I only request — nay, demand — two things. Leave me alone . . . and leave the children alone. There will be no more children as servants in the Castle!”
The whiskey glass shattered against the wood-paneled wall only a fraction from her head. "You dare dictate terms to me!” he roared.
"I dare and I do!” Rosemary advanced on Stephen with clenched fists. "Because, for one, you will want no tales that Stephen Rhodes’s wife forsook him to besmirch our son’s inheritance.”
Stephen’s blunt hands came up to grab Rosemary about her neck. "I could easily silence any tales — ”
"About your perverted cavorting?” She laughed and shoved his hands from her. "Like all tyrants, Stephen, you are a man of great imagination. And like all tyrants you tend to overlook the small things — but ’tis those small things that can collapse an empire. I keep your accounts, Stephen. Remember?”
It had taken her only a few months of going through the books to derive a clear picture of Stephen’s finances. In effect he had a mortgage on everything in Cambria. By simply demanding payment of the debts on his books he could take every ranch and waterhole and every head of stock within two hundred miles. But there was not enough cash market for anything. And any concerted effort on his creditors, namely her uncle and a few others, could force Stephen to sell his holdings, drive him out of his kingdom, Cambria.
"My uncle, Stephen, is an astute man. I have written him regarding my concern about your books.” A lie but Stephen wouldn’t know. “My untimely death might precipitate his financial backing to be withdrawn. If he were able to persuade the rest of your creditors to follow suit . . .” She let her words trail off, hoping Stephen would accept her bluff.
She could only count on the fact that Stephen, though he could never love Cambria as she did, wanted it just as greatly. For her husband Cambria was a symbol of the power and wealth he had coveted as a child of the mines.
Hi s jaws clenched, and his eyes blazed, but his words were deadly calm. "I be wanting a loving wife and mother for Cambria — at least as far as the outside world is concerned. If ever it appears otherwise, then you be worthless to me.”
She understood all too well. "Then we are in agreement.”
Over the next few weeks she tried to ignore whatever thoughts she had of Lario. She would not let herself admit to shame or guilt. Yet whenever she happened to see him, a hot flush would rush to her skin. She remembered too vividly the warm touch of copper skin beneath her fingers, the corded hardness of his stomach and thighs, and the midnight eyes that made love to her as passionately as did his gentle, knowing fingers.
Those few times she did see him — when he came to the Castle on business or she passed him on her daily visits to the now-completed one-room schoolhouse — his eyes gazed at her in a strictly impersonal manner, as if the two of them had never come together in an intimate act of nature.
Once, when she had stopped by the store to return the ledgers, she gathered her courage and asked Miguel what he knew of Lario. The old man paused in shelving the adzes she had ordered. He squinted his rheumy eyes and scratched at his thatch of white hair. "That one, Lario, I remember more than the others. He is of the Tahtchini Navajos. When the DeVegas had the land—I was younger then, Senora , and more patient—the nino s used to come here for candy sticks. All but Lario. He would stand and watch, but when I held out a stick for him—that one would stubbornly shake his head. But I could see the hunger for the dulce in those black eyes of his.”
"Where is Lario’s father?”
Miguel made the sign of the cross. "One day when Lario was maybe four, he was in the fields with his father when los Rurales Mexicanos — lawless Mexican soldiers they were — tried to take him to sell in Saltillo. He fought and kicked and yelled. When the father
The whiskey glass shattered against the wood-paneled wall only a fraction from her head. "You dare dictate terms to me!” he roared.
"I dare and I do!” Rosemary advanced on Stephen with clenched fists. "Because, for one, you will want no tales that Stephen Rhodes’s wife forsook him to besmirch our son’s inheritance.”
Stephen’s blunt hands came up to grab Rosemary about her neck. "I could easily silence any tales — ”
"About your perverted cavorting?” She laughed and shoved his hands from her. "Like all tyrants, Stephen, you are a man of great imagination. And like all tyrants you tend to overlook the small things — but ’tis those small things that can collapse an empire. I keep your accounts, Stephen. Remember?”
It had taken her only a few months of going through the books to derive a clear picture of Stephen’s finances. In effect he had a mortgage on everything in Cambria. By simply demanding payment of the debts on his books he could take every ranch and waterhole and every head of stock within two hundred miles. But there was not enough cash market for anything. And any concerted effort on his creditors, namely her uncle and a few others, could force Stephen to sell his holdings, drive him out of his kingdom, Cambria.
"My uncle, Stephen, is an astute man. I have written him regarding my concern about your books.” A lie but Stephen wouldn’t know. “My untimely death might precipitate his financial backing to be withdrawn. If he were able to persuade the rest of your creditors to follow suit . . .” She let her words trail off, hoping Stephen would accept her bluff.
She could only count on the fact that Stephen, though he could never love Cambria as she did, wanted it just as greatly. For her husband Cambria was a symbol of the power and wealth he had coveted as a child of the mines.
Hi s jaws clenched, and his eyes blazed, but his words were deadly calm. "I be wanting a loving wife and mother for Cambria — at least as far as the outside world is concerned. If ever it appears otherwise, then you be worthless to me.”
She understood all too well. "Then we are in agreement.”
Over the next few weeks she tried to ignore whatever thoughts she had of Lario. She would not let herself admit to shame or guilt. Yet whenever she happened to see him, a hot flush would rush to her skin. She remembered too vividly the warm touch of copper skin beneath her fingers, the corded hardness of his stomach and thighs, and the midnight eyes that made love to her as passionately as did his gentle, knowing fingers.
Those few times she did see him — when he came to the Castle on business or she passed him on her daily visits to the now-completed one-room schoolhouse — his eyes gazed at her in a strictly impersonal manner, as if the two of them had never come together in an intimate act of nature.
Once, when she had stopped by the store to return the ledgers, she gathered her courage and asked Miguel what he knew of Lario. The old man paused in shelving the adzes she had ordered. He squinted his rheumy eyes and scratched at his thatch of white hair. "That one, Lario, I remember more than the others. He is of the Tahtchini Navajos. When the DeVegas had the land—I was younger then, Senora , and more patient—the nino s used to come here for candy sticks. All but Lario. He would stand and watch, but when I held out a stick for him—that one would stubbornly shake his head. But I could see the hunger for the dulce in those black eyes of his.”
"Where is Lario’s father?”
Miguel made the sign of the cross. "One day when Lario was maybe four, he was in the fields with his father when los Rurales Mexicanos — lawless Mexican soldiers they were — tried to take him to sell in Saltillo. He fought and kicked and yelled. When the father
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