Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  He smiled crookedly and pulled her close to him as he said, “I know you've changed and I’m not trying to crush your Texas spirit, Deborah. I want you the way you are—but I want you safe, dammit,” he rasped out as he bent his head to kiss her.

  For a moment she struggled to resist the hard, warm demands of his mouth and hands, then she gave in, kissing him back fiercely. Only when she heard Sadie's arthritic shuffling across the kitchen floor did she pull herself free of his arms. “I have to prepare the food. I'll let Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Sandoval take it to the prisoners tonight.”

  By mid-morning of the next day their truce was broken. “What the hell do you mean, she went with Dr. Weidermann?” Rafe demanded of Racine Schwartz. “Can't I leave her unattended for an hour without her doing something crazy!”

  “Tried my damndest ta stop her, but her 'n thet Rooshin doc, they skeedaddled out ta tend one 'o them fellers shot durin' th' fight ta take th' city. I come ta tell ya soon's they left,” the old man said defensively. He'd hobbled fast as he could from the boardinghouse to the livery where Rafe was grooming Bostonian.

  “Mama always goes with the doc. She's his best nurse,” Adam piped up. He was clutching a curry comb in his hand, his small face creased in worried puzzlement at his father's anger.

  “Please take Adam back to the boardinghouse, Racine. I'll see that his mother's all right,” Rafe said, ignoring the boy's remarks as he turned and walked swiftly from the stable toward the Main Plaza.

  The physician's brow was furrowed in concentration as he swabbed carefully around the stitches. The wounded man lay patiently on a kitchen table in the Maverick house, where the San Antonio defenders had been imprisoned.

  “Ow, doc, that don't feel so good,” Walt Mabry groused.

  “But it heals cleanly. That is of utmost importance.” Dr. Weidermann’s English was precise and careful, tinged with a slight European accent of uncertain origin. “Mrs. Ken—Fleming, please give me the salve.”

  Deborah felt herself redden as she handed the doctor a vial of strong, smelly cream. Everyone in town knows about Rafael and me. She swore to herself, looking nervously over her shoulder to watch for Captain Flores. She felt uneasy about slipping out to make these rounds with the doctor, but she was his only experienced nurse. And in her heart of hearts, Deborah confessed that she had wanted to show her husband that she had a life of her own.

  When they finished their rounds in the makeshift infirmary, she walked toward the boardinghouse. Deep in thought, Deborah did not hear the footsteps approaching until a whispery voice caused her to gasp and look up.

  “So preoccupied, Mrs. Fleming. A lady requires an escort on the street, especially such a beautiful lady who does not look where she walks.” Enrique Flores stared intently into her eyes as he reached out to take her arm proprietarily.

  “My only requirement, Captain, is that you unhand me—at once,” Deborah replied levelly.

  Flores's black eyes danced, but their reflection was eerily cold and flat, like the sound of his laughter. “I do not think so. I always had a preference for blondes, but finding out you belong to Rafael Flamenco—well, that sweetens the bargain.” Rather than releasing her, Flores's grip on her arm tightened as he began to shove her toward a ramshackle house whose door stood ajar.

  Frantically. Deborah looked around the deserted street. With the martial law, few people ventured abroad unless absolutely necessary. The neighborhood through which she was walking was empty and several houses stood vacant. Stupid fool, Rafael was right! she chastised herself as she tried to twist away from Flores' reptilian menace. Her shoes were hard leather, sensible for walking; and when she connected one foot squarely with his shin, he let out a grunt of surprised pain. Deborah raised her arm, hoping to rake her nails across his face; but the embattled pair was interrupted by a low, cutting voice that stilled their struggle.

  “Let her go, Flores. I'd hate for you to die so quick and painless.” The command was accompanied by a sharp jab from the barrel of a .36 caliber Patterson Colt pressing against Flores's neck.

  Rafe had come upon them, silent as a Comanche. Every nerve in his body screamed to kill his enemy, but he realized the folly of shooting one of Woll's captains in broad daylight. He'd stand before a firing squad within twenty-four hours for such a breach.

  Flores grinned evilly as he released Deborah. “You ache to kill me, eh? I can tell. See, your hand shakes from holding back; but we must both respect our supreme commander, musn't we?”

  “Don't push it, Flores,” Rafe breathed, removing the cold steel barrel from the Mexican's neck.

  Flores shrugged and backed off. “You can't shoot me in such a public place, my friend. Until a more opportune time, eh?” He tipped his hat to Deborah with mocking politeness and ambled away.

  As she faced her husband's anger, Deborah repressed a shudder.

  “I asked you not to go out. Now perhaps you see why?” Rafe took her in his arms, but she pushed away.

  “You commanded me not to ‘walk the streets unchap-eroned’,” she replied, feeling petty even as she spoke the words.

  He leaned against the side of the building and pushed his hat back on his head. “He probably wouldn't have killed you—just roughed you up, maybe raped you, then sent you back to me with a message.”

  “If you're trying to frighten me, it's working,” she answered, struggling to keep her voice level and to match his apparent calmness. “Why does he hate you so much?”

  Rafe shrugged. “He stole my guns and supplies, killed my men, and sold me to the Comanche six years ago. He did it for money, but I don't think that was all. His kind likes to see people bleed. He stayed for the torture that night. He probably—” Seeing the look of dawning horror in her eyes, he stopped and reached out once more. “Let's just go back to the boardinghouse for now. You stay put and watch Adam closely.” At her wide-eyed look of terror, he nodded. “Yes, he'd try to get to me through my son, too. You have to let me handle this, Deborah.” When he put his arm around her this time, she did not resist. They walked quickly toward home.

  As evening fell, Deborah's nervousness increased with the darkness. She must spend another night in Rafael's arms, drawn more closely to him, revealing all her want, loneliness, need, all the things she had buried for so long. How can I trust him? she cried to herself. And the night taunted in return, How can you deny him?

  After the evening meal, Rafe went to check on Bostonian. Deborah busied herself with clearing the kitchen. When she and Sadie were through, she shooed the old woman off to bed and sat down to plan menus for the rest of the week. Finding it difficult to concentrate, she rubbed her temples and reapplied herself. Just then a small tap sounded on the backdoor and a familiar voice said, “Oh, thank heavens you're here and all right!”

  “Charlee! How did you get into San Antonio?” Deborah rushed over to embrace her friend, who was dressed once more in the same scrofulous boy's clothing she'd given up months earlier.

  “Sometimes it pays to dress like a boy, especially if you're an old squirrel hunter on a secret mission in the dead of night!” She hugged Deborah.

  “But there are sentries posted everywhere and they have orders to shoot anyone out after curfew.”

  “They have to see you to shoot. Hell, Deborah, I could take any of those sappers into the best squirrel woods in St. Genevieve and they'd never bag a thing! Anyway, I'm real good at squeezing through small places.”

  “Still, it's dangerous. Now that you're here, you'll have to stay, unless Jim is—”

  “Jim isn't with me,” Charlee interrupted, dashing Deborah's hopes that they might flee to Bluebonnet and elude Rafael. “He'd skin me if he knew I sneaked in here. He and Lee are off chasing Comanches. We only got word today that the city was occupied. I came right away. Is Adam all right?”

  “Yes, he's fine. Overjoyed, in fact.” Her voice betrayed her agitation, as did the nervous lacing and unlacing of her fingers.

  “Those Mexican soldiers really have
you strung up tight, haven't they?”

  “Oh, Charlee, it isn't that, it's—oh, you have to get out of here. It isn't safe. You'll be missed at Bluebonnet.”

  Rafe interrupted her, saying, “I second the motion.” His eyes met Deborah's with a knowing glance. She'd run to her friend's ranch if she could! He looked at the slight girl dressed in baggy men's clothing. Observing them hug, he knew this must be Charlee. Grinning at the awestruck way she surveyed him, he put one arm around Deborah's waist.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked in a small voice.

  His eyes commanded Deborah to answer for him. You must face reality, Deborah. He could feel her take a deep breath as she replied, “Charlee, this is Rafael Beaurivage Flamenco, my husband.”

  “Also known as Rafe Fleming,” he said, smiling.

  “You're Adam's father! But how—why...?”

  “It's late and we have a long ride tomorrow, Miss—you never did introduce her to me, wife,” he teased Deborah, knowing full well this girl's identity, wanting to let neither female off the hook.

  “Charlee McAllister,” the younger woman shot back forthrightly. “I used to work for Deborah. She and Adam are my friends.”

  There was a definite note of warning in her voice. Rafe respected such valor from one so tiny; but before he could frame a conciliatory reply, Adam came racing down the hall.

  Catapulting into his father's arms, he cried, “Papa! You been gone!”

  Deborah took Charlee's arm. “I'll explain it to you later, Charlee. Can you get her safely out of here, Rafael?”

  “It'll be no problem. I have a safe conduct from the general. I should be able to escort an old family friend back to his parents,” he said, teasing once more.

  “How did you get a pass—oh!” Charlee flushed and stopped.

  Rafe's answer was cold. “You're mistaken in your assumption, Miss McAllister. I'm not part of General Woll's army, regular or irregular, merely a Texian rancher from up north.”

  Bitterly, Deborah added, “What Rafael means is that he's from an old Creole family in New Orleans. As one of French and Spanish ancestry, he has no love for the Yankee usurpers in Texas.”

  Rafe grunted in disgust, “At least that's what the general thinks; and I'd be a fool to disabuse him, wouldn't I, love?” He tousled Adam's hair and said, “Now, why don't you see to getting your friend some food and a place to rest while I tuck this sleepy young rascal in?” As he turned to leave with Adam's head drooping on his shoulder, he couldn't resist one parting shot. “I'll be waiting for you in our bedroom.”

  He could just imagine the tale of betrayal and cruelty his wife would tell her friend. Forcing down the bitter lump in his throat, Rafe carried Adam up to bed and tucked him in. Already the boy was nodding off, but then he raised his head to ask, “Wasn't that Aunt Charlee or did I just dream her?”

  Rafe smiled and said, “Yep, it was her, but she just came to see if you and your mother were all right. She's leaving in the morning, son. Now go to sleep.”

  He sat with Adam until the boy was soundly asleep. Then he went down the hall to the men's washroom and soaked his tired body in a hot tub. Damn, Flores was right. He had felt an aching sweat to kill the bastard this morning. He sighed and tried to relax. “And now my wife's blackening my already dubious name even more.” He pondered how to handle tonight.

  Deborah was considering the same thing while she gave Charlee an edited version of how she met and married Rafael. She simply told her friend that they disagreed over a wife's role. The fact that she was neither southern, Catholic, nor Creole had led to their separation.

  Charlee tried to console her, contrasting Rafael's single-minded pursuit of his wife with Jim Slade's cavalier attitude toward her, but Deborah could not overcome her uneasiness about spending another night with Rafael.

  Just then, Rafael returned, obviously freshly bathed. Droplets of water clung to the gleaming black curls at his temples and nape where he had not toweled them dry. He wore soft moccasins and his shirt was unlaced. “Past time for bed, wife,” he said in a whisper-soft voice, laden with insinuation.

  Rafe reached out and put his hands on Deborah's shoulders, kneading softly, caressing across the delicate pattern of her collarbone, around the nape of her neck. Almost unconsciously, without willing it, she yielded to his soft, subtle pressure, savoring the stroking of his callused fingers.

  “Adam's sound asleep and I'm sure after her adventure, Charlee here is tired. Better show her to her room.” He smiled, sure it was the room Deborah had planned for him to occupy.

  “I guess I am tired,” Charlee ventured, aware of the tension between Rafe and Deborah. “I know the way to my old room and I can help myself to sheets and make up my bed.”

  Deborah felt she was being deserted, yet at the same time she wanted Rafael's hands on her, hypnotically weaving their spell. Just then, as Charlee left, Chester came into the kitchen. Nervously, he cleared his throat to get Mr. Fleming's attention. Rafe turned and asked, '‘What's wrong, Chester?”

  It's as if he's in charge here, not me, Deborah thought resentfully. While he and Rafael discussed one of the wagon mares who was ailing, Deborah wandered off to the porch. He has Adam, my employees, and my boarders on his side. Even Charlee backs off from him. Oh, damn him, why does he take over everything in my life? I never touched his life this way!

  Rafe could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was tense and angry. He slipped silently from the kitchen and came up behind her, cupping her shoulders in his hands as he whispered into her neck, “Hiding out here won't solve anything, Deborah. If I have to, I'll carry you kicking and screaming to bed; boarders, neighbors, the whole Mexican army be damned.”

  She stiffened even more. “I am not hiding.” She moved quickly from his embrace and turned to face him. “I just wanted a breath of fresh air before retiring.”

  He snorted in disbelief at her primly affected air. “Come here, wife,” he commanded softly, seductively. Rafe held his breath and waited for her, willing her to make the first move, exerting iron will not to reach for her before she touched him first. You want this as much as I, Moon Flower.

  As if in a drugged trance, Deborah complied, her steps halting and slow until she stood very close to him, placing her trembling hands on his chest.

  Unable to hold back any longer, he crushed her to him and swooped down to feast on her slender neck, raining kisses across her throat and up to her ears, temples, eyelids. Then, feeling her arms tighten around his neck and her fingers tangle in his hair, he growled low and ravaged her mouth. With a small whimper of surrender, she opened to his sensual onslaught and kissed him back. Their tongues dueled, twining together, probing and exploring until they were both trembling. Rafe tangled his hands in the long silvery skein of her hair, pulling on it, tipping her head back in submission. Their bodies pressed intimately one against the other. Finally, he broke the fierce kiss with a ragged sigh but still held Deborah tightly to him.

  Sobbing, she choked out, “You may have taught me desire, but you care nothing for my spirit, my soul.”

  Her desolation tore at him and he gasped out in pain, “It is your spirit, your very soul that I wish to possess most of all, Deborah.”

  “Then you will leave me nothing,” she whispered on the still night air, unable to relinquish the warmth of his embrace, holding fast to him.

  “Then it's an even trade, for you have left me nothing, Moon Flower,” he murmured against her throat as he swept her up and carried her into the house.

  * * * *

  “Just because his wife is Anglo does not mean he is a spy, Captain,” Adrian Woll said speculatively as he paced from behind the small desk in the sitting room converted into an office. Flores had been hounding him to arrest Rafael Flamenco for two days, just as Flamenco wanted him to arrest Flores. He sighed. “I know you and he have quarreled over the woman. Is there perhaps more to this feud than simple rivalry?”

  Enrique Flores took a deep breath to c
alm himself. Woll had been a professional soldier for three countries. He did not get to the rank of general by being a fool or a poor judge of men. He had on several occasions made his distaste for the irregulars quite clear. If Woll knew Enrique was a comanchero, it might prove fatal. Flores must proceed very cautiously.

  “My distrust of Flamenco, General, goes back many years to Nacogdoches. He and several of his friends picked a fight with me in a bar and beat me almost to death. He is a coward and a traitor.”

  “Odd, that a man of such obvious education and refinement should be living in this wilderness,” Woll speculated aloud.

  Flores pounced. “Yes, consider, if he is really from a distinguished New Orleans family, what is he doing here in San Antonio? And why do all the Anglos in town call him Rafe Fleming, not Rafael Flamenco? His wife is a Yankee who consorts with prisoners and insurrectionists. I've had her boardinghouse watched. Late last night a messenger of some sort slipped in and met with Fleming and his wife.”

  At this, Woll's head jerked to attention. “Why wasn't I notified at once? I've left strict orders about curfews and men slipping in and out of the city.”

  Flores spread his hands in a placating gesture. “All I know so far is that one man on foot slipped through the guards and entered the boardinghouse. I have two of my best men watching this morning to see what they do next.”

  “Indeed. See to it that I'm informed of what transpires, Captain. Dismissed.” Woll watched the guerilla salute and leave his presence. He sat on the large sofa in the corner of the room and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Christ! How he hated having scum like Flores in his command, but his orders had been explicit. He was to use the irregulars who raided along the border and dealt with the savages, but every professional instinct he possessed made him recoil from consorting with banditti who preyed on their own people.

  He made a snap decision. Ringing for an orderly, he sent for one of his own trusted officers. “I want Mrs. Kensington or Fleming, whatever she calls herself now, watched. See who comes and goes and report everything to me, including what Captain Flores and his agents do.” Captain Rodriguez saluted his general smartly and left to follow orders.