by Pam Crooks
She removed the soiled diaper and replaced it with the clean one, her fingers deftly maneuvering the pins while her thoughts drifted to when he’d first learned to climb out of his bed. They were traveling somewhere in western Louisiana, and it’d been pure chance she peeked into the wagon to check on him while he napped.
She nearly had heart failure seeing him toddle toward the back door. His pudgy hand turned the knob, and by the time she clamored through to reach him, he’d pushed it right open.
A shudder went through her just thinking of it. One lurch from the rig and he could have fallen out. He could have become entangled beneath the heavy wheels.
He could have been killed.
Of course, they kept the door locked after that. Still, a traveling wagon was no place to raise a child.
Settling him on her hip, she found a box of crackers and returned to the driver’s seat with Pop. She wouldn’t be able to warm anything until they stopped to build a fire, and given their urgency to catch up with the rest of the troupe, Pop wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.
“Why, there’s my little man!” Pop boomed in greeting.
Nicky wiggled with excitement at seeing his grandfather. Pop lavished him with his usual round of kisses against the curve of Nicky’s neck, which never failed to send him into shrieks of laughter. Pop lifted his head and pried his goatee from little fingers, then sat back in his seat. His eyes gleamed with pride. And love.
“What a joy that boy is to me, Elena,” he said.
A surge of emotion welled inside her. She hugged Nicky close. “To both of us.”
She centered her world, her every thought and action, around him. He’d been conceived in a few horrible moments of violence, that cruel twist of fate which had torn apart her virginity and planted him in her womb, a tiny human being innocent of the horrors of the outside world.
But a constant reminder of them.
Haunted by the hate which threatened to destroy her, Elena had had every intention of ending the pregnancy. She wanted no part of the brutal Mexican who had shattered her innocence and tormented her with nightmares. How could she bear it?
How could any woman?
But the days passed, and slowly she healed. Pop’s devastation from her attack ran deep, but he loved her unequivocally, and the rest of the medicine show troupe—the only real family she’d ever known—surrounded her with overwhelming warmth and support. From them, the people who loved her most, she drew courage and went on.
The hate eventually died, buried beneath the hope and anticipation that unexpectedly grew in its stead. She began to realize the baby growing inside her was her own, and no one could ever change that. Perhaps it was God’s way of helping her survive the ordeal; she thanked Him every day for giving her Nicky.
“Ma-ma-ma.”
After finishing his cracker, he patted her chest and plucked at the buttons of her blouse. He didn’t nurse much these days, and the thought that he’d be fully weaned soon saddened her. Another sign of how fast he was growing and that he didn’t need her as much. Pop handed her a baby blanket and Nicky’s favorite stuffed horse from the basket tucked beneath the seat; she cuddled her son close, and he began to nurse.
He lifted his hand and curled his fingers around her thumb. Elena pressed her lips to the warm skin, shades darker than her own, then gently brushed the wavy hair away from his temple—hair thick and gleaming black.
Like his.
The differences between mother and son were striking. Nicky was as dark as Elena was fair. Someday he’d question her about it, and she’d have to tell him the truth. Until he was old enough to understand the circumstances surrounding his heritage, however, she wouldn’t dwell on them.
Instead, she marveled at what a handsome little boy he was in his red shirt and denim dungarees. As if he knew what she was thinking, he grinned up at her as he suckled, and she laughed at his impishness.
“Elena, honey.”
At the seriousness in her father’s voice, she darted a quick glance toward him. He stared over his shoulder at something that clearly alarmed him.
“Looks like we got trouble.” He pulled his Winchester from behind the driver’s seat and laid it on his lap. “Hang on to Nicky. I’m going to try to outrun ’em.”
“Outrun who?” Her gaze clawed through the woodlands. “Why?”
And then she saw them. A group of a dozen or so heavily armed Mexicans. They were everywhere in the trees behind them—and gaining fast.
“Hee-yah!” Pop yelled, and slapped the reins against the team’s backs.
The wagon lurched forward and picked up speed. Elena held Nicky in a death grip with one arm and clutched the edge of her seat with the other. The sound of horses’ hooves pounded in her ears, but nothing matched the terror thundering inside her heart.
She and Pop had heard of these men. Fierce revolutionaries who thought nothing of robbing innocent Americans of their money and then killing them for their trouble—ordinary citizens who had little to do with their cause but who found themselves helpless against their ruthless tactics.
The rebels followed no pattern. They killed at whim, whether it was a train or a stagecoach, large or small.
Oh, God. Pop’s medicine wagon would make easy pickings.
The rig careened wildly as the team sped over the narrow, rutted path, and Elena braced her feet to keep from toppling over the edge.
“Pop!” she gasped. “Slow down! We’ll upset if you don’t.”
“I can’t let them get us, Lennie!” he said tersely.
Elena heard his desperation, and her fear increased tenfold. Pop wasn’t a fighter, and while she knew how to handle a gun, she’d never shot at a living thing in her life.
“They’re closing in on us,” Pop said.
The men were close enough now she could see the gleaming rows of bullets in their ammunition belts.
He did all he could to handle the team as they lunged and lurched between the trees. Elena ducked to keep from being struck by low branches; she held Nicky so tight he squealed in complaint.
Suddenly a group of the revolutionaries broke away and formed a blockade in the road ahead of them. A formidable row of ruthless men, fanned out and impenetrable with their rifles cocked and leveled right at them.
“Pop! Stop! You have to stop!” she cried.
To crash through the wall of men and horses was unthinkable, and her father swore in frustration. He yanked hard on the reins, and the team reared, their shrill screams piercing the air.
One of the men barked an order, and the revolutionaries took up position on both sides of the wagon. Elena’s focus locked on him, and the blood froze in her veins.
Two years had passed, but she recognized the wavy-haired Mexican as if it were only yesterday.
“It’s him!” she whispered in horror.
She knew what he was capable of, and if she did anything, anything, she had to keep him from seeing Nicky.
She averted her head and frantically covered him with his blanket. Every inch of him. And though he had long since lost interest in nursing and wanted only to sit up now that the wagon had stopped, she kept him tight against her, pressing his face to her bosom to muffle his protests.
As if the past two years had fallen away for him, too, Pop snarled and whipped out the Winchester.
“You son of a bitch!” he bellowed, and cocked the rifle.
But the leader was too quick. A shot exploded. Pop jerked and toppled from the wagon seat with a sickening thud.
Elena screamed. She bolted toward the edge of the rig, her free arm reaching for him though he was sprawled on the ground, too far to touch. Blood bloomed on his shoulder and stained the fabric of his suit coat. She cried out his name on an anguished sob. Ashen-faced, Pop gripped his leg, twisted at an unnatural angle.
“Get into the back, Elena! Now!” he grated through clenched teeth.
He wanted to spare her from seeing what would happen to him next, she knew, and the wagon’s in
terior would help her protect Nicky.
But Elena wouldn’t leave Pop. She couldn’t. And she’d be a fool to think the men would let her out of their sight if she tried.
“You should have killed him for his insolence, Ramon,” one of the men grunted, dismounting and taking the rifle, which had skidded out of Pop’s reach.
“There is still time for that, eh, Armando?”
The male voices swirled around Elena. Ramon had controlled her once, left her hurting and humiliated, as helpless then as Pop was now. A fury unlike anything she had ever experienced before erupted inside her, and she spun back toward the Mexican.
“Leave us alone, damn you!” she snapped.
He dragged his glance from the side of the wagon, as if he only now had taken the time to see the colorful lettering proclaiming “Doc Charlie’s Medicine Show” and his infamous herbal compound. Beneath the brim of his sombrero, something flickered in those cold, black eyes.
And a slow smile curved his lips.
“Señorita,” he purred.
A thousand times, she’d heard the taunt of that word in her nightmares. Her nostrils flared with hate. “We have no money. Search the wagon. You’ll see the safe is empty!”
Pop had deposited the last show’s take two days ago. The rebels would be disappointed in the small amount of cash he’d kept back for them to live on until their next performance.
Ramon made a slight gesture, and one of his men circled toward the back. The locked doorknob jiggled; in the next moment a gunshot exploded. Within moments, the rebel could be heard thrashing among her and Pop’s belongings.
Nicky squirmed, and his arm shot up out of the blanket. Horrified that he’d managed it, Elena snatched it back down again.
Ramon’s gaze sharpened over her.
Her defiance died.
“Let me see the child, señorita.”
Raw fear clawed through her and stole her ability to speak, to provide a logical reason why she kept her baby hidden beneath a blanket.
Ramon drew closer. Elena’s pulse pounded. She eased away from him toward the far edge of the wagon’s seat.
“You know what will happen if you disobey me, señorita, do you not?”
Her foot found the step that would help her get down. She’d run from him. As fast and as hard as she could.
“Elena. Oh, God, honey.” Still sprawled on the ground, too badly wounded to help, Pop sobbed her name, his anguish as real as hers.
But she ignored him.
Instead, she moved away from the wagon. And toward the woods. One step at a time.
Armando turned his mount as if to give chase. Ramon spoke sharply in Spanish, and he halted.
Ramon himself rode toward her, his horse’s gait slow. Lazy. Calculated.
“I want to see this child you keep from me.” His voice held a suspicious edge.
“No.” She shook her head, her panic rising in leaps and bounds. “No, no.”
Abruptly she turned, but too soon he was there, in front of her, his horse blocking her path. She pivoted and darted into the trees. Nicky squirmed and wiggled against her, and Elena shifted her grasp, her concentration momentarily broken in her need to hold him better. She stumbled over the splintered branches scattered over the ground.
By the time she righted herself, Ramon loomed in front of her again. Lightning quick, he yanked the blanket from Nicky’s head.
Nicky blinked up at him.
Ramon stared downward.
“Por Dios.” His glance dragged to Elena. “You were an innocent—the child’s age—he looks like—”
Elena cried out and spun around, but Ramon swore viciously and grabbed Nicky by the back of his shirt, plucking him from her arms with more force than Elena could fight without hurting her son in the process.
“No-o!” she screamed. She lunged toward Ramon, her fists pounding against his thigh. “Give him back to me. Give him back!”
As if he were a trophy to show off to his men, Ramon turned and held Nicky up high, out of her reach. The resemblance—the thick wavy hair, the black eyes and golden skin—could not be denied.
A moment of stunned silence passed through the revolutionaries.
“Ramon, the gringa speaks the truth. There is no money.” The rebel who had been searching the wagon poked his head out the door.
“I have found something more valuable, Diego.” Ramon settled Nicky in front of him and slid an arm around his waist. “My son.”
“No-o!” Elena screamed.
“Armando!” Ramon snapped. “See that the wagon cannot give us chase.”
“He’s mine!” She lunged toward him, her arms tugging at Ramon’s thigh as she tried to pull him from the saddle. “Nicky is mine!”
“Ramon, she is the child’s mother,” Armando frowned. Clearly, he didn’t approve.
“You can’t take him from me!” Elena pulled on Ramon’s thigh again, this time with a Herculean strength dredged from deep inside her. He jerked sideways, almost losing his seat. With a savage epithet, he regained it again and kicked out. The toe of his boot slammed into Elena’s temple. She staggered backward from the blow.
“Ma-ma-ma!” Nicky shrieked, his fear and panic rising to match hers. His arms strained toward her. “Ma-ma-ma!”
“Nicky! Oh, God! Nicky!” Frantic, Elena catapulted toward Ramon yet again, her hands reaching to grab her son, but in a blinding flash, the butt of his rifle swung toward her.
Pain exploded in her head.
She crumpled and everything went black.
Chapter Three
Jeb had one hell of a hangover.
A night with too much whiskey and too little sleep had left him paying the price for his indiscretions. The journey from Laredo north to San Antonio wasn’t helping his affliction any, but Creed had been insistent.
They had a train to catch.
Taking a shortcut through the woodlands lining the Nueces River helped. At least the trees shaded the sun, and the air was cooler. Quiet. Jeb was in no mood to be civil to anyone who happened to come his way.
Even Creed knew to keep his mouth shut. Not that he was in any better shape than Jeb. Years of friendship kept them suffering in companionable silence.
The river looked inviting, though, and Jeb craved a smoke. Their mounts needed rest and drink. He figured they could spare the time, and Creed acknowledged his gesture to pull up with a curt nod.
After dismounting, Jeb stretched muscles tight from too many hours in the saddle, then led his horse to the bank. He removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He’d have to get a haircut when he got to San Antonio. A shave and a good, long bath. After being out of the country so long, he’d have to learn how to act in polite society all over again.
He squatted at the river’s edge and caught a glimpse of his reflection on the glistening surface. He refused to speculate on what the General would say if he saw Jeb now—hungover, bleary-eyed and looking barely civilized.
The General wouldn’t approve. But then, he never approved of anything Jeb did.
Jeb splashed cold water over his face and scrubbed all thought of his father from his mind. Cupping his hands, he poured water over his head. The liquid felt good against his scalp and helped ease the steady throb in his temple.
Creed hunkered beside him and handed him a rolled cigarette, then lit one for himself. Jeb drew in deep on the tobacco and squinted an eye toward the treetops. The silence enveloped him. The peace.
He felt the rumble of horses’ hooves moments before he heard them. Creed twisted, searching for riders. Jeb saw them first, just beyond the woods.
He reached for the Colt strapped to his thigh and leapt to his feet, all in one swift motion. Instinct warned a group of men riding as hard as this one was either looking for trouble—or running from it.
He slipped behind a sycamore tree for cover and heard Creed do the same. Back pressed against the trunk, weapon raised, Jeb glanced over at him. His grim expression mirrored Jeb’s unease.
Jeb gauged fifty, maybe sixty yards separated them from the riders. Mexicans, heavily armed. A dozen of them, led by one man. Jeb glimpsed a flash of red, but the trees and distance marred a clearer view, and he couldn’t see what the leader held in front of him.
“What do you make of ’em?” Creed asked in a low voice.
“Damned if I know,” he muttered.
One look this way would reveal the horses Jeb and Creed had had no time to hide, but none of the Mexicans bothered. Within moments, they were gone, leaving behind only a cloud of dust in their wake and a bevy of unanswered questions.
Questions Jeb had no intention of answering.
“Could be those Mexican revolutionaries the lieutenant colonel was telling us about last night,” Creed said, returning his weapon to its holster.
“Maybe.”
But Jeb didn’t want to think about Kingston or what he needed. He hadn’t wanted to think of it last night, and he didn’t want to think of it now. He strode toward his mount.
“Whatever those men are up to doesn’t concern us anymore, Creed,” he said firmly. Unable to help it, he looked across the woodlands to the path that had fallen silent. “They’re heading south.” His mouth curved, cold and determined. “And we’re heading north.”
To San Antonio. To a new beginning.
And nothing was going to keep him from either one.
At the sight of the overturned medicine wagon wedged between the trees, Jeb drew his horse up abruptly.
Creed reined in beside him. “An ambush?”
“Looks like it.”
The team had been cut from their harnesses and set free. Jeb spied them drinking at the river. He removed his Colt from the holster, just in case, but it seemed whoever had attacked the wagon had left.
“I’ll check the rig,” Creed said. Weapon drawn, he crept toward it and inspected the interior, then gestured that no one was inside.
Still, the stark silence troubled Jeb. He urged his horse closer, saw a woman lying on the ground and half-hidden among the tree’s shadows. Dread rolled through him.