Autumn Sage
Page 33
His breathing was harsh and his hand trembled as he reached for paper and a pen.
A letter to Isabel. He must write a letter to Isabel. He must answer that outpouring of hers with… with what?
Himself?
He lifted his gaze from the blank sheet, sought out the familiar sight of his notebooks. He could pour himself into those instead, as he’d always done. Lock her and the sensations she evoked—the love he had for her—away in them.
He could write her a perfectly correct, perfectly polite letter thanking her for her concern, telling her that he was well once more.
He wouldn’t have to say that their association was at an end; she was clever, she’d understand what he hadn’t written.
If he did that, they’d both be safe. Safe for the rest of their days from the emotions they inspired in one another.
He rose and picked up the first notebook, turned to that first page. He hardly recognized the writing there any longer—and not just because it was an illegible scrawl. He pulled down the next notebook and the next and the next, filling his arms with them.
He carried them out to the garden. Once they were piled there, he started a small fire in a bare patch.
He opened the first book.
There it was, in black and white and rust red, his terrible deed laid bare.
He tore the page out and fed it to the fire. The colors ran to black as the flames consumed it, then disappeared entirely into ash. He tore out every last page, giving them all to the fire.
When his sins of the past thirteen years were nothing more than a pile of ash, he crouched down beside the gray lump of it. Such a small bit of matter for so many sins. He dipped his fingers into the ashes before curling them into his palm and setting his fist against his forehead.
But only say the word, and I shall be healed.
He didn’t believe he’d been healed, exactly, but he felt… light. Free. As if he’d been ridden with a heavy curb bit all this time and was only now experiencing the freedom of being without a halter. As if he might begin to move up the mountain once more. It would be a climb, no doubt, but he could manage. With Isabel as his companion.
He had to finish that letter to her first.
On his way back to the library, he ran into his mother.
“Sebastian, why are your cases out? Where are you going?”
The concern on her face tore at him, but hurting her further was unavoidable. “The man who shot me is in Mexico. I have to go bring him in.”
She set her hand to her heart. “But you only just got out of the hospital! And Mexico?”
He took her hand in his—so familiar, the pressure of her fingers. She used to hold his hand, just like this, after one of his father’s rages.
This would be the hardest part of leaving, this and the letter he had to write. “I must do this. For her.”
Her rapid blinks were like paper cuts against him, each one tiny, yet agonizing. “Surely someone else can go to Mexico? Someone who hasn’t just been grievously wounded.”
He squeezed her hand. “I have to do this. For her and for myself.”
Her expression dipped into melancholy. “How much more must you do to prove you’re not like your father?”
How much? He wasn’t certain. He’d thought a lifetime of burying his true nature and serving justice had done it… but it hadn’t been enough. Not after Isabel had seen his true self and decided it was worthy of love.
“Just this last. I promise.” This last to keep Isabel safe—and prove to himself he was deserving of her.
“I suppose you truly love her,” his mother said thoughtfully.
His heart raced at the words, thrumming in his ears. “She’s… Calling her my everything isn’t enough.” He reached for what she was to him, searching in both English and Spanish for something to encompass it. “She is my infinity, stretching far and wide and forever for me.”
His mother’s smile was the saddest she’d worn in years. “Then find this man and come back to her,” she said. “I wish I could give you advice on a happy marriage, but I’m afraid I only know how to survive an unhappy one.”
He shook his head gently. “Now who’s clinging to the past?”
She embraced him then, squeezing him as tightly as if he were a child again and the clasp of her arms could soothe any hurt.
“Well,” she said as she released him, “I suppose you’d better prepare for your journey.”
“I’ll be back, safe and sound. I promise.”
He left her and made for the library, going straight to his writing desk. There was just enough time to finish this before he would need to pack and leave for the station.
He pulled out a clean sheet of paper, set the pen to readiness in his hand.
And sat there.
How to begin?
He wrote out Dear Señorita Moreno.
He pondered the greeting for a moment before tossing the sheet to the floor. Taking up another, he tried again.
Dear Isabel.
That went to join the other on the floor.
My dearest love.
Finally satisfied, he finished the letter.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Isabel reached a hand into her jacket pocket, felt the crinkling of the letter there, right over her heart. From beneath her hat, she took in the crowd clustered at the rail depot in the valley, everyone backing away from the track as the train eased into the station.
Time to say farewell.
She turned to her family waiting behind her, bracing herself for this final goodbye. For when the train left, her family would return to Cabrillo—and Isabel would be on her way to San Francisco.
Just as Sebastian had asked her.
She touched her pocket one last time, then went to Franny. She held her hands out to be squeezed, tilted her cheek to receive a kiss—but Franny, dear, dear Franny, crushed Isabel hard to her. A low noise came from her sister’s throat, a sort of fond growl.
Isabel understood. She patted Franny’s back, knowing her sister was too overcome to speak. “God bless you and keep you, sister.”
Franny squeezed tighter, Isabel’s ribs straining under the force of her affection. She released Isabel abruptly, averting her face as she stepped away.
Franny never liked for others to see her crying.
Isabel would miss Franny just as fiercely.
She moved on to Catarina, Juan following in her wake. He’d be accompanying her to San Francisco—she’d say her goodbyes to him some three hundred miles away.
Catarina gave her two swift kisses on either cheek and pressed something into Isabel’s hand.
“Handkerchiefs,” she explained. “A lady can never have too many handkerchiefs. Don’t forget the box lunch I packed—you shouldn’t eat that train food, it costs too much and is of poor quality.”
Franny couldn’t speak and Catarina couldn’t stop speaking.
Isabel swallowed hard. Lord, but she would miss her sisters.
“Of course,” she assured her, setting a kiss on Catarina’s cheek. “Thank you for packing it.”
She shared a solemn handshake with Mr. Merrill. “Thank you so much for your… assistance,” she said.
His gaze was grave. “I only wish I could have done more. Wire if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Her father was next. She closed her eyes and bent her head when she came to him. He kissed her forehead and murmured, “God bless you and keep you, my daughter.”
“And also you, Papa.” All of you.
“Give our love to Esperanza,” he said. “It will be good for her to have some company.”
Isabel nodded.
Time for the last farewell.
Her mother squeezed her hands tightly, the kisses she set to Isabel’s cheeks a heartbeat longer than the ones she usually bestowed.
“Be safe, my dear,” she said. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, but her voice was unwavering. “I do wish you would remain close. But I understan
d.”
Isabel wanted so badly to embrace her, to clutch tightly to that familiar form as she had when she was a child—but such a thing in front of all these onlookers would deeply embarrass her mother. So she simply gripped her mother’s hands more firmly.
“Thank you, Mother.” Her voice tried hard to break on Mother. “I know how hard this has been for you.”
“Not as difficult as it has been for you.” Her mother gave one last squeeze, then gestured toward the train. “Now go. And God bless you and keep you.”
Isabel didn’t look back as they climbed aboard, didn’t glance out the window as they found their seats, stowed their bags, and settled in for the long hours ahead of them.
She adjusted her skirts instead, pulled a book from her pocket—and then, finally, she looked out the window.
Her family waited on the platform, her father’s arm around her mother’s shoulders—a rare show of affection from them—Catarina sniffling into a handkerchief as Mr. Merrill patted her back, and Franny staring resolvedly at the train, a fierce approval in her gaze.
The train started, jerking the portrait of her family within the frame of the window. As the train gained speed, pulling Isabel farther and farther from them, she turned to face forward.
It wouldn’t do to be looking behind her the entire way.
Los Angeles, California
November 19, 1898
My dearest love,
All is well—I was laid low by my injury for a time but I am recovered now. They said you were in hysterics when I was shot. Please know that if it were in my power to have reassured you before this, I would have.
My every thought—when I could think—was of you.
Judge Bannister has informed me that McCade is rumored to be in Mexico. Of course you know I must go there to search for him. I won’t stop hunting him until he is imprisoned or dead and unable to harm you again. But rest assured that his death will not be at my hands.
I know this because I burned all of my notebooks.
You might be surprised to read that, but I realized during my stay in the hospital that I no longer need them. You are now the star always pointing me true North.
I can’t ask anything of you, not from Los Angeles and certainly not from Mexico. I cannot say when I will return with this outlaw or if I ever will—and what is between us must be resolved face to face, not through the dry medium of pen on paper.
However, if the other matter requires the immediate protection of my name, I will return at once to provide it. No matter what, please, please, allow me to write to you. I could not bear it if I didn’t have even this slender link to you.
In closing, I do ask one thing of you, bold as it is. Don’t remain in Cabrillo. Find a city with as many literary societies as you can and go there…
Sebastian
Cabrillo, California
November 25, 1898
My heart,
May I call you that? We began with the title Marshal Spencer between us, then moved on to Sebastian, and now we’ve arrived at the truth of the matter: you are my heart.
I was sick and sore with no news of you, but Mr. Merrill was kind enough to telegraph his father and he brought me your letter, for which I will be forever grateful.
Sebastian, you’ve no need of me to direct you—you’ve known your true North all along. When you had the choice to murder this outlaw—or allow the mob to do so—you chose the harder path. You and you alone. I would rather we be apart for the rest of our days than know I was responsible for blood on your hands, no matter how much this man might deserve it.
I am doing as you requested and moving to the city with the most literary societies I could think of—San Francisco.
As for the other matter you allude to, fear not—it has been resolved. I have only to wait until I see you again to speak what I cannot put to paper.
I beg you to write me as often as you can. If you need to put yourself into these letters to me, much as you did your notebooks, I am here waiting, greedy for you…
Isabel
Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico
December 3, 1898
…I’ve found his route here in Mexico—he can’t help but leave destruction in his wake, which leaves an easily coursed trail. I travel south now, to Chihuahua, which he spoke of as a possible destination.
You may call me whatever you like as long as you continue to write. My every thought is for you, of you. If you are greedy for my words, I am ravenous for yours.
I know you think I react badly when I hear his name, but I am glad to know Señor Obregon is recovering. And that the two of you have made peace with one another. Without his help, I might have ended up dead that night—he has my gratitude for that.
Thank you for the poem you enclosed. I was unable to take any books with me, contenting myself only with that which my memory has retained. But if all I had in my mind was Martí’s verse, the one about his lady’s hair, it would be more than enough. I recite that each day and remember your hair surrounding the both of us, sheltering us from everything in this world but the other.
Tell me all of your new life in San Francisco—do any traces of Yerba Buena remain, or have the Americans made over the entire city…
Sebastian
San Francisco, California
January 10, 1899
...Aunt Esperanza and I rub along quite well together. We are two spinster ladies enjoying all that the city has to offer. She has yet to say anything of the prodigious number of letters I receive, none of which I share with her. I begin to think she might have a failed love affair in her past, which is why she overlooks my indiscretions in this case.
I must be true with you—for all that I’m enjoying it here, I yearn for you. Your letters are as precious as gems to me, each one I hoard close like a dragon with a treasure. But they are nothing compared to my memories of you and I together in the library…
Isabel
Chihuahua, Mexico
February 28, 1899
…I’ve arrived in Chihuahua, but his trail is cold. The Rurales claim he killed a prostitute, and just as in our own land, the lowness of the victim’s station has prevented any real inquiry into the incident. (I do not blush to write that word to you, since I know you do not blush to read it.)
The Rurales are particularly uninterested in searching for McCade now that I’ve arrived, and I cannot fault them for it. Why shouldn’t the American lawman solve the problem of their American outlaw?
Your description of your recent trip to the dressmaker made me smile. Yes, you should most certainly buy the most ridiculous hat they have. I hear tell that the sun never shines in San Francisco, so you must choose all your headwear for fashion’s sake, rather than the sun’s.
Speaking of myself, you would be shocked to see me these days. Dusty, unwashed, fraying elbows and cuffs—hunting an outlaw is terrible for a man’s clothes. I’ve even begun to grow a beard to save myself the effort of shaving…
Sebastian
San Francisco, California
March 7, 1899
…I have some interesting news from Los Angeles—the city council has voted to keep the water supply in private hands—Mr. McCade’s hands. I admit, I did smile at first to think of Judge Bannister so thwarted, but then I frowned to think of Mr. McCade so rewarded. I enclosed the newspaper clipping so that you might read for yourself.
I thought of your beard yesterday, quite unintentionally. My mind was wandering during a lesson, and suddenly, I felt your beard along my inner thigh, the hair rough and abrading, and right in the middle of all that prickliness, the soft, wet warmth of your mouth.
I entirely lost my place in the lesson…
Isabel
Chihuahua, Mexico
March 20, 1899
…Word has come that McCade was seen heading to the Barranca del Cobre, so of course that is where I must travel next. I will be unable to post letters every day, as I have been, but fear not—I will continue to write each da
y and post them when I can.
My heart is so full of you these days it is easily fooled by even the poorest facsimile. I see a lady with hair as dark as yours, or one as slender as you, or one as tall and straight, and my heart sings for half a moment “There she is! She has come!” And then my eyes see her for who she truly is and my heart is broken anew…
Sebastian
San Francisco, California
April 30, 1899
My only love,
There have been no letters from you for over three weeks now. Sometimes I feel as if I am writing to your ghost. If you were to die there, would I ever discover the truth? Or would I spend the rest of my life wondering what had happened?
I choose to believe you are alive.
A world where I cannot be by your side always is terrible enough—one where you are no longer present would be unbearable…
Isabel
Batopilas, Chihuahua, Mexico
May 20, 1899
I received five of your letters after arriving back in Batopilas just yesterday. I tracked McCade all the way into Sinoloa before the trail went cold again, forcing me to return here. I know you’ve sent more than five, but five letters from you are worth an infinite number from any other.
At times I wonder why I do this—why I track this man so ceaselessly, only to return him to uncertain justice in Los Angeles? If I come upon him, I still fear I will take the easy path and kill him in cold blood. After all, who would care here in the wilds of Barranca del Cobre?
But I have yet to find him, so I have yet to be put to that test. Again.
After so many months here, alone, searching for him, I am no longer certain of who I am. English no longer crosses my lips, my clothes are rags—and you… How can my arms continue to exist after not holding you for so long?
Sebastian
San Francisco, California
June 17, 1899