Texas Desire

by Holly Castillo

  Olivia hoped she wasn’t blushing. She had seen and heard much in her twenty-one years of life, and though she didn’t consider herself a spinster, she wasn’t a naïve, fresh girl, either. “It would be quite a shame for you to have found shelter only to bleed to death.”

  Cade looked down at this clothes, covered in blood, then back at her. “Not all of it is mine.”

  Olivia crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “A comforting thought. So I have harbored a murderer in my home.”

  He looked back at his pistol, his fingers touching it with a knowledge only much use could bring. “I’ll leave as soon as the soldiers are gone.”

  Olivia placed one foot on top of the other, trying to warm her toes. The basement floor was like a block of ice, and her teeth were going to start chattering any minute. “I offered you shelter, sir. I am not one to go back on my word.”

  His eyes rose to hers and he studied her. She desperately wished she wore one of her heavy black dresses instead of the thin night rail.

  “I never thought you would,” he commented, shifting on the cot, a grimace of pain on his face. “I’ve been told that you are extremely honest, to the point of fault.”

  Their hushed voices were creating an intimate environment she wasn’t used to. Olivia switched feet, trying to warm the other. “Precisely whom have you been speaking with who is so quick to speak of my family?”

  A thump on the floorboards above drew their attention and both stared as though they could see through the thick wood.

  “Come over here,” he whispered.

  “I’m perfectly fine right here, thank you.”

  The gaze he pinned on her held no room for reproach. “If they find us and come down the stairs, you will be their first target standing there.”

  “I have my gun. I’ll be just fine.” She wished she was as convinced as her words sounded.

  The gun was a weight in her hand that she wanted gone. Every time she moved she was afraid she would accidentally discharge it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Well, I won’t have my last dying thought be that I let the woman who offered me shelter die without my protection. So, come over here.” His words were clipped and irritated.

  She had no reason to trust this man and every reason not to. He had broken into their home in the middle of the night, had brought the Mexican Army into their house, bled from multiple wounds, and, upon his own admission, had injured others.

  And yet she felt she could trust him. She felt certain he would do her no harm. But she also felt it unwise to push him too far. There was anger within him that she didn’t want to see.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she walked towards him, her arms still folded across her chest. When she stopped near him, he reached out suddenly and grabbed her wrist, turning her around and placing her next to him on the cot. It happened so quickly she had barely had a chance to draw a breath before she found herself sitting next to him.

  He still sat calmly, staring up at the floorboards as though nothing had happened. But now he was directly between her and the path of any intruders.

  Shaken, Olivia pulled her knees towards her chest, trying to warm herself, and observed the man who had suddenly disrupted her home. His hair was long, pulled behind his neck with a strap of leather. From underneath his worn hat, the color appeared light, almost gold in color. His face was pale, though she was certain that was due to how much blood he had lost. His scraggly beard was dark, though, making the paleness of his skin even starker. He was thin, though not gaunt. But she was fairly certain it had been a while since he’d had a good meal.

  He cut a glance sideways at her and she jerked her eyes up to the floorboards, feeling like a child that had been caught peeking. She jumped when he reached towards her and gasped when he grabbed one of her feet.

  “A sensible person would not be barefoot,” he murmured as his fingers lazily rubbed over her toes.

  Olivia was having a hard time catching her breath. The touch was so intimate, and so unexpected, she didn’t know how to react. His eyes were still focused above them, and she became vaguely aware that there hadn’t been any sounds for quite some time. “I—I didn’t think to grab my slippers when I was trying to catch a thief.”

  The faintest of smiles crossed his lips as he grabbed her other foot and began to warm it. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Considering all that has happened in the past few days, anything was possible.” Her previous thought that he could be bringing help grabbed her attention. “Are you here to help? Have you brought more men to fight?”

  A cloud covered his face. “I want to help. I will if I can make it through this. But no, I don’t have anyone with me.” He turned to look at her, his eyes intense. “Is your husband there?”

  She shook her head, trying to hide her disappointment. “No. But my sister’s husband is. He went to join them just last week.”

  Cade sighed heavily. “It’s an unfair fight. I’ve seen how many soldiers Santa Anna has. If we don’t get more...”

  They were silent, Olivia enjoying someone taking care of her for once. Her feet were beginning to warm up, and she was wondering how much longer she should allow the inappropriate contact.

  The door above lifted suddenly, and Cade and Olivia tensed, both lifting their guns.

  “Olivia!” Angie’s voice floated down to them, and Olivia scrambled off the cot, oddly disappointed in breaking touch with Cade.

  Angie peered down at her, relief all over her face. “They’re gone. They didn’t suspect a thing.”

  Olivia let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding. “Good. Then I need you to go ahead and boil some water. I’ll get bandages, and—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss Torres,” Cade spoke from close behind her. “I’ll be on my way now and won’t endanger your family any further.”

  Olivia turned to face him, planting her hands on her hips. “I’m not about to let you leave now when you’ll probably die a few steps from our home.”

  He tipped his hat back, revealing an array of bruises on his chin and forehead that she doubted he was aware of. “I’m not really in the mood to argue, so if you’d just step aside...”

  He was already wavering on his feet and, if he went down, she wouldn’t be able to get him up again. She took a deep breath and stepped towards him, forcefully grabbing his arm. “You will do as I say, Mr. Cade, and no further arguing.”

  She forced him back on the cot and he stared at her as though she had grown a second head. She was thankful that he was weak enough to push around. Angie had already vanished to do her bidding and she was left to handle the difficult man on her own.

  “Now, tell me what your worst injuries are.”

  “Miss Torres, I...”

  She reached for his jacket and tugged, successfully getting it off one shoulder before he grabbed her and she found herself on his lap, her nose touching his.

  “I don’t need your help, Miss Torres.”

  Olivia tried to breathe evenly, but was finding it incredibly difficult. His eyes watched her closely, and she felt a flush growing up her neck.

  “Very well,” she whispered, “then I won’t help you. But, for the record, I believe you’re quite the fool.” She turned sharply and pushed against his chest to break free of his grasp.

  His low moan drew her attention and she turned back, feeling the slick warmth of his blood under her fingers. She looked at his chest and saw the dark stain of blood on his shirt and her eyes shot to his face.

  It had gone terribly pale and was covered in sweat. “Mr. Cade, are you—”

  Before she could finish, his eyes rolled backwards and he passed out cold.

  It didn’t take long to realize the man was lucky to still be alive. His wounds were numerous; a deep gash in his left side, bruises all over his chest, and numerous cuts on his arms and hands. The wound on his chest was shallow, but long, and she had no doubt it had pained him greatly when she had pushed against it. />
  He had been in a terrible fight; that much was obvious. And she hadn’t yet had the courage to pull his pants off to examine his lower wounds.

  She gnawed on her lower lip, standing next to the cot, staring down at the man who had invaded her sanctuary and now needed her help. She had never turned away from someone in need, and she wasn’t about to start. But the man’s size and stubborn will gave her pause. If he became obstinate enough, she wouldn’t be able to control him.

  With a determined squaring of her shoulders, she began to work on the laces of his breaches, thankful he was unconscious and not being difficult. By the time she had worked his breeches down to his calves, she was out of breath from the exertion. He was all man, and she now knew his body better than she had ever known another man’s.

  She forced herself to ignore his nudity as she tried to examine the long, jagged cut that marred his leg. The golden hair that covered his body was crusted with dried blood, and more fresh blood seeped slowly from the cut. She sat down on the edge of the cot, her fingers gently searching around the wound. It was deep and she closed her eyes briefly at the site of his torn muscle. It was a miracle he had been able to walk to their home from wherever he came, and it would be even more of a miracle if she would be able to heal him.

  She had never been squeamish before and she wasn’t about to start. Grabbing the bowl of warm water Angie had brought down to her, she began cleaning him, working as quickly as possible. Soon he was clean and the only blood on him was the fresh blood seeping from his cuts. Without the dirt and dried blood on his skin, the bruises stood out prominently, and she wondered how he had ever escaped whoever was beating him.

  She watched his face as she ran a damp cloth over his forehead. He was a large man. And he was obviously stubborn and determined, having planned to walk out into the night once again with the entire Mexican Army and God knew who else looking for him. She fought the shiver that slivered down her back. What had this man done?

  With a clenched jaw, she held the bottle of whiskey over the deep cut in his leg. It would hurt—badly. She had treated herself with the whiskey when she had been hurt, and the pain had been so terrible she had momentarily lost consciousness. She watched his face closely as she began to tip the bottle. He was already oblivious to all that was around him, perhaps...

  His deep, guttural moan of pain made her jump, sloshing the burning fluid on his thigh and hip. He lurched upright, grabbing her wrist before his eyes were even open.

  Olivia was breathing like she had just run three times around the house. The fear pounding through her veins made her temporarily immobile, but finally sanity returned and she began to yank on her wrist.

  “Be still.” He growled. “For the love of God... please, just be still.”

  Once again she froze, her mouth dry, watching him. He still hadn’t opened his eyes and his forehead was covered with dots of perspiration. He, too, was breathing hard. Slowly, slowly, his breathing eased.

  “Couldn’t you have given me some sort of warning?” he finally said his voice low, his eyes opening and gradually focusing on her face.

  “You were already...”

  “I know, I know.” He shook his head. The motion must have hurt, though, because he froze, his jaw clenched tightly. He let his breath out slowly through his teeth. “It just wasn’t a fun way to wake up,” he said, forcing a half smile to his lips as his eyes once again focused on her.

  Olivia stared at him, feeling drawn by his striking blue eyes. “I know it hurts,” she said softly, remembering all too vividly the agonizing burning before blackness.

  Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she thought it might be visible through her night rail. Her hand rose to his face and she lay her fingers softly against his cheek, touching the rough whiskers, smoothing her thumb over the soft skin right under his eye.

  She had never touched a man in such a way, and she didn’t know why she was so compelled. Perhaps it was the pain in his eyes; perhaps it was because she knew the pain he was feeling. Perhaps it was because she wanted to touch him.

  His eyes watched her intently, confusion now mixing with the pain. “Why are you helping me?”

  She couldn’t stop touching him. It gave her a heady feeling, as though she had an unbelievable power. He was hers to touch, hers to explore. He belonged to her, at least until he was strong enough to walk away.

  “Because you need me,” she whispered, knowing her words were true. She felt his grip slackening on her wrist and knew he would pass out again soon.

  “I must finish cleaning your wounds. You know it will hurt. Do you want...”

  His eyes locked with hers, the pain clearing momentarily as he released her wrist completely. “I know what must be done.”

  She wanted to take it away from him. She didn’t want to cause him this torture. But if she didn’t, he would surely die from infection. And suddenly, the thought of this stranger dying was completely unbearable. Keeping her hand on his face, her eyes never leaving his, she tipped the bottle.

  His muscles jumped and his face became terribly pale, but he kept his eyes locked with hers. His hand came up and caught the wrist of the palm on his face and held her there, making sure she didn’t pull away from him.

  She had no intention of doing so. His leg done, she poured the liquid over his chest, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “Shh. It’s almost over. Almost.” Quickly she finished treating the wound on his chest and breathed a soft sigh of relief.

  The man she held was trembling and she wanted to cry for the pain he was in. She couldn’t believe he was still conscious.

  “It’s over,” she said, her fingers still lightly caressing his face.

  He was now covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He swallowed, his eyes closing for a few moments, the exhaustion from the experience obviously pulling at him.

  Her fingers moved up to his hair, brushing it off his forehead. “You will get better, now. I promise. You won’t even feel it when I put in the stiches.”

  His eyes opened, sharp and focused on her. “Tell me your name.”

  It was spoken as an order, and Olivia had long ago decided she was the one who issued orders. But it seemed so far all of her rules had been broken with this stranger.

  “Olivia. My name is Olivia.”

  Chapter Three

  March 6, 1836

  The cannon fire was a familiar sound. It had been tearing through the silence surrounding San Antonio sporadically for days. Nor was the gunfire unusual.

  What startled Olivia out of her bed was the roar of thousands of men, shouting, screaming, crying. Breathless, her body quivering, she raced to the window, her fingernails digging into the wooden sill as she stared out into the slowly spreading light of dawn.

  Like a restless sea, the Mexican Army attacked, charging on the small mission that had withheld the attacks so far. The sick churning in her gut told her it wouldn’t hold off the Army any longer.

  For several moments, she couldn’t pull her eyes off of the scene unfolding before her. Line after line of soldiers in red and white uniforms charged the mission, their bayonets raised, their rifles firing madly. Returning gunfire streamed from behind the walls, but as one line of soldiers fell, another took its place. There were just too many. Far, far too many for the Texians within to hold off.

  Taking a deep breath to control the fear and overwhelming sadness pulling at her, Olivia shoved away from the window, racing out her door to find the family. They needed her now. There was nothing she could do for the men within the Alamo.

  The hall was empty, but she could hear movement in the kitchen. Heart pounding, she ran down the hall, forgetting that she still only wore her night rail. She glanced down at herself and shook her head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. If the soldiers came pillaging after the battle was over, what she wore would make no difference to how they treated her.

  She skidded to a stop when she saw her grandmother calmly making tortillas on
the cast iron stove. The only hint that she was aware of the events unfolding around her was the tight press of her lips. But her rhythms were smooth as always; flip, tap, and flip again.

  “Abuela! What are you doing? We must get to safety. Where are the others?”

  Her grandmother’s grey eyes lifted to meet hers, and the fierce stubbornness in them reminded Olivia of her own hard head. “The fighting has been going on for days. What is any different today? I will cook my tortillas as always, and I will feed our customers just as I have every day.”

  Olivia ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “What customers, Abuela? There hasn’t been anyone here in days.”

  “They will come back. They cannot stay gone forever.”

  Olivia didn’t have the heart to tell her that nearly everyone had fled San Antonio. She was fairly certain her grandmother already knew, but she was just fighting the truth. “The soldiers are storming the Alamo. We must hide. There is no telling how they will act once the fighting is over.”

  The older woman’s actions slowed, and she carefully pulled the last of the tortillas off the pan on the fire. “Bueno. Then we must get you and the girls somewhere safe. Perhaps...”

  Olivia fought from rolling her eyes. Her grandmother was oblivious to all that Olivia did around their cocina, and she should be glad. But there were times when she wished her grandmother would realize she could take care of things.

  “Where are Angie and Serri?”

  Her grandmother was moving quicker, banking the fire and gathering up necessary items, apparently finally able to hear the terrible screams coming from the mission. “I saw Serena earlier... she was working on one of her loca projects outside. I haven’t seen Angie all morning.” Her motions froze and she looked up at Olivia with concern. “You don’t think—”

  Olivia didn’t wait for her grandmother to finish the thought. Racing towards the back door, she was praying to every saint she could remember that Angie hadn’t done something incredibly foolish. Her mind screamed at her to run faster; knowing her sister, she was halfway to the Alamo with only her bravery and stupidity as a weapon.