The Wildest Heart

A friend, Montoya had called himself. But as more days dragged by and we traveled by “the smugglers’ trail” into Mexico, I began to wonder why he offered me friendship—this strange and enigmatic man who was a self-confessed desperado with little or no scruples. What did he want from me?

He had advised me to put Lucas out of my mind, and yet it seemed as if he took a perverse pleasure in reminding me at every turn of how foolish I had been. I was not the first woman, after all, who had mistaken physical attraction for love. Perhaps the grief and hurt I had still not learned to cope with was a kind of punishment. If it was, I did not suffer it gladly. I tried to tell myself that I had been right to hate Lucas in the beginning, that I despised him now, and ended up despising my own weakness. For as the days passed I was shown more and more evidence of how little I had meant to him.

Montoya, I learned, had undertaken to dispose of the silver that had been taken to the valley on that first day.

“So you have become friends again?” I said acidly. “And I suppose you will also share the money that will be paid for my return.”

He laughed softly, his black eyes speculative as they rested on me. “Ah, yes. That too. And why not, when it was Lucas’s idea? Come, there is no need to look so stricken, surely you had guessed it already? And there is a saying that the love of money makes strange bedfellows, you know.” His voice softened, becoming almost thoughtful. “Money, and love, and hate—these are the strongest emotions of all, si? And with hatred goes the desire for revenge. Lucas has all these motives; you must not blame him too much. He is what he is, just as I am what I am! You begin to understand, do you not?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “You are trying to tell me that it was all for revenge?”

“Exactly. You have not thought of this before? Lucas loves Elena, whether he would like to admit it or not. And Elena has expensive tastes. And hate? You know he hates Shannon, who was your fiancé. What better revenge than to have Shannon pay a great deal of money to get you back, and then—to make sure that Shannon knows you have been… shall I use the word ravished, for want of a better?”

“He would not! He wouldn’t go to such lengths—no, señor. You stretch my power of understanding, as you call it, too far!”

I had meant my words to sound firm and contemptuous, but they only sounded pitifully defiant.

“Ah, but you are a woman of such pride!” Montoya sighed as I stumbled to my feet and turned towards the wagon where Luz and I slept at night. His soft, pitying voice followed me. “That is one of the reasons why I have such admiration for you, and why I would have you regain your power of rational thinking again. One day, niña, I think you will thank me for being honest with you.”

Even now, I can hardly bear to think of the endless days and long, sleepless nights that followed. For the first time in my life I experienced such anguish, such disillusion, that I almost wished for death. I think that I existed for a time in a daze of pain and hurt, not caring any longer what became of me.

Luz was sympathetic, but even she could not help reminding me of my own words of advice to her.

“Lucas has always been selfish—see that now. And you see how easy it is to forget when there is someone who really wants you? I am happy now, and you will be too, when you realize what a lucky escape you’ve had.”

She spoke to me as sagely as if she had been a married woman already, and the next moment, her eyes sparkling, she had begun to describe the fine mansion to which Montoya was taking her, the clothes and jewels he had promised her.

Why did I keep tormenting myself with memories that were better forgotten? Why couldn’t I accept the fact that I had been deceived? But Lucas had promised me nothing, given me no assurances beyond the fact that he wanted me. And his angry words, uttered on that afternoon when I had kissed him and forced him to kiss me back, now came back to haunt me.

“Ain’t been a woman yet I haven’t tired of, once I’ve had her… an’ when I’m through with you I’ll make Shannon pay a ransom to get you back. Mebbe a trifle shopworn, but good enough for him!”

Oh, yes, I had been warned. And bitterest thought of all, I had only myself to blame for everything.

Thirty-Two

It seemed ridiculous to me that I should be taken all the way to Mexico, and then turn back again as soon as what Montoya referred to as “the transaction” had taken place. But he explained to me indulgently that such elaborate precautions were necessary because he didn’t trust my partner.

“If we arrange a meeting in United States territory, what is to prevent Shannon from arriving with a deputy marshal, and a warrant for my arrest? No, as I have said before, I am a cautious man. In Mexico, we would meet on neutral territory? That is a good term?”

“As usual, you contrive to express yourself more than clearly,” I said slowly. I was learning all over again to school my features into a mask of cool indifference, and I saw Montoya lift an appreciative eyebrow.

“We will cross the border tonight,” he said soothingly, as if by questioning him I had revealed an impatience to return home, to safe and familiar surroundings. “Tomorrow, a message will be sent to Mr. Shannon, telling him that you are safe and well—and naturally anxious to be reunited with him. Perhaps you will prefer to send a note in your own handwriting, so that there can be no misunderstanding?”

I shrugged. Another week then, of waiting. But what difference would it make? A few more days in which to prepare myself, to armor myself…

The truth was that I had learned to mistrust my own emotions. The truth was something I had refused to admit to myself earlier when I lay in my lover’s arms. I had confused desire with love, and made love an excuse for desire. Love! A much misused word, and one I had always been contemptuous of before. A feeling of helplessness, of being swept away, an emotion that left one terribly vulnerable to hurt.

And yet, in spite of all my rationalization and stern self-admonishment, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling pain that was like a knife twist in my heart every time I thought of him, or heard his name spoken. What good did it do me to be sensible, to blame myself and the Dangerfield devil in my blood, when I could not stop myself from feeling? Lucas—Lucas! Memories of his body claiming mine, his lips on my breasts and thighs while he murmured to me, his voice a husky whisper, that I was beautiful, that he wanted me. The rain and the fire. Cold and heat. Lucas kissing me; hungrily, desperately, as he told me: “There, doesn’t that mean something to you?” But what had he meant to him beyond the slaking of his casual, momentary desire?

Whatever name I wanted to give an emotion that still had the power to wound and weaken me, it existed. I might make a frozen mask of my face, betraying no feelings on the surface; but inwardly I could no more force myself to feel indifference than I had before.

Jesus Montoya, I am sure, suspected what was beneath my coldly unconcerned exterior, for I had already betrayed myself to him, and he was not the kind of man who forgot.

I accused him once of deliberately trading on the weaknesses of others for his own gain. As I might have expected, he only smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely under his moustache.

“My dear señorita! And why not? One’s enemy’s weakness makes one strong—from strength, to power. As your partner, Shannon, discovered long ago. Of course,” he shrugged deprecatingly, “much money can help. Ah, yes. You have been born to wealth and comfort. You take these things for granted, do you not? It is only the rich who can say honestly that money means nothing to them, and who are willing to give it up for some altruistic motive.”

“You are a philosopher too,” I said sharply, and his smile twisted.