by DiAnn Mills
“Did you find a dead animal?” Emilio pulled his horse to a halt.
Armando took a deep breath. The sight and smell would have affected the strongest of men, and it distressed him greatly. “It wasn’t an animal.” He captured his friend’s attention. “I found Clay Wharton’s body.”
Emilio’s face paled. “Comanches?”
“Si.”
“Out here? What could have driven him so far from the Phillips Hacienda?”
Armando shook his head. “He’s been there a while.”
“Should we take him to Señor Phillips for burial?” Emilio glanced nervously around him, as though expecting Indians to leap from nowhere.
“We can’t. It’s impossible.”
“Armando, I must bury the dead. Take me to him.”
“My friend, the Comanches tortured and killed him. The sight is gruesome. Let us—”
The sound of Pepe and Felipe’s approaching horses ended Armando’s words.
“Tell them what you found,” Emilio said.
“Clay Wharton’s body.”
“Bueno,” Felipe said. “He deserved whatever happened to him for the things he did to my sister.”
“No man should die such a brutal death,” Emilio said. “No matter what he has done. Again, I ask, show me his body, and I’ll bury him.”
Felipe started to protest, but Pepe interrupted. “I’ll help you, but let’s not argue. We still have cattle to move.”
Not wanting to watch his men engage in a futile debate, Armando silently rode in the direction of Clay’s body. A short while later, the four men stood over the lifeless form.
“You’re right.” Emilio held his bandanna over his mouth and nose. “We can do nothing for him but pray for his soul.” He studied the terrain about them. “Pepe, would you help me pile rocks on him?”
Armando joined Pepe in silently covering the body to keep the wild animals from eating Clay’s flesh. Felipe watched, no doubt believing vengeance had been administered for the injustices done to his sister. Finally, hot and dripping in sweat, the men retrieved their mounts and rode toward the longhorns.
“Should we reveal this information to Señor Phillips?” Pepe asked, his boyish face earnest.
Armando felt the weight of Pepe and Emilio’s faith guiding their words. “I cannot be seen near the hacienda. Perhaps you and Emilio could ride there after we return.”
“He has a wife,” Emilio said. “My brother told me Wharton married a short time ago, and she’s with child.”
“Then do what you feel is right.” Armando was eager to be on his way to La Flor. “For now, we have cattle to drive.”
While they moved the longhorns toward La Flor, Armando’s thoughts lingered on the demise of Clay Wharton. Why was he out here? Had he been alone? Granted Armando hated the gringo, but to die at the hands of the Comanche? Certainly not a quick death.
He set his jaw firmly. So Wharton had married. He had no thoughts about the matter, except what Bernardino had revealed to him weeks ago about the governor’s displeasure. Armando recalled the stories of how the gringo had abused women and the beatings he’d inflicted upon those who refused him. Nothing mattered now, for he’d left a widow.
Although Armando had no desire to give Wharton’s wife or Weston Phillips the tragic news, he did feel a twinge of regret in not seeking an opportunity to see Marianne. It would be the last time before her wedding to Don Lorenzo Sanchez. When would the ache leave him? His memory of her sharpened with each passing day. Sometimes he even felt envious and melancholy over Emilio and Isabella’s happiness. Self-pity nudged at him again. He must be destined to live his life alone.
The following evening, Armando paced the floor of Manuel and Rosa’s hut awaiting Emilio and Pepe’s return. His tia and tio understood his anxiousness stemmed from concern for his two friends, and Manuel and Rosa gave many excuses for the delay. The two men rode across the vast estate of their enemy, Weston Phillips, in a mission of mercy, and Armando hoped they hadn’t stepped into a trap. Without Wharton’s body, Señor Phillips might accuse them of murder.
Pushing his fears aside, he dwelled again on the curious state of finding the dead man alone and so far from the Phillips Hacienda. And Marianne…would his friends catch a glimpse of the honey-haired señorita with her sparkling eyes and gentle ways? More priceless than gold, his Marianne. Armando hoped Don Lorenzo Sanchez treasured his bride.
Leaning against the doorway of the hut, Armando sipped on cool water and watched the sun begin to set in fiery shades of red and orange. Within an hour’s time, darkness would cover the village. A slight breeze floated across the valley, cooling his face; however, it did nothing to ease his anxiety. He deliberated saddling his horse and riding toward his friends. Pondering the thought one more time, he set his sights on meeting Emilio and Pepe. He couldn’t wait a moment longer.
All the while he prepared his dun, Armando’s mind swept over the worst of fate for his friends. Then two men rode toward the corral.
“Armando,” Pepe called. “Where are you going, mi amigo?”
The sound of his friend’s voice soothed him like children’s laughter. “Looking for you.” Armando laughed. “I thought you two might need to be rescued.”
“We would have been here sooner, but Carmita insisted we stay while she prepared a meal for us.” Pepe patted his stomach.
“My brother’s wife is the best cook in all the land,” Emilio said. “Who could resist?”
“And Señor Phillips did not threaten to shoot you?” Armando knew his voice rang with teasing, but he wanted a full accounting of everything since their absence.
“No,” Emilio said. “Pepe and I learned a sad story about the short marriage of the gringo.” He dismounted and led his horse to the corral. “We found out Señora Wharton no longer lives at the Phillips Hacienda, and I don’t think the foreman has been missed.”
Armando lifted a brow. “I want to know what happened. I’ll help you rub down your horses while you talk.”
In the evening shadows, Armando listened to how Clay Wharton had impregnated a general’s daughter, and the governor had forced Clay into marriage, which Armando had learned from Padre Bernardino when he visited the mission. Emilio told him that Clay beat his bride, almost killing her, then rode out in a drunken rage. The young woman’s father, General Enrique Guerra, had offered a large reward for any man who could find Señor Wharton, but neither he nor Señor Phillips had any success. As soon as the young señora gained her strength, the general and his wife took their daughter home.
“Whom did you inform about the body?” Armando brushed against Pepe’s horse, a fine looking red roan.
“First my brother. When he heard what the Comanches had done, he went in search of Señor Phillips.” Emilio paused. “Pepe and I feared the gringo would accuse us of murdering Wharton. He had caused enough trouble in La Flor for us to be accused.”
“And he didn’t?” Armando asked.
Pepe shook his head. “Our report appeared to satisfy him. But I think if Señor Wharton hadn’t beaten his wife so badly, we would be in serious trouble. According to Señor Phillips, the Comanches did the Spanish a favor. General Guerra had vowed to kill him for what he’d done to his daughter.”
Armando released a pent-up sigh. “It’s over, and we no longer have to deal with anyone from the Phillips Hacienda.”
Pepe opened the corral and led his horse inside. “Armando, I’m tired and I want to see mi hijo. Mañana we can talk more.”
Armando wished Pepe well and watched him walk toward his hut. “I’m glad you took Pepe with you,” he said to Emilio. “And I feel better knowing you’re here and safe.”
Emilio chuckled. “I worried a few times about our venture.” Leading his horse inside the corral, he latched the gate. “I saw the señorita.”
Armando’s pulse quickened. “From a distance?”
“No, mi amigo. She came to Juan’s casa after hearing about Señor Wharton. I don’t think she grie
ved his death because of what he’d done. She asked Pepe about Rico, and after a while she inquired about you.”
Armando refrained from sounding too eager, but his thoughts raced with Marianne. “What did she want to know?”
“If you were well…and if you had been with us when we found Wharton. Armando, her eyes told of her love for you. Only a fool would be blind to how much she cares.”
“I know how she feels,” Armando said.
“I regret that you two must be separated.”
Armando felt a hint of anger, but he knew Emilio wanted his happiness. “She has her station in life, and I have mine.”
“I understand what you say, and I’ve been thinking.” Emilio paused. “Perhaps Dios stopped you from taking your vows as a priest for her.”
“I left the mission because of my mother.” Armando’s voice rose. “No other reason.”
“Dios guides our path.” Emilio’s soft voice continued. “He knows what’s best, even though we think we are in control of our lives.”
“I’m in charge of my own destiny.”
“If so, then the señorita would be with you.”
Armando said nothing. He respected his friend too highly to argue against the existence of Dios. The thought of a God purposely making his life miserable angered him. Once, he might have agreed with Emilio. Those days were gone, just like the moments shared with Marianne.
He’d lost his zeal for Dios when his mother died, and in time he would forget Marianne. Armando glanced up into a dark blue sky and noted a pattern of stars framing a half moon. Why deliberate about Dios or Marianne. Neither must hold a spot in his heart. He must be logical. He must be strong. He must live for his people.
Chapter 24
“Why were you at Juan and Carmita’s hut this afternoon?” Marianne’s father asked. Seated behind the heavy wooden desk of his study, Papa drummed his fingers over its walnut top. “It is degrading enough that you choose their company over your mother and me, but those filthy Mexicans from La Flor were there. Have you no sense of fear or pride?”
“Papa, I’m sorry.”
His mustache twitched. “Sorry? Why were you there? Paying a social call?” Her father fired questions as though raking over a vaquero who had displeased him.
“Juan…Carmita…they’re almost like family. They’re my friends.”
“Family? Friends?” Her father paused. “You,” and he pointed his finger at her face, “are never to associate with those Mexicans again except to give instructions. They’re servants, only a step above the niggers I owned in Virginia.”
Marianne had her own opinion about folks owning slaves, but she kept her views to herself. She and Papa argued over too many topics without adding another.
“I enjoy their company.” She arched her back in the wooden chair. All the while, mounting anger battled with a strong conviction that she should honor her father.
“And I’m ordering you to stay away from them.” He pounded his fist on the top of the desk, sending a carved, brass bowl and a quill pen to the floor.
“You never cared before. Why now?”
“Don Lorenzo would never approve.” He glared at her as though she were filth beneath his feet. “Do you have no esteem for the man?” He massaged his left arm.
Marianne choked back a terse remark, but another one fell from her lips. “I have more respect for him than you, Papa. You simply want to remain in the don’s good standing so he’ll change his mind about leaving me as his heir.”
Her father instantly charged to his feet. “You insolent, ungrateful—”
“Maybe so.” She rose defiantly from her seated position across from him. “But I am just like you in one regard. When I believe in something, I fight for it. And you’re wrong to shamefully treat Juan and Carmita or any of the people from La Flor like animals. Those villagers only did what you would have done.”
“How dare you compare them to me?” He stepped around his desk, his face a fiery red.
“Tell me, then. If you risked losing this hacienda and all you worked for, wouldn’t you do anything to keep it?” She trembled with the rage exploding inside her, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. “You know the answer, Papa. You would kill any man who tried to steal your land.”
“I’ve heard all that I intend to.” He towered over her, and she saw his chest rapidly move up and down in his fury.
“Why? Because it’s the truth? I agree those men were wrong to break into our home, take your weapons, and kidnap me. But are they any different from you? They are the same—strong fighters for what they believe. And that’s why you despise them.” Marianne took a deep breath in an effort to contain her emotions.
“That animal, Garcia, turned you against me.” Papa’s gray eyes flashed his contemptuous feelings.
“Their leader has nothing to do with this.” She fought the desire to say so much more.
Her father pushed the chair Marianne had just occupied crashing to the floor. “He has everything to do with it. He took what was mine and thought that because he returned it, I should forget. Well, it won’t happen. I vowed revenge, and I’ll not stop until I get it. Truth be known, they are the ones who murdered Clay.”
She realized their quarrel heightened with each utterance they threw at each other. Their argument merely added stones to the barrier separating them, and she must cease her deplorable, vicious words. If she didn’t leave his study soon, tears would fall and render her helpless against his tyranny.
“Papa, one more time I’ve lost my temper.” Marianne massaged her arms and took a deep breath. Oh God, what have I done now? “I’m sorry to upset you. I’m sorry to be disrespectful, but, oh, how I wish your vow for revenge had something to do with affection for me.” She walked away, determined to leave him with her statement. With her hand gripping the door, she turned to capture his narrowed gaze.
“Everything I do is for you.”
Startled by his words, her lips quivered. “Your love is all I’ve ever wanted.” Without giving Papa an opportunity to reply, she left him. Grasping the sides of her dress, she rushed down the hallway to her room.
Marianne collapsed on the bed in a state of near hysteria. Tears flowed freely from her eyes and over her face. How many times had she and her father exchanged heated words, and how many times had she hated herself afterward? As a child when she stood up to him, he referred to her as rebellious and disciplined her with the back of his hand. As she grew older, he banished her to her room. Now with her wedding day in a month’s time, how would he punish her? She didn’t fear the consequences; perhaps she deserved whatever came from her outburst of temper. No matter that she’d apologized. This time she’d provoked him by crossing the boundaries of disrespect.
Why did I deliberately provoke him when I should have said nothing? Even with committing my life to the Lord, I cannot control my tongue. What is wrong with me? I am too much like Papa. I’m more like him than Mama…dear, sweet Mama who’s kind and good. She certainly never has battled with Papa as I do.
Her weeping continued, a mixture of self-pity and desire for the relationship she craved with her father. Her entire life had been spent in seeking approval from him, although most times she tried to tell herself she no longer cared. Too many quarrels, too many hostile feelings.
Armando. She’d nearly said his name in front of Papa, and had bitten her tongue to keep from linking him with her father’s degrading remark about the villagers. Papa’s accusation about Armando sounded as if he knew what happened in La Flor. Admittedly so, her bitter tears also stemmed from forbidden love. Must life always be so complicated?
Marianne stayed in her room the remainder of the evening. She feigned a headache to her mother, which in part held truth. Any confrontation with Papa left her feeling ill. Once the tears subsided, she proceeded to pray about her uncontrollable temper. Notably so, she spent half of her time quarreling with Papa and the other half making amends.
Darkness surrounded her in a we
lcoming blanket of quiet. She lay awake, stomach rumbling, realizing she must apologize again to Papa. Except this time she wanted to ask him if he had any time to spend with her before the wedding. They had but a few short weeks remaining, and then all would be lost.
Heavenly Father, forgive me for my impetuous words to Papa. I don’t know why I must always challenge him. I’m so sorry to grieve You. Each time this happens, I vow it will be the last, but then I lose my temper again. I cannot curb my tongue, Lord. You have to do it for me.
A soft knock at the door interrupted Marianne’s prayer. She knew without asking that her mother stood in the hallway. Earlier, the house had thundered with Marianne and Papa’s argument, and Mama must have heard every word.
“Marianne?” her mother asked.
“Yes, Mama.” She quickly blinked back her tears and sat up on the bed. “Come in, please.”
Her mother carried a candle and guarded its flame to Marianne’s side. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. I’m sorry you heard everything.”
“The quarrels sadden me, especially when it’s between two people I love.”
Marianne took a deep breath. “Well, I am on my way to apologize for losing my temper. I believe I was too angry before to say the proper words.”
“I knew you would, but I’m here for another reason.” She set the candle on a small table beside Marianne’s bed. “Your father has guests, and he would like for us to greet them properly.”
“It’s late for guests. Who has arrived at such a late hour?”
Mama moistened her lips. “This is important to him, and he has requested our presence.”