by Shirl Henke
Rafe was as preoccupied with their future as Deborah. When he came in for lunch that day, he saw Charlee, once more in charge of the kitchen. With the grain of an idea in his mind, he approached her after the meal, taking a heavy tray from the feisty girl and ushering her into the study for a private talk while Deborah and Adam were otherwise occupied.
“Think you could handle all this, run this place if we sold it to you?” He made a sweeping gesture across the books and papers strewn on Deborah's desk. He needed someone to take over Deborah's business as soon as possible so that he could get his family to Renacimiento.
Charlee arched one eyebrow. “Oh, so that's it. I guess you didn't have time to ask Deborah what she planned to do yet, did you? I'm buying her boardinghouse. We arranged it all this morning!”
That took him down a peg. Rafe considered it a good omen that Deborah cut her ties in San Antonio, but damn, he hated having two smug women throw the fait accompli at him like a wet dishrag!
At least he did win a grudging blessing from Deborah's friend, who admonished him to take good care of his wife or answer to her. He promised he would do so.
* * * *
The journey north took considerably longer than had Rafe's ride to San Antonio when all he had carried were his guns and saddlebags. Now, they had a wagonload of possessions. To help protect these and his family, he had hired four men to accompany them, toughened militiamen who knew the dangers of the trail.
The open campsites and the presence of a curious six-year-old child gave Rafe and Deborah no opportunity for intimacy. In fact, he concluded that it might be best to sleep apart for a few weeks. She had many adjustments to make. A whole new life as a rancher's wife lay ahead of her. While they were on the trail, he would not press her.
“Want to come with me? I have a surprise for you,” Rafe said to Adam early one morning as they were breaking camp. Upstream lay a secluded pool where deer often came to drink at dawn. The two conspirators slipped out while Deborah was in the wagon dressing and the hired men were packing up the gear.
When they returned about half an hour later, Deborah could hear Adam's piping voice. “Oh, Mama, you should have seen him! He had antlers this big.” His small arms stretched wide, then came up to hug her in excitement.
“Who, dear?” she asked, kneeling to return his embrace.
“The deer—Papa showed me where they drink. There were two of them—a lady and a man. He had the biggest antlers I ever seen.”
“Saw,” she corrected unconsciously as she tousled his black curls.
“I remembered that watering pool. On my way here I saw that same buck. Big fellow,” Rafe said, sharing his son's glowing-eyed happiness.
“You didn't shoot him, did you?” she asked, only half joking. She didn't like Adam's growing up surrounded by guns, despite the obvious need on the frontier.
Her husband gave her a patient smile, saying, “No need to shoot them. We have all the meat and other food we can carry now. But I do expect to teach Adam how to survive off the land, Deborah. First, he'll learn to ride.”
“My own pony!” Adam's face lit up again and he whirled from his mother's embrace to leap into his father's arms. “And I want to learn to hunt, too—'n shoot Indians like you 'n Wash.”
“All in good time, son, you'll learn to hunt all right. As to shooting Indians, that depends. Lots of tribes are friendly. My partner at the ranch is half-Cherokee. I think you'll like him,” he said with a wink at Deborah.
As the days on the trail passed, Deborah saw still more sides to her husband. He was an adoring father, sharing Adam's childish excitement with the natural abandon of a child himself. Yet he was stern and sensible as well, explaining the dangers of loaded guns and untended campfîres.
Of course he's a good father. He's already had lots of practice, she thought bitterly. She could still picture Rafael with his daughter that day she had gone to Lily's house. Forcing that traumatic event from her mind, she had to admit in all fairness that Rafael was much changed from the arrogant young aristocrat she'd known in New Orleans. She watched him squat by the campfire with Sanch Walters, one of the gunmen he'd hired. Illiterate and none too clean, the rough man was a skillful tracker and was unfailingly polite to her.
Sanch passed a jug of Texas corn whiskey around the fire and Deborah noticed that her once fastidious husband who only drank cognac from crystal did not disdain to take an occasional swig—without wiping the neck of the jug first either! Rafael shared the backbreaking camp chores with the hired men, teaching Adam to do likewise. He laid fires, chopped wood, even scoured the heavy iron cook kettle with sand for her. Once amazed at the calluses on his slim, aristocratic hands, now she knew how he got them. He took his turn rubbing down and feeding the mules they had purchased to pull the wagon, just as he shared the lonely night watches of sentry duty. Perhaps, most amazing of all was the camaraderie between Rafael and these rough, uneducated men.
Besides Sanch, there was a Tejano youth named Lopez, a grizzled old veteran of the Red Stick Rebellion called Red Eye, and a freeman, probably half black judging by his complexion, named Otis Fisher. Rafael ate with them, worked beside them and obviously respected them. Remembering the rigid caste system in New Orleans and his former views on slavery, she found it hard to imagine how one man could have changed so dramatically.
Listening to the men exchange grisly stories about their lives as mustangers, Deborah shuddered to think that her husband was involved in such a dangerous business as part of building his ranch. The thought of losing him was beyond bearing, she now realized. Whatever her future might bring, it was intrinsically bound up with that of Rafael Flamenco—or Rafe Fleming. Strange, his Anglicized name fits him better, but to me he'll always be Rafael.
“I figure by this time tomorrow we'll be at Renacimiento, Deborah,” Rafe said, interrupting her reverie. Seeing her flush, he asked, “You're doing some pretty deep thinking by the looks of that puckered brow, Moon Flower—what about?”
“Just thinking about what a beautiful journey it's been,” she answered evasively. “Tomorrow, we'll be at your ranch?” she echoed, wanting to change the subject.
“Our ranch,” he replied gently. “Ours and Joe's.”
“I'm anxious to meet your Cherokee friend. Is he anything like Red Eye or Otis?” She had a hard time imagining what Joe De Villiers would be like.
Rafe's face split into a lazy smile. “Oh, Joe's a little like Sanch, he loves to spin tall tales and tease.”
In late afternoon the next day, they crested the last hill and looked down on the valley floor, set with stands of pines and alder, lushly green from the recent rains. Rafe said softly, “Now you see why I didn't try to describe it to you.”
As she gazed in rapt wonder at the vast, clean beauty of the hidden valley, Deborah replied, “It's breathtaking.” She could see a gently meandering stream cut the valley floor, adorned with willow thickets and stately cottonwoods. In the distance a large stone building stood shaded by trees, just beyond where the stream forked.
They rode rapidly toward the house. It was old, the stones weathered smooth and vine-covered in places. But it looked strongly built and cool as the afternoon sunlight bathed it. It was two stories high with a stout new roof of wooden shingles. A neatly tended garden off to one side reminded Deborah of her own back in San Antonio, but she pushed that thought aside and looked at the corrals. One of them was full of nervous, milling wild horses, mostly with the brightly splotched paint markings of Texas mustangs.
“Joe must've been busy while I was gone,” Rafe said with a fond chuckle. “Speak of the devil!” A slight, wiry man with straight inky hair rounded the corner of the big house.
Spitting a wad of tobacco into the bushes, he walked gracefully toward the dismounting riders. De Villiers's face split in a broad smile of welcome, revealing surprisingly white teeth, given his vice. “No mistakin', this hasta be Deborah 'n thet pint-sized version o' you must be Adam.” He bowed in a surprisingly courtly man
ner. “After all th' years o' hearin' ‘bout you, it is a pure pleasure, ma'am.”
Warming to him at once, Deborah reached out her hand and grasped his firmly. “I might say the same, Mr. De Villiers. Rafe says he couldn't run this place without you.”
“Call me Joe, ma'am.” He turned to his partner. “Give thet youngun here, Rafe. I got to see if n he'll make a fit Texian.” He took the long-legged boy effortlessly from his father. Adam giggled as Joe made a mock inspection of his muscles, eyes, and teeth, pronouncing him fit to be the next owner of Renacimiento. Just then a black haired woman appeared at the door.
“Rafe—you are back safely at last,” she cried in Spanish, and ran out to hug him. “We were so worried.”
As she and Rafe exchanged warm greetings, Deborah looked at the Mexican woman. She was young, probably in her late twenties, tiny and voluptuous with waist-length, curly ebony hair. And she was beautiful.
Deborah's face froze as she heard Rafael say, “Deborah, I want you to meet our housekeeper, Lucia.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Deborah's welcome to her new home was spoiled by the presence of the “housekeeper.” Too proud to betray her suspicions about the lovely woman, she smiled woodenly and said hello to Lucia. Then, Rafael swept her up and carried her across the threshold into a large, high-ceilinged room with a floor of polished slate.
“You're home, Moon Flower,” he whispered in her ear as he slowly put her down in the center of the room. It was spacious and airy with large double doors opening onto a central courtyard. But the first thing that caught her eye was a beautiful navy and lavender afghan that Lenore had knitted for her birthday so long ago in New Orleans.
She walked quickly over to the settee and ran her hand lovingly over it. “I hated to leave it behind...there were so many things,” she said softly.
“Like this?” He pointed to a large cut crystal vase filled with fall wildflowers. Rafe watched her look around the room, filled with favorite possessions she had been unable to bring with her when she fled New Orleans—a brown velvet ottoman, a heavy silver music box, a pair of massive brass candlesticks that stood beside the fireplace.
Deborah was speechless, forgetting for the moment even Lucia. She walked about, touching the lost mementos, realizing the thought he must have put into selecting the very items that she had treasured most.
He led her from the parlor to a wide door that opened into the dining room. It was set with the massive polished maple table and high-backed chairs from her father's dining room in Boston!
At her look of bewildered amazement he replied, “It arrived just before I left for San Antonio. Adam spared no expense shipping it straight to Galveston. But come, there's more.”
Grasping her trembling hand, he led her through a door on the opposite side of the room that led to a flight of steep stairs. As they walked up them he said, “Below to your right is the library. There might be one or two of your favorite books in there. Now...” He paused at the top of the steps. A long hallway stretched in two directions, apparently ringing the central courtyard below. They turned to their left and went halfway down the hall to a door, which Rafe pushed open. “The master suite,” he said softly. “There are four others—Joe's, Lucia's, one for Adam, and another that should soon be a nursery.”
Ignoring his suggestive words, she walked into the room. Her chest and dressing table from Boston were standing against the far wall. Between them stood a large bed. As if reading her thoughts, he said, “It's too big for one person all alone, Moon Flower.”
By the time they had finished touring the house, Deborah felt overwhelmed by the way Rafael had decorated it with so many of her favorite furnishings from Boston and New Orleans. Seeing her collection of books by Wollstonecraft, Rousseau, Thoreau, and other of her favorite authors made tears glisten in her eyes. “It's like rediscovering old friends,” she whispered as her fingers traced the embossed pattern on their spines.
“I'm not sure I should allow this revolutionary, seditious material under my roof...” Feeling her stiffen and begin to retort, he chuckled and said, “Think you'll like your new home, Moon Flower?”
She sighed and relaxed in his arms. “It's beautiful, right down to the potted bougainvillea and oleanders in the courtyard. They always were my favorites.”
“I had them dug up from the lake house garden and shipped here.” He tightened his grip, letting one hand wander down from her arm to her waist.
“Were you so certain then that you'd find me?” she said, turning in his arms to face him.
“I only knew I would never give up looking,” he answered simply.
Before either of them could say more, Adam came bounding down the hall and burst into the library. “Mama, Papa, Joe says I can pick my own pony! He's got a whole corral full of them!”
Rafe scooped the boy up. “Let's just take a walk down to the corral and see what's there.”
“We just arrived, Rafael. Don't you think we should wait for just a bit—let Adam get used to his new home?” Deborah's voice reflected her protectiveness. Things were happening so fast!
A trace of the old arrogance slipped into his manner as he replied, “I thought you understood, Deborah, that Adam's riding lessons are long overdue. If Joe has some likely ponies gentled, there's no reason not to let Adam choose one now.”
“Oh yes, Mama, yes!” Adam joined in.
Reluctantly, she walked with them from the house to the corral, located by one fork of the creek. Joe was standing there with a younger man, whom he introduced as Micah Torrance. “Ya ready, Tad?” the slim cowboy asked, his clear gray eyes alight as he watched Adam's fascination with the ponies. At the boy's excited nod, he vaulted the corral with a small hackamore in his hand.
“That little paint with the star blaze looks spirited and smart,” Rafe said, pointing to a frisky pony eyeing them from across the enclosure.
“He's awfully big, Rafael,” Deborah interjected.
“He ain't—isn't either, Mama!” At Adam's outburst, Rafe motioned for Micah to slip the hackamore on the pony and bring it to them.
For the next quarter hour, Adam got to know Blazer, his name for the prancing, pretty little pony. Then leaving Joe and Micah to watch the boy, Rafe escorted the fretting mother back to the house. He was somewhat disappointed with her initial response to her new home, but uncertain of exactly what he expected of her. She was obviously pleased to see her things here, yet there was a reticence to her manner that had little to do with Adam's getting his first pony.
When they entered the parlor, he said, “Go upstairs and I'll have Lucia—”
“What do you need, Rafe?” The pretty Mexicana entered from the courtyard, apron in hand, a large smile wreathing her face.
“Deborah would like a bath before dinner. Get Dom to bring water from the well and fill the tub,” he replied. Smiling back at Lucia, he did not see the stricken way Deborah stared at her.
Lucia did. Nodding, she left to do as she was asked. So, she is jealous of me! A wistful smile touched her lips. If only she had reason to be. In the five years they had worked to build Renacimiento, Rafe had never treated her as anything but a substitute for his beloved sister in New Orleans.
After the kitchen helper had lugged a dozen buckets of warm water to Deborah's room, Lucia then went up with clean towels. Knocking hesitantly, she entered when Deborah bid her do so.
Rafe's wife was standing at her dressing table, brushing her waist-length silver hair. She looked up at Lucia.
The chill in her eyes was obvious to the Mexicana. “I have brought linens for your bath. You'll probably need at least two to dry all that beautiful hair, Señora.” She smiled warmly.
“Thank you. Just put them on the bed, if you please.”
Lucia hesitated, her hands twisting in the snowy towels. “Señora, I think you misunderstand some things. Rafe has been obsessed with finding you. He built this ranch as a home for you—nada, nothing, no help or money came from his father in New O
rleans. This house he's made a shrine for you. You are the one he loves.”
Deborah put down the brush and turned, wanting to hate the earnestly entreating woman but finding it difficult. “So he says, and in his own way, Rafael always did love me, I suppose. But there's love and...there's fidelity to that love, not necessarily the same thing,” she finished in a strained voice.
Lucia nodded. She knew little of Rafe's life in New Orleans, but much of the double standards of men in her own culture. “I will not tell you he has led a life of celibacy for the past five years since we escaped the Comanche, but I will tell you this. I have never been his lover.” She looked Deborah straight in the eye.
Steady brown and lavender gazes locked for a pregnant moment as the women took each other's measure. “I want to believe you, Lucia; but this is so far out in the wilderness with no other women around, and you are so attractive, so...”
“Available?” Lucia supplied for her. “I won't deny I would have agreed if he had asked me, but he did not. As to the other”—she shrugged—“he has been a man driven for as long as I have known him. He works until he drops each night. A few times a year, he goes with the vaqueros to the small towns several days' ride to the east. But that was before he found you. He will not lie with whores ever again, Señora.”
“I pray you're right, Lucia, truly I do,” Deborah said in a choked voice. “I appreciate your honesty with me and I would like to be your friend. Please, call me Deborah. You—you said you escaped from the Comanche with my husband. You've been through a great deal together. Now you know him better than I do. He's changed so much since New Orleans. Building this place must have hardened him. He killed a man outside San Antonio...” Her voice faltered as the grisly scene flashed before her eyes once more.
“Enrique Flores,” Lucia said in an icy, calm voice. “So, Rafe finally found him.”