Texas Proud (Vincente 2)

by Constance O'Banyon

  Ira Crenshaw shrugged. "Since the Yankees took over the running of Texas, they're been teaching us their brand of law."

  Noble winced when the doctor applied liniment to the wound on his cheek. When he could find his voice he said, "I can well imagine. I experienced some of their laws at Gettysburg."

  Crenshaw smiled. "I'm glad your pa didn't live to see the day three men could take his son down. Imagine, one of them armed with a shovel, one with a rope and the other what did Bob use?" He laughed heartily while Noble scowled. "You're getting soft, Noble. Must be too much easy living."

  Noble's voice was defensive. "They took me by surprise."

  "Your pa wouldn't like that either. I'm told that redheaded fellow charged like a bull. Can't believe you didn't hear him coming."

  "Yeah." Noble gritted his teeth against the pain. "I'm feeling embarrassed enough about that."

  "Why did you want to see me?" Ira Crenshaw asked.

  "I want to know what's been done about finding Sam Rutledge's killer. Surely you've had time to find out who had a grudge against him."

  Ira hooked his fingers through his gun belt, and rocked back and forth on his boots. "There are those who say you did it."

  "We both know I didn't."

  The sheriff became serious. "I doubt the crime will ever be solved. Too much time's gone by. And we haven't had any leads."

  Dr. Stanhope turned to Ira Crenshaw. "You can have him when I'm finished. But for now, he's my patient and his wounds need attention."

  "Come by the office when you've finished here, Noble. But I don't have anything to add to what I already told you." He smiled widely. "I am glad you came home. Some of us have missed you."

  Without another word, the sheriff left.

  Dr. Stanhope ripped Noble's shirt and examined the rope burns around his neck and across his back. "Maybe next time you ride into town you'll watch behind you."

  "Next time I will."

  "You should have a care, Noble. You have too many enemies."

  "Are you one of them, Doctor?"

  "I'm just a healer, Noble. My doctoring is for the worthy as well as the unworthy."

  "Which means?"

  This time Dr. Stanhope applied the stinging ointment to the cuts on Noble's back, making him grit his teeth and groan.

  "You are worthy," he said, capping the ointment bottle. "Your father was my friend for many years. I consider his son my friend as well."

  Dr. Stanhope probed Noble's ribs, and Noble gritted his teeth again as agonizing pain ripped across his back and through his gut. "If this is the way you treat your friends, I'd not like to be your enemy."

  The older man stood back and surveyed his patient. "You've got cuts and bruises but no broken bones. You're going to hurt like hell for a few days, especially when you first get up in the morning. I could give you something for the pain."

  "No, thank you. I have a bottle of good brandy at home; that's all the medicine I'll need."

  Dr. Stanhope took Noble's chin and turned it toward him, smiling. "The cuts on your face aren't deep. I don't think the girls need to cry that your pretty face will be permanently scarred."

  Noble took the rumpled plaid shirt the doctor offered him, since his own was in bloody shreds. "You know what really hurts most, Doe? The fact that none of my attackers needs your services."

  Dr. Stanhope smiled, and then he became serious. "Today wasn't just a random occurrence. Someone wants you dead real bad. He's tried twice; he'll probably try again."

  Rachel stalked up to Jess McVee, her anger still raging. "Tell me, Jess, why didn't you try to help Noble today?" She glanced over at Mrs. McVee, who was thin and birdlike, with a tight little mouth and round black eyes. "Or you, Mrs. McVee, why didn't you intervene?"

  "We think Noble had it coming to him," Jess answered with feeling, although he did not meet Rachel's eyes.

  "I think what you did was disgraceful, Rachel," Mary McVee said. "Imagine, getting involved in a street brawl. I declare, you are a disgrace. What would your pa have said if he could have seen you today?"

  Rachel turned away from the woman and concentrated on Jess McVee. "Tell me what you know about your son's death, Mr. McVee."

  "I What?" He looked puzzled. "Why would you want to know about young Jessie?"

  "Tell me what you know about how Jessie died," Rachel persisted.

  Mrs. McVee chimed in. "Why would you want to bring up a subject that is still so painful to-"

  Rachel held up her hand to silence the woman, while taking several quick breaths to calm herself. "Tell me, Jess, about your son's death."

  His eyes clouded with sorrow and he seemed to age before her eyes. "I don't mind telling you, Rachel." His voice trembled with emotion. "We got a letter from our son's commanding officer explaining about his last hours. He told us that our son didn't die alone, that one of the officers from Madragon County stayed with him all night talk ing to him, and never left his side. Just kinda bringing him comfort in his last hours."

  "Do you know who the man was who stayed with your son?"

  "No, we never learned his name. Sure would like to meet him, though. I'd like to tell him how grateful we are for what he did for our son. I guess he probably got himself killed too. If he did, I hope he found someone to sit with him in his final hours."

  "If the man who aided your son that night was in trouble and needed your help, would you help him?"

  Tears streamed down Mrs. McVee's pale cheeks. "How can you ask such a thing? Of course we'd help him! We'd love him like a son. We'd like to talk to him and know our son's last thoughts."

  Rachel walked to the door and turned back to Mary and Jess McVee. She wondered why she felt so little pity for them. Perhaps she was becoming too hard, or perhaps she was sickened by pious people who preached one thing but practiced another.

  "Today," Rachel said, surprised by her steady voice, "you had your chance to help the man who stayed with your son in his last hours. But you stood by with everyone else and watched those cowardly dogs do their worst to him. I wonder what your son would have thought of you, Mr. McVee, Mrs. McVee, if he could speak to you. Noble Vincente was the officer who took care of your son the night he died."

  Mrs. McVee's lips trembled before she clamped her hand over her mouth, little animal sounds escaping her throat. Mr. McVee's face reddened; he placed his hand over his heart and sank into a chair.

  For several moments, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft gasps coming from Mrs. McVee.

  Rachel was still enraged. She shoved the door open with such force that the tinkling bell could still be heard when she was halfway to the blacksmith shop.

  Zeb was loading the wagon. He took one look at Rachel and grinned. "You got yourself all riled, didn't you?"

  "Let's go home," she said flatly.

  The old man's leathery face crinkled with worry and he scratched his white head. "I heard there was a mite of a ruckus in town this afternoon."

  She swung around and glared at Zeb. "Where were you when this was happening?"

  He let out a stream of tobacco juice and patted the rifle at his side. "I had me a good aim on that redheaded man. I knew you didn't need my help, but just in case..."

  Rachel suddenly started laughing, and Zeb looked at her as if she'd lost her senses.

  "God help us all," she said in a choked voice. "Papa was right. When you stand too close to a Vincente, you get swept away in the storm."

  Sunflowers bent their heads and danced in the wind beneath the somber blue sky. The air that brushed across Rachel's face felt hot and dry. A slight stirring of the water caught her attention, and she watched a catfish bob its head up momentarily and then disappear into the shadowy depths.

  She was leaning against the cottonwood tree on the bank of the Brazos, where she'd swum naked with Noble. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Why had she come back to this spot? What need had drawn her here?

  She removed her boots, pushed her trouser legs up and dipped her f
eet into the river, wiggling her toes, much as she'd done as a young girl. Now she was a woman, trying to find solace for her troubled mind and her battered heart. Why couldn't she be like other women her age? Most of her friends were married with several children, while all she had was the Broken Spur. She'd worked hard since her father's death, and there had been little time for socializing. Several men had come calling on her, but she had brushed them aside with one excuse or another. The truth was, none of them had interested her.

  She had always felt as if she were waiting for something or someone. Now she knew that someone was Noble, and it wasn't to put a bullet into him either. No matter what had passed between them, he had always occupied her heart. She could admit that now. But she would get over him she had to.

  Suddenly she choked back a sob, trying not to cry, but her throat burned from the effort. Noble had been so terribly alone yesterday in town. And no one had wanted to help him. She had wanted to tear the hearts out of the men who'd hurt him. Tears sprang to her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, she cried and cried until she had no tears left.

  She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, remembering Noble's words. You don't believe I killed your father. All doubts had been purged from her heart. Noble had not killed her father. How could she ever have thought he had?

  Who, then, could have killed her father, and why?

  Rachel was so lost in her own wretchedness that she didn't hear a rider approach.

  Noble dismounted and walked toward her. "Hello, Rachel. This is becoming my favorite place."

  Then she turned in his direction and his heart contracted. She had been crying. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her cry.

  His voice caught in his throat and it took him a moment to speak. He knelt down beside her and looked at her with concern. "Are you hurt? Ill?"

  "No. Just go away."

  He stood up, knowing she was embarrassed because he had seen her weeping. He gazed across the river. "Sure is hot."

  Her gaze went upward to all beautiful six feet of him. Black leather chaps fit tightly about his long legs. She saw the gauze dressing on his cheek. "How are your wounds?"

  "Not so bad."

  "I'm glad."

  "I didn't get a chance to thank you for what you did for me yesterday, Rachel."

  Her voice was strained as she tried to sound indifferent. "I'd do the same for anyone."

  "Be that as it may, I'm still grateful to you."

  "As I told you, that makes us even. I don't owe you anything now."

  He laughed.

  She didn't find anything funny.

  He suddenly became solemn and glanced down at her, knowing she was troubled. So was he, if she but knew it. He couldn't get her out of his mind; the sweet, intoxicating smell of her lingered with him long after she was gone, and came to him unbidden at night when he lay awake, unable to sleep.

  "We still have unfinished business between us, Rachel."

  "I suppose you want me to tell you the name of the men who attacked you yesterday."

  "No. I already know their names. Let's just say that I had a talk with Bob Foster. The deputy and that redheaded man had both left town."

  "Cowards. That doesn't surprise me."

  He said almost too casually, "I'll find them eventually."

  She stood up and pushed her trouser legs down. "If I were a betting woman, I'd say you did more than talk to Bob Foster. I know all about the Vincente pride. And those men stepped on your pride, didn't they, Noble?"

  He reached out and cupped her chin, turning her fully toward him. He gently touched her damp cheek and she allowed it, not knowing what else to do. "Pride is something I can ill afford these days, Rachel. This isn't the same Texas I left. I wonder if it ever will be."

  "As you told me that night in your garden, nothing stays the same."

  His gaze fell on her upturned face. "You remain the same. If you loved a man, I believe that you would fight for him to the very end. Would you do that, Rachel?"

  She realized she'd been holding a sunflower in her hand and she'd shredded all the petals. "First I would have to find a man worthy of loyalty."

  "Rachel, Rachel." Her name sounded like a caress on his lips. "Yesterday your eyes burned like green fire because you saw what you thought was an injustice and did something about it. That was your pride at work, wasn't it?" He looked at her closely. "Or was it something more?"

  "It was pride. Mine. I told you yesterday that I didn't like the odds."

  His gaze went across the river, and it seemed that he was a long way off. "Pride can sometimes be a good thing, Rachel. It separates the men from the animals."

  "Winna Mae always says `Pride goes before a fall."'

  "Perhaps." His strong fingers moved across her face and lingered there while his expression softened. "But you know something has happened between us, Green Eyes. You may not want to admit it, but you know it's true."

  Pain stabbed through her. She silently struggled against her own heart and finally won the battle, at least for the moment. She jerked away from him and stared down at her bare feet. "Nothing happened between us."

  He smothered a smile, thinking how like a little girl she seemed at the moment. Yesterday she had been a flame-haired Amazon ready to fight the whole town. "And who takes care of you, Green Eyes? Are you as alone as I am?"

  His mesmerizing gaze flowed through her like a warm stream, and left her with the same giddiness that she'd felt when her father had allowed her a glass of champagne one Christmas Eve. "I can take care of myself" She looked up at him, frowning reprovingly. "I don't need anyone."

  "You could let me take care of you," he said, laughing at some private jest. Then he went on to explain. "Perhaps you are right and it's the other way around. After all, it was I on the ground yesterday, and all that stood between me and hell was you and that damned rifle of yours. Maybe I need you to take care of me, even if my pride takes a beating for it."

  "As far as you are concerned, Noble, it would take the whole Yankee army to take care of you. As far as I'm concerned, you still have much to answer for. What good is pride if it comes at the price of honor?"

  "My honor or yours?"

  "Yours."

  "You are speaking of your sister." His voice sounded stilted. "Are we back to that again?"

  "So it would seem," she answered in a sharp voice. "You wronged her, Noble. Don't you care that she suffered so after you went away?"

  "Have you discussed this with Delia?"

  "I... we always end up in an argument when we talk about you."

  "And so, it would seem, do we. I told you before, Rachel, ask Delia about what happened between the two of us. I can tell you nothing."

  She wondered if it was his damned pride again. His pride kept him from talking to the McVees about their son. His pride kept him from asking for help of any kind. Was it his pride that kept him silent about Delia? She had to know.

  She wearily arched her back. "Why don't you tell me about you and my sister."

  "The story isn't mine to tell-it's Delia's."

  She wondered what he could mean. What was it that he wanted Delia to tell her?

  Noble reached down and plucked a sunflower and pushed it gently into her hair. "Let's talk about something else, shall we?"

  She removed the flower and tossed it aside, then dropped down on the grass and began to tug on her boots. "I don't have anything to say to you. I must get home."

  He plucked a blade of grass, gnawed on the end, watching her closely, his mind envisioning her beautiful body as it had been that day she'd stripped off her clothing and joined him in the river. He felt his body burn with desire and pushed the feeling aside with difficulty. Now was not the time to think about that. He smiled to himself. She'd probably shoot him if he even suggested they go for a swim.

  "What were you doing in town yesterday?" he asked, trying to keep her from leaving.

  "If you must know, I was picking up
some material I'd ordered from the East."

  "Ah, a new frock."

  "Yes. It's for the fall dance."

  He sat up straight. "Do they still have the Harvest Dance?"

  "Of course. But why would you care about that? A Vincente would never attend a town dance. Of course, you are always invited should you choose to come. Perhaps our local dances are too common for you?" She pulled on her other boot. "Very few people of Madragon County ever received an invitation to a Vincente fiesta."

  He stood and offered her his hand. She considered refusing, but decided that would make her appear childish.

  "My father was from the old way of thinking, Rachel. He believed that a man should not many or entertain out of his class. I don't even know what my class is."

  "The lofty class," she said archly.

  Noble drew her up beside him and gazed at the light sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her pert little nose. He didn't know why most women cherished white skin. Rachel was enchanting with freckles. He wanted to crush her in his arms and kiss every one of them.

  "So," he said at last. "You'll go to the dance and break every man's heart." His grip tightened on her hand. "I never asked. Is there any special man in your life?"

  She twisted her hand away from his grip. "That is none of your affair," she answered shakily.

  He laughed and walked to his horse. Thrusting his boot into the stirrup, he mounted. "By the way, you wouldn't happen to know why Mr. and Mrs. McVee showed up at my house today, oozing human kindness? Mrs. McVee brought pies and cakes and enough jams and jellies for me to open my own store."

  "Why should I know anything about that?"

  "I seem to recall spilling my guts to you about their son's death."

  She fastened her gaze on the tip of his black boot. "If they decided to like you, Noble, then they are probably misguided in their judgment and will come to their senses sooner or later."

  "Rachel, you are the most baffling female I've ever come up against. When taking your measure, I've had to ignore the rules I use to understand other women. You're like quicksilver that can't be held or contained. You are totally unpredictable."