The Tiger Lily

by Shirlee Busbee

  Along the stream banks and in the marshes the fragrant white swamp lilies bloomed, and in the forest and meadows other spring flowers burst forth in bright hues. Scarlet and lavender "prairie pointers," wild blue phlox, and delicate tulip-shaped pasqueflowers sprang up everywhere. Even the trees were covered with blooms—the creamy white flowers of the dogwood, the bright pink of the redbud, and the pale yellow clusters of the small sweetleaf tree were vivid patches of color against the many shades of green of the forest.

  Seated in the gazebo this particular day in mid-April, Sabrina was aware of a heaviness of spirit, a gnawing depression that was at odd variance with the lovely season. She should have been happy, feeling at one with the season, but instead she found herself withdrawing from it. But then, she admitted glumly, it was normal for her to feel this way this particular time of year. She felt this way every April. Every April since Brett Dangermond had come into her life six years ago.

  Six years, she thought with a start. Could it really have been that long since that day in the meadow when he had surprised her . . . and kissed her? With an unfortunate flash of pleasure, she also remembered that she had stabbed him.

  Incredible to realize that six long years had passed since that time, six years in which so much had happened. Not only to her but to the world. Napoleon was emperor of France; Spain and her possessions were a mere pawn in the new emperor's hands. Louisiana was no longer Spanish. It wasn't even French anymore—Napoleon had seen to that! Now it belonged to those brash Americans. Those gringos, Sabrina thought with a curl of her lip. England and France were still at war, a war that encompassed most of Europe and that was, many believed, inexorably dragging the fledgling United States into its conflagration. Thomas Jefferson was in his second term as President of the United States, and it was hoped, despite the impressment of seamen from American ships by the British and the disastrous effect the war in Europe was having on American trade, that he could steer his country unscathed through these perilous times.

  There was an even more immediate danger that faced Jefferson closer to home, though: the Spanish had not been pleased with the way Napoleon had sold the Louisiana Territory, and they were even more displeased that the United States had had the temerity to declare that the western boundary of the territory was the Rio Grande River, that the United States in fact owned all of Texas. Spain insisted angrily that the boundary was the Sabine River and that they were in fact prepared to defend the lands west of the Sabine River with force. The threat of war hung in the air, and for weeks now, Spanish troops and supplies had been pouring into Nacogdoches. Daringly the Spaniards had been sending their troops across the Sabine River into American territory, and the situation between the two countries was tense and volatile.

  But somehow all of those events seemed a long way from Sabrina on this beautiful day in April. There were other occurrences, painful incidents, that had marked the passage of time since Brett had ridden so suddenly into her life six years ago. And ridden just as suddenly from it, she reminded herself savagely, ignoring the curious twist of pain in the region of her heart.

  He had left within the hour, had gone before Sabrina even realized it, and she had told herself fiercely that she was glad. Glad that she didn't have to look again on his treacherous, lying face. But she knew that she lied. Sometimes during the past six years, when her spirit was low, when she was aware of a crushing loneliness, she would think that it might almost have been worth it to marry him, knowing what she did, rather than live without ever seeing him again.

  The days following Brett's abrupt departure, except for the period following Elena's death, had been the most miserable of Sabrina's life. Her situation was made even more painful this time because, when her mother had died, she and her father had at least been able to comfort one another. Not so after the ending of her exceedingly brief betrothal to Brett Dangermond. Alejandro was deeply upset with her and perhaps just a little hurt and bewildered that she could act so capriciously. A dozen times she nearly blurted out Constanza's secret, but the promise she had given the older woman sealed her lips.

  Her father did not reproach her, he didn't berate her, he merely shut her out, his displeasure obvious from the very way he kept her at a distance, the cool way in which he met her attempts at reconciliation. Even the servants seemed to radiate disapproval, Bonita saying forthrightly some two weeks after Brett's departure, "I do not understand you, chica! What were you thinking of to act as you did? It was disgraceful and unkind!"

  Torn between anger and resentment, Sabrina had glared at Bonita, the promise to Constanza stilling the furious words that choked her throat. But she could not let the comment pass, and sharply she demanded, "Why does he have everyone's sympathy? Why does everyone believe that it was all my fault? Haven't any of you thought that perhaps I might have had good reason to act as I did?"

  "Did you?" Bonita had asked in a softer tone, her brown eyes shrewd and considering.

  "I thought I did," Sabrina had said flatly.

  Bonita had looked thoughtful, and after that, Sabrina had noticed that there was a slight lessening of the disapproval that had seemed to follow her. Alejandro, too, unbent somewhat, love for his daughter overcoming his own disappointment. He had appeared puzzled and hurt, but gradually some semblance of their old relationship had been re-established, although it was never quite the same again. Sabrina had had too many secrets to be able to act as she once had, and Alejandro had been aware that some barrier lay between them.

  The news that Constanza had left the area had been relayed to Sabrina via Carlos. Three days after Brett had left, Carlos had arrived at the hacienda, and finding her alone, had mentioned casually that Senora Morales had suddenly packed up ever3^hing she owned and had departed for New Orleans. At least, he had thought it was New Orleans—she had once stated that she longed to go to Spain, and he wondered if that might have been her ultimate destination. Of course, Carlos had said, she could have gone anywhere, with anyone. . . .

  After Carlos had left, Sabrina had run away to the gazebo, and there she had wept bitter, angry tears, hating Brett for being what he was and hating herself for loving him in spite of it.

  The knowledge that she might be carrying Brett's child had kept her vacillating between terror that she was pregnant and the equally fervent hope that one day she would hold their child in her arms. But then, some ten days later, proof that she was not pregnant had appeared, and with a strange blend of regret and relief she had begun bleakly trying to gain some control over her life.

  At first she had had little success, the wound too new, too deep, too raw to heal easily. Reminding herself over and over again of Brett's ugly duplicity hadn't helped at all, and she had learned painfully that love is an obstinate, unpredictable emotion and that one cannot, despite the best intentions, always love wisely.

  A great deal of the time in those first painful days she had spent alone, much of it at the gazebo, and it was there nearly five weeks later that Ollie Fram had found her. She had been staring moodily out at the blue waters of the lake and had watched with open-mouthed astonishment as Ollie had ridden up to the gazebo.

  Her heart had been beating with heavy, uncomfortable strokes, but she had managed to say with credible calm, "Why, Ollie, what are you doing here?"

  Ollie had sent an oddly furtive glance around and then had slid from his horse. He had handed her an envelope and had muttered, "The guvnor said I wasn't to let anyone but you see me. Said you was to 'ave this and that I was to wait for your answer."

  The missive was curt and short:

  If there is to be a child, tell Ollie that your answer is yes. If it is yes, I will return at once and marry you.

  Brett

  For one tiny, weak moment, Sabrina had wished passionately that she could say yes, but then Constanza's tragic face had risen up before her and her mouth had twisted. Deliberately she had torn the note to shreds, the amber-gold eyes hard with purpose. Coldly she had said, "You can tell the 'guvnor' that
my answer is no!"

  Ollie had been obviously disappointed. His brown eyes had fixed hopefully on hers, and he had asked, "You won't change your mind?" When Sabrina had remained icily silent, he had gone on more forcefully, "Miss, these past weeks have been—well, I'll not wrap it in clean linen—they've been bloody awful. I don't know when the guvnor has been more cast down and yet so ripe and ready for trouble. Never know what is going to set him off! And I can't say that I've liked the accommodations we've 'ad across the river either!" Speculatively he had eyed her. "Why he insisted we stay there is beyond me! But every time I've suggested we move on, he's thrown me one of those black looks of his and growled something about 'unfinished business' with you. Said once I delivered this note and returned with your answer, we'd be moving—one way or the other."

  Sabrina had supposed she should have been touched that Brett hadn't left her to face the aspect of a child alone, but she wasn't. The knowledge that he hadn't thought anything of leaving Constanza alone in the same condition had eaten like acid in her heart. And to know that all these weeks when she had been suffering so dreadfully, wondering where he was and what he was doing, he had been just across the Sabine River in the small outpost of Natchitoches in the Louisiana Territory hadn't sat well with her. Stiffly she had said, "You can tell him I'm sorry he's had an unpleasant time of it—especially since it was so needless. But it doesn't change my answer."

  Disgustedly Ollie had stared at her. He had shaken his head and said gruffly, "I'll never understand you gentry! 'Ere's the guvnor pretending that he don't give a fiddler's damn, that you mean nothing to him, and 'ere you ate doing the same, when it's plain as the nose on your face that you're both lying through your teeth!"

  Sabrina had drawn herself up angrily. "You're impertinent!"

  Ollie had grinned. "That I am, miss, that I am! But it seems to me that someone 'as to take a 'and in this affair, and being as 'ow no one else seems to be doing it, I thought I'd best take a stab at it."

  He had spoken with such disarming sincerity that Sabrina had felt herself unbending. A small, sad smile had flitted across her face, and she had said softly, "Ollie, it won't do any good. My answer is still no. Tell him."

  Ollie's grin had faded, and his brown eyes had searched her face intently. What he had seen there must have convinced him that his case was hopeless, for he had sighed heavily and had said glumly, "Very well, miss." He had turned away and had remounted his horse. Gnawing nervously on his bottom lip, he had suddenly said with a rush, "Miss? Would you be so kind as to pass on a message to Lupe for me?"

  "Lupe?" Sabrina had repeated dumbly.

  Nodding his head vigorously, Ollie had said rapidly, "Lupe Montez. She works in the kitchen."

  "Oh, yes, of course—Bonita's godchild," Sabrina had answered, curiosity in her expression. "What do you want me to tell her?"

  "Only that I wasn't bamming her when I said the things I did," Ollie had muttered shyly. "Tell her to wait for me. I might be gone only a year, it might be ten, but if she feels the way I hope she does, she'll be waiting for me when I do return. And I will." He had stopped speaking, his monkeyface troubled and unhappy. "I don't want to leave her, but the guvnor needs me more than he ever did. Tell her that just as soon as I get the guvnor settled I'll be back for her—I swear it!"

  Without a further word, he had wheeled his horse about and disappeared. For a long time after the sound of his horse's passage through the forest had ceased, Sabrina had stood there staring blindly into space.

  Looking back on it now, Sabrina realized that it was then that she had begun to face reality and had stopped yearning for the illusion that had been her love for Brett Dangermond. She laid it to rest like a cherished dream that had become a nightmare, and with a fierce vigor she picked up the scattered threads of her former life.

  She had relayed Ollie's message to Lupe, and seeing the faint glow in the younger girl's big dark eyes, seeing the soft flush that lit her cheeks, Sabrina had been aware of envy. Lupe at least had hope.

  But delivering Ollie's message to Lupe had also brought the girl to Sabrina's attention, and some months later, when Bonita had broached the subject of training someone to take over some of her tasks, Sabrina had found herself casually suggesting Lupe. Bonita had been pleased, and Lupe, a sweet, gentle girl, had proved to be clever and quick to learn what was expected of her.

  As Sabrina thought of Bonita, her face clouded. Had Bonita known that her time was limited when she had wanted to begin training someone to one day take her place? Had she guessed that in less than a year, in late 1801, she would die of one of the many outbreaks of fever that swept through the area?

  Fate, Sabrina thought with a wry grimace. Fate did such strange things. Had it been fate in the fall of 1804 that had arranged for Tio Luis to be gored and killed by one of the bulls he had just purchased from her father?

  Sabrina shuddered remembering that dreadful day. Poor Tia Francisca! Who would have thought that Tio Luis's death would change her so drastically? Gone was the domineering, outspoken harridan who had ruled the de la Vega household with an iron hand. In her place had been left a pitiful, broken woman.

  The de la Vega ranch had greatly shrunk over the years, and upon Luis's death, Carlos had decided to sell the hacienda itself. His dark eyes shuttered, his mouth in ,a grim line, he had said to Sabrina, "Why should I keep it? It means nothing to me—especially since the woman I love will never share it with me." Sabrina had turned away, depressed that after all this time, he still seemed to care deeply for her.

  Alejandro had been greatly distressed not only by Luis's death and the tragic change in his sister but by Carlos's decision to sell his birthplace. There were many long, not always friendly, discussions between the two men, but eventually Alejandro had told Sabrina, "Carlos is, perhaps, wiser than I thought. He does not want to be in debt to me, though I have explained repeatedly that he is not to worry about it. But as he pointed out, with the sale of the hacienda and several hundred acres, he can pay me back and begin anew with fresh capital. I cannot blame him for wanting to be clear of debt and to manage the remaining lands his own way. It may be that Luis's death will be the making of him."

  Francisca and Carlos had moved in with Sabrina and her father after the de la Vega hacienda had been sold. It had seemed at the time to be a logical situation, but Sabrina had never quite gotten used to sharing a house with her aunt and cousin. Particularly since Francisca did little to hide her resentment of Alejandro and Carlos made no secret that he still harbored hopes of one day winning Sabrina's hand.

  It was strange, Sabrina thought gloomily, how the passage of time since Brett had departed seemed marked by death. First Bonita, then Tio Luis, and finally, just over a year ago, in January of 1805, her father. . . .

  Choking back a small sob, Sabrina buried her face in her hands. Would the pain of his death never leave her? Would she always think of him and feel this sharp ache to see his beloved face one more time? To tell him that she loved him? That despite all their differences, he was the best father a girl could ever possess?

  Time was supposed to lessen the hurt and the pain, but Sabrina, feeling as she did, doubted it ever would. She still grieved for her father, still felt rage for him—and against him.

  Alejandro's death had been sudden and violent—he had been riding home one day from Nacogdoches when, it was presumed, a lone bandit had accosted him. There were signs in the dust near his body of a struggle, a struggle Alejandro had lost, a pearl handled stiletto driven through his heart. His valuables were gone, including the dearly prized turquoise and silver bracelet that Elena had given him.

  Sabrina had been in a state of shock when Francisca had told her, unable to believe that her father would never come home again, unable to believe that she would never feel his comforting arms around her, never hear him call her ''chica" in that teasing, affectionate tone of his. And once the shock had worn off, she had been like a wild woman, possessed with the savage desire to find her fathe
r's killer, to extract the most awful vengeance possible. But though the del Torreses' vaqueros had scoured the area, though Sabrina had offered an exorbitant sum as reward for the killer of her father, Alejandro's assailant had never been found.

  Francisca and Carlos had been her bulwark in those first weeks following Alejandro's senseless death. They had been kind, exceedingly so, and Sabrina had been pathetically grateful, feeling real affection for her aunt. For a while the two women had grown close, both having lost the most important men in their lives within months of each other, but after several months, Sabrina had found Francisca's constant dwelling on death suffocating and morbid.

  Sabrina lifted her face and stared blankly at nothing in particular, wondering morosely if she would ever feel true happiness again. Ever feel as young and lighthearted as she had before Brett Dangermond had come into her life. Ever feel free of the oppressive air that seemed to hang over her.

  She glanced down at her black silk skirts, her slim fingers idly toying with the rich material. The year of mourning for her father was past; she could, if she wished, now begin to wear colors again, but somehow that seemed to be too much of an effort.