Louisiana 08 - While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Rafael had his own reason for being, if not content, at least satisfied to have his family filling the empty rooms of the house in San Antonio. It gave him an odd sense of belonging for the first time in his entire life and he found it a good feeling, one he did not necessarily wish to disrupt. He and his father had exchanged more conversation in the past week than they had in all the years that had gone before, and even Dona Madelina, confronted by a man who was a gracious and considerate host, seemed to have lost her fear of her tall intimidating stepson and acted more relaxed and vivacious in his presence.

  As for Beth, the possibility that she should return to Natchez never crossed anyone's mind except her own. Somehow, during the days that had followed Nathan's death, it had been assumed that she would be remaining in San Antonio indefinitely. She was being, whether she was aware of it or not, gently but relentlessly absorbed into the Santana family.

  Sebastian had the most logical reason for believing that Beth would never return to Natchez. Rafael's tale of their long-time association made him naturally assume that with her husband dead Rafael would see to her future—and what better place for her to be than San Antonio? He still experienced a shaft of pain every time he thought of their liaison, but time was healing

  his bruised heart and he had very determinedly put Beth Ridgeway out of his plans for the future.

  If Sebastian had a logical reason for assuming that Beth would be staying in San Antonio, Don Miguel had an entirely irrational one. He wanted Beth to marry his son. Not only did he find her an enchanting young creature but she was also a wealthy widow and her father was an English lord, so why shouldn't this lovely, eminently suitable woman become a member of the Santana family? He had just about given up hope of his son ever marrying again, but every action Rafael had taken since Beth had come into his life filled Don Miguel with the optimistic idef^ that this woman had captured his son's stubborn, savage heart. The very fact that Beth and Nathan had been invited to stay at Rafael's house gave a strong indication that his son was more than just a little interested. Don Miguel could remember at n
  It was true Beth had been widowed barely a week, but in a land where death was a way of Hfe, so was the forging of new life. As Don Miguel and Dona Madelina had discussed only the previous night, a few months' time would be a respectable interval between the death of one husband and the taking of another. This was not Spain, with its rigid, interminable, black-robed obeisance to death—this was Texas, where every moment of every day was to be lived!

  Rafael hadn't gotten quite that far in his thoughts, 342

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  and in actuality, marriage was the farthest thing from his mind. But he did begin to make immediate plans to go to Enchantress. There were men to be hired, supplies, wagons, livestock such as chickens, pigs, and milk cows to be bought, as well as myriad other things to be seen to.

  Don Miguel had been most displeased when he finally heard of the scheme, but, beyond pursing his lips in vexation, there was nothing he could do. His voice very dry, he asked, 'Isn't Cielo enough for you?"

  Rafael had glanced at him from under heavy, black brows and answered bluntly, ''No, and it never will be. Cielo belongs to the Santanas, but Enchantress will be mine!''

  Looking at Rafael's set face a few minutes later as they walked over to Bluck's Saloon for a bit of entertainment and whiskey, Sebastian inquired, "Enchantress has come to mean a lot to you, hasn't it?"

  Rafael pulled a wry face. "I don't know whether it's that, or simply that it has come to represent my freedom from Cielo."

  Sebastian could understand what Rafael meant. Hadn't he come west to escape from the almost overpowering influence of his own father?

  Together they walked into the saloon and made their way to the bar. A few men here and there called out a greeting to Rafael, but Sebastian noticed there were one or two who threw his cousin a nervous look, as if they suddenly expected him to turn into a bloodthirsty Comanche before their very eyes.

  They drank in companionable silence. Rafael lounging with his elbows and back resting against the wooden bar and lazily surveying the room. Sebastian assumed the same position and, glancing around, he became aware of someone who looked vaguely familiar sitting off at a table in the shadows. Turning to Rafael, he asked, 'Ts that Lorenzo sitting over there next to the blond fellow in the red shirt near the side door?"

  Rafael's eyes moved casually around the room. Finding the man Sebastian referred to, he returned, "Probably. Lorenzo's like a snake, always slithering into view when you least expect him."

  Sebastian whistled under his breath. "There really is enmity between you two, isn't there? I thought Lorenzo was just exaggerating, that night at Cielo when he said he must leave before you arrived. He wasn't, was he?"

  Rafael's gaze sharpened and he asked, "What night at Cielo?"

  "Why, the night that I arrived with the Ridgeways," Sebastian said with some surprise. "Is it important?"

  The smoky gray eyes suddenly bleak, Rafael shrugged. "No, but I find it interesting." And driven by some inner need to know, he asked baldly, "Did you happen to notice if Lorenzo paid any particular attention to the fair Mrs. Ridgeway^"

  Sebastian didn't like his tone of voice. There was something dangerous in it. Feeling as if he were stumbling through a field pitted with traps, he said slowly, "Not that I observed." Frowning as he tried to remember that evening, he added, "If anything, Beth seemed to dislike him. It wasn't anything you could put your finger on, just that she seemed to avoid his company and did not seem to have a great deal to say to him."

  Rafael smiled grimly. "No, perhaps not."

  His young face troubled, Sebastian probed, "I don't mean to pry, but it seems that there is something you know about Lorenzo and Beth that I don't. Should I?"

  Rafael snorted. "No! Let's just say that in my advanced years, I am growing suspicious of every man who approaches my—er—mistress."

  It was possible, Sebastian conceded thoughtfully. Rafael would be a jealous lover, one who would brook no other man making advances to a woman he considered his own. And yet... and yet there was something about the entire situation that left him feeling he had missed the first act of a play.

  Referring back to Rafael's hostility toward Lorenzo, Sebastian said, "It must be rather difficult for the family if you and Lorenzo are such enemies. Have you always been so?"

  "Probably—Lorenzo has been involved in unscrupulous deals ever since I first met him, but I am in no mood to discuss precisely when I decided that the world

  would be a better place if Lorenzo were removed from it."

  "No wonder Lorenzo disappears whenever you're expected!"

  Rafael smiled, not a nice smile, and, nodding his head in the direction where Lorenzo had been seated, he said, "Naturally. And you'll note that he has already disappeared this time."

  It was true. Sebastian looked over to where Lorenzo had been seated and only an empty chair remained. Clearing his throat, he asked uneasily, "If you two hate each other so much—why hasn't the situation been resolved before now?"

  Taking a long drink of his whiskey, Rafael savored it a moment, considering Sebastian's question. "I suppose," he said finally, "because he hasn't quite made me angry enough.. ,yet!''

  Sebastian departed the next day, riding out at
dawn with his men and equipment. With Don Miguel's blessing he planned to make Cielo his temporary headquarters until some sort of dwelling could be erected on his own property. His going left a void; even Beth, still submerged in her misery, missed him, for he had been a lively spirit about the house.

  Not only did Sebastian's leaving create a void, but Rafael was seldom home these days either, leaving his guests to fend for themselves, which was no arduous task considering the well-trained servants at their call.

  Rising at dawn each morning, Rafael was up and about his business long before the others found their way downstairs, and many nights the house was dark and silent when he returned. His long hours were amply rewarded, though, for he was able to push thoughts of Beth and the future aside, and by the first of April he had assembled ever3^hing he might need for the initial trip to Enchantress. He made plans to leave San Antonio the following Wednesday, taking about ten men with him and ordering that the remaining fifteen or so men would follow with the slower, heavily laden wagons and the livestock.

  There had been little activity as far as the Coman-ches were concerned until very early April. Then, much

  to everyone's surprise, a lesser chief known to the Tex-ans as Piava came into San Antonio with a woman. There had been some earlier dealings with Piava, and the Texans had no reason to trust him—he was known to be crafty and treacherous. At any rate, he said that the Pehnahterkuh had many white captives and they were willing to exchange them for the Comanche prisoners held by the Texans.

  It was an unfriendly meeting, and, watching keenly from the sidelines, Rafael wondered if Piava was telling the truth, if indeed there were any captives left alive at all.

  Crossing quickly to Colonel^Fisher when Piava and the woman had left, Rafael said, "If I were you, Fd send out some of the best Rangers you have available and have them scout out the Comanche encampment. For myself, I wouldn't believe one word of what he said."

  Fisher took Rafael's advice and some of the more daring Rangers did indeed scout out the Comanche camp, returning to report that they saw few, if any, whites. Looking at Colonel Fisher pityingly, Rafael said bluntly, "I warned you—give up any hope of captives, they are all long since dead."

  It seemed Rafael was wrong, though, at least at first, because on Saturday, April the fourth, Piava brought in a Mexican captive and an adopted five-year-old girl by the name of Putnam. The white child had been as hideously abused as poor Matilda Lockhart, her face horribly marked by scars. She could speak no English and cried piteously for her Comanche "mother."

  Looking hard at Piava, the soldiers with their rifles cocked and ready behind him, Fisher demanded, "And the others? You said you had many."

  Piava and the braves who had accompanied him stared back with arrogance and hatred. Several of the warriors had their bowstrings notched as they sat on their ponies, ready to attack at the first sign of aggression by the Texans.

  Piava would not answer Fisher's questions. Instead he just gazed impassively at the white men. Angry and beginning to show it, Fisher probed repeatedly for more information about the captives, but to no avail. Piava

  flatly refused to discuss the other captives, but admitted finally that he did have one more white child for exchange.

  The Comanches were allowed to take two of the Indians held by the Texans, and in defeat Fisher angrily agreed that if they brought in the white child, they could have their choice of a Comanche prisoner.

  It was when Piava returned with another Mexican captive and a white boy, Booker Webster, that the Texans eventually learned the fate of the remaining captives. Once Piava had chosen his exchange prisoner and ridden off in great haste, the Texans began to question the boy, and it was then they heard of the final gruesome fate of the helpless white captives.

  Booker was about ten years old. His eyes haunted with remembered horror, his voice breaking as he choked back tears, he told the tale. "They tortured them, every one, to death!" he cried, his throat working with the emotion that ran deep inside him.

  Rafael, along with the others, listened to that high, frightened voice, and he felt his stomach muscles crawl. He had known what would happen, but it was far more chilling to hear it from a mere child, a child who had been spared only because he had been adopted by a Comanche family.

  Booker glanced around the room at the rigid faces and said with a gulp and a stammer, "Th-they t-t-tore their clothes o-o-off and m-m-made them—made them n-n-naked. They was... was staked out spread-eagle and...and th-th-then the squaws skinned them!" His bottom lip trembled but, as if driven to speak of it, he blurted out, "They s-s-skinned them alive...cut, cut them in stripes and... and..." He stopped, unable to continue. There was silence and then, not looking at anyone, his eyes on his bare feet, he said in an ashamed voice, "I couldn't do nothing! I could hear them all hollering and screaming and yelling and...and hollering and hollering, but there wasn't nothing I could do." He broke down and sobbed then, his anguish and shame at being unable to help the others obvious. Someone patted him kindly on the shoulder and there was a

  murmur of comforting words and one man passed him a glass of water.

  Recovering himself somewhat, Booker said in a firmer voice, 'The squaws was set on making them all suffer for what happened to the warriors, and... and... they w-w-worked all day and night on th-them." He shuddered, remembering what he had seen and heard. "Me and that little girl that was exchanged was the only ones that didn't get killed. All the rest, no matter what... b-b-baby or w-w-woman... they tortured them all. Th-th-they kept them alive just so they could bum th-th-them to death at the end."

  Rafael heard the tale without comment, then, looking at Fisher's shocked face, he couldn't help himself from saying bitterly, "And it could have ended so very differently. I trust you are satisfied with the results." He spun on his heels and walked away, too angry and frustrated to remain in the vicinity of the men who had so virtuously and righteously destroyed any hope for peace with the Comanches.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rafael returned to a quiet house. Don Miguel and his wife had left early that morning for an overnight visit with some of Dona Madelina's distant relatives, who lived several miles from San Antonio. Rafael had been dubious of the scheme for a number of reasons, the main one being the possibility of attack by the Comanches. But Don Miguel was insistent, and when he pointed out that they would be traveling with a well-armed escort, Rafael was forced to drop his objections. And of course the other reason was Beth Ridge way.

  It was true that Senora Lopez had stayed behind to keep proprieties, but Rafael still didn't like it. There would only be the two women in the house besides the servants until Don Miguel and Dona Madelina returned, once he himself left in the morning. But if Rafael had qualms about leaving Beth alone without a male protector, he was just as adamant that he would be leaving in the morning rather than postpone his trip another day or two until Don Miguel came back. Consequently he had already said his farewell to his father when Don Miguel had departed for the short visit.

  "You're certain, you won't wait until we return?" Don Miguel had asked almost plaintively.

  Rather suspecting that the entire purpose of the visit in the first place was to delay his departure, Rafael had replied coolly, ''Positive! You knew I was leaving on Wednesday before you planned this sudden trip. I'm sorry, mi padre, but everything is ready, and we pull out tomorrow at dawn for Enchantress."

  His handsome face disgruntled, Don Miguel snorted, "Enchantress! What a fanciful name! I'd like to know

  what Abel Hawkins was about when he chose that name

  for it!"

  The gray eyes steady on his father's face, Rafael had

  said, "Perhaps he had his wife in mind—she was an Enchantress, wasn't she? Just as her daughter was?"

  Don Miguel's features softened, an odd light in his dark eyes. "Yes," he had admitted in a low, husky voice. "Yes, your mother was indeed an Enchantress."

  At loose ends, with everything settled fo
r the departure the next day, Rafael found that time dragged interminably. After a solitary early-afternoon meal in the dining room, Beth and Senora Lopez having ordered trays, Rafael busied himself in going over all his arrangements, but that took little time, and to his intense annoyance he discovered that his thoughts had a decided tendency to stray to the forbidden subject of English.

  He had purposely not said anything to her directly about his trip to Enchantress, but he was certain she knew that he would be leaving in the morning—she couldn't help but know, considering how Don Miguel had grumbled about nothing else since he had learned of the plan. And while he had said his good-byes to everyone, including Senora Lopez, when night fell he had still said nothing to Beth.

  He had seen little of her, taken up with the preparations for departure, and she still spent an excessive amount of time in her room. Rafael didn't like it, but for once in his life, uncertain, he made no attempt to shake her from her lethargy, feeling that possibly she needed more time than most to come to grips with the tragedy that had widowed her so suddenly and unexpectedly. But his patience was growing thin. Nathan had been dead now for over two weeks, and he thought it time that Beth stopped hiding herself away from people and that she at least attempt to pick up the broken threads of her life. Precisely what those threads would be, he wasn't positive—he wasn't even certain that he wanted Beth making any decisions at this time— but he damn well wanted the pale little ghost with the sad eyes gone from Beth's body. He wanted her back again, back from the haunted world that she had retreated to,