The Tiger Lily

by Shirlee Busbee

  Brett cocked an eyebrow. "Yet the Governor told you?"

  Jason's emerald-green eyes twinkled. "Don't forget, Claiborne knows that I am one of Jefferson's brilliant young men."

  Brett laughed, but then his face grew serious, and he muttered, "It seems as if Wilkinson has made up his mind to betray Burr. What other plot could he be referring to?"

  Shrugging his shoulders, Jason replied, "You're probably right, but we shall just have to wait and see. The next few weeks should be extremely diverting."

  Eager to return home now, Brett left before dawn the next morning for Fox's Lair, and noon on the following day found him being greeted enthusiastically by his delighted wife. Her eyes sparkling with pleasure, Sabrina confessed breathlessly, "Oh, I have missed you! I did not think a week could be so long!"

  Inordinately moved by this impetuous speech, Brett caught her more tightly to him. She must feel something for me to say such a thing, he thought bemusedly.

  It was later that day, after dinner, when they were sitting in the salon, that he gave her the presents he had bought in New Orleans. The weather was growing cool and it had begun to rain, and consequently there was a merry fire burning on the hearth. Sabrina was seated on a green velvet sofa, and with childlike glee she opened the gifts he almost shyly presented to her. "I've never personally bought you anything before," he said with a deceptive casualness.

  Sabrina was enchanted with the gorgeous necklace and earrings, the diamonds they were comprised of obviously expertly selected and just as expertly fashioned into jewelry worthy of royalty. "Oh, it is lovely," she cried with appreciation. There was a wide, happy smile on her lips as she opened the last package, but as she stared at the contents of the little box, her smile faded and she paled. Looking anxiously up at Brett, she demanded, "Where did you get this? Whom did you buy it from?"

  Brett had been standing next to the fireplace, one arm resting negligently on the mantel, but at her expression and questions, he frowned and walked over next to her. "From a jeweler well-known in New Orleans. Why? Is something wrong?"

  Sabrina looked again at the contents. It was a very lovely, very unusual brooch. Fine gold had been intricately fashioned to form a roaring lion; its eyes were tiny emerald chips, and its teeth were white, gleaming ivory. Sabrina had seen it before, had seen it often as a child. It was Senora Galaviz's brooch that had been stolen the night of the birthday fiesta over six years ago.

  "Do you remember the bandits that were plaguing our area when you came to visit us? Remember that they robbed our guests as they left from my birthday fiesta?"

  Brett nodded his head, his eyes fixed intently on hers. "Of course. I also remember that we killed them, although the things they had stolen were given up for lost."

  Sabrina shook her head violently. "No, not anymore. This is one of the things that was stolen that night."

  Brett's gaze narrowed. "Are you certain, Sabrina? Could this piece just be very similar?"

  For a moment doubt entered her mind. Could she be mistaken? It had been a long time, and perhaps her memory was playing her false. "I don't think so," she finally said. "It is too much of a coincidence for two such unusual pieces of jewelry to be made. It has to be the same one."

  His frown deepening, Brett mused slowly, "Then either we didn't kill all the bandits ... or someone else has found their cache and is selling it off."

  Deliberately he picked up the brooch from the box and stared at it a long time. "I have to go back to New Orleans at the end of the month," he said thoughtfully. "I'll go to Escobar and Sons and talk with Jose Escobar. He'll tell me how it came into his possession."

  They didn't discuss it further, but it lay heavily on both of their minds, and it was inevitable that they both would begin to speculate if there was any connection between this brooch and whoever had killed Alejandro. Was the robbery in which the brooch had been stolen totally unrelated to Alejandro's death almost five years later? It was a long time between events, but had one lone bandit remained from the original group? A lone bandit who had later met and murdered Alejandro?

  Lying awake in Brett's arms, her head resting on his shoulder, Sabrina trembled with the need for vengeance. Dios! If only she could find her father's killer, even now, and take her own vengeance, perhaps it would ease some of the pain that still remained with her. The baby moved within her, and she smiled, a bittersweet smile. How delighted her father would have been! She was married to the man of his choice and would have been presenting him with his first grandchild. A small tear formed at the corner of her eye and trickled down to drop onto Brett's naked shoulder.

  Feeling it, he turned to her with obvious concern. "Sweetheart!" he whispered softly. "What is it?"

  Sending him a watery little smile, she muttered, "I was just thinking of Alejandro and how happy he would be about the child."

  He drew her nearer, murmuring gentle words of comfort, and her heartache lessening, she drifted off to sleep. Not so Brett. He lay awake a long time, mulling over the lion-shaped brooch and what its appearance in New Orleans meant. Finally though, his speculations becoming rather wild, he, too, dropped oft" to sleep, wondering why he kept coming back to the fact that it had been Carlos who had shot the last bandit—at point-blank range, almost as if he hadn't wanted there to be any survivors. . . .

  Oddly enough, Sabrina's thoughts, too, were of Carlos, but on an entirely different matter. During the time that Brett had been gone to New Orleans, she had dwelled a great deal on the events of that summer in Nacogdoches. She fully realized her own part in what had happened, and even now she writhed with shame when she thought of how easily she had accepted Carlos's words. How almost eager she had been to believe anything vile about Brett. Just thinking about it made her blush with despair. But there were still unanswered questions that nagged her, and mortified at the prospect of revealing to Brett how gullible she had been, how little faith she'd had in both her love for him and in him, she resolved to speak with Carlos. To demand the truth from him. Wise now to his lies, she was certain that if she met him face to face, she would be able to sort the truth from the morass of lies that surrounded what had happened. And she had two weapons that she hadn't possessed then—Brett may not have spoken aloud his love and he might never do so, but she knew with a fierce certainty that he cared something for her, that he cherished her and was very pleased at the prospect of becoming a father. She also had the strength to trust her own emotions, to trust her instincts, and instinct told her that Brett bore no resemblance to the man Constanza had described.

  At first she considered going with Brett on his proposed trip to New Orleans at the end of November, but then she hesitated. It would be almost impossible to arrange a private meeting with her cousin in the city without Brett finding out about it. If Carlos was even still in New Orleans, she thought grimly. He could have left for Nacogdoches months ago. And feeling rather sneaky and underhanded, she finally decided that the easiest way to see Carlos without Brett finding out about it would be to have her cousin come to Fox's Lair while Brett was gone. It was risky, and the servants were bound to talk, but if she cautioned Carlos to come late at night ... if she arranged some signal for him, so that he would only approach the house after the servants had gone to bed . . .

  She didn't like it, but it was all she could think of. Meeting him privately somewhere else was out of the question—she wasn't that foolish! And though none of the servants slept in the house itself, their quarters were a little distance from the main house, and a piercing scream would bring them running. And then there was her knife. . . .Satisfied that she could hold her own if Carlos tried anything violent, Sabrina wrote her note.

  Taking aside one of the servants, she gave him orders to deliver the note to Senor Carlos de la Vega. "You will have to go to the Correias' house on Condi Street first and see if my aunt is still there. She will know where he is staying. And if by chance she is not there, the Correias themselves will know whether he is still in the city and where he has g
one." Hating herself, she said gaily, "And remember, not a word to my husband—it is to be a surprise!"

  Guilt made the kiss she pressed on Brett's lips some ten days later especially fervent and yearning, and Brett looked at her with surprise. "I'm only going to be gone for four days, sweetheart," he teased. And gently fondling her swollen stomach, he added, "Rest and take care of our child. I wouldn't want anjiihing to happen to either of you." His eyes darkened, and Sabrina was suddenly breathless as he muttered, "I think it would kill me if you weren't waiting for me when I returned."

  Sabrina hugged those words to herself. Oh, he must care and care deeply for her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Carlos had been elated when Sabrina's note reached him. The intervening months since her wedding had not been happy ones for him. He had brooded a great deal of the time over the injustice of fate, unwilling to accept that once and for all Sabrina was out of his reach. He had drunk heavily, gambled and lost money foolishly—money he couldn't afford to lose—and he had fast gone through whatever had remained of his inheritance.

  Francisca had left the city in September, taking a ship to Mexico City, where she would live with her sister, Ysabel. There was nowhere else for her to go, and not even Francisca would have dared return to the Rancho del Torres and boldly commandeer the house.

  Francisca's departure had loosed whatever restraints Carlos had placed on himself, and as his money had vanished, he had begun to seek out low company, rubbing shoulders with smugglers, robbers, and the like. When Sabrina's note had arrived, he had been contemplating a not-very-bright future.

  But all that was changed now. Sabrina wanted to see him clandestinely! Carlos was deliriously confident that she had realized at last that the gringo meant nothing to her. She must be seeking his help in escaping from her marriage. Eagerly he laid plans for their escape to Mexico City, and he could hardly contain his impatience for the day of his departure to rescue her. Sabrina's instructions had been quite clear, and on the morning of December 1st, he rode of out New Orleans toward Fox's Lair, avid for the meeting with his cousin the following night.

  Brett had arrived in New Orleans late the previous evening, just five days after Wilkinson had appeared on the horizon blaring out that the city must prepare itself for an invasion by the rabble that Aaron Burr had gathered to attack the city. Wilkinson had demanded that Governor Claiborne declare martial law, and when the Governor had refused, he had gone about acting just as if it had been done. Civil liberties were suspended; he had ordered a curfew; he had accepted volunteers who were willing to repulse the rabid horde led by Burr, a horde that was expected any day. Every craft going up or down the Mississippi River was seized and searched. The city was panic-stricken and alarmed. All along the Mississippi Valley, people were fearful and apprehensive. What was going to happen next? When would Burr and his army appear?

  Brett was astounded. The General, it appeared, was burning all his bridges behind him, and it was now obvious that Wilkinson was intent upon throwing Burr to the wolves and presenting himself in the light of conquering hero. He, Wilkinson, would save the city from Burr!

  In view of the circumstances, Brett conducted his business as quickly as possible, not wishing to remain in this churning mass of fear and confusion one moment longer than necessary. Instead of taking two days as originally planned, he did ever3rthing that had to be done the next morning, and it was late in the afternoon when he paid a visit to the jeweler's, Escobar and Sons.

  Jose Escobar greeted Brett genially when Brett was ushered into the little back room that served as the old man's office. Shrewd black eyes watched as Brett set down the box with the lion-shaped brooch in it. "Is there some defect?" Jose asked with concern.

  Brett smiled lightly. "No, Senor . It is perfect. It is just that I would like very much to know where you got it and when?"

  Jose hesitated. He was known for his discretion, having handled many delicate transactions over the years. If it were learned that he had been indiscreet . . .

  Indolently counting out several pieces of gold, Brett said casually, "You do realize that it is vital for me to learn this information . . . now?"

  Jose eyed the gold. Senor Dangermond was a wealthy man, a man to be reckoned with, whereas . . . Cautiously he said, "It was one of several pieces I bought from a gentleman about a month ago. Due to unfortunate circumstances, he was forced to sell his family's possessions."

  "Who?" Brett demanded.

  Jose sighed and looked at the small pile of gold again. Resignedly he said, "Senor Carlos de la Vega."

  Brett wasn't the least surprised. He had almost been expecting it, and his face grim, he inquired harshly, "You said there were other pieces; may I see them?"

  Jose shrugged and left the room, returning a moment later with a small velvet-lined tray. "Here they are," he said. "Some of them are quite exceptional."

  Brett didn't even notice the other jewelry that lay glittering on the black velvet; his gaze was caught by one specific piece. Rage nearly blinding him, he reached for the lovely silver and turquoise bracelet. "This? He sold you this?" he got out thickly.

  Jose nodded uneasily, not liking the sudden air of violence that radiated from his visitor. "Si, he said that he got it-"

  Brett's voice cut him off. "I know where he got it!" he snarled softly, and then controlling himself with a visible effort, he asked, "How much do you want for it?"

  Escobar named a price. Brett threw the money down on the table and scooped up the brooch and the bracelet. A second later he slammed out of the little shop, murder in his heart. Carlos had killed Alejandro! The words were seared in acid across his brain, and he wondered if he could possibly control the fury that roiled through his veins.

  All thought of leaving the city vanished, and there was only one idea in his mind. Find Carlos and kill him with his bare hands.

  It was after midnight before Brett finally found where Carlos had been staying. From the Correias he had learned the name of the boarding house that Carlos had stayed in at first, and from there Brett had followed the trail that clearly revealed Carlos's disappearing finances. The last place was a squalid little inn in an unsavory part of the city. The slattern who called herself the landlady was quite open. "De la Vega? Yeah. He lived here—until this morning." Turning away, she muttered, "Said he was going to visit that cousin of his that married a rich planter."

  Brett caught hold of her shoulder, twisting her around to face him. "Are you certain?" he demanded urgently, unable to believe his ears.

  Testily she replied, "Of course I'm sure! I was here last week when the note arrived from her, asking for him to come visit. He was quite pleased about it."

  It didn't make sense! Why would Sabrina want to see Carlos? Coldly he tamped down the ugly thoughts that crept through his brain. With far more control than he was feeling, he asked tightly, "This morning? You said he lived here until this morning? Is that when he left to visit his cousin?"

  "I just told you that!" the landlady answered grumpily, and jerking her arm from his grasp, she added, "Now if you don't mind?"

  Brett left, his brain racing madly. Carlos had an eighteen hour start on him. . . . Why had Sabrina written to her cousin? Unless Carlos had just been lying to impress the landlady? Tiredly Brett rubbed his hand across his eyes. Well, there was nothing for it—he would have to leave immediately for Fox's Lair. He must see Sabrina and find out if she had written to Carlos . . . and why?

  An hour later, in the dead of the night, Brett left the city. He was astride Firestorm, and as the big stallion's steady pace began to eat up the distance that separated them from home, Brett was unendingly battered by the conflicting emotions that flowed through him. His murderous rage against Carlos was momentarily submerged in his confusion about what he had learned from the landlady. He fought bitterly against letting doubt creep into his thoughts, but it was impossible. Why had Sabrina written to Carlos? Had all these months together been an illusion? Was she plotting behind his bac
k? No! It could not be true! He would not accept it! There had to be some explanation! But what? And for God's sake, why?

  The next evening, as she waited nervously for Lupe to finish fussing around and leave with Ollie for their own quarters several yards away, Sabrina was wondering the same thing. Unexpectedly she was assailed with doubts about the wisdom of what she was doing. If Brett ever found out, how could she make him understand? Oh, dear God! Why did I ever write to Carlos? she wondered. Why didn't I leave things alone?

  But it couldn't be undone now, and after Lupe and Ollie had bid her good night, she prepared for the meeting with Carlos. Getting out of bed, she fumbled for her green wool gown. Slipping it on over her nightdress in the dark room, she found her knife where she had placed it under her pillow earlier. It took another minute to find her shawl, and putting it around her shoulders, she slid the knife into the hidden little pocket she had fashioned at one corner of the shawl. There! The knife was in place and handy if she needed it.