After The Lies

by Mandessa Selby

  After The Lies

  By

  Mandessa Selby

  Zora is an imprint of Parker Publishing LLC.

  Copyright © 2008 by Mandessa Selby Published by Parker Publishing LLC 12523 Limonite Avenue, Suite #440-438 Mira Loma, California 91752 www.parker-publishing.com

  All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, events and incidents (in either a contemporary and/or historical setting) are products of the author’s imagination and are being used in an imaginative manner as a part of this work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, settings, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-60043-054-1

  First Edition

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Printed by Bang Printing, Brainard MN

  Distributed by BookMasters, Inc. 1-800-537-6727

  Cover Design by Jaxadora Designs

  Parker Publishing, llc

  www.Parker-Publishing.com

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About The Author

  Prologue

  Paris, France 1861

  Lucien Delacroix sat at the baccarat table fingering his cards. The man across from him stared at the dealer, a droplet of perspiration rolling down his pale pudgy cheek. Never wager what you cannot lose. Luc’s opponent was a fool but then gambling often attracted the gullible who thought wealth and prestige awaited them on the next turn of the card, or flick of a dice.

  Luc smiled at the beautiful blonde woman seated next to his opponent. Her hair was piled high on her head with sparkling crystals sprinkled through her sausage curls. She had brought Luc luck with her lush, exotic beauty and her flirtatious air. Only a few minutes earlier she had slipped her room key into Luc’s pocket with a whispered invitation. The key he wouldn’t use despite her hunger and his need. He wondered if she would be so eager to engage his company if she knew the truth. The bastard son of a Louisiana plantation owner and his quadroon mistress, white enough to pass, yet still dusky enough to be interesting. On impulse, he flipped her a gold coin. The coin somersaulted through the air and she snatched it deftly, catching the coin in both her hands. She slid the gold inside the bodice of her gown with a bold, suggestive wink that told Luc exactly what he could expect should he decide to accept her tempting offer.

  Luc had everything any man could want: wealth, education, and privilege. But a jarring dissonance of discontent crawled inside him. What more could a man of his success expect? What more did he want?

  A tiny voice nagged at him. Acceptance, the tiny whisper said. Acceptance to be who he was openly, without subterfuge, at home in New Orleans as he was able to do in Paris. A gallant dream. An impossible one. Luc had no illusions about who he was and what he was.

  Luc glanced around the opulent casino, richly decorated with red and black velvet draperies, dark blue Persian carpet, and ornately carved furniture. The gaming tables, surrounded by the well-heeled patrons of the establishment, tantalized with the promise of easy money. Elegantly dressed gamblers surged back and forth between the bar and the stairs leading to the second floor bedrooms where the casino’s women plied

  their thankless trade. Swirling smoke cast a blue haze over the assembly. The polished

  crystal of the candelabra caught the light and reflected it back on the walls in a delicate prism of dancing colors, flittering about the room. The finest of Parisian society laughed, played, and flirted with each

  other, then discreetly withdrew for a moment of pleasure in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

  Luc knew he could have the blonde. But he also knew her body would not satisfy him. What would? His sister, Esme, would laugh at him, telling him to forget what he could not acquire. To be happy with what he had. Her wise financial ability had made them both wealthy, so they had little to worry about. They owned a discreet mansion on the Boulevard Du Maison, a small country house in Burgundy and a fashionable townhouse in Monte Carlo. They traveled in style in their own lavish carriages accompanied by servants. Their wine cellar was the envy of Paris. Luc wished he could have Esme’s devil-may-care attitude toward life.

  He tried to lose himself in the game, but a disturbance distracted him. Immaculately dressed in black satin evening clothes, Henri Pierpont clutched the arm of a woman of color who wore a yellow evening gown laced with seed pearls. She struggled against Henri, her delicate face frantic with fear. Henri never took rejection lightly. Luc despised the man, his sexual appetites as well as his depravities were legend in Paris.

  The woman cried out, her brown eyes showing spiraling apprehension. No one aided her. Several men laughed in amusement and turned away unwilling to interfere. Luc dropped his cards on the table and pushed his chair back. He wasn’t a hero, but he hated brutality of any kind, especially toward women. He had seen the results of Henri’s careless cruelties one too many times.

  Luc pushed through the crowded room thick with bodies drenched in cloying perfumes. He grabbed Henri’s arm. “You are hurting the lady.”

  Henri snorted. “She’s hardly a lady.” His glance was filled with

  contempt as he gazed at the young woman who desperately tried to twist out of his grasp.

  Luc yanked Henri’s hand away. A purplish bruise was already forming on the white skin of the woman’s arm. “Must I repeat myself?” He squeezed Henri’s hand. Years of privilege had made Henri soft.

  A hush slowly spread over the salon. Even the dealers stopped calling out the winners as heads swivelled about to watch the drama unfold.

  Henri pulled back, a snarl on his face. “She’s a black whore! Who cares?”

  Luc’s teeth clenched, his rage escalating. “I care. Every woman deserves respect. Apologize, or we meet in the morning.”

  Henri blanched. “You would duel over a whore?” His voice seemed more curious than alarmed.

  Stupid man, Luc thought. History was littered with the bodies of men who had fought over whores. “A woman is a thing to be treasured no matter her station, no matter the circumstances.” Luc touched the dark skin of her cheek.

  Henri roughly shoved the woman away. “I will not fight over a whore.”

  The woman staggered into Luc, who steadied her. “Merci, monsieur.” She smiled, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Luc released Henri’s hand.

  Henri straightened his jacket lapels. “Now what shall I do to amuse myself for the evening?”

  Luc smiled. “My offer is still on the table.”

  Henri flicked his hand in the air. “I do not waste my time with impetuous American puppies.” His eyes held contempt.

  “Pity.” Luc turned away, the evening spoiled.

  From across the room the owner of the casino, Marie Severin rushed after Luc. Marie tapped him on the forearm with her fan. “You are so gallant, cherie. How can I
repay you for ridding me of that boorish oaf?”

  Luc took her hand, bowed and kissed the tips of her fingers as though she were a queen rather than a woman of the night. “No payment is needed, Madame. Thank you for the offer, but perhaps, another time.”

  She giggled. “Whenever you are ready, I will be waiting.” She flicked her fan at the entrance to the room, “I have been informed that your hired man is waiting in the foyer. He says it is urgent.” A delicate brow rose in a coquettish manner. “Tell me you are not meeting that red-haired countess I saw you with the other night at the opera. She is not really a countess, nor is her hair truly red.” She folded her fan with a snap, a knowing smirk on her lips. “I know all your weaknesses, Monsieur.”

  He bowed again. “You are my only weakness, Madame. If you will excuse me. I must see what is so urgent that I am sought out in the

  middle of the night.” He turned and stepped toward the foyer.

  * * *

  As Luc opened the door to his apartment on the Rue du Sienne, he found his twin sister, Esme, waiting for him at the door in the parlor, sitting on the edge of a chair, twisting her hands.

  At sight of him, she jumped to her feet. “At last, you are back.”

  Any person, upon seeing them, would know immediately they were twins. They had the same oval-shaped face, same color greenish eyes and curly dark hair, but in Esme the features of her face were softened. Luc’s features were more angled and harsh.

  Esme’s face was marred by a worried, frantic frown. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders, framing a pale, ashen face. She turned green eyes on him.

  She threw herself into his arms, almost sobbing. “Papa wants you home immediately. The South has declared war on the North.”

  Chapter One

  Mexico, 1873

  Callisto Payne wanted a bath. No, she craved a bath more than her next breath. Her clothes itched and her curly black hair was coated with a thick layer of gray dust. Her mouth was so dry, she could barely spit.

  Damn rustlers! Two days of hard riding after a pair of stupid bastards and all she got for her trouble was dirty and smelly. You had to be a special kind of dumb to steal cattle from the most powerful rancher in Mexico and think you could get away with it. Wealthy ranchers had money, money they used to hire Callisto to get their cattle back.

  She was hot, tired and impatient for the job to be ended. Callie shifted her position on the flat boulder, scorching hot in the late afternoon, as she watched the rustlers in the desolate valley below. The stolen herd of dun-colored cattle, flanked by the bandits, moved through a cloud of thick, billowing dust.

  A scorpion, unsettled by her movements, scuttled off the boulder and into a crevice–its dangerous tail held high and pincers on the defensive. The white hot sun blasted the bleak desert below.

  Her partner, John Wildcat, hunkered down behind a rock ten feet to her left. She motioned her head toward the valley. He grinned, his bronzed skin crinkling around his mouth showing the whiteness of his straight teeth. Like her, he must be thinking about the fat bounty they’d collect for the return of the cattle and the thieves. A few more dollars in the cookie jar that brought her closer to her dream.

  Though all the men in her tiny village respected her abilities, only John Wildcat worked with her as an equal. He didn’t seem to notice she was a woman, caring only that she was the best tracker he’d ever taught. Each one of their successes increased their stature as well as their price. Callie was proud that she had made more money in a couple months than most men in the village made in a year.

  Callie scanned the sweltering desert floor below. Cactus stuck thorny arms into the sky. Birds twittered at each other from the nests they’d made inside the juicy interior of the cactus. A jackrabbit nibbled at a few stray grasses then bounced away as the shadow of a hunting hawk circled it overhead.

  In another day, the rustlers would be in the flats and there would be no place to ambush them. She and John had to strike tonight. Once darkness fell, they would give those rustlers the surprise of their mangy lives.

  Hot summer sun beat down on their heads. Callie retied the edges of her bandana protecting her mouth and nose from the heavy dust, then resettled her wide-brimmed hat, pushing strands of escaping black hair behind her ears. The baggy denim trousers and old plaid shirt she wore irritated her skin.

  She could afford better, but preferred her older brother’s cast-offs. Rafe had left several years ago to make his fortune and never returned. She still missed him. Wearing his clothes gave her a sense that he was with her somehow.

  She slid backward off the rock and met John at the bottom of the ridge. The hot air dried the perspiration on her skin before moisture had much of a chance to form.

  “What do you think?” John rested his tall, lean body against a rock. He chewed a piece of tough jerky. They took their meals whenever they could. Lines of exhaustion scored his dark face.

  Like Callie, he was dark-skinned with tightly, curled black hair and deep brown eyes, the product of their Negro-Seminole heritage.

  Callie gazed thoughtfully at the sun. “We take them after nightfall.”

  “Why?”

  After two years of working together, he still quizzed her, making her work hard for his praise. Although his patronage had cemented her reputation as the best tracker in Sonora, he pushed her to improve her skills. She made sure she could meet his challenges. “I think they’ll water the cattle at Diablo D’Oro springs before heading into the flats.”

  The springs, hidden deep in the foothills, were shaded by massive cottonwoods and protected by huge boulders, rattlers, and jackrabbits. Most people knew the springs were the last water until the Rio Grande which appeared to be the rustlers destination. Callie didn’t know why they wanted Mexican cattle when there were plenty of wild cattle roaming through Texas.

  He nodded his approval. “We wait.”

  Callie grabbed the reins of her horse and pulled herself into the saddle. They still had a heap of riding left to do before the rustlers bedded the cattle down for the night.

  She set off across the desert, keeping a low mound of hills between her and the rustlers. John followed.

  Darkness fell. The sun dipped behind the mountains to cast long purple shadows on the desert floor. Callie and John found a bank of rocks near the springs which hid them from view. They settled down to wait for dark as the rustlers watered the cattle and made camp near the springs, just as Callie had predicted.

  They left more sign than a herd of buffalo, Callie thought as she watched them. White men had no idea how to travel through the desert. If they had been smarter rustlers, they would have made for the heavy sands to the north where the cattle tracks and the dust would blow away in the desert winds in a few minutes. It was a drier, thirstier area, but it would have been a lot harder for Callie and John to find them. But the again, they probably weren’t expecting to be followed.

  The night grew cold. Callie napped beneath the stunted branches of a cottonwood, while John watched the sky darken until twinkling stars dotted the black sky and a sliver of moon rode low on the horizon.

  When Callie felt the time was right, she went south and John went north through clumps of mesquite bush to approach the camp. The restless movements of the cattle covered the small sounds she made as she crept forward to survey the camp.

  The two rustlers lay on the ground, blankets tucked around them fending off the night chill and facing the still roaring fire, an empty whiskey bottle on the ground between them. They obviously felt safe enough to let down their guard. Stupid, Callie thought. Once they realized Callie and John were there, they would open their eyes, first seeing the bright blaze. By the time they looked away, their eyesight would take too many precious seconds to adjust to the night. Then they would have to struggle out of their blankets to find their guns. Stupid.

  She searched for John and saw him tucked up against a rock waiting for her. She waved and he waved back. They had played this game many times. One r
ustler began to sing. A smile spread across Callie’s face. Boy, were these two going to be surprised. They’d never know what hit them.

  She waited until the rustlers’ snoring filled the air over the crackling fire. Then she and John struck. Callie jumped to her feet and with an ancient Seminole war cry landed between the sleeping figures.

  Their eyes popped open, and they both scrambled awkwardly for their pistols. She smacked the nearest one on the side of the head with her rifle butt. He fell back like a sack of flour still tangled in his blankets.

  John jumped the other man and clubbed him into semi-consciousness. The two rustlers sprawled, mouths hanging open. Callie smiled at the sight, delighted at the ease of the capture.

  Pulling out his hunting knife, John grabbed the nearest rustler by his stringy hair and yanked his head up. He put his knife against the man’s white throat and looked at Callie. “Dead or alive?”

  Callie shrugged. “More money if we bring them back alive.” Brought back alive, Callie could turn them over to the rancher who would probably hang the two rustlers. That was enough entertainment to keep the village humming for months. “Ain’t had a good hanging in months.” She had no sympathy for thieves who preyed on the hard work of others.

  John sheathed his Bowie knife, a look of disappointment on his shadowed face. “Damn, Callie. You take all the fun out of the hunting.”

  Callie understood his dissatisfaction, but the money was too important to throw away so thoughtlessly. “Let’s get ‘em tied before they wake up. If they escape, we’ll lose the bounty.” She took off their boots, while John tied their feet and hands. By the time they woke up, they were secure and even if they could get away, they wouldn’t get far in bare feet.

  Callie made herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from the rustlers, ignoring their struggles. In her mind, she added up the money hidden in her old boot. Her share of the bounty would buy another two acres for her mother. She could almost see the fertile farm they would have. Colorado, Wyoming, Montana. Even Texas. Any place they wanted.