Harvest of Fury by Jeanne Williams Page B

aren’t for taming,” he said sternly. “I’d kill one that hung around people waiting to eat their leavings. It would be like the Apaches around the forts in New Mexico who’ve given up their pride for some moldy corn.”
    The disgust in James’s tone made Cat’s mouth tremble. It was probably the first time he’d ever refused to indulge her. But her puzzled hurt passed before they reached the house and she held to his arm, chattering on about how handsome K’aak’eh was and how they’d soon have him well.
    The young hawk did mend swiftly. After a few days he stopped threatening James, who nonetheless kept a respectful distance from the vicious claws and beak. But soon James began to wrap his arm and hand in folds of rawhide and let the hawk clamber on, taking him out into the sun and air.
    The hawk’s wonderful plumage, a rich rusty brown on the back, with the red of the tail becoming more marked, breast and underbody white with speckling at belly and flanks, ruffled in the breeze that stirred James’s dark hair. Boy and hawk had a savage beauty that sent an ache through Talitha. James was Apache. Like the bird, he had to be free. But she prayed he could make peace with his white blood, not have to live like a hunted animal as Americans spread over Apache lands.
    It was at the Agave Feast that Güero sang again, his eyes green flames in the firelight. A dozen agave hearts had been put to bake about noon the day before, after the fire had died down on the stones lining the round pit dug about ten feet wide and a yard deep. Covered then with bear grass and a layer of earth, the hearts were done tonight, mushy golden-brown. Carmencita didn’t approve of eating such heathen food, so there was barbecue, too, and a big pot of spiced beans.
    After the meal, the vaqueros began to play their guitars, but the others stopped when Güero began. Truly he had the best voice, deeply resonant. He sang a nonsense song, imitating birdcalls, that had the children laughing, struck a few chords, and swung into the boisterous “Best Vaquero” in a way that soon had the other men clapping and calling out “Eee-ha!” in time to the song.
    When he came to the end of that swaggering canter, his gaze rested full on Talitha. He sang a love song, and though she wrapped her rebozo tighter about her, it was as if his eyes and voice penetrated her garments, lingered on her flesh.
    â€œ Pardon me if my caresses offend you .
    Pardon me if my songs offend you …”
    Their eyes met. A fiery chill shot through Talitha. She took Sewa from Cat and off to bed and didn’t return to the fire. But dimly, though the window was shut, she could still hear Güero’s voice.
    â€œ They say because of your love some evil will follow me .
    I don’t care if it’s the devil, I also know how to die .”
    Now that it was spring, maybe he’d go away. She hoped he would, then was angry at herself for that coward’s thought. The ranch needed all the men it would get, she reminded herself.
    She thought of Shea and Marc, trying to blot out Güero’s questing stare with their faces, but they kept going faint and vanishing. Were they still alive? Would she ever hear again of either of them?
    It had been a long time since she cried, but that night she did, hard and bitterly, with a kind of despair.
    A few days later Miguel, on lookout, reported horsemen. At the signal bell, every adult in hearing except for Carmencita grabbed a rifle and took a position.
    â€œAmericans,” called James after a few tense minutes. “Most are in gray. They ride like soldiers.”
    â€œMaybe they’re from Tucson. Let’s wait till we’re sure.” Talitha kept her voice steady, even though her heart raced as she couldn’t repress a crazy, flaring hope that Shea might be in the little group of perhaps a dozen men.
    Opening the door, rifle in view, Talitha