Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  “He could have run off with her anyway, if he’d really cared about her.”

  “I dunno. Maybe something happened so he couldn’t come back to claim her.”

  He laughed harshly. “Like what?”

  She shrugged. “If he was underage, maybe his family found a way to stop him. Or maybe he got sick and died. The Mexican War was just starting, maybe he was a Texas Ranger and got killed in it.”

  “He could have given me his name,” the cowboy said very softly. “You know how much that would have meant to me, how humiliating it is for a kid to have it advertised to the whole world that his old man didn’t give enough of a damn to give a woman and child his name?”

  Beneath the cocky, wisecracking façade was a deeply hurt, bitter man, she realized. “Oh, Bandit, I never realized how much you hurt. Didn’t she give you any clues?”

  He swallowed hard, and for a long moment in the silence, she did not think he would answer. “Sokol,” he said finally. “When she was dying, she took my hand, managed to say ‘sokol.’ Something about the desperation in her face told me it was important.”

  Mona furrowed her face in thought. “Sokol. Don’t think I ever ran across that before. Is it Czech?”

  Bandit put his hands in his pockets, went over to stare out the window. “Who knows? Everywhere I’ve gone in the years since she died, I’ve asked if there’s an hombre by that name, but I’ve found nothing.”

  She frowned, thinking. “Maybe it’s not a man’s name, maybe it’s a town.”

  He shook his head. “Not in Texas. I’ve checked every map.”

  “Maybe another state?”

  “I can hardly go runnin’ around the whole country tryin’ to pinpoint a town that I don’t even know exists, can I now?” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “Anyway, what in blue blazes does it matter? If I found the town of Sokol or a family by that name, what would I do? Maybe it means nothin’ at all, just the loco ramblings of a dying whore.”

  Mona winced at the pain in his voice. “And that’s your only clue?”

  He touched the necklace he wore. “This belonged to her, and before that, my grandmother. Supposedly, the Apache who raped her put it around her neck to protect her. And then there’s this.” He reached into his pocket, took out a coin, flipped it to her. “Lidah put this coin in my hand as she died, closed my fingers over it. Whatever it was she was trying to say, she never got it out.”

  Mona turned the small item over and over in her palm. “I don’t think this is a coin, maybe a religious medallion of some kind.”

  “Who the hell knows?” He caught it as she flipped it back to him, slipped it in his pocket. “Wouldn’t that be a laugh, though? I always figured a customer paid her with it, or some gambler gave it to her as a lucky piece.” He laughed without mirth. “Didn’t bring her much luck, did it?”

  “Whores never have much luck, Bandit.” Mona blinked back tears; feeling sad, bereft. “We worry about ending up old and sad and lonely.”

  “Is that why you decided to marry Aimée’s father?”

  Mona nodded. “I always wanted to be a lady, did you know that? One of them fancy high-tone ladies I saw driving along in their fine carriages when I was a poor Irish druggist’s daughter in New Orleans.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, and she knew he was remembering that first night—all the nights, over the years, that they had comforted each other. “You’ll always be high class to me, Mona.”

  “That’s one thing I always appreciated about you, Handsome.” She laughed. “You always treated me like I was a real lady, never asked me how I got into this business.”

  “I reckon I figured you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “No woman ever expects to end up in a whorehouse permanently.” She smiled wistfully. “I was making deliveries for Pop’s drugstore, to the elegant parlor houses in the French Quarter. I didn’t see anything except the girls had pretty clothes, good times. It looked better than being one of a dozen kids in two rooms over a pharmacy.”

  She thought about her other secrets. No, she wouldn’t tell him that it had been she who had casually told Lidah, one lonely Christmas Eve, about the matches. A druggist’s daughter knew things like that, knew that old-fashioned lucifer matches and fireworks were two things that contained yellow phosphorus.

  “I hope you manage to pull this off, Mona.”

  “Thanks, Bandit. I need a second chance bad.”

  “So do I, Mona. You know, I wouldn’t tell anyone but you this, but a few weeks ago, I got so down and out, I ended up on my knees in a church, beggin’ for a miracle.” He looked a little embarrassed, chagrined. “Stupid, huh?”

  “Not so stupid. Looks like you may get your miracle.” She went over, put her hand on his arm. “You deserve it, Handsome. Oh, you may have charmed a few ladies out of money, you may have branded a few cows that weren’t yours; but by God, you got honor, and that’s more than a lot of fine gentlemen can say. You deserve a break.”

  She turned away so he wouldn’t see her face, and took a deep breath before she asked what she really wanted to know. “You gonna marry that little brunette?”

  “If she’ll have me.” He sounded sad, uncertain.

  Mona turned, looked up at him. He had a deep cleft in his chin that made women want to puta fingertip in it. “If I marry her old man, we’re gonna end up controlling two of the biggest fortunes in Mexico. Not bad for a pair like us. Once in a while, do you suppose we could still meet somewhere in secret? You know—”

  “Mona, I’d better make something clear.” His voice was as cold as his eyes. “I’m not marrying her for her money. I’d take her if she didn’t have a dime, but I don’t think she wants me.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “So the Bandit has finally fallen in love! And she’s paying you back in spades for all the women you’ve loved and left.”

  She saw the startled expression on his face as if he were realizing for the first time how much she cared for him. “Both these marriages can work if we give them a chance, Mona.”

  She couldn’t control her anger now. “So that’s how it will be? I’m supposed to be faithful to that fat old fool, thinking about you in her arms? Spend the rest of my life treating you in the polite, detached manner I’d use with a son-in-law?”

  “We’re both going to be honorable about this, Mona. And you’d better stop treating Aimée like you were Cinderella’s wicked stepmother and she was Cinderella.”

  Aimée. Beloved. Jealous pain clutched her heart and she tried not to imagine him in bed with the girl, whispering endearments to her. Mona had been Bandit’s first woman. But Amethyst was going to be his last. “I didn’t know when I taught you a little French you’d use it on another woman. I was hopin’ that just once in a while, we could—”

  “No, Mona, don’t even think it.” He turned back to look out the window. “I don’t know whether this is a miracle or just a lucky break, but we’re going to behave honorably. We’re gonna spend the rest of our lives pretending our pasts never happened. We’re lucky to get a fresh start. Most people never do.”

  Tears came to her eyes, and she tried to blink them away, not wanting to humble herself. “That’s easy for you to say. You get the girl you love. Does she love you?”

  The face he turned toward her was troubled. “I—I don’t honestly know.”

  “Does she know about you? Know you aren’t the heir?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You really think you’ll be able to pull this off?” she asked softly. “Step into that boy’s shoes? Suppose he comes riding in someday and wants everything that belongs to him, including her?”

  She couldn’t read his expression. “That’s the least of my worries.”

  “You dismiss that idea pretty lightly.”

  Bandit shrugged. “If he hasn’t come back in sixteen years, he won’t ever. Nobody says it, but everyone thinks the little boy was killed right after he was kidnapped.”

  She wondered abou
t that for a long moment, imagined a little boy lying dead somewhere in an unmarked grave. So many mysteries. So many secrets to hide. She had some of her own. Two deaths because of her loose tongue.

  He flipped the coin over and over. “What kinda odds you think a gambler would give on a saddle tramp like me finding a girl like Aimée, walkin’ into a deal like this?”

  “Not an icicle’s chance in hell, Handsome.” Mona smiled at him, loving him even though she could never have him. How many women married one man, then spent the rest of their lives dreaming of the true love who got away? It would be worse for her. She would have to see him all the time, know that every night he made love to another woman.

  “I even got a daddy out of it.” His voice broke a little. “And old Falcon is just the kind of dad I would have chosen, just as this family is like the one I always dreamed of belonging to. So, sí, if that little violet-eyed beauty will have me, I’m gonna marry her, take the Falcon family as my own, and raise a dozen kids for that old man to bounce on his knee.”

  Mona bit her lip to keep the tears from coming, thinking of the life that lay ahead of her, in bed with that fat old fool, sneaking around to meet Romeros, always worried someone would find out about the murder. “I’m happy for you, Handsome, really happy. How ’bout one last kiss for old times’ sake?”

  “Well. . . .” He came into her outstretched arms, kissed her gently on the cheek. “Try to make old Durango happy, Mona, he seems like a good guy.”

  “Kiss me like you used to kiss me in Gun Powder, all those times in Miss Fancy’s place before I went back to New Orleans. One last time, Handsome, a memory to do me the rest of my life.”

  “Mona, Mona, I’m sorry things have gone so badly for you,” he murmured, “but thank you for what you did one long-ago night for a lonely, grieving boy.”

  And he kissed her the way she remembered, his mouth coming down to dominate hers as she clung to him breathlessly, loving him, wanting him. That first time, she’d taught him about love. But years later at Miss Fancy’s in San Antone when he was a grown, virile man, he’d opened doors of pleasure to her she’d never known existed. The student had become an expert teacher.

  For a long moment, she clung to him, loving him, wanting him as she had never craved another man.

  Then he unclasped her arms from around his neck, looked down at her. “You okay?”

  “Now why wouldn’t I be?” She forced herself to be bright and snappy, the way all men liked their whores. “I’m gonna be just fine, Bandit. Don’t worry about me. I’ve learned to roll with the punches.”

  “I just thought you looked a little shaken—”

  “Who, me?” she scoffed. “Naw, I’m just great. Now run along home before someone sees us together.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  How could there be when she loved him so very much? “Of course not, Handsome. We’ll pretend today never happened. I’m used to compromising, being a realist.”

  He crossed to the door, turned with his hand on the knob, looked back at her. She smiled and shrugged in her best, brassy way. “Go on, Bandit. See you later.”

  He went out and she stood listening to the echo of his boots in the hall and then the sound of the big pinto cantering away.

  With a tired sigh, she walked over to the sideboard, green silk skirts swishing in the silence. Fine crystal, elegant clothes, money, social position, she had it all now, or soon would have.

  Her hand trembled as she poured a sherry, gulped it down, savored the taste. Better be careful, you’ll end up just like Lidah, she cautioned herself. No, Mona wasn’t going to be a helpless victim, she was going to do a little compromising and be a victor.

  And what had she won? She’d be in love with one man, married to another, and the unwilling mistress of a third. But she was now a lady—a real lady—and that was what she had always dreamed of.

  Then why did this dream seem like such a nightmare? She’d trade all the money, the social position, to run away with Bandit if he’d ask her. But now she knew he never would. Mona slumped down on the burgundy horsehair sofa and wept for a love that could never be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Old Cougar sat his favorite sorrel war pony, looking down at the sleeping camp of the whites. The dawn threw a pink light on the eastern hills. He raised his arm, signaling the warriors to make ready.

  Cedar choppers. His lip curled with disdain. Even the tejanos sneered at these poor, Gypsylike people. The tents looked ragged, the sleepy mules ribs showed plainly through their matted coats.

  The Kickapoo chief to his right scratched his war-painted face and muttered. “We waste our time. These makers of charcoal have nothing worth taking.”

  Cougar grunted in agreement. “Maybe so. But it is enough for the Kickapoo to wreck vengeance against the tejanos in exchange for Dove Creek, is it not?”

  The Kickapoo chief Chequamkako nodded. “We were not on war terms with the Texans until they attacked us as we passed through, going down to Mexico.”

  Cougar nodded. The name of the chief’s tribe meant: “He who moves about, standing now here, now there.”

  He knew the Kickapoo had drifted from Kansas down into Mexico for many years without trouble. But during that time the gray-coated soldiers fought the blue-coated ones, the Texans had attacked a Kickapoo camp on Dove Creek and there had been much death on each side. The Kickapoo had been fighting Texans ever since.

  Cougar said, “The white camp looks poor, but perhaps there will be a gun or two, maybe a pretty woman for the brothels of Remolino. Anyway we owe the tejanos vengeance, and our young men grow restless if we do not let them raid.”

  “I don’t see your grandson anywhere.” Chequamkako, all painted for war, shifted his weight on the bay.

  Cougar’s heart twisted in his scarred chest. He knew he was being chided, yet the boy was so dear to him. “The boy is all I have left of my whole family,” he said. “Later he will take my place as chief, lead our people again in our old lands to the north.”

  The Lipan on the black horse at Cougar’s other side snorted. “Until you allow him to lead war parties, he’ll lack knowledge to carry on the fight against the bluecoats.”

  “The next raid,” Cougar said with a sigh, clutching his lance. Last night, that vision had come to him again in his sleep. What did it mean? He wished he could ask Mangas, but the great chief had been murdered while a prisoner ten years ago. Cougar and a few of his people had fled Arizona after the Camp Grant Massacre of Apaches in 1871.

  Now the sun showed its rim, reflecting off his armor. Along the perimeter of the cedar-studded hills, the warriors of the three tribes sat their horses, waiting for his signal. What poor trophies lay below them. The wear parties had almost cleaned out anything worth taking along the border, and now they had ridden into the southern edge of the hill country.

  He shook back his free-flowing, white hair, remembering the many times he had fought his enemies, the Comanche; the times he and his old comrade, Cochise, had fought the blue coats. More and more, he lived in the past, remembered past battles, past triumphs.

  The Lipan cleared his throat by way of reminder, and Cougar felt shamed. Perhaps he was too old to lead anymore. Perhaps he should sit by the fire and stare into the flames. Someday maybe he would do that. But today he was alive, the blood pumping through his stout heart. Today he was a warrior.

  With a shrill cry, he brought his arm down and kneed his sorrel pony, charging down the rocky limestone hill along with the others. Around him, the cedar groves came alive with painted, shrieking braves, ponies decorated with coup stripes and war paint. The coming sun reflected off the spear points, the arrow tips. Cougar took a deep breath of the cedar scent, felt his heart beat strongly under the armor. Today he was alive. Today he was a warrior and the taste of battle lay sweet on his tongue.

  White men stumbled half-dressed from the ragged tents, grabbing for old rifles. Women screamed, ran in circles, blind with panic. Somewhere a lean hound bark
ed, and thin mules pulled their picket pins, braying loudly as they galloped from the camp.

  Acrid gun smoke drifted as rifles cracked, the sharp sounds echoing and reechoing through the hills. A warrior’s shout of challenge ricocheted off the rocks. Horses neighed and plunged, women shrieked and ran. A brave cried out, clasped his hands to his brown chest, attempting vainly to stem the blood pumping out between his fingers. His eyes were wide with surprise as he slipped from his paint horse, went down beneath its drumming hooves.

  Cougar aimed his lance, threw it. It caught a white man in the chest, pinned him against a tree. The man struggled like a speared rabbit, but the blood didn’t show on the red underwear he wore. Cougar dismounted, reached for his bow. Around him, Apaches vaulted from their horses. His people had never fought well from horseback like the Comanche and Cheyenne, nor did they use tomahawks, preferring instead their knives, their sturdy mulberry wood bows.

  Under the metal breastplate, he felt sweat running in the coming heat of the day as he put an arrow to his bow, pulled back. Aiee! Today he was a young man again, riding on his first war party, never mind that the locks hanging free around his bent shoulders were white as the snow on the mountains of his own country.

  He let the arrow fly, caught a running gringo in the back, saw him fall, reached for another arrow. Apaches cared little for scalping like some of their plains brothers. The kill, the victory was what they lusted for.

  A young white woman, only partially dressed, ran toward them, went to her knees, begging in her strange language for mercy. Mercy. The trio of white men who had tortured his son and pregnant daughter-in-law to death had shown no mercy. Still, he hesitated, listening to the words. Not the language of the Texans or the Mexicans. An old memory stirred deep, a memory he’d locked away, forgotten.

  Even as he opened his mouth to save the woman, warn the others away, a thrown lance caught her right through her naked breast. She pawed at the shaft sticking from the pale flesh, looked up at him with disbelief for a long moment. Then she pitched forward on her face, breaking off the lance.