“Okay, my love. Here I come, and I can’t hold back anymore. You ready?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
He came with a fury on the fourth plunge, counting them so he’d always remember the best loving he ever had. And then he sort of went somewhere else. Everything went black, then blazed in a mass of colors. His body flushed with fever, turned cold, then hot again. And he collapsed beside her.
When he came back to himself, she lay against him, one hand on his chest, her head on his outstretched arm, one leg hitched over his, like she had tried to crawl on top of him but failed. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed as if asleep.
Nearing the horizon, the moon hid behind a skiff of clouds and bid them good night.
Snuggling closer to her, he fell asleep as if he’d dropped off the edge of the earth.
Chapter Nineteen
Zach awoke with dawn. Far to the southwest, dark clouds churned into the silver sky, lit by occasional flashes of lightning. A storm that promised a miserable day to travel. Leaving Tyra here would be bad enough. They were still wrapped together, arms and legs in a tangle as if completing some sort of weird puzzle. Both bare-ass naked as the day they were born. Patches of sunlight quilted their bodies in warmth.
A slight turn of his head put his lips against her earlobe. He puffed air, and her eyebrow twitched.
“Darlin’. You in there?” Almost a whisper.
Her lips curled, and one eye squeezed open, filled with tears that leaked down her cheek.
With a thumb tip he wiped the skin dry. “No cryin’. That’s a rule.”
“You can’t go.” Wide awake, brittle blue gaze.
Her words cut through him, but none would come in reply. He just tightened his hold wherever he could and refused to view her pain.
“I meant only that you haven’t told me what you promised yet. Your story. Why you have to go. You said you would.”
“Okay. Let’s untangle and make some coffee. It’s a tale needs telling over a boiling pot.”
“By a man with some clothes on.”
“That’s a deal, but you can stay the way you are.”
“I think we better both dress while it gets ready. One of the angels might decide to pay us a visit.”
Now there was an odd idea. The rich aroma of coffee mixed with the promise of rain in the morning air by the time he arrived to find her waiting at the campfire properly attired. He delayed the telling while filling two cups, adding sugar and cream to hers and settling down beside her. Touching. Holding. Putting off those first words. Much as he’d mulled this over, getting started was damned hard. He’d only talked about this once and then put it away. Did his best to forget it.
“I’m not sure where to begin.” He aimed a squinty stare her way. “Don’t you dare say ‘at the beginning.’ If I knew where that was, this wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Your beginning will be fine. No way to tell anyone else’s.”
He nodded, stared past her shoulder across the wide plains, where ghosts of the past shimmered to life. Jags of lightning pointed accusing fingers at him. Thunder shouted angry words that no one else could hear. Hate, fury, disgust. He licked his lips, let the words come out, low and uncertain.
“The war changed the way all of us looked at death. Even Geronimo Lanigan didn’t take to killing the way he thought he would. For him, the war presented a chance to point his gun at the enemy and pull the trigger. Then when he had to watch someone he knew die a slow, painful death, he…” He sighed, and she patted his knee.
“It’s you I want to hear about.” She turned her face to the rising sun, locks of hair gleaming. A shelf of dark clouds marched toward the light, as if challenging it for room in the sky.
The one thing he did not want to talk about. “I know. I’m getting there.” Damn, this was hard. Easier to tell her what Geronimo Lanigan did than get into his own actions. Big sigh. “Okay. We were all madder than hell when Lee surrendered. Some battle-torn soldiers rode across the Rio Grande and buried the Confederate flag in the water. Weighed that tattered piece of cloth down. Swore they’d not ever surrender to the Yanks. Far as I know, they didn’t. But I wanted to go home in the worst way, so I headed for Santa Maria.”
He stopped, picked at his fingernails, and stared into space. A gust of moist wind touched his cheeks. “Never got there. Some of us met up not far from the battle of Glorieta Pass, where Pa was killed. That near done me in. Anyway, you know the best of a gang rests on the level of the worst, so when Dan Munro come up with an idea of forming a gang sort of like the James Gang, we all thought it the smart thing to do. We were broke and half-starved, wearing remnants of filthy clothing stinking of the final cannon and rifle blasts, of the blood and carnage. All but Josh, who missed all that, thank all that’s holy. He showed up begging to ride with us. Only seventeen. We were foolish. Stupid. We said okay and planned our evil deeds.”
She shook her head, took his hand. “Not stupid. Certainly not evil. Young, hurt, scared, and alone.”
“Doesn’t excuse what we did. Nothing would.”
For a long while he remained silent, and she held his hand to her cheek, waiting. Thunder rumbled closer, trembled the ground. Reminded him of the cannons’ roar at Shiloh. He tore his mind loose from those memories, moved on.
Then he swallowed hard. “Okay. Geronimo came up with the idea we would rob a freight wagon going to Fort Union. There was so much outlawing and Indian wars going on there weren’t enough lawmen to keep the peace. It was like one grand battle, near as bad as the War of Northern Aggression. There was the Johnson County War, then the battle to put the Navajos and Apaches on reservations. It seemed like the killing would never end.
“Worst part of it was it made killing something that was okay in the eyes of most everyone out west. Everyone was doing it. Or at least that’s what we told ourselves.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and fingers. “I lost count of the battles, the wounding of men, women, and children. Down deep inside me, I knew nothing would ever be the same again. Not my life or my hopes or my soul.
“We attacked travelers, stagecoaches, wagon trains.” He held his hands in front of his face. Stared at them. They should be covered in blood. With a shudder he buried his face there.
She gathered him in her arms, kissed his temple, his cheek, pulled him to her breast. “What made you stop?”
Shit. This was something he’d hoped to avoid talking about, but he had promised her. So he’d try. The vision of that dreadful day would live in his head and heart always, but most times he was able to shroud it in deep shadows. The only good thing that would come of the telling was she would be pleased to see him leave and would never want to lay eyes on him again. He could go home and bury himself away from everything but his own guilt and sorrow. The angels would see that she returned to Victoria, where she would be much better off. He had explained this to Dolores, knowing she would not betray his trust and tell Tyra.
“Zachariah, sweetheart. What happened that made a good man of you? I need to know, have to know.”
Good man, hell. Just because he stopped his murdering ways didn’t make him a good man. Sister Dolores told him all he needed was to ask God for forgiveness. There was no forgiveness for his actions on that dreadful day, so why bother to ask? He would have to die and be punished in Hell for a thousand years before he would come near to deserving even the consideration of such.
Time to tell her. No way out of it. Taking her shoulders in both hands, he placed her firmly out of reach, held out one palm. “Just stay there, right there, till I’m done. Then you’ll let me go without a fight. I promise you that.”
Scattered raindrops spit in the dust, leaving little holes. Huge black clouds covered the sky. She didn’t seem to notice, and he ignored it.
A look of despair went over her face. Hell, why was he doing this? Breaking her heart when all he had to do was get on that horse yonder and ride off? This time, surely, she would not follow. He stared at her, t
hen at the horse, already saddled, saddlebags, canteen, and bedroll ready to go. Cabron danced nervously under the oncoming storm.
Coward. That’s what he was. Killing had come so easy to him since the war, yet he couldn’t so much as be honest with this woman he loved with all his heart and soul. So it was time to stop making excuses and tell the God’s honest truth.
“It was late in the evening, going on to dark, when the single wagon come on down the trail. We’d camped for the night, had coffee boiling, were leaning our heads on our saddles chewing on jerky, discussing our—uhm—plans. Heard the rattle of the chains on the singletree before the wagon come in sight, and all we could really make out was four mules pulling one of those old farm wagons turned into a covered wagon for the trip west. Poor folks. Had to be. Probably didn’t have much of anything worth drawing a gun for. Geronimo raised up, though, pulled his out, and crawled to his feet. He was always ready to kill, no matter who or what. Him and that brother of his.
“I shook my head, laid a hand on his arm. That much I did, but he started out to block the wagon’s passage, so the others of us got up to back him.
“‘They prob’ly got food,’ he said kind of under his breath. ‘And I’m sick to death of jerky. Cain’t eat clothes or blankets or guns.’”
“So off he went. Them mules darted around a bit, and someone up on the seat hollered at them to hold up. Yelled, ‘What do you want? We ain’t got much, but we’ll be glad to share.’ Sounded like a woman, but by then I was ready to go. Six-shooter pulled. Heart thumping, mouth filling with bile, pictures of bloody battlefield deaths raging through my brain till I wanted to puke.”
It was raining now. Not hard but steady. He paid no attention, and neither did she.
Goddammit, he didn’t want to go on with this. Why had he said he would? She was going to hate him. The picture would be branded in her mind forever. “I can’t tell you the rest, Ty. Sweetheart, you don’t want to hear this. I don’t want it in your head the rest of your life. Just let me go and trust me when I say it’s God-awful for you to ride with me, to love me. You don’t want to do that. I promise you. Just let me go.”
She stared up at him, rain in her face like heaven’s tears.
A voice came out of the early morning shadows. He shot a glance in that direction. A figure in white stood there, shafts of sunlight flashing through holes in the scudding clouds to bathe her in what had to be a halo.
“Tell her, Zachariah. She’ll forgive you. Then you can forgive yourself. God has already done so.”
Sister Dolores. Fists clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms, he swung around. “How can you know that? What kind of God would forgive a man such dreadful actions? I can’t stay here and watch her face when she learns what a horrible man I’ve been. I need to ride out, find Geronimo, and face him down. Put an end to this forever.”
Rain swept toward her, yet she made no move to get out of it.
“You’re killing him for more than shooting Josh.” Dolores took a few steps. A slashing curtain soaked her, the white robe and mantilla clinging to her. She seemed not to notice.
“How do you know that?”
“Zach, please.” He swung to gaze toward Tyra, who stood, reached out for him. “You don’t have to tell me anymore, but don’t leave me. You can’t tell me anything that will make me stop loving you. Take me with you. I need to be with you. We’ll go to Santa Maria and find your mother. We can go west to California and make a new life, the three of us. Forget all this.”
If only she knew how much he wished to do just that. He could not go until he killed Geronimo Lanigan. So he shook his head, relieved beyond measure that she had released him from the final awful tale.
“I have to go now. You stay here with the angels. Sister, you take good care of her. I love you.” He gazed at Tyra for a long time while she remained frozen where she was.
Rain fell so hard they had to squint to see through it. In the woods, a bolt of lightning slammed into a tree, splitting it, crashing both halves to the ground.
She stood before him, soaked to the skin, long strands of red hair plastered to her shoulders. “You promise me one thing, Zachariah. Promise me, swear to me, that you’ll come get me when this is over, no matter how it goes. We’ll go wherever you want.”
He fit his hat securely on his head. Her lovely face blurred in the sheets of water that poured down.
“Zach, you take care. Vaya con dios.” Sister Dolores came to the campfire and took Tyra’s hand. “Come with me, child. We’ll go to the Altar of the Sun and pray for our Zachariah.”
Tyra took the outstretched hand but just kept screaming at him over and over, “You promise me, Zachariah. You promise me.”
Her shouts bounced around, slamming back upon her, echo after echo.
She didn’t turn her face away until the horse and rider disappeared into the falling rain. Still, he never made that promise. At last she let the angel lead her away. Stumbling across the field, boots knocking against clods and rocks, tears mixing with the rain to wet her cheeks and blind her eyes.
“Your God had better take care of him.” The words spoken through gritted teeth surprised her. If she managed to kneel and pray, it would be the first time since coming to America, and for sure the first time she’d really meant it. Prayer came because of punishment, the wrath of a vengeful God. She wanted no part of it. What she did want was Zach, safe and sound.
Head down, Tyra followed the woman clad in a white robe that clung to her to reveal long legs and a curvaceous body. She would not be able to enter the church, had vowed not to do so the last time she’d walked out the doors of Saint Anne’s with Wilda and Rowena when they left for the long trip to America. The nuns there had made it easy to hate God and everything he stood for.
Surprisingly, Dolores led her past the church and on to a white two-story house. Up the steps, boots clomping on the painted wood, she tagged along like a child on her way to be scolded. At last out of the rain, under the porch overhang, she barely noticed the difference. Inside, the air was cool. White curtains covered windows closed against the storm. Mirrors reflected large rooms with upholstered chairs and divans, and shiny tables with delicate porcelain figurines. A curved stairway at the back of the long hall led upstairs. She stumbled on the risers, followed Dolores to where it was dark and cool. Hugged herself, shivering in the wet clothing. Closed doors ran along a balcony the length of the house. Halfway down, Dolores opened one of the doors, stepped back, and gestured her to enter. Windows on the opposite wall looked across the yard at the church. A white cross on its steeple pierced the angry black sky.
“You may sleep here.” Dolores pointed at a four-poster bed made of polished walnut, covered with a quilt of many colors. “Take off those wet things. There are clothes in the closet.”
A shiver ran down Tyra’s back. A child knelt on the rock floor of her memories. Painful, unhappy memories. She stopped midway. “I can’t. I won’t do what you want of me. I will wait elsewhere for Zach.”
A hand on her arm, the touch firm but gentle. “I want nothing of you, child. We only wish to give you a place to wait for the man you love. That is why we were put here. We pray for lovers, for what is life without love?”
“Yeah, sure. And next thing I know I’ll be dusting and scrubbing and doing your laundry, on my knees praying, begging for something I don’t even want.” She turned to glare at the beautiful woman in white.
“Hush, child. Hush now. You know of the legend.” Dolores sat on the bed, patted the space beside her. “Sit. You look weary.”
“Legend. It’s just that. A tale for the unwary.” Tyra moved to stand by the window, hugging herself and staring out in the direction Zach had gone.
After some silence, Dolores appeared in a dry robe, a simple dress and a towel draped over one arm. “Put this on and let me take those wet things. You’ll catch your death.”
Numb with the knowledge of her loss, Tyra stripped right there in front of the woman. I
f it bothered her she made no move to show it, just took the things, held out the towel and dress, then put Tyra’s clothes out in the hallway.
Tyra dried off and dropped the navy blue dress over her head. Its hem touched the floor. She slumped onto the bed, so tired she could barely hold herself upright, and waited for the angel to return, for she wasn’t finished yet, that was clear.
Dolores sat beside her, captured her hand between her soft palms. “I am so sorry for what has happened to you, child. The legend is true. The Five Spanish Angels have prayed for those lovers who come to the Valley of the Gun to die. We would like to help you, but we won’t force you to remain here if you do not wish to do so. What did Zach tell you of us?”
She picked at the fabric of the dress, then met Dolores’ gaze. “He said you saved his life. He showed me the scar.”
“He did? How unlike him. He must trust you very much. It’s hard on him to talk about that horrible day. It isn’t that he wants to keep it from you. It’s that he truly cannot bring those memories out to be spoken of. Guilt is a savage beast.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Dolores clasped both Tyra’s hands in her lap. “I do, and you need to know because it isn’t what it appears. He was out of his mind when we found him, dragging himself away from the carnage, leaving a trail of blood in the dirt. Astounding that he did not die. In the weeks we cared for him, he raved on about what had happened. Went over and over it, trying to think what he could have done to prevent the bloodshed.”
“But he said he did it. The killings that day.”
“Because he blames himself for what happened. He shot Geronimo’s brother when he took a knife to one of the children. Geronimo cut him when he tried to stop the gang from killing all three of them. A woman and two young boys. To their credit, two other gang members tried to put an end to the massacre as well, but Geronimo shot them down. Your man was not responsible for what happened out there that day, but he has always blamed himself for not being able to prevent it.”
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