Emmy's Equal

by Marcia Gruver

  Diego swallowed. “I’d like to tell you no, but I can’t. Not yet anyway.”

  Cuddy nodded thoughtfully. “Where does that leave Greta?”

  Patting Cuddy’s boyish cheeks, Diego gave him the honest answer. “When I figure that out, you’ll be the fourth to know.”

  “The fourth?”

  He smiled. “After me, Greta, and my mother.” His mood serious again, he gripped Cuddy’s arm. “One thing I can promise you. God willing, I plan to stay as far from Emmy Dane as I possibly can.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Magda’s fingers picked at the edge of her hem. The unease in her stomach grew as the sun settled lower in the sky, and no amount of chatter from Bertha could quench it. The open road to Eagle Pass seemed treacherous compared to the secluded Indian trail, and Magda felt vulnerable and exposed to danger.

  As night approached, John peered into every shadowy clump of bushes and jumped to attention at the slightest rustle or snap. So far, instead of skulking bandits lying in wait, every sound had proved to be the harmless stirring of animals on the prowl.

  John’s unease grew contagious. Poor frazzled Willem whipped around to look each time John did, his bulging eyes darting from his friend to the trail. Bertha abandoned her folded blanket and slipped to the edge of her seat, her eyes watchful, and the muscles in Magda’s tensed legs began to tremble from the strain. The relaxed fellowship they’d shared around the table the night before and again at breakfast had dimmed to a pleasant memory.

  Bertha seemed to read her mind as usual. “John, your friends sure were nice folks. They took us in and treated us like family.” She paused. “Better than that, more like kings and queens, just like you said.”

  John answered without taking his attention from the road. “You’ll find most folks in this region just as hospitable. They’re a kindhearted, generous people.” He smiled over his shoulder. “It’s one of the reasons I rooted my family here.”

  Bertha’s brows gathered like storm clouds. “Then why are you as jumpy as a cat?”

  “Good question, Bertha. There are many fine citizens in Eagle Pass. Unfortunately, opportunists and thieves roam the streets as well. Saloons and gambling halls make life hard. Decent folks are fighting back and have recently cleaned up a lot of the garbage, but they have a ways to go before I’ll breathe easy within ten miles of the place.” He chuckled. “And we’re considerably closer than that right now. Those lights you see up ahead mark the outskirts of town.”

  Magda moaned. “Bad element or not, that’s blessed good news. Right now I’d welcome the sight of a gambling hall if it offered an empty bed.”

  John shot her a sympathetic glance. “An empty bed may be farther away than you think, Magda. We’re not there yet, and we still have to find suitable lodging.”

  “That part will be easy,” Bertha chimed in, reaching to pat her bag under the seat. “We’ll stay at the best hotel money can buy.”

  “That’s exactly what we won’t do,” John said. “Flaunting your wealth in Eagle Pass would be an act of suicide.” He shook his head. “No, we’ll book a room in the cleanest low-cost establishment we can find.” He pointed at her. “You need to keep that satchel close to your body with the latch shut.”

  Magda took Bertha’s chin and pulled her face around. “The same goes for your mouth.”

  Bertha slapped away her hand. “There’s no call to take that tone.”

  “This is serious, Bertha. Your foolishness could get us killed in our sleep.”

  Arms crossed over her chest, she pouted. “I heard the man. Give me credit for having a thimbleful of sense.”

  Scooting closer to her on the seat, Magda wrapped her in a hug. “I’m dreadful sorry, honey. This trip has me on edge, that’s all.”

  Bertha reached around Magda’s waist and gave her an answering squeeze. “Aw, that’s all right, sugar. I’m a bit jumpy myself.”

  Willem groaned. “John, you may need a drink to wash down all the confection those two tend to slosh about.”

  “ Buenas noches, amigos.”

  The deep, unfamiliar voice nearly jolted Magda over the side, not to mention free of her bloomers. The only thing that held her on the seat and in her drawers was Bertha, whose grip around her middle tightened severely.

  John pulled his pistol, the click of the hammer loud in the sudden stillness. At the same time, Willem yanked back on the reins and held up the lantern.

  A short, swarthy man wearing a straw sombrero stood by the edge of the road. If he noticed that John cocked the gun, he pretended he hadn’t. “Good evening, friends,” he repeated in English. “If you please ... I won’t mind a little sip of that drink I heard you speak of.”

  John eased Faron closer, the horse balking at the stranger’s scent. “Stepping out of the shadows can get a man killed, mister. Are you alone over there?”

  The question roused Willem. He hurriedly lifted the rifle and scanned the darkness.

  “Sí, alone.” The man smiled and held his hands out to his sides. “Only me ... Marcos.” He took off his hat and held it over his chest. “I no mean to frighten you, señor.”

  John steadied the gun on Marcos’s chest. “What are you doing hiding out here in the bushes?”

  “Oh, no, señor. Not hiding. Merely walking along the road, that’s all.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  He gestured to the glow of lights in the distance. “I think to the same place you are going, no? Into town?” He raised his chin to the east. “My sister, she lives over that way about one mile. I go for visit three days ago, and now I go home.” His smile broadened. “To Eagle Pass.”

  The way John’s eyes flickered from Marcos to the thick brush on the roadside said he didn’t quite trust the man. “Well, don’t let us keep you, Marcos. I think we’ll sit here for a spell and rest the horses.” He waved with his gun. “Go ahead, be on your way.”

  Marcos leaned his head to one side. “Please, señor, allow me walk alongside you into town. There is safety in the company of friends. Do you agree?”

  Eyes wary, John studied the little man.

  Marcos laughed. “Still you don’t believe me? I have more to fear of you.” He offered his empty hands. “You see? I am alone and unarmed.”

  John looked over at Willem. “What do you think?”

  Looking none too sure, Willem shrugged.

  Marcos seized the advantage. “I will help you in return,” he promised eagerly. “Whatever business brings you to Eagle Pass, I can help.” He looked at them as if sizing them up. “You come for to buy coal?”

  John shook his head.

  “No? Business at the courthouse, then. Fort Duncan, perhaps.”

  Bertha released her hold on Magda and sat up. “We’re looking for a man named Raul.”

  Marcos turned with startled eyes then began to laugh. “A man named Raul? There’s one on every street corner, señora.”

  John laughed, too. “This one works in the Piedra Parada Saloon.” Grinning, he held up his finger. “Sí, sí, Raul. I know of him. One of Father Darius’s boys.”

  Bertha leaned to see past Willem. “Can you help us find him?”

  “It’s no that easy. Raul no longer works at the saloon.” At their obvious disappointment, he hurriedly amended his words. “But I can take you to Father Darius. He will help you to find Raul.”

  John dipped his head. “You just bought yourself an escort into town.”

  Grinning, Marcos rubbed his hands together. “Bueno. We can talk about that drink now?”

  “I’m afraid there is no drink.” John’s eyes twinkled. “Unless you’re thirsty for water.”

  Marcus pointed to Willem. “But, he said—”

  “No drink.”

  The man gripped his head. “Ah, señor! Please, tell me you jest.”

  The men laughed heartily while Bertha leaned close to Magda to whisper. “It’s a dirty shame he wasted his finagling skills for nothing.” She cackled so loudly she turned everyone’
s head. “All that work with no payoff,” she continued, her breath warm in Magda’s ear.

  “Bertha, behave yourself.”

  They rode for a spell before Willem’s curiosity got the best of him. He cleared his throat, and Marcos glanced up at him. “You said this Raul was one of Father Darius’s boys. That’s got me baffled. How can a priest have a son?”

  Marcos chuckled. “Raul is no son birthed to Father Darius, just as Father Darius is no priest of the church.” He wagged his head. “Father Darius has many sons of the spirit. He runs a mission for wayward souls near the ferry crossing on the Rio Grande.”

  Willem opened his mouth to ask another question, but John’s excited voice drowned him out. “Up ahead are the lights of Fort Duncan. Welcome to Eagle Pass, folks.”

  ***

  One thing was certain. Hiding in her room, no matter how charming the furnishings or comfortable the bed, had grown to be an irksome bother for Emmy. She yearned for her mother’s counsel—even Aunt Bert’s slapdash advice. However, she didn’t look forward to Papa’s reaction to the stink swirling around the rafters of the Rawson home, the whole sorry mess centered on her.

  Neither Papa nor anyone else could blame her for what had happened. She’d done nothing to cause Cuddy’s and Diego’s sparring over her, snarling and snapping like hounds on a pork chop, and could do nothing to prevent it. Diego’s indiscretion landed squarely on his own shoulders. In her opinion, any discomfort he felt over what he’d done to Greta wasn’t harsh enough.

  It troubled Emmy that Mrs. Rawson hadn’t come to speak to her directly and had only sent Rosita to tap on her door after lunchtime the day before. When Emmy said she wasn’t hungry, Rosita turned away with a grim look on her face. After that, no one had bothered.

  Greta still hadn’t left her room. In the afternoon, Emmy overheard Mrs. Rawson tell Rosita she would take her evening meal at her daughter’s side. Driven by hunger, Emmy dared to slip downstairs where an oddly subdued Rosita had served her a meager late supper. After she ate, she begrudgingly returned to the room, having nowhere else to go.

  A muffled rattle sounded from the balcony, like the disjointed clatter of a hailstorm back home. Considering the sweltering heat had diminished very little at sunset, she could likely discount hail as the cause. Frowning at the patio door, she jumped when a shower of pebbles hit the glass and rained down onto the porch.

  Diego! It had to be him. Anyone else would simply knock on the bedroom door.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror, pinching her cheeks and patting a stray curl into place. Yes, Diego’s behavior had proved disappointing. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t be thrilled to see him.

  She tucked her fingers inside the corners of her square neckline and tugged. The simple white dress, cut to a flattering V in back with a large circular buckle at her waist, might be the latest fashion, but it covered less of her skin than she liked. She twirled once in front of the vanity, noting how small the flowing fabric and cinched belt made her waist appear. Satisfied, she opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony.

  Trying not to seem eager, she walked casually to the rail and peered into the yard below. Seeing nothing, her heart sank. She’d taken too long with her primping. Diego must have given up and gone his way. She turned to slip back inside her room.

  “Emily!”

  The hoarse whisper jolted her heart. Fighting a grin that would give away her pleasure, she pressed into the rail. “I’m here.”

  “I see that,” he hissed.

  Losing the battle with her smile, she scoured the ground. “Where? I can’t see you.”

  Cuddy stepped into the light. “Here. Right under your pretty nose.”

  Emmy wilted with disappointment. “What on earth? Why are you sneaking around under my window?”

  His exaggerated leer made him look like a simpleton. “I thought you might come out and play.”

  Laughing louder than she meant to, especially considering her room lay directly over Greta’s, she covered her mouth. “I can’t, foolish boy.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why. It’s not proper.”

  “Since when did Emily Dane give two hoots about proper?” He cocked his head at her. “Come down. I’m harmless. I promise.”

  “In that case, march inside and request permission from your mother.”

  He widened his eyes.

  She laughed. “Ah, ha! Just as I thought.”

  The mention of his mother reminded Emmy of the way Mrs. Rawson had ignored her and her needs. The woman hadn’t cared if she ate, much less chaperoned her properly. Offended, Emmy rashly changed her mind. Cuddy was right, proper be hanged. “Stay where you are. I’ll be right there.”

  “Now you’re talking, sugar.”

  Gliding silently down the stairs, careful to make not a sound, guilt niggled the edges of Emmy’s resolve. The swirling stink already raised would seem a trifle against the resulting stench of getting caught sneaking out of the house. Certain she’d taken leave of her senses, Emmy peeked once more toward the kitchen and lower hallway before slipping out the back door.

  Growling in her ear, Cuddy caught her around the waist and twirled her away from the house. He caught her wrist and ran, pulling her along behind him. Their laughter stifled to giggles until they reached the barn. Once they stumbled inside, they howled like demented coyotes. Cuddy’s horse stood waiting, already saddled.

  Emmy curled a hand on her waist. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, Cuthbert Rawson.”

  He grinned over his shoulder then reached for the reins. “Why do you say that?” He scowled. “And don’t call me Cuthbert.”

  She waved him off. “Never mind. You’re hopeless.”

  Cuddy mounted the horse then freed the stirrup for her. He offered his hand, pausing to hold her suspended at his side. His face inches away, he peered into her eyes. “Get ready for the ride of your life, darlin’.”

  Emmy stiffened. Too late, she caught the pungent odor of alcohol on his breath.

  Without waiting for her answer, he pulled her up behind him. “Hang on,” he cried and thundered past the wide double doors of the barn into the dark, moonless night.

  CHAPTER 23

  The little man in the wide sombrero had gone from walking alongside the wagon to sitting tall beside Willem in the front seat. Following Marcos’s directions, they skirted Fort Duncan without alerting the attention of the posted sentinels, then crossed the bridge on Van Buren Street and turned left on Garrison. True to his word, he had many connections in Eagle Pass, considering every person they passed greeted him by name.

  At a Y in the road, so near the river Magda smelled the fusty odor of mud, they veered to the left, passing a large, poorly lit building on the corner.

  After one more block, they took a right turn on Rian Street, and Marcos led them around to the back of a seedy warehouse.

  Willem set the brake on the rig.

  John tied Faron to a dilapidated post and addressed Marcos. “Now what?”

  “Please to follow me, señor.” Aiming a nod and a mumbled greeting at a group of men gathered around a fire pit, Marcos questioned one of them in Spanish.

  The tall, slender man smiled and hooked his thumb toward the building.

  Marcos opened the door to a scene Magda would not soon forget. The inside of the warehouse was a large open space, except for a small office tucked in one corner. Cots took up most of the room, and where there were no cots, ragged quilts and bedspreads covered the floor. Stretched out on the makeshift beds were men both young and old, some huddled beneath worn blankets, some propped against pillows to read, others clustered together talking quietly. Nearby, a young boy sat cross-legged on a cot, spooning beans into his mouth, though how he managed to eat surrounded by the putrid smell of urine and unwashed bodies was more than Magda could fathom.

  She controlled her roiling stomach and her emotions until she glanced at Bertha’s face. Tears flowed unchecked down her friend’s cheeks a
nd her nose streamed. Magda slid an arm around her waist. “I know, sugar,” she whispered. “I know.”

  Bertha wiped her nose on her sleeve. “This is dreadful, Magda.” She nodded. “Yes, it is. But, honey”—she wiped the tears from Bertha’s eyes with her thumbs—“don’t let them see you crying. Let’s leave them some dignity.”

  A ruckus arose in the corner. Three men were seated around a table playing cards and one of them was shouting. The largest of the lot, an overweight, ruddy-cheeked bloke in a dirty white shirt and slacks held up by suspenders, scowled at a handsome young man of Latin descent. “You heard me, you dimwitted naco. Do I need to spell the words for you?”

  Across the table, a slightly built, gray-haired man lifted his head, a serene expression of patience on his face. “Your tone is unnecessary, Mr. Malone. I’m certain Señor Ortiz doesn’t mean to seem obtuse.”

  “But, Father, I’ve explained three times. I reckon he cain’t understand no English. That or he plain ain’t listening.”

  In a show of frustration, the young man threw down his cards. “I am trying to listen, Father. Most of his speech does not sound like English to me.”

  Ruddy-cheeks pointed at him. “There, you see? He’s downright ignorant.”

  The distinguished gentleman they called Father studied Malone in silence until he squirmed, and then he lifted one eyebrow. “Mr. Malone, how much Spanish can you speak, sir?”

  “Who me? I cain’t speak a whit.” He snorted. “Don’t care to neither.”

  “I see.” He pointed to the young fellow. “So, here we have a man accused of being unrefined and lacking social graces.” He peered into Mr. Malone’s eyes. “This is the meaning of a naco, correct?”

  “But, Father Darius...” Mr. Malone’s gaze darted around the room, but he found no support among the silent, hollowed-eyed witnesses.

  “Yet Mr. Ortiz has undertaken to learn English as well as his native Spanish.” He redirected his finger at Mr. Malone. “And here we have one who speaks only his native tongue—having mastered it none too well, I might add.”

  Father Darius placed his arm around Señor Ortiz’s thin shoulders. “He has attempted to learn to communicate with you, Mr. Malone. I would say that makes him a leader, not an ignorant naco. Wouldn’t you agree?”