by Nan Ryan
Wanting You
Nan Ryan
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1999 by Nan Ryan
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition March 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-740-1
Also by Nan Ryan
The Last Dance
Wanting You
Wayward Lady
C.C.’s Daughter
For
J.L.R.
who takes care of my cares
One
Nogales, Arizona
July 1885
The summer sun was at its zenith when Arizona Ranger Captain John W. Russell rode his winded roan gelding into the sleepy border town. The ranger’s soiled white shirt was soaked with sweat and sticking to his broad back. His dark trousers were thorn-and-brush torn and so dirty they were stiff. His three day growth of black beard was matted with perspiration and alkali dust. His pale eyes were red rimmed and watering from the too-bright glare of the hot white sun. His thin lips were badly chapped and cracked.
Captain John W. Russell looked awful.
But as untidy as he was, the disheveled ranger looked all spit and polish compared with the screeching, struggling, clawing creature riding behind him on the lathered roan gelding. With her feet tied beneath the horse’s belly and her wrists tied in front of the ranger’s waist, the frightfully unkempt woman looked more animal than human.
Hair of an undeterminable hue hung in greasy strings over her eyes and around her slender shoulders. A badly soiled garment of once-soft deerskin had one sleeve missing and the tattered skirt reached only to midthigh. Her slender legs were scratched and dirty and her bare feet were caked with dried mud.
It was impossible to tell what she really looked like. Her countenance was covered with dust and grime, and she constantly contorted her features, making mean faces as she hissed and snarled and swore.
Ignoring her antics, Captain Russell pulled his hat brim lower as he reined the tired gelding directly down Main Street. There was little diversion to be had in Nogales, so his unexpected appearance immediately caused a stir. Men loitering on the wooden sidewalks turned to stare, talking excitedly among themselves. Ladies, hearing the commotion, came to the door of Gamble Dry Goods Store to have a look. All eyes soon rested on the wild looking creature tied to the tall ranger.
“Say, Captain,” shouted a toothless old-timer, “what you got there? Looks like a wild animal to me!” The aged man hooked his thumbs into his suspenders, gave them a brisk snap and spat out a string of tobacco juice.
“You’re a long way from the reservation,” shouted a tall, lanky cowboy leaning against the barber pole. “We don’t much cotton to savages around here, so why don’t you just ride right on out of town and take that there ugly squaw with you? We don’t want her kind in Nogales, do we, boys?”
A resounding response went up from the crowd.
The taciturn ranger paid no attention to the shouts and jeers. Looking neither to the left nor the right, he continued to guide the responsive gelding down the dusty street in a slow, comfortable walk. The hurled slurs and insults continued until the gelding reached the far end of town and turned the corner. Soon the buildings and the people were left behind and Captain Russell headed for the quiet, secluded Border Convent at St. Peter’s Mission two miles east of Nogales.
When he brought the gelding to a halt before the tree-shaded adobe structure, he wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and, speaking softly, told the horse to stand still. He then untied the woman’s hands from around his waist, but he clung to the rope encircling her wrists as he threw a long leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.
Having no idea if she understood or not, he told her, “I am going to untie your feet now, but I don’t want any more trouble out of you.”
Her light eyes flashing fire, she glared at him and made unintelligible sounds as she thrashed wildly about. He gave the rope around her wrists a hard tug and said, “Be still or I’ll leave your feet tied.”
She spat at him and muttered under her breath.
The ranger managed to get her ankles untied. He hauled her down off the gelding, but the minute her bare feet hit the ground she shoved him and spun around. His long arm shot out and he caught her by the collar of her deerskin dress. He slammed her up against the gelding with such force it knocked the breath out of her.
The ranger was gently slapping her on the back to help her regain her breath when two small, aging nuns, dressed identically in spotless, starched white habits, appeared on the convent’s covered porch.
“Captain,” said the taller of the two, as they hurried out to meet him, “is there something we can do? Can we be of help to you in some way?”
“No, but you can be of help to her,” he said, indicating the angry, hard-to-handle woman at his side.
“Well, of course,” said the other sister. “Anything we can do, we will.”
“Thanks,” said the ranger, relieved. “I really appreciate it.”
“I am Sister Catherine Elizabeth,” said one of the tiny women. “And you know our Mother Superior.”
“Sister Norma Kate,” said the other, offering her hand. “Shall we go inside?”
The dauntless nuns seemed totally unaffected by the shrill shrieks and stubborn struggling of the dirty young woman the ranger propelled toward the gleaming white convent. Just inside the convent’s cool, quiet interior, Captain Russell explained his reason for seeking them out.
“I was down in Mexico when I stumbled onto a renegade Apache camp twenty miles south of the border. Some of Geronimo’s bunch still have a mountain stronghold down there. I found this wretched girl there with them. She’s white, although the only way you can tell is by her blue eyes.”
Both sisters nodded in agreement.
Captain Russell continued, “The Apache said she had been with them for a long time. They don’t, or say they don’t, recall where she came from or when. She doesn’t know, either.”
He went on to tell the attentive sisters all that he knew about the girl, which wasn’t really very much. To the best of his knowledge she no longer spoke or understood English, and he was certain she couldn’t remember anything about her life before she was taken by the Apache. She had no idea who she was or where she came from.
Listening intently, the shorter of the two sisters soon clapped her hands, and a young, fresh-faced nun, who was exceedingly tall compared to the others, immediately appeared. In low, soft tones the Mother Superior repeated everything that Captain Russell had told them. That this poor young woman had been captured long ago by the Apache and held against her will. That she had no recollection of being taken by the hostiles. Nor did she have any memory of her white family.
“So, Sister Sarah Beth,” said the Mother Superior, “if you will be so good as to take our guest upstairs now, I’m sure she would enjoy a hot bath.”
The ranger quickly cautioned the young nun, “Better watch her closely, she’s—”
“Don’t worry, Captain,” said the six-foot-tall Sister Sarah Beth, “I can handle her.”
The ranger nodded, then stood twisting his sweat-stained hat in his hands as the no-nonsense nun firmly escorted t
he screaming, kicking girl up the stairs. Wailing and jerking and trying to pull free, the girl looked angrily back over her shoulder at him. A fierce hatred mixed with numbing fear glittered in her eyes.
Captain Russell felt his chest tighten.
Poor, pitiful child. In all likelihood, the safe haven of this secluded convent was just as frightening to her as the Apache camp must have been when she had first been captured. He hated to leave her, but he had no choice. He didn’t know where she belonged.
If she belonged anywhere.
On the open landing above, Sister Sarah Beth forced the tearful, tussling girl through a door and out of sight. The ranger exhaled. And he wondered. Had he done the poor creature a favor or an injustice by bringing her back after all these years?
“Captain,” one of the sisters said, breaking into his troubled reverie, “will you have a nice cup of tea or coffee with us? A meal, perhaps?”
Balancing a fragile china cup filled with steaming black coffee on his knee, Captain Russell sat on a stone bench on the convent’s shaded back patio. The aged sisters sat facing him. He took a long draw of the strong coffee and, wishing he had a cigarette or a cigar, spoke again about the girl.
“I couldn’t just leave her down there,” he said, half-apologetically. “She doesn’t look it, but she is white. There’s no changing that.”
“Are you certain,” questioned Sister Catherine Elizabeth, “it was wise to take her from the savages if—”
“This girl is white!” Captain Russell interrupted irritably. Immediately softening his tone, he said, “Can you imagine the life she’s had with the Apache? Can’t you tell by looking at her how she has been treated? Or rather, mistreated.”
“Forgive me, Captain,” said the contrite nun. “Of course you did the right thing by bringing her back.”
Nodding, the Mother Superior said, “I wonder who she could possibly be?”
“And where she might have come from,” added Sister Catherine Elizabeth.
“As I said,” replied Captain Russell, “I don’t know and neither does she.”
The Mother Superior said, “Well, we will take good care of her, Captain.”
The ranger smiled at last. “I knew I could count on you.” He set his coffee cup aside. “I know as well that you will make every attempt to find her family.” He looked from one to the other.
“Indeed we will,” they promised, nodding their heads and smiling.
As the ranger rode away from the convent, the young woman he had brought to this peaceful place was upstairs being given—against her wishes—a none-too-gentle scrubbing. Sister Sarah Beth was determined to be neither bullied nor swayed by her charge.
The nun knew that her chore was to make the young woman as clean and pure as a newborn babe, and this she meant to do. So Sister Sarah Beth steeled herself to ignore the screams and growls and the splashing of the water all over her and the floor.
A good shampoo and a steaming hot bath revealed long, lustrous blond hair, a flawless complexion beneath a slight sunburn and, on her right temple, a fully healed scar indicating she had once received a severe blow to the head. It was perhaps the blow that had taken her memory. Below the scar, and mostly hidden by her hair, was an unsightly black tattoo, obviously put there by her cruel captors.
Sister Sarah Beth lifted the slippery, struggling woman from the tub and went about drying her slender body. Then managed, after several failed attempts, to get her dressed in fresh underwear and a plain, but spotlessly clean dress of gray cotton.
As she gathered up the wet, soiled towels, Sister Sarah Beth saw a small bundle on the floor and bent to pick it up. Before she could reach it, the freshly scrubbed woman screamed, fell to her knees, snatched up the bundle and pressed it to her chest, her eyes wild.
Frowning, Sister Sarah Beth forcefully took the bundle away from the girl, untied it and poured out the contents. The meager possessions included a short-bladed knife with a carved turquoise handle, some bits and pieces of faded fabric, a few baby teeth and a delicate gold locket with the letters M.S.H. inscribed on the face.
“M.S.H.” Sister Sarah Beth said aloud, looking at the locket, then at the girl. “So your first name starts with an M?” When there was no response, the nun continued, “Then we will call you Mary. Now, come with me, Mary, I’m sure our Mother Superior will want to speak with you.”
Two
The Border Convent at St. Peter’s Mission
March 1890
After nearly five years at the remote Nogales convent, Mary looked nothing like the wild, dirty savage who had been brought there by the Arizona Ranger captain. She had quickly blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Tall and slender, with long golden hair and enormous blue eyes, Mary was totally unaware of her striking good looks. Little attention was ever paid to her and she was almost as miserable at the convent as she had been with the Apache.
She was not a meek, quiet soul who fit in with convent life. A fiery, defiant woman, used to fending for herself—she’d have been dead otherwise—Mary often questioned authority and defied the nuns. Looked down on by the townsfolk, who considered her more savage Indian than civilized white, Mary had no friends.
A bright young woman who passed what little free time she had reading and daydreaming, Mary often wondered what awful deed she had done to deserve what the fates had handed her.
After several failed attempts to run away, she had given up and accepted her lonely lot in life. She would, she realized, spend the rest of her days at St. Peter’s. Those days consisted of being tutored in English, mathematics and history, followed by endless hours of helping tend ailing sisters, ironing stiffly starched clothes, washing stacks of dirty dishes and scrubbing acres of dusty stone floors.
But Mary’s fate and future were forever changed by a chance visit, early one spring afternoon, from an aged, ailing priest. Long retired, Father Fitzgerald had come to the convent to say goodbye to the sisters with whom he had once served. The frail priest saw Mary and was immediately struck by her strong resemblance to a woman who, years ago, had been one of his flock, in a little parish in the southwest Texas town of Regentville.
When Father Fitzgerald learned that Mary had been captured by the Apache as a child, he was certain he knew her true identity: Anna Regent Wright. The long-lost Regent heiress! The wealthy Regent family, owners of the state’s largest working cattle ranch, had lost a little girl to the Apache in the summer of ’73.
The child had been taken, along with the ranch foreman’s two young daughters, as they played at a spring near ranch headquarters. The girl’s frantic father and the foreman were killed in the ensuing melee.
The priest told the sisters what he suspected, and with their permission he spoke with Mary. Mary’s blue eyes grew wide with interest as she listened to him tell about the rich, powerful Texas clan he believed to be her family.
He told Mary that a year after she was captured and her father killed, her mother had married again, choosing a widower with a young son. Sadly, the newlyweds were killed on a European honeymoon—swept away by an alpine avalanche.
“Who is left?” Mary asked. “Are there no Regents still alive?”
The old priest smiled. “There is still one Regent very much alive. The indestructible matriarch, LaDextra Regent, your maternal grandmother.” He shook his graying head and added, “My, my, LaDextra’s going to be overjoyed!”
Mary was not convinced that she was Anna Regent Wright. But she was more than willing to let Father Fitzgerald—and others—believe it. A woman whipped by many and unwanted by anyone, suckled by hate and reared by neglect, Mary had few qualms about pretending to be the missing Regent heiress.
Lying on her narrow cot that night in a little alcove off the convent pantry, Mary pondered the possibility of a better life. The prospect made her heart pound with hope. Never had she had a sense of belonging. Never had she had anything to call her own. No money. No name. No family. No home.
Knowing that his days were
numbered, Father Fitzgerald told the Mother Superior and Sister Catherine Elizabeth that they must contact the Regent family’s legal firm and express his strong belief that the missing Regent heiress was living at the convent in Nogales, Arizona.
The Mother Superior agreed to write the letter.
Father Fitzgerald then told the two nuns, “I am leaving what little money I have to Mary. She’ll need it to get to Texas.”
As the frail old priest’s health rapidly declined, Mary spent every free minute with him, asking countless questions about the Regent ranch and its occupants.
Father Fitzgerald was completely convinced that this pretty young woman was Anna Regent Wright. Hoping to stimulate memories of her Texas home, he patiently drew detailed pictures of the huge, two-story ranch house. The sickly old priest fashioned from memory a carefully delineated map of the huge west Texas spread, complete with varying terrain, the location of springs and water holes, and criss-crossing roads.
Mary studied the map, memorizing every land-mark the priest had so carefully diagrammed. She envisioned the big cattle ranch with its imposing mansion in the foothills of the Guadalupe Mountains.
It was easy to picture herself inside that grand home.
The letter postmarked Nogales, Arizona, reached the William R. Davis Law Firm in Regentville, Texas, on the morning of April 18, 1890.
Will Davis was seated behind his mahogany desk in his Main Street office when his young law clerk popped in and handed him a stack of mail. On the very top of the stack was the letter from Nogales.
A puzzled expression crossed the face of the distinguished sixty-four-year-old, silver-haired attorney. He picked up an onyx-handled letter opener and swiftly slashed the envelope’s top edge. He withdrew the letter, unfolded it and began to read. His heavy silver eyebrows knitted and his green eyes narrowed as he read, then reread, the letter.