Dueling the Desperado

by Mimi Milan

  “Captain’s done told ya why before. Say one of them Mexi-cans get it in their head that they don’t much like being pushed off their land. They might come in here ready to blow holes in our jaws, ya big dummy.”

  “I ain’t no dummy, you ugly piece of—”

  “Miller! Grey!”

  Both men jumped at Miguel’s strong bark. The other men in camp—a total of twelve— quieted as well. It was good to have their attention, but better to have their trust.

  “I’ll take the first watch,” he said. He walked over to his horse and reached into the saddle, pulling out a sack that contained a handful of day-old biscuits and a hunk of salted meat wrapped in cloth. Knowing the men would be more considerate to the one passing out the food, he tossed it to the youngest in the group, a quiet youth the others had dubbed “Buffalo Boy” due to a rumor that he was half Apache. “Pass it around and get some real food on your stomachs.”

  The boy smiled briefly and then grew serious, nodding a confirmation that he could be trusted with the task. Satisfied, Miguel turned on his heel and marched away, hopeful the time alone would be enough to clear his mind as he followed an old path back towards the hacienda he had laid claim to. Miguel found some comfort in the way the edifice stood tall against the darkening skies. It very much reflected the path his own life seemed to take. He wished to become something grand, but remained weighed down by a darkness he could not change. It was a dark veil so profound that he almost couldn’t distinguish it from his surroundings, and had there not been the snap of a twig and rustle of soft steps on dead grass, he would never had seen the slender figure that slipped into the hacienda on his watch.

  Not on his watch!

  Hand on his sidearm, Miguel quietly—much more so than the trespasser—made his way to where the intruder had dared to enter. He debated for a moment that a wise man would call for the rest of the troop, but then reasoned that half of them were too drunk to be of any real use anyway… and was he so weak that he couldn’t handle one lone squatter on his own? A boy no less? Judging from the height and build, that is who broke into the homestead now. Yes, Miguel could easily diffuse this situation.

  He peered into the building, quietly entering the empty main hall, and stood ramrod still—waiting for some sign that he had not imagined it after all. Thankfully, he was not disappointed and a tinkling noise like that of crystal touching glass sounded from a nearby hallway. He carefully approached it to find a soft glow from a room at the opposite end, confirming his suspicion that some adolescent was probably looking for a place to hang his hat for the night. It would have to be someplace else, though. Miguel hadn’t run off the last occupants only to abandon his goal a week later by allowing some young gun to do the same to him. When the treaty between Mexico and America was put into effect, he would be standing right here—feet firmly planted in a place that he could call his own, work according to his will and maybe even pass on to the blood that wanted to be tied to him.

  He peered around the threshold and his mind boggled.

  There – in one corner of the softly decorated study—was a woman in a pair of boy trousers and dark fitted blouse. He could hardly make her out in the dim light, but she stood in such a way that there was no mistaking her gender. She appeared to be calmly examining small glass jars all lined up on a desk beside a large wood frame supporting a blank crème colored canvas. Miguel wasn’t sure which fact surprised him more— that there was a woman unconventionally dressed or that she carried on her task as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “What do think you’re about?” he blurted.

  The woman spun around, her eyes wild. She raised the jar in her hand, bringing it back behind her head only to swing her arm forward and then suddenly stopped. She glanced down at the jar with a look of mixed emotions. With a sigh of resignation, she placed it in a satchel she carried and then faced him again, her hands planted on her hips.

  “Are you blind or ignorant?”

  “What?” Miguel sputtered.

  The woman stepped forward, the light shining onto her face enough for him to make out her flared nose. A bit of anger stained her voice. “Didn’t you ask me what I’m doing? Only someone blind or boorish wouldn’t be able to figure it out. Since you’re staring at me with eyes that look ready to roll out of your head, I can only assume it must be the latter.”

  What in the—

  The sound of irritated tapping brought Miguel’s attention down to her feet where one boot anxiously rapped the floor. He slowly dragged his gaze upward. Despite her obvious irritation, she was quite a sight to behold. His eyes were adjusting to the gentle glow of the lamp she had lit, and he could see her features well enough now to know that her long lashed, brown slanted eyes would be engraved on his mind forever. He searched the rest of her sun-kissed face and decided that he found the rest of it pleasing as well. From her full lips to her arched brows and all the way up to the coiled braid wrapped around her head like a crown, he was positive she was the kind of woman that could turn his head every time.

  “You need to leave.”

  The words came out gruffer than he had intended. Her eyes drew into angry slits.

  “This is my house,” she hissed. “You are the one who should be leaving.”

  Her words set him back with the realization that she was part of the family they had forced from the land. That meant that she was also related to the two Mexican soldiers his men had killed. Part of him felt sorry for her. The other part had no remorse whatsoever. While she herself was innocent of any wrongdoing, her family had housed traitors who had stolen important documents from one of his generals. His expression hardened.

  “Like I said, you should leave.”

  She refused to be intimidated. “I’ll have you know I hate American soldiers.”

  “Well, that’s a pity because I’m rather positive my men would love to make your acquaintance. It’s been a long time since any of them have had the pleasure of a woman’s company.”

  She gasped, making him feel as dark as the shadows he still stood in.

  “Good. You get it now. This place is too dangerous for a face like yours.”

  “I only wanted my paints.”

  The tender resignation in her voice tugged at his chest in a way he hadn’t felt before. “Well, go on and collect your things. I’ll stand watch.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was unprepared for her gratitude and the look of appreciation she graced him with. He wanted to say more and opened his mouth to do so, but then snapped it shut again. He gave her a solid nod. With lead filled feet he forced himself to head back outside. He reluctantly made his way towards camp, counting seconds that rolled into minutes until he felt sufficient time had passed. He was sure she was gone now.

  Yet in some strange way she remained with him.

  Chapter 1

  Blessings, California

  Summer 1851

  “Tell me, hija. What was wrong with that one?” Don Arroyo sat back in his desk chair and calmly folded his rough, withering hands. “It’s the third proposal you’ve turned down in the past year. The first I could understand and, perhaps, even the second. But this time? This was Caleb Strauss. It doesn’t get much better than that. For all that’s holy… he owns the bank, Chelita!”

  At the sound of the pet name, Araceli knew she could easily win her father’s forgiveness and cracked a large smile. However, a frown drew his troubled brows together and every trace of her amusement was effectively scoured away. She hung her head with feigned contrition.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I promise I will do better.”

  “That’s what you said the last time. Now you run off one of the most influential people who could help our business grow—not to mention care for you once I leave this world.”

  “Ay, Papa. Stop talking like that. You’re not going anywhere any time soon—and you know it.

  “Si te toca, te toca.”

  Araceli refrained from rolling her ey
es at the tired “if it’s your time to go” Mexican saying, and crossed the room to where her robozo hung off a nearby hook. She wrapped the colorful shawl around her shoulders, determined that she would not fall into her father’s snare like she did the last time. Feeling guilty for showing little interest in the preceding gentlemen before Strauss, she agreed to at least dinner at the Arroyo home with them. Each night had been filled with never-ending chatter about potential business opportunities that could change the world with help from a man like her father. Thankfully, Juan Arroyo was not the sort to be easily taken in.

  Neither was Araceli.

  She rejected her father’s petition as easily as he disregarded her claim that she was already married — loyal to no other but the visions she created with the flick of her wrist.

  “Really, father. You would think I was a terrible burden. Is my cooking so bad? I know it isn’t as enticing as whatever it that Priya woman conjures up on the Sundays you spend away from home, but at least you know what’s in it.” Her father sputtered at the sound of the young, widowed washwoman’s name—Araceli’s proof that he didn’t really believe he would die any time soon since they were secretly courting. “You know where my heart belongs. Now, I’m off to satisfy it. I’ll be by the mill in a while to see to the books.”

  She gave him her most dazzling smile followed by a blown kiss delivered off the palm of her long, slender fingers. Artist’s hands, her father had beamed with pride when telling the first would-be suitor of her talent. Señor Arroyo didn’t seem so proud at the moment, though. He only sighed with resignation and waved her off, his face plagued with worry. Araceli hated to see him so, but she refused to marry for anything less than love to a man who understood her heart belonged to her art—and the likelihood of finding such in their small town of limited choices was less than likely. Her father knew that, too. Still, he sat at his desk only partially unaffected by her charm. He finally gave her a smile, his head shaking as he chuckled.

  “Ay, Chelita. What am I going to do with you?”

  Satisfied that she had won the battle, Araceli returned the smile and hiked out of the room. She snatched up a satchel prepared earlier. It was filled with fewer jars of paint than she wished, but Blessings was a small town and colors were more difficult to come by than in a large city. Add to that the mountains and river that surrounded them and the location became quite remote, making the stage that carried in goods much slower than in other places.

  Like El Salvado.

  From time to time, Araceli’s mind still wandered back to the New Mexico home she had known most of her life. It wasn’t often, and she was thankful for that, because she truly did enjoy the new living she and her father had carved out for themselves. Still, every now and then, something would tug at the corners of her mind and dredge up bittersweet memories. Her older brother, Juan, pushing her on a makeshift swing hanging from an old Ash tree with branches as strong as the legs of any one of her brothers who could outrun her no matter how hard she tried. Before painting had become her everything—the reason for continuing to push air in and out of the dusty old lungs that seemed to have dried up along with her heart—most days had been spent in practice to learn to run faster. Her skirts would always wrap themselves around her legs, though, tripping her every attempt to best the boys. Of course, mama was alive then and no amount of pleading would have her agree to Araceli’s desire to wear trousers like her brothers did.

  The recollection burned bright and she wondered what her mother would think to see her daughter sport such fashions during midnight rendezvous to capture the presence of an owl or other wildlife that only ventured out when the rest of the world slept. Then again, what would her father think?

  Araceli shuddered at the possibilities and continued on towards town, inhaling deeply. The air promised a summer full of wonder and she was more than eager to discover what delights the universe held out to her. Would she find a perfect orange sky to paint? Perhaps an owl would lead her back to its nest, where a trio of owlets waited to grace the world with their presence. Yes, dreaming about painting was almost as good as the deed itself at times.

  “There you are.”

  Araceli twisted around to find one of her good friends approaching her, and smiled. She greeted her with a customary embrace, briefly pressing one cheek against her friend’s face. “Hola, Maxine. Cómo estás?”

  “Muy bien,” Maxine giggled. “How did I do?”

  “Very well. Keep practicing and I’m sure you’ll speak Spanish better than me in no time.”

  “Oh, you’re just being generous. I know I don’t quite have the accent down yet.”

  “But you will soon,” Araceli encouraged her. “Anyone who can keep books the way you can has the world as a pearl in her oyster.”

  “Are you a poet or a painter?” Maxine teased.

  “Both today.”

  “Well, someone’s in a grand mood.”

  “Hmmm… Not quite grand, but I do have some reason to celebrate.” Araceli gave her friend a confident nod. “I do believe my father and I have finally reached an understanding.”

  “Oh? What kind would that be?”

  “I am going to remain a free woman. That is, if yesterday’s little flop with Mr. Strauss paired with this morning’s conversation is any indicator.”

  “Really?” A playful look crossed Maxine’s face. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t be the least bit interested in the latest cowpokes that arrive in town.”

  “Not in the least.” Curiosity got the better of Araceli. Thoughtful, her pace slowed. “Just arrived?”

  Maxine eagerly nodded, an expectant look on her face as she waited for her friend to respond appropriately. “A couple of riders came in about an hour ago. Said they passed the coach, too. So, that might mean even more newcomers within the hour.”

  Araceli examined her dress and deemed it suitable.

  “Oh, alright. We’re already rag ready. Let’s grab a quick bite at the café and then go find out what we can... but only to see what new blood is in town. It’s not like either of us would actually be interested in one of those guajolotes.”

  “What does that one mean?” Maxine zealously inquired. She laughed when her friend assertively answered.

  “Turkeys.”

  Chapter 2

  The smell of dust drifted on the air as the stagecoach set off once again, hauling with it a bag of mail and a disgruntled couple who continued to complain that it was taking the driver far too long to reach San Francisco. There wasn’t much Miguel was thankful for considering the world seemed intent to deliver him the short straw time and again, but he did deem it nothing short of a miracle that he survived the long trip west with the brooding pair. From the bits and pieces Miguel had gathered from sporadic spats, the man’s uncle had left him with quite an inheritance—provided the man could prove he had renounced his “sinful” ways and settled down. With a deadline to claim the inheritance approaching, what else could the fellow do except marry the first lady he came upon? Unfortunately, neither one cared much for the other, each making it known to all who cared to listen.

  Miguel chuckled and counted his blessings.

  Blessings.

  It was mighty peculiar to find himself in a town with the same moniker. Slinging his satchel of meager belongings over his shoulder, he scratched at his beard—a new addition to his appearance that he still debated on removing. The extra hair was good for hiding half his face, but it was itchier than a patch of poison oak on a dry summer day.

  He put the irritating itch out of his mind and looked over his surroundings. Hopefully it wasn’t overrun by some religious nuts—not that he had a problem with God or anything. He believed in the boss man. He just didn’t think it was a good idea for the two of them to get too close to one another. Yep, Miguel liked God like he enjoyed women—from afar. Anything more was just inviting trouble.

  “Michael!”

  The sound of his American name spun him around.

  “Well
, if it ain’t the dog that drew first. Put it there, Pete.”

  Miguel stuck his hand out and grabbed hold of the outstretched one his long-time war buddy offered. The two men enthusiastically shook hands before briefly embracing, patting one another on the back. Pete let out a loud whoop.

  “Now, don’t you go telling stories, boy.” He gave Miguel a wink. “I don’t think my wife would care much for them.”

  Upon the address, a woman stepped forward. She held a dainty hand out to him. “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Pati.”

  Miguel’s eyes grew wide. He craned his head towards his old friend. “You didn’t say nothing about getting married!”

  Pete smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, well, this town has a funny way of doing things like that.”

  Miguel highly doubted that was true. At least, he did in his case. He couldn’t fault Pete for falling for the pretty brunette with a distinct Irish accent—the last fact a sticking point that immediately carried him back to the fields where he found Irishmen fighting alongside Mexicans, leaving him to momentarily wonder at the time as to whether or not he was fighting on the right side.

  Pete cleared his throat, forcing Miguel out of his reverie. He shook his head and grasped Pati’s hand. “Excuse me, ma’am. I plumb forgot my manners. Name’s Michael St. James.”

  “Not to worry,” she smiled kindly. “Men and women alike forget them on the trail.”

  She raised a brow, turning slightly towards her husband. Pete’s smile grew at some private knowledge the two of them shared. Feeling like an intruder, Miguel shifted, his hand dropping back to his side. He turned away and glanced up and down the main street. “Well, looks like a nice enough town.”

  “Oh, it is. I can guarantee you that,” Pete said. “The folks around here are real nice, and like I wrote in my letter, there’s more than enough work to go around. In fact, I’m sure Winslet Atherton would be more than happy to set you up with something steady in one of his mines.”