After Rafael had Beth safely back at the house and he had done what he could about Nathan's condition, he turned his mind to the repercussions of the day's
I
happening. It was not a pleasant contemplation. And, rousing himself from the vision of burned-out homesteads and the mutilated bodies of settlers' families, as well as the knowledge that the Comanche camps would suffer too, he sent another rider thundering off into the night. This one rode toward Austin and Sam Houston.
His note to Houston was brief, merely a recital of the facts and the information that he would be staying in San Antonio indefinitely. If Houston needed him, he knew where to find him. Only at the end of the note did his frustration and rage show through. "You know," he wrote in thick black strokes, ''if Fisher and the others had deliberately planned to drive the Comanches straight into the arms of the Mexicans, they couldn't have chosen a better way! God help us all!"
He had nothing to discuss with any of the military men involved—the time for talking was past—but he still took a keen interest in their plans. Early the next morning, while Beth slept dreamlessly under the influence of the prescribed laudanum and San Antonio still buzzed with shock and rumor, Rafael was at the jail when the Commissioners, their faces unyielding and rock-hard, took one of the Indian women, the wife of one of the greatest dead chiefs, and put her on a horse. In hostile silence they gave her food and water, and then she was told bluntly, "Go to the camps of your people and tell them that the survivors of the Council House fight will be put to death unless all of the captives spoken of by Matilda Lockhart are returned. You have twelve days from where the sun stands now to deliver our message and return with the captives." The Indian woman listened impassively, her features never betraying her grief and rage. Nothing else was said, and, watching her ride out of town, Rafael knew with a sickening sense of futility that though she would deliver the ultimatum, the helpless captives would scream their lives away under the torturing knives of the wailing squaws in the camps, condemned to death by the treachery of the very men who sought to free them.
He turned furiously on his heel and strode angrily away, unable to look at these men, who had with such righteous arrogance brought about the end of hope for
any peace between the Comanches and the whites, without taking some reckless and violent action against them. Rafael had a hot temper, but he also had an iron control over his volatile emotions. This was obviously not the right time or the place to express his fury and disgust.
He had done all that he could, and if his conscience pricked him with painful regularity because he had not warned the Comanches of his fears and suspicions, he could console himself with the knowledge that hindsight is always infallible. He had tried his best to convince the Indian Commissioners of the importance of this particuliar meeting. It wds cold comfort to him, especially when he enumerated all the powerful men of the Pehnahterkuh who had died, leaving the largest group of Comanches virtually leaderless. As he figured it, there was only one chief who had escaped the Council House Massacre, and that would be the great war chief Buffalo Hump. At least they have him, he decided bitterly.
Rafael had done something the day of the Council House fight that he had never thought himself capable of—he had killed not one but two Comanches. Granted they had not been members of the Kwerhar-rehnuh, who had raised him, but they had been Comanches nonetheless and he had killed them deliberately. He had killed men before—Apaches, whites, and Mexicans—but never a Comanche, and it made him realize now how firmly he was allied with the white man. And how intensely Beth Ridgeway affected his emotions.
He hadn't forgotten the snake of terror that had slithered down his spine when he saw her fighting so valiantly with the Comanche warrior, nor had he forgotten the burst of scarlet rage that had exploded through his body when Nathan had taken him to task and said the words my wife.
And if he hadn't forgotten the terror or the rage that came so effortlessly to him, he also had not forgotten his own angry words to Beth only hours before Nathan's wounding. They echoed around his brain like enraged hornets, the sentence "He could be skewered by a Comanche lance for all I care!" buzzing round and round
in his brain until he felt nearly demented. What damnable luck that he should prove to be such an excellent prophet of doom!
Now Nathan might die, and Rafael was grimly aware that in death he might prove to be a greater barrier than in life. One thing Rafael knew for damn sure— Beth was not going too far away from San Antonio until they had settled whatever was between them. He was not going to go through the remainder of his life tortured by visions of a violet-eyed slut with the face of an angel! They were going to come to some understanding and she was going to stay put until they did!
It was arrogant—even he was aware of that—but he would have had to have been a blind man not to know that there was a bond between them. Perhaps only a physical one; with one part of him he hoped viciously it would turn out to be just that—that once they established an easy intimacy between them, the fierce emotions she aroused would disappear and after a few weeks he could pack her off to Natchez and out of his life. It was what he wanted, he told himself vehemently, his jaw clenching with anger. And yet...
Where Beth was concerned Rafael was a tangle of conflicting, seething emotions—jealousy, rage, uncertainty, and passion all fighting for dominance—one moment jealousy the driving force, passion the next, and in between a curiously painful tenderness that disturbed him far more than all of the other emotions combined. Rage he could deal with, jealousy he could ignore, uncertainty he could put behind him, and passion he could slake, but tenderness... ?
He was not a tender man, had never been a tender man except perhaps with his young half sister Arabela. Consequently, the emotion confused him and made him especially wary of the person who aroused it—wary and angry that she could make him feel anything except contempt. Walking toward the house, he thought with cold rage. What the hell do I care what happens to her— it would have been easier to let that damned Comanche take her with him, or scalp her, whichever he preferred.
It wasn't that simple and he knew it. But he chose to avoid her at the house for several reasons—her hus-
band was gravely wounded, perhaps mortally, and now was not the time for the conversation or anything else that he wanted between them. There was also the fact that he couldn't bear to watch her croon over Nathan. Even if the man was badly injured, Rafael didn't like his being the object of Beth's attentions, especially when the thought occurred to him that if it had been left up to her husband to rescue her, Beth would be dead or a Comanche's captive. And finally there was one more reason he avoided her, and he acknowledged it reluctantly: Beth might not want to see him—after all, he had in a moment of hot fury wished her husband dead! Consequently Rafael stayed m the background, seeing that everything that could be done was done and that Beth had everything that she could possibly want, not only for herself but Nathan as well. I owe him that much, Rafael admitted harshly.
Don Miguel, Dona Madelina, and Sebastian, as well as various servants and vaqueros from Cielo, arrived in San Antonio the fourth evening after the massacre. Beth hadn't known of their arrival until Rafael's relative, Senora Lopez, had forced her from Nathan's bedside, insisting in a mixture of Spanish and broken English that she eat something.
Finding the newcomers already seated at the table for dinner, Beth stopped in surprise and almost dazedly she murmured, ''Oh, I didn't expect to see all of you here. When did you arrive?"
The men rose instantly, and both Don Miguel and Sebastian swiftly approached her with concerned faces and a warm sympathy that made her eyes well up with sudden tears of gratitude for their continued kindness. She quickly recovered herself, though, and, seated next to Dona Madelina, who held her hand tightly and coaxed her to eat a bite of this and that, she managed to get through the meal with tolerable composure. Everyone was most considerate of her, and beyond mentioning Nathan's name once or twice the ot
hers kept up a light, soothing flow of conversation, no one inclined toward levity.
Rafael had made no move from his place at the head of the long, linen-draped table when Beth had entered
the room, other than rising politely to his feet. Neither he nor she directed any observations toward the other except for the most commonplace remarks, and they had exchanged no conversation of any note since the moment Nathan had been struck down. But he watched her critically, the hard gray eyes not liking the pallor of her face nor the haunted, other-world expression in the violet eyes. Seeing how little she ate and noticing angrily the growing fragility of her fine-boned face and delicate wrists, his mouth tightened and he experienced a jabbing sense of frustration. There was nothing he could do that he hadn't done already, and he was thoroughly aware that any move he might make to settle things between them would more than likely precipitate an emotional crisis that she could well do without under the circumstances.
Beth was alone with Nathan when he finally roused himself and recognized her. The doctor had kept him heavily sedated with an opium mixture to ease the pain, but about eleven o'clock that night, just as Beth was thinking of seeking her own bed, Nathan regained a certain amount of consciousness. His eyes were still cloudy from the drug but he appeared to be remarkably clear-headed and, seeing Beth sitting by his bedside, he smiled, a sweet gentle smile that tore at Beth's heartstrings. "My dear," he whispered, "what are you doing here?"
Her throat aching with unshed tears, she returned his smile and said softly, "I was just keeping you company for a little while."
His eyes closed briefly and he murmured lightly, "I am so tired, but it is most pleasant to wake and find your lovely face nearby."
It was a mundane conversation to be having with him. But at the time that didn't occur to Beth and all she could think of was that Nathan was awake—and for the moment she was content.
He became aware of the bandages about his middle and a feeling of pain. Looking up at her with anxious gray eyes, he asked worriedly, "I'm all right, aren't I?"
Her face shining with growing confidence, she answered instantly, "Of course you are, love! You have
been gravely wounded, though, and you must rest for now."
He relaxed and, clumsily capturing one of her hands in his, he brought it to his lips. "What a sorry state this is! Just as soon as I am well, we shall go home—and Beth, if you don't mind, I would just as soon not go traveling in the wilds again.''
Her smile wobbled only slightly. "I couldn't agree with you more, my dear." Sorrowfully she admitted, "I should have listened to you in the first place, Nathan."
"Oh, come now, such humility! It doesn't become you, Beth. You have always been a bit of a minx, and I shouldn't want you to change new," he teased her gently. He looked very young as he lay against the white pillows, his fair hair curling near his temples, and Beth's heart tightened painfully in her breast.
He moved as if in pain and Beth asked quickly, "Is something the matter?"
Nathan shook his head and tenderly kissed her fingers. Their clasped hands lying on his chest, he said, "I think I shall rest awhile, if you don't mind, my dear," and drifted off to sleep.
He spoke only once more to her that night. Seeming to fight his way to consciousness again about half an hour later, he looked directly at Beth and said clearly, "I do love you, you know, in my way."
Softly Beth replied, "I know you do, my dear," and kissed him on the forehead.
He gave a small sigh, as if satisfied with her answer, and lapsed back into unconsciousness, his hand still holding hers. How long Beth sat there she didn't know... or even exactly when Nathan had left her. One minute both of them were in the room together and the next she was alone with her husband's body.
The others were still up enjoying a last bit of refreshment before retiring, the gentlemen sipping their whiskey, the ladies drinking coffee laced with brandy, when Beth entered the room. The inconsequential chatter ceased abruptly and every eye swung to her. Standing wraithlike in the doorway, she surveyed them dazedly and said numbly, "My husband is dead."
There was a concerted murmur of sympathy from 326
everyone, but Rafael, who turned away, was fighting an overpowering urge to crush her protectively in his arms and to croon into the bright hair the same sort of gentle nonsense that she had to Nathan. At the moment he would have even willed Nathan to live, if it would erase the pain she must be feeling.
Both the ladies embraced her, murmuring words of condolences and comfort. Dona Madelina kept her arm around her and urged her to a long, green sofa. "Come, my child, come, you must sit down," she said gently, absently patting Beth's arm as she did so.
To Senora Lopez, Dona Madelina murmured, "Ring for a servant and have some milk warmed and mixed with the laudanum the doctor left."
Dutifully Beth sat on the sofa as she was told, and like an obedient child she drank the milk and laudanum when it was presented to her. She didn't speak again nor did she cry, she simply sat stunned on the sofa, her thoughts far away from the present. It was as if everything were frozen inside of her, so deeply frozen that she could feel no emotion, only a great emptiness.
There were not many people at Nathan's funeral the next afternoon, just Rafael, the other Santanas, the Mavericks, Sebastian, and the German doctor who had tried to save him. There were one or two others but Beth, wrapped in her numbing emptiness, didn't recognize them. She was a beautiful zombie, her gaze blank, her movements slow and dreamlike, her voice mute. And, staring at her as she watched the first shovelful of dirt cascade down on Nathan's wooden coffin, Rafael would have liked to shake her furiously and slap her half silly, do anj^hing to make her express some emotion even if it were nothing more than rage and fury at his apparent insensitivity— anything would be better than the frozen, silent creature who now inhabited Beth's body!
She made a lovely widow. The black silk gown, easily procured in a former Spanish city like San Antonio, where the women frequently wore black, intensified her air of fragility and contrasted with an almost sensual vividness against the alabaster skin and masses of ash-blond hair. The only bright color about her was the pale
rose of her mouth and the purple hue of her eyes, everything else either light or dark.
It was only when they were preparing to leave the small cemetery that she did something on her own. Blindly turning back toward the half-filled grave, she walked to its edge and, standing there, she looked a long time at the gold band on her finger, and then with infinite slowness removed her wedding ring and dropped it into the grave.
Time passed as it always does, but nothing seemed to shake Beth from her dreamlike state. She slept for hours and hours each day and night, hating to awake from the blessed blankness o^ the laudanum that she took with frightening regularity. The laudanum helped to make everything hazy and keep at bay the ugly, unwelcome reality that awaited her if she allowed its stupor to wear off.
Most people were highly sympathetic to her grief, believing erroneously that she and Nathan had been so madly in love that she was unable to cope in a world without him any longer. And of course, there was a great deal of pity for so young and beautiful a widow, a lovely creature with no family or friends of long standing to share her sorrow with. Naturally the Santanas were doing all that was right and proper, but they were, after all, only chance-met acquaintances, and somehow that wasn't the same as family, no matter how kind and considerate they were.
As for Rafael, for the time being he was, if not content, at least willing to leave the consoling to the women in his family. Let Dona Madelina and Senora L6pez hover over her and coddle her—it was probably what she needed most.
Rafael didn't for one second believe that she had been so deeply in love with Nathan that she couldn't bear the thought of the future without him. He quite vehemently refused to credit such a reason for her listless, shocked state. Instead he chose to lay the blame on something nearer the truth—that Beth's condition came as much from
the horror of seeing Matilda Lockhart and the eruption of violence that followed, as well as her own brush with death, as it did from her husband's
tragic demise. He didn't doubt that she grieved for Nathan, but he couldn't accept the idea that it was only his death that had turned Beth into a lovely zombie.
Rafael was nearer the mark than he realized. But what he discounted was something he had no way of knowing—that Beth was suffering under a crushing load of the strongest guilt imaginable. And it was to escape from facing it that she kept herself half drugged with laudanum and kept any emotions from disturbing the soothing emptiness she felt inside.
It had been her idea to visit Stella. It had been her desire to travel the southern route instead of joining up with the spring caravan to Santa Fe. It had been she who had wanted to visit Rancho del Cielo. She who had decided to terminate the journey and return to Santa Fe. And in death she imparted to Nathan all sorts of virtues he hadn't possessed. There was also her admitted fascination for Rafael Santana, and that tormented her far more than anything else. Nathan's death, she thought dully one night before the laudanum completely clouded her brain, was God's punishment on her for her lustful preoccupation with Rafael, that and her capricious and willful disregard of her husband's very reasonable wishes.
In her orgy of guilt and condemnation, Beth chose to forget that Nathan hadn't been forced to come with her—too, that he had been the one who insisted upon attending the fateful meeting with Rafael! She also refused to remember his selfish reason for marrying her, his philanderings, and his gambling and drinking excesses. She remembered only the good—his kindness to her and his concern for her happiness—and she made him into a saintly being who was totally unrecognizable as Nathan Ridgeway. Eventually her own good common sense would exert itself, but for the present she wandered in an unhappy haze through the days that followed, the effects of laudanum never completely out of her system.
While Beth drifted in her self-induced haze, Rafael ^ had not been idle. The day after the funeral, to his K surprise he received a note requesting his presence at K the Mission San Jose, where Colonel Fisher and his B 329
Louisiana 08 - While Passion Sleeps Page 33