He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. And why not?
Because she has a broken heart, not a skinned knee! It wont be mended by shiny baubles or a pony or even a priceless instrument.
His temper subsided, but the calculating look that spread over his face unnerved Anne more than his despair. Youre absolutely right, he said softly. Theres only one cure for a broken heart.
He bounded up from his chair and started for his study, so agitated he forgot his cane. Anne followed, wondering what mischief he was up to now.
Perhaps the child is simply lonely, he ventured, limping over to his mahogany desk. After all, I have been very selfish these past few months, wanting to keep her all to myself. Sinking into his brass-studded chair, he shuffled through the thick stack of cards and crumpled sheets of stationery on his leather blotter. Why, just look at all the invitations Ive turned down on her behalf. Ah! he exclaimed, plucking an ivory card edged in gilt from the pile. Heres one from the earl of St. Cyr requesting a theater engagement after the first of the year. Dipping the nearest available pen into a bottle of ink, he began to scribble a reply on the back of the card. I shall accept posthaste and you, my dear, will act as her chaperone.
St. Cyr? Anne echoed, torn between horror and amusement. You cant be serious. Hes twice Esmereldas age and a notorious lech.
Reginald waved away her objections. Thats because hes been nursing a broken heart for twenty-six years. The poor fellow never married after Lisbeth abandoned him at the altar, you know. And hes been very eager to meet her daughter. Im sure hell find the resemblance as striking as I do.
Anne narrowed her eyes. Are you trying to play matchmaker again, Reggie? You drove Lisbeth away with your efforts. I should hope you wouldnt make the same mistake with her daughter.
Reggie blinked up at her, looking as innocent as a bald cherub. I simply want to introduce my granddaughter to society and find her a suitable husband. Surely you cant object to that?
Knowing it would be useless to try, Anne left her brother to his machinations and started up the stairs. She paused outside the door of Esmereldas chamber, her hand poised to knock. Perhaps if shed heard broken sobs coming from inside the room, she would have dared to intrude upon her nieces privacy. But she found it impossible to shatter the fragile silence.
When she arrived at her own sitting room, she went straight to her delicate rosewood writing desk and drew forth a sheet of stationery. She sat gazing into space for a long time, nibbling thoughtfully on the feather of her quill pen. She had accused Reggie of being a shameless matchmaker, yet the scheme she was contemplating was more audacious than his. And more dangerous. It might even put her own well-guarded heart in jeopardy.
Unsettled by the girlish thumping of that organ, she took a steadying breath before dipping her pen in the ink and committing both her salutation and her nieces fate to paper.
Dear Sir
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Some called him one bad hombre. Some called him a loco gringo. But no one dared to call him by his name. It was almost as if they believed uttering it, even in a whisper, would invoke the demon sleeping in his eyeseyes that to them appeared the steely gray of the sky at dawn without even a trace of green.
The men feared him. The whores wanted him. The men cut a broad swath around him while the whores cast him longing looks with their sultry dark eyes, their expressions smoldering with lust and resentment. They werent accustomed to being pushed out of any mans lap, especially not when they were offering their precious wares for free.
He materialized in the Mexican cantina every day around noon, the nubby wool of his poncho swaying as he made his way to the table no one else dared claim. He would sit for hours, listening to the indolent strumming of the guitarist, a glass of whiskey dangling from his lean fingers. As darkness fell, deepening the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, he would trade the glass for a bottle.
In the beginning, men approached him. Mexican men. American men. European men. Powerful men whose meaty fingers flashed diamonds and rubies while their tongues spilled promises and lies. He sent them all away, cursing beneath their fetid breath because he could not be bought for any amount of greenbacks or pesos or gold. His gun was no longer for hire. For the first time since he was thirteen years old, it belonged to him alone.
He always sat facing the door. The men whispered that it was to guard his back. That someday a man with a bigger gun than his would come swaggering through that door and blow him away. The whores whispered that he expected death, perhaps even desired it, the way a man desires a beautiful woman he knows will prove his ruin.
One sultry Saturday night, Billy sat with his back to the walldrinking, smoking, and dreaming, as he always did, that Esmerelda would come walking through that door just like she had in Calamity. Hell, this time he would beg her to shoot him, if only to plug the hole in his heart with lead so his blood would stop seeping out one drop at a time. It was taking him too damn long to die that way.
One of the whores, a black-haired beauty with lush red lips and a reputation for using them in ways that could make a grown man beg, sashayed through the drunken crowd. She leaned over and planted her palms on Billys table, practically begging him to look down her loose-fitting blouse at her naked breasts. Not wanting to be impolite, he obliged her.
Theres a man at the bar, she said. A gringo. Looking for you.
Billy didnt even bother to glance at the bar. He simply shifted his cigar to the corner of his mouth. Tell him Im not here. And if I was, I wouldnt want to see him.
She nodded, having known that would be his answer. Another bottle? she offered, touching her fingertip to the mouth of the empty one still gripped in his hand.
He slanted her a wry glance. She knew the answer to that question, too. She was only asking it as an excuse to linger. Her fall of raven hair tickled his nose as she reached across him to take the bottle from his hand.
The whiskey cant make you forget her, she purred, her tongue flicking out to trace his ear, but I could. Beneath the table, her other hand began to creep up his thigh.
Billy caught it a fingers-breadth from his crotch, surveying her with dark amusement. Muchas gracias, senorita, but I never draw my gun unless I plan to use it.
Tossing back her hair, she went flouncing back to the bar, her lips puckered in a full-fledged pout.
Billy went back to nursing his cigar. He could hardly blame her for her mistake. It was a common enough assumption. But he wasnt drinking to forget. The whiskey could do little more than take the edge off his longinga longing so keen that when he rolled off his cot every morning, recoiling from the merciless blaze of sunshine, he could only drop his throbbing head into his hands and pray for darkness.
He had the rest of his life to forget. To forget the sweet generosity of Esmereldas body opening to enfold him. To forget her fearless bravado the night shed stood down his mother on his behalf. To forget the stricken look in her eyes when he had so callously declined to marry her.
He had the rest of his life to remember. To remember the tender smile that had softened her prim lips the day shed thrown open that hotel room door in Eulalie. To remember the taste of her mouth and the feel of her flesh beneath his hands. To remember how she had felt in his arms and to imagine how she would feel in the arms of another man.
The whiskey bottle appeared in front of him. Billy groped for it without lifting his eyes, tossing a bill across the table. It came floating back at him through the smoky air, drifting like a leaf on the wind.
Keep your money, lad. Tonight, Im buying. Startled out of his shell of indifference for the first time in months, Billy looked up to find Sheriff Andrew McGuire standing over his table.