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“I would have taken any chance at all! And of course, just to see your father’s face when I told him made it all worthwhile, even if you had not wanted to come. He used to talk about you by the hour, Rowena!”
“But why didn’t you tell me all this before? Surely, once I had agreed to marry you…”
“For this very reason that we are sitting here now, instead of lying in each other’s arms. I was afraid you would be angry and turn against me. I wanted to wait, until I was more sure of you—until I had had the time to win your love. And last night…”
I did not want to think about last night. I still had an indefinable feeling of repugnance, thinking that I could have abandoned myself so wantonly, without even knowing what I was doing. Was that the kind of woman I really was? Was lust my own particular devil?
Mark did not give me time for more introspection. His manner becoming firm and self-confident again, he insisted that we would finish our talk tomorrow.
“I wonder how many more secrets you are keeping from me,” I said tiredly, and he smiled, drawing me to my feet.
“No secrets. Only surprises—and pleasant ones, I hope. And you, my love?”
“It has become obvious that you know much more about me than I do of you!” I returned sharply. “And as for the rest, perhaps you will discover that too—tomorrow!”
The truth was that I no longer knew how to deal with Mark, or what I could expect of him. I was relieved that he was too patient—or too clever?—to press me further tonight, but contented himself with unhooking my gown, telling me that he was going outside to smoke a cigar and talk over some business with John Kingman.
If he returned to our room, it was long after I had fallen asleep. I did not wake up, although I was troubled by strange dreams, that made me move about restlessly. In the morning the covers trailed onto the floor and the bed linens were all rumpled, and still damp with sweat. I was alone, and the only dream I could remember vividly was that I had been lying with Lucas, and he had been making love to me…
I found myself left alone with Monique for most of that day, Mark having ridden out early in the morning with Mr. Kingman. She wore a thin blouse of pale orange silk, which in some strange fashion seemed to complement the rich color of her hair, instead of clashing with it. Under the blouse Monique wore nothing—the outline of her breasts and nipples clearly visible. Beside her vivid, bright beauty and vivacity of manner, I felt myself to be dull and insignificant. How could any man think me beautiful when Monique was present?
“You feel better this morning, eh?” Her slanted green eyes swept over me and she nodded with satisfaction. “Oui—the dark rings are gone from your eyes. You look more as Mark described you. You do not take offense, I hope, that I am frank? I have always been so. Sometimes it makes John angry, that I must always speak what is on my mind. But I tell him… ‘You knew how I was when we married. If you cannot take me as I am now, well, I will go away.’” Monique stretched with unself-conscious, sensuous grace. “And you know what? This he does not want. He needs me. I am a… how do I say it? I am a clever thinker, me. As you are, Mark tells us.”
The morning passed, with Monique alternately yawning and gossiping. She was lonely, she told me, but she struck me as being a very self-sufficient woman, as well as one used to having her own way. She did not exactly say so, but I received the impression that she and John Kingman enjoyed a rather unique relationship. She spoke of trips to New Orleans and San Antonio and even to San Francisco—but always separately. “Someone has to stay here and look after things, yes?” And once she mentioned that jealousy had no part in a perfect marriage.
“Is there any such thing?” I could not help sounding rather bitter, and Monique, after a sidewise glance, gave a gurgle of laughter.
“Wait,” she said wisely. “You have a lot to learn yet!”
And then, jumping to her feet as if she could not bear to sit still for too long, she asked if I would care to go riding with her. “Just a little way, I don’t want to tire you.”
I noticed, for the first time, the unusual lack of activity around the ranch house. The maids were Mexican, buxom and giggling, and the cook a wizened old Frenchman who had accompanied Monique from Louisiana. But the few men who lounged outside looked more like gunmen than cowboys, and did not seem to have any particular duties to perform. I was struck, too, by the strange isolation of the house itself. Nestled in the foothills, it was built on a small plateau that commanded a view of the rolling Estancia Valley. Behind, the layered peaks of the Los Piños mountain range towered thickly forested; and in the distance to the left the Manzano Mountains.
As we followed the narrow and winding trail that led us downwards, Monique said laughingly, “And now you see why we so seldom have visitors! This place is too difficult to find, and the trail too rough to get here easily—you remember how sick you felt yesterday?”
Yesterday, I reflected grimly, I had been too ill to remember very much, nor to notice much either. But today my mind seemed to have cleared and I observed too many things that puzzled me.
A clearing guarded by heavily armed men who put up their rifles only when they recognized Monique. Far too many cattle milled around in this one spot, and some of them wore unfamiliar brands, although a certain amount of branding was going on at the moment we passed through. Monique stopped only to ask a few questions, her voice clear and businesslike, and then we rode on through a thickly growing stand of trees, splashing through a shallow stream to come out into another small cleared space.
“One of the bunkhouses,” Monique said airily. “Some of our men stay here too, but we keep this place mostly for… certain friends who may be passing through, or wish a safe place to stay for a few weeks.”
Safe? My look must have been questioning, for she laughed.
“I can see that Mark has not
told you anything. Perhaps he preferred that I should do so. I believe that Mark is still a little bit shy of you; isn’t that silly?”
I agreed that it was. I was suddenly very cold, very clear-minded. And as we turned our horses back towards the house and Monique continued to talk, I began to understand everything. It would be left to Mark, when he returned late in the afternoon, to tell me the rest.
Forty-One
Was this really the man I had thought of as “poor Mark,” and even, sometimes, “dear Mark”? I had begun to notice in him a certain resemblance to Todd. Mark was almost as tall; they had the same coloring. And he had thrown off his diffident air to become almost as arrogant, just as self-assured. The difference was that Mark was much more intelligent than Todd. He had reason and logic behind every action, whereas Todd had been more given to shouting and bluster.
Suddenly there was a rational explanation for all that puzzled me.
“Why did you have to pretend?” I asked Mark, and he gave me a twisted smile.
“Did I have a choice? You know what Uncle Todd is like. ‘Overbearing’ is the kindest way to describe him. I was his ‘lawyer nephew’ and he was contemptuous of that. After all, what had my father achieved besides being appointed a judge before he died? Todd Shannon—the illiterate rough-and-tumble fighter from Ireland—he had everything. Land. Money. Position. Power. Yes, you were right. I was supposed to be his lackey. Grateful for the fact that he had chosen me to be his heir, because there was no one else. I must give up my career, my friends, the civilized way of life. And all to come here and run his errands. Follow his orders. ‘Yes, Uncle Todd’ and ‘No, Uncle Todd.’ Do as you’re told, Mark, even if it means staying away from the woman you love. As long as I had no choice, Rowena, I did as I was ordered to. And I learned. Just as you did once.”
