by Martha Hix
“They will be here, querida.”
Rafe had such trust in family and friends—as well as in train and ship arrivals! How she loved this husband of hers. A crashing noise to the rear drew her attention. Both she and Rafe lunged for the sturdy lads—better known as The Stairsteps—who now wailed from the center of a dislodged stack of their mother’s books.
Rafe took Hernándo into his arms; Margaret took charge of young Rafael. Angus, blond and blue-eyed like his namesake, got a stern word from his father; he stuck out his tongue and marched to Soledad Paz, who doted on him as well as her other grandsons.
A helpful store clerk righted the volumes.
The front door creaked open. Addressing the clerk who had just finished stacking those books, a familiar voice filled the air like rolling thunder on the Loch Ness. “Doona ye be standing there, ye jackanapes. The way ye loaf on the job, I would be thinking ye English.”
“Actually, madam, I am.”
“Weel, fine. I will be looking for the authoress. My great-granddaughter, ye see. She wrote yon book. How much is the treatise?”
“A dollar, madam.”
“A whole dollar?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He offered an arm. “May I escort you to your granddaughter?”
Rafe and Margaret rolled their eyes at each other. Maisie never changed. They handed the boys to their paternal uncle, who’d had second thoughts about Spain, once he had a taste of it.
Maisie, tartan cloth draping her shoulders, marched down the aisle, the lift in her step belying her age—105. “Ye’ve a nerve, missy, asking highway robbery for yer book. I’ll be trusting ye did a good job. Ye always do. Did ye do right by the Mexican people? In yer book and on yer plantations?”
“Haciendas. We call them haciendas. And, no, we couldn’t save everyone. But we’ve saved our own people. It’s up to our friends like Villa and Zapata and la cucaracha Madera to handle the overall scheme of revolution. But it will happen. The whole of Mexico will change for the better.”
“I trust ye willna leave yer wee lads—me very own great-great-grandbairns!—in the line of fire?” Family pride fought with concern in the centenarian’s gullied visage.
“Believe me, we’ll take care of our boys,” Rafe replied.
Maisie turned to him. “Hello, lad. Ye get prettier every year.”
Rafael Delgado Senior had made many strides in his years with Margaret, but his vanity remained fair. He preened like a peacock under his great-grandmother-in-law’s praise.
“Whatever happened t’ that Eden Roc?” she asked.
A pang of sadness for the Nashes went through Margaret. “It’s in ruin. All grown over in vines. The falls stopped flowing the day Isaiah died.”
“’Tis a pity. I cooulda used yon place.”
More of the McLoughlin clan filed into the bookstore. Gil and Lisette headed the list, she as lovely as ever. Recently, Gil had retired from government, and they had returned to the Four Aces Ranch. They were more in love than ever.
Again the front door opened. Fresh from Europe came the Hawk branch of the clan. The children, all spit and shine, bounced toward their aunt and uncle. There were the girl twins, Leslie and Sharon. And their younger brother, Narramore.
Hawk and Charity had much news to impart. The Osage nation had become wealthy beyond imagination, thanks to oil being discovered on their reservation. Charity crowed over Hawk’s contribution to that good fortune. Years ago he worked diligently to retain those mineral rights for his people.
“And we’re back in the States for good,” the flamboyant Charity announced. “I’ve just signed a contract to perform in motion pictures!”
A hum of oohs and aahs coursed around the books and through the air. But today was for Margaret, and everyone praised her devotion to her adopted country. Her love and dedication to the Mexican people shone from each page of her story.
She almost didn’t hear the door opening one more time.
“Sissy?”
Margaret turned. A beautiful dark-haired woman, cane in hand, hesitated at the entrance. Dark glasses covered her eyes. Margaret rushed up the aisle and hugged her. “I was scared your ship wouldn’t dock in time. It’s so good to see you. And you’re looking more exquisite than ever.”
“Pish-posh. I have sockets where my eyes used to be. But the pain is gone.” The Dowager Countess of Granada beamed. “For that I am thankful.”
“Where is your son?” Margaret asked.
“Outside. His Tío Arturo is showing him a display of ducks in a pet shop. They will be here in a few minutes.”
“Tío Arturo? This wouldn’t be our Arturo, would it?”
“One and the same. He and Helga sailed with me. They’d been on holiday at Biarritz, you see. What a great help they were. They so love little Vicente. You know how it is with childless couples.”
“What about you? Are you happy?”
“Very.” A serene smile tilted lovely lips. “I bring good news. I am in love with an Englishman. A specialist who works with the visually impaired. We’ll be married in the fall.”
The sisters embraced. But Charity walked up to tap Margaret on the shoulder, and pout. “You always did love her more than you love me.”
A trio of giggles bounced through the store. The triplets loved their old joke. There were no favorites. Their love for one another remained unequivocal. Margaret scanned the faces of all her loved ones. They were all here. All but Tex.
Tears burned the back of her eyes. He’d promised to return from Cuba, if for no other reason to get an autographed copy of the book now on the shelves.
She’d dedicated The Tears of Cuauhtémoc to Tex’s memory. On the fifteenth of February, 1898, the day after she and Rafe had married, the McLoughlins’ young lion went down with the Maine.
The bespectacled clerk approached, dragging her thoughts to the present. Thankfully.
“Would you mind taking your seat now, Mrs. Delgado? There seems to be a line at the door . . .”
She glanced to the entrance and saw Dean Ira Ayckbourn heading the queue. My life would have been so different if I’d said no to Papa, and had started teaching at Brandington. And then she caught sight of another familiar face. That of Frederick von Nimzhausen. She smiled. When Academic Press had announced the release of her study of the modern Mexican people, Frederick had been the first to send a letter of congratulations.
“Stranger things have happened,” Rafe said at the time, and his wife agreed.
Rafe, his limp barely noticeable anymore, stepped forward to take her hand. “It’s time to sit down, querida.” He leaned to whisper, “I’m so proud of you, my love.”
Her fingers lifted to his wondrous face, and her gaze welded to his. “Even if I fight my wars with a typewriter rather than with Sir Colt?”
“Don’t ask ridiculous questions, woman.” In front of her family, as well as a window filled with onlookers, her wild Sierra rogue swatted her behind.
A matron near the door said to her elderly companion, “As I live and breathe! What are these times coming to, when a man fondles a woman in public?”
“Good times.”
Margaret quite agreed.
Author’s Note
To everyone who’s gotten in touch with me about the McLoughlin Clan series—first Caress of Fire, then Lone Star Loving—thank you for your kind words and interesting advice. I always love hearing from my readers, and I answer each one that includes a SASE. (As soon as I win the Texas Lottery, you won’t need to send a stamped envelope!)
I hope you’ve enjoyed the McLoughlins. It feels strange, finishing with them. (I keep thinking about those kids of Margaret’s, as well as Charity’s . . . and then there’s the young Count of Granada. Shucks!) The McLoughlins have become such a part of my life, it’s hard to let go. In the triplets, I’ve seen my own splendid and obstinate daughters, Leslie Bird and Sharon Beights, as well as my numerous female Jamerson cousins. (We’re a very loving yet volatile family!) And on April 29 of thi
s year, our family aped the McLoughlins—we got our own triplets. But ours are all boys . . .
Maisie was easy to write. My aunt Lois Jamerson Atherton inspired the younger Maisie. I told you about Lisette and Gil at the finish of Lone Star Loving. . . As for their fictional characters, I couldn’t imagine them all hearts and flowers from the end of Caress of Fire. They would have died of boredom, if never a word had crossed!
All these generations of McLoughlins—warts and all—wouldn’t have been possible without the support of my editor, Alice Alfonsi. She allowed me to write about continuing generations with all their imperfections.
We’ve been together a good while, Alice and I, starting at Silhouette Books. A certain handsome boxer just thinks he’s the greatest—Alice is!
Martha Hix
San Antonio, Texas
May, 1993
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Copyright © 1993 by Martha Hix
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ISBN: 978-0-8217-4256-3