by Judith Pella
“I am a bandit!” He retorted, his eyes flashing now. “I am better than nothing! I prey on others, especially you Texans. I have a price on my head—a large price. If I am ever caught, I will be executed on the spot. Is it selfish to guard my skin? I would like to live to a ripe old age, but I doubt I will. Yet, still I come . . .” He shook his head harshly. “No, you are right. I am selfish because I have come.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I hoped at least Papa would.”
“Tell me why you don’t come, Joaquin,” she implored, more gently now.
“Think about it,” he said. “If your association with me is discovered, it could bring you and Papa both down. Papa could lose everything if he is thought to be a spy for the Mexicans. I have seen it happen to others. You have also, I know. And it could happen to a gringo as well as a Mexican. Don’t fool yourself. Things are happening now, politically, that would make such an association even more dangerous. It is far too risky for me to come any closer than this to the ranch.”
“But why even come this close? It is Papa you need to see.”
“How bad is he?”
“He had a bad spell a few days ago and has been confined to his bed. We won’t be able to keep him down much longer.” Her lips twitched as she thought of the big Scot chomping at the bit like a racehorse hitched to a freight wagon. “It is hard for him to accept his illness.”
“I can well imagine.”
Joaquin’s gaze shifted up toward the dark sky. Lucie recognized the ploy as a way to hide emotion.
“Does he hate me much for not coming?”
“He loves you, Joaquin!” she said emphatically. “As you well know, at first he resented the fact that you sided with . . . the enemy.”
“Mexico was never my enemy,” he replied ironically.
Yes, she and her brother had always been caught in the middle. She was younger and more sheltered by her parents, so it was easier for her, Lucie supposed. And even though she had darker hair, Joaquin looked far more Mexican, aided by the fact that he maintained a more Mexican persona. He dressed in Mexican clothes, spoke Spanish almost exclusively, and he practiced the Catholic faith. As a boy he’d been frequently mocked for his heritage by neighboring Texans, even when he tried to look as American as they did. Then in his adolescence, he reacted by rebelling. He took on Mexican ways in open defiance of those arrogant Texans who, in his mind, thought they could come swaggering into the land of Mexico and rudely denigrate all the traditions of that land.
When the war broke out Reid had not been surprised, though it had sickened him, when his son joined Santa Anna. Lucie remembered finding her father in tears the day after Joaquin had left. Reid’s disappointment only deepened when after the war Joaquin had turned to outlawry in defiance of the new republic. At least he had protected his father’s name and even that of his Mexican grandfather by taking an alias for a surname. Nevertheless, Lucie hadn’t fully understood it all. She had never felt anything but Texan. Maybe, she thought bitterly, she would have thought differently if she’d encountered more people like Micah. Maybe that would have stripped away her loyalty. But she didn’t want to think of Micah now, for she was confused enough being confronted by her brother after so long.
“I cannot stay much longer,” Joaquin said suddenly.
In desperation, Lucie grasped his arm. “Don’t let Papa die like Mama did without seeing you one last time.”
“Do you think I wanted her to go that way?” He turned away from her, sighing, the tension almost visible in his broad, strong shoulders. “I tried to get back, but I was spotted as I crossed the border. Two of my men were killed.”
When he turned back to face her, she saw the pain he had suffered, both then and now. She knew he had wanted her to see it, and only for that reason had he revealed it.
“All I could do in the end was to creep like an interloper at my own mother’s grave! It is one more score against the gringos who have forced such a life upon me.”
For an instant he sounded far too much like Micah. Had her heart not been wrenched by the similarities and the irony, she might have smiled.
“You can make up for it now,” she suggested.
“It is a bad time now. More dangerous than ever.” He paused, seem.ing to carefully consider his next words. “Lucinda, things will soon be happening . . . and you will want to distance yourself more than ever from me.”
“What things?”
“Ah, you never could just accept things, could you, dear one?”
His mustache twitched, and she wanted to believe he had allowed himself the luxury of a smile. She remembered that even when they were children, her brother had seldom smiled.
“At any rate, I cannot tell you more. Only that you should keep away from San Antonio for a while.”
She asked no further questions. She didn’t want to know more.
How she hated being in the middle. She always had.
Joaquin continued, “Tell Papa I love him and explain why I could not come to see him. Tell him I hope he understands. Tell him also that I have taken a wife and have a child on the way—”
“A wife! A child!” Lucie exclaimed. Then impulsively she threw her arms around her big brother. She was tired of conceding to his reserve. “When?”
“The child should come by Christmas. My wife is in Mexico, of course, near Saltillo.”
“What’s her name?”
“Pilar.”
For a moment his features softened, and Lucie was comforted to know her brother had found love.
“She is a gentle, sweet woman. But she doesn’t like me to be away so much.”
“I shouldn’t wonder!” Lucie smiled, already feeling a kinship to the sister-in-law she might never meet.
“Someday I will stay home with her for good. When all the trouble ends, when there is peace between our two countries.”
“Let us pray for peace, then.”
“I must go,” he said reluctantly.
“Try to find a way to tell us when your baby is born. Papa will be a grandpa, and I will be an aunt. We want to know when that happens.” And though she had wanted to be brave, she could not prevent the tears from spilling out of her eyes. She threw her arms around him again.
She felt a deep fervency in his returned embrace. He kissed the top of her head.
“Adios!” he said finally, letting go of her reluctantly.
He retreated to the far side of the tree where Lucie now saw he had carefully concealed his horse. Adios! She tried to reply but could not get words past her constricted throat. She lifted a hand instead in mute farewell.
Oh, God, let him come back! Please let him come back.
Micah had seen Lucie ride out to the big misshapen mesquite tree. He would have called to her, but he didn’t know why he kept silent. She had been riding with such purpose that he was reticent to stop her. He didn’t know what to make of her riding out like that so near dark and all alone. Is that what she did when she was angry? Then all the more reason not to approach her, even to apologize. He didn’t want to face her anger again. It had hurt him more than he cared to admit. It had hurt to have such a wedge driven through the sweet things that had happened between them such a short time before.
He decided to just keep an eye on her for a few minutes to gauge if it was safe to go to her. He reined his buckskin up sharply when she dismounted at the tree and a man stepped out. Micah pulled his pistol, ready to kill the man if he tried to harm Lucie, but it quickly became obvious this was no chance meeting.
Micah dismounted Jose, tied him to a branch of one of the few other trees nearby, then crept in closer to the pair. He wanted to make certain Lucie was not in trouble, but if she wasn’t, if this was some friendly meeting, well, he wanted to know about that, too!
Circling the mesquite tree, Micah found the man’s mount. It looked vaguely familiar. Where had he seen such a horse? It had been recently. A sleek black stallion with one white sock.
He
made his way back to where he had a view of Lucie and her . . . friend? He was still too far to hear their conversation, though he could discern it was in Spanish. And it was obvious that, though it was impassioned at times, it was not hostile. Who was this man? One of the vaqueros? Surely he was Mexican. Then Micah remembered. It had only been this morning, though so much had happened since to cloud his memory, that he had chased just such a stallion.
Joaquin Viegas rode a black mount with one white sock.
Then Micah’s breath caught painfully as Lucie threw her arms around this man, not once, but twice! And that embrace had been filled with passion. What was she up to? What kind of game was she playing? What kind of fool was she playing Micah for? Here he had come back ready to apologize for his harsh words, ready to accept her heritage or at least to tolerate it. And what was she doing? Having some kind of romantic rendezvous, not only with a man, but with a notorious Mexican outlaw!
Sweet Lucie? It couldn’t be.
But there was the proof before his eyes.
Then Viegas—it had to be him!—rode away. He headed south, so Micah was not in danger of being discovered. But he knew he was, nevertheless, in very great danger. And he had worried about hurting her! He had to be the worst kind of fool. And like the fool he surely was, he was not about to just slither away, leaving her to her machinations. She was not going to get away with it. So intent was he on confronting Lucie, it didn’t occur to him he was missing a prime opportunity to catch the outlaw.
He jumped up from his hiding place and fairly charged into the clearing by the deformed tree. He saw her race to her horse and was afraid she was going to get away. But he quickly saw escape was not on her mind. He screeched to a halt, looking down the barrel of the rifle she had suddenly drawn from her saddle scabbard.
“Stop there or I’ll shoot!” she cried.
“Lucie, it’s me.”
“Micah?”
“Yeah. Put that rifle down!”
She lowered the weapon but did not replace it in its scabbard. “What are you doing here?”
“Maybe I could ask you the same question,” he accused. “I came back to apologize, only to find you in the arms of another man.”
“What are you talking about?”
Even in the deepening darkness he could see the bewilderment on her face. “I saw, Lucie. I saw him.” It surprised him how wounded he felt. Ever since he met her, he had been trying to push her away. He should be glad she wasn’t interested in him. But the white-hot anger he now felt proved otherwise. And the fury was even greater than when he’d seen her with that Carlton fellow. Probably because since then she had made empty confessions of love to Micah. It certainly wasn’t because the man was a Mexican, an enemy.
Lucie sighed. “You have it all wrong, Micah.”
“I saw you two embrace.”
“And what should that matter to you, anyway?” she said, her temper flaring. “A little while ago you walked out on me—”
“You told me to leave.”
“Only because you insulted me.”
Micah cursed in his frustration.
“And don’t you curse at me either!” she warned.
Micah sucked in a steadying breath. “Who was that man?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything!”
“He was Joaquin Viegas, wasn’t he?”
She drew her lips taut, as if she feared what might escape them.
Then she, too, took a breath. “Go away,” she said tightly, “before we . . . before things get out of hand.”
“What were you doing having a secret rendezvous with a low-down, traitorous outlaw?”
“Who said it was secret?”
He rolled his eyes. “Come on!”
“I am not saying another word!”
“Lucie, this is serious.” Only then did the full import of the situation truly strike him. “If it wasn’t a romantic tryst . . .” Please let it not be that, he silently prayed! “If not that, then the only other conclusion that can be drawn is that you are somehow in league with Viegas’s band.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Micah tried to rein in his anger. This was serious, more so than he at first thought. It went far beyond his bruised feelings.
“Listen,” he said with forced control, “you are courting disaster here.
You better consider yourself lucky it was me who found you—”
“What? And not some narrow-minded bigot?” she rejoined snidely.
Then she gasped, obviously sorry about what she had said.
They both fell silent, a silence filled with tension and confusion.
Staring at each other, Micah knew she was probably thinking the same as he. How could they get out of the corner they had backed into? How could their harsh words be retracted? And more importantly, who would make the first move toward conciliation?
It wasn’t going to be him. He still wasn’t certain he’d done anything wrong. Well, maybe not now, but he had been wrong before, back at her house when he had accused her of deception. Or had he been wrong after all? He had just found her with a Mexican bandit.
“Ah, Lucie . . .” he breathed, not even realizing he’d voiced his dismay. But now that he’d started, it was easier to continue. “We’ve made a real mess, haven’t we?”
“I guess so,” she replied tightly.
“It’s my fault.” At first he’d thought to be magnanimous by taking the blame, but as he said the words, he knew the full truth of them. “It was wrong of me to accuse you of deception before. You have the purest heart of anyone I know. I, of all people, had no right. As for what happened now . . . I have no hold on you. For heaven’s sake, I have done all I could to discourage you. I’m a real jackass for making accusations. I—”
She raised a finger and set it against his lips. “Joaquin Viegas is my brother,” she said quietly.
“Your what?” he gasped. This was more stunning than any surprise he’d had thus far.
“I hope you can understand why my family has kept this secret. I didn’t mean to deceive you.”
“How can this be?” He had been thrown seriously off balance by this and was trying desperately to make sense of it. One of the worst enemies of the Republic of Texas was Lucie Maccallum’s brother. The man whom it was Micah’s sworn duty to hunt down, capture, and most likely kill was Lucie’s brother. It suddenly seemed this was the final blow to fantasies he’d only barely let himself have about this sweet, decent gal.
“Joaquin had his reasons to throw in with Mexico,” she said.
“No one knows about this?”
“Papa has one or two loyal friends who may know, but for the most part, it has been a fairly well-kept secret. Most folk think my brother just went to live in Mexico or the States or perhaps even died.” She paused.
He now noticed her lip was trembling. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, but that would only compound all the mistakes he’d made that day.
“Lucie, today by the creek bank—”
“Yes, I tried to distract you and the other rangers to give him time to get away. What else could I do? He’s my brother!” Tears welled in her eyes.
He thought he could handle her anger better than her misery, though he’d made a poor job of that as well. “Folks might not see it that way,” he said lamely as he tried to figure out what he thought about it. She wasn’t going to give him a break, though.
“What do you think?” she asked incisively.
“It don’t matter what I think—”
“Yes, it does! It matters to me! Do you think I am in league with the notorious outlaw? That perhaps I am his spy?”
“Shoot!” He kicked at the dirt. He hated being in this position. Maybe he could lie. But she was too smart to fall for lies. “I don’t know what to think. Your loyalties are torn. I can see that.”
“I love Texas. I am not a traitor.”
“Maybe without even realizing it—”
“No!” she shouted. “I am no
t a traitor.”
“Your pa—”
“Don’t even say it, Micah!” Her eyes flashed like a lion protecting her young. “My father is a hero of San Jacinto. He fought against Santa Anna when he knew his only son was in the army of the enemy. No one had better ever question his loyalty!”
“People will talk.”
“Not if they never find out.” Her words were a clear challenge.
“Unless I find any clear evidence against you, I won’t say anything, Lucie. I swear to God.”
“To God, Micah?”
“I guess that’s a pretty empty oath coming from me, but what else would convince you I mean it?”
“I’ll just take your word for it.” Her tone had grown cold.
He hated himself for asking, “Is everything spoiled now, Lucie?”
The smile that slanted upon her lips was as cold as her voice, and her eyes—her beautiful, warm, dear eyes—stared at him now like a chill frost. And he knew he had lost something he’d not even had the courage to grasp.
“I’d like to be left alone now,” she said.
He nodded. “Sure . . . I . . . uh . . . will go, then.” He paused, not knowing why, just hoping. But she did not stop him. “I’ll see you.”
“I don’t think so. You were right, Micah. We are too different.”
When he didn’t move, she turned and walked to her horse, mounted, and rode away.
Micah watched. He remembered only one other time he’d felt emptier. The day his mother had died.
Young Pedro waited until the gringo rode off before making his own way back to the ranch. He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but who could blame him for being too afraid to make his presence known? Señorita Lucie had just been talking to two very dangerous-looking men. One, the gringo, Pedro had seen before at the ranch and knew to be a ranger. But the other, could it be possible he was really Joaquin Viegas?
Pedro had been near enough to hear much of the conversation except when the wind carried away the sound before it reached his ears. Hearing was one thing, however. Understanding was a different matter. One thing was clear, the patrón’s daughter was closely related to Joaquin Viegas.