by Lyn Cote
“Glad you got here,” the general was saying to McCulloch. “This is my aide de camp, LaCroix.”
McCulloch nodded to him; Carson continued to watch his cousin Remy LaCroix sweat. In the spring, Remy’s sister Blanche had demonstrated what kind of woman she was and what she really thought of Carson in the most painful way possible. She hadn’t done it in private. No. In front of strangers invited to her wedding, she’d snubbed and ridiculed him and his family. She’d done it subtly—whenever speaking about the Quinns, she’d added an arch or mocking facial expression. When she’d addressed them, she’d added sneering tones that had belied her polite words and elegant behavior. She’d given no direct insult that any Quinn had been able to react to. No direct insult, only a thousand tiny darts of contempt.
LaCroix also had relished snubbing Carson. So now, tit for tat? If Carson made their connection known, Remy would be embarrassed not only by having a cousin who dressed in buckskin and wore his hair like an Indian but also because he hadn’t shown that he was family, as he should have. It was a unique situation. Carson tried not to take too much perverse enjoyment from it.
“How many men did you bring with you?” Taylor asked McCulloch.
“Seventeen. Another one will join us soon. He was busy getting married and couldn’t leave right away.”
The general nodded. “You know why I requested Rangers? You men know the land here. I don’t. General Arista and the Mexican Army are somewhere west of here. Well, that figures, because he couldn’t be east of me, could he? He’d be swimming in the gulf.”
Carson liked Taylor’s calm, sensible talk so far. Would it last? McCulloch just nodded.
“Anyway, I need you to find Arista without exposing yourselves to him and his army. And then, when you find out where he is, string out your men over the distance between his force and ours. We must keep a line of communication open. I need to know marching conditions—”
“What’s that?” McCulloch asked.
Remy sneered.
Carson looked at him hard. LaCroix tried to look as though it didn’t bother him. And failed. The young man’s cheeks turned red.
“I need to know if the land will accommodate an army marching over it,” Taylor explained without chagrin. “You probably don’t ever have to worry about that, I take it.”
McCulloch grinned. “Nope. Rangers don’t march.”
Taylor matched his grin. “Well, I can’t mount my infantry of nearly six thousand. They march. And to do that, they need ground that gives them space to march abreast, the more even the terrain the better, and with water along the way and cover if possible.”
McCulloch nodded. “Doable.”
“What’s the inland like?”
“Low plains. Grass. Then mountains. Pretty dry this time of year,” McCulloch said.
“What about natives? I hear you’ve got some real hostile ones.” Taylor sat down on the edge of his cluttered desk, waving a hand toward two straight-backed wooden chairs.
McCulloch lowered himself into one. “Two Lipan Apache always ride with me. The Comanche scare everybody, including most other tribes. Sam Houston supposedly signed a peace treaty with the Comanche end of last year. So you might not be bothered with them. You’re pretty far south.”
“My father and I met with the Penatekas a couple of months ago.” Carson settled on the chair next to his captain. “We went to make a treaty with them for the new Germans settling north of San Antonio.”
Both older men turned to look at Carson. Taylor asked, “The Penatekas?”
“Comanche band. Means ‘honey-eaters,’” Carson explained, one eye still on LaCroix.
McCulloch stretched his legs out in front of him. “Sam Houston has used Carson and Carson’s dad, Quinn, to make treaties with the different tribes. Quinn’s a half-breed Cherokee. Knows how to handle Indians. Quinn’s own dad scouted for Pike.”
“Did the Indians make peace, these honey-eaters, with the Germans?” Taylor asked, a shrewd eye on Carson.
Carson watched LaCroix sit down and begin writing at a desk made out of two barrels and a slab of pine. “Tunney says yes.”
Taylor cocked his head in silent question.
“Another Ranger with me.” McCulloch supplied the answer.
“When can you start scouting?” Taylor asked.
McCulloch shrugged. “Today, if need be.”
“Rest a day and let your men walk around so my men can see them. I don’t want anyone shooting one of your men thinking you’re Mexican.”
McCulloch looked to Carson, then to Taylor. “Some of my Rangers are of Mexican blood. Some Mexicans fought on our side in the Revolution. They hated Santa Anna as much as we did. They’re Texians too. They’re called Tejanos.”
“I’ll have to give you something for them to wear so they are marked as Americans.” Taylor looked like he was chewing his tongue, trying to come up with a solution.
“I think that we’re dressed distinctively enough as we are,” Carson spoke up, glancing ironically toward LaCroix and back to McCulloch, and then down at his own buckskins. LaCroix tried to act as if he hadn’t heard, but Carson noticed that his ears had turned red.
Taylor looked at Carson and gave a dry chuckle.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this, Carson told himself.
“Carson’s right. Don’t worry about my men. Anybody turns a gun on one of us, they’ll regret it real fast.” McCulloch grinned.
“Real Mexican soldiers have fancy uniforms too,” Carson slipped in without looking at the younger officer. “Tell your men only to shoot Mexicans in blue-and-white uniforms. And only at Indians aiming weapons at them.”
“I’ll put out the word, then,” Taylor replied dryly. Then he rose and held out his hand.
After shaking it once again, McCulloch said their farewells and turned for the door. Then another one of those startling coincidences happened. Or Carson’s mother would say providences, God-arranged meetings.
Anthony Niven—Blanche LaCroix’s new husband—walked in. Carson halted in his tracks, surprise quivering through his nerves. But Niven evidently didn’t know Carson well enough to recognize him dressed as a Ranger. Carson watched LaCroix suffer the further torture of wondering if Niven would recognize Carson and reveal Carson’s identity and, thereby, their relationship. And it would be all the worse for Remy, since Taylor appeared to be without pretension. Though the puffed-up young rooster deserved the torment, since it was all due to vain pride, Carson almost felt sorry for LaCroix. Almost.
Within a few moments, McCulloch and Carson left. When they reached their horses, his captain turned and asked, “You know that young fella?”
Carson nodded. “LaCroix’s my first cousin. Our mothers are half sisters.”
McCulloch made a sound of disgust. And said no more.
Carson agreed wholeheartedly. He almost preferred that this family connection not be revealed. His cousin was such a greenhorn. No Texian should be that green. Would their blood relationship come out? Not from his mouth.
Niven was the wild card. He might recognize Carson and let it slip. And if Niven did, what would LaCroix say or do in his embarrassment?
Carson tried to settle back and listen to McCulloch tell the other Rangers the plans. But once distracted, his mind wouldn’t cooperate. Drifting from LaCroix to Niven to Blanche, it finally settled on something better; the image of Mariel as she’d looked during Sugar’s wedding stole him away, taking him back where he longed to be. At home. With her. In his arms.
Almost two weeks after the wedding, during the mellow time at the end of supper in the Quinns’ great room, Ash cleared his throat. “I got something to say.”
Dorritt looked up. Mariel sat beside her. The fragrance of roast beef spiced with black pepper still hung over the table. Carson’s empty seat remained as a silent reminder of his absence. Emilio sat beside Sugar, holding her hand; he would be leaving soon to join Carson and the other Rangers. And Dorritt grieved for Sugar already. And worried ov
er her son in a war so far away. The worry was like a brick she carried inside, a constant weight that sapped her strength, muted, blunted everything.
“What is it, Ash?” Quinn asked.
“Reva and I are going south.” Ash leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Have you heard from Antonio?” Dorritt asked, placing her hand on Quinn’s thigh for comfort.
Staring down at her plate, Reva answered, “Yes, in a way. One of our cousins from San Antonio traveled to Laredo and saw him there.”
Dorritt wondered why Reva wouldn’t meet her eye. The latent worry she’d carried since Carson had left began to grow larger, heavier in her middle.
His dark, lined face drawn down, Ash looked back and forth between Dorritt and Quinn. “You know that things are going to change now that Texas is U.S. territory. We all settled farther west to keep clear of the Anglos because they have no use for people like us—half-breeds and free blacks.”
“And that’s why our son left Texas.” Reva sounded like she might start crying. “He couldn’t feel safe in a place where some people treated him like he wasn’t a free man.”
Dorritt wondered what was causing Reva such distress so long after the fact. Antonio had left Texas around the same time Carson and Emilio had joined the Rangers—probably because Antonio, a black man, hadn’t been allowed to join the Rangers with them. It had been hard on Reva and Ash. Hard on all of them.
“It will only get worse now.” Ash folded his large, work-worn hands in front of his face. “Texas is a U.S. state. And sometime in the near future, slave catchers will come and try to make trouble for free blacks. For Reva and me.”
“You think you’ll do better under a Mexican dictator?” Quinn asked.
“I don’t like dictators, but I plan on staying clear of Mexico City, and Amos and Nancy want to go with us.”
The mention of Amos and Nancy, freed slaves who had once belonged to Dorritt’s family, brought understanding, electrifying understanding. It hit Dorritt what they were talking about. This wasn’t about going for a visit. Disbelieving, she stood. “You’re leaving? For good?”
Reva burst into tears, putting her hands over her face. “I don’t want to go, but we can’t stay.”
Ash patted her shoulder. “Antonio has been working as a vaquero at a rancho southwest of Laredo. He’s taken a wife and has an adobe house big enough for us to join him. I’m getting on in years. We need to be with our son.”
Reva wept into her handkerchief.
Her knees failing her, Dorritt sat down.
“I want to go with Emilio,” Sugar’s voice cut through the emotional haze Dorritt was in.
“What?” Dorritt looked up, fresh shock sluicing through her.
“Sugar, you cannot,” Emilio said in a low, firm voice.
“Yes, I can. Mother, you and Alandra went along with Father and Scully and Carson to the Revolution. And when they were wounded, you were needed. I can’t just sit home and worry what might happen to Emilio.” Tears sprang to Sugar’s eyes. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“Your mother and Alandra didn’t intend to go to war. It just happened that way.” Quinn laid a restraining hand on Dorritt’s arm.
“Has everyone gone loco?” Dorritt asked, sitting forward. “Sugar, you can’t go to war. This isn’t like the Revolution—”
“Yes, it is.” Sugar leaped to her feet. “It’s just like the Revolution. Mexico wants Texas back. And the man I love is going to the war. I want to go with him…in case he needs me.”
Emilio tugged Sugar’s hand until she sat down, frowning.
Dorritt reached for Quinn’s hand. She looked into his face, the face she loved above all others. Her heart was beating so fast that she wished she hadn’t eaten. She felt a bit sick. “What do you say, Quinn?”
He lifted his cup and took a deliberate swallow of coffee. Everyone waited, looking toward him. “Ash, I know you want to be with your son. Some men have many children. You and Reva have only one son. I’m happy that Antonio has done well and taken a wife. I’m glad he’s sent for you. It grieves me and Dorritt to see you go”—Quinn gripped Dorritt’s hand—“but you must be there to hold your future grandchildren.”
Dorritt knew everything Quinn said was true, but still her heart cried out, Not Reva! Don’t go, dearest friend. Reva had been a slave of her family and then had married Ash, Quinn’s oldest friend. Dorritt and Reva had never been separated. Nevertheless, Dorritt was Reva’s best friend, and Quinn was right. She stiffened her resolve. Reva had mourned Antonio’s settling so far away. What if Carson went far away? Dorritt couldn’t make herself smile, but she made herself nod. “You should be with your son. It’s only right.”
“When I think of leaving you…all those years ago, you’re the one who gave us hope, hope that we’d have good lives in Texas.” Reva wiped her large brown eyes. “We were babies together.”
Dorritt nodded, her lips trembling. Long ago Reva had been her only friend, her only true family.
Quinn cleared his throat and looked to Reva’s right. “And, Sugar, I understand your wanting to go with Emilio,” he said even as he raised both hands in denial. “But this war will be fought much farther away than San Jacinto.”
Ash sat up straighter. “We can take her south with us. We’ll go to the coast first along with Emilio. Then we can leave after Emilio settles Sugar with the other women who’ve come along with their husbands. After that, we’ll just follow the Rio Grande west till we get to Laredo. Then we’ll find Antonio.”
Silence. Dorritt’s ears rang as if someone had just sounded bells too close to her. Sugar? Go to war? No.
“You can’t tell me, Dorritt, that having Emilio and Carson off away in the middle of a war hasn’t worried you,” Reva spoke up, her voice strengthening. “I know because you told me and we been praying. Maybe Sugar supposed to go along, and be ready in case either boy needs her.”
Dorritt shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She couldn’t deny what Reva had said. And there would be some women in the army camp, wives and laundresses and cooks. But Sugar? Did she have the stamina to stand up to the rigors of war?
“I already went through one war,” Sugar said, as if reading Dorritt’s thoughts. “I was just a little girl, but I understood what was going on. And I know how your nursing and care saved a lot of lives, more than just Father’s and Scully’s. I went through it once, I can go through it again. You think I’m too weak. I’m not. I’m not.”
“I will go too.”
Mariel’s soft voice startled Dorritt. She swung her attention to Mariel. “You what?”
“I will go too,” Mariel repeated, her voice still faint.
Everyone stared at her, yet she did not back down. Instead, she rose. Her heart thundered in her ears. “Ever since Carson left, I want only one thing.” She swallowed, her mouth so dry that her lips were sticking to her teeth. “I want to see him again.”
Before she could lose her nerve, she plunged on. “He…Carson told me I was not a German woman anymore. I am now a Texas woman. I did not think there was a way that I could go to him but…” Her courage gave out and she let herself drop back onto her chair. Where had she found the courage to speak?
“In that case, I guess we’ll have to take Erin to stay with Alandra at Rancho Sandoval and then go—,” Quinn began.
“No,” Ash said. “We sat out the Revolution ten years ago. It wasn’t our fight, and we weren’t interested in giving slaveholders more power, more independence. Mexico has its problems, but there is no slavery there. Peonage, yes, but no slavery. So we stayed here and with Emilio’s father’s help, we kept this ranch and Alandra’s safe while you went to fight.”
“If what you say is true, then I should be there fighting again.” Quinn’s voice was prickly.
“This is your turn to stay home,” Ash declared, looking ready to fight. “Let me do this for you, mi mejor amigo.” His voice softened. “We will pack a wagon and drive to the coast and stay with Sugar
and Mariel until we know they will be safe. Then we will go west, keeping our distance from the armies. I don’t think I would miss a full army coming our way. My eyesight isn’t that poor.”
There was a silence filled with thinking, filled with strong feeling. Mariel did not even take a deep breath. She still could not believe that she had spoken what was in her heart. Now she must wait and see what would come of her boldness.
“We will think on this,” Quinn said as he looked at his wife. She nodded, but she was holding her lower lip with her teeth.
That evening, at the end of a steady string of hot days, Carson took a bath in the river and changed his clothing. Being clean made him feel fresher, better, more himself. Now he sat at the Ranger campfire set apart from the main body of the U.S. Army bivouac. In the river, he had decided not to shave. They would be off scouting tomorrow, and he would wait and shave when he was nearing home again. Why bother here? He didn’t have to look like a fashion plate. Like his dear cousin.
One of the Tejano Rangers was playing the guitar, making Carson think about dancing with Mariel and wonder how long it would be before Emilio turned up. The rest of the Rangers were just relaxing. Earlier, some had hunted, and they had dined on roasted prairie hens and some fish bought from a local fisherman. Carson hummed along with the tune being played. Then he saw the raised eyebrows on the men across from him and turned.
“Quinn! Carson Quinn!”
It was Niven, Blanche’s husband, calling his name. Carson considered whether or not he should reply, but he decided to take the direct approach. He had nothing to fear. He rose. “What do you want, Niven?”
Niven halted and stared at him.
Carson returned the favor. Niven was taller than LaCroix, almost as tall as Carson. He was dressed in the same buff-colored, high-necked uniform as LaCroix. He had sandy brown hair that curled around his head in a short cut. Since the spring, since this man’s wedding to his cousin Blanche, Carson had let his own hair grow till he could tie it back. If he was going to be deemed a half-breed by Anglos, he might as well look the part.