Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Thinking all this, weighing it, and seeing that she was trapped, Angel gave every appearance of relaxing, despite the tension that thrummed at her temples. “All right,” she managed to drawl. “Say your piece. I’m listening.”

  Mr. Daltry’s relief showed on his face. “I appreciate that.” He added, “I didn’t mean to scare you just now. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything, Angel, but it’s important to me that you hear me out.”

  He stopped, watching her, perhaps waiting for some assurance from her that she believed him when he said he wouldn’t hurt her. But Angel said nothing, her sober expression did not change. However, what he saw in her face must’ve settled his mind some, because he added, “I know it sounds crazy, what I said about giving you a home. But I mean it. In fact, I swear it.”

  That caught her attention, had her cocking her head and drawling, “You swear it? Did someone make you?”

  He shook his head. “No. No one made me. I promised myself I’d do it. I vowed that when the day came, I’d take care of you.”

  Angel chuckled … at her own expense, her own dilemma. “Well, I’ve got to admit that day sure seems to be here. But why in the world would you make that promise? Are we kin to one another? Or are you just plumb loco?”

  He shook his head. “None of those.”

  Angel huffed out her breath. This was the most vexatious conversation she’d ever had. She had a million questions, but figured he already knew what every one of them was, since he held all the answers. So, silently she watched him, as he wrestled with what he wanted to say.

  But as she watched, she realized that he appeared weak and shaky. As if he were sick. Sudden concern coiled in Angel’s belly. Not for herself … for him. That sat her up straighter in the saddle, had her fussing with herself.

  She’d never cared before about another living being. Her mother’s face popped into her consciousness, as if to put the lie to her assertion. Angel forced the image back into oblivion, refused to acknowledge it. It was true. She’d never given another living soul, including her mother, this much of her time, much less her thoughts. So why this man? And why now, on the very day she’d buried the one person she was supposed to care about? Okay, so he’d saved her life. But it wasn’t as if she’d asked him to. Still, she supposed she owed him for that.

  But this concern of hers? No. She didn’t owe him that. Didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t want to care. She firmed her jaw, preparing to harden her heart against him. But before she could tuck her emotions away, before she could fade away inside herself … he raised his head. His gaze met hers.

  Angel’s stomach muscles clenched with what she saw there. Death. Reflected in the man’s eyes. His own death. She knew this because she’d seen this same look, only more pronounced, in her mother’s eyes as she lay on her bed, wasting away. Angel swallowed, didn’t know what to say. Just knew she felt sad for him. And hated it. All right, fine, she thought. But it was because he’d saved her life, and for no other reason.

  “As you can see,” he began suddenly, but speaking slowly, deliberately. “I don’t have … a lot of time left. Which is why I came here today. I wasn’t expecting to find your mother … gone. Or to see you being lynched. But that doesn’t change anything. For me … it’s time. So I’m offering you everything I have. My holdings are considerable, Angel. Considerable. And they’re all yours, if you’ll just come with me and claim ’em.”

  Go with him? Concern and sadness fled. It was wariness that now edged Angel’s chin up. “Just like that? Just go with you and claim it?” She stared at him, waited. He said nothing. Angel had to wonder why he didn’t, even as she added, “Nothing’s that simple, Mr. Daltry. Nothing. How do I know you’re telling the truth, that you even have this … this home you’re so willing to give away?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  Angel’s expression hardened. “I can think of ten reasons. For one, you might want the same thing from me that Kennedy did.”

  Shaking his head, Mr. Daltry looked disappointed. Although Angel felt guilty, she refused to flinch, even when he said, “I expect I know why you’d think that, seeing what your mother—Well, seeing her circumstances. But Angel, not all men are like that. I’m sure as hell not.”

  With those words, he held her gaze, a diamond-cold glint in his eyes. Angel refused to acknowledge her growing conviction that he spoke the truth. A moment passed. Then another. Finally, Mr. Daltry’s expression changed, he looked defeated, resigned. When he next spoke, his voice was soft, his words hard. “But beyond that … I’m dying. So, please, let me do this one last thing for you. Let me give you everything your folks couldn’t.”

  A beautiful speech, she had to admit. But Angel persisted in their staring match. Then she blurted, “Why? Tell me the why of it.”

  To her surprise, Mr. Daltry exploded, his face reddening. “Because I owe you, dammit. Can’t you leave it at that? I owe you. Let me do this—please, Angel. Hasn’t anyone ever given you anything before? Hasn’t anyone ever been kind to you in your whole life?”

  Even as the roan started at the man’s outburst and he reined it in, tears sprang to Angel’s eyes. “No,” she cried out. “No, they haven’t. And I don’t want them to. I don’t need things. Or kindness. I just need to be left alone. That’s all I want. To be left alone.” And not to hurt or be afraid all the time, added that inner voice.

  Mr. Daltry put a hand up to her, but didn’t touch her. “I’m sorry, Angel. I never meant to upset you. I’m sorry.”

  Angel glared down at him, her every breath coming rapidly. She struggled for control … and finally gained it. Now that she could, she spoke evenly. “You didn’t upset me. You can’t.”

  “All right,” he agreed readily enough. “Then, will you just take a minute to think about what I said?”

  Angel stared at him, realizing she was doing just that. Thinking about what he’d said, what he’d offered. Her mind raced, considering the facts. If what he said was true—and it was a big if, she knew, but she was coming to believe it—then he was offering her a prime chance at the kind of life she wanted, one that otherwise she’d have to fight and scratch for. And could still fail to attain … unless she married to get it. That thought hardened something inside her. She wasn’t willing to marry. She’d been around men enough, had seen enough of their handiwork, to know she’d never hand her life over to one in that way.

  So, she thought, what if he was telling the truth, what if his wealth was now hers, with no strings attached? She hated herself for it, but she glanced down at him, studied him under the sweep of her eyelashes. Yep, he looked sick enough, was probably dying. So, she couldn’t be foolhardy enough just to walk away, could she? No, she couldn’t. But her next thought had her cocking her head at a questioning angle and remarking, “It seems to me, Mr. Daltry, that a man such as you would have a family.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, looking as if someone had slapped him openhanded. Angel’s stomach clenched against the emotions she had obviously unleashed in him and against whatever grisly tale she might have to hear. But all she could do was wait for him. Finally, he nodded, opened his eyes, and said, “I did. I had a family. But they’re … all gone.”

  Beyond grateful for his simple statement of the facts, Angel all too eagerly rushed to say, “I see.” She then changed the subject, realizing how painful it must be for him. “What would I be claiming? And what would I have to do to get it?”

  A sudden, unexpected smile played around the corners of Mr. Daltry’s mouth. His eyes brightened. “You wouldn’t have to do a thing but ride with me to my place. I’ve got the papers there, all drawn up. All you have to do is sign them. And everything I own is yours. Free and clear.”

  Angel nodded, liking the sound of that, but she had yet another question. “Again, Mr. Daltry, what exactly would I own?”

  Now he grinned. “Oh, I forgot to say, didn’t I? I’m talking about a real home, Angel. A big spread. A cattle ranch. With a house. And money—a lot of it. Some
thing you’ve never had before.”

  Something you’ve never had before. His words of sympathy ate at her. She couldn’t allow them to stand. “That’s what’s eating at me, Mr. Daltry. See, you’re right. I haven’t had any of those things. But how do you know that? How do you know so much about me and my life? And why do you care? Because I don’t believe anybody’s that good, that giving. Not without a reason. And I’d like to hear yours.”

  But he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he fiddled with the brim of his hat, adjusting it lower over his eyes. Only then, when he apparently had his hat the way he wanted it, did he look up at her and say, “I want to tell you the why of it, Angel. And I swear I will. But not now. Not here. First, I want you to know me better before you hear my story.”

  Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed, as though he were imploring her to believe him. He shifted his weight, put a hand out, as if he meant to touch her. But didn’t. “I know what I’m asking you to do is hard. But … I need you to come with me on faith alone. I’m asking you to trust me. Can you do that?”

  Still seated atop the roan, which stamped a hoof as if to signal its impatience with this standoff, Angel leaned over, abruptly hooked the reins from Mr. Daltry’s unresisting hands, and gathered the leather leads into her own. She straightened up and shoved her tangled hair out of her eyes. “No. I can’t do that. I haven’t kept body and soul intact by trusting strangers, Mr. Daltry. I’ll be collecting my things and leaving Red River Station. But not with you.”

  She tensed, preparing herself for action should he try to stop her again. But he didn’t. He just stood there, looking up at her, his sick old heart in his blue eyes. Angel bit back a yelp of frustration. This was why she didn’t get involved with folks … this right here, this feeling of being obliged, of owing someone what she couldn’t afford to feel. And she didn’t like that one bit.

  “Dammit,” she blurted, looking away as she broke the heavy silence between them. Then she turned on him. “It was a foolhardy thing you did, stepping in like that with those men. But I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Daltry, just the same, for doing it. And that’s more than anyone else has ever gotten from me in my life. So count yourself lucky. But seeing the way things are here at the station, I think I’ll be riding on before sunset. Good day to you.”

  To hell with feeling like this. To hell with him. Angel yanked the reins, dug in her heels. The roan responded, began to turn at her command.

  “Wait,” Mr. Daltry cried out. “Please, Angel.”

  She bit back another curse, but reined her mount, sat rigidly, arrowed her gaze down to meet his, and … waited.

  His mouth worked, he stumbled over his words. “I want to—I mean, I need to—”

  “You need to what, Mr. Daltry? I’ve said my thanks. And I meant them. But now I’m ready to get my things from the hotel, cut my losses, and move on.” Again she urged the roan away.

  “Wait!” he again cried out. Angel instinctively pulled back on the reins. As soon as she did, Mr. Daltry blurted, “I paid for your room at the hotel all these years.”

  His words split the air like the snap of a bullwhip. Angel recoiled, shook her head. “That’s not true. I’ve worked there since I was twelve. I cleaned—”

  “Yes, you did,” he agreed. “You cleaned the rooms and cooked. And I paid for your upkeep. There was no job, Angel. Saul didn’t need the help, didn’t have that many customers. I paid him to keep you hired on. And gave him money to pay you with. Enough to live on—just enough so’s you wouldn’t be suspicious of the amount. I always wished it could be more.”

  Sickness washed over Angel. She’d been so proud of her independence. It was the one thing she thought she’d done on her own. Her eyes narrowed at this deception, this seeming betrayal. “There was plenty of work. I—”

  “There was no work.”

  He said it so quietly that, again, Angel believed him. Her throat seemed to close on her, even as her heartbeat faltered. She swallowed, her mouth worked. “Why?”

  “Because I owe you,” came his quiet answer. Then, “Go on, if you want, Angel. I wouldn’t blame you one bit. But just tell me, where will you go? What will you do?”

  Angel considered him. And his questions, the same ones she’d posed to herself only moments ago. The same ones she still had no answers to. All she knew was she didn’t intend to accept his offer. And so she gave the only answer she could. “That isn’t any of your business, I expect.”

  Mr. Daltry nodded, firmed his lips. “Maybe not. And neither is my next question, but—do you have any money, enough to get you anywhere?”

  A guilty flush warmed her—she had no money. There’d been some with Virginia’s things, but she’d left it, wanting no part of coins earned that way. Still, Angel managed to keep her expression neutral as she considered this man standing next to her horse. A horse he’d bought for her, she suddenly remembered. That realization did nothing to warm her heart toward him, though. Instead, hard as nails, she leaned over, bracing her hand against her knee, putting herself almost in his face. “Why’re you asking? You still wanting to pay for me?”

  He neither moved nor flinched. But his expression hardened. “I am.”

  Taken aback, Angel straightened up in the saddle and glared down at him. He shook his head, saying, “But not in the way you’re still so willing to think. If you don’t want the home I’m offering, then fine. I’ll give you the money to start over somewhere else. Only I didn’t bring the kind of cash you’ll need. It’s at my ranch.”

  A cynical burst of laughter erupted from Angel. “Your ranch. We’re right back where we started.” Angel shook her head, looking away as she considered the bleak horizon, the one she could see in the distance, and the one she couldn’t see in the future. And decided, Oh, what the hell …

  She looked back down at Mr. Daltry. “I tell you what, old man, tell me one thing now, and maybe I will go with you. Maybe I’ll be there to hear your whole story.”

  “Ask it,” he said.

  “All right. Tell me why … to you … my life was worth saving.”

  Mr. Daltry’s quiet consideration of her ruled the next few moments. Angel had the distinct impression that what he had to say would not please her. Speaking as if the words had been forced out of him at gunpoint, he said, “Because I owed your father. Not just your mother.”

  Angel tightened her hands on the reins, pressed her legs around the roan’s ribs. She stared at the gray-haired man, noticing again how haggard, almost gaunt, he looked. But it was his words, not his appearance, that finally commanded her attention. “You owed my father—Tom Devlin, dirt farmer? You have to know someone before you can owe them anything, Mr. Daltry.”

  His jaw firmed. “I did know him. And your mother. I knew them together, when you were a little girl. There. I’ve answered your question. I owed them, but they’re gone now. So, therefore, I owe you.”

  As confused as she was curious, as tired as she was edgy, Angel just gave up and shrugged. “So … pay me, if you’re so all-fired determined to do it.”

  Chuckling ruefully, he said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to do—all afternoon and most of your life before that. But now … well, I don’t have much time left. So what do you say?”

  She didn’t have anything to say. Not just yet. All this talk of leaving, of debts owed, of setting things to rights … The man was dying. Angel exhaled a breath. It’d been that kind of a day all around. A day for dying. Still, when she spoke, it was with more caring than she would’ve thought possible. “Want to go with a clean slate, huh? With no marks against you?”

  He nodded. “Something like that. So, will you go with me?” He stopped, frowned, and then added, “To my ranch, I mean. I expect that up yonder”—he pointed to the heavens above—“they don’t let you bring guests with you. Leastwise, I’ve always heard you have to be personally invited.”

  Despite herself, Angel chuckled, a rarity for her, born as it was of pure humor, and not cynicism or derisio
n. “I tell you, Mr. Daltry, the way things were going today—had it not been for your interfering ways, I’d be in a position to get you a real answer to that.”

  He grinned back at her. “See there? Now you owe me. So, will you come with me?”

  Angel’s grin widened, came near to being a laugh. She tried to tame it, even looked away, taking in the man-made, muddied sameness that was Red River Station.

  Finally, she looked back down at him, admitting to herself that while pleas or force would never have worked with her, humor had. “All right, Mr. Daltry. You win. I’ll go with you to your ranch.”

  * * *

  Angel knew she should have asked Wallace Daltry more questions. Like just how far away his ranch was. They’d been traveling west for two nights and three days now, over the rolling and hilly land of north Texas’s central lowlands. They’d crossed long stretches of sandy prairie and kept the raging, rain-swollen Red River on their right. And they’d fought to keep themselves dry for the entire length of their trek. Spring was proving, on a daily basis, to be stormy and vengeful.

  But as time wore on, and despite the almost constant deluges, which were followed by steamy, spirit-drooping lulls in the downpours, Angel’s amazement grew. Amazement at the open country. Amazement that she was indeed away from Red River Station—for the first time since she was five years old. But most of all, amazement that she was alive at all—thanks to Mr. Daltry—to enjoy this growing sense of freedom.

  And that was another thing. She’d decided that, given the distance and the timing, mere luck had had nothing to do with Mr. Daltry’s arrival in Red River Station less than one minute before she was swinging from that now distant scrub oak. No, it had to be something else, something more than fate or good timing.

  Mr. Daltry had said God led him there. But Angel had her doubts. Sure, she knew her Bible. Hadn’t her mother taught her how to read and how to form her letters using the Bible? And hadn’t she held her young daughter and read to her, and talked with her about the stories and the lessons in the Good Book? At least, she had until Angel’d been old enough—nine or ten, she recalled—to understand what it was her mother did for a living. And what the names people called Virginia Devlin meant. After that, the closeness between them had evaporated, along with the lessons.