Allegiance

  He gazed at her fondly. “You mean so much to me, Amy. You must realize that. I feel much responsibility for you, as well. I want you to know that, in case of war, you would be safe living at my hacienda. You would want for nothing.” He smiled warmly. “I want to marry you."

  She couldn't answer. Every possible reply that popped into her head sounded ungracious or downright cruel. How she wished he'd give up his notion of making her his wife.

  After a short silence, he sighed. “I was worried for a time that you had given your love to someone else. Perhaps that friend of your brother, the army officer. But when he escaped from jail, he fled alone. You will never know how it pleased me to discover that you were still here the next day."

  Her pulse quickened at mention of Tyler. “Why would I leave? I intend to settle here and make this my home. However, I have not made plans to marry anyone. You have to understand, Alizar, I'm very independent. I want to own property, conduct business, make decisions about my life without having to wheedle a husband for permission. In America, it's nearly impossible, but here, the women are allowed a lot of freedom. Look at Doña Tules who deals monte on Burro Alley: the most elegant and wealthy woman in Santa Fe. Did a husband put her where she is today? I hear not."

  He stopped to face her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You want independence, eh? Then come and live with me. I am willing to compromise. How significant is a wedding ceremony, after all?"

  She shrugged off his hands. “I can't believe you suggested that. What makes you think I wish to become your whore?"

  His face darkened as he leaned indolently against a pillar on the outer edge of the portal, drawing on his cigarrillo. “You are most inflexible, Señorita.” His eyes narrowed through the smoke. “Bueno, you may remain as free as you wish. You may embrace complete celibacy, if you choose. However, I must warn you. If you take another man into your heart and bed ... Let me say that you would not want to be responsible for the consequences."

  Speechless, Amy glared at him. Not only had the federales driven Tyler out of New Mexico, but this hot-tempered, jealous Spaniard was making it impossible for him to return. Not for the first time, she questioned her wisdom in agreeing to spy on Alizar and the Mexican traders.

  She drew a shaky breath, knowing she could not retreat from her course of action. Since the first decisive step she'd taken in New Orleans, making a bargain with General Sam Houston, she'd been locked into a chain of events, helpless as a sack of wheat plummeting down a granary chute. She'd committed herself to the mission, and she was bound to finish it, one way or the other.

  * * * *

  A gate slammed against the adobe wall and boots scuffed along the dirt floor of the prison corridor. Jeb cracked his eyelids open. Dinner time, perhaps? Straining his ears, he thought there might be a lighter footstep alongside the boots, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to keep his hopes from running away. A key rattled in the lock, the latch clicked, and the solid wood door of his cell swung open.

  "Ay, pobrecito!” A young woman stood behind the jailer, peering around at Jeb. In her hands she carried a clay pot.

  He sat up with a grin, wondering what kind of food she'd brought him. “Hola, Señorita."

  From the first, the women of El Paso del Norte had taken to dropping in for visits from time to time, showing their fascination with his fair skin and long red hair. His russet beard brushed his chest. El americano, they said, how pathetic! They brought clothing, blankets, and food. Always food. They'd brought him so much to eat the first week, in fact, that he'd made himself sick. But after the forced march from Santa Fe, he'd needed every bite to regain his health. The long journey had made him thin as a scarecrow—he'd been pathetic, all right. But even after he'd filled out some, they still came: the maidens of mercy.

  Under the jailer's watchful eye, the girl set the steaming bowl on the floor in front of him. A striped rebozo covered her hair and draped over her shoulders. When she bent forward, her low-cut chemise revealed plump breasts, young and firm. She stepped back, beaming, obviously finding joy in giving.

  Jeb had seen her before, but couldn't remember her name—if he'd ever known it. "Gracias, mi ángel." He dipped his fingers into the pot, grabbed a piece of flattened corn bread, folded it over, and scooped up some frijoles. Stuffing half of it in his mouth, he rolled his eyes and made the sounds of appreciation he hoped would bring her back again soon. “Mucho gusto."

  The guard leaned in the doorway. “Enjoy the meal, it will be your last in this place."

  Jeb choked. He'd picked up enough Spanish in the last several months to understand much of what he heard, even if he wasn't fluent with his responses. “My last? Why? What happens?” Cold dread replaced his appetite.

  The man laughed, revealing two missing teeth. “Because, Señor, you are now free to go."

  "Now? Free? I do not understand."

  "Libre. A prisoner no more."

  Jeb stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “When?"

  "Right now. Whenever you wish to go."

  Confounded, Jeb rose and approached the door on shaky legs. “I can't believe it."

  The guard stepped aside to let him pass.

  Once in the corridor, Jeb stopped and took a deep breath. It felt vastly different to be standing on the outside of the door. He glanced back at the man to make sure it was no joke.

  "Vámonos.” The jailer turned and headed for the gate.

  As the girl stooped to retrieve her bowl, Jeb reentered the cell, gathered up his two blankets, and threw an arm around her waist. “Come, my angel."

  Outside in the street, four other ex-prisoners stood blinking in the sun. One had a lighter complexion, though his hair was black as coal.

  Jeb turned his face up and blessed the sunlight. I'm comin', Rosa.

  "Which way you goin'?” The only other white man stood before him, looking about as lost as Jeb felt.

  "I don't know. You American?"

  "Yes. Remy LeDuc. From Missouri, but not too lately."

  "We're neighbors then.” Jeb glanced around. “Which way to Santa Fe, Angel?"

  The girl pointed north. “Across the desert."

  Jeb eyed his fellow-countryman. “You want to head out now or wait for a caravan?"

  Remy shrugged. “I'm ready to shake the dust of this place."

  Jeb nodded. “I hear you.” He turned to the girl. “Where can we get enough corn meal for two-three weeks? And a canteen for water?"

  Her eyes widened. “You must not go alone. It is jornada del muerte—the journey of death."

  "I gotta go, Angel. I hear somebody callin’ my name."

  She glanced down at his feet. “You will walk barefoot?"

  "If I have to.” Jeb regarded the well-worn boots of his companion. “Maybe my compadre here will trade off with me as we go along."

  Remy eyed the bundle under Jeb's arm. “We can probably work somethin’ out if you're willin’ to share your blankets at night."

  Jeb grinned. “Friend, you got a deal."

  * * * *

  A sense of urgency goaded Tyler as he spurred his lathered horse up the slope of a knoll—the last ridge, if he remembered correctly. He reined to a halt at the top, gazing at the panorama beyond. Yes, there it was: Bent's Fort squatted like a medieval castle on the vast and empty plain, complete with bastions, two-story buildings which reinforced the perimeter walls, and guards manning the watchtower. Built of adobe reinforced with heavy timbers, the fort's imposing martial appearance belied its peaceful function as trade center for the Indian tribes and fur trappers. The shallow Arkansas River flowed sluggish as ever through the cottonwoods beyond, its gentle curve embracing a cluster of wigwams on the bank.

  At the sight, Tyler's urgency approached anxiety level. He wished to hell he'd never decided to make the madcap ride across the country to Washington and back. It had taken a tremendous toll on him, exacting a price no man should ever have to pay in the name of duty. And all for what?

  Tyler hel
d his terrible impatience in check long enough for his horse to blow a bit, then squeezed his knees against the heaving barrel of muscle and ribs to urge the animal onward, down off the hill toward the fortification. Leaving Amy behind in Santa Fe had been the hardest thing he'd ever forced himself to do. He'd told her he loved her that night, but she hadn't believed him. And why should she?

  But he, himself, had faced the truth and suffered it like the curse it was. From the night he'd made that confession, and through every day since, he'd learned what a relentless agony love could be, second only to the gnawing fear for Amy's safety. She'd put her faith in Alizar's protection, but Tyler couldn't rid himself of the notion that Alizar safeguarded her for a price. What if she had already succumbed to the charms of that dark Spaniard? Tyler cursed himself viciously, as he'd done more than once in the last few months, for not throwing her across his saddle when he'd had the chance and riding away with her.

  Ignoring the excited shouts of the men topping the knoll behind him, Tyler made straight for the front gates of the fort. The wagon train he'd joined still plodded along miles behind. Serving as one of the scouts had provided Tyler with one privilege at least—to be first in camp. Today he led the pack.

  Vivid recollections of his first visit to Bent's Fort rushed back—the weeks of fruitless waiting and the black mood he'd fallen into, restive and disillusioned, when no word arrived from Houston or Jackson; the aching of his heart whenever he thought of Amy and the danger she was in. His decision to make a wild dash to the East Coast before the first snow spread its winter white from the Shining Mountains to the prairie floor had been an act of desperation. Almost suicidal, as it turned out, for he'd thought he might perish on the arduous trek.

  If only it had been worth the effort.

  All through the impossible winter months, Tyler's apprehension about Amy had eroded any peace he'd gained from speaking with Jackson and Van Buren man-to-man. If he hadn't been trapped in Washington by the unusually deep snows and ice-clogged rivers, he'd have returned at once to the frontier and the woman he'd left behind. For if he'd learned anything at all from his ordeal, it was that neither the success of the mission nor the president's orders were half as important as his love for Amy. He prayed the lesson hadn't come too late.

  Tyler slowed his horse as he wove through the scattered camps of traders, trappers, and a tribe of Utes on his approach to the double gates set in the front wall of the fort. Once inside the enclosure, Tyler took care of his horse's needs, then headed directly to the trade room near the gate to announce the imminent arrival of the wagon train and, more importantly, to pick up any messages Amy might have sent. Anticipation twisted his stomach in a knot.

  After weeks of living out in the fresh air, he found the crowded room a dim and smelly contrast. The smoke from the small fireplace burned his eyes, and the gamey smell of the trappers haggling with William Bent over the price of muskrat pelts made breathing a chore. Shelves on every wall overflowed with trade goods—blankets, knives, flints, ammunition, beads. A raw buffalo hide lay draped across the counter. Tyler recalled the nuisance he'd made of himself the previous fall checking here repeatedly for the arrival of mail until he'd been forced, at last, to ride out or go crazy.

  In Independence, he'd intercepted correspondence from Houston with the imprint of the man's cuff link pressed into the sealing wax for identification: a dog's head and a rooster with the motto: Try me. The letter had been written months before. Enthusiasm oozed from the page: The general had been elected President of the Republic of Texas—Good for him!—and one of his first acts had been to release Santa Anna from prison and send him under guard to Washington so that Jackson (still president then) could mediate differences between Mexico and Texas. As if anyone in the world believed Jackson to be neutral!

  Most of Houston's letter was so cheerful, so boastful—two thousand American recruits had streamed across the border to fight in his army, and his newly organized Texas Rangers were forging order out of chaos—that it got Tyler wondering how bad it really was.

  With a sense of foreboding, Tyler had continued on to Washington as fast as he could travel by horseback, steamboat, and train. The further he went, the more civilized everything became. Mankind surged, jostled, and tumbled over itself seeking its level like a puddle of molasses spilled from a jar. Arkansas and Michigan had become states in the past year, Wisconsin an official Territory. The docile Creek Indian families were being driven out, Christians or not, into the wilderness west of Missouri like the Choctaws and Chickasaws before them. Banks were collapsing across the nation, housewives were standing in bread lines, and Jackson was blaming Senator Calhoun for an attempt on his life by a deranged man. Tyler was sickened by it all. He felt inexplicably out of place in the world he used to call home.

  The meeting with Van Buren, who was preparing to take office as President of the United States, was a severe disappointment. The man was so preoccupied, he didn't even bother to rub Tyler's nose in his failure to complete the mission. Tyler couldn't hide his frustration when he learned that his detailed reports, obtained at great risk, would be pigeonholed. To have his knowledge of routes and waterholes and the facts about Pérez's military treated with such indifference dumbfounded him.

  The soothing way Van Buren tried to reassure Tyler should have roused his suspicions immediately. The final blow, when it came, couched in flowery prose, stunned Tyler: Due to the financial crisis in the States, Congress wasn't planning any exploring expeditions in the near future. But Tyler hadn't been forgotten, indeed no. A strategy had been devised to counter Great Britain's pervasion of the West Coast with spies. Tyler could forget the project in New Mexico. Another secret mission awaited him in California!

  Later, alone in his quarters, a glum Tyler contemplated his situation. Small chance of following in the footsteps of Bonneville or advancing his career in surveying and charting maps of the frontier—at least right away. If he chose not to pursue spies in California, he had little choice but to teach math again at West Point. His spirits plunged lower than the nation's economy, leaving him feeling as worthless as the banknotes Jackson had outlawed. The breadth of the continent lay between Tyler and the woman he loved. She waited in vain for him, a man condemned to an eternity of loneliness out of some misbegotten sense of duty.

  Unless ... unless he mutinied.

  His heart quickened at the thought. He could kick off his traces and finish what he'd started: return to Santa Fe and rescue Amy. All on his own hook. It hit him suddenly that there'd be nothing unlawful about it. The pure irony of that fact made him laugh aloud in his lonely room. Because when Jackson had pressed him to take temporary leave from the army, the better to hide his connections with Washington, the man had inadvertently provided a back door out. Officially, Tyler had no further obligation to the U.S. Army.

  He had every right to choose his own destiny.

  Standing within the towering walls of Bent's Fort once more, a determined Tyler asked for his mail in the trade room. When William Bent held out a small leather packet inscribed with his name, Tyler took it with a trembling hand. His mouth went dry as he strode outside in the bright sun, tore open the packet and withdrew the letter.

  Yes! Amy Victoria Baker. The mere sound of her name set his heart racing. The scent of rose water wafted from the page, bringing her essence into sharp focus. Pictures of some of the escapades he'd shared with her leaped behind his eyes, one after another, like a series of ferrotype images. What a tantalizing enigma she was, with more facets than a gem: willful, innocent, uncontrollable, impetuous. He wouldn't have her any other way.

  His eyes scanned the neatly printed words: Rebels: Padre Antonio José Martinez at the parish church in Fernando de Taos and Juan José Esquibel at Santa Cruz de La Cañada.

  Tyler sank down on a wooden box outside the blacksmith shop and stared with unfocused eyes across the plaza, pondering the significance of the message. Names and places ... people he had once wanted to contact ... perhaps rebe
l leaders, men who needed muskets in their struggle against Governor Pérez and his tyranny. Amy had done her homework, bless her.

  As he tucked her letter away inside his shirt, it struck him that he was now as much a rebel as Martinez and Esquibel, whoever they were. And Amy, as well. But then, she'd always been rebellious. Always flaunted the rules, defied conventions. Without her, he'd never have recognized the trap he'd built for himself out of his sense of pride, duty and honor. But he was a different man, today; he'd thrown off his shackles, thanks to her. Van Buren had been his mentor and friend, but Tyler no longer needed someone to make decisions for him. He was free at last to decide for himself the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, smart and stupid.

  So, he would go back and complete the mission, if for no other reason than to salvage his pride. He hated starting something and not finishing it; he hated failure. Besides, how could he allow Amy's work and sacrifices to count for nothing? Pérez, Armijo, Alizar, and any number of ragtag soldiers in New Mexico might try to stop him, but he'd go back even if it meant his death.

  Nothing, ever again, would stand between him and the woman he loved. He would soon hold Amy in his arms again—or die trying.

  Chapter 27

  Alizar glanced around the well-furnished drawing room of the Lorenzo home, as a servant woman announced his arrival. No sign of Amy. He tried to mask his disappointment, smiling broadly at his friend, the alcalde, who greeted him so effusively.

  "Don Alizar! Welcome. Come in."

  "Don Vicente.” Alizar took the seat offered him, as well as the brandy and the cigar. “I received your message. Is something wrong?"