After The Lies

by Mandessa Selby

  All her life, she’d been taught that human life was sacred. Even on the hunts with John Wildcat, she’d managed to avoid killing. And now she felt strange. Even though the outlaw she’d killed would have thought nothing about murdering her, she still wallowed in guilt.

  In the darkness, she sat on a rock and slipped her shirt off. She dribbled water on her arm and then carefully removed the herbs her mother had made up for her for just such an eventuality. She ground the herb into a powder and then mixed the powder with a little water to make a paste. She spread the paste over her wound. She would live, but probably would have a scar for life. Though the wound wasn’t overly deep, it was painful.

  When she was done, she pulled a clean shirt out of her pack and put it on after making certain the bindings about her breasts were secure. And then she turned toward at the camp. A small fire lit the center of the camp. To one side, Lieutenant Delacroix’s face was illuminated by the flame as he issued orders. Callie could just hear the sound of his voice over the sighing of the desert wind, over the activity of the men as they picketed and tended to their horses, and prepared food. The enticing aroma of coffee reached her. The outlaws were off to one side, a guard standing over them, rifle cradled in the crook of his arm.

  Callie could see the outlaws talking amongst themselves and from the way they leaned toward each other, their bodies tense, she could seet they were planning something. Why the hell hadn’t the Lieutenant posted a guard where she was? The way she was situated, she could see everything going on at the camp and no one could see her.

  Should she tell the Lieutenant about his vulnerability? Just because he’d captured a couple outlaws didn’t mean he was in charge of them. If Callie were Valenzuela, she’d try to get her people back. Not because of any loyalty, but because people liked to brag and without even realizing what they’d said, they’d give everything away. Valenzuela’s survival depended on keeping secrets.

  She decided not to say anything. She doubted Lieutenant Delacroix would listen to her anyway. Even though she’d proven her worth to the unit, he still treated her as if she were a child. She’d just stay alert and be ready to handle this by herself.

  She reached into her pack and drew out some dried meat. As she chewed on it, she drew her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. Her eyelids grew heavy and slowly she drifted off to sleep.

  Callie woke with a start. Commanding her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she rolled to her feet. The heat of the rock had cooled and she shivered in the cold night air.

  How long had she been asleep? A quick glance at the camp showed her the men spread out in their sleeping bags and the fire reduced to dim embers. The herd of horses moved restlessly as they grazed the meager desert grasses. A guard stood out against the moonlight as he circled the horses keeping them bunched.

  Callie stretched her senses to the limit, feeling that something wasn’t right. But what? She searched the darkness and slowly stood trying to shake the feeling of uneasiness.

  She circled the camp, keeping her eyes on the desert landscape, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Though the desert looked peaceful, her feeling of uneasiness deepened.

  A form rose from the camp, slowly and stealthily. Callie dropped to her knees to keep the moon from outlining her against the horizon. Another form rose and moved away from the camp. The outlaws were getting away.

  Callie jumped to her feet and yelled, “Lieutenant, the banditos are getting away.”

  The sleeping soldiers erupted into a frenzy of activity, jumping to their feet as the two banditos dashed for the brush and a rocky outcrop. Callie raced after them. After all they’d done to capture the varmints, she wasn’t about to let them get away.

  She headed toward them and was rewarded as they turned in her direction. The soldiers organized themselves into search parties. Callie yelled at them.

  The banditos swerved away from the sound of her voice. She heard Lieutenant Delacroix issuing orders. In the next second, she felt a blow and was thrust back. She reached out and grabbed the outlaw’s shirt, hanging on as best she could. The man tried to dislodge her, grabbing her wrists and yanking. She slid down his body and grabbed onto his leg. After all the hard work of capturing him, she wasn’t about to let him escape.

  Shots rang out and she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. The outlaw tried to run dragging her with him. She clutched tight to his leg. She felt a blow to the side of her head. She almost lost her grip, but managed to hang on. She felt his hands pounding on her shoulders and back. The harder he hit, the harder she clung to him. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked.

  Pain started at the side of her head and traveled down her spine. Bright lights exploded behind her eyes. The outlaw fell down and rolled, landing on top of her. She felt a sharp elbow in her ribs and she couldn’t breathe. Two soldiers grabbed the outlaw and jerked him to his feet.

  Lieutenant Delacroix bent over Callie. “Are you all right?” he asked in an anxious voice.

  Callie couldn’t answer. She fought for air, but her chest felt paralyzed.

  “Cal! Talk to me.” He touched her ribs and she shoved his hand away.

  Callie pushed herself to her feet. Her whole body ached. She had the feeling she’d broken something, but she couldn’t speak. She shook her head at the Lieutenant. She clutched her side and tried to walk away, but her feet wouldn’t obey. She stumbled. As she rolled back to the ground, she smelled the faint spicy scent of Lieutenant Delacroix’s soap. He ran his hands down her ribs and then gently unbuttoned her shirt and touched the binding around her chest.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  She tried to push his hands away, but each move increased the pain. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”

  “Hold still, son. Let me help you.”

  She stared at him, willing him to just go away. Then darkness seeped into the edges of her vision and the world went black.

  Chapter Five

  Esme leaned against the wood railing of the steam ship and watched as the tugboats angled it into its berth. New Orleans spread out in front of her. Paris had always been fun, but New Orleans was the home of her childhood, the place of her most cherished memories. Men, women and children gathered on the levee to watch the ship being fitted into its slot.

  Esme smiled. Until this moment, she had not realized how homesick she had been for the sights, smells and sounds of her home. How good it felt to be back?

  A man stood apart from the others. He was handsomely dressed, though his face was lined with age. Gray hair curled back over his ears beneath the narrow brim of his dove gray hat. His eyes met hers and she studied him with an appraising eye. He bowed slightly and she nodded at him. Then he turned to speak to a more shabbily dressed man who turned on his heel and headed toward the gangway.

  “That’s Jonas Ramsay,” a voice said.

  Esme turned to find Captain Henderson standing behind her. She had enjoyed a slight flirtation with him during the trip, but he turned out to be a man most devoted to his wife and family. When Esme found out, she backed away.

  “And who is Jonas Ramsay?” Esme inquired.

  “One of the wealthiest men in New Orleans. Though rumor says he invested heavily in a China venture, and is nervous because his ship was due before Christmas, long before I set course for London.” Esme glanced back at the man on the levee. He walked back and forth and then suddenly turned and left the levee. “Is he looking for his lost ship?”

  Captain Henderson grunted. “Probably.” The captain left her for his duties and Esme turned back to watch the people watching the ship being docked.

  She felt very smart and fashionable in a burgundy traveling suit and a tiny matching hat perching on her glossy black curls. Her sophisticated ensemble proclaimed the height of Parisian fashion. A few men on the docks gave her admiring glances. She ignored them.

  The ship was finally secured and the gangway lowered. Esme had been so young when she had been forced to leave everything she knew be
hind. First her mother had died, and then her father had insisted they go to school in Paris. Her father had carried her kicking and screaming up the gangplank followed by a subdued Luc and the au pair their father had hired to care for them. Their father had explained that they would be happier at school in Paris. Esme hadn’t believed him. She had cried most of the way across the Atlantic, and Luc had remained stubbornly silent. Both of them knew, their father’s wife had somehow caused their exile. Though she didn’t understand why at the time. Since then, she’d grown wiser in the ways of women scorned.

  The docks had been a bustling haven of commerce then. Esme remembered seeing tall bales of cotton stored in the warehouses and on the docks ready for shipment. Now the docks were sadly empty. A few warehouses, burned in the war, were in the process of being rebuilt, their skeletal remains a sad reminder of the hostilities.

  The levee stretched out in both directions. A couple, arm in arm and accompanied by a nanny pushing a baby carriage, strolled along. The spires of St. Louis Cathedral rose into the sky. The intricate iron work of the Pontalba apartments bracketing Jackson Square reminded Esme of a childhood friend who had lived in the apartment and with whom Esme had played. They had pretend tea parties on the balcony and watched couples strolling about the square.

  Before disembarking, Esme spoke to the purser and arranged for her twenty-two trunks to be stored for a few hours until she found place to stay. She hailed a cab and gave the driver her father’s address.

  As the open carriage moved through the Quarter, Esme thought about all she had left behind in Paris. Her beautiful house on the Left Bank, and her friends. With her lover dead, frankly, life in Paris no longer held any appeal. Her painting had become stale. She needed new artistic inspiration, and she wanted to get away because Paris was so sad for her.

  The thoughts of her lover brought a small stab of grief. Not so strong any more, but still there. She owed Philippe so much. She would never forget him. She should have married Philippe. He’d proposed countless times. But she had prized her autonomy, her independence. Philippe had wanted a country wife and a country life, and she had wanted glitter. They’d had never been able to resolve the difference. So they had let things stand and now he was gone and she had a hole in her heart that her friends and her life no longer filled.

  The Quarter appeared much as it had when she’d been a child. Though somehow it seemed smaller. Still, she felt as though she were finally home after so many years of wandering.

  The carriage stopped in front of her father’s house. This was her last task before she went on to a new life. She had brooded all the way across the Atlantic. She’d written her father of her decision to return home and hoped he’d gotten the letter. Since his quarrel with Luc, he had done little to keep his relationship with Esme alive. She wrote him faithfully once a month, but his return letters had trailed off and she had heard nothing from him in two years.

  If she did nothing else while she was in New Orelans, she would do what she could to make her family whole again. She would find a way to heal the breech between her father and Luc.

  “Wait for me,” she told the driver as he helped her out.

  He nodded and opened the gate for her. As she sailed inside, he climbed back up on the driver’s seat, and in seconds his head drooped in a little nap.

  Esme’s father’s home had an imposing facade. The house was not built in the style of most of the other homes in the Quarter which backed to the street with the front doors inside opening to the interior courtyard. Her father’s home had an princely veranda bordered by Corinthian style pillars and a white railing surrounding it. A small green lawn, bordered by bright flowers, added a touch of rich green to the white pillars in the background.

  As she walked up the front steps, Esme’s stomach flip-flopped. The house had a neglected air about it. Fading yellow paint was worn off, bare wood showing through. The grand entry looked tired. The brass on the door knocker needed polishing. An closer inspection the flower garden had more weeds than it should. Esme gathered her courage and walked up the front steps. No back door for her. She pulled a bell cord and heard ringing deep in the house.

  She waited, pacing back and forth, her mouth dry. Would he want to see her? So much had happened over the years. She wasn’t a thirteen year old girl any more.

  The front door swung open. Instead of the servant Esme expected, a young girl, maybe ten years old with her blonde hair in braids about her shoulders, smiled at Esme. The girl’s dress was clean, but shabby and a touch too small. “Hello, may I help you?” The girl’s voice was soft with the cadence of New Orleans in her tone.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Delacroix.”

  “You’re very pretty.” The girl smiled shyly, her hazel eyes moving rapidly up and down. She reached out to touch Esme’s dress, but drew her fingers back shyly.

  “Thank you, so are you.” Except for the blonde hair, this girl could have been Esme’s identical twin when she’d been ten. This had to be Lauren, her youngest half-sister.

  Lauren bobbed in an abbreviated curtsey at the compliment. She held out her hand and drew Esme into the house. “Daddy’s in the courtyard, but I don’t know if he will see you. He’s feeling poorly again today.”

  Again, Esme thought. Had he been ill? “You tell him Esme is here to see him.”

  The girl giggled. “Your name is pretty, too.” She showed Esme into the visitor’s parlor and skipped away her footsteps echoing hollowly as she bounced through the house.

  Esme drew off her red leather gloves. The parlor was immaculate, the furniture gleamed and smelled of lemon oil. Her feet sank into the deep pile of a blue and red Persian rug. From the looks of things, her father had survived the war in a worse situation than Esme had feared.

  A woman stormed into the room and glared at Esme. “Get out of my house.”

  Esme raised her chin defiantly. “I’m here to see my father.” Esme had only seen Natalie Bruton Delacroix once in her whole life. She had stood on the docks with a smug smile on her face as Esme’s father had forced her onto the ship. Natalie had changed. The chubby cheeks of her youth had whittled down into grooved hollows. Her mouth, at one time bow-shaped, was now pinched tightly. Wrinkles radiated outward from the corners of her dark brown eyes.

  Natalie shook with rage. “How dare you appear on my doorstep without so much as a warning.” Her eyes flickered over Esme’s fashionable gown and a small light of envy appeared deep inside them. She pursed her lips tightly and drew in a ragged breath.

  Esme had anticipated hostility from her father’s wife, but this was way beyond anything she’d expected. “I can to see my father,” she repeated.

  “How dare you violate the sanctity of my home.” Natalie’s face grew red with blotches.

  “Madam, I understand my father is ill. I wish to see him. Mayhap I can bring him some comfort.”

  “His real children will see to his needs.”

  Esme smiled. “You have always been bothered by the fact that Luc and I were his first family.” Esme really didn’t understand why Natalie should feel so threatened. Her father had married her.

  Natalie spat at her. “You meant nothing to him then, and you mean nothing to him now.”

  “Really,” Esme reached into her purse and drew out her father’s last letter. Though it was two years old, it still contained his strong feelings of love for her. “Would you like me to show you how much I don’t mean to him?” She held out the letter.

  Natalie licked her lips. “You can’t come in here with your fancy Parisian manners and demand anything from us. You’ll never be anything more than a low-bred slave’s bastard child.”

  Esme drew on all the haughtiness of the Parisian nobility. She looked down at Natalie. “My mother may have started life as a slave, but she died a free woman.” Though the words my father loved her remained unspoken, Esme could see that Natalie was thinking the same thing.

  A young woman flew into the room. “Mama, Mama, Lauren said there�
�s a beautiful woman here to see Papa. Papa wants to see her right now.”

  Esme held out her hand to the young woman. “I’m Esme.”

  The young woman, an older version of Lauren, took Esme’s hand and bobbed into a polite curtsey. “I’m Josette.”

  “Josette,” Natalie said sharply. “Go to your room. Now.”

  Josette looked confused. Her gaze swung back and forth between Esme and her mother, but after a few seconds, bobbed a second polite curtsey and obediently backed out of the parlor.

  Esme’s temper flared. She hadn’t liked Natalie when her father had married her, and she liked her less now. She walked firmly to the doorway. “No need to show me. I know my way to the courtyard.” She headed down the long hall toward the courtyard.

  What had happened to her father’s beautiful home? Except for the parlor, the other rooms were empty of all furniture and the floors were filthy dirty. Dust and spider webs decorated every corner and hung from the ceiling in long strings. Water spots stained the walls where the roof leaked. The rooms smelled musty and moldy. Wallpaper had fallen off in strips revealing bare patches of plaster wall.

  She stepped out into the courtyard appalled at the horrid mess. Last year’s leaves still littered the corners. Weeds choked the flower beds. A door hung askew on the stable, and the servants quarters had broken windows. The fountain in the center of the courtyard held no water. The statue of the nymph Esme had so adored when she’d been a child was broken. She’d spent many hours drawing the nymph from all angles until she’d had three notebooks filled with drawings.

  Esme’s father sat in a broken chaise, one corner propped up by bricks. He wore a dingy robe over his pajamas. He coughed, a deep rumbling cough that shook his skeletal body. His cheeks were bristly with stubble, he hadn’t shaved in days.

  Esme choked back sudden tears. She couldn’t let him see her crying. “Papa!”

  His dark eyes snapped open. He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes blank, and then recognition slowly seeped into them. “Esme! Are you really you? What are you doing here?” He cried and held out a hand.