Gunfighter's Girl

by Pierson, Cheryl

  There was something else there as well—something Miguel hadn't seen before or since the last time he'd been here in Rio Verde with Lina. Love. This time, he was sure of it. It scored a raw welt in his heart, mending and healing it in the same breath.

  "Lo siento, querida," he whispered. "I'm sorry." How could he have hurt someone who loved him so much? Why hadn't he realized before that Lina did love him? The answer wasn't hard to find, and surprisingly, he voiced it without thinking. "I never deserved you, Catalina."

  She shook her head, and he knew what she was thinking; that he was lying, trying to keep her feelings intact. He reached out and cupped the softness of her cheek, and just for a moment, she turned into his touch, her lips resting against his palm.

  "I never meant to hurt you."

  A tear escaped as she tried to keep them in, squeezing her eyes shut, her chin quivering. "I know," she whispered, her forgiveness thawing out the calm coldness in his gut, leaving an unfamiliar emptiness in its place.

  He swore harshly. He could bear anything but that. Forgiveness was foreign to him—something he neither gave nor asked for. Except for this time. This one time. He had to know she forgave him. It was ridiculous, he told himself, trying to dredge up the anger he was so accustomed to. It wouldn't come.

  In the next moment, somehow, she was in his arms, and nothing had ever felt more right. She didn't turn her face up to be kissed. She pressed close to him, her tears soaking his own shirt. He laid his cheek next to her hair, breathing in the tangy smell of the citrus-scented soap she'd used. He felt her eyelashes, like butterflies' wings, against his throat, and realized all over again what a fool he'd been to ride away from Rio Verde and Catalina de la Vega five years earlier.

  "Why did you go, Miguel?"

  Ah. At last, the question he'd tormented himself with. And why had he never returned before now? He gave a short laugh, pulling back to look down at her. "What could I offer you, Catalina?"

  "Everything," she answered with no hesitation. "You were everything to me, Miguel."

  Irritation and denial surged through him. "I'm nothing!" He let go of her, stepping back. He raked a hand through his dark hair. "I am…a gunfighter. A hired killer."

  She shook her head. "You pick and choose what battles you fight. I know that much about you!" She took his hand, her thumb tracing the sides of his fingers. "You are a good man, Miguel. You are the only one who doesn't know it."

  He had to laugh. "And you are the only person in the world who'd say that, Lina. "

  "Then I am the only one who matters."

  Her words were softly spoken, but they stopped him from making any further comment. She still loved him. He couldn't bear the thought of her waiting for him to come back for her, bearing the brunt of the teasing and laughter that would have come first, for proclaiming her love for him—and second, when he'd ridden away with no thought of coming back to settle down.

  His head came up swiftly, and he met her eyes, seeing immediately he had misjudged their relationship five years earlier.

  "I am sorry," she whispered. "It's just—"

  He reached for her hand tentatively, enfolding it in his. She placed her other hand around his fingers and pulled it to her cheek, closing her eyes, as she held his skin next to hers.

  "I tried to be angry with you."

  He shook his head, standing in the doorway mutely. He hadn't understood a damn thing. He wanted to tell her that women love with everything they're made of, but men weren't capable of such emotion. It would only sound like an excuse. And at this point, that was all he had. No real reason for not coming back, except the one she'd never believe—his own self-doubt.

  "You had every right to be, Lina. I didn't do right by you. But I never meant to make you believe there was anything…permanent…in our future." His mouth was dry.

  She released his hand slowly. "I was young," she said.

  His lips curved upward, and he couldn't stop the smile. "You still are."

  A flash of anger swept across her beautiful features, bringing a deep flush to her cheeks. She lifted her chin. "Not so young, Miguel. You didn't think so at the time."

  He shrugged. "That's my only defense, Lina. Don't strip it from me. I was young, too. Young—and stupid." He put a hand up at the quick resurgence of anger in her face. "Not like you think. I meant I was stupid for not—doing better by you. Lots of things I didn't know. I never thought about you—waiting."

  She swallowed hard and nodded. "You are trying to apologize, Miguel. I understand. You—did not think. Most men do not—they don't realize what a woman's life is like to wait, to wonder to—hope."

  "But you—you made a life here, Lina. Without me. Dios, I'm a gunman—I wouldn't have ever been a good husband—" But even as he said the words they sounded hollow to his own ears, and the reproach was high in Lina's features.

  "You could have been—could still be—anything you choose to be, Miguel. You build the walls of your own prison."

  Her disappointment ran through him with a shudder. If she only knew the truth. But one look at her told him she was not about to see things the same way he did. Her words settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone in water. It hurt, and that surprised him. He made no reply.

  "Have you eaten today?" Lina's practical question brought him back to the present.

  "No. Not really." He glanced at her, smiling at her uncertainty. "Even after all this, you would feed me?"

  "It's Christmas Eve. We must be charitable to all." But the smile she gave him softened her words, and he returned it.

  "Miguel," she said, sobering once more, "You are the only boarder I have. I did not make a large luncheon today, but tonight—I will make something special. A meal to celebrate Christmas, and your return."

  The sudden shyness in her voice was like sunlight in his heart. She was forgiving him, it seemed, although he had not truly asked it of her as plain as he should have. "Thank you, Lina. I'll get cleaned up."

  She shut the door behind her softly, and Miguel began to unbutton his shirt. His mind revisited the irony of the situation. The last time he'd been this close to Lina, she'd been the one unbuttoning his shirt.

  His fingers were still on the buttons. A wry smile twisted his lips. What did he expect? He'd left her without a word five years ago. Yet, now, he expected some kind of feeling from her other than anger? Loathing? Callous, he'd been….but, he hadn't meant to hurt her. She was the kindest, gentlest spirit he'd ever known. Riding away had been the best thing for her, he tried to tell himself. But his thoughts were hollow, and unconvincing.

  Miguel reached for a clean shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it. It was a good thing he'd bought the scarlet ribbons, it seemed. At least, he wasn't coming home completely empty-handed.

  Chapter Five

  As he opened the door, he heard a child's voice. "Mama?"

  His gaze went to the curve of the banister at the end of the hallway, across the front room.

  "Mama?"

  When Lina didn't appear, Miguel pulled the bedroom door closed behind him and started for the staircase.

  "Mama, I heard a voice with you."

  Miguel smiled at the curiosity in the youngster's tone. He took the steps quickly, walking to the second doorway at the top of the landing. It stood slightly ajar.

  Miguel started to push it open when the child's words stopped him. "Please come in—whoever you are."

  Miguel frowned in puzzlement, giving a light tap on the door as he opened it further. A young girl lay in bed in the darkened room, the shades drawn against the late afternoon light from the windows.

  As Miguel entered the room, light from the open door behind him fell across the girl's fine features. She was beautiful! As beautiful as her mama.

  As swiftly as a grin touched his lips, it fled. Why had Lina not mentioned that she'd married? She'd had the opportunity. Unless—

  "Hola, senor," the little girl said, gravely polite. "Me llamo es Maria Victoria de la Vega." She raised h
erself on one elbow, looking past Miguel as she put out her hand. It was then, he realized with a shock, that she was blind.

  Recovering himself quickly, he took her hand in his. "Hola, Senorita Maria Victoria de la Vega. Mucho gusto en conocerle. I'm pleased to meet you."

  She smiled and released his hand, lying back on the bed in the darkness. Her long, black hair shimmered over the white pillow, gleaming in the dim light.

  "I knew you would come," she whispered. "I've prayed too hard for it not to happen."

  Miguel's heart clenched. Who did she think he was? He couldn't let her believe he was someone he wasn't. "Nina, I'm afraid I'm not who you think—"

  "Oh, but you are! You're just like I imagined." She stared sightlessly at the ceiling as she went on. "I knew when I heard you down there, talking to my mama. Your voice is so kind. And you wouldn't have come up here if you weren't him. You came to see me."

  Five years.

  "If I weren't—'him'? Who, Maria?"

  She smiled again, and his heart melted. "Mi padre—eres tu, si?"

  Five years. Maria could not be six yet. Could this be possible? Could he be the father of a miracle such as this child?

  Anger washed over him. Why hadn't Lina sent for him? He would've come back, if he'd known. No matter what, he would never have left her to the public ridicule she must have endured. Even being wed to a gunfighter was better than being alone, and carrying the gunfighter's child.

  He knelt beside his daughter's bedside, the anger leaving him with a fair amount of self-loathing in its stead. No, he couldn't blame Catalina. He should have come back. He'd made her no promises, but she was different, and he'd known from the moment he'd seen her.

  Something had called to him then, and he was beginning to realize no matter the miles or years between him and Catalina, they would always be connected somehow. Especially, now that he knew…

  Blind—had it always been so with little Maria? He reached out and touched her hair, marveling at the silken texture. Her eyebrows were dark, arched like Lina's. But her eyes were his own. Black as night, and fathomless as the ocean. The expressiveness couldn't enter, for her—and wouldn't, for him. Her lips were finely sculpted, his again, but her chin was her mother's, and her cheekbones, as well. Such a miracle of blending.

  "Are you?" she asked, bringing him back from his musings. "My papa?"

  "Would you like that?" His heart would shatter if she answered 'no.'

  But the smile lit her face, and the room, and his world.

  "I knew you were," she said. "Of course, I would love it! And I would love you."

  Miguel bit his lip. She would love him, until she realized exactly who and what he was. What had he done? He hadn't told her he was her father, not yet. But could he destroy her happiness? Better now than later, he scoffed.

  He started to tell her he wasn't her father, but he couldn't. When he spoke, he said, "I will love you, too, m'ija."

  He shut his eyes tightly, wondering how cruel it would be, what she'd think of him, when he left this time. In the next instant, Maria's thin arms twined around his neck, her soft skin next to his stubbled cheek, like clouds against a mountain top, he thought.

  "Thank you, Papa. Thank you for coming."

  Once more, shame engulfed him. He had not come because she'd prayed. He hadn't come for her at all, but for some long-ago promise he had given his sister, that he would pass this way to visit the grave of their mother. He hadn't even known Maria existed. She released him, propping her head on her hand.

  Hesitant footsteps sounded on the stairway, and Miguel rocked back on his heels to look through the doorway. Catalina was half-way up the staircase, worry creasing her brow.

  "Mama will be so happy."

  Mama didn't look all that happy right now, Miguel thought, but he didn't reply.

  "Maria?"

  "Mama! Just see who's here with me!"

  Catalina pushed the door open and met Miguel's eyes with an expression he'd never seen before. It was as if she defied him to deny the obvious, while at the same time, hoped with everything in her that he wouldn't dare. He rose swiftly to face her. A lesser woman might have been intimidated, but not his Lina. No doubt she had faced worse—much worse—over the past five years since he had ridden out of her life—and out of his daughter's, as well.

  "Yes, m'ija. I see." Lina's words were quiet, her eyes holding Miguel's, reading the new-found discovery, searching for his response. He did not back away from the scalding acknowledgement in her steady stare. Yet, she wasn't condemning him for the past. She seemed to wonder what he would do with this discovery.

  His breath came out in a rush. Surely, she would understand he couldn't stay here. Such a ridiculous idea, yet, for a moment, he saw the formation of it in her dark eyes.

  "Mama, do you think I might get my other wish, now that Papa is here?"

  Miguel heard Maria's childish question in one detached part of his brain, but he couldn't look away.

  It was Lina who looked down at their daughter, a soft smile curving her lips in tenderness. She came forward and sat on the side of the bed. "The ribbons?"

  Maria's smile brightened Miguel's world once more, making his thoughts stumble. "Ribbons?"

  "Scarlet ribbons, Papa." Maria's voice softened. She put a finger out to touch the piped edge of her coverlet. "Beautiful silken ones. Soft, like this—" She reached to grope for Miguel's hand, and pressed the edge of the cover to his palm. He knelt beside the bed once again.

  In that instant, he despised everything about his life. If he could have changed his past he would be able to offer this child and her mother his name; a name unsullied with bygone events he could not reverse. Maria and Lina were everything good in the world; everything he wasn't. Yet, a part of his mind balked. He had helped create this miracle. Maria was half his.

  He looked up questioningly at Lina, and this time, there were tears in her eyes.

  She took a deep breath, regaining her composure, before she answered. "Maria lost her sight a little more than a year ago. She had a high fever, and—it left her blind." She forced a smile. "She remembers her colors, though. Scarlet was always her favorite."

  Miguel's chest felt heavy. He could grant her wish; the scarlet ribbons he'd bought from the street vendor were waiting in his saddlebags. But what a bittersweet gift! Beautiful ribbons for her hair—ribbons she could never see. A chill raced up his spine as he remembered the vendor's words. I'm sure you will find a better use for them, he'd said. Coincidence? It had to be. The hair prickled at the nape of his neck.

  You won't be sorry.

  The odd man had had a subtle knowing in his voice that Miguel hadn't understood or fully recognized—until now. Yet, how had he known?

  He stood up swiftly, the sudden urge to make sure the ribbons were safe overwhelming in its intensity. If he never did another thing in his life, he would do this; bring a memorable bit of joy to his daughter, who had lost so much. Her birthright, her eyesight—how could she be happy? How could she ever smile again? It filled his heart to overflowing to remember he was responsible for granting one of her fondest hopes—to 'see' her Papa.

  "Miguel?" Lina questioned as he turned to leave the room.

  "Un momento, por favor, querida," he muttered, his hand on the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Are you all right?" Lina's eyes were wide with worry.

  He nodded. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

  Chapter Six

  Miguel hurried down the hall, then the stairway. His long strides ate up the front room and the hallway, until he reached his bedroom door. He threw it open violently and was inside in two steps. He reached for the saddlebag, opening the side pouch. His clean clothes were inside, along with a small packet of medical supplies. Wrong side.

  Impatiently, he opened the other side and began to rummage about inside the deep interior of the leather pocket. His fingertips brushed the brown paper of the parcel the street vendor had wrapped up for him. He pushed
aside all the other items and pulled the paper out. It felt lighter than when he'd tucked it inside the pouch earlier, still tied with twine; the edge of the small parcel was suspiciously flat.

  Panic rose in his chest, but he pulled the twine, releasing the knot. As the twine fell away, he pushed the edges of the paper back to reveal what he had feared. The package was empty. The ribbons had disappeared.

  * * * * *

  It was several minutes before Miguel could believe what he was seeing. The empty parcel mocked him, and he dropped it to the floor in disgust. This was no magic. Somehow, the street vendor had tricked him. He probably sold those same two scarlet ribbons again and again. But this time, he would pay. This time, it meant more than it ever had at any time before. This time, the vendor caused disappointment to twist Miguel's insides into knots. How could he have performed such a trick, though? Miguel ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. He'd stood there and watched the old man wrap those ribbons. He'd felt the slight weight of them, spooled inside the brown paper. His gaze dropped to where the twine and empty paper lay on the floor. He bent and picked them up slowly, laying them on the festive coverlet.

  He needed answers. He would excuse himself and take care of this before dinner. With cold, detached fury, he thought of how he would walk right back down the street, find the vendor, and tell him he wanted the two ribbons he had already paid for—once. He'd have to hurry. He glanced at the window. When had afternoon become evening?

  Snatching the paper and twine from the bed, he stuffed them into his back pocket, then took his hat from the bed and put it on firmly. He closed the door behind him, and retraced his steps down the hallway to the front room.

  Lina peered down at him from Maria's half-open door. "You're leaving?"

  He shook his head. "No. I mean…just for a while. I have an errand."

  Lina's steady stare moved to the gun he wore strapped to his thigh. "That kind of an errand?"