A Lady Bought with Rifles Read Free

drove me to Las Coronas, a full day’s hard travel. He spoke very little English, but when I asked him why we had an armed escort, he made me understand that Yaquis had been raiding in the area. A slight, nervous little man with a pointed beard, he obviously did not wish to have any more to do with me than necessary, an attitude I found echoed in the servants when we finally reached the hacienda.
    Did they distrust me because I had grown up in England? That seemed absurd and determinedly I put it out of my mind as I sat in my mother’s darkened room, holding her frail hands while candles flickered on all four sides of the bed and the priest droned.
    I had stayed like this for most of three days, leaving only to eat or for a few hours’ exhausted sleep. My mother was restless when I was not with her, and though I was overwhelmed with grief and long-stored anger that she had allowed us to be separated, I clung hungrily to these hours—all that I would have of her, all that I could give.
    Reina came in and out, pausing by the bed, her lovely face unreadable. She must have had her green eyes and red hair from our mother’s French father, an officer in Maximilian’s army who, even after his emperor was shot, stayed in Mexico for love either of a woman named Torres or of her domain, an expanse of desert bounded by mountains and sea. Reina was three years older than I. If I could remember how she used to pinch me, surely she must, too, but she made no reference to our shared childhood. She treated me politely, like a stranger.
    My Spanish was coming back as long-buried memories unlocked experiences. Reina spoke some English so we could communicate, but when I tried to know her, she turned my efforts away.
    â€œDid you have the letter sent to Miss Mattison’s?” I asked on the second day when we chanced to be having breakfast at the same time. I was not only trying to reach my sister, but I was curious about the strong slanting script that had called me out of exile from the sheltered distant world that itself now seemed the illusion.
    â€œTrace Winslade took it upon himself to write. He is a pistolero your father sheltered.”
    â€œA pistolero? ”
    â€œOne who uses pistols. A man who lives by his gun. But Winslade, when he is not exceeding his authority, has charge of the Las Coronas horses.” Pride entered her voice. “Our herds are divided by color in the old fashion. They are famous.”
    â€œWinslade is English?” I persisted.
    She curled her lip, yet something burned deep in her black-lashed green eyes. “He is yanqui, tejano .”
    From what I knew of the War Between the States, neither Texan nor Yankee would appreciate Reina’s careless equating of the terms, but in spite of Miss Mattison’s rigorous instruction, I didn’t take issue with my half-sister. I wanted desperately to be friends with her. We would soon be each other’s only living near relation, and in this country I was a stranger, isolated by training and language. But Reina ignored me and I rose from the long carved table to go to the dark room filled with incense and prayers I did not understand, servants who bowed their necks to Reina but not to me.
    Once I was seated by Mother’s bed, it seemed I had never done anything else but lean close to her, clasping the frail hands.
    My head throbbed from the oppressive thickness of stale scented air, guttering candles that seemed to gasp for life. Holding the same position made my shoulders cramp. In weary bitterness that welled up before I could check it, I wondered why my mother had wanted me after all these years.
    It was too late for us to know each other, too late to laugh, to share. She had called me only to mourn, watch her dying. Why hadn’t she let me learn of her death through the same muffled distance that had separated us in life?
    Then her eyes opened, saw me, shone with a joy that spread over her tired face.