by Judith Pella
CHAPTER
17
THE SUN WAS LOWERING IN the west as they rode up to the ranch. The sky was a dusky shade of orange and red with a deeper purple near the horizon. Micah and Lucie had been silent for most of the two.hour ride. There was so much more to be said, yet already they each had as much as they could handle to consider.
Micah could hardly fathom what had passed between them. Lucie had said she loved him. Even now, to remember her profound declaration made his chest constrict. He had not realized until that moment sitting there on the creek bank how desperately empty of things like love he had been. Until Lucie had come along, it had been easy to shrug off this need, and he knew it was indeed a need.
She had said maybe a little love would help wash away some of the hate. But he had lived with hate for so long that maybe it was too deeply a part of him. Maybe hate had made him the man he was. If he gave it up, it might be relinquishing too much. Yet that little touch of love he’d felt from her had been so sweet. And as he’d felt it, he realized just how much he’d missed it.
He glanced over at her. The lowering sun was shimmering in her dark hair like flames. She was so beautiful he could hardly believe she had reached inside him and touched something that had so very little to do with physical attraction. If he believed in God, or rather, if he acknowledged the God he knew was there, he’d feel certain she could be the answer to a man’s prayers.
She smiled, catching his open appraisal of her. “We’re almost at the ranch. Won’t you stay for supper?”
He could see the house and outbuildings on the horizon. He wondered what it would be like to sit to supper with these decent folks. That scared him as much as anything.
“I don’t know,” he hedged. “It’s getting late.”
“When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
“A coon’s age, I reckon. You doing the cooking?”
She laughed. “Not tonight. But I do cook, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He didn’t know at all if that’s what he’d meant. He was afraid of her thinking of him as a man evaluating the qualifications of a prospective wife. He shook away the thought. What was he thinking? He knew she was a dangerous woman.
They rode into the yard, and as they brought their horses into the stable, several of the men offered Lucie friendly greetings. For Micah they only offered cautious stares. Instead of being offended, he was glad these men felt a protectiveness toward her. He wanted her protected, cared for. He just didn’t know if he was the man for the job.
Once in the house, Lucie ushered him into a parlor. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I tell Juana there will be one more for dinner?”
He didn’t recall actually telling her he’d stay, but he made no protests. Micah wanted this as much as he feared it. He simply could not remember the last time he’d been in a family home. Once or twice when he and Jed had been youngsters and wandering around, a couple of folks had kindly taken them into their homes and given them meals. But for the most part he lived under the sky, with occasional visits to bawdy houses or maybe even a hotel when he had some money in his pockets. He’d never been in a simple cabin with a family, a woman in calico, children toddling about, the fragrance of bread in the air.
Not since his own home. And oddly, when he thought of home, it was the dingy Texas cabin that came to mind, not the fine frame house in Boston. For all the misery he’d known there, that cabin had represented something he now sorely missed. A certain cohesiveness, even security. Especially after his stepmother had come and brought a bit of happiness to the place. Not that Micah had ever been able to embrace that happiness. But if he had . . .
Micah shut out such thoughts. They were confusing, and the last thing he needed was more confusion. Instead, he wandered around the Maccallum parlor. It was a nice room, tastefully but expensively furnished. A far cry from the simple Sinclair cabin. The furnishings were made of dark-stained wood of Spanish design. Micah imagined they were old. No doubt Reid Maccallum had purchased them from former residents. Though of course he could have had them shipped from Spain or Mexico City, but the man did not appear the type to indulge in such tastes. In fact, Micah was rather surprised to find such fancy things in his home at all. Lucie had said her ma had died two years ago, so this might well be her influence. Still, most frontier women tended to ship household items from the States, not Mexico.
Micah ambled aimlessly over to the fireplace. This was made of good Texas stone. No fire burned on this warm summer day. Above the hearth was a large portrait of a woman, a beautiful woman. A Mexican woman. She was dressed in a deep red gown, stylishly designed and obviously expensive. On her head was a veil of the kind Mexican women wore for special occasions, which Micah had heard called a mantilla. It was of black lace and blended with her dark hair, piled fetchingly under the mantilla. She was probably thirty years old, but her creamy tan skin was flawless, and Micah thought this was more her natural appearance than the strokes of a skillful artist.
He stepped back from the portrait to get a better look. He didn’t know why it captured him so. Probably because out on the frontier one seldom saw fine works of art. Yet there was something else about this particular painting. Something vaguely familiar. Something—
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” came Lucie’s soft, almost reverent, voice from over his shoulder.
“Who is it?” His voice held a bit of reverence as well, though at the same time a small knot began to form in his stomach.
“My mother.”
His mouth went suddenly dry, and he could not speak. Perhaps he should have known all along. Her rich dark hair and eyes, her skin tanned—he’d thought from the sun. But maybe he hadn’t wanted to see, to know what now was so unavoidably true. Lucie was Mexican.
“Y-you never said anything,” he said hoarsely, with some accusation.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
He spun around to face her. What he saw was the absolute truth of her heritage. He also knew she was lying. She had known it might matter. She must have faced prejudices from whites before. And he knew without doubt he was prejudiced. Unlike some, he could not separate loyal Texan Mexicans from those who had murdered his uncle.
“I don’t know what to say,” he breathed, hardly able to speak the words because he knew they would cut him off from what his heart desired.
“I’m disappointed in you, Micah.”
“Me? How about you?” his voice rose with both defensiveness and accusation. “Why did you hide it, Lucie? Are you ashamed?”
“I am proud of who I am!”
With her chin jutted out and her eyes flashing, he had to believe her.
“I said nothing because it never occurred to me that there was any reason to stand and shout, ‘I am Mexican!’ And I didn’t believe you could be so petty until this afternoon when we were talking about the banditos. I glimpsed a bit of it then. Maybe I should have run when I saw it.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“I wanted to believe there was more to you, that the hate was only a small part that could be eased away with enough love. I see now it is bigger than I thought.” Her voice shook, but it was cold, too, especially as she spoke those last words. “You are just a bigoted fool!” She spat her final words.
“And I’ve got every right to be!” he spat back. “And it’s not just big-otry. It’s founded in solid facts. I watched while your people slaughtered hundreds of men, my uncle among them. Slaughtered them! Gunned them down when they were unarmed and couldn’t fight back. And then when they were dead, them Mexicans just kept shooting and shooting.
I swore I’d hate and kill as many as I could. That ain’t being a bigot.
It’s pure revenge.”
“It is bigotry,” Lucie retorted. “I wasn’t one of those murderers, and neither were many others. Yet you lump us all together.”
“It ain’t that simple.”
“Like hating your father isn’t
simple?”
He could tell she knew her words would hurt.
“I think you just thrive on hatred, any way you can get it,” she added.
“I ain’t listening to this! You lied to me. You deceived me. So you don’t have any cause to get righteous with me!”
“Leave this house immediately!” she practically screamed.
“Oh, I’m leaving all right! I’m leaving right now!”
As he quickly saddled his horse and rode away, Micah didn’t know why he kept thinking she would come after him. And he certainly didn’t know why he actually wanted her to. She represented everything he hated. He didn’t go around gunning down every Mexican he encountered in the streets, though part of him wanted to. Maybe not women and children, ’cause he wasn’t an animal. But he held no great affection even for them. In San Antonio, ninety percent of the population was Mexican, so it was hard to avoid them. But he tried.
Even he had to admit, however, that it was wrong to lump them all together. He rode with a couple of Mexicans in Hays’ company of rangers. And there was an entire company of Mexican rangers run by Antonio Perez. They were good men. They had covered his back on numerous occasions. But he knew he consciously tried not to think of them as Mexican. Contrary to what Lucie had implied, he didn’t walk around with hate just oozing from him. He could be tolerant. But that didn’t mean he’d be squeamish about killing Mexicans when they deserved it.
Micah could be tolerant of Lucie as well. Question was, did he want more than a relationship of mere tolerance? And no matter what he felt, she had told him she loved him. He had repaid those extraordinary words by accusing her of deception and defaming her heritage. Being Mexican didn’t really change who she was, and it shouldn’t change what he thought of her. Maybe if he could find it in himself to accept this about her, it might go toward diffusing some of the hate inside him, just like she’d said.
He truly didn’t want to be so wrought up with hate, especially if it was going to prevent him from having any good come into his life. He was due for some good, wasn’t he?
“I reckon I can be man enough to let go of some of it. . . .” he murmured into the wind. “Just a little for now, then see what happens. Maybe I’ll die without it to sustain me. But just maybe I’ll actually like it.”
He reached out a hand, smoothing it over the buckskin’s dark mane. “What do you say, Jose? Do ya think I should give it a try?” He smiled. “You’re Mexican, ain’t you, boy? You’ve done all right by me.”
Shrugging, he nudged the buckskin to turn around and headed back to the Maccallum ranch.
Lucie was shaking as she sat on the velvet divan in the parlor. At first her gaze remained fixed on the place where Micah had been standing, as if he might reappear and the entire scene could be replayed and maybe changed. But as much as she wished the fiasco hadn’t happened, she was still angry. The things he’d said angered her, but even more, she was furious at the fact that she’d been so wrong about Micah.
Perhaps it was a good thing all this had taken place now, before she’d become any more entangled with the man. She could deal with their differences in faith because she’d felt so certain God could and would change him. She could accept his wild nature because she’d known there was a gentle side to him as well. But add bigotry to the mess, and it was too much. Too many barriers to overcome. Too many differences.
Lucie, some things just aren’t meant to be, she told herself, trying to feel pragmatic about it, even though she felt her heart was being ripped from her chest. She had told him she loved him, and she had meant it. But now she feared what her father, and even Micah, had said. Love wasn’t enough. But neither could love be turned off so easily. She knew she would hurt for a long time, but it was still better this way. She could not be with a man who disdained the very blood that coursed through her body. The one thing that could never be changed.
It was better this way.
Wasn’t it?
“God, I fear I have imposed too much of my own desire in this situation. I had hoped you were in it, but I didn’t wait to see. I blinded myself to good advice and blundered ahead, thinking I could perform miracles. I could not have been more foolish. I think I know better now. Miracles are your business, not mine. But is it wrong to still hope? I cannot help myself. I still believe Micah Sinclair is worth hoping for. And I believe you think so, too. I guess I just must be patient and wait to see what you will do with him.”
She smiled. Patience was not her best virtue. Yet she was indeed willing to wait on God. She only prayed He would let her know when to stop waiting and move on with her life.
Feeling a bit restored, she rose and went down the hall to look in on her father. As she passed the kitchen, she saw Juana busy with supper preparations. She should tell her their guest had left, but she couldn’t face that just yet. She continued on to the back. Quietly she turned the latch on her father’s door and opened it. He was snoring peacefully. She was glad the heated conversation earlier in the parlor hadn’t disturbed him.
Lucie returned to the kitchen and was about to tell Juana about their absent guest when she heard a tapping at the front door. Her heart jumped, thinking it might be Micah. Well, she wasn’t going to change overnight, she thought ruefully.
“I’ll get it, Juana,” she said and retraced her steps down the hall, trying to walk in a deliberate, sedate fashion, ignoring the urge within her to run.
She opened the door to find one of the stableboys. “Señorita Lucie,” the lad said, “I have a message for you.”
“Who is it from?” Again her heart raced.
“I was out a ways from the stable walking the newly shod mare when a man came up out of the shadows and called to me. He was a stranger.”
“What did he want?”
“He said I must tell you, and only you, to meet with him out by the mesquite tree, the big one that was split by lightning some years ago.
Do you know this place, señorita?”
“It happened before you were born, Pedro, but I think I know the place.” What Lucie did not know was how Micah knew about it. “Is that all he said?”
“Only that you should come alone and as soon as possible.”
Why was Micah acting so mysteriously? He certainly couldn’t be afraid to come directly to the house. And she just did not see him as trying to entice her into some romantic rendezvous.
“Thank you, Pedro.”
“I will go with you, Señorita.” The lad squared his shoulders in a sweet attempt to look older than his twelve years.
“I’ll be fine.” She smiled confidently. “It’s just a friend of mine playing games. Now run along and don’t worry.”
She saddled Belle as she fended off inquiries from the men in the stable. She told them she and her friend were just going on a moonlight ride. Questions of being properly chaperoned were broached, but she handily ignored them. Anyway, it was just sundown, hardly midnight. There was nothing improper about riding with a friend.
It was about a quarter of a mile to the tree on mostly level ground. She knew the way. As she went, she continued to puzzle over the oddity of Micah’s behavior. She also tried not to puzzle over her own swift response to his request. But she couldn’t ignore him, could she? Just because she had decided to give God full reign in the situation didn’t mean she was to cut herself off from Micah completely. Did it? What if he did apologize and recant all his harsh words? She simply did not know how she would or should respond to that.
Then she remembered something her mother had always said: “When in doubt, pray.”
So Lucie did just that as she drew close to the rangy old mesquite tree. Though the sun was down, there was still enough light for the tangled, gnarled branches to stand out a stark black against the faintly lighted sky. The tree looked quite pretty, even if most residents considered mesquite more a pest than a marvel.
“Lucinda!” came a soft call.
She gasped, the sound taking her by surprise. Only then did
she wonder why Micah was using her given name. She did not think he knew it.
CHAPTER
18
LUCIE GASPED AS A MAN stepped out of the shadows. A man, tall and lean, but not Micah.
“Joaquin!” Lucie breathed. “Oh, Joaquin, you came.”
“Hola, Lucinda. I wondered if you would remember the tree.” He spoke in Spanish.
“How could I not?” She also replied in Spanish as she dismounted. She knew he had his reasons for not speaking English, and she did not wish to offend him, at least this soon in the meeting. “I remember many races to this tree.”
“I always won,” he replied, his tone as soft as the gathering dusk.
“Yes.”
“But you never stopped racing me.”
“I loved you all the more, Joaquin, because you never pandered to my inexperience and femininity.” She smiled at the thought of those long-ago memories. “You were my friend as well as my brother.”
“Sometimes I could weep at the crazy hand life has dealt us.”
His face was drawn and hard, in no way indicating a man given to tears. Yet she remembered when she had seen him slip in unobtrusively among the crowd gathered at their mother’s graveside two years ago. Tears had erupted from the hard black surface of his eyes then. Tears only she had seen, for he had disappeared before even Reid had noticed his presence.
“I am so glad you have come,” she said.
“I could not stay away. I am a fool for doing so, but . . .” He shrugged as if to complete his sentence.
“But what, Joaquin?” she pressed. “Are you a fool for wanting to see your father before he dies? Are you a fool for not wanting to be cheated like you were two years ago?”
“I did not say I would see our father.” He shifted on his feet and chewed on his mustache. “But the few minutes today just was not enough.”
“You won’t see Papa?” Lucie’s voice rose. “Then why come at all?”
“At least I can see you—”
“I’m not dying,” she cut in fiercely. “I am not lying in bed aching inside because I fear I will not have one last chance to see my son before I die. You are so selfish! I thought you were better than that.”