He left the Interstate at Mountain View Junction and sped south into the hills on the blacktop county road, tires whistling on the sharp turns. He had all the windows open and the wind roared in his ears and tangled his hair.
The arid plain gave way to brush hills and now he was coming into the grass country with scrub timber on the higher slopes; he made the acute turn into the secondary road and the Mercedes leaped forward toward home.
The Forrester ranch had been carved out of the old Spanish Baca Float grant; it was the size of a small European nation. He passed herds of browsing Angus cattle and saw a jeep bouncing across a distant pasture; dust raveled high in the Mercedes’ wake. Beyond the low ridge to the southeast he could see the big red-rock landmark Ronnie had painted: it rode along with him.
He passed the manager’s big house and half a mile of workings: crew quarters, outbuildings, feedlots, corrals, smithy, gasoline pumps, the grass landing strip. The gravel drive took him up the long curve through great heavy trees to the hilltop from which the hacienda commanded twenty miles of Forrester grass in any direction. His grandfather’s vaqueros had dubbed it the hacienda; in fact it was an Edwardian architect’s idea of a Georgian manor and the front was a white colonnade two stories high. Angie hadn’t liked it very much: it was too much house, she had felt diminished by it. It had been built in an era when servants were more plentiful than masters.
Ronnie had heard the snarl of the Mercedes and she was on the porch when he walked out of the garage. He watched for her quick slanting smile, teeth white against her tan face. She wore a light sweater with the sleeves pushed up casually above the elbows. The wind spun her hair around her face; she combed it away with her fingers and tossed it back with a shake of her head. When he started up the steps her mouth softened and parted and her breasts lifted; when he reached the top step and lifted his hands she came obediently into his arms. Her nails dug into him and her voice was thick and sweet in his ear: “Welcome home.”
The falling six-o’clock sun burst through the windows of the big front room. Mrs. Gutiérrez tried to keep everything shut up when he was gone—she hated the sun, it faded everything. Ronnie said, “I know it lets the dust in but it’s too glorious a day. I’m afraid I’ve opened every door and window I passed.”
“Good.”
“How did it go?”
“Scottsdale? Better than I’d hoped.” He told her about it while he made drinks.
They sat down on the huge divan with their hips and shoulders touching. With the sun in her face she was squinting and wrinkles had gathered at her temples and forehead. She had confessed she would be forty next month, and that was both unbelievable and irrelevant: with her bone structure and health she would still be lovely and ageless twenty years from now.
When he had told her about the conference she wriggled loosely and gave him a serene unhurried kiss; then she left him momentarily, flowing toward the kitchen. When she returned she was tasting an index finger. “To prove I’m not a total failure at domestic science I’ve cooked dinner for us. I hope you like roast lamb.”
“I love it.”
She came forward in relief. “When I think of all the things I want to learn about you the mind boggles.”
“I don’t like seafood much. The occasional swordfish steak, that’s about it. I hate shellfish. But it doesn’t really matter, does it, Ronnie?”
She was biting her lip in feigned alarm. “But I adore seafood. Don’t you see we’re completely incompatible?” And laughed at him and kissed him again. “I just can’t keep my hands off you—isn’t that a terrible thing to say?”
“You’re so beautiful tonight,” he murmured, and wrapped his arms around her.
“Absolutely delicious,” he said and patted his mouth with a napkin. “Perfection.”
“I’m not a bad cook, really. I was nervous and the asparagus got overdone.” She smiled quickly. “Actually I’m sort of a cozy quiet girl, you know. I like to cook for you.”
They cleared the table together and went into the front room holding hands like children. The setting sun veined the clouds like pink-white marble and the rich warm light was soft against her face. She sat on the floor at his feet. The coffee made a good smell; he seared his mouth with the first sip and set the cup down. She rested her head against his knee and smiled up at him; her hand crept toward his and she said, “Darling.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I was tasting the word. Darling. It has a good sound.”
“It does to me.” He touched the tip of her nose with a forefinger and she wrinkled her nose at him.
“You have strange gold flecks in your eyes. It makes you look as if you’ve got little incandescent lights inside.”
“Top used to swear I could see in the dark.”
She sat up. “Oh damn. Now that does it. I really am going to pieces over you. What would Amy Spencer’s Secretarial School think of me? He called you this afternoon.”
“Who?”
“Jaime Spode. He said to tell you he’d engaged a female operative from Orozco’s agency, whatever that means, and that he expected to deliver the goods tonight. And he said he’d had Orozco put a tail on the subject in Scottsdale, and the subject had driven straight from the meeting to a filling station on Camelback Road and of all things put in a phone call from the pay booth to Orozco himself. Does that make sense to you? There’s more.”
“The subject is Ross Trumble. Top’s been trying to get something from him. Go on.”
“Well Orozco told Jaime he’d had a call from Trumble trying to locate a man called Gus Craig—one of Orozco’s operatives. Trumble seemed terribly upset about him. Orozco made some phone calls but he couldn’t find Craig either. Jaime explained to me that Orozco ordinarily won’t tell one client anything about another client, but Trumble isn’t an agency client so if Craig had any private deals with him that was no concern of the agency’s.
“I’m trying to report this the way Jaime told it to me, but it doesn’t make too much sense to me. Orozco’s people trailed the subject into Phoenix. Trumble parked on a side street and walked into a small hotel in a state of great agitation. He made several calls from the telephone booth in the lobby and he spent two hours writing a letter on hotel stationery. He bought stamps at the desk. Orozco’s man got close enough to read Trumble’s handwriting and Jaime said this might be important because Orozco’s operative saw the address Trumble wrote on the envelope. It was yours. The ranch here.”
“Here?”
“That’s what Jaime said. Why would Trumble write a letter to you? He’d just been with you.”
“I have no idea.”
“Anyhow Jaime said Trumble mailed the letter and spent a few hours hobnobbing with his political cronies in Phoenix and got on the road toward Tucson around four-thirty. Jamie called here about five and told me to tell you all this. He said he’d be in touch with you later tonight or in the morning.”
“Did he say where I could reach him in the meantime?”
“No. I assume he’ll be following Trumble, so he probably doesn’t know where he’s going to be.”
Forrester said, “I was going to call him off. But maybe it’s just as well to let him go ahead. Writing to me—it’s curious.”
“So am I.”
“Not much point worrying about it until we have more to go on.”
She lifted her hair loosely, high above her head, and let go and shook it out. “Coffee’s getting cold.”
“Let it wait.” He took her hand and stood up and lifted her to her feet. She smiled again; her hands touched his shirt, shyly, and slid up the back of his neck.
“Odd how you find love only when you’re not looking for it.”
“Just let this go on forever,” she whispered, and covered his mouth with hers.
She stood taut in her skin and Forrester rolled over on the bed and said drowsily, “You cried again.”