Author's Note: This is a slightly revised edition of the original story. The prose is cleaned up in places, and there are two or three new and/or changed scenes, primarily in chapters one and four.
John Cannon stalked out of Don Sebastian's office. He didn't slam the door behind him, because he was basically a gentleman and gentlemen didn't slam doors in other men's houses. Oh, but how he wanted to, though. His face was rigid with frustration and suppressed rage. He passed through the living room of the hacienda without even seeing his brother sitting there, through the front door – again, he didn't slam it no matter how great the temptation – into the front garden. There, he slammed his fist once against the archway where it couldn't do any real damage.
Buck refilled his glass of wine and quietly followed him outside. He looked at John for a minute, then pushed his hat back with one finger. "I take it he didn't agree."
"Oh, he agreed all right," growled John.
"Then how come you so het up, John?"
"Because Don Sebastian Montoya is as ornery as a rattlesnake, and just about as trustworthy. And he has the gall to say he has to have some guarantee that he can trust me. He's agreed to an alliance between the two ranches, provided I agree to another kind of … partnership." John all but spat the last word. "Either I marry his daughter, or there's no deal."
Buck's jaw went slack. "You're kiddin' me."
"Nope."
Buck stared at him for a moment, then a grin came over his face and he started to cackle. The cackle turned into a knee-slapping guffaw. "Well, don't that just beat all!" he managed.
John just stared at him, stony-faced, hands on hips.
With some obvious difficulty, his brother finally managed to get control of himself. "She is awful pretty, you know, John. Or ain't you noticed?"
John had noticed. Under the circumstances he'd been surprised at himself for noticing, but he'd noticed.
"How old you reckon she is?"
"I don't know," said John. "Younger than I am by a wide margin, I can tell you that much. But old enough that her father and her brother both called her an 'old maid'."
"Probably still young enough to give you a whole passel o'kids, you think about that?"
"That's what Montoya's counting on, apparently."
"Just think, Brother John, you could end up with grandkids older than your own young'uns. Wouldn't Blue-Boy be tickled?"
"That's not the word for it," John said through gritted teeth.
Buck, tiring of his teasing, adopted a more serious expression. "So how you plannin' to get out of this one?"
His brother shook his head. "I'm not sure I can, Buck. Not unless the girl says no."
…
But, as he learned shortly, the girl didn't say no.
The hacienda suddenly seemed to come alive with activity, inside and out. Servants bustled around the two bemused men, shouting imperatives at one another in Spanish. John and Buck sat on an iron bench across from a little fountain and watched the proceedings in amazement.
In a little while Manolito came out of the house to join them. "Buenos Dias, Señor Cannon," he greeted John. "I understand that hopefully by tonight we are to be brothers-in-law. If I had thought of that when I stole your horse…"
"You wouldn't have given it to your sister?" John suggested.
"Ah, no, I definitely would have given him to my sister in that case. Because this, this is too good a joke to miss."
"I don't consider it a joke."
Buck spoke up. "I can kinda see how it might look like a joke. You know, if you're not right in the middle of it."
"Buck!"
"Well, I was just sayin', John."
"Don't say anything." He turned to Manolito. "I suppose it's to your father's credit that having come up with this ridiculous idea, at least he's trying to get everything over and done with as fast as possible. I was afraid he'd try to keep us here for days."
"Si, my father is well known for taking prompt action. Even now, my sister is packing and looking for my mother's wedding dress. Men have been sent to look for a priest who is willing to marry my sister to a non-Catholic without you having to convert – I assume you are not of our faith, Mr. Cannon? No, I didn't think so – and as you can see, preparations are already well underway for a fiesta tonight."
John frowned, was silent for a few minutes. At last he said, "I take it your sister did, um, consent to this business?"
Manolito made a dismissive sound. "Consent? Of course she consented. Why would she not consent? How else is she supposed to get a husband at this point? She has turned down everyone else."
That made no sense at all that John could see. The woman – Victoria, he corrected himself – seemed sensible and intelligent. Why would she turn down every suitor who presented himself and then suddenly quite willingly say yes to a stranger she'd met well under twenty-four hours earlier? Unless, of course, she'd been coerced as he had.
But when he put the question to her brother, he laughed off the suspicions. "Ah, but the suitors my father found … well, let's just say that you do not look so bad in comparison, my friend. Seriously, do not worry yourself over this. My sister is no doubt leaping for joy at the thought of becoming your wife."
…
If the bride didn't actually appear to be "leaping for joy", neither did she appear coerced and unwilling. The smile on her face was natural, and there was warmth in her eyes as she looked at her bridegroom. John breathed a sigh of relief for that, at least.
He remembered little else of the ceremony in the little village church. Couldn't understand most of it, for one thing. It was a strange mish-mash of a lot more Latin than he'd ever learned in school, and the sort of Spanish that really wasn't relevant to running a cattle ranch. He simply followed the cues, spoke when he was told to speak, knelt when he was told to kneel, and stood when he was told to stand.
The fiesta that followed lasted for what seemed like most of the night. Victoria sat beside him and smiled and talked to well-wishers. Hundreds of them, peons and hidalgos alike. John talked to Buck and his new in-laws, and to various men about cattle or Indians. Sometimes the two of them talked to each other; brief, polite exchanges more suited to strangers at a dinner party than two people who'd just pledged the rest of their lives to one another.
Buck got drunk on Don Sebastian's "personal vintage". John had found the wine unpalatable and had consumed as little as possible after the first glass. His brother, on the other hand, wasn't the sort of man who could do that. Buck had apparently found the wine so appalling that he hadn't been able to stop sampling it since dinner the night before. And being Buck, it was inevitable that sooner or later he would say something about it.
"Don Sebastian," he said, "Don Sebastian, this here homemade wine of your'n – well, I can tell you this 'cause we's family now – well, it tastes like some o'them people didn't wash their feet 'fore they got in them vats to squash the grapes. I don't think some of 'em even took their boots off. I won't tell you that they may have stepped in cow pats first, but—"
"Buck!" his brother warned.
Don Sebastian's face was flushed with irritation. "You seemed to have had no difficulty drinking much of my wine, however, Señor ."
Buck gave his host a bleary-eyed smile and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "Nah, I can drink anything," he assured him. "No matter how bad it tastes."
John felt he'd better intercede before the situation ended with Buck in a Mexican jail and the alliance over with before it had even begun. "Buck," he said, "I think it may be time for you to pour yourself into bed. And I think if you folks will excuse me, I'll say my goodnights as well. We've got a long ride back to High Chaparral tomorrow. Victoria." He nodded cordially to his wife, but made no invitation for her to join him.
She gave him a puzzled look. "All right, my husband. Sleep well." Her voice held a trace of something that might have been hurt or indignation, but he was too tired to wonder about it.
…
Some time later, he was awakened by a soft knock on the guest room door. From outside, there were sounds of the fiesta breaking up.
"Come in," he said. His hand went to his gun, just in case.
Victoria slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.
John took his hand off the revolver, but he felt even warier than before. "Victoria. What are you doing here?" He took his watch off the bedside table and squinted at it in the dim light from the window. Half past three.
She stood nervously at the foot of his bed, her hands clenched in front of her robe. "John, it is our wedding night," she reminded him.
"Well, yes, but surely you don't…" He sat up. "This is a marriage in name only. A, er, marriage of convenience."
"I do realise that, Mr. Cannon," she said, her voice taking on a coldness he hadn't heard before from her. "But it is still our wedding night." She sounded not unlike her father in her refusal to back down, and it sent chills of apprehension down John's spine.
Still, he was too tired to deal with this in the middle of the night. "Look, Victoria," he said reasonably, "we seem to have got off on the wrong foot here, and I'm sorry for that. It's half past three in the morning, and we have a long trip ahead of us in just a few hours. Why don't you go back to your room and see if you can get some sleep, and I'll see you at breakfast."
Even in the gloom he could see her face fall. "John," she began, then stopped herself and tried it a different way. "Mr. Cannon, I would like very much to get some sleep, but I do not wish to be humiliated by spending my bridal night alone in my childhood bedroom."
"Oh."
"It would be a scandalous thing for the servants to discover, not to mention my father and our guests."
John thought about that for a moment. "No, I guess that wouldn't be the best start for things, would it?" He pulled down the covers on the other side of the bed and gestured in invitation. "Very well, then, Mrs. Cannon. You might as well stay here."
"Do you really mean that?"
"Of course I do."
She slid in beside him and lay quietly on her back. Neither of them made any move to touch the other. It was a big bed – just the thing for a rich man to impress overnight guests to his hacienda – and there was nearly a foot of space between their bodies. But even with the distance between them, John was acutely aware of her presence. The warmth of her, the sound of her breathing, the scent of her hair. All combined, it made getting back to sleep almost impossible. He stared up at the ceiling and took deep breaths.
Nervous as a bridegroom, he thought.
The minutes ticked by, and still neither of them was asleep. Victoria moved very little, but he could tell she was as tense and restless as he was.
"John?" she whispered finally. "Will we share a bedroom at your home?"
He turned his head towards her. "Suppose so. The ranch house at High Chaparral is a lot smaller than Hacienda Montoya."
Funny. He'd spent half his life sharing a bed with Annalee, had thought since she died that he would never get used to sleeping alone. And now here he was with a new wife, thinking that he'd never get used to sharing a bed with her.
…
A hundred miles, give or take, separated Rancho Montoya from the High Chaparral. An experienced rider on a good, fresh horse could easily make the journey in a day if he pressed himself. However, the entourage Don Sebastian had sent with them, containing supplies as well as Victoria's personal possessions, slowed them down considerably. His wife began to show signs of fatigue when they were barely halfway home, and John considered that such a long journey was too much to ask of a woman. He stopped and ordered the men to set up camp for the night.
Montoya had anticipated that; the gear with which he had equipped them included two tents. One more than was strictly necessary, in John's opinion, but he siad nothing about it. His new brother-in-law, who was along for either the ride or for the longterm — no one really knew which yet, including Manolito himself — took his kit from the back of his saddle and stowed it in the second tent. When he came back out, empty-handed, John greeted him with a sardonically raised eyebrow.
"Now, I would have figured you for a man who's spent many a night sleepin' on the hard ground under an open sky."
Manolito grinned. "Ah, Señor Cannon, I have indeed. But never by choice," he lied. "No, I was meant for the soft beds and the late mornings."
"Well, I can tell ya now, there won't be much of either where we're headed. Just in case you wanna change your mind and head on back to your father's house."
"Sí, but I promised my father I would look after my sister. Who will do this if I don't?"
"Technically, that's my job now," John pointed out. "But you're welcome either way. I offered you a job once before, and that's still open. Just know there's no free rides, even for family."
"Your brother Buck has told me this," he laughed.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
He went on to the other tent to see if Victoria needed help with her cot. The flap stood open so he entered unbidden, to find his wife sitting on a fully assembled and made up camp bed, in the act of sliding a pillow into its case. She looked up at him with a welcoming smile.
"Well. How … efficient." He paused, surprised by the presnce of a second made-up cot, with his own bedroll and canteen next to it.
He nodded towards it. "Are you afraid to sleep alone?"
"No," she said simply, and John made no response.
Well, perhaps this, too, had something to do with keeping up appearances in front of her father's servants. She might have a point, at that. If word got back to Don Sebastian that the newlyweds slept separately during the journey, there was no telling what he night do. Back out of their arrangement, even, and that he could not afford.
No. It was best he sleep here with Victoria. Best get used to it, anyway. Man and wife were meant to share a bed, no matter what sort of arrangement led to the marriage in the first place.
After a makeshift supper around the campfire, John was careful to give her plenty of time to do whatever she needed to get ready for bed in private. When he judged that sufficient time had passed, he stood outside the tent and called her name softly.
"Entrar, my husband."
Victoria was in the process of taking off her robe to crawl into bed. His eyes travelled up and down the length of her body, perfectly modest yet uncomfortably intimate, then he averted his gaze and moved to the other cot. Wordlessly, he took off his hat and gunbelt, placed his revolver beneath the pillow where it would be in easy reach, then sat down to remove his boots. Fully clothed, he stretched out on top of the covers and got ready for the nightly battle with sleep.
On the other side of the tent, his wife seemed to want to say something to him, but all she managed was, "Goodnight, John." When he responded in kind, she turned out the lamp and got between the covers.
John was awake long after her steady breathing told him she had fallen asleep. His mind raced. The events of the last several weeks replayed themselves over and over as they did every night, joined now by shadowy images of a future he could only begin to speculate about. One instant he could see the High Chaparral flourishing, the next failing. He saw Blue, his only son, shaking his head in disgust and walking away, saw him dying like his mother because he refused to follow orders. And he saw himself and this woman he'd just taken for his wife, surrounded by their children, not looking at one another, not speaking, not touching. Even more disturbingly, he imagined her standing in front of him exactly as she had earlier, gazing at him with love and desire in her eyes, unfastening the long nightgown she wore and letting it fall to her ankles as he gathered her into his arms…
In name only, he thought bitterly, realising once and for all that it would be no such thing. That was his last conscious thought before sleep finally claimed him.
…
As far as he knew, his sleeping dreams were less disturbing than his waking nightmares, but he was jolted awake after only a few hours, anyway. He shifted onto his other side, felt for a cool spot on the pillow, and tried to get back to sleep. After ten or twenty minutes he knew it was going to be as useless as ever. He sat up, pulled his boots back on, then crossed the few steps to the front of the tent and untied the top fastenings.
As he stood looking out, John felt a light touch on his arm. He looked down at Victoria's shadowy figure beside him. The darkness hid her face from him, but he could read her concern in her body language.
"Is something wrong, my husband?"
"No, no, I just … I sometimes have trouble sleeping, that's all. I'm sorry I woke you, Mrs. Cannon. I'll … try to be quieter in the future."
"Is there something I might do to help?"
"No. Just go back to bed." It came out more harshly than he intended. Without another word she slipped away from his side, and he regretted speaking to her in that tone.
Well, why not? He already had enough to regret.
…
Things thawed between them on the long drive home. Just like yesterday, Victoria continued to prove herself a fine conversationalist. She had a sense of humour, but didn't laugh indiscriminately, she was intelligent and informed, and best of all, she was perfectly capable of maintaining silence instead of chattering.
She was, in short, good company.
Not unnaturally, she was fascinated by the subject of her new stepson. Every hour or two she would bring the conversation back to him as she thought of new questions to ask. How old was he? How did he get his name? What did he look like? Was he like his father, or his uncle, or his mother?
John thought about that one for a few minutes before he answered. "Oh, like his mother for the most part, I suppose. He's sensitive, the way she was. Tender-hearted. Too much so for this country. I've heard it said he's got my temper, but that's about all we've got in common."
The look she exchanged with her brother, who was at the moment riding alongside their wagon, didn't need any explanation. He'd seen enough of Manolito's relationship with his father to know that parallels would inevitably be drawn. Well, he couldn't help that. He didn't think much of Don Sebastian's idea of parenting if he could arbitrarily marry off his only daughter to a total stranger, but he had a certain amount of sympathy for the man where this wild-child of a son was concerned. Unlike Blue, Manolito was more than tough enough to survive, but he was utterly irresponsible. More like Buck, but probably a good deal worse. The thought of the three of them under one roof didn't bode well.
The closer they came to the High Chaparral, the more she worried about whether or not Blue would like her. After all, he'd only just lost his mother and he had no warning about any of this.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Buck drew up close to her side of the wagon. "Don't you fret none, Miss Victoria. Blue-Boy's gonna like you just fine," he reassured her in such a breezy tone of voice that John knew he was not being completely truthful. "Just fine. Might take him a little while at first. Like you said, he ain't gonna be expectin' it, but 'fore you know it, you and him's gonna be the best o' friends."
John nodded. "Buck's right. Blue's old enough to know that you have to live with what you can't change. It won't take him long." He and his brother exchanged a look over Victoria's head.
…
Within minutes of driving in the gate, John knew that they had been too optimistic. Blue greeted his uncle with enthusiasm then turned to his father, eager to find out how they'd left with just the two of them and returned with a dozen people and a supply train.
John didn't try to spare him or break the news gently. He simply said, "This is my wife, Victoria."
Blue's face fell. There was a look of unmistakable hurt and betrayal in his blue eyes. Without saying a word, he turned slowly away from them and made his way to the bunkhouse.
"Oh, no," said Victoria. "The poor boy. This must be a terrible shock to him."
John patted her hand in a slightly awkward attempt at comfort. "He'll be all right. When he comes in for supper, he'll get the explanation he ran out on."
"Do you think he will accept it?" By which she meant, obviously, Do you think he will accept me?
With some annoyance he replied, "He's got no other choice. He has to accept it same as the rest of us do."
His annoyance only deepened as the afternoon wore on into evening. Blue didn't show up again, and when he failed to appear at the table his father began to feel seriously put out. He was quiet throughout the meal, brooding instead of joining in the conversation. Once in awhile he caught a look that passed between Buck and the two Montoyas, but they left him alone. Just as well. It was his son, and therefore his business.
When bedtime approached and Blue still hadn't returned to the house, John stalked off to the bunkhouse to find him, fully intending to have a few words with the boy about the necessity of acting like a man instead of whining like a spoilt child not given his own way.
He found Blue stretched out on one of the bunks with his hat over his face. The men quickly got up and left father and son alone to iron out their differences in private. He grabbed the hat off his son's face and tossed it on top of him.
"I want to talk to you."
"About what?" Blue responded in a sulky voice.
"About something called manhood."
From there on it only got worse. Even by the standards of their already strained relationship it was a nasty argument. John was convinced his son was never going to mature into a grown man capable of standing on his own two feet, Blue insisted that his father kept him down and never let him think for himself, and it quickly escalated to both of them agreeing it might be just the thing for Blue to get the hell away from High Chaparral. Forever, if need be.
…
He hadn't meant it, of course, but, well, there it was. It was a miracle it had taken this long to come to a break. The two of them had never been really close, never understood one another – were seemingly incapable of understanding one another – and for nearly twenty years Annalee had been the only thing acting as a buffer between them. Now she was gone, and their son would soon be gone, too. And here was John himself, left with nothing but a ranch beset with problems and a new wife who was a stranger to him.
He slumped on the chair by his bedroom window, head resting against one hand. He opened his eyes and sat up as Victoria entered the room.
"I thought you would be asleep, my husband," she said in some surprise.
John sighed. "I have a great many things on my mind," he explained.
She fiddled with the neck of her dress with increasing frustration, then gave up and came to stand next to him. "Will you unfasten, por favor?"
His long arms reached up to her neckline and undid the top several hooks and the fastener at the waistband of her skirt. It brought a tiny smile to his face. Such a funny little domestic activity. He'd performed the same task for Annalee countless times over the years. He used to ask her how in the world she'd ever coped without him during the years he was away fighting the war.
"Are you worried about your son?" She didn't look at him as she spoke. Perhaps that made it easier to calmly get undressed in front of him. Diffidently, she stepped out of her black velvet skirt.
"Yes, yes. Among other things."
She crossed to the mirror and started to remove the pins from her hair. It fell down her back in glossy black sections. With no sign of emotion she said, "Perhaps I should go back to my father."
"What makes you say that?" John asked, surprised.
"I don't want to come between you and your son."
John got to his feet and covered the distance between them in only a few steps. He stood close to her, and she turned to look at him. Earnestly he said, "You're my wife. You are Mrs. John Cannon.
She turned to face him and he moved closer to her. She really was stunning, he realised. Not just beautiful, but the sort of woman who could take a man's breath away. And that was exactly what was happening to John, to his great consternation. He didn't love her; in spite of his reassurances he didn't particularly want her here, but he suddenly desired her so much it left him breathless. Where did this come from? he wondered.
Victoria took half a step back and gave him a look that was less than friendly. "I'm your wife in name only," she reminded him, repeating his own words from their wedding night back to him. "The symbol of a political alliance. Is that alliance more important to you than the love of your son?"
He wanted to say something sensible and stolid, reassure her that of course his son was more important than anything else, but that the two things shouldn't be allowed to be mutually exclusive. But this sudden fascination was numbing his mind. Instead, he ignored the subject of Blue and concentrated on her earlier point.
"Well, I admit that our marriage was not one born out of … love. I'm a hard man; love doesn't come easy to me. Even the word sticks on my tongue. You're my wife; I honour you as my wife. So will my son."
It was both a warning of sorts and the only kind of pledge he was capable of making to her. He would honour her, respect her, and be faithful to her. There was, he supposed, a slight chance he might come to love her one day, but the possibility seemed remote at best. She should realise that. And she should understand that even then she might never hear the words from him.
He simply wasn't a man cut out for flowery declarations of emotion. Annalee had been the love of his life, the woman he'd chosen to spend his life with, and he'd gone for years without telling her that he loved her. He thanked heaven that he'd had a chance to say the words – more or less – before he lost her. It was bittersweet irony that after all those years of silence, it was the last thing he'd ever said to her. It was the only thing that let him live with himself.
Annalee. Oh, hell.
Her presence here was still strong. Strong enough to stand between him and Victoria, strong enough to tamp down that sudden hunger for her in spite of the way she was now looking at him.
John cleared his throat and turned away from his new wife. "You're right, Mrs. Cannon. Past time we got to sleep."
He sat back down on the chair and pulled off his boots. He moved to his side of the bed, extinguishing the lamp as he did so.
This left the other bedside lamp as the only light in the room, so he pointedly didn't look at the other side of the bed, where Victoria sat removing shoes and stockings and finishing up her nightly routine. He stripped down to his longjohns and slid in between the sheets.
Now he had no place to look but over at her. Victoria had divested herself of everything but her underthings and a corset she was having obvious trouble with.
"May I … help you with that?"
"Gracias," she said with a warm smile, and slid closer to him. "At the home of my father I always had maids to help me. Don't worry, Mr. Cannon. I will learn quickly to do it on my own."
John chuckled. "I'm sure you will."
Without warning, as soon as he put his hands on her that same feeling of desire washed over him again, stronger this time. He untied the corset strings and loosened the bindings with hands that were less steady than usual. He left them resting lightly on her waist for a moment, then drew his fingers down the curve of her hip.
She went still, but she didn't object. She simply waited for him to move his hands and then pulled the corset over her head.
"You might get the light," he said.
"Of course."
In the dark, he reached out for her again and felt her lean into him. Encouraged, he drew her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers. It was their first real kiss. The kiss that sealed their marriage had been perfunctory at best, but this one had real hunger behind it. Hunger from both sides, at that. For whatever reason, she seemed to want him as much as he wanted her.
…
Afterwards he lay back and listened to the sound of his own ragged breathing. He was aware of his wife moving around, slipping a nightgown over her head.
"Thank you, Mrs. Cannon," he said, without looking at her. It wasn't an ideal thing to say, he knew that, but he couldn't think how else he could possibly respond.
His mind was in a whirl and his emotional state was even worse. He felt low and dirty, like an adulterer or worse. Oh, rationally he knew that he wasn't. She was his lawfully wedded wife and he had every right in the world, legally and morally, to go to bed with her. But in his heart he couldn't help thinking that it should be Annalee here beside him in their bed, Annalee who had just given herself to him.
But it wasn't Annalee, it was Victoria. It would always, from now on, be Victoria.
He became aware of her watching him. Somewhat reluctantly, he turned and met her eyes. There was no accusation there, and she was smiling.
"Finally, I feel as if I am truly your wife," she whispered, and a small part of the irrational guilt began to recede.
"Well, that's … just fine," he said, and almost but not quite managed a smile in return. "Good night, Victoria."