by Lyn Cote
Alandra rubbed her face against his shirt, and he pressed her closer still. Quinn nodded with obvious reluctance, accepting the inevitable. Mrs. Quinn motioned toward the kitchen behind the charred house. “Let’s go eat. Then we’ll get ready to leave for the war.” She inhaled deeply and ran her hand over her rounded abdomen. Then she turned toward Quinn. “I thought our rough days were over.”
He went to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “Well, we’re still breathing. And our life together has always been filled with the unexpected.” He began walking with her on his arm toward the back of the house. Carson picked up his father’s reins and Scully’s and went off with Amos to get the horses some water and grain. The little girl ran to keep up with them.
Scully coaxed Alandra to go with him, to follow the Quinns. Before she would budge, she said fiercely to a point in the middle of his chest, “You’re not leaving me. Anywhere.”
“I’m not leaving you. We’re staying together.” No matter what.
After eating a hearty midday meal prepared by Nancy, they refilled their canteens from the bucket at the well. Quinn decided that it would be best to leave Dorritt’s horse with Amos and Nancy in case they needed to escape either the Mexicans or bandits. So after they bid those remaining at Buena Vista farewell, Scully and the others headed northeast on the road toward San Jacinto. The Quinns rode point, then Scully with Alandra in the middle, and Carson with the little girl sitting in front of him, bringing up the rear.
Once they had decided to stay together, they moved swiftly. They needed to cover ground before camping at dark. They were traveling between two armies, theirs retreating and the enemy advancing. They couldn’t afford to delay. Who knew how close behind them Santa Anna or another of the Mexican generals rattling around Texas were?
Scully had Alandra up behind him again. She had donned a skirt that smelled of smoke, borrowed from Dorritt’s younger half sister’s armoire. She had put it on over the heavy cotton trousers Carson had loaned her. Scully had insisted on this. Going toward an army and perhaps battle, he didn’t want anyone mistaking Alandra for a man. He didn’t want her shot.
Since she didn’t have a riding habit, the trousers ensured her modesty as she rode astride behind Scully. And the dress ensured her relative safety as a woman. No decent man, Mexican or Texian, would shoot a woman.
Scully watched the miles go by and the sun lowering in the sky. He finally decided that he must talk to Mrs. Quinn and get her help on how to comfort Alandra. But first the everyday tasks of being on the trail—finding a sheltered place near a free-flowing creek and setting up camp—kept them all busy. Finally, they were sitting around the crackling fire. They had all filled up on smoked ham and corn bread Nancy had sent along. And Scully and the rest were drinking hot coffee, feeling full and weary.
Scully filled his cup again and then did the same for Alandra. He had tried to think of a way to get a moment for a private word with Mrs. Quinn but had come up empty.
Then Mrs. Quinn spoke up, “Alandra, I’m so happy that God led our men to you. No matter what happened to you, we still love you. And we’ll do whatever we can to make you feel safe again.” The lady paused then, staring across the flickering fire into Alandra’s eyes.
Scully didn’t move, waiting for Alandra’s response.
Finally, Alandra nodded.
“I’m sorry we can’t just go home and let you rest and recuperate. But Mexicans have come with muskets and cannon, destroying our peace. Where we will all end up, I don’t know.” Dorritt reached out and took her husband’s hand.
Quinn pulled his wife close to him. “But we are together. And God has not forgotten us.”
Scully didn’t know what he could add to this. So he just said, “Amen.” Carson echoed him. Then everyone was quiet again. The little girl was already asleep beside Carson. The mosquitoes had not hatched for the season. The wind became warmer each day, but still the dampness came up from the earth at dusk.
Scully touched Alandra’s shoulder. She leaned against him, closing the inches that had separated them. He wished he knew what had happened to her. But he dreaded knowing. He wished he could help her to forget any hurt that had been done to her. But he knew that would not be. What happened to a person stayed with them forever.
But what came to him was that while the Lord had allowed Alandra to be taken, He had brought Quinn and Carson and him to rescue her. Trials came to make us stronger. That was what his second ma had taught him.
He rubbed Alandra’s arms, feeling how thin she was under the cotton and buckskin jacket. Then her head was resting against him. All he wanted was for her to be safe, whole. Everything had become so mixed up.
Quinn cleared his throat. “Carson, you and I will take watch again tonight.”
Scully tried to object, offer to take his turn.
“No,” Quinn cut him off, “your wife needs you. We’ll keep watch.”
Grimacing, Scully nodded. “Very well.” Then it smacked him. Quinn was telling him that they considered him, in fact, to be Alandra’s real husband. Of course, he was her husband, but that had been just to protect her land. And though here and now the land and her Mexican relatives were so removed from them, the marriage had come to serve a different purpose. He was her husband. He was to provide for her and protect her. And he would.
“Come on, Alandra,” Scully murmured, “let’s get you settled for the night.” He wrapped the blanket around him and drew her against him as he had the night before. She came to him and nestled close—though he felt her reluctance, her hurt, her fear. How could a life be changed so much in just a little over a month?
Scully recalled Mrs. Quinn’s words. “You’re safe here,” he whispered into Alandra’s ear just beneath his mouth. “I’ll protect you.”
“How can you,” she whispered back, her words chilling him, “if you’re killed in this war?”
Scully heard his own shout. He jerked up and gazed around. He tried to remember where he was. The nightmare was an old one, taking him back to the faraway past. Across the low fire he saw Mrs. Quinn sleeping and her blond hair catching the moonlight. Then he glimpsed motion and recognized Carson, standing with his long rifle at the ready. “Bad dream,” he muttered to Carson, who moved away then and everything was quiet.
A soft hand touched Scully’s cheek and he looked down into his wife’s open eyes. He pressed his hand over hers. “I’m sorry I woke you,” he whispered. “Let’s try to go back to sleep.”
“What was happening in your bad dream?” she asked, holding onto his hand, not letting him release hers. Her large eyes glistened in the night.
The vivid sensations from his nightmare rushed back, making him a little boy again. He shuddered and closed his eyes, not wanting to tell her.
“I’ve been having nightmares too.” She shifted and turned her body full against his.
He ignored the way he reacted to her pressing against him, or tried to. He thought about her nightmares, had hoped she would tell him more about them, give him a clue about what had happened. But she hadn’t. So he didn’t know if telling her about his own nightmare would help her or hurt.
He gazed down at her. And though he could see little of her face and form, he knew she was beautiful. Even when he was just a cowboy and she was a young girl, he had always thought she was eye-catching. He recalled so many images of her that dreadful night after the battle at Goliad, listening to other men, many men, die.
And he was the man—her man—who had to help her. If he wanted her to tell him about her nightmares, maybe he should tell her about his.
He cleared his throat and whispered so no one else would hear. “I think it’s because of what happened after we got to Goliad. We were going to meet up with Fannin and join up with the Texas troops, but we got there too late. The Mexicans had surrounded Fannin’s men and we watched from the canebrake. There was no sense trying to get into the battle. But it was hard watching and not be able to do anything. At night it was worse.
It became too dark to fight anymore. The two armies had to just stay put there. And the wounded—Mexican and Texian—were screaming in pain and dying.”
Alandra snuggled closer to him. He could feel her breath against his neck just below his left ear.
“This is a bad time, Alandra. It’s not just us. Texas is bleeding. Texas is on its knees. And we have to help Texas get up and start fighting again. I’ll do my best to protect you, but if something does happen to me—maybe to all of us—you still have yourself, a beautiful and brave woman, and you still have God. When I was a very little boy, I found out that you can lose everyone, but you still have God.”
“Were you dreaming about Goliad, then? About the wounded?” she asked.
“No,” he said, forcing himself to go on, “I was dreaming about what happened to me a long time ago.” He had to make her understand, so that she could go on even if the rest of them were lost to her. “When I was just a very little boy, hardly more than a baby, we—my family—were attacked by Indians. My mother heard them coming. She was drawing water so she shoved me down onto the lip of the well. She hid me, hid me with the wood cover. She told me to be quiet and not to come out.” Even after all these years, his heart was beating fast, just remembering. But he had to make her understand. “I heard them all die. My ma, pa, and big sister. They were screaming. And then it was silent.”
“What did you do then?”
“I stayed in the well. I didn’t know what to do. But then a day or two later, people came. I didn’t know them. They were on their way west. When they tried to draw water, they found me in the well. They became my second family. The ring I gave you came from my mother’s hand. When they buried my family, my second ma took it off and hung it around my neck. It was all that was left of value.”
“Scully…” she whispered.
Feelings crowded in on him, he kept on, telling the story, “I could only say my first name. I didn’t remember my family name so I just took their name—Falconer. Sometimes I wish I could remember my family name so that maybe I could find some blood kin. But that would be hard. Everyone moves around so much.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be sorry. That wasn’t why I told you. A lot of people die in Indian wars on both sides. People live, and people die. That’s out of our control. But you see, I was saved and I got a second family. They raised me just like their other three boys. I stayed with my second ma until she died. Then my brothers decided to settle in Illinois. But I wanted to see some more of this country. So I got on a riverboat and traveled down to New Orleans.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
Hearing her say these lonely words moistened his eyes. “I don’t want to die, and I don’t think either of us will. But I have to fight this war. I can’t let someone like Santa Anna go on being in charge of the whole country. We have rights. We are free men. And Texas has to be free or we can’t have a life here.”
She clutched him. “Don’t leave me. I don’t want you to die.”
“I’ll do my best to stay alive. But if I do die, I believe God will take care of you.” For so many years he had taken care of himself, not needing to depend on God. But now he admitted he couldn’t handle all this alone, all of it—Alandra’s relatives trying to take her land, Alandra being kidnapped and hurt, this rebellion and Santa Anna slaughtering free men.
His first ma had given him life and saved his life. But his second ma had taught him about the God who’d saved his soul, and she’d given him the strength he needed now. The strength and hope to get Alandra and himself through this war. “God will never leave you. Even if I die, you won’t be left alone. Do you believe that, Alandra?”
She didn’t answer in words, merely rested her head on his chest, clutching his shirt and trembling.
He had no more words to say. He had said it all. Had it been enough? He thought back to his second ma and remembered her song. So he whisper-sang “Amazing Grace” to Alandra.
“Through many dangers, toils and snares…
we have already come.
‘Twas Grace that brought us safe thus far…
and Grace will lead us home.”
It was the song his second ma had sung to him many times when he had a hard time as a boy with nightmares. Now he stroked Alandra’s hair and prayed that he wouldn’t die. That grace would lead them home again to Rancho Sandoval.
Two days later, when they crossed the Brazos River, they finally caught up with Sam Houston. Stunned by what an army looked like, Alandra stared open-mouthed. Hundreds of men were busy on the prairie before them. They appeared to be training and marching in groups. Officers were shouting orders.
Quinn led the six of them to the nearest man who appeared to be giving orders. “Where do we sign up?” he asked. The man motioned toward a large canvas tent in the midst of the troops. Quinn led them on to the tent and then slid from his saddle. He gave Dorritt his reins.
A man of medium height with wavy brown hair wearing a uniform of blue stepped outside the tent. He was still talking to two other men who had followed him. He stopped then and looked into Quinn’s face.
“We’ve come to join up for the fight,” Quinn said, studying the man in return. Then he added, “Oh-see-yoh. Quinn, dah-wah-doh.”
The man grinned and clapped a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Oh-see-yoh. Sam Houston, dah-wah-doh. It’s good to find someone who talks Cherokee.”
Alandra gazed at the man. Everyone in Texas knew that Sam Houston had lived with the Cherokee for many years before he entered politics.
“I thought you must be Houston,” Quinn said. “My mother was Cherokee. My father an American exploring with Pike. This is my family.” He indicated his wife and son. “My wife’s family are the Kilbrides who settled near San Felipe. And these are our friends, Scully Falconer and his wife, the former Alandra Sandoval. We own ranches southwest of San Antonio.”
“You’ve come a long way.” Houston’s attention lingered on the women and little girl. “We don’t have many women in camp. Most wives and daughters have fled to Louisiana.” Then he sent another look toward Alandra. “Did you say Sandoval?”
Alandra looked away. Of course, people would recognize her name. Her ranch was one of the largest in all of Texas. But she didn’t want anyone to know that Doña Alandra Maria Inez Sandoval had come to this. The feeling of being shamed, of being stained, riddled her. She just wanted to get away.
“Yes,” Scully spoke up, “my wife is the doña of Rancho Sandoval. We were forced to entertain Santa Anna there while he waited to go to the Alamo and slaughter the men there. And Quinn and I witnessed the massacre at Goliad.”
Houston’s face hardened. “Don’t worry. We’ll make the butcher Santa Anna pay for those lives.”
Alandra recalled Scully’s words about God the night before, the promise that God would stick with her no matter what. She had heard them with her mind, but they didn’t seem to sink in. Dorritt had told her the same thing. But now, paralyzing fear was all she could feel or know. And suddenly she longed for sleep, deep dreamless sleep, the end of remembering, shivering, and weeping. Her eyelids became heavy, drooping lower.
Houston went on, “Make a camp for your women near the physicians’ tent. They can help the doctors prepare bandages and such for the wounded. Then you three men go over that way.” He motioned to the tents and campfires, the men lingering around them, with horses grazing in the vicinity. “You look like you know how to fight on horseback. Attach yourselves to the Texas Cavalry.”
Quinn and Houston shook hands and then they moved in the direction he’d indicated. As they rode away, Alandra glanced back at Houston. Why did a man become a general? How did a man decide to lead an army?
She understood why Santa Anna became the dictator of Mexico and the general of its large army. He wanted power, to take the best of everything for himself, to order the lives of others to his satisfaction, for his benefit. To make everyone bow to him. But why did a man li
ke this Houston want to lead a rebel army that looked held together with what seemed like nothing more than spit?
Then she glanced at Scully and changed her mind. No, this army was not held together with spit. It was held together by spirit, by free men who wouldn’t knuckle under to a dictator, a man who would delight in slaughtering them if he could.
It made her think, take stock of herself.
Last year, at eighteen, she had been so proud to become the doña of Rancho Sandoval. And show men that a woman could run a rancho as well as any male. When her “relatives” had come, she had stood up to them and would not let them take her land.
Where had all her confianza—her confidence—run off to? Even though Mendoza had ended up being murdered, had he succeeded in stealing something so precious from her? Had all her pluck fled across the Sabine with most of the women and children from Texas? And left her body here completely empty, spiritless?
Fourteen
Alandra and Dorritt watched their men ride off to join the cavalry, which was practicing charges. As the little girl watched Carson ride off, she looked terror-stricken. Dorritt knelt down and took her hand. “Sugar, couldn’t you tell us your name? We’d like to be able to call you by your right name.”
The little girl did not even look at Dorritt, just stared at Carson riding away. Alandra understood. The little girl reminded her of the time when her brother had become ill and the Quinns had become a part of her life. And now, as she watched Scully leave, a feeling of being abandoned swept over her, through her, leaking into every fiber of her body. This she believed is what the child must be feeling as well. The little girl needed help, so she wouldn’t tumble into the depths of fear.
As if swimming in a rushing current, Alandra reared up to fight being swept away by the surging, rolling fear. “That’s a good name for you. We’ll call you Sugar, then,” she said, “because your hair is as light as white sugar. Now let’s go pick flowers.” Where these words or ideas had come from, Alandra could not say.