Ecstasy's Promise (Historical Romance)

by Constance O'Banyon

  "I do not think it is very likely. The only ones who know where she is are the O'Brians, and I trust them completely."

  "Still," she said thoughtfully, "we must be careful. I am glad to have you home, Bodine. It was a mistake for me to allow you to go to Georgia with Mary Elizabeth. It seems as a result, you have had no life of your own. You simply went from looking after my daughter to caring for my granddaughter."

  "I have no regrets, Alice. Mine has been a rich and full life," Bodine said.

  "You must hurry and mend. I need your help to run this ranch."

  He smiled at her. "I thought you would never ask."

  "I think it is time you took your rightful place in this family."

  Bodine's eyes flew to her face. "What are you saying?" he asked slowly.

  "Too many years have gone by now," she told him. "I should have insisted a long time ago that you take your father's name."

  He shook his head sadly. "There was a time when it would have meant everything to me, but now, I am content to be just plain Bodine," he said softly.

  "I have wronged you in so many ways," Alice Anderson said sadly. "First of all, I should never have let you feel Mary Elizabeth was your responsibility. You might have gotten over her and married and had children of your own."

  "I had no name to give a woman," he said simply.

  "That is the other thing. If I had insisted your father acknowledge you as his son, he would have done so."

  "Do not blame yourself, Alice. You were good to me. You brought me into your home and saw that I was well educated. That is more than most women would have done for their husband's bastard son."

  "Maybe that was a mistake, too. I did not expect for you and Mary Elizabeth to fall in love."

  Bodine looked at her painfully. "There is no reason for us to dwell on the past, for we cannot change it. I am not sure I would, even if I could. You see, I have Mary Elizabeth's daughter, and she shows me the affection many natural fathers would envy."

  Alice Anderson rose to her feet. "Yes, you do have that small gift for all your years of devotion."

  "Oh, no," he told her. "It is the greatest gift of all."

  "I will leave you now. You need your rest." She laid her hand to his cheek. "Welcome home. You have been sorely missed," She moved across the room and blew out the lamp.

  Bodine lay in the dark, his mind returning to the past. He had been ten years old when his mother had died. His aunt, who had taken him in after his mother's death, had a houseful of children of her own, and did not want the added expense of another mouth to feed. She had packed Bodine off to the Andersons, and told Robert Anderson spitefully that it was his responsibility to look after the boy.

  Bodine had been a frightened and dirty child, still suffering from the loss of his mother. He remembered the argument that had occurred between Robert and Alice Anderson, but he had been too young to understand. He only knew Alice Anderson had won, and he had been installed in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He had been bathed, given new clothes, and treated kindly by Alice Anderson, but her husband seemed to ignore him completely.

  The Andersons' infant son died soon after, and there was a sadness about the house. The daughter, Mary Elizabeth, seemed to look up to Bodine, and tagged after him at every chance she got. It had not been a bad life. As he grew older, he won the respect of the older ranch hands who were always willing to show him how to ride, rope, and brand. For some reason it became important to him to please Robert Anderson, and he felt at times he could see pride in the older man's face.

  When Bodine was twenty, Robert Anderson had been killed fighting in the war with Mexico. Mary Elizabeth had run to Bodine to pour out her grief. He had been in the barn when she found him. She threw herself into his arms and sobbed against his shoulder. "Oh, Bodine, Father is dead." He tightened his arms about her, trying to comfort her, and find comfort for himself at the news. He did not know how it happened, but she turned her beautiful face up to him, and his lips came down gently on hers. She wrapped her arms about him. He felt an overwhelming love for her, and she returned his love.

  They made plans to be married, but had decided not to tell Mary Elizabeth's mother until she was over the grief of losing her husband. Bodine had been unable to hide his love, however. Whenever Mary Elizabeth was near, his eyes would follow her, the love plainly written on his face. Alice Anderson saw this and was troubled. She called them to her one day. "I think the two of you have something to tell me," she said, hoping her suspicions were wrong. Mary Elizabeth slipped her hand into Bodine's and smiled.

  Bodine closed his eyes, remembering. He could still see the look on Mary Elizabeth's face. He shook his head to try to rid himself of the vision.

  "We are in love," Bodine had told Alice Anderson. "We want to be married."

  Alice Anderson's face had turned white. She stared at them in horror. "I did not realize it had gone this far. It is impossible." She sank down in a chair, clearly shaken.

  "I know I am not good enough for Mary Elizabeth," Bodine had told her, "but I will work hard and I promise to make her a good husband."

  Alice Anderson had cried. A great flood of tears washed down her face. "Oh, my children, what have I done to you? I did not see this coming. I should have."

  Mary Elizabeth ran to her mother. "Do not cry," she pleaded. "We love each other." Alice Anderson raised her head painfully. "You cannot marry. You are brother and sister."

  Bodine felt the pain of those words as though it had been only yesterday. He had run from the house, saddled a horse, and ridden away. He remembered the agony he had gone through. He had ridden away, meaning never to return, and he had stayed away for a year. He had gotten a job on a large cattle ranch in west Texas. One day a letter found him. To this day, he did not know how Alice Anderson had located him. The letter had been simple and short.

  "Come home. You are missed."

  He had packed up his gear and had ridden for home that same day. He still felt the overwhelming love for Mary Elizabeth, but with superhuman strength, he locked it away in his heart.

  Mary Elizabeth had changed toward him, however. She still clung to him for strength but cast him in the role of her brother and protector. When she married John Farraday, she tearfully begged Bodine to go to Georgia with them. Alice Anderson had added her plea to that of her daughter's. John Farraday, wanting to please his new bride, also urged Bodine to accompany them.

  He and John Farraday had become friends over the years. When Mary Elizabeth died the night Victoria was born, it had been easy for Bodine to transfer his love and devotion to her daughter, Victoria, for he reasoned that if fate had not been so unkind, she would have been his daughter.

  Bodine closed his eyes. He was so weary and his head was pounding. No, he thought. It was too late for him to have his father's name.

  7

  The next few days Victoria and her grandmother spent getting acquainted. Bodine was almost well, but Alice Anderson insisted he still take it easy.

  Victoria was very interested in the running of the ranch. She listened intently as her grandmother told her the fine points of ranching. "I notice that some of your ranch hands are Mexican," Victoria said. "Why is that?"

  "Partly geography. Partly because I prefer it that way. They are hard working and reliable. They are called vaqueros. You will find them friendly, and," her grandmother said with a twinkle in her eye, "the Mexican appreciates a female. You will find them very gallant. I only have about forty hands, but Rio del Lobo has well over one thousand."

  "I have heard so much about Rio del Lobo since coming to Texas," Victoria said. "I am anxious to see this empire."

  "I am sure you will before too long," her grandmother said, smiling. "Edward Hanover is quite a man with the ladies."

  "Is he not married?" Victoria asked.

  "No one woman has been able to lead him to the altar, though many have tried," her grandmother told her.

  "Some men just do not want to be married, I suppose," Victor
ia said thoughtfully. "Look at Bodine."

  Her grandmother's eyes clouded over and she changed the subject. "We are going to have to do something about your wardrobe. You cannot go around with only one gown to your name."

  Victoria smiled. "I am sure Lupe is tired of washing it every night so it will be fresh for the next day. I suppose I should ask Bodine if we have money for material."

  "Nonsense!" her grandmother said. "Come with me." She led Victoria up the stairway to her bedroom and opened a trunk that stood at the foot of her bed. She pulled out bolts of material and stacked them on the bed.

  "These are wonderful," Victoria said, picking up a bolt of white organdy with tiny blue flowers on it.

  "Do you think these will suit you?"

  "You mean I can choose from them?" Victoria asked.

  "That is exactly what I mean for you to do."

  "Grandmother, you are wonderful."

  "It is going to be such fun for me to have a young girl in the house again. Look at this one," she said, picking up a blue silk and holding it up to Victoria.

  "Thank you, Grandmother." Victoria kissed her soundly on the cheek. She looked at her grandmother for a moment. "Would it be all right with you if we let Consuelo make up a few gowns for me?"

  "Of course, if that is what you want, child."

  "I would like so much to repay the Delgados for their kindness, but they are very proud. I could not think of a way to help them. This way, Consuelo will be earning the money." Victoria told her grandmother of the plight of the Delgados, and how they might have to return to Mexico.

  "I am very proud of you, Victoria. You have a kind heart, and you really care about other people."

  "Bodine tells me I take after you, Grandmother," she said softly.

  "Yes, he has told me the same thing." Her grandmother laughed as she gathered up several bolts of material. "Come, Victoria, it is still early in the day. We have time to go over to the Delgados."

  Consuelo was overjoyed with the job of making Victoria's new gowns. She took Victoria's measurements and they discussed the style of dress Victoria would prefer with each bolt of material.

  Mammaw had brought over two hams, a slab of bacon, jars of green beans and corn, a sack of potatoes, peaches, and jellies. Consuelo's eyes lit up. "But this is too much payment for sewing a few gowns," she protested.

  "Nonsense!" Mammaw told her. "This is not for payment. I was cleaning out the smokehouse and root cellar to make room for more. No, I will pay you cash for my granddaughter's dresses." Consuelo found she could not argue with the older woman, something her neighbors had learned long ago.

  "There is something else I would ask of you," Victoria said to Consuelo. "I would like you to teach me Spanish, and I will pay you well."

  "No," Consuelo told her stubbornly. "I will not take money from you, but it will be my pleasure to teach you the Spanish."

  Victoria smiled at her. "All right, then it is settled. If you do not object, I will come over every Thursday for my lesson."

  "You really are my friend," Consuelo said, tears glistening in her brown eyes. "Shall I tell you a secret? Manuel and I were afraid we would not see you again after you left the other day."

  "You were mistaken," Victoria said, taking Consuelo's hand. "You are my friend."

  Consuelo smiled. "It is good to have a friend to talk to. That is the one thing I have missed in Texas."

  Manuel rode up just as they were leaving. "You come by the ranch tomorrow; I have a lot of leather work that needs tending to," Mammaw told him. He was pleased, and told her he would be there bright and early.

  Victoria smiled at her grandmother as they pulled away. "You are really something. You made them think they were doing you a favor. I am going to have to watch my step with you."

  "They were doing me a favor, honey. When you help someone else, you are the one who reaps the reward. Do not forget the Delgados were the ones who helped you first."

  "I had not thought of it in quite that way," Victoria said.

  The next morning, Victoria went to the barn to saddle Rebel. The friendly vaqueros smiled and waved at her. Old Ned, whose job it was to tend the horses, looked up at her. Victoria had thought him very strange when she had first met him. He always referred to himself as Old Ned and he much preferred the company of horses to that of human beings. She had often heard him talking to the horses as though he actually knew what they were thinking.

  Victoria's grandmother had told her why he acted so oddly. When he was only twenty, he had lived in west Texas, where the winters were fierce and cold. He had started out one morning on a buffalo hunt. Around noon, he had found a large herd, and killed one of the buffaloes. His horse had stepped in a gopher hole, and had to be shot. As he was some twenty miles from home and a blue norther came up suddenly, he skinned the buffalo, and wrapped himself in its hide for warmth. During the night, a pack of wolves came up and began gnawing at the hide, but he was helpless to do anything as the hide had frozen around him, holding him captive. The buffalo hide, which held him prisoner, was also his protection from the wolves. They were unable to gnaw through the frozen hide. The next day, when the sun came out and thawed out the buffalo hide, he made his way back to town. He had turned completely white-headed overnight, and was as simple-minded as a child. Alice Anderson had hired him to look after her horses, and had never regretted it.

  "Your Rebel has been waiting for you, Miss Victoria," Old Ned told her. "He thinks you have been neglecting him."

  "I would never do that, Ned."

  "Old Ned told Rebel that, but you know how horses are."

  "How are they, Ned?"

  "They put their trust in people, and most times get let down."

  "That is something I would never do to Rebel, would I, boy?" She rubbed his sleek neck.

  "No ma'am, I don't believe you would. This Rebel is the finest horse Old Ned has ever seen, and I told him so."

  Victoria smiled at him kindly. "Thank you for taking such good care of him, Ned."

  "Old Ned is glad to do it, Miss Victoria. You run along now and give Rebel a nice run. Let him have his head for a while."

  "I will do that, Ned." She and Rebel raced across the pasture, both happy and free. The sun beat down on them. The smell of wild flowers was in the air, and life was good once again.

  Dr. Dan checked Bodine over and pronounced him fit. Then he went into the kitchen to find* Mammaw. "Got anything good to eat?" he asked.

  "Sit down at the table. I will spoon you up a plate."

  "Smells good. What is it?"

  "Beef stew and corn bread," Mammaw told him. "And if you clean your plate, apple pie."

  "Bring it on, Mammaw; I am starved."

  She sat down across from him and watched him eat. "This reminds me of when you and Edward were younger and always underfoot." Dan took a drink of the milk she had poured him.

  "That is because you were and are the best cook around."

  "Why hasn't Edward been by to see me since he came home?" Mammaw asked.

  "Oh, that reminds me, last time I was here, I was supposed to tell you that Edward sent his regards and would be over to see you soon."

  "I was afraid of how he would be received when he came home. Has there been any trouble, Dan?"

  "No, but that is how it is when you are rich and powerful."

  "Maybe," she agreed. "But he should be careful all the same. Are you going to the picnic Saturday?" she asked.

  "Sure I am," Dan said, taking a big bite of corn bread.

  "Are you taking anyone?" He shook his head no, since his mouth was full and he could not speak. "Good. Then you can take me and my granddaughter, Victoria." Dan swallowed slowly. "You would not mind, would you?" Mammaw asked.

  "No, of course not," Dan said, with a sinking feeling.

  "Good. It will be a good chance to have everyone meet Victoria, and you can introduce her to the young people."

  "Sure, I would be glad to," he said without enthusiasm. Dan finished his
stew and left quickly, afraid he would encounter Mammaw's homely granddaughter. He rode over to Rio del Lobo under a cloud of gloom. He found Edward at the corral watching the vaqueros breaking horses.

  "What is wrong with you?" Edward asked; "Did you lose a patient?"

  "No, I got myself in a damned fix."

  "How is that?"

  "I got myself trapped into taking Mammaw's homely granddaughter to the picnic Saturday."

  Edward laughed and slapped him on the back. "Do not worry, my friend, there will be another picnic."

  "Can you imagine what it is going to be like for me?" Dan asked sulkily. "Mammaw wants me to introduce her to the young people, as she put it. I am going to be stuck with her all evening. You have got to promise me you will dance with her a few times to let me off the hook."

  Edward smiled. "Why not! I have not done any charity work this week. But not a few times, my friend. Only once."

  "I am not looking forward to it, Edward; I can tell you that."

  "Cheer up, Dan. Just look at it as doing a favor for Mammaw."

  "Yeah, that is easy for you to say. And don't you laugh at me."

  "No, not me. This is a serious matter. It will probably ruin your reputation with the young ladies."

  "Damn it, Edward, it is nothing to joke about."

  "You are right. Come on, I want to show you some cattle I just received from England."

  Dan jammed his hands into his pockets. "I don't want to see your damned cows. Take me up to the house and pour me a large drink of brandy. I need it."

  8

  Alice Anderson finished buttoning up the back of her granddaughter's new gown. It was soft, lilac cotton, with tiny puffed sleeves. It fit snugly about Victoria's waist, and flared out about her. It was a simple gown; the only adornment was a dark-lavender velvet ribbon about the waist. Victoria looked into the mirror. "Consuelo is really quite talented as a seamstress."

  "Indeed, she is," her grandmother said.

  Victoria looked at her reflection critically. "The salve you gave me for my complexion seems to have gotten rid of that awful tan."