slocum added under his breath.

  Jorgé heard though, and roared out a laugh.

  “You’re gettin’ way too easy to please in your old age, Jorgé,” Slocum said with a grin.

  Jorgé replied, “No Slocum, just the opposite. Miss Samantha, she pleased me fine!”

  Slocum slapped him on the shoulder. “Then may she please you again, amigo!” His gaze wandered back into the trees, where he could see Carlito and Juan, who were deep in conversation.

  “What you suppose those two are up to?” he asked, eager to change the subject. Samantha had been pretty fair in the sack, but she was as loony as a Carolina lake at nesting time.

  Jorgé followed his gaze. “Hard to tell with those two. Like I told you before, Juan, he is all right, I think. It is Carlito you will want to keep your eye on.”

  11

  As it turned out, all four of the hapless fencers rode into Jaguar Hole that afternoon.

  Jorgé kept the conversation—if it could be called that—going, but Slocum was the only one who participated, if marginally. Juan and Carlito rode several yards behind, leading the wagon horses, and kept their traps shut.

  It was just past dusk when they rode up the main street—all right, the only street—and Slocum insisted they stop at the livery to see to the horses before they went up to the cantina.

  Carlito grumbled some about this, but Jorgé laughed and said, “Just like the old times. The same old Slocum. Feeds his horse before he feeds himself!”

  “You do the same thing, and you know it,” Slocum chided.

  Jorgé cocked his head briefly, then said, “Sí, I do. But it is difficult to tease myself, amigo. I would get mad and shoot myself, and then where would I be?”

  Slocum threw a brush at him, and Jorgé laughed.

  Juan and Carlito kept their silence and quietly tended their mounts, although Slocum noticed that Carlito slid him a quick look.

  It was not friendly.

  Samantha Rollings was still holding vigil at her window and saw the four men walking up the street from the livery.

  Among them was Slocum! She’d know him anywhere with those broad shoulders and those slim hips, that animal grace with which he walked.

  She paid no attention to the other men. Slocum was her only focus.

  And when they went into the Cantina Lopez, she snatched her shawl from the bed and took off out the door.

  She had to go back, from halfway down the stairs, when she remembered that she’d forgotten to lock her door.

  Or even close it.

  Slocum and his group had barely settled at a table at the edge of the room when a female voice—which didn’t belong to Maria—boomed, “Slocum, darlin’!” And Samantha Rollings, of all people, came charging across the room at him, her arms outstretched.

  Slocum was so taken aback that he could only sit there, staring, but not Jorgé. No, Jorgé fairly leapt to his feet, held out his arms, and cried, “Querida!”

  Samantha stopped dead in her tracks only five feet from the table. “Jorgé?” she said, blinking.

  He moved toward her. “Yes, my love, my darling! You have come to visit us? How sweet, how wonderful! How beautiful you look!”

  He embraced her—a little too tightly, Slocum thought. At least he didn’t recall her eyes bugging out that much. But there was no stopping Jorgé. Even the fact that she’d called out for Slocum in front of the whole cantina hadn’t fazed him.

  And then Slocum realized it: Jorgé was in love. With Samantha.

  Which was a little like handing a four-year-old your nitroglycerine and a box of matches. Big trouble.

  For Jorgé, anyway.

  Nobody was speaking—nobody in the whole place, that was—and Slocum figured somebody had to save the day, and it looked like that somebody was him.

  He stood up next to Jorgé, and said, “Why, Miss Samantha! Mighty nice to see you.” There, that was passive enough, wasn’t it?

  But Samantha stood, frozen in place, while Jorgé continued to grin like a fool. Slocum expected a line of drool to start dripping from the corner of his mouth at any moment.

  He slapped Jorgé on the back—more to bring him to his senses than anything else—and said, “Ain’t you the lucky one? Miss Samantha came all the way down here, just to see you!”

  Jorgé showed some signs of life, and Slocum quickly added, “Miss Samantha, why don’t you have a seat between me and Jorgé, here?”

  He quickly grabbed a vacant chair from another table and wrestled it into place between his and Jorgé’s. But closer to Jorgé’s than his.

  Samantha had taken some possession of herself by that time. She embraced Jorgé warmly, although she eyed Slocum during most of it, then rounded him to take her chair.

  She smiled across the table at Juan and Carlito, neither of whom could muster a smile, even for her. Slocum made the introductions.

  Carlito, of all people, finally spoke. He pointed a finger straight at Samantha and said, “I know you from somewhere, I think.”

  Samantha said, “Oh, I just have one of those faces.”

  “No, no,” Carlito insisted. “I think maybe we have met before.”

  Just in the nick of time, Diego appeared at the table with his order pad.

  “Señores y señorita?” he said and poised his lead. “What can I bring you?”

  Helga ate in silence as did Ralph, at the far end of the table.

  She thought he was chewing with annoyance on his mind, although she could not be certain. He did everything with some annoyance lately, even more than he had in the beginning.

  Of course, things between them had been much better than they were at present. Which wasn’t to say they were good, just better. Anything was preferable to this: his protracted silences, his outbursts, and the fact that he had never loved her at all. To have known love, then lost it, would be better than this endless stretch of nothingness, of treading the endless ocean of time.

  She pushed the peas on her plate to one side, then back again. She had kissed Slocum. She had thrown herself at him like some wanton hussy.

  If her parents had known, they would have whipped her, then sent her to the milk shed to stay until the shame had fallen from her. But they didn’t know, no one knew, and there was no one to punish her.

  Except herself.

  And she hadn’t the strength.

  But how wonderful that forbidden kiss had been! The taste of his lips, the broadness of his shoulders under her arms, the feel of him and the scent . . .

  “No,” she said, aloud.

  MacCorkendale’s head came up, and he glowered down the length of the table at her. “No, what?”

  She cringed. “Nothing.”

  “You don’t say ‘no’ for no reason, Helga.”

  She scrambled for an answer. “I was just thinking out loud, that is all.”

  “Thinking about what?”

  Helga took a deep breath and scrambled to come up with something. “I was thinking that maybe I would change the kitchen curtains to red ones, and then I thought no, it will be too hot in there.”

  Miraculously, MacCorkendale simply said, “Oh,” and resumed pushing his spoon around.

  This place was so hot! Even now, sweat trickled down her back, down her nose, matted her hair. Why had she come to this place?

  To be with your husband, she reminded herself. But why follow a husband who is not a husband?

  Why stay with him at all?

  But where could she go, and who would have her? Her mother had always said that no one would, and Helga believed her. She knew she could not go home. Even her parents didn’t want her.

  But Slocum . . . Could she go away with Slocum? He hadn’t made a face of disgust when she’d . . . done what she’d done.

  Maybe he would take pity on her, take her to a new place. Perhaps, along the way, he would make love to her. Once, just one single night in his arms, would be enough to last her a lifetime.

  “Pardon me?” she said. Herr MacCorkendale had spoken while she was far away, deep in thought, imagining herself in another man’s embrace. She flushed hotly, adding to her discomfort.

  “What’s wrong with you, anyhow?” he grumbled.

  “I am sorry. I am not feeling very well lately.”

  “Whatever. See the doc, then. And pass me the butter.”

  Maria watched their table from the widow behind the bar. A very delicate thing, this situation, she thought. Slocum, this woman, Jorgé, and the other two. They were unsuited to sit at the same table. They were unsuited to dine in the same town, actually.

  She didn’t know exactly what was going on, but that woman who had been pestering her about Slocum sat at their table, too, waiting for her dinner, with Jorgé’s arm tight around her shoulders—and Slocum leaning as far away as possible. It seemed that whatever attraction the woman felt for Slocum was one-sided, then.

  Still, it made her a little angry. She knew it shouldn’t, but it did. She and that woman, they were as different as night and day—both in looks and in bearing. Had Slocum been involved with her at some time?

  Maria shifted food from cooking pot or baking dish to plate without thinking about it. All she could think of was that woman stank of a place of soiled doves. There wasn’t a smell, not exactly, but everything about her demeanor was, well, cheap.

  Worse than cheap. She had come in asking questions and playing with that poor ring on her finger as if it meant something.

  Maria sniffed. As if she could be fooled by a ploy so childish as that!

  Still, it rankled. She called for Diego and sent him back out with their supper orders. She had planned to go herself but decided to give it a little more time before she threw herself into the brewing situation.

  Whatever it was.

  Slocum had best explain himself to her satisfaction, though, or he would not share her bed tonight! On this count, she was certain.

  “Stop it,” Samantha hissed as she pushed at him. Jorgé’s arm had lain heavy on her shoulder ever since she’d sat down, Slocum had scooted his chair as far away as he could, and she was tired of it! Tired of being forcibly fondled by the wrong man and tired of Slocum being so near, yet so far.

  Jorgé pulled his arm back just a hair and exclaimed, “Que? What is the problem, my love?”

  She saw the expression of puzzlement on his face, the fool, but she had run out of patience—and mercy—at this point. She said, “Jorgé, I came to see Slocum.”

  His arm left her shoulders abruptly, and she felt a cooling slice of air for a moment. She also noticed Slocum edging even farther away.

  She whirled toward him. “Don’t you move another inch!” she demanded fiercely.

  Her raised voice was barely noticed by the other patrons beyond their table. The tequila had started to flow.

  “What’d you just say to me?” Slocum barked. He didn’t much like being ordered around, and although he’d take more from a female than a man, he wasn’t going to take this!

  But Samantha, as usual, wasn’t getting the message. She snapped, “You just plant your butt in that chair, Mister Slocum!”

  “That’s it,” he muttered, and immediately shoved his chair back.

  He grabbed Samantha by the arm, jerked her up after him, and headed toward the door, dragging her behind.

  He had no more than stepped out onto the walk and said, “Godammit, Samantha!” when Jorgé came barreling out and ran right into them.