Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  Melanie's face, buried deeply in the fluffy pillow, raised a fraction. She turned her luminous eyes to look at Deborah—eyes that looked disturbingly like Lily Duvall' s for a moment. Then, her mouth firmed and she asserted control over her tears. No, she was certainly as much Rafael's daughter as Lily's, Deborah thought with a sudden surge of relief.

  “Why—why do you want to know? Why do you care about me? No one here likes me, now not even Papa...” Her voice trailed off as she fought the tears once again.

  “And it's especially important to you that your papa love you,” Deborah prompted, not arguing about the child's evaluations of their feelings.

  “When I was little, when I lived in New Orleans, Papa was the only one who loved me. He'd come and bring presents and throw me up in the air and call me his princess. He'd play with me. Mother…Mother never did. She never wanted me to be there. When I was very small, she sent me away, after Francois died. She and Papa had these terrible fights and then Grandmother Marie and Aunt Therese came and took me with them to St. Louis. I was happy in St. Louis...” All this last rush of confession came out in rapid French, an unwitting lapse into the language of her early childhood.

  “But you missed your papa, didn't you, Melanie?” Deborah asked softly, also in French.

  “Oui—I mean yes,” Melanie replied, switching self-consciously back to English.

  “It's all right to speak French. I love to hear it and speak it again myself.” Deborah smiled softly and was rewarded by the smallest hint of a wobbly smile in return. “Now, tell me about your papa.”

  It was as if a dam burst. All the child's fears and insecurities spilled out—terror that Rafael had deserted her just as Lily had, then her grandmother's assurances that he still loved her and provided for her. She described her first Christmas in St. Louis when he made a surprise visit and took her back to New Orleans with him to stay for a whole month at the house on Rampart Street. After that, her visits to New Orleans were less frequent; but despite losing all closeness with her mother, she received letters from her father regularly: and, until he moved to Texas, he had visited her several times a year.

  Melanie knew she was of mixed blood, occupying a unique position on the periphery of white society. Her loving grandmother had explained all that to her at a very tender age. But the worst blow was delivered by Deborah herself on that terrible day of confrontation with Lily. Melanie recalled every detail of the whole tragic scene.

  “You were a white lady, his wife. My mother was just his mistress. I'm not even really a Flamenco, not legally.” She looked accusingly at Deborah, seeming to realize suddenly that she had bared far more of her soul than she wanted her adversary to see.

  “You are Rafael's daughter—legally, by birth and blood. But we're not Flamencos—not you, not me. Your father changed his name to Fleming in Texas. We're Flemings, you just as much as I, Melanie. You asked earlier why I wanted to know about you, why I cared.” Deborah hesitated, her heart torn by the cruelty that had shaped this innocent, beautiful child's life.

  “I care for you—no, I love you, Melanie, for many reasons. First, I love your papa just as much as you do and you are his firstborn child, a part of him. For that reason alone, I would have to love you. But more than that, you are so like him, your hair”—she stroked the shiny ebony locks—“your chin, lips, and brows.” She softly traced the contours of the girl's youthful face, a face she knew would one day grow into a female counterpart of Rafael's splendid looks. “You also have his temper and his loyalty, and, I think, his great capacity for love. Love isn't something that runs out, Melanie. Your papa loves Adam, but that doesn't mean he has any less love for you. And just because I love Adam doesn't mean that I can't learn to love you just as much as I do him...if you'll let me. Will you let me, Melanie?” Deborah held her breath as the child considered all she had said.

  “Please, let me think about it. Everything's so different here. Papa said I had to learn to be a Texas lady, but I didn't know it meant cooking and riding horses. I'm afraid of horses,” she confessed forlornly.

  “Want to know something?” Deborah confided. “So was I once. I'm still not a very good rider, but maybe if we practice together we can both become real Texas horsewomen.”

  During the following weeks, under Deborah's loving tutelage, Melanie began to blossom. She and Deborah rode with Rafe, who was a scrupulous taskmaster when it came to horsemanship. First, to the horror of both females, he insisted they learn to ride astride so as to be fully in control of the horse. Only when he was satisfied that they could ride fast and safely in an emergency, did he allow them the indulgence of fancy riding habits and sidesaddles.

  Deborah and Lucia spent time in the kitchen with Melanie teaching her the basics of cooking and household management in a home that functioned without slaves. If Melanie was still shy and uncertain, she was at least willing to learn.

  * * * *

  But in lavishing so much attention on Melanie, Deborah let Joe's courtship languish. After Rafe's return had interrupted his first attempt, Joe did nothing to further his suit with Lucia. Then one day, after a week spent in a base camp with the horse breakers, he returned home looking much as he had prior to Deborah's efforts.

  Leaning against a kitchen wall, watching Lucia knead bread, he defiantly sauntered over to the door, opened it, and spat an evil wad of tobacco juice onto the cleanly swept clay of the patio.

  “I thought you had given up that disgusting habit,” Lucia sniffed, noticing his unkempt hair and greasy buckskins as well. She had gotten used to the new, clean and attractive Joe through the winter months. Why now the sudden shift back to his old, evil ways?

  “Didn't think ya noticed whut I did, Lucia,” Joe said in studied indifference, but he watched her fingers stilled over the fluffy mound of bread dough.

  Lucia's dark eyes looked up through her thickly fringed lashes. ‘‘I've noticed you quit chewing tobacco, cut your hair, even bathed and wore new clothes these past months,” she replied carefully, her hands resuming their rhythmic labors over the dough.

  “You like me better if ‘n I'm spruced up?” His eyes squinted, waiting for her reply.

  Lucia felt a strange little shiver of surprise and pleasure move down her spine. “I'll make an apple cobbler for dinner if you pass my inspection,” she said, giving the dough one final slap and looking him boldly in the eyes.

  * * * *

  “I do believe we have a budding romance on our hands,” Rafe said to Deborah one evening as he watched Joe and Lucia strolling onto the moonlit courtyard. It was unseasonably warm for mid-March, promising an early spring and bumper calf crop. Except for the continued wrangling and jealousy between Adam and Melanie, his life was overflowing with joy. “How did you know those two were in love?”

  “I didn't,” she replied with a dreamy-eyed smile. “I saw only that Joe loved her...and, she thought she was still in love with you—an untenable situation, for sure. Lucia deserves a chance at happiness, a family of her own. And who could better give her what she needs than a man who does love her? I only gave him a few prods in the right direction.”

  “Kind of like taming a mustang,” he said with a small smile tugging at his mouth.

  “Kind of,” she replied.

  Despite all her assurances to Joe, Rafael, and most of all to herself, Deborah felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders the next week when a beaming Joe and Lucia announced at the dinner table that they were going to Austin the next day to be married.

  Rafe watched Deborah's face very carefully. Still, after all this time, you've been afraid, Moon Flower.

  “Be prepared for the wedding feast of the century when you get back!” Deborah said brightly, turning to Melanie. “You think we can handle it—a roast, spring vegetables, pies and all?”

  Watching the growing camaraderie between his mother and sister, Adam had become increasingly alarmed. Now, they even shared kitchen chores together, something he felt left out of. Of course
, he shared the grooming and feeding of the foals and saddle mounts at the corrals with his father, chores where Melanie was not included. Nonetheless, he was most unhappy with the way things were going.

  * * * *

  “Joe and Lucia should be back tomorrow,” Melanie said to Adam. “Deborah said I could bake the apple pies for the feast.” They were out in the courtyard after being dismissed from their day's lessons. In Lucia's absence, Deborah had been tutoring the two uneasy siblings.

  Adam had made a small gift for the newlyweds, a crudely carved wooden statue of a wild mustang that his father and Micah had helped him complete, but still he felt left out and angry. Everyone fussed over girls so much more than boys. She was older. And taller.

  Suddenly, Adam, the country boy raised in Texas, looked up at Melanie, the city girl raised in St. Louis. “I could help with the pies,” he said.

  “Boys can't cook,” Melanie replied, looking at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  “Shows what you know. Pa learned to cook over a campfire from Joe when he first came to Texas.”

  “Oh, that's different. I mean fancy kitchen cooking like making pastries,” she replied airily.

  His trap was set. “I didn't mean baking—I meant I could show you where some real fresh apples are growing so's you wouldn't have to use them dried ones.”

  “Those dried ones,” his sister corrected automatically, strengthening his resolve to go through with his plan. “I thought it was too soon for fresh apples,” she added uncertainly. She still had a lot to learn about living in Texas.

  “C'mon. I'll show ya. They're kinda little, but that's only because it's early. You'll see—they're apples. I swear it on my honor. It can be our surprise for everyone tomorrow at the big dinner. Just let Ma think you used ole dried apples.”

  Quickly, Melanie fetched a woven basket from the kitchen and the two conspirators set out.

  The pie was a masterpiece, praised by her beaming father and Deborah. Joe and Lucia, awash in the delights of honeymooners, assured her it would be the finest they ever ate, better even than the best restaurant in Austin City had served.

  Proudly, Melanie cut a generous wedge for each person at the table, giving Adam an especially generous piece of the flaky-crusted pie. Perhaps, little brothers were all right after all.

  Rafe took a bite and his face registered shock. Noting his reaction, Deborah took a more cautious taste. The overpowering bitterness of the apples was exceeded only by their hardness, yet the flaky crust was baked to a turn.

  Turning gently to the girl, she said, “Melanie, you didn't use dried apples, did you?”

  By now Joe had tasted the pie, as had his bride, and both were washing it down with large gulps of black coffee. Melanie herself bit down on the hard, sour mass and a look of consternation washed across her face. It was awful, just awful! She glared across the table at Adam, who had been the only one not to taste his piece.

  “You said they were better than the dried ones—spring's first and best! All they needed was a little extra sugar to bake them sweet and tender,” she accused.

  Following Melanie's furious glare, Deborah fixed Adam with stern eyes. ‘‘These wouldn't by any chance be from the trees out behind the creek, would they? The crabapple trees?”

  Adam fidgeted. “Well, if she's so dumb as not to know an apple from a crabapple, it's not my lookout.”

  “But you led her there and told her they'd be better than dried apples, didn't you?” Deborah persisted.

  At his unwilling nod of agreement, Deborah said in her frostiest voice, “Well then, you sit there until you eat every bit of that pie on your plate—it's not my lookout that you spend the night at the jakes, either!” The look she gave him made it very clear that refusing to eat the piece of pie was not an option.

  Doggedly he dug in, remembering his father's and Joe's tales of Comanche torture.

  Chapter Thirty

  “You took my side against Adam, and Papa agreed with you,” Melanie said as she lay looking up into Deborah's eyes from her warm, secure bed.

  Deborah smiled down at the little girl, her little girl. “Yes, dear heart, I did. You wanted to do a kindness and you trusted your brother to help you. He was jealous and did a cruel thing. He must learn it was wrong.”

  “Just like my snubbing you and Lucia was wrong,” Melanie said in a small voice.

  Deborah smiled wistfully. “Oh, Melanie, you and Adam aren't the only ones who've made mistakes. Your father and I have, too—so very many mistakes, but we all have a chance to begin over here in Texas. We're going to be a real family,” she said determinedly.

  “I—I hope so...Deborah...?” Melanie's voice faded and she fidgeted with the lacy ruffle on her bedspread.

  “What, dear heart?”

  “Do you think it would be all right…that is…would you mind if I called you Mama?” She dared not raise her golden eyes to Deborah's face.

  With a small sob of joy, Deborah scooped the dark-haired little girl into her arms. “Oh, Melanie, yes, of course, of course! Nothing would make me happier!”

  Adam spent a miserable night, assisted by his father in several hasty trips to the privy. When Rafe walked quietly into his room the next morning, the boy was sitting up in bed.

  “You look a little green around the gills, but I expect you'll live,” his father pronounced.

  “Why'd Mama make me eat that awful piece of pie?” Adam asked plaintively.

  “Why did you trick your sister into making a pie with crabapples?” Rafe countered gently.

  The boy's dark face flushed and he mumbled softly, “I don't like her. Now Mama 'n you don't like me.”

  Sitting down on a small stool by the bedside, Rafe looked squarely at Adam. “Your mother and I love you very, very much, Adam. You're our firstborn son. We'll always love you, no matter what you do, but we love your sister, too. I thought you told me you wanted sisters and brothers.”

  “Yeah,” the boy said with a sigh. “Baby sisters 'n brothers, not big ones!”

  A smile twitched at the corners of Rafe's lips. “I can see where that might prove a nuisance, but as I told you, if you'll just be patient a couple of years more, you'll be bigger than she is.” At the boy's resigned sigh, Rafe continued. “Adam, I know you've been concerned because your mother and I've tried so hard to make Melanie feel welcome at Renacimiento. And I know she wasn't very nice to you or anyone else when she first arrived. But did you ever stop to think why that might be so?”

  The boy's large black eyes grew puzzled, then reluctantly cleared. “Well, I guess it's pretty different on a ranch than in a big city...and, well,” he hesitated, uncertain of how to phrase what he meant, “I always had Mama 'n then I had you, too, 'n we came here together. She was kinda a orphan or something, I guess, before you got her to come to Texas.”

  Rafe felt a tightening in his throat, amazed at his son's perception and the sensitive way he explained such a delicate situation. “Yes, son, Melanie was raised by her grandma and aunt in St. Louis. After I went to Texas to search for you and your mama, they were all the family she had left. Then they were killed suddenly in an accident and she had to come all the way from St. Louis to New Orleans to Galveston by herself to meet me.”

  “I guess that makes her pretty brave—for a girl,” he added with only a hint of envy in his voice. “Maybe having a big sister won't be so bad now that she's learned to ride horseback 'n help Lucia 'n Mama in the house. Do you think she'd like for me to show her my snake collection?” At Rafe's raised brows, the boy quickly amended, “Oh, not to touch 'em or anything like that. But I could warn her about which ones are harmless 'n tell her which ones are dangerous.”

  Foreseeing yet many ups and downs in this sibling relationship, Rafe suddenly knew it was going to work out. Tousling Adam's curly black hair, he said gravely, “I think that's a very good idea, son. Maybe you could show your mother, too. After all, she might not know which ones to look out for either.”

  * * * *

/>   “I think we have a truce between Adam and Melanie,” Rafe said to Deborah as they prepared for bed the following evening. “She actually petted his favorite garter snake and he really seemed happy to have her call you Mama. How did you accomplish that incredible feat, my amazing wife?”

  “It's scarcely to my great credit. Oh, Rafael, with her grandma and aunt gone, she was so starved for a woman's love.” Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears.

  “Not many women would take the child of their husband's mistress as their own. You are a wonder, Moon Flower.” Fresh from bathing and clad only in a robe, he padded barefoot across the floor to take her in his arms. Nuzzling her neck he whispered, “I was so afraid of losing you, Deborah.”

  “Don't be,” she said, placing her fingertips on his lips, “don't ever be afraid of losing me again. You've given me so much—two beautiful children, our home here at Renacimiento, and most of all, yourself. Now I know why my father wanted you to find me.”

  His eyes measured her face as he took it delicately between his hands. “And you're not afraid of me anymore?”

  “No, not anymore. I mistrusted you back in San Antonio and I didn't understand about Flores and what he'd done—but Lucia told me.” She slid her fingers down his neck, tracing the scar on his jaw, then down to the one on his chest, then whispered against his neck, “Since we've been at Renacimiento, I've watched you with Joe and Lucia, with the men who work for you, with your son and now with your daughter.

  “The old Rafael in New Orleans would never have formed a partnership with a half-breed or turned over the management of his house to a woman who had been a Comanche squaw. And he never would have treated Adam and Melanie as you have—equally.” She looked up into his eyes and said simply, “I'm proud of you, Rafe Fleming, and I love you with all my heart.”