The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  Shoz and Lucy ran across the short distance of the road into the stable. A boy was forking hay. Shoz didn’t wait; he was already grabbing one of their saddles from the tack room and barking at the boy to grab the other one. The boy obeyed with alacrity and no small amount of curiosity. Three minutes later, their horses were tacked and ready.

  Shoz shoved money into the boy’s hand as Lucy mounted. He also yanked the kid’s beaten hat from his head and jammed it on. Shoz grabbed Lucy’s reins. “You won’t need these,” he said, his gaze lancing her. Why couldn’t he trust her? She was his wife. She loved him. But he was afraid she would see her father and change her mind.

  She was affronted. “I can ride better if—”

  “Forget it.”

  With that, he spurred his mount forward, and they came out of the bam at a fast walk. They were going to have to run for it sooner or later, but if they could get out of town disguised as they were, they might have a chance to escape. Shoz was tempted to cut across the back garden, but had no doubt that the livery was being watched—that they were being watched—and it would be damn suspicious. Instead, they would try to ride sedately out of town right under the Braggs’ collective noses, hoping that they would not be identified.

  They walked up the alley toward the main street. Shoz sat slouched low with the kid’s hat hiding his face. Lucy looked like a gangly boy in his jacket and Stetson—or so he prayed. They stepped onto the main street, the bank and post office directly across from them—as was the alley where Rathe Bragg hid. Sweat drenched Shoz’s body. He could feel their unseen eyes. Would her father recognize her? Recognize him? He waited for the searing pain of a bullet, but it did not come.

  Nothing happened. The seconds slowly ticked by. They turned left. Their horses, sensing their riders’ tension, moved with tight, coiled energy, fighting the hold and the pace Shoz kept. Lucy rode on Shoz’s left, away from the north side of the street, where her father lay in wait. They rode knee to knee. Shoz muttered to her to keep her head down. She obeyed. Ahead of them lay open country, but beyond that were the mountains, which offered them their only hope.

  If they could walk undetected out of town, they just might make it.

  In the alley, Rathe squatted behind a barrel, squinting at the riders passing practically in front of him. He was impatient; he wanted them to get out of his line of vision, so he could watch the hotel where Shoz Cooper and Lucy had a room. Behind him, Nick said, “Why is that rider sweating like a pig at high noon when it’s still so cool out?”

  The two riders were past them now, and Rathe and Nick edged around the corner of the bank to watch the rumps of their horses. Nick was right, the rider was sweating like a pig. Something else struck a discordant note: their mounts were tense and collected as if ready to gallop at the drop of a hat. Rathe looked at the boy, frowning because something was familiar. A flash of pale skin drew his attention—and he saw the bare heels of his feet.

  Nobody went with bare feet.

  Such tiny bare feet, even for an adolescent boy.

  But not for a girt.

  He jumped up, aiming his rifle very, very carefully. “What are you doing!” Nick cried.

  “It’s them,” Rathe said very calmly, and he fired.

  Shoz heard the gun’s retort at the same time that he felt the bullet strike his neck. Lucy screamed. He was already spurring his horse into a gallop as blood poured from the wound. They raced out of town.

  He rode bent for hell. He ignored the searing pain, the sticky wetness of his shirt on his shoulder. He ignored Lucy, who was shouting at him. If he was going to die, he would die, but until that moment, he’d ride for freedom, giving it all he was worth. They raised a cloud of dust as they galloped past the last houses in Matamoros. Then they heard the thunder rumbling behind them.

  The mountains were hours away. But if they could outride their enemy, they would make the foothills sooner, where they might be able to get lost. The problem was, at this pace, they would kill their mounts quickly.

  “Oh my God,” Lucy cried, looking over her shoulder. “Shoz, we have to stop! God, you’re bleeding…”

  The pain in his neck had reduced itself to a stinging numbness. He knew exactly how many men were following him, because Fernando had told him how many men the Braggs’ had invaded Casitas with. But the noise the Braggs’s private army made was deafening, and he had to look back, to see a small army in hot pursuit.

  He had a bad feeling.

  Like his luck had just run out.

  After a few miles, their horses began to tire. Shoz was feeling a bit dizzy from the loss of blood. Yet if they could make it another couple of miles, there were gorges they could enter and disappear into, at least slowing down their enemy. They had to make it. He spurred his mount on.

  Another mile passed. As their own mounts flagged, so did those behind them. Lucy was screaming at him again, screaming that they had to stop. Shoz twisted and saw that the gap between them and the Braggs had remained the same. There was hope after all.

  “We’ll never make it,” Lucy cried. “There’s blood all over your shirt. Please!”

  “We’ll make it,” he gritted.

  He spoke too soon. Weak and dizzy, he failed to ride his mount at that breakneck speed as he should. When his mount stumbled slightly, exhausted, Shoz lost his balance. He felt the courageous animal buckling as if time had slowed. Somehow he jumped free of the horse before it hit the dirt and crushed one of his legs. Still holding Lucy’s reins, he was dragged a few yards before her horse came to a terrified, blowing halt.

  He got to his feet and lunged for her mount, to leap up behind her and push on. But he was weak and not as fast as he should have been. Lucy had already slid off and was screaming and running to him.

  “Get back on,” he shouted hoarsely, through the thick, choking dust.

  “We have to stop,” Lucy screamed, pushing at him, preventing him from getting to her mount. He saw that she was crying. Of course she wanted to stop. She had to have seen her family. New pain seared him, and it wasn’t completely physical.

  She was crying incoherently about the blood. Shoz grabbed her and dragged her toward the quivering horse while she fought him every step of the way. The mount shied and backed away. Lucy suddenly dug in her heels and slapped him hard across the face.

  He was stunned for a moment, stunned and dizzy, while the thundering of the Pinkerton army grew louder and louder, coming closer and closer. “You’re going to die, you bastard,” she was shouting, sobbing.

  He let go of the reins, and the gelding jumped away. It was too late, the cavalry of riders was drumming down on them, but she wasn’t right, he wasn’t going to die, not if he could help it.

  The hundred riders came to a halt, surrounding them.

  The dust cloud enveloped them. They could not see through it, and their world was reduced to one of sounds: the horses blowing and stomping, saddles creaking and groaning, bits jangling, Lucy’s sobs. A hundred rifles were cocked almost simultaneously.

  The dust settled.

  He looked up to face the most formidable foe he had ever had, a hundred Pinkertons and the Braggs. Everyone sat motionless on their mounts looking down upon them, with a hundred rifles aimed at his heart. Shoz was determined not to collapse, but he was dizzy and he swayed, while Lucy sank to the ground, weeping at his feet. It was over.

  It was finally, irrevocably, over.

  PART THREE

  HEAVEN AND HELL

  HAVANA, CUBA

  36

  Near Havana, December 1897

  The coal-burning freighter moved north out of Havana Bay before heading east toward the Straits of Florida. The sky was a delicate shade of azure blue, the waters of the Caribbean translucent and nearly turquoise. The freighter chugged gently through the bay, leaving a single cloud of black smoke in its wake. Behind the ship, Cuba grew smaller with every passing moment; her tropical palms waving above pearl-white beaches; green, jagged mountains rising above the thi
ck, lush jungles; the scene peaceful, picturesque, idyllic. The vessel’s sole passenger was unaffected, standing easily on the deck near the railing, for he only looked forward, never back.

  Shoz stood with his legs apart and rode the ship’s rhythmic lurching as if he’d been born to it. He’d been in the Caribbean long enough to be indifferent to the vista he was leaving behind him, but not long enough to be indifferent to the suffering he was also leaving behind. Shoz lifted his face to the hot sun and let the light drench him. The warm feel of it could not erase the images he would probably associate forever with Havana. Nothing could erase those images. The sickness and starvation, the death and dying. Emaciated children begging for food beside piles of corpses. Their mothers grabbing pitifully at his clothes, begging for something, anything, as he passed by. But Shoz had long ago given away his last dollar.

  When he had agreed to take weapons to the rebels in Cuba, he had never expected to find such tragedy, nor had he anticipated becoming so involved. Yet no one could spend any length of time in Cuba and remain neutral, not when faced with this enormous conflict and with the poignant suffering. But even had he known, he would have come anyway. They hadn’t given him any choice.

  And just the reminder of those few days after he’d been captured outside of Matamoros brought another image to his mind, one that still came too easily and too frequently, one that even the horrors of a revolution could not erase, one with red hair and blue eyes. He still hated her. No matter that she had knuckled under to her family, and he could well imagine the pressure they had exerted upon her. If she had really loved him—if their marriage hadn’t been some rich girl’s whim—she would have never signed those divorce papers. He would never forgive her, and he would never forget.

  He had arrived in Havana four months ago. As he’d agreed, he had transported the guns directly to Cuba. The rebels did not question his mercenary motives or his claim that the U.S. authorities were too close for comfort and he needed a temporary change of venue. As it was, they had been having trouble recently with the Spanish blockade, and welcomed placing the burden of running it on Shoz’s shoulders.

  General Valeriano Weyler y Nicolau had also just arrived from Spain, with the goal of crushing the uprising. The rebels wanted independence; Weyler was determined to reestablish Spain’s stranglehold upon the island and was ruthlessly using all the means at his disposal. The rebels were nervous and wary, with good cause. They insisted he deliver the guns to one of their hideouts, and gave him four men to aid him. Shoz delivered the shipment to a working plantation a few miles from Havana, which was used as a base by the rebels. There they were stormed by the Spanish, and Shoz found himself in the midst of the fighting. The rebels succeeded in defending their position and escaping into the hills, Shoz with them. Running away with the rebels was a matter of survival.

  Since Shoz’s real purpose in coming to Cuba was to spy, once he was ensconced within the rebel army deep in the hills of Havana province, he stayed there. Soon he was an accepted leader. Most of the rebels were farmers, and the need for skilled leadership was crucial. The war consisted of continuous guerrilla engagements and sabotage, the one side against the other, striking as frequently and destructively as possible. Neither side offered any mercy to the other. Civilian casualties were careless and atrocious. Shoz tried to avoid all engagements that would hurt the innocent, and concentrated his band of rebels in attacks he deemed to be most damaging and effective: on the supply lines of the Spanish troops and on the corrupt government itself.

  Shoz was hardened; he had endured the hell of the past months and seen the worst anyone could see. Yet his stomach turned over just from the memories. He was keenly aware that McKinley was negotiating with Spain for a cessation of hostilities, Cuban independence, and reparations. Shoz was certain that McKinley would never come to terms with Spain, for the situation in Cuba had escalated dangerously. There were now more than two hundred thousand Spanish troops in Cuba, and that kind of buildup meant that Spain’s recent assurances to McKinley in the negotiations were all lies. Spain had said it would grant autonomy, but if she was building up such a massive army, she was intending a final and decisive assault on the rebels, one that would crush them into oblivion. Shoz had been called to Washington to report in person, and he had the numbers to back up his convictions.

  The freighter chugged into the straits. Shoz stared ahead at the blue-green sea. In another couple of hours he would be able to make out the Florida Keys. Something inside him clenched up tight.

  And he wasn’t thinking of Washington, oh no. He was thinking of New York.

  New York—just a short train ride from the capital.

  He smiled, his expression hard and cynical. Coincidence was the great joker in life, a wild card; one never knew when it would be dealt. But he’d just gotten it.

  Because it was the funniest coincidence that he should be summoned to Washington now, when he’d spent the past months in Cuba, only making one brief trip to Death Valley. It was a helluva coincidence that he would be just in time to make another side trip—this one north. That he would be just in time to celebrate Lucy Bragg’s birthday—and her second marriage.

  Shoz and Lucy hadn’t had a chance, not once they were surrounded by the Braggs and their private army; a dozen agents had instantly descended on him, cuffed him, and thrown him on a horse. He had barely managed to retain consciousness on the hard ride across the border, and the gallop to Brownsville, the closest American town, had seemed endless. Shoz knew it was only his anger and his pride that kept him upright in the saddle. He didn’t see Lucy; she rode far behind him, protectively surrounded by her family.

  He was thrown in jail and tended by the town doctor. Although he was weak and had lost a lot of blood, the doctor assured him that the bullet had only creased his neck, lucky man that he was. Shoz would have laughed at the doctor’s choice of words, except that he was in too much pain.

  But soon Shoz had other things to distract him, like the tall, thin man with the cold blue eyes whose presence he suddenly became aware of. The man was no regular Pinkerton. He had “government” written all over him, and Shoz didn’t like it. If things could possibly get worse, he sensed they would.

  “We’re going to have a little chat,” the man said, leaning comfortably against the bars of Shoz’s cell. “I think you’ll be very interested in what I have to say.”

  “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

  The man smiled. “On the contrary, I think you are. My name is Lloyd.”

  Shoz shifted to try and gain some comfort, which was impossible because he’d refused painkillers and the ache in his neck was getting worse. But before Lloyd could start, the door to the jail flew open, and his wife ran in.

  Shoz sat up, all physical distress forgotten.

  She looked like hell. She was dusty and dirty, her hair loose and snarled, her nose and eyes red from crying. “Shoz!” She ran to the cell and grabbed the bars. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay.” He forgot Lloyd’s presence; he heaved himself to his feet. “Lucy …”

  Her expression wrenched at him. She waited for him to continue, pale and trembling. But he didn’t know what to say. For some crazy reason, he wanted to reassure her that everything would be all right, that they would be all right, but he couldn’t, not when their world was being ripped apart right in front of them. Not when he had just lost his freedom, which was the same as his life. Not when he knew there was no hope, not for him, not for them. Not anymore.

  She reached out her hand through the bars. “Don’t worry. Shoz, I—”

  Lucy could not finish what she was saying, because the door behind her opened with a bang and her father strode in, looking enraged enough to murder. He was followed by his sister, Storm. “Lucy!”

  Lucy didn’t turn around. The look she gave Shoz was at once tear-filled and full of desperate, unspoken promises. Then Rathe grabbed her from behind and dragged her away from the cell. “I want you to stay
away from him!”

  “Let me go. I want to talk to him. You can’t stop me. After all, I’m sure Aunt Storm told you, he’s my hus—”

  Rathe actually clapped his hand over her mouth, propelling her outside, Lucy’s aunt protesting and rushing after them. The door slammed behind them; it was the last time Shoz saw Lucy.

  His heart was thundering and he was gripping the bars of his cell for support. Sweat trickled from his temple. Lloyd spoke, drawing his attention. “Why did you marry her?”

  Shoz didn’t look at him and went weakly to the cot, sinking down on it. He had no intention of answering.

  “She’s a beautiful girl,” Lloyd said. “Lust? Somehow, I don’t think so. Let me warn you, Mr. Cooper, even though your wife cannot testify against you, we can put you away for the next hundred years, even without her testimony.”

  Shoz laughed weakly. That particular point of law had never occurred to him. “Don’t bother trying to convince me,” he said harshly. “I’ve already tasted American justice. I believe you.”

  “Good. That makes my job easier.” Lloyd approached to take up the position Lucy had vacated. “I have a proposition for you, Shoz. One I think will interest you.”

  “The only thing that interests me is my freedom.”

  “Good. Then listen to this: You keep on smuggling guns to the Cubans, only you do it personally and successfully. And when you are thick with the thieves, so to speak, you begin to spy. You report everything to me—every detail of the war, every move the rebels make, every move the Spanish make.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Your freedom, of course.”