by Pam Crooks
To need him.
But he seemed certain enough he’d recover quickly. Having suffered from the disease before, perhaps he knew as much for a fact. The disease would just need to run its course.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Jeb would feel better.
Until he did, she would do everything within her limited means to alleviate his discomfort. And help keep him alive.
Ramon de la Vega leaned a shoulder against the doorframe of his cabin and breathed in deeply of the crisp mountain air. The freshness filled his lungs and chased away the last of the morning’s sleep.
He squinted against the rising sun. A flock of Mexican chickadees flitted in the branches of the oaks blanketing the hills beyond his camp. He listened to their song, savored it. So innocent, the little birds. So playful and sweet.
Like Nicky. His flesh. His blood.
His son.
The child had been an unexpected treasure that day in the Texas woodlands. The realization of who he was had stunned Ramon. Excited him. What kind of man would he be not to want the handsome little boy for himself?
Ramon smiled. A treasure, priceless and pure.
It no longer mattered that other women had not given him what he wanted most. Or that it’d been a blond-haired gringa who had. All that mattered was that Nicky was a miniature version of himself. He carried de la Vega blood in his veins. He belonged in Mexico with his proud padre.
Sí. Nicky would follow in his footsteps one day. He would finish the work Ramon had started.
Ramon’s mind whirred with anticipation of how powerful his son would be. Respected and wealthy. He would devote his life to his beloved Mexico, just like Ramon did.
There was much work to be done first. A revolution was never easy. But Nicky would grow, become strong. Shrewd. He would learn how to rule a powerful nation like Mexico. He would be proud to serve her people.
With Nicky, Ramon had renewed hope. Because of Nicky, his revolution became more important than ever.
Footsteps shuffled behind him, and Ramon’s thoughts evaporated. Doña Pia handed him a cup of steaming chocolate, rich with cream, just the way he liked it.
He considered her, still dressed in her nightgown, her feet in scuffed leather slippers. The aunt who had taken him in when he was just a young boy, orphaned after his parents died in a political execution ordered by Porfirio Díaz.
Hate curled in Ramon’s belly whenever he thought of it.
But, childless herself, Doña Pia had loved him, and Ramon had thrived. He loved her, too, he supposed, as much as a man could love a mother that was not truly his own.
Por Dios, he would not have entrusted anyone else with Nicky’s care. That much he could not deny. Doña Pia treasured Nicky as much as he did.
“Is my son still sleeping?” Ramon asked, testing the chocolate with his lip before sipping.
“Sí. But he was restless again. All night.” Doña Pia glanced at him. “He misses his mother.”
Ramon dismissed the concern in her voice. “He will soon forget her.”
“She is out there, looking for him.” Doña Pia’s troubled gaze roamed the hills beyond their camp. “Surely you know that, Ramon.”
“It does not matter.”
“To her, it does. What mother would not fight for her child, eh?”
“She will not find us.”
“And if she does?”
“She cannot have him back.”
It was not often his Doña Pia disagreed with him. Ramon cared little that she did now.
“You must think of the child,” she said, frowning. “He has his own family in America. They will be frantic for him.”
“Doña Pia.” Ramon bent and pressed a consoling kiss to her soft, wrinkled cheek. “Why must you be so stubborn? I have carried Nicky in my arms for several days now. He belongs in them. It is his destiny. His birthright.”
She reached up and cupped the side of Ramon’s face. “When you brought him to me, my heart filled with joy for you. But fear came, too, Ramon. Nicky is American. The United States government will not let you steal one of its children without striking back.”
“I am not afraid of the Americans!” Ramon said coldly.
“For Nicky’s sake, you should be.”
He stiffened. “Enough of your scolding, old woman.”
“Ramon, you must listen to me.”
Impatient, he nudged her toward the door. “Por Dios, I am sick of your nagging. Go. See to my son. Make sure he gets all the sleep he needs.”
She resisted, but only for a moment, as she always did. Like his men, she had learned not to fight him too much. Shaking her head sadly, she went inside the cabin.
But his impatience lingered. Her warning would not leave his head.
He did not want to think of the woman who had given his son life. He refused to remember her frantic screams or how she fought to keep him from taking Nicky.
The beautiful gringa whose name was Elena. She meant nothing to him.
He sipped the chocolate again. The drink, hot and sweet, slid down his throat and soothed the cold bitterness of his thinking.
She meant nothing.
The low, drawn-out croak of a raven startled Elena awake. An azure sky dappled through the leaves shading their niche, giving her a surprising declaration dawn had long since passed.
Thank God. The night hadn’t been an easy one. The water she had given Jeb had come up time and time again until there was nothing left—and still his belly heaved. Elena had done all she could with what little she had to make him comfortable.
Now, at least, he slept, his body curled loosely with hers. She delayed moving away from him, partly from an unwillingness to disturb him. And because another part of her, the feminine one, liked lying next to him.
The admission slipped through her subconscious and embarrassed her a little. She’d never slept with a man before but there, well, there was a certain appeal to it. Man and woman, side by side. Comfortable and warm. Together.
In her case, of course, the situation was vastly different. The chills Jeb suffered drove Elena to share her body’s warmth. When he’d been racked by the fire in his belly and on his brow, she’d been at his side to soothe both. He had reached for her in the night, and she’d been there for him to hold.
He slept with his chin against her temple, his long arm over her waist. Pleasingly heavy, Elena acknowledged. A bit possessive. Not at all loathsome as she once might have feared.
It should’ve been, perhaps. Loathsome. But it wasn’t.
He had long lashes, dark and thick. She was so close she could almost count them. His skin was still too pale, though, his breathing too shallow. She pressed gentle fingertips to his forehead and discovered the burn of yet another fever.
He stirred, and Elena instantly regretted touching him. She shouldn’t have disturbed him. His brows knit in a grimace, and he emitted a restless moan.
His eyes cracked open and caught her staring. He eased away, as if he hadn’t known she’d be there. He blinked and tried to focus.
“Creed?” he asked, his voice low, rough.
“Oh, Jeb.” She raised up on her elbow, her worry springing in leaps and bounds. Did malaria victims get delirious? “It’s me. Elena.”
“Elena.” He calmed at the sound of her voice. His eyes cleared and he looked relieved. “Elena, Elena.”
“How do you feel?” she asked, brushing his sweat-caked hair from his forehead.
“Lousy. I need another dose of quinine,” he muttered, and moved restlessly beneath the blanket.
She drew her hand back. “I don’t have quinine, Jeb. Remember?”
“No quinine?” He sounded puzzled at that. “Ask Creed, then. He must have it. My quinine.”
Alarm rippled through her. He was worse than she thought.
“Find Creed, Elena. He has my quinine,” he said, impatient.
“No, he doesn’t. No one does. Oh, God. You need a doctor, Jeb.”
She flung the blanket back. She�
��d have to hurry to San Ignatius to find one. But dare she leave him long enough?
Simon. Maybe Simon would stay with him.
Jeb caught her wrist, jerked her toward him so hard she fell against his chest. The strength in him shocked her. She’d thought him weak, but his strength had easily overpowered her.
What if his fever deranged him so that he became violent?
What if he hurt her?
“No. Too far away,” he said, teeth bared in desperation. “Jungle’s too thick. You’d never find your way through. You have to stay here with me and Creed.”
Elena bit her lip.
“There’s no quinine, Jeb. No Creed, either,” she said as calmly as she could.
He stared at her. “He’s in the jungle, isn’t he? Took my damn quinine with him.”
She drew in a breath. “Yes. That’s it. That’s where Creed is.”
“Get my whiskey, will you? I need whiskey for this god-awful pain in my gut.”
“All right.” She swallowed. “But you have to let go of me first, Jeb. The whiskey is in your saddlebag. Over there by the horses. See them?”
His head swiveled, his glazed eyes following her direction, then they darted back to her again. He nodded and released her wrist. “All right. But don’t go into the jungle without me or Creed. Too dangerous. Promise me, Elena.”
“I promise I won’t, Jeb. I promise.”
He let her move off him. She scrambled to her feet, took a wary step back. He reminded her of a wounded animal, lying there on the ground looking up at her. An animal too ravaged by pain to fend for itself.
Her breath quickened. It frightened her seeing Jeb this way. She hastened toward the saddlebags, but it was her valise next to them that she grabbed and flung open. Let him think she was getting the whiskey he demanded.
He needed Pop’s elixir.
She rummaged through the clothing crammed inside and found a bottle of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound at the bottom, tucked among a pile of Nicky’s soft diapers. It’d been an afterthought that she brought any at all, but she’d thrown in several containers back at the woodlands, just in case.
Thank God she had. She needed it now more than ever.
She hurried back to Jeb, removed the cap and slipped her arm behind his neck to help him sit up. He swallowed a mouthful right from the bottle.
He grimaced at the taste. “That’s not whiskey.”
“Sure it is, Jeb. The fever must’ve made you forget. Here. Another swallow. There you go.”
She poured a second dose into his mouth just as he was about to refuse, forcing him to swallow or choke. She recapped the bottle and hid it in the folds of her skirt.
He slid his tongue along his lower lip. And frowned.
Elena felt no guilt for deceiving him. “Now try to sleep, Jeb. When you wake up, you’re going to feel better.”
His eyelids sank lower. “Stay out of the jungle, Elena. Y’hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Promise…me.” His words slurred. He couldn’t fight the fatigue that held him in its clutches.
“I promise. I’ll be right here when you wake up. You’ll see.”
She cradled his dark head on her lap, smoothed the hair from his temple. She had to trust in Pop’s elixir. She had to believe his medicine would make Jeb well.
But the worry ran strong within her, and her eyes blurred with tears. She lowered her head and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow.
And prayed that he wouldn’t die.
Elena held Jeb for a long time, until the sun crept higher into the sky, until the need to feed the horses convinced her she could leave him for a little while. He slept deeply, his body still, frightfully so. She’d give him a little more time, then administer another dose of elixir.
And if that failed…
She settled the blanket closer around him. She would deal with failure later.
It was cooler here in the shade of the trees, though beyond them, the sun would be mercilessly hot. The thick foliage kept them in a separate world, isolated from the harsh beauty of the Mexican countryside.
From Ramon de la Vega’s hideout.
From Nicky.
She watered the horses, her mind heavy with thoughts of her baby. Was he cool enough? He tended to get a rash when he wasn’t. Hungry? He was only beginning to tolerate new foods. His stomach would be upset if they gave him something too foreign, too spicy.
Most likely, he had already had his breakfast. Had he eaten his lunch yet? He needed a nap, too. Every day. He was accustomed to one in the early afternoon and liked to be rocked before falling asleep. And Elena always sang his favorite silly song.
The need to see him rose up within her like water surging through a dam. She wanted to know what he was doing. Who he was with. If he was happy. Crying. Playing.
She couldn’t take him away from Ramon. Not yet. She accepted that, understood it. But she could sneak a peek of him. Like she had last night.
She had to see him.
With the horses taken care of, there was only Jeb to worry about. She didn’t intend to be gone long. He’d never know she wasn’t there.
The decision made, she left their camp and crept down the overgrown path Simon had used. She found the road they’d taken from the cemetery easily enough, but avoided it for fear one of de la Vega’s men might stumble upon her. Or her them.
She kept to the trees, darting from one to another with a nimble step, lower, deeper into the valley. Now that she knew where the revolutionaries’ hideout was, she approached with more confidence, assured that with the thick cover of foliage, no one could see her.
The hideout appeared, and she halted behind the trunk of a Mexican oak. The place bustled with activity, women cooking over open fires, men tending to the remuda of horses, children running back and forth. Armed guards patrolled the area on horseback, rifles slung over their shoulders, their black eyes vigilant on the hills surrounding the encampment. Though Elena thoroughly searched each rebel’s dark-skinned face, she didn’t recognize Ramon or Armando among them.
But she found Nicky.
She almost missed him, sitting in a metal tub in the shadows of one of the cabins, splashing water. A line of clothes had been strung between the structures, and his tiny red shirt and denim dungarees hung drying.
Her eyes clung to him, her heart swelling with love and breaking from being apart from him, all at the same time. Standing there, watching him, she relived the feel of his pudgy, wet body against her hands as she bathed him. His clean soap smell. His toothy grin as he played.
Nicky loved to play in his bath.
The elderly, gray-haired woman was with him again. Elena guessed she’d been assigned as his caretaker, and judging by the way she hovered close, her face smiling and gentle, she was a dependable one.
Even so, Elena steeled herself against the burn of jealousy. This woman had the privilege of being with Nicky when she—his own mother—couldn’t.
It wasn’t fair.
Though she knew she shouldn’t, that she had to get back to Jeb before he awakened and discovered her gone, Elena lingered. It was too hard to leave Nicky just yet, when she’d missed him so much, for so long. She wanted to stay, soak in the sight of him for a little while. Then she would leave.
The staccato of horses’ hooves on the dirt trail jarred her resolve. The rider was appallingly close—she could hear the rustle of the leaves upon the branches as they scraped against him, the labored breathing of his mount, the faint creak of saddle leather.
The hooves sounded closer, louder. She froze. One snap of a twig, one flash of movement on her part, and the rider would know she was there.
Oh, God. What then?
Ways Ramon de la Vega would take his revenge upon her flashed in her brain. Jeb wouldn’t know until it was too late. And Nicky…
The horse and rider trotted past. Recognition slammed into her, and with it, deepening dread.
Sergeant Cal Bender was back.
> Chapter Twelve
Ramon cracked the shell of a roasted acorn and popped the kernel into his mouth, then considered the map of Mexico spread out on the table in front of him. His finger traced the state lines he already knew by heart. The rivers and mountains. The fertile valleys. The harsh but beautiful desert.
Land. There was nothing more important. Not even the very air he breathed. Or the power and wealth he craved.
He was not alone in his thinking. Por Dios, almost all of the Mexican people would agree, from the poorest of the peasants to the wealthiest of the hacienda owners. It was the soul of Mexico—the land. Its spirit.
Without it, a man had nothing to live for. He could not work. Prosper. What would he hand down to his sons and grandsons if he had no land to make them proud?
Ah, land was the prize of his revolution. The reason his men fought by any means they could to destroy the ideals of Mexico’s president, Porfirio Díaz, who had taken the ejidos, the small tracts of farmland, and given them to the hacienda owners.
Millions of acres of land. Stolen from the poor. Given to the rich.
Just thinking of it fueled the fire of hate and revenge in Ramon, ignited anew his passion to fight.
He wanted the land back for his people. And—he could not deny—he wanted the power and wealth for himself. He would lie, steal, kill to get them. Had he not already done those things?
Sí. More times than he could remember.
Ramon leaned back in his chair. But he needed more guns. As many as he could get his hands on.
Impatience slashed through him. He would get them, if the word of the two United States Army soldiers could be trusted. They promised the shipment would arrive in a few days. A whole wagonful of wooden crates, packed tight with shiny, new Savage lever-action rifles capable of accurate, rapid fire of fifteen shots a minute.
Por Dios. Fifteen shots.
Ramon could hardly wait to hold such a weapon in his hands. The rifles would help him defeat Díaz’s armies, which were determined to crush his rebellion, along with the hacienda owners who scoffed at them, as if Ramon and his men were no more than highway hoodlums.