Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  The horse shied as the man approached him, then calmed at the sound of Rafe's voice, silky and whispering, hypnotic. “Yes, you shine like polished New England maple. When I finish, you'll have the manners of the most polished Bostonian, too.” He thought a moment, then chuckled. “I've considered what to name you—how does Bostonian sound?” As he spoke, he swung into the saddle and took the reins from the cowhand holding them, keeping up the low, musical conversation. He'd been gentling the horse since his return home. The stallion was smart and spirited. If only he could reclaim its affections, lost to some man's cruel and thoughtless actions in the past.

  Joe De Villiers watched Rafe work the stallion, amazed as always by how his partner could communicate with horses. Once in the saddle, all Rafe's pain and sorrow seemed to evaporate as he became one with the animal. It was a good thing to have this new diversion. Ever since Rafe had returned from Boston, he had been morose and withdrawn.

  The half-breed sighed, recalling Lucia's reaction when all Deborah's beautiful things had arrived. She had helped Rafe arrange the chairs and table in the big dining room and place the chest in the bedroom—his wife's bedroom.

  “He's buildin' a shrine ta her, ya know,” Joe had told the Mexican woman that morning after Rafe left the house.

  Lucia had turned uneasily from his sad brown eyes. “What can we do? After all these years, he still searches.”

  “Do you want Rafe to find his wife, Lucia?” Joe had asked softly, knowing she had loved her boss in pained silence for all the years since Rafe had rescued her from the Comanche.

  “I want him to be happy,” she had said very carefully. “No one but Deborah can make him so.”

  Joe, who loved Lucia the same constrained way she loved Rafe, turned his thoughts back to the man in the corral. He had just received some news, news he was not eager to impart to his young friend and partner

  After Rafe finally dismounted, Joe took the sorrel's reins while the tall Creole strode over to the water trough and dipped his hat, replacing the sweat-soaked headgear and letting the cool water trickle down his bronzed temples and neck.

  “Hottest August since I've been in Texas, I think,” he said to Joe. “Who was the rider I saw you talking to earlier?”

  The two men ambled leisurely toward the stables with Bostonian following sedately behind them. The silence lengthened as Joe pondered. Rafe knew his partner would tell him when he was ready. Over the years, they had forged a unique friendship, sweating under the merciless sun, freezing in blue northers, laying stone for the house and running to ground the wild mustangs.

  Finally Joe broke the silence. “Recall a drifter named Rameriz?”

  Rafe's eyes bored into Joe's. “Yeah. He was also rumored to be a comanchero. Last I heard he was riding with some Mexican guerrillas, raiding Anglo settlers.”

  “Thet's him. He wuz ridin' with a feller named Perez. Big things in th' wind with th' Mexican army. Perez has hisself a real commission now. Him and his ‘Defenders’ wuz headin' to Santone. Rameriz split with ‘em.”

  Rafe stood very still. There was more to this than Joe had indicated so far. “Why would I care where Perez and his banditti head?”

  “Rameriz figgered ya might, since last time ya saw him, ya wuz askin' a lotta questions about his old sidekick Enrique Flores.” Joe heard the intake of Rafe's breath.

  If there was one thing that obsessed Rafe Fleming half as much as finding his wife, it was killing the comanchero who had sold him into slavery.

  “Go on.” Rafe's eyes were glowing black coals.

  “Flores might be ridin' with Perez. Seems old Santy Anny's fixin' ta try 'n retake Texas, er so rumors go. Lots o' troops movin' south o' th' border, 'n th' irregulars sent ta raid in Texas er being organized real quiet like. Rameriz said he seen Flores with Perez's outfit.”

  “How much did that piece of information cost us?” Rafe inquired cynically.

  Joe shrugged. “A few American banknotes and a pair o' half-broke mustangs. Quien sabe? Maybe he'll git throwed and break his neck.” He grinned evilly and Rafe joined him.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  “Damned fog,” Rafe muttered to Bostonian as he reined the big sorrel stallion to a slower pace. The pea soup fog followed a night of miserable drizzle, which had left the ground muddy and slick, treacherous for man and beast. Rafe was taking no chances that Bostonian might shy on the uneven morass that passed for a trail. This was the farthest southwest he had ever been in Texas. The muggy weather was unbearable. He would be glad never again to venture near San Antonio after his business with Flores was ended.

  Rafe was trail-weary after the long, hot ride south. Traveling alone like this gave him too much time to think about Deborah and Adam. “Adam,” he said aloud, letting his son's name roll off his tongue, finding he liked the New England simplicity of it. He brooded over the thought that he might never see the boy. “He's six years old now, nearly half his childhood gone and I've missed it.”

  By midday the fog lifted, replaced by blinding hot sunlight. The trail was well worn and easier to follow now as he neared the largest city in the Republic. Letting Bostonian have his head, Rafe suddenly heard the sound of hoof beats coming much too fast. He scanned the horizon, his hand automatically going to the Hawken rifle on his saddle and pulling it free.

  A big, thick-set rider with a drooping handlebar mustache was headed his way. By the look of his light brown hair and plaid cotton shirt, he was Anglo. Each man took the other's measure as they pulled up their horses.

  Rafe, seeing no one but the lone rider, let the rifle drop back into its scabbard. Still, he kept his right hand perched lightly over the Patterson Colt on his hip. “Afternoon,” he said guardedly. “Someone on your trail?”

  The Texian's expression became quizzical and his tenseness lessened a bit as he leaned forward. “You ain't Mex, are ya?” He sounded relieved at the softly accented Texian drawl Rafe had acquired over the years.

  Sensing something was amiss, Rafe replied, “No. I own a ranch north of here. Name's Rafe Fleming. You coming from San Antonio?”

  “Yep. I'm Whalen Simpson. Own a livery stable, or at least I did afore them Mex soldiers captured the city this mornin',” he added angrily.

  So Rameriz's information was right! Rafe's pulse quickened in anticipation as he asked, “You say a whole Mexican army took San Antonio?”

  “Yeah. We held 'em off at daybreak. Figgered there's only a few hunnert of ‘em. When th' fog lifted, there was thousands o' them bastards, cannons 'n all. A few o' us escaped to spread th' alarm. Yew ain't fixin' to go to Santone, are ya? Real bad fer Texian health these days,” Simpson added.

  Rafe grinned evilly. “My going to San Antonio might just be bad for someone else's health, too. I'll take my chances.” As he tipped his hat and pulled away, Rafe had to laugh at Simpson's yelled warnings. Little did the frightened stable keeper know that Rafe would revert to being Rafael Flamenco. Until he spoke, Simpson had thought he looked Mexican. His Spanish ancestry and fluency in the language should get him into the city. Rafe would just have to gamble that it would.

  It was easier than he'd imagined. The youthful sentry who first challenged him outside of town looked to be a cadet scarcely out of knee breeches. The boy directed him to his lieutenant, an older soldier who questioned him cursorily and then ordered the private to escort him to the Mexican headquarters.

  As they rode to General Woll's office, Rafe observed that this was indeed a city under martial law, occupied by a foreign invader. Few people were on the streets and those who ventured forth were subdued and watchful. He learned much of what was going on from his casual conversation with the soldier. Adrian Woll was a French mercenary in the pay of Santa Anna, a cultured European as well as a brilliant military tactician. I can turn that to my advantage. If Woll was like most Frenchmen abroad, he would be overjoyed to converse with someone fluent in his native language.

  First Rafe must win over Woll, then find out about Perez. Once he located
the captain and his irregulars, he could ferret out Flores. He had made up a story about searching for his runaway sister, enticed from her family's loving arms by a villainous Yankee. Now the aggrieved Flamencos planned to retrieve the disgraced young woman and place her in a convent. The tale hit close to home as he sadly remembered how poorly he and his parents had treated Lenore. Thank God she was well and happy now, with two children, according to the last letter he had received from her and Caleb. Stupid waste, he thought, then shook off the disquieting reminiscence as his escort dismounted in front of a large, whitewashed adobe building.

  The structure was an impressive private residence on the Main Plaza, obviously commandeered as Woll's headquarters. I'll have to play my cards very carefully to get to Flores.

  After waiting the better part of an hour in a comfortably furnished anteroom, Rafe was shown in to see the general. Adrian Woll was a surprisingly young-looking man with rather blunt features and the pale complexion common among people from Alsace-Lorraine. Despite his reputation as a shrewd and skillful mercenary, his manner was flowery and gracious, doubtless the result of his long sojourn in Mexico.

  “A thousand apologies for the delay in seeing you. I understand you have journeyed all the way from Nacogdoches in search of your wronged sister, Mr. Flamenco,” the general said in Spanish, his tone solicitous as he reached out to shake Rafe's hand.

  “I only hope to find her quickly and return her to the convent, General,” Rafe replied in flawless French.

  Woll's thick brows raised in surprise. “You are French, with a Spanish surname?” He was obviously intrigued.

  “I am a New Orleans Creole.” Rafe embroidered on the tale about a wronged sister hiding in San Antonio with a dastardly Yankee. “Her name is Rosa Louisa and she has long black hair and dark brown eyes. Quite a beautiful child, actually.” He hoped that would be vague enough to fit at least a hundred girls living in the city.

  Woll stroked his goatee and appeared to consider. “We captured the city only this morning, Mr. Flamenco, and I have a thousand details to attend to, not to mention reports to my superiors in Mexico. I will need time to make inquiries. If you would be so indulgent as to allow me a day or two?”

  After agreeing to meet the general for luncheon the following day, Rafe left the harried conqueror to his reports. Carrying a safe conduct pass signed by Woll himself, he headed toward a cantina across the plaza to wash down the trail dust. Perhaps, he might pick up some information about Flores in the bar.

  The cantina was dark and smelled of the sweat of men and horses. The elderly Tejano behind the bar smiled nervously. Rafe ordered a whiskey and headed for a rickety table in one corner where he might eavesdrop on several small groups of Mexican soldiers. They were the only patrons except for a couple of elderly Tejanos and one wizened Anglo.

  The soldiers discussed the long march from the Rio Grande that had started the twenty-fourth of August and the battle early that morning in which a number of their companions had been killed. Over fifty Texian men, including a number of the Republic's illustrious politicians, had surrendered when they saw the impossible odds.

  “Where have they put the bastards?” one soldier who was not on the plaza during the fighting asked.

  “They're under guard in a big house on the corner of Commerce and Soledad Streets—the house they fired on us from.”

  “I hope the general puts them on bread and water,” a third said with a nasty oath. A small series of guffaws punctuated the remark.

  Then, the man who had described the battle said, “I don't think they'll starve—after all, General Woll is a gentleman. When the women of the city offered to feed the prisoners, he could scarcely refuse. It saves our rations and keeps the civilians happy.”

  “Yes, and the general is also a Frenchman with an eye for beautiful women. That tall silver blond widow lady leading the delegation didn't exactly hurt their cause either.” Everyone laughed and traded jocular comments about the tall blonde Yankee with strange colored eyes who had marched into the general's office earlier in the day demanding to care for the prisoners.

  Rafe sat frozen in his chair, the drink in front of him forgotten as his heart hammered in his chest. He listened further. The widow ran a boardinghouse near the end of Commerce Street and she spoke to Woll in fluent French! It had to be Deborah! I must have missed her in his office by a matter of an hour or less!

  It was nearing the dinner hour now. Would she be at her boardinghouse or on the plaza where the prisoners were? Unsteadily, Rafe got up and walked to the door on wooden legs. He would go to the prisoners' quarters directly across the square and see if she was there, then proceed down Commerce Street to her boardinghouse if she was not. His thoughts were jumbled and a part of his mind screamed at him to think this through before he blundered in on her. But he could not stop himself—not after six years.

  Before he knew it, he was nearing the large, low residence ringed with guards. Flashing the safe conduct with Woll's signature on it, he asked to see the officer in charge of the prisoners,

  “Yes, sir, the captain is in the back, arguing with that widow who the general—”

  The youth could say no more before Rafe spun on his heel and headed around the side of the building. He could hear the strident voices of his hated enemy Enrique Flores and Deborah raised in anger. Getting a hold on his emotions, he calmed himself before confronting them. I can't kill Flores here and endanger Deborah and Adam. He's Woll's trusted officer. Deborah and Enrique did not see him approach.

  “I'd scarcely attempt to break fifty-three men out of your jail single-handed, Captain.” Deborah's voice was scornful as she addressed Flores in Spanish tinged with a charming New England accent.

  “Ah, but if you bring in such big pots and kettles, who knows what may be hidden in the bottom of them? Now, if you would only let me and my men watch the food being prepared in your kitchens, then we can be certain—”

  “—of gaining entry to my house, which the general has already forbidden his soldiers to do,” she interrupted fiercely.

  “Such a beautiful face with such a suspicious mind,” Flores scolded.

  “A fault she's always possessed, I fear, Enrique,” Rafe cut in smoothly. Every killing instinct he'd developed during six years of survival in the Texas wilderness took over now. He would protect his wife and deal with his enemy later.

  Deborah froze, afraid to turn and face the owner of the low, silky voice addressing Flores in clipped Spanish. She watched the rapid play of emotions sweep over the captain's face as he turned to confront Rafael. Surprise, amazement, perhaps fear or anger—she could not tell which. Then he composed his features into an insolent mask.

  “An incredible resurrection, but not without cost, I see,” Enrique said to Rafe as he inspected Rafe's scarred, sun-darkened face.

  “A cost you will pay dearly for when the time is right,” Rafe replied evenly, one hand resting casually on the Patterson Colt at his side.

  Flores smiled, glancing from Rafe to the woman. “You know the Widow Kensington?”

  “We go back—all the way to Boston, but her name wasn't Kensington then,” he replied carefully. “I haven't seen the lady in six years. You will forgive us if we request a private reunion?” Rafe took a step forward casually, but his stance was menacing.

  Flores shrugged indifferently. “As you wish, Mr. Flamenco, Widow Kensington.” He flashed Deborah a blinding smile and tipped his hat, then walked past Rafe, whispering as he departed, “Until later, I presume?”

  As Rafe watched him turn the corner and vanish with a cocky swagger, Deborah observed Rafael, her husband. He was the same arrogant man she'd left in New Orleans but so changed she would scarcely have recognized him except for the silky voice. He was dressed in dusty, trail-worn buckskin pants and scuffed leather boots. A low-slung gun rested negligently on one hip, a big, wicked-looking knife on the other. His black vest and flat-crowned hat were studded with silver conchos, giving him the rakish appearance of a
Mexican pistolero.

  But it was his face that was most dramatically changed. Always swarthy, he was now sun-blackened with small lines at the corners of his eyes. His left eyebrow was cut through with a thin, white scar that ran up toward his hairline. Another thicker scar was visible through the darkening shadow of his beard, running along the right side of his jaw. His curly black hair was badly in need of barbering.

  A slash of white teeth showed as he smiled slowly, almost hesitantly and pushed the hat back on his head, revealing a few faint gray hairs at his temples. “After all the years and places I searched...if I'd known you were here, I'd have dressed for the occasion,” he said in English, noting the way she eyed his grizzled appearance.

  “God, Moon Flower, you're more beautiful than ever, if that's possible.” Her skin was no longer the porcelain white he remembered but a creamy pale gold now. Her figure, although still slim, was fuller. She stood facing him, posture ramrod stiff. He knew he must go slowly. “Hadn't we better get to your boardinghouse so you can muster up the ladies to bring the food?”

  Deborah's thoughts were in chaos and her knees felt like rubber; but she forced one foot steadily in front of the other, avoiding his touch, walking past him toward home. He already knows where I live. I can't hide from him. “How did you find me here, in the middle of an invading army?”

  He walked beside her, drinking in the faint essence of lavender perfume, carefully choosing his words. “I lost your trail six years ago in the war. I've looked all over north and east Texas but I never came southwest. My finding you here was a blessed accident, I'm afraid.”

  She looked up at him in confusion. “Do you live in Texas now?”

  His eyes grew hard as he replied. “I left New Orleans for good in the autumn of 1836. I've never been back. I never intend to go back.”

  “But your family, your life—”

  “You and Adam are my family, and my life is here now,” he interrupted.