Until lately. This business with MacCorkendale and his stubbornness over a few cattle made Valdez cranky and evil and out of sorts. Why could they not just each take the cattle on their lands and call it square? Cattle roamed. It was their nature.

  But it was not the nature of men to exchange them over a country’s boundary!

  And now he had stooped to building a fence. Or letting his men put up one, anyway. Such foolishness. The first good windstorm would knock half of it down, he guessed. He had no plans to patrol it or keep it in repair.

  And he was guessing MacCorkendale had no such plans, either.

  Fingers tapped at his door.

  “Come?” he said.

  The door opened, and in stepped Salma, charming as always. And, as always, he stood while she entered. It was not just a male-to-female deference. She had been above him in social standing, and ten years had not erased that particular perceived gulf between them.

  But Salma said, “Sit, my love. You will wear yourself out.”

  “If a decade of standing has not done it yet, my beloved . . .” he said, bowed slightly, and sat down. “However, as you will. Now, what can I do for you, querida?”

  Salma bowed her head and looked up at him through her long, thick lashes, which were russet, the color of a red fox. “Could you spare me some time this afternoon, Pablito?”

  He couldn’t keep the grin from sprouting over his face. Pablito. It was her term of endearment for him.

  “Of course, my dear Salma,” he said. “What is it that you wish?”

  She perched on the edge of his desk. “Could you try to forget about this dispute with Mr. MacCorkendale for an afternoon and come with me for a stroll in the gardens? They are at their most beautiful, and you have not set foot in them for months.”

  He didn’t speak. He supposed that he had been overly occupied with MacCorkendale of late. And it was really such a petty thing, wasn’t it?

  “Pablito?”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Yes, my love. Forgive me. Of course I will go walking in the gardens with you. It would be my greatest pleasure. Thank you for reminding me.”

  “When you finish your cigar, then?”

  “The very moment.”

  She leaned across the desk, then, and kissed him on the mouth rather chastely. He reached for her, but she pulled away, color flooding her cheeks. “For later, darling,” she said, and left.

  How strange, he thought, that God had granted him such passion with such a woman, only to bear no fruit. But such things were God’s will, and not for a puny man, such as he, to fathom.

  He returned to his cigar in an entirely new frame of mind.

  Up at the MacCorkendales’ ranch, Ralph MacCorkendale was having something of an epiphany.

  As he stood out in the center of an empty paddock, staring out over the southern hills and grazing lands of his ranch, he came to a decision.

  He had hired Slocum to go and shoot somebody—he didn’t much care if it was Rodriguez or Valdez, himself—and by God, he wasn’t getting his money’s worth!

  He was a penny-pinching man by nature as well as by upbringing, and he demanded value for his money. He wanted somebody dead and his cattle back, not some cockamamie fence!

  “Bill!” he shouted. “Bill!”

  A moment passed, and then Bill, a tough-looking, wiry sort of fellow and the best shot on the place, came around the side of the barn, a pitchfork in his hand. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Saddle my horse. Your own, too. We’re gonna take a little ride.”

  Bill nodded, then disappeared into the barn again.

  “Bill?”

  His grizzled head poked out again. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Bring your guns.”

  Helga had been up on the porch, stewing and fretting, and accidentally overheard the conversation. It took a moment for its gravity to sink in, but when it did, she stood bolt upright and marched down into the yard and right over to where Ralph was waiting.

  “No,” she said, suddenly braver than she’d ever been, and not quite knowing why. “You will not make trouble with this fence. I forbid it.”

  MacCorkendale stared at her as if she were a rabid dog. Which she probably appeared to resemble. She imagined her eyes were wide and wild, at least.

  At last he said, “What?”

  It came out more as if he was stunned, rather than angry, and she was emboldened. She said, “You got no business out on dat desert, Ralph. If you want to send Slocum some help, you send a few of your men. But you are not going out there to start trouble.”

  He blinked rapidly. “Listen, this is my ranch. I’ll do whatever I damn well please!”

  “It is my ranch, too,” she said and stood her ground. “When we signed the marriage papers, it became both of ours. You promised Papa. I hold you to it.” She crossed her arms. “In fact, I say that my half is in the south. You got no business there unless I say so.”

  She suddenly realized what she was doing—the full impact of it, that was—and her face grew hot. She felt faint, but she tried to hold her ground, to stay upright.

  Let him send her away! She would go with Slocum, and she would take half the ranch with her! Let him chew on that for a while.

  But it seemed that MacCorkendale wasn’t doing any chewing. He stared at her a moment before he said, “You called me Ralph.”

  She had? She didn’t remember.

  “Thank you, Helga. I don’t believe you ever done that before.” He looked practically staggered.

  Helga knew she was, although for different reasons. She began to wobble and put all her concentration into staying upright and defiant.

  MacCorkendale moved toward her, climbing the fence rather than using the gate in his hurry. He put hands on her shoulders, and said, “Helga, honey, are you all right? You don’t look awful good.”

  Mustering her last bit of energy, she said, “No, I am not all right. Not if you are going to go down there and maybe get yourself shot. You leave that fence alone. It is the only chance we have to stop this foolish war you have with Mr. Valdez.”

  She wavered, but MacCorkendale’s hands held her upright. For the moment. And then she felt herself crumpling to the ground, but not before MacCorkendale caught her and lifted her into his arms.

  “Bill!” she heard him cry before the world went all the way dark. “Ride to town and get Doc Oaty!”

  Slocum worked the posthole digger, taking turns with Jorgé whenever their backs gave out, and Carlito and Juan followed behind them, stringing and stretching wire.

  They had begun the other way round, with Slocum and Jorgé doing the stretching, but Slocum grew tired of Carlito’s complaints, and they soon traded. He and Jorgé were about three posts ahead of the wire gang, and they stopped for a moment.

  “I bring up the wagon,” Jorgé said. Slocum could tell this was harder on his friend than it was on him, and nodded. He didn’t really want to trek back for just a new post, either. And his shoulder ached.

  He plunked his butt on a boulder and pulled out his fixings bag. They’d fenced over two miles so far, by his reckoning, and he was ready to go back to town and rest his tired back and sore shoulder in a nice, soft bed. But he figured they’d best get another one or two in the ground first.

  Tomorrow, they’d begin earlier. Maybe even stay out tomorrow night for an earlier start the next day.

  About the same time that he touched fire to the end of his smoke, Jorgé drove the fence post wagon up alongside him.

  “¿Agua, amigo?” Jorgé called.

  “Be pleased.”

  Jorgé tossed him down the canteen, which he caught with one hand, then pried loose the cork. He took a long drink, then another. It was warm, but it was wet.

  “You must have had great thirst, amigo,” Jorgé said, smiling as he took the canteen and put it back up under the wagon seat. “You have emptied it.”

  “Sorry,” Slocum said tiredly. “I’m about beat.”

  Jorgé sat down on the next boulder and ran his sleeve over the back of his neck. “Sí, she is hot today, and I am not used to this kind of work.”

  “Who is?” Slocum said.

  “True. And you have the wound in your shoulder. I am sorry, I forgot.”

  Slocum hadn’t. The healing wound that had begun the day as a minor annoyance was now pounding to beat the band. “Ain’t your fault, Jorgé.”

  The other man regarded his arm. “Slocum, I think she is beginning to bleed a little.”

  Slocum reached to touch the wound. His fingers came away red and damp. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, it can’t be helped.”

  “Yes, it can,” Jorgé said, and stood up. “Come with me,” he said, and led a curious Slocum back to the horses, which were tied to the back of the buckboard full of posts. He walked up to Concho. “Here,” he said. “You go back into Jaguar Hole and let Maria tend to that. Maybe even see the doctor.”

  “Jorgé, I ain’t leaving you boys out here to work on what was my idea in the first place!”

  “And I will not have you bleed to death and therefore get out of it completely!”

  Slocum began to chuckle, and Jorgé soon joined him. Slocum tightened Concho’s girth, then stepped up on him. He hadn’t realized until just then how sore his shoulder was, and he grunted a little with the effort.

  “You see, amigo?” Jorgé said with a grin. “You go on. We follow quick enough.”

  14

  Around nightfall, Bill came barreling into the ranch’s yard and knocked on the front door. When MacCorkendale, having heard his arrival from upstairs, opened the door, Bill said, “Doc’s comin’ right behind me, boss. If you don’t mind my askin’, how’s she doin’?”

  “She’s awake,” MacCorkendale said. “Send Doc right in when he comes. Door’s open.” And then he turned his back and went upstairs again.

  Behind him, he heard Bill say, “That’s real good, boss. Just fine. I’ll tell him.”

  MacCorkendale only grunted his acknowledgment.

  He was suddenly too concerned about Helga to do more.

  This afternoon, when she had shown signs of weakness, when she had fainted in the sun, he’d been shocked to his core. He’d always imagined Helga to be as strong as a draft mare. Anyway, that was how her father had represented her when he’d heard MacCorkendale was looking for a wife.

  He’d sort of taken that description to heart and depended on her like a beast of burden: to do his laundry and cooking, to service his husbandly needs when he felt like it, to keep his house clean and his truck garden neat and weeded, and to never, never complain.

  He hadn’t really considered her human until today.

  Of course, he supposed he’d loved her, in the way a man might love a good horse or a pet dog, but she was his wife, wasn’t she? Didn’t she deserve more than that?

  And didn’t he really feel more?

  “Helga?” he called, halfway down the hall to his room. Her room, too. “Helga, are you all right?”

  She waited until he poked his head through the door to answer. “I tell you, Ralph, I am fine. I don’t know why I fainted. Will you let me get out of bed and go back to work? It’s nearly suppertime!”

  “No ma’am,” he said in a voice that he hoped conveyed something like a benevolent command. “You’ll stay right there. The doctor’s on the way.”

  “The doctor?” Again, she blushed. See seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, didn’t she. “Oh, Herr MacCorkendale, do not be silly. I am fine. Let me—”

  “Herr MacCorkendale again? I like Ralph a whole lot better, Helga.” He smiled, intending to comfort her.

  But she seemed confused by the whole affair. Another reason he was glad the doctor was on his way.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. She had pretty skin, he realized. Now, why hadn’t he noticed that before? A real pretty color, and soft, too. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

  “Ralph?”

  “What, honey?”

  “What is wrong?”

  He smiled, for he heard the doc’s buggy clattering into the yard. “Nothin’s wrong, Helga. I’m just real glad you’re still with us. You gave me quite a scare, you know!”

  Her brow furrowed. “I am sorry. I did not intend—”

  He heard the doc’s footsteps on the stairs. “I know, Helga. Ain’t your fault.”

  Knuckles rapped softly on the door. “Mind if I come in?” came Dr. Oaty’s friendly voice.

  MacCorkendale climbed to his feet, his wife’s hand still in his. “Hell, no. Come on in, Doc. Been waitin’ for you.”

  “Well, Bill was certainly in a state when he came up my porch steps,” said the doctor. He was a stout man in his forties, with graying hair, a thick mustache, and a handshake that some said induced the need for medical attention.

  However, MacCorkendale gave as good as he got, and the handshake ended in a draw. The doc moved to the far side of Helga’s bed. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened, Mrs. MacCorkendale?”

  Slocum, having ridden back to Jaguar Hole and put himself into Maria’s hands, woke from a long snooze on her bed. It was dusk, and a bird was singing its last song until the morning. Soon, the owls would be out hunting their hapless prey.

  He sat up, and the new tightness in his wound told him that Maria, after plying him with three whiskies, had stitched him up again—this time with horsehair, most likely.

  Good. That wouldn’t break.

  He slipped on his clothes and made his way downstairs to the cantina. It was in full swing, and Jorgé and the others sat at a far table.

  Jorgé spotted him, and shouted, “¡Hola!” across the noisy room.

  Slocum waved a hand and sauntered over. “Evenin’,” he said, and pulled out a chair.

  “How is the shoulder, Slocum?” Jorgé asked.

  “Better,” Slocum admitted. “I think Maria sewed me up again.”

  “Bueno,” said Jorgé. He signaled Diego, who came over directly. “Get my friend here some supper, and another round for me and the boys.”

  Diego looked at Slocum. “The usual, señor?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Diego.”

  Slocum watched as the little man navigated the crowd and made his way back into the kitchen, and then saw Maria peek out the window behind the bar and smile at him.

  He smiled back warmly. Bless her heart!

  She disappeared again, and he turned to Jorgé, saying, “Whatever happened to Samantha?”

  Jorgé laughed. “Ah, it is all made up good, now, Slocum. She is mine, that girl. She waits for me at the hotel.”

  Slocum was dying to know just how that had happened, but he knew better than to push his luck. Instead, he said, “Well, what the hell are you doin’ here, then?”

  Jorgé grinned and shrugged. “It does her good to wait a little.” And then he winked.

  The formerly silent Juan seemed to get a kick out of this and started braying like a donkey. Carlito barked, “Shut up!” and that was the end of that.

  Well, Carlito was just a barrel full of monkeys, wasn’t he? Slocum thought.

  He said, “You boys get much more of that wire strung after I left?”

  “No,” Carlito barked nastily.

  “We got up to the last post you set,” Jorgé said, and threw Carlito a dirty look.

  Slocum had hoped for more, but he said, “That’s fine, Jorgé, just fine.”

  Diego brought his supper and another round of drinks for the boys, and Slocum dedicated his full attention to his plate.

  MacCorkendale had been sent from the room some time ago, and waited downstairs in the study, smoking a cigar and staring though the windows, out into the night.

  Doc Oaty’s tread in the upstairs hall got his attention, though, and he rushed out into the hall. “What is it, Doc?” he asked anxiously as the middle-aged man came toward him down the steps. “Is she gonna be all right?”

  Doc stepped down to the landing, a smile on his face. “She is, MacCorkendale, if you let her take it a bit easy for the next few months.”

  MacCorkendale’s face twisted up, and he said, “Huh?”

  “You’re gonna be a father, Ralph,” the doctor said and slapped him on the shoulder. “ ’Bout seven months from now, give or take a week or two.”

  “Helga? She’s. . . .” Words failed him. He said, “She’s in foal?”

  Doc Oaty laughed. “Well, I sure hope she isn’t, although that’d tell us something about you, wouldn’t it? But yes, she’s in a family way. Congratulations.”

  In his excitement and confusion, Ralph said, “Cigar! You want a cigar, Doc? We’ve gotta celebrate my soon-to-be son!”

  “Or daughter. And don’t mind if I do, just so long as you offer again once the baby actually gets here!”

  Ralph half ran to get him a cigar, and once he’d handed it over and shaken the doc’s hand again, he suddenly remembered something. “Helga!” he announced, slapping his head.

  “Yes, you should see to that,” Doc said and bit the end off his smoke while Ralph raced up the stairs.

  MacCorkendale didn’t quite understand his excitement yet, didn’t fathom why he’d been thinking about Helga in such flowery terms while he waited for Doc to come down. All he knew was that he had to see her, and right now.

  He burst through the door, startling her.

  “Helga!” he said, and realized he was weeping. He sat beside her on the bed and scooped her up into his arms. She resisted him at first, then relaxed into it. Oh, he’d crack that old-world reticence of hers eventually!

  “Helga, darlin’, we’re gonna have a baby!”

  She pushed back so that she could see his face. “You are not angry?”

  “Angry? Why the hell should I be angry?” he roared, then got hold of himself. “Sorry, Helga. Didn’t mean to shout. I’m not mad. Why, I’m so happy I about split a gut!”

  She managed a tiny smile. “You did?”

  “Hell, yes! Doc says it’s comin’ in about seven months or so. Try for a boy, honey, okay? Well, a girl’d be all right, I suppose . . .”