Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  But before the stout little man departed, Christina did an impulsive thing: she asked him if he would hear her confession. She had not confessed for weeks; she felt overburdened.

  The Padré’s brown eyes softened and he patted her hand. “Come with me now, my daughter. I see you have a great need of God.”

  Under the startled eyes of both Penny and Rene, Father Marco led Christina out into the scorching sun and then inside the church, by a back door.

  The church of San Andres was poor. There were no high, stained-glass windows . . . there was no glass in the windows at all. The few pews were big and rough looking. The altar was modest, as was the cotton cloth that draped it. The floor was dirt.

  Yet, the strange beauty of this humble House of God struck Christina with force the moment she entered it, shawl thrown over her head. Perhaps it had something to do with Padré Marco, smiling as he made her welcome. Or maybe it was the quiet coolness of the place. Or possibly it was the presence of the simple wooden cross, hanging on the white-washed wall, behind the altar. She had needed to make peace with God for a long time.

  Padré Marco heard her long, halting confession, which poured out of her uncontrollably. Her chief sin had to do with Michael Brett and making love with him. But mixed up in the feelings of guilt over her lust was also her betrayals; somehow against Santa Anna, her countrymen, even the servants on her estate. She had continued to sin against them all, and therefore against God as well.

  The Padré forgave her, and refused to allow her a penance, due to the spirit of her contrition. But he did counsel her to visit him as often as Julian or Michael would allow. And he added to that a piece of original advice: Her sins were not of her own making, and surely God was aware of that. But God had a plan for Mexico, and Christina was caught up in it. She must reason no further than that.

  Christina left the church feeling a mixture of absurd peace combined with bemusement. She wondered just how deeply Father Marco was also “caught up” in God’s plan for Mexico!

  *

  It was in the warm evening twilight that they heard the shots.

  There were three of them, distinct and loud over the gentle sounds of the village. Immediately, the quiet card game between Rene and the Father was interrupted; Christina and Penny threw down their sewing. They all stood, and Rene reached for his guns.

  But, before he was able to do more than locate them, the door to the Padré’s house burst open and a young boy rushed inside.

  “Padré! Padré! Some men have come and shot Tio Pablo - he is dead, I think! Mama said to ask you what we must do - and to bring you to my uncle - ”

  The boy’s shrill speech ceased at the touch of the Padré’s hand on his head.

  “Run back to your mother, Renaldo. Tell her I am coming.”

  The boy, eyes still big with excitement and fright, turned and hurried out. Father Marco and Rene looked at each other, silent speech passing between them. The Padré was grim, as was Rene; both of them suspecting something neither wished to bring up in front of the ladies.

  Christina, taut and apprehensive, couldn’t stand the brief, quiet exchange. “What is happening?”

  Rene turned to her, brown eyes narrowed and preoccupied and seeming much older than they really were. “I don’t know, Señora. But I will go now and find out. Please stay here; do not go outside, even for a minute.” His gaze took in both Christina and Penny. Penny nodded. Christina still seemed unconvinced.

  “But who do you think it is? Bandits, or - ”

  “Señora.” Padré Marco turned a solemn, surprisingly firm gaze on her. “These are troubling times. This village is bothered by violence most often, almost as a matter of course. Banditos, soldiers - no matter, death is death! And now - I must go to comfort the living, and prevent, if I can, any more killing. Please remain inside, as Señor St. Just asks. Ladies such as you and your friend are most valuable to men with no scruples.”

  He held her eyes for another few seconds, until she dropped her own in frustrated acknowledgment of his request. Then he turned and slipped out the door. Rene followed him without a backward glance, his guns now concealed beneath the colorful serape thrown about his shoulders, his face hidden by his big sombrero. His youth was concealed as well.

  Christina and Penny spent the next long minutes in acute anxiety. Forced to remain isolated, with no way of knowing what if anything was happening, their fears had ample ground in which to grow.

  Penny spent the time reliving aloud her own terrifying capture by Julian’s men, speculating on her possible fate had Christina not spoken out for her rescue, and wondering if that same doom awaited both of them now. Christina barely heard her. She was concerned with discovering the identity of the killers who had ridden into town. If the men were mere bandits, or even rowdy vaqueros, then it would be up to Rene to either defend the two of them or prevent their discovery, lest they be molested and/or sold. But if the men proved to be Santanista guerrillas . . . well, perhaps the ending might be different. Perhaps these men would listen, were she to tell them who she was. Perhaps they would rescue her from the situation she was currently in; and take her to Santa Anna, for the promise of a huge reward! Just possibly . . .

  Following separate but equally tense trains of thought, both women were startled into gasps at the sound of more gunfire. This time, the shots were louder and closer by. They seemed to have erupted from across the square - or next door.

  Suddenly, Rene dove through the doorway into the hut and rolled to a crouch, one hand clutching a bloody, wounded arm, the other still gripping his gun. He hobbled to the window, hissing, “Get down!” to the women, who stood frozen, watching, behind him.

  There was another gunshot, and a bullet whizzed through the window to disappear into the wall. Christina felt a sharp tug on her hand; Penny had dropped down and was pulling her, as well. She responded, and the two of them huddled on the floor, half under the rough-hewn table, while the smack of bullets striking the wall continued to sound above them. Rene dodged the bullets to shoot, pausing only to reload and to wipe the sweat-stained hair from his forehead. His wound was bleeding steadily, but, when Christina crawled forward to look at it, he pushed her away.

  “Take cover, Madame,” he said in French without once taking his eyes from the view in front of him.

  “You’re hurt - ”

  “It is nothing to being dead. There are only two of them now - I killed one other - but the odds are still against me. These are Santanista guerrillas, bad ones, part of the troop our compadrés are even now fighting. They know from town gossip that you and Penny are in here. They - ”

  He never finished the sentence. He rose to fire and held the position a fraction too long. He was struck high in the shoulder; the bullet knocking him backward, so he fell almost into Christina’s lap. Penny screamed, the sound loud and shrill in the dead silence.

  They would be coming now. Christina focused on the body of the young man sprawled beside her. He still lived; he was unconscious, and the wound bled copiously, but he was still alive. But for how long? Would these guerrillas - who had no compunctions against killing - spare Rene, hurt as he was! Would they believe her if she told them she was on their side, and would they let Rene live if she asked them to?

  Probably not.

  She didn’t think; she just acted. Maybe one day she would regret snatching up Rene’s gun and hiding it in her skirt. Maybe she would be sorry for her instinctive action. Now, however, there was no time.

  A narrow-eyed Mexican burst into the hut, gun extended, and stopped to assess the situation before him. He was followed by another of the same kind. Both men wore a combination of military cast-off clothing - army shirts with shoulder braid, stuffed into a vaquero’s sturdy cotton pants, with a soldier’s boots, topped off by wide sombreros. At recognition of the women, the sombreros were doffed. The men grinned.

  “Gringa Señoras . . . it is too bad you have only one little man to protect you. This is dangerous country for pretty
Americanas! Your army is far too many miles away.”

  “I am not a Gringa,” Christina said, “I am a lady of Mexico, cousin to Señor Lopez de Santa Anna himself. I am traveling to my home in Jalapa, to my estate - ”

  Both guerrilla s burst into laughter - ugly and unkind. “A great Señora is traveling with only one little man to protect?” said the one who had spoken before.

  “We were attached - by Americanos. They killed all of my escorts except this one here.” She placed a protective hand on Rene’s head, willing the hand not to shake.

  “Where did this happen, Señora?” The other man spoke, his voice responding, as the other’s had not, with respect for Christina’s aristocratic tones and inherent dignity.

  “About . . . thirty or forty miles from here. South, I think. I do not know - it has been most difficult for me . . . and for my English companion . . . . ”

  English?” The first Santanista’s eyes crawled toward Penny, and she pressed a little closer to Christina.

  “She is English. My manservant is French. We are none of us American!” Christina cried.

  “Then why did your Frenchman fire on us, shooting our friend, eh?”

  “Perhaps he thought you were Yanquis or banditos. I don’t know! But listen to me.” She leaned forward, careful to keep Rene’s cold gun hidden against her side. Her face was wiped of repugnance, but she fought to keep it neutral and persuasive. “I am the Doña Señora Christina de Sainz y Siguenza Cabra. My father-in-law is the Condé de Castillo. We are a rich family, and I will reward you well for your escort to Jalapa, to my estate. Or you may take us directly to Santa Anna; he will honor you for returning us to him. Either way, you will be wealthy men, if you do your Christian duty and aid me by restoring me to my home and family. I am a Patriot, Señoras; I only wish to go home!”

  It was an impassioned plea, and all true, although Christina had no wish to travel anywhere accompanied by these men. And the guerrillas were swayed by her speech, she could tell. The one on the left, the more hostile one, looked at her speculatively. The other one appeared sympathetic.

  But then the man on the left shook his head, smiling. “Almost, we pity you, Señora. Almost, we believe you.” He looked down at the gun in his hand, appearing to check it over. “Except that we know who this young, foolish Frenchman really is. And although we do not know you, we can only suppose that you belong - as he does - to El Diablo Indio . . . the one man in all of Mexico that we would most like to kill. The one we have been searching for days; apart from the rest of our unit.” He raised his eyes to her, cold and fierce in his dark, bearded face.

  Christina glanced from him to the other. The man on her right looked apologetic, as if he really was sorry he could not accept her story. But not sorry enough to help her. Then Rene moaned - attracting everyone’s attention.

  The first man spoke again. “Señoras, you must stand up and move aside. This Yanqui bastard must be put out of his misery. Then we will all ride out of here before any more of your compadrés ride in, eh?”

  Christina’s mind and body froze, as though time had come to a complete halt. She couldn’t move; didn’t they see that? Neither could Penny.

  Seconds passed. From somewhere, another room or another world, she heard someone say, “Ramundo - the Señoras are stubborn. Help them up.”

  The one called Ramundo, the more agreeable one, started toward them. He reached for Penny - pulled her up and away from Christina, despite the girl’s struggles and shrill English oaths. Then he moved back for Christina.

  There was a look of duty and concentration on his flat Mexican face as he bent over, gripping her left arm. But the expression changed at the horrendous noise of the shot . . . at the pain of the bullet fired point-blank into his chest. He toppled backward.

  The other Mexican rushed forward. But then he, too, was knocked flat by the force of the second bullet to emerge from the barrel of Rene’s gun.

  Christina looked at the smoking gun she held. Had she fired it? Had she been the one to shoot two men? She glanced toward Penny. How was the girl crying so soundlessly? Why was everything so quiet? Had she, herself, been shot?

  The door opened, banging into the body of one of the Mexicans. Father Marco appeared, rifle in hand. He didn’t seem the least interested in the man he stepped over, beyond a cursory glance. Nor did he appear concerned with the pistol pointed at him by Christina. He came to her, instead, took the gun, and hugged her. He probably spoke to her, as well, but she couldn’t hear it. She was deaf.

  The door remained open, and it was filled with the curious, pitying faces of the local townsfolk. Then the crowd shifted, and a tall man in a brown, flat-crowned hat with an eagle feather stuck in its brim pushed his way through. It was Julian Torrance, his expression harsh enough to terrify little children.

  Over the Padré’s shoulder, Christina watched him replace his drawn gun in its holster. His black eyes had narrowed, and they met hers searchingly and even a bit uncertainly. Then they dropped to the Mexican at his feet, and he bent down, examining the lifeless body with terse movements. He glanced toward the other one, and at Rene; then toward Penny, backed into a corner and still sobbing. He looked again at Christina, still held in the arm of Padré Marco, still clutching Rene’s gun.

  Then, to everyone’s surprise but Christina’s, he threw back his head and laughed.

  *

  Christina was only deaf for a few minutes. Her hearing returned with a loud, painful pop. By that time, Julian had taken control of her and everyone, alive and dead, surrounding her; and she had no desire to contradict his authority. She never wanted to make a decision about anything again in her life.

  She was assisted to the town bathing spot - a tree-shaded area at a bend in the little stream running by the village - and cleansed of the blood which spattered her face and hands. Her clothes were removed and soaked in the stream. She was helped into the only other riding habit she possessed that was not ripped by now, and as it was a dark burgundy color - more shades of the color of blood - she wanted it off again! It took Penny five minutes of pleading, and the threat of calling Julian, before she consented to wear it.

  All this was done at Torrance’s order.

  But first he had seen to Rene, lifting the young man off the floor and placing him on the Padré’s bed to be looked after. He had ordered two of the villagers to drag the dead men out of the house and away somewhere. Then he had turned his attention to Christina, left sitting, in shock, on the dirt flor, her face streaked with blood and her eyes dilated. She didn’t know what he said to her; but there was both anger and something softer on his aloof face, and the hands that pulled her to her feet gripped her more protectively than anything else.

  She was sent off with Penny to be washed. After that, her hearing restored and reaction to what she had done finally set in. Her body shook; she tried to cry, but produced no tears, only deep, gasping breaths. Penny walked her to the cantina, the villagers bowing as they passed. To them, Christina was a heroine. To them, she was something of a miracle!

  Penny seated her at an uneven table and brought her tequila. She drank two glasses. She looked up, and there was Julian . . . gazing at her.

  “Here, meniña,” he said gently. “Have some more. It’s what we all do.”

  He poured her a third glass, and she obediently drank. By then, her body was warm and tingly; the shaking was beginning to ease. It was all due to the alcohol, no doubt. But who cared? ‘It’s what we all do,’ he had said. After what? After killing?

  She was put upon a horse. It was dark; she barely saw Padré Marco’s face as she said goodbye. The horse began to move, at a gentle, rhythmic trot. She fell back, against the hard body that rode behind her. But that was alright. An arm encircled her, holding her steady, while a voice murmured in her ear, telling her to go to sleep.

  There was nothing left to do now but sleep. Her eyes closed, her consciousness faded.. She forgot about blood and death and everything else. She slept.

>   And awoke, headachy and tense, to a complete change in circumstance. She and Penny were alone with Julian Torrance and two Indians. And they were headed east - back into Texas!

  Chapter 18

  The idea of confronting Captain Torrance and demanding explanations of him would have seemed unthinkable to the Christina of two days ago. But that was before she had killed two men at close range. That was before she had gotten drunk on tequila, and fallen asleep on horseback in Torrance’s arms.

  She wasn’t afraid of him anymore. And considering the state of being she awoke in early the next morning - her head throbbing, her mouth dry, her limbs stiff and sore - she wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody, period. She was angry and belligerent and, for once, unconscious of her own dignity.

  She found him stretched out on the ground near a sparse tree, resting in the sunlight, his hat covering his face. Penny had told her the two Indians were somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t see them. No one else was visible in the harsh countryside for miles.

  “Captain Torrance.”

  His long body twitched, then his voice emerged from beneath the hat. “You may as well call me Julian It’s a strange name for a half-breed Indian, I’ll grant; but of course my English father is to be held responsible.”

  “Julian” She kicked at a rock with the pointed toe of her boot. The rock flew high into the air, and came down sharply on Julian’s leg. He grunted.

  “You’ve made your point, Señora. What the devil do you want/”

  He sat up, pushing the hat to the top of the head. He fixed her with slitted black eyes.

  “I would like to know where we’re going. I want to know how much longer we will stay with you, or whether you intend to turn us over to someone else - and if so, then whom? And I want to know where Michael is!”

  He looked up at her, standing rigidly before him, and wondered if he would find it more difficult to deal with this now, self-assured Señora. He probably would.