Read Online A Lady Bought with Rifles by Jeanne Williams - Free Book Online Page B

help other people but quite something else to be held to account for whatever they do.”
    Cruz’s smile only grooved deeper. I had been too disturbed to notice him much last night, but now I saw that he moved with the lithe wiriness of a young man. He wasted no motion. His plentiful coarse black hair was clubbed in back with a piece of rawhide and his eyes were a strange pale gray like the flake left on charred wood.
    â€œTell your heart not to pound so fast, señorita. Lives are so bound together that at the last we are both responsible and blameless, the bow that bends and the string that draws the arrow that is our will.”
    While we were speaking, Sewa had drowsed. Cruz helped me to ease her to the pallet. He adjusted the poncho beneath her stump so that it was lowered slightly, studied her for a moment, nodded. “She will recover. She is strong. And if it daunts you to be responsible for her, señorita, remember that Trace and I share that with you. In a way we have become her godparents.” Those light eyes twinkled. “Among Yaquis that is a serious relationship. And I’m sure that makes us compadres . Could you have dreamed, in England, that you would be related, even ceremonially, to an ancient Yaqui and a Texas horse tamer?”
    Following out the door, I said dryly, “I’m not sure that I am. I suppose Mr. Winslade told you I am from England. But how did you know we were coming last night?”
    He shrugged. “It is something that happens. I was asleep and suddenly I was with you in the canyon. I could see the child’s wound. So I got up and made ready.”
    â€œCan you see like that anytime you want to?”
    â€œNo. It is like a veil that moves back and forth. Sometimes I can draw it at will. Other times it hangs there, so thin I can almost pierce it, so fragile it seems my breath should move it, but utterly impenetrable.”
    â€œThen it’s no use asking where Mr. Winslade is?”
    â€œUse your ears,” Cruz advised.
    When I listened, I heard the crunch of footsteps, and in a few minutes more Trace came in sight. “I watered the horses,” he explained. “There’s enough grass that I think they’ll stay in this end of the canyon without being hobbled unless your goats run them off.”
    â€œMy goats are peaceable,” said Cruz. “But they’re protective of their young.”
    â€œI noticed,” said Trace, laughing and rubbing an elbow. “I went over a pile of rocks like a jackrabbit when that biggest one took after me. But I guess I’ll forgive her if that’s her cheese you’ve got there.”
    Cruz had been putting tortillas and cheese on a wooden slab by the bowls we had used for tea last night. He now filled these with steaming coffee from the pot sitting on the can stove in the ramada.
    â€œAfter breakfast I must go count the kids,” he said. “They are young and foolish and sometimes get caught in thickets or wedged between rocks.”
    â€œAnd they never get very smart,” said Trace, wrapping a tortilla around the pale soft cheese.
    â€œThere you are mistaken.” Cruz wagged a reproving finger at Trace. They seemed excellent friends who respected each other but did not have to weigh words. “Goats are like people. Some are stupid, some are crazy, most ordinary, and a few highly intelligent. My goats are intelligent.”
    â€œOf course.” Trace grinned.
    â€œNot of course,” said Cruz austerely. “Because I began with a clever pair and have always slaughtered off dullards. The goats in my canyon are some of them eight generations of the fittest.”
    That sounded rather like Mr. Darwin, but I felt sorry for those dullard goats. Surely they felt the knife as much as their intelligent brethren?
    â€œWhat are you thinking, Miss Greenleaf?” Trace’s voice made me jump. I noticed somewhat wistfully that “Miranda” was gone.