Bad to the Bone (14 page)

Guiltily, he let her hand drop. “Evidently you fainted while you were praying, Doña Consuelo.”

She looked around, sat up, and appeared confused.

“May I help you?” He placed one arm around her waist, took her hand, and assisted her to the nearest pew. “Perhaps you'd better sit down.”

He sounded sincere, and she was surprised to see him there. She'd stopped for a brief prayer, sickened by her father's cruelty toward her mother, and had passed out. “I'm all right now,” she said in a wavering voice.

They sat inches away, their eyes glittering in the
darkness. “Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down,” he suggested. “I'll take you there, if you like.”

“No, there's something I've got to do first.” Doña Consuelo's eyes filled with tears, and she sobbed uncontrollably.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “I'm sure that your mother is in a better place now.”

“She's in heaven,” Doña Consuelo replied, then blew her nose into the handkerchief. “Sorry, but this has been a very bad day for me. If only you knew what I've been through.”

“I understand.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, gave a little squeeze, and smiled.

She felt moved by his gesture, and believed that he really did care. “You're a strange boy,” she said.

“People have been telling me that all my life.”

She felt oddly at ease with him. “Are you really a desperado?” she inquired.

“Let me put it this way—if you always turn the other cheek, like it says in the Bible, some folks'll slap you right into the ground.”

Close up, he was quite appealing, except for a few nicks and scars on his face, and a certain leer in his eye. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“I sleep on the desert as a rule.”

“Aren't you afraid of Apaches?”

He winked playfully. “Aren't you?”

“But I don't sleep on the desert.”

“Maybe you should try it some time. It's sanctified beneath the stars.”

“What if it rains?”

“Just crawl under your tarpaulin. And you'll never go hungry because food's all over the place. There's
nothing like fresh antelope loin roasted over a mesquite fire.”

He's a wild man, she thought, as she measured his well-proportioned limbs. “Do you intend to spend the rest of your life living like a
lobo?
”

“I plan to get married someday, but there's something I've got to do first.”

“What's that?” she asked.

“It's personal. Sorry.”

She looked at him askance. “I've never met anybody like you.”

“I've never met anybody like you either, Doña Consuelo. Your husband is a lucky man.”

She laughed. “I'm not sure he would agree with you.”

“But it's obvious how much he loves you.”

She recalled something that she'd intended to do. “I've got to be going,” she said. “Perhaps I'll see you at dinner?”

“I'm leaving at sundown,” he replied.

“But you just arrived. You should rest your leg for a few more days, and perhaps we can talk again. You have an interesting point of view, and I don't often meet people with whom I can speak.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Doña Consuelo, if I can be of service, I'll stay as long as your patience will tolerate me.”

“Good—I'll look forward to talking with you.”

She disappeared into the outside corridor, as Duane closed his eyes, his heart beating wildly. I think she likes me, he said to himself.

He dropped to his seat in the pew, scratched his chin, and wondered whether to saddle up old Midnight
and cut out for Monterrey without delay. The air was filled with her fragrance, his head floated with desire, and a certain pesky artery throbbed in his throat. I'm in love with another man's wife, and it's got to be a disaster, he warned himself. But I promised I'd stay until she got tired of me, and a Christian is only as good as his word.

Doña Consuelo came to a stop before a squat adobe hut, as villagers in the vicinity became alarmed. One of them ran toward the hacienda, to warn Don Patricio, but Doña Consuelo had more important business at hand. She knocked on the door loudly. “Open up!”

The door fell ajar, and a short stout woman appeared. She had a moon face and wore a plain cotton dress. “Doña Consuelo,” the woman said, bowing low.

Doña Consuelo walked into the tiny enclosed space. It had a stove, bed, dresser, and table in one room. “I understand that you are my father's mistress?”

Conchita was unable to speak, and Doña Consuelo felt a mad urge to whack her, when a little boy strolled wide-eyed into the room. Doña Consuelo lost her breath, because the child was the spitting image of her father, and even resembled Doña Consuelo herself.

Doña Consuelo dropped heavily onto one of the wooden chairs at the table. “It's true,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “My God.”

She felt Conchita's hand on her forearm. “I am sorry, Doña Consuelo. I did not mean disrespect to your mother, but your father offered many pesos, and I did not even have shoes. Now I have anything, with
new dresses and my own home. Try to imagine yourself in my place, Doña Consuelo. What would you have done?”

No matter how hard Doña Consuelo tried, she couldn't imagine herself as a hungry peasant. “It's not your fault, I suppose. My father is to blame.”

“Forgive him, for he is a good man. He was lonely, and it is not his fault.”

“He had my mother, and she was the finest woman who ever lived!”

Conchita bowed. “Your mother was a saint, but your father had other needs, and that is why he came here. You are a married woman yourself, and surely you understand.”

Doña Consuelo felt weak in the knees, while the little boy stared at her with big brown eyes. “My half-brother,” she whispered in disbelief.

“The other little ones make fun of him,” said Conchita, “because he has no father.”

Tears welled in Doña Consuelo's eyes, as the clear light of innocence shone in the boy's eyes. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Pepito,” he replied.

Doña Consuelo wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but couldn't hate a little boy. She removed the rosary from her neck and draped it around his. “From your sister,” she said, then kissed him lightly.

The lady of the manor arose, turned toward her father's concubine, and said, “You and my brother will never lack anything as long as I am alive. If you need me, just go to the hacienda and ask for Doña Consuelo.”

Conchita bowed her head in gratitude, as Doña Consuelo made her way toward the door. The crumbling
poverty of the shack dispirited her, and she loathed her father thoroughly. A man of character would not do this, she told herself. I will not let him get away with it, so help me God.

The sun set over the rooftops of Escondido as J. T. Sturgis sat in his hotel room, counting coins. They totalled one hundred and sixty dollars, approximately what a cowboy earned in five months, more than enough to finance another trip to a different town that needed a lawman.

But Sturgis's abrupt dismissal still rankled deeply. He could ride on, but it wouldn't provide the same satisfaction as getting back at Maggie O'Day. Serve her right if I made a citizen's arrest and tossed Duane Braddock in jail. Hell, I'd be famous, they'd make me a federal marshal for sure, and no two-bit whorehouse madam could ever fire me again.

He dropped the coins into his left front pants pocket, then glanced at a picture of General Pickett displayed on the wall, next to a miniature Confederate flag. The bitter taste of defeat fouled the ex-corporal's mouth, and he wanted to exchange it for the sugar of victory. “If I came through Gettysburg,” he muttered, “the Pecos Kid should be a piece of cake.”

Doña Consuelo knocked on the door of her father's bedroom, and a manservant opened the door. “Is he here?” she asked.

The manservant bowed. “I'll see if he's available, Doña Señora.”

“I'll look for him myself.”

She marched into her father's suite of rooms, as the manservant stared at her aghast. “But Doña Señora ...”

She ignored him and headed for her father's private office. Without knocking, she flung open the door. He sat on an easy chair, sipping a glass of brandy, his shirt collar unbuttoned and cravat hanging askew. He appeared dazed, glassy-eyed, and distressed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to rise.

“I want to talk with you.”

His features sagged, his eyes were red, and she realized that he'd been crying. “I'm not feeling well,” he said in a low voice.

“Neither am I, because I've just found out the truth.”

“What is Truth?” he asked dreamily, slurring his words. “Does anyone really know?”

“Conchita and Pepito are truth, Daddy.”

He went pale, his jaw dropped open, and he fell loose on the chair. “You know,” he said weakly.

“I've just met my half-brother, and he looks just like you. You're my father, and I will always love you, but I will never forgive you for this. Not only have you betrayed the most wonderful woman who ever lived, but you have also betrayed me, and made my life a travesty.”

“It's true,” he replied in a barely audible voice. “I am the most despicable man who ever lived.”

“I practically worshipped you,” she continued, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I thought I had a wonderful father who loved my mother, but it was a lie. How could you do this to us?”

He couldn't look her in the eye. “You mother was a saint, but I never claimed to be a priest. Your mother was—”

She wouldn't let him finish. “Don't you dare say another word about my mother! One day you'll have to answer for this, but I swear—I will never speak with you again!”

She opened the door violently. A group of servants had gathered in the corridor, listening to the battle royale. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Have you no work to do?”

She pushed them imperiously out of her way as she headed toward the stairs that led to her husband's chambers. Don Carlos has been part of the silent conspiracy against me, and I wouldn't be surprised if he has a fat little peasant woman in a filthy little hut somewhere, and
that's
why he's never home. These lying cheating damned men—you can't trust any of them, and when they tell you they love you, that's when you've got to watch them the closest.

The cantina was dark, smoky, and filled with vaque-ros, and everyone looked at Duane Braddock as he neared the bar, his black hat slanted low over his eyes. “A bottle of mescal,” he said to the man in the apron.

“
Sí,
Señor.”

The bottle appeared, and Duane spun around suddenly to make sure no bounty hunter was aiming a shotgun at the center of his back. He flipped a few coins on the bar, tucked the bottle beneath his arm, and watched everybody's hands as he headed for the door.

The clear night air smacked him in the face. He
wondered where to go with the bottle, because he didn't want to get drunk alone in his room. He stopped in the lee of a hut, pulled the cork, and took a swig. It went down like velvet, warmed his belly, and enlivened his mind. What's wrong with me? he asked himself. I hid in church to seduce a married woman who was in
mourning,
and if that's not enough, I'm becoming a drunkard like all the other banditos and vaqueros.

He shrugged sadly as he recalled the innocent young acolyte singing in the monastery choir. I used to be a decent God-fearing Catholic, but now I've committed every sin in the book, and if that's not enough, I'm chasing a married woman.

He came to the edge of town, where an endless expanse of cactus slept in the moonlight. Maybe I should go to confession, because Christ said that he loved repentant sinners. I'm ready to get down on my knees and beg his forgiveness, but first I'd better have one last shot. He stopped, tossed back his head, and took another swallow.

Don Carlos sat on his balcony, smoked a cigarillo, and gazed at the desert sprawled before him. The death and funeral of his mother-in-law kept him from important business matters, and he wondered how many more days he'd have to stay at the Vásquez hacienda.

The end of the cigarillo glowed cherry red, while in the village someone strummed a mournful guitar. If Don Patricio died, Don Carlos would inherit the Vasquez holdings, and become one of the wealthiest landowners in Mexico.

Don Carlos wanted to sire a dynasty that would
live forever, but unfortunately his wife had not yet conceived. Sometimes he thought about marrying a more fertile woman, but he loved Doña Consuelo, in his haughty caudillo way. Perhaps in a few years I'll leave her, he speculated, although he knew that he could never give up his sweet little Doña Consuelo.

He was startled by the door bursting open behind him. “But Doña Señora—” said one of the Carlos's bodyguards.

“Out of my way!”

Don Carlos arose from his chair as his wife stormed into the parlor, face blotched with emotion, hair wild in all directions, a mad glimmer in her eyes. She came to a stop in front of him, crossed her arms, and said, “I know everything.”

He couldn't help smiling, because she looked like an angry little girl. “About what?”

“My father and the woman in town.”

Don Carlos was amazed that she knew. “I hope you're not going to say anything.”

“I told my father that he's a pig, but God will have to forgive him, not me. This might come as a shock to you, my dear husband, but I don't like it when people lie to me. We're husband and wife, yet you never saw fit to tell me the truth.”

“What good would it do?”

“Do you have a woman in town too?”

“You're all the woman I can manage, Doña Consuelo, and I'm perfectly happy with you.”

“I'm sure my father said the same words to my mother, and it appears that I have a half-brother too. I no longer respect my father, and want to leave this place at once.”