Desert Storm

by Nan Ryan

Angel

  RENO SANCHEZ KNEW before Pecos said the words. As soon as the tall, bare-chested Pecos came running toward him down the narrow rock corridor with his long arms spread wide, Reno knew. He was positive when Pecos reached him and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

  Pecos hugged Reno with such gusto he lifted the shorter man off the ground. He was laughing uproariously, his rumbling laughter echoing in the dim, close cave and reverberating from the stony walls. The puzzled, tired Mexican miners lowered their picks, and scratching their heads, they moved toward the rollicking laughter all recognized as that of Pecos McClain.

  Reno laughed. For the first time ever, he was the one struggling to be free of the smothering, strong arms encircling him. When Reno managed to escape the muscular madman, he shouted happily, “We are rich, sí.?”

  “Sí, amigo.” Pecos shook his dark head. “At long last, we are rich!”

  And rich the two friends were. Pecos had uncovered a thick vein deep inside the Lost Madre; there was no doubt in his mind that the vein went far back into the rock. He knew they’d struck it at last. Pecos and Reno were not the only ones who were now wealthy. The ten faithful miners who’d put up their cash for a percentage of the mine now had more money than they’d ever dreamed of.

  All waited eagerly while Pecos rode to Chihauhau with samples of the ore. The report at the assayer’s was just as Pecos had expected. The Lost Madre was one of the most valuable ever uncovered in the Republic of Mexico. Pecos didn’t delay; as soon as he was given the good news, he mounted and rode back to Buenaventura. He arrived at sundown to the whoops and cheers of the waiting, expectant men. A confident nod of his dark head and a flashing smile told the story. The celebration began.

  Pecos joined in the fun. He ate hot, spicy food and washed it down with Madeira. He clapped his hands and hooted and whistled while couples danced flaming, heated fandangos, their colored castanets popping in their nimble fingers high over their tossing heads. He took his turn, to the delight of the dancers, raising his long arms to clap his hands in rhythm and stamping his boot heels upon the wooden floor. His dark head was spinning from too much wine and excitement. He laughed and joked and kissed the women and he sang and strummed a guitar. He felt a warmth and peace here among these happy people and a deep sense of belonging.

  And still … He stumbled toward his shack at dawn, alone. Drunk and bleary-eyed, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and peered up at the granite sky. On the horizon, the glaring tip of the rising summer sun made him blink. Insanely, the drunken notion occurred to Pecos that the same new sun he was seeing was now rising over Del Sol, its fiery fingers reaching inside a dim bedroom to touch a beautiful golden-haired girl sleeping soundly amid a cloud of gauzy yellow silk and organza.

  A hollow loneliness plagued him. Though he’d spent the entire festive night in the company of good and loyal friends, it was not enough. Pecos shook his head, willing the absent Angel out of his thoughts, and stepped up onto the warped stoop of his small home. Determined he’d not let her under his skin on this marvelous morning, he went inside the little shack and stripped his clothes from his tired body, letting them lie where they fell.

  Smiling lazily, he announced to the quiet, pink-tinged room, “I’m rich!” Deep laughter followed the declaration. “I’m very, very rich. Rich, rich, rich,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly, as he staggered to his lumpy bed. “Gloriously, obscenely rich!” He fell across his bed. “Rich, now and forever.” He yawned and raised a long arm up to shade his bleary eyes from the light. “Rich enough to have anything I want. Rrrr … rrrrichhh.” He smiled and closed his eyes.

  His eyes fluttered open. Perplexed, he could think of nothing he wanted to buy. He groaned noisily, turned over onto his stomach and again closed his eyes.

  “Rich … rich …” he murmured dispiritedly into his pillow and fell asleep.

  ANGIE WAS ON THE NEXT TRAIN from Marfa to Paso del Norte. A rented carriage whisked her to the address on Oregon Street in the bustling border city just as twilight fell on the warm May evening. Angie alighted, paid the driver and turned to look up at the imposing two-story Victorian structure. Her heart beating wildly in her chest, she climbed the steep steps to the broad veranda and knocked nervously on the door.

  When the heavy door swung open, the blond woman, dressed in a stylish, daring gown of bronze silk, welcomed Angie inside, her honeyed voice kind and friendly, the smile lighting her emerald eyes as genuine and warm as any Angie had ever seen. Shiny golden curls bobbed atop her head, and soft, strong hands grabbed for Angie and pulled her into the girl’s tight embrace.

  Angie felt none of the awkwardness she’d worried about. This woman, so obviously her identical twin, made her feel as if the two had been together every day of their nineteen years. Angel answered all of Angie’s curious questions forthrightly and asked many in return. Angel’s appearance was different only in that she was a bit plumper, more voluptuous; her voice lower, her laughter loud and infectious, her manner not quite as refined as the sister who’d lived most of her life shut away in her father’s house in New Orleans. Still, they were soul mates from their first happy moment together, each fascinated by the other.

  Angel explained that she’d seen Angie’s wedding picture in the newspaper and had considered contacting her then but, afraid Angie might not want to hear from a sister who was less than a lady, she’d discarded the idea.

  “I should never have forgiven you if you’d let me go for the rest of my days without knowing about you,” Angie gently scolded, holding tightly to Angel’s hand.

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Angel admitted, but added, “the reason I finally wrote to you, Angie, is that I’ve found myself a man who wants to marry me.” She smiled de murely and lowered her thick lashes, then burst into peals of loud laughter.

  “But, that’s wonderful,” her sister said sweetly. “How did … that is, where …”

  Angel said unself-consciously, “Don’t you be embarrassed for a minute! Sure, honey, I met my fiancé at the fancy house where I worked.” She giggled naughtily, and confided, “I’ve always been … ah, strange for Englishmen, and my Reggie was real possessive right from the beginning.” Angel laughed and slapped her silk-covered right knee. “The night I knew it was true love, I was headed up to my room with a customer. A strikingly handsome man, the customer, I mean … I’ll never forget those smoky gray eyes and that dark skin of his ….” Angel rubbed her hands together. “But, anyway, I was headed up the stairs with this good-looking man and—”

  “What was his name?” Angie cut in, holding her breath, her emerald eyes wide.

  “I told you, honey. Reggie. Reginald Harris the Third. He’s from a fine old family in—”

  “No, no—” Angie grabbed Angel’s arm “—not your fiancé. Your … your customer, the man with the gray eyes and dark skin.”

  “Oh, him,” Angel said, nodding. “Pecos. His name was Pecos and he was so darned ruggedly beautiful that … Angie, what is it? Are you sick?” Angel put a hand on her twin’s shaking shoulder. “Need a shot of brandy?”

  “No, I …”

  “Angie, honey, why are you staring at me, have I shocked you?”

  “No reason,” Angie said numbly, “please … please finish.”

  Angel did. She told Angie exactly what had happened that night and when Angie’s face regained its healthy glow and she began to laugh hysterically and hug her twin, Angel had no idea what was so terribly amusing.

  But by the time the two sisters tearfully said goodbye, each knew everything about the other. The bawdy, worldly Angel completely won the heart of the quiet, sheltered Angie. Angel felt the same about her beautiful, kind, loving twin. Making Angie promise that she’d sail to England to visit once she’d married her Reggie and moved to that distant, verdant land, Angel offered words of wisdom to her departing twin.

  “Listen to me, Angie, dear.” They stood on the sunny front porch, the driver of the waiting carriage impatient
ly standing beyond the yard. “I’ve some advice for you to take with you.” Suddenly she laughed and hugged Angie’s slender waist. “What do you bet I’m the oldest? Never mind, whether I am or not, you’re to listen to me.”

  Angie smiled and said, “I promise.”

  “All right, then, we’ve not much time. You are head over heels in love with Pecos McClain, and if you have any gumption at all, you’ll summon him right back from that old dark hole in the ground and tell him as much. Honey, there’s nobody all bad or all good, and I suspect your Pecos is as good as any man. Leastways, as any man as handsome as he. I’m afraid looks like his tend to make a fellow …” She tossed her blond head and giggled. “So he’s a rakish devil; let’s face it, he thought you were me, a high-priced whore and still he wanted you. Honey, that’s love, yes it is! That’s exactly why I’m heading for jolly old England. A man knows everything there is to know about you and still he loves you? Why, you can’t beat that.”

  “I’m going to write to Pecos as soon as I get back to …”

  “Hellfire and damnation, Angie. Wire him, go after him, get him back! So what if he’d like to share your money. What’s wrong with that! Besides, you admitted he never once asked you for any. Give him a break, give yourself a break. Go after him. Remember, he’s not even kin to your lecherous old husband. He’s hot-blooded and a great lover, right?” She winked knowingly.

  Angie flushed, but admitted, “Angel, there couldn’t be another to compare with my Pecos.” She laughed at her openness. “Listen to me, I’m beginning to sound like you.”

  “Hey, you could do worse.” Angel feigned displeasure.

  Angie hugged her sister tightly. “I sure could. You’re quite a woman, Angel Webster, and I …”

  “Rowena,” Angel corrected.

  “Rowena?” Angie pulled back to look at her.

  Angel guffawed loudly. “My real name’s Rowena Pearl Webster.”

  Angie laughed uproariously. “I swear I’ll never tell a soul.”

  “You’d better not,” Angel said, and made a menacing face. “Now, you get that Pecos back, you hear me?”

  “I will,” Angie was reluctant to leave. “You … you’ll be going to Europe in July?”

  “I sail July twentieth; Reggie’s arranged everything. He’ll be waiting on the dock to greet me.” She sighed happily.

  “He preceded me across the ocean so that he could buy a fine new home for me. He’s quite wealthy and he … Listen to me, I could talk to you forever.” Her big green eyes took on a soft, pensive expression.

  “Me, too. I love you; we’ll keep in touch.” Angie clung to Angel so tightly, Angel finally had to push her away, tears filling her eyes.

  “Get out of here, Angie Webster!” She laughed to keep from crying.

  “Okay, Angel Webster,” Angie croaked. Then she smiled weakly, kissed her sister, turned and hurried down the steps.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  PECOS RAISED LONG ARMS to slide the black silk tie beneath his stiff white collar. His lower lip sucked into his mouth in concentration, he meticulously tied a neat bow in the slippery black fabric. As he reached for his black frock coat, Reno came rushing in the front door, a smile on his lips and his gold tooth flashing in the June sunlight.

  “Amigo,” Pecos greeted him, “I’m almost ready. We’ll have to leave soon if we’re going to be at the church by noon.” His gray eyes studied the grinning Mexican. “Jesus, you look as happy as if you were the one getting married today. What’s up?”

  Reno eagerly hurried to him, a small lilac envelope clutched tightly in his hand. “Here.” He thrust it at Pecos, his dark eyes dancing.

  Pecos’s gaze slid to the envelope. Casually he took it from Reno, lifted and read the postmark, then the return address. Calmly he lowered his hand while Reno frowned at him.

  “It’s from Angie!” Reno informed him loudly. “Open it.”

  “Perhaps later,” Pecos drawled, flipping the letter nonchalantly onto his bed. Hands shaking a little, he picked up his coat and shrugged into it while Reno stood staring at his broad back.

  Heart hammering, Pecos slowly turned, his assured eyes giving nothing away of the turbulence inside.

  The happy smile left Reno’s face. “You, my friend, are a big gringo fool,” he announced solemnly.

  Pecos coolly corrected, “No, Reno, I was; I’ll never be again. Let’s get out of here and go see Jose and Rosalinda get married.” He stepped past his disapproving friend and out into the brilliant sunlight. The lilac letter lay unopened on his bed.

  The pretty, beaming Rosalinda Topia swept down the aisle of the Holy Trinity church to become the bride of young Jose Rodriguez. Family and friends gathered to offer their blessings after the brief ceremony. Pecos and Reno stood on the church steps talking with Jose’s happy father, Pedro, when a dark, beautiful woman stepped out of the dim church, smiling in the sun. All three men turned to look at her, but it was Reno Sanchez whose heart quickened alarmingly. His dark eyes fastened on her. He expelled a gentle sigh of disappointment when from behind her came three tiny little girls bustling around her, calling her Madre.

  Oblivious to the twittering of her young daughters, the woman smiled down at Reno Sanchez and her dark, expressive eyes held a warmth that was unmistakable. She reached the men and it was Pedro Rodriguez who gallantly introduced her as the third cousin of the bride, the lovely widow, Doña Magdelina Torres.

  “Señora Torres,” murmured a smitten Reno Sanchez as he lifted her small hand to his lips. Reno didn’t know when Pecos left or when Pedro Rodriguez walked away. He knew only that the beautiful woman whose soft hand lay in his was a widow with three young daughters, that she lived in the village of El Sueco and that she told him she was to return to her home in a few days.

  “Ah, sí.” Reno smiled down into her lovely eyes and knew that she would not be returning to El Sueco. He would not let her. He would never let her out of his sight.

  Pecos was smiling when he reached his Buenaventura home after the wedding celebration. He’d spent the long, warm afternoon watching his best friend become the possessive, jealous suitor of the lovely Doña Magdelina Torres. Pecos had the distinct feeling that it would be only a few weeks before he was once again inside the Holy Trinity church, watching Reno Sanchez become the proud husband of the young dark widow.

  Pecos unknotted his tie and shrugged off his black jacket. Tossing the jacket onto the bed, his eyes fell upon the lilac-colored letter. Staring down at it as though it might burn him should he touch it, Pecos flipped open the buttons of his white shirt, sighed and gingerly picked up the letter. Holding it by one corner between thumb and forefinger, he crossed the room to a worn easy chair. He dropped into the chair and laid the letter on his left knee. For a minute, he balanced it there, debating whether or not he would open it. Perspiration beaded on his upper lip as he carefully studied the neat, feminine handwriting. He felt a tightening in his gut as he slowly lifted the letter from his knee. Dumbly he stared at it, picturing the beautiful, golden-haired Angel curled up on her yellow bed, pen in hand, painstakingly writing the sweetly scented letter.

  A muscle jumping in his lean jaw, he dropped the dainty lilac envelope into a glass dish filled with half-smoked cigars. Drawing a sulfur match from the box near the dish and striking it on his thumbnail, he held the small flame to the letter. The perfumed paper caught immediately and blazed up, the carefully thought-out words so neatly and lovingly written, burned before his transfixed eyes.

  “No,” Pecos groaned loudly, and he jerked the burning letter out of the dish. Frantically he beat out the fire. He managed to extinguish the flames quickly, but the fragile lilac paper disintegrated into ash atop his callused palm. He stared pensively at the lost secrets, wondering what Angel had said. The warm ash turned cold in his shaking hand. Reluctantly, Pecos turned his hand over and let the delicate gray dust fall to the plank floor at his feet.

  Staring dazedly down, he rubbed his hand on his trouser leg to cle
an away the traces of ash. His wide shoulders slumped heavily. He sighed and slowly leaned forward raking his hands through the thick hair at the sides of his head. When finally he lifted his dark head, he glanced around the room with half-closed eyes.

  It was there on the night table beside the bed. A half-full bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Pecos rose and went for it. His long, lean fingers closed around the bottle neck and he lifted it to his lips and took a long pull. He lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth on his white-sleeved forearm and crossed the room to the front door, the bourbon bottle clutched loosely in his hand.

  Pecos stepped out onto the stoop. Twilight was falling. Soon a full Mexican moon would rise. The air was sweet and warm. It was a night meant for romance. For lovers. The melancholy man took a seat on the warped front steps of his little house and raised the bottle to his lips. The whiskey couldn’t ease his loneliness.

  “I don’t need her,” he mused sadly. “I don’t need her and I don’t want her. I’m a rich man; I can have any woman I desire.” Pecos took another huge swallow. His eyes stung. He blinked and rubbed at them with the back of his hand, telling himself it was the fiery liquid that caused them to water.

  ANGIE PRETENDED A CALM she didn’t feel each time the mail was delivered to Del Sol. No sooner had she sent the all-important letter to Pecos in Buenaventura than she began to look expectantly for his reply.

  It never came.

  Days turned to weeks and Angie faced the harsh reality. Pecos was not going to answer her letter. He was not going to come home. When the hot, dry month of June turned to a blistering, rainless July, Angie had resigned herself. She’d given up on Pecos and she’d given up on rain. Del Sol was once again gripped in the heated hands of a drought.

  Each day dawned identical to the last. Clear, cloudless, hot and dry. The ranges quickly became parched and useless. Angie pushed her personal heartache into the background and spent her time and energy seeing to the pressing problems facing Del Sol.

  A broad-brimmed hat shielding her ivory skin against the scorching summer sun, Angie rode out each day with her foreman to assess the growing disaster. The depressing sights she encountered on those rides caused her to shake her weary head in unbelieving despair.