Capture The Night

by Geralyn Dawson

  Julian sighed and for a long moment remained silent. Then he said, “I always hoped that someday she’d confess the truth. I couldn’t kill Bernadette without destroying the possibility of ever learning what had happened to Nicole. I knew she loved Celeste. It seemed a fitting revenge.”

  Brazos looked from Julian to Madeline, and back to Julian again. “This Bernadette. Was she a schemer? Could she have orchestrated an elaborate ploy to get back at you?”

  “Look at what she told Celeste. She didn’t mind hurting her daughter with her lies. That should give you your answer.”

  “Nicole,” Brazos said thoughtfully. “How old would she be?”

  “Mid-twenties.”

  Being the game player that he was, Brazos had always been adept at solving puzzles. As the pieces of this particular game fell naturally into place, he folded his arms, slowly shook his head, and said, “Well, roll me on the beach and call me Sandy.”

  Desseau looked at him as though he were crazy. Madeline rolled her eyes and made an inelegant noise. Brazos began to laugh. “This is great,” he said, turning the rocking chair over next to Julian. He approached the bed and grabbed Madeline’s hand mirror from its surface. “It’s sort of like looking through lace curtains at first, but if you study it, it’s plain to see. Sit down, Maddie, and look at this.”

  Obviously, Madeline believed he’d lost his mind. “Brazos,” she protested, “there are reasons I am holding a gun on the man. He had threatened to kill me, you remember?”

  Warmth stole through Brazos that left him feeling kind of fuzzy. Tenderly, he said, “Trust me on this one. Come here, Beauty. Come gaze into you magical mirror and see all your dreams come true.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Julian exclaimed, his wide-eyed gaze locked on the mirror in Brazos’s hand. If possible, his face looked even whiter than before. “Where did you get that?”

  Brazos was concentrating on Madeline. He held out his hand for her and when she took it, he led her to the rocker. Her eyes were dark honey as she gazed up at him, and he smiled gently, held up the mirror, and said, “Look, Beauty, who do you see?”

  Tears gathered in Julian Desseau’s eyes, and he whispered ever so softly, “Nicole?”

  “Brazos?” she said fearfully.

  “Look, Maddie, a younger feminine version of the same face. The letter promised you family, didn’t it? This man isn’t Celeste’s father. He’s yours.”

  Ever so slowly, Madeline’s hand stretched out to touch the face of the mirror the reflection of the man whose eyes streamed tears. His lips moved, and as if from far away, she heard his words. “I commissioned the mirror for my first wife, Anne, upon the birth of our daughter Nicole. I brought the diamonds back from Africa during Anne’s confinement. I purchased the emeralds in Italy on our wedding trip. Bernadette found it among Anne’s things when she moved into Château St. Germaine. I didn’t like giving it to her I thought it should be kept for Nicole. But Bernadette fancied it.”

  “The stones matched her eyes,” Madeline said in a small voice. “She used to say that. Her eyes were emerald green, and mine are only brown.”

  “Like mine,” Julian whispered. Two pairs of watery dark eyes met and held in the looking glass.

  A hesitant smile was forming on Madeline’s face when a pounding sounded on the door and a man’s voice cried, “Help me. Sinclair help! Indians have taken Lillibet and Thomas.”

  Brazos wrenched open the door and a bloodied André Brunet stumbled into the room. A bright red stain seeped across the white linen of his shirt as he clutched at Brazos’s sleeve and panted, “Snuck into our shelter. Whisked them away. Others, too. Juanita. And…” His eyes sought Madeline’s, apologetic and fearful. “And Rose. The Indians took Rose.”

  JULIAN DESSEAU pinned both his gaze and his hopes upon the broad-shouldered Texan riding ahead of him. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, from the events of a day that had dangled his greatest dream before his eyes before whisking it away in a cloud of red Texas dust.

  Indians. He had heard the stories of Comanches and Kiowas who arrived with the full moon, hooting and stealing and scalping. Killing. He grimaced with despair.

  Why had the savages attacked now and in this manner, stealthily and in broad daylight? Confusion had been the order of the day as witnesses described savages, painted and feathered, to the men of La Réunion who attempted to organize a rescue mission. But while the Europeans discussed their options, Sinclair had quietly studied the tracks leading from the village, his countenance hard and unyielding.

  He’d offered quiet reassurance to his wife—Madeline or Mary or Nicole, Julian would have to figure out what to call her—as he informed her that the doctor was on his way. He instructed her to remain in the cabin until he returned. “Something about this smells like an acre of onions, Maddie,” he’d said. “Those weren’t Indian ponies they were riding. Every last one of those horses was shod.”

  “You’ll find her?” Madeline had asked, her gaze searching Sinclair’s as she held a bloodied rag to Brunet’s wound.

  “My word on it.”

  Julian and Brazos had left the village before the colonists had made a decision as to who should lead the posse. They followed the tracks west, seldom speaking, each man occupied with his own thoughts. Hoof prints and bruised bushes told the story of rapid retreat by a dozen or so men. Brazos yanked his horse to a halt and muttered a vile curse. Julian patted the sleek, sweaty neck of his mount and inquired, “What?”

  “They’ve split. I was afraid of this.” For the first time, Julian noticed a light of hesitation in Brazos’s eyes. “Are you anything of a tracker Desseau?” the Texan asked.

  “My experience is limited to hunting game; I don’t hunt men.”

  “You did a pretty good job with my wife,” Brazos muttered, walking his horse in a widening circle around the fork in the trail. He cursed again when he spotted a tatter of pink satin snagged on the tall stem of a sunflower.

  Julian said, “My daughter—are you able to tell anything, anything at all?”

  Brazos shrugged. “Twelve horses rode away from La Réunion, taking four of our women and two children with them. They’re riding double on four horses, but Rose and Thomas don’t weigh enough to show. Up till now, it figures that six of the twelve carried one of our people with them. But see this?” Brazos pointed to the ground. “That’s a man’s footprint. They got off their horses here and rearranged folks before splitting up. Two of ‘em cut away toward the northeast. The rest are headed straight out west toward Comancheria.”

  “Why would they divide themselves? Is this the way of Indians?”

  Brazos clutched his reins and stared out toward the horizon. “No. That isn’t their way a’tall. That’s why I’m fair to middling certain that we aren’t dealing with Indians here today.”

  Julian’s eyes went wide and hopeful. “No?”

  “A host of folks don’t know it, Desseau,” Brazos replied with deceptive calm, “but there are worse things roaming the Texas plains than Indians.”

  Only the hard edge to his eyes betrayed the rage that was seething inside him. Somehow, despite all of his plans and precautions, Salezan’s men had found Juanita. He had failed her and in doing so had placed three other women and two innocent little babies in jeopardy. He deserved to be horsewhipped.

  And he had a decision to make. The scrap of satin indicated that Juanita rode one of the horses that had split off the trail. She was alone with one of Salezan’s men and in terrible danger.

  So, which trail did he follow? He owed Juanita his life. He’d crossed an ocean to help her. But the Europeans were as innocent as newborn lambs out here on the prairie; he could not in good conscience abandon them. He pictured Rose in the arms of one of Salezan’s sadistic goons.

  “Time’s a-wastin’,” he said, spurring his horse and following the set of tracks headed west. “Waiting to climb a hill won’t make it any smaller.” His only choice was to make quick work of rescuing the colonists
. He could sent them back to La Réunion with Desseau—surely, Considérant’s bunch would find their way out here eventually—and then head out after Juanita.

  God only help him if he didn’t get it all done in time. As he rode, he said a short prayer of thanks involving his one comfort in this entire disaster. At least, Madeline wasn’t in danger.

  MADELINE HEARD the cawing of crows from the pecan tree outside her window as she wiped André Brunet’s brow and smiled into eyes glassy with pain and worry. “You’ll be all right, André,” she said in a soothing voice. “The doctor said the bullet passed right through the fleshy part of your shoulder. You’ll be sore for a few days, but your recovery will be total.”

  “Not me,” he replied weakly. “Lillibet and Thomas. Your Rose.”

  This time, Madeline’s smile was forced. “They’ll be fine, too. Brazos promised me he’d find them and bring them home. He’s never lied to me, André, not once. He has help, also. Did you notice the other man here? That’s my father. He tracked me all the way from France. Now, if he managed to find me from that far away, you know that he’s not going to allow a few Indians to stand in the way of finding his…of finding Rose.”

  Her father. She’d yet to adjust to the idea; she wondered if she ever would. For so long now, she’d thought of him as an evil demon, but instead, it appeared as if the wicked one had been her stepmother, Bernadette. Why was it she accepted that idea with little effort? Perhaps because she’d never forgotten the beautiful woman whose words had been so cruel. Madeline’s gaze drifted toward the bed where the mirror—her mother’s mirror—lay face down.

  She’d been right. The looking glass was enchanted. A gift given and received in love naturally possessed powers beyond the norm. Anne—such a simple, beautiful name. Had she loved Julian to such a great extent that the emotion transcended time and space? Was it a mother’s love that called to her daughter, compelling the child to clasp a symbol of that love to her heart?

  Madeline liked the idea that her mother had found a way to reach beyond death and offer comfort during difficult times. It was nice to imagine that Anne Desseau had been with her in spirit all these years. And I need you with me now, Mama, Madeline thought.

  What could be more difficult than knowing Rose was in danger?

  “Indians.” André’s voice trembled as he restlessly stirred. “The savages do horrible things, though, Madeline. My Lillibet, she could not survive such treatment. And she’s carrying our baby. What if…”

  The stifling heat inside the cabin seemed to intensify. Madeline licked her dry lips and said, “Don’t think that way, André. Lillibet is strong, and she can survive anything she faces. I know that for a certainty.”

  He clutched her hand and pleaded, “Do you truly think so?”

  “Yes, André, I mean it. Now, why don’t you rest for a while.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

  The cabin door banged open. Madeline’s startled gaze darted between the stranger’s brutal eyes and the gun he held in his hand. “Well, well, well, isn’t that sweet,” the man said in a cruelly amused voice. “I must say, Miz Sinclair that after the promises I’ve made, I’m proud to see you being free with your kisses. It’ll make things easier in the long run.” Pushing back the brim of his hat with his index finger, the man sauntered into the room, saying, “I’ll give you five minutes to gather a bag of clothing—only clothing, you understand. I will be watching.”

  “What is going on? Who are you?” She stood up, her spine as stiff as the hardwood logs that formed the walls of her house. Inside, however; she was quaking. “This is my home. I’m not leaving here.”

  “Four minutes, Miz Sinclair. I suggest you hurry up about it if you don’t want to live in that dress for the next few months.”

  “Months!”

  “It’s a right far piece to Vera Cruz.”

  “Vera Cruz?”

  The man’s gaze roamed around the room, and he spied her carpetbag lying in a corner, He kept his gun trained on her as he walked over and lifted the bag. Tossing it to her, he said, “Mexico. You’ve three minutes left, Miz Sinclair. I suggest you include something warm. The mountains are cold even in the summer.”

  “Mountains,” Madeline repeated. “Vera Cruz.” She stuffed clothes into her case. Filled with dread, she anticipated the answer to the question she was about to ask. “Just where in Mexico do you think to take me?”

  It came as no surprise when the stranger replied, “The Castle of San Carlos. Otherwise known as Perote Prison.”

  JULIAN DESSEAU couldn’t seem to quit crying. He didn’t remember ever having cried before, not when Nicole disappeared or even at the time of Elise’s kidnapping. But now, as he carried his sleeping daughter in his arms on the return trip to La Réunion, tears flowed incessantly down his face.

  Less than an hour after their brief stop at the fork in the trail, he and Sinclair had topped a hill and spotted Lillibet Brunet, holding her son, Thomas, in her arms and leading a ragtag group of women east. Julian had listened absently as Sinclair exclaimed over the missing “Indians,” his gaze locked on the golden curls and sunny expression of the child toddling happily in front of the four women.

  With a gleeful shout of “Ba Ba,” Rose had run to Sinclair, and he’d scooped her into his arms and they’d exchanged kisses. Turning to Madame Brunet, the Texan had made quick work of ascertaining the ladies’ story, demonstrating little surprise when told they’d been literally dumped from the horses some half a mile west.

  Then came the moment Julian had dreamed of for months. “Miss Magic, there’s someone you must meet,” Sinclair had said, a strange light entering his eyes. “This here’s your papa.”

  The child had smiled brilliantly at Brazos, then gone without hesitation into Julian’s waiting arms. “Call her Rose, please, Desseau,” Sinclair had said. “Let’s not confuse matters for either her or Maddie at this point.” Then he’d turned to an obviously curious Lillibet Brunet and introduced Julian as Madeline’s father.

  That’s when the lump first formed in Julian’s throat. He’d held the heavenly weight in his arms and listened intently to Sinclair’s instructions for returning to the colony. After giving Rose another kiss, the Texan had ridden off as though the hounds of hell nipped at his horse’s hooves. As it turned out, the Europeans had walked for little more than an hour before the colonists’ search party found them. Little Rose fell asleep in his arms as soon as they’d climbed into the search party’s wagon.

  The band was less than a mile from La Réunion when the tears began to overflow. Julian sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving heavenward. No man on earth was as blessed as he. In but a single day he’d had restored to him God’s most precious gifts—gifts he’d feared had been lost to him forever. Many questions had yet to be asked, and he felt a burning need for answers. But even stronger within him was the desire to sit quietly and hold his daughters in his arms. Both of them.

  As the roofs of the village came into sight, he smiled and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Soon now, he’d be able to do just that.

  HAVING SPENT four long days in the saddle and three nights struggling to sleep on the cold, hard ground, Juanita should have appreciated the corn shuck mattress beneath her. But circumstances allowed her little comfort. She needed to keep her wits about her because she had absolutely no intention of allowing her life to come to an end in a dismal room in a whorehouse outside Corsicanna, Texas—especially not at the hands of a sadistic, leering Latin. She refused to play the victim again. She’d ended that part of her life when she’d fled Perote Prison along with Brazos Sinclair.

  She held her breath against the stink of urine, sex, and stale perfume emanating from the mattress. Honesty forced her to admit her part in this disaster. It was her own fault she’d been found by Salezan’s lackeys. She’d acted the fool by walking into Dallas with Monsieur Bureau, particularly without wearing that cursed mantilla her Sin forced her to don in public.

  Turning her head toward the
window, where moonlight beamed a silver ray through the darkness, Juanita smiled sadly. He wasn’t really her Sin, was he? He was Madeline’s Brazos. Watching the two of them together had been proof enough. Despite all her hopes, Juanita had recognized that Brazos Sinclair would never return the love she offered him. Brazos was her friend, nothing more. Accepting that, she’d decided to leave Texas for good.

  So she’d set her sights on the musical director, confident he had the connections to provide her with her second most treasured dream—to sing before an adoring audience in the great halls of Europe. Unhappy at La Réunion, Monsieur Bureau contemplated a return to Paris. Juanita had decided to secure an invitation to accompany him. Hence, the ill-fated trip into Dallas.

  She’d known the minute she’d been identified. Oh, she’d never seen the man, but the sense of evil crawling up her spine had been undeniable. More the fool she for not confessing her imprudence to Brazos that very day. If she had, she felt certain, she’d not be tied to a whore’s bed awaiting what threatened to be a particularly violent rape.

  Juanita knew she could survive such an experience. After all, she’d suffered a similar fate countless times at her husband’s hands. But she didn’t relish dying, and if she attempted yet another escape, the look in her captor’s eyes told her that death would be a distinct possibility.

  The obvious option was to do all within her power to delay any further travel until Brazos found her. Because Brazos would arrive—of that she had no doubt. In the meantime, she’d play the whore and do it so well that Salezan’s slimy little man would find it impossible to hurry about his business. He’d never realize that the roles of victim and offender had been transposed.

  As she watched the descent of the studded leather strap, Juanita retreated to that place within herself insulated from pain—that space so very similar to the one possessed by her dearly beloved friend. And she waited patiently for Brazos Sinclair.

  THE ROOM reeked of sex and sweat. Joaquin Cuellar rolled off Juanita’s supine figure and lay on his back, his forearm covering his eyes as he fought to catch his breath. He was exhausted. The woman had wrung from him the last vestiges of his energy.