by Lyn Cote
“Carson!” McCulloch slapped him on the back. “I hardly knew you dressed so fine.”
“Couldn’t wear buckskins to my sister’s wedding,” Carson answered shortly.
“Well, I can tell that my turning up here is as welcome as a toothache. Nonetheless, we’re on our way to the Rio Grande. Walker needs us to scout for the army. I thought I’d get both you and Ramirez. But I guess he’s busy getting himself married.”
Hearing these words, Mariel knew her beautiful time had come to an end. She had known it would, yet this interruption had come too soon. Did she dare hope he wouldn’t go? That he would stay for her?
Carson folded his arms in front of him. He wanted to slam his fist into McCulloch’s jaw. He stared into his captain’s blue eyes, trying to make him back down. Leave without him. But McCulloch had said what he’d come to say, and Carson knew he’d say little more.
“Hey! Carson!” Tunney ambled forward on his horse.
“Tunney! You joined up again?” Carson wondered what the German widow had thought of Tunney’s leaving for war.
“Couldn’t miss the show. A real U.S. general and army with uniforms and everything.”
Tunney’s festive tone clashed with Carson’s dark mood.
McCulloch stared hard at Carson. “We’re not stopping till after midnight. You been on furlough for months now. Get your gear and saddle up.”
Carson tried to pull together the words for a denial. He did not want to leave. Still, the call to arms stirred inside.
McCulloch interrupted his silent turmoil. “Carson, you know you’re the best scout I’ve got. I’ll not go south without you.”
The pull of duty wrapped itself around Carson like a lariat. He wanted to deny that he was the best scout; however, he felt the eyes of all the men he’d fought side by side with for over six years. No one contradicted McCulloch, and the gazes said they were counting on Carson. Lives depended on him. Texas depended on him.
Glancing back, he saw that Reva was with Mariel. He gazed at Mariel a long, silent moment, barely aware that every eye had followed his gaze. Then he looked back up at McCulloch and nodded. “Eat a bite while I get my gear.”
Carson turned, went directly to Mariel, took her hand, and pulled her along as he headed for his room. She ran to keep up with him. As soon as he shut the bedroom door, he wrapped his arms around her as if binding her to him forever. “I don’t want to go, but I have to. You see that, don’t you?”
Mariel nodded, barely meeting his eyes.
He hugged her to him, breathing in the fragrance of roses, memorizing the feel of her in his arms. “I will come back to you. I will.”
“Ja,” she whispered, clutching his shoulders, lifting her face to be kissed. His lips touched hers.
A knock came at the door. “Son?”
“Come in, Pa!” Carson tore himself from Mariel. “Mariel, I must change into my buckskins. Go to my mother and sister.”
Quinn entered; Mariel left. Carson let his gaze follow her till she shut the door behind her. Then he stripped off his wedding clothes piece by piece, tossing them onto his bed.
His father said nothing, merely watched Carson pull on his buckskins and pack his grooming pouch with his traveling mirror, razor, soap, and towels. When he finished looping his bow and rifle over his back and shoving his pair of Colt .45s into his belt along with his Bowie knife, he turned to his father.
Quinn put a hand on his shoulder. “I know why you are going. I will say nothing to halt you, for you are a grown man, a warrior. Do you care for the young German woman?”
“Yes.” Carson felt as if the answer had been wrung out of him. It was true. He scarcely knew when he’d let go of the bitterness Blanche had planted in him. Mariel had filled that void of rejection and ridicule, with something much more real than anything he’d ever thought he’d felt for Blanche.
Quinn nodded solemnly. “We will keep her safe till you return.”
Carson embraced his father, grateful for this assurance and that no other questions had been asked. He was glad his family had adopted the Tejano ability to show emotion without shame.
They walked through the quiet, dim house, which felt deserted with everyone outside. On the front porch, his mother, Erin, and Sugar waited for him. He hugged them all. Erin looked flushed. “Carson, I don’t want you to go—”
“Your brother is a Ranger,” Dorritt said, cutting her off. “He knows that the Mexicans must be defeated or we will have fought the Revolution for nothing. Whatever my opinion of slave-owning Americans, I do not want to be ruled by a dictator like Santa Anna. Good men must always fight such scoundrels.”
Erin hid her face in her mother’s skirt, sniffling. “We’ll be praying for you,” Sugar said, her face drawn and serious.
“I’m sorry to spoil your wedding day with this,” Carson said, attempting to grin and failing. His heart was throbbing and he felt a little light-headed, disconnected already from his family, from this place. From Mariel.
“War spoils everything,” Alandra Falconer, Sugar’s madrina, said, pulling him into a fierce hug. “Be careful.”
Carson nodded, then shook hands with a gruff Scully, who’d fought with him and his father in the Revolution a decade ago. He turned, and there was Emilio leading Carson’s horse forward, announcing, “I saddled your horse, packed your ammunition and bedroll.”
Their cook came running from the rear of the house and handed Carson a cloth bag of food and two full canteens. Carson thanked her. He shook hands with Emilio, then swung up into his saddle. He scanned the somber crowd for Mariel. He could not find her face. Perhaps that was just as well. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to leave her if he saw her now.
The Rangers had eaten what they could from the wedding tables and were mounting up all around again. McCulloch rode forward.
“Ramirez, I’m not bothering to ask you to leave your bride on your wedding night.” The other Rangers chuckled at this. “But I expect to see you south on the Gulf within a month. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to find the whole U.S. Army.”
Emilio nodded soberly. Carson’s throat was too tight for speech. He waved to everyone, then rode off into the growing darkness, not looking back. He always did this so that he wouldn’t feel like he was seeing his family’s rancho for the last time.
This time he had another reason not to look back. He didn’t want to see Mariel’s heartbroken face. He brought up the radiant image of her as she had looked today during Sugar’s wedding. When this became unbearable, he concentrated on his horse’s hoofbeats and the others around him, letting the rhythm block everything else out of his mind.
Eleven
On the bench in Mrs. Quinn’s herb garden, Mariel sat very still, listening to the sounds of the wedding reception breaking up for the night. Instead of laughter and music, there were subdued voices and the sounds of cleaning as people carried away the makeshift tables and benches. Unable to hide her feelings or speak of them, she remained hidden by the tall mesquite-pole fence. She would wait until everyone had finished and turned in for the night. Only then would she seek her own bed.
Tears ran freely down her face. She did not try to stop them or wipe them away. She had at last found a place, the Quinn Rancho, where she was allowed to let her emotions flow. If she did leave the garden now, no one would snap at her, “Why are you crying? Stop it.”
Being allowed emotions was good. How much better if Carson had not gone. The lovely wedding, the attention Carson had shown her, his tender embrace and teasing smiles as he had taught her the dances tonight. How wonderful, like scenes in a play, part of someone else’s life.
Still, she clung to the truth. This has happened to me. People are different here on this ranch. I am different here.
At long last, all human sounds ceased; all light but moonlight and starlight was extinguished. In spite of the heat at noonday, the night grew cool. Finally, when the darkness threatened to chill her to the marrow, she rose and crept out of the garden. T
hen she tiptoed into the hacienda. She halted inside the door. Not everyone had gone to bed.
Mrs. Quinn sat beside a low fire in the hearth of the great room. Mariel stifled the urge to run to her room and lock the door. But Mrs. Quinn had been kind and was her mistress. Mariel bobbed a curtsey and tried to slip away to her room.
“Mariel, come sit beside the fire. I’m sure you must be chilled from sitting out in the garden.”
“How did you know—” Mariel halted her question.
“You weren’t in your room or anywhere else.” Mrs. Quinn did not sound perturbed with her.
Mariel flushed with guilt. “I should have helped. I am sorry—”
“Come sit beside the fire. We need to talk.” Mrs. Quinn motioned toward another comfortable rocking chair opposite her. “Come.”
Mariel wanted to refuse; of course she could not. She walked to the chair and perched on its edge. “Yes, mistress?”
“I am not your mistress, Mariel. Or I don’t want to be. I want to be your friend. I invited you here as a companion and teacher for Erin as the most acceptable way to keep you near my son. Till he realized what I knew—that he is in love with you.”
Mariel heard the words, but they did not fit into her head. “I do not…understand.”
“Carson is a complex man, a very intelligent and worthy one. At a very young age, he assumed and has carried great responsibility with dignity and honor. Quinn and I are very proud he is our son.”
Mariel could not stop herself from speaking up. “You should be. Never have I known such a man. A true gentleman.”
Mrs. Quinn nodded. “These are hard times. That is common on the frontier. Men can’t always do what they want. They must do what is demanded of them for survival, to keep their freedom. Not only their own but their family’s.”
Mariel eased back into the curve of the rocking chair. Mrs. Quinn’s voice was low and pleasant, and the fire was warming. Why was Mrs. Quinn telling her this? On the one hand, the lady sounded as if she approved of Mariel and Carson falling in love. On the other, she was showing Mariel how superior Carson was to her. And Mariel could not argue with that.
“It was very difficult to let him go tonight,” the lady admitted.
That Mariel understood perfectly.
“I choose to believe and to pray that God will bring my son safely home to us. Will you believe that too? And pray?”
Mariel found she couldn’t speak. Her heart, her emotions swayed inside her like water carried in a bowl. She felt herself drawn to Mrs. Quinn, and the pull was irresistible. She rose and knelt before Mrs. Quinn and laid her head on the lady’s lap.
Mrs. Quinn stroked her hair. “My son wants to be a man of peace, not war. And we will pray that he returns to us. ‘Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace.’ That is my prayer, Lord. And, Mariel, your strength is in your endurance. Endurance is very important. We must keep our hope and strength. Or when good comes at last, we will not be here to savor it. Keep faith, Mariel. Keep believing.”
Mariel could never remember feeling so torn between peace and despair. Mrs. Quinn must be a woman of great faith. Mariel wanted to be like her, but perhaps Mariel should not pray or hope too much. Little she had prayed for had ever come to pass. Why would this time be any different? Yet so much had changed in her life over the past few months, so much good had come to her. How could God not be here in this vast, wild land? Mariel whispered the same prayer. “Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace. That is my prayer, Lord.” I will keep hope and endure.
Carson had been out of the saddle too long. When the order to camp for what remained of the night finally came, he slid from the saddle and stood stiffly beside his mount. It would take them nearly two weeks of hard riding to reach Matamoras, Mexico, where Taylor and his army might be. By then, Carson would be fully back in shape. He hobbled his horse and untied his bedroll.
No fire had been lit. That meant they were trying to slip unnoticed by Comanche or any other hostile tribe. Two Lipan Apaches rode with McCulloch. The Comanche were just as fierce enemies to them as to the whites.
Carson kicked away stones and sticks from an area and unrolled his bedding. He slid into the wool blanket, which smelled of leather and horse. Had he really just hours ago been at his sister’s wedding? Images from the wedding felt unreal; he felt unreal, too, as if he might vanish into the night air.
A large man came up beside him, unrolled his bedding, and slid inside. “So how’s the pretty Mariel doing?” It was Tunney’s low voice.
Carson wanted to ignore the question and feign sleep. But that wouldn’t stop Tunney. Carson said grudgingly, “She’s fine. You saw her.”
Tunney chuckled. “About to get leg-shackled like Ramirez?”
Nettled, Carson again thought of denying his interest in Mariel—for what purpose? “War interrupted me, and it looks like it interrupted you too. How’s the German widow?”
“I left her in good health and she’s not going anywhere. She’ll be there when I get back. I can’t be sitting by the fire when I know my friends are in the middle of it all.”
Carson grunted, “Go to sleep, Tunney.”
Tunney grunted in reply and said no more.
Carson lay there, listening to other men sleep. He’d had a few weeks of sleeping in his snug bed at home, and the ground felt hard and disagreeable. Refusing to move around to find a comfortable position, he thought over Tunney’s words about wanting to be in the middle of it all.
I don’t want to be in the middle of it all. Nor will I be. I’m just coming back to scout. This isn’t like San Jacinto. I’m not a soldier this time. I’ll just be doing reconnaissance, nothing more.
He closed his eyes, ignoring how unconvinced he was of his own words. And how much leaving Mariel behind still stung.
Thirteen days later, on June first, McCulloch and his Rangers reached the Gulf Coast. The hot, moist gulf air blew soft against Carson’s face. Seagulls screeched overhead. By now, he again felt as if he’d spent his entire life in the saddle. The memories of the pretty Mariel had not faded but remained hidden behind an exterior that increasingly reflected the men around him, unshaven and rough-looking, nothing like Emilio’s groomsman.
While it was still morning, they rode into the American camp at Point Isabel, north of Matamoras, Mexico. Indeed, it had not been hard to find the U.S. Army, with its thousands of sweating, wool-clad men. Carson, as always, rode beside McCulloch. Today they would report to the U.S. general and find out what he needed scouts for.
The regular U.S. soldiers in their blue uniforms gawked at them; some pointed, some stepped back. No doubt they had never seen Rangers or their like before. Carson heard a few say, “Indian fighters. Texans.” Being called “Texan,” not “Texian,” sounded strange to Carson. Was that what they would be called now that Texas was not a sovereign nation but a U.S. state?
McCulloch halted and looked down at one of the men. “Where’s Taylor?”
The soldier opened and closed his mouth a few times. “You mean the general?”
McCulloch nodded.
“Command’s over there…sir.”
“Much ’bliged.” McCulloch touched his brim, then led his men to the rough building that had been pointed out. McCulloch slid from his saddle. “Carson, you come along.”
Carson followed suit, tossing his reins to Tunney. McCulloch tried to enter the door, but a sentry stopped him and asked, “Who are you…sir?”
“I’m McCulloch. Tell the general the Rangers are here.”
The soldier saluted and went inside, leaving Carson and his captain waiting outside. “I’ve had less trouble getting in to see Sam Houston,” McCulloch muttered.
Carson didn’t reply. No doubt a general was picky about whom he talked to. With a disagreeable twist, Carson recalled the West Point graduates at Blanche’s wedding. Would Taylor be like that? All shiny brass buttons, white gloves, and a ramrod-straight bac
k?
The sentry returned and directed them inside.
McCulloch led Carson in. Carson doffed his hat. When McCulloch didn’t, Carson set his back on his head. He didn’t want to show up McCulloch. Two men were in the office, a young man and a short, older man. The older man was very plump and was dressed in rumpled civilian dress—an old green coat and trousers and bedroom slippers. He was standing beside a cluttered desk. This couldn’t be the general, could it?
The man ran a keen eye over both of them. “I’m Taylor,” he said and held out his hand.
McCulloch grasped it. “I’m McCulloch, and this is Carson Quinn, my best scout.”
Before it was Carson’s turn to shake hands, he glanced more closely at the only other man in the room. He was obviously a young officer and in every regard the complete opposite of the scruffy old gentleman who had turned out to be the general. His high-necked, buff-colored uniform was pressed and freshly brushed, and his boots gleamed with black polish. He had familiar-looking, blue-black wavy hair clipped close to his head, white skin, and dark eyes.
Carson got around to looking at the young man’s face. A spike of shock plunged through his chest. Of all the people in the world, his cousin had to be here?
Carson’s face remained impassive. He was his father’s son and could be inscrutable when needed. Why was it that when there was one last person in the whole world that you didn’t want to see, that person popped up? And when least expected?
While his mind raced, Carson remained still and expressionless. I should have expected him to be here. He bragged to everyone at the wedding where he was going and why—loudly and repeatedly. But so much had intervened since then that Carson had put it, and him, out of his mind. And what had been the chances that in an army of thousands they would be thrown together?
Carson looked the young man in the eye.
Stark horror glistened in the younger officer’s eyes. Evidently this cousin didn’t want to own Carson—unshaven, dressed in buckskin, and grimy from weeks in the saddle—as kin. Carson stared coolly into those brown eyes, trying to decide whether to embarrass his “refined” cousin or not. It was tempting.