A Lady Bought with Rifles Read Free Page A

“Miranda,” she whispered, lifting her hand to my hair with obvious effort.
    And then I was glad of the long journey, the vigil in this room, welcomed the pain, for at least it gave me my mother. She loved me, whyever I had not been with her. She loved me, I knew it, and now I could never be without that certainty.
    â€œI love you,” I said, and wet her hand with my tears.
    Two days later Reina and I stood on either side of the bed as the priest murmured and signed and anointed our mother. When he stepped back, she took Reina’s hand and mine, tried to bring them together, but lost all strength. She arched her head and there was a sound in her throat, her fingers spasmed, then relaxed, and her life was over.
    My knees would not support me. I leaned on the bed, pressing the thin hand to my face, craving some word, some glance—any of the slight gestures of life that had seemed so weak and futile to me before but now seemed miracles. Beside this utter quiet, this loss of spirit and breath, all of life seemed a wonder.
    â€œLeave her!” Gripping my shoulder, Reina shook me hard. As I stared in confusion, she stormed on. “You wait till Mother is dying and then come to perch by her bed like a vulture!”
    The vicious injustice struck me dumb for a moment.
    â€œI wanted to come home!” I managed at last. “Do you think I enjoyed feeling like an orphan?”
    Reina’s eyes blazed. “You call this home? Not for you, Inglesa! The sooner you go back to England the better for all.”
    â€œI’ve nothing to go back to,” I said, stunned at the violence of her onslaught. And then before she could attack further, there by our mother’s still-warm body, I raised a silencing hand. “Let’s not talk about it now, Reina.”
    â€œGood sense.” We both whirled toward the voice from the door.

2
    A lean tall man with eyes like the turquoise in my crucifix and skin the color of his leather vest and trousers moved into the room with a surprisingly light tread for a man of his size. He dropped his dusty gray hat on a chest and went to stand by the bed, dark head lowered. The muscles in his gaunt cheeks ridged like cords.
    â€œMadonna,” he said under his breath and bent to her hand, pressing it to his face.
    He stayed like that a long time while the priest hovered over him like a bat, all but squeaking, as if protesting the decorum of this man’s grief. Reina watched him with an eager, hungry look and I realized it was the first time I had seen her beautiful face reveal anything besides anger or pride.
    â€œTrace,” she said.
    He turned slowly, face impassive as a mask, those curious eyes startling as a glimpse of sea beyond the desert. They brushed me swiftly—but even that cursory glance brought blood to my face—and fastened on Reina, who wore a dark-green dress that accentuated her waist, slender without corsets, her high full breasts, and the creamy richness of her skin. Her lips were parted, and even though she had called this man—for he must be the Trace Winslade who had written to me—a pistolero , there was no hauteur in the way she looked at him—a beseeching, rather.
    â€œSo,” he said to her in Spanish, which I followed fairly well. “You and your sister are fighting before Doña Luisa is even buried. She deserved better.”
    Reina flushed, hitched a shoulder toward me. “This one has no right here.”
    â€œShe has the right that her mother wanted her to have.” His tone cut like a thin blade.
    â€œMother is dead.” Reina’s voice didn’t waver.
    â€œBut she left a will,” Trace said.
    â€œI am the eldest! I have lived here, always, taken over much of the running of Las Coronas. You know that, Trace, better than anyone.”
    â€œThere is a will,” he said again.
    Without another word he left the room. The priest closed Mother’s eyes. Reina cast her what