A Mating of Hawks Read Online Free Page B

of things.”
    Patrick dropped Shea’s hand. “God a’mighty!” he rumbled weakly. “Ten thousand acres at El Charco gone to waste, and thirty thousand leased! While this has been such a tough winter we’ve been feeding hay! Listen, boy—”
    â€œDad,” cut in Shea. “I’m not wasting that land. I’m trying to keep it from going desert like that Judd’s overgrazing.”
    A vein swelled in Patrick’s temple. “You’d rather see us sell cattle at a loss than run a few on ground you’re not using?” His voice quavered with weakness and anger.
    Shea swallowed. Muscles tautened in his lean jaws. When he spoke, his tone was under tight control. “Dad, Judd’s your manager. Let us try to work this out.”
    â€œYou damn well better!” Patrick seemed ready to choke and Tracy moved anxiously back to him, casting Shea a look of reproachful pleading. “I’m going to have to study hard as it is to leave part of Socorro to someone with ideas as crazy as yours.”
    Shea’s hands clenched. Lightning seemed to flash deep in his gray eyes. He wore a stunned look, as if he couldn’t believe what his father had said. Then he shrugged.
    â€œI’ve tried to explain what I’m doing, Dad, but you don’t want to hear it. Look, let’s not talk about it. I promise you this. If Judd’ll be reasonable, so will I.”
    â€œDo come along!” hissed Vashti.
    Tracy cradled Patrick against her and kissed his forehead. “Finish that tequila and have a nice snooze. I’ll be back later.”
    He didn’t speak, but the frustrated grief distorting the mobile side of his face was so great that she cursed Shea for causing it, whatever the merits of his case. But Patrick rallied and patted her cheek before he reached for his glass.
    â€œRun along, honey, and tuck in enough of Henry’s food to make him feel good. It’s fine if you go for kee-chays and sou-flays, but I’d rather have meat and beans and handmade tortillas.” He squinted approvingly at her. “You’re a mite thin but otherwise I’ll bet you’re just as pretty as a speckled pup!” He gestured toward the portrait above a carved chest at the far end of the room. “Always thought you were the spittin’ image of my mother. Hope you’ll have as good a life.”
    Tracy looked at her great-grandmother, painted as Santiago’s bride. With child by the murdered Johnny Chance, haunted by the slaughters in Cananea and Tomochic, which had twice in her life made her hysterically blind, the young woman in the painting was indeed beginning the happy, productive years she’d have with Sant. Her dark bronze hair fell over one shoulder, rich against her creamy skin. It was a triangular face, broad at forehead and cheekbones, narrowing to a cleft chin. The deep-set amber eyes seemed even larger because of dark eyelashes and determined eyebrows that winged slightly at the ends. The mouth was fully curved, and though Christina’s expression was sweetly grave, there was a hint of tough, earthy humor.
    I’ve done nothing but survive , Tracy thought, staring almost combatively at the portrait. But don’t write me off, Christina Riordan-Scott y Revier! She laughed, swept a kiss across Patrick’s ear and used her childhood name for him.
    â€œI don’t know how good my life is going to be, Paddy, but I intend to make it interesting!”
    He was chuckling as she hurried downstairs.
    Rather crossly, Vashti pointed down the wing of the L-shaped house and told Tracy that her room was the first on the right. “I hope you’ll find it comfortable. Patrick insisted on moving over the tacky handmade stuff you had at the old place instead of letting the decorator do something tasteful.”
    Tracy raced to brush her hair, a short springy crown of soft waves. A touch of lipstick, a quick stop in a