by Linda Broday
She wrinkled her nose on a sniff. “To men like you? Perhaps.”
Feisty and tart-tongued. “If not for men like me, you wouldn’t have this donation.”
“A donation is a gift from the heart. You stole this.”
Her fierce hiss sparked the first genuine laugh Quinn had released in a month. “For a good cause.”
“The cause does not absolve the sin, señor.”
“Trust me, Sister—one more black mark’ll never be noticed.”
Dark eyes passed a scowl over the inch-thick layer of trail grime coating him from hat to boots. “Probably not.”
He chuckled, wondering how his late partner would’ve handled the tiny terror. Except for his fondness for cheap booze and even cheaper women, Rodrigo could’ve been a padre…right up until his last few moments.
The girl in the ox-cart—barely into her teens and battered beyond recognition as human—was not one of Rodrigo’s women, if Quinn could believe the doves and Edgardo. He tossed a question to the sister. “How many folks you got at the mission?”
“Enough that the food you…donated…will help. Only the badly injured remain, but they strain our provisions. Those who were able departed as soon as they could.”
The rest would have to leave soon. The carnage in San Miguel bore all the hallmarks of retaliation. Smoldering ruins, the fear leaking out of Edgardo and the doves… Someone wanted to teach the town a lesson—or send a message. Why?
A frown settled above the bridge of Quinn’s nose. Some old habits refused to die short of a lynching. He no longer bore the authority to poke around in what remained of San Miguel or anywhere else. “Where’d the survivors go?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Looking for someone. A friend of a friend.”
Sister María Tomás shook her head on a sigh. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Where do people go when they have lost everything?”
In profile, the sister’s expression remained fixed in forced serenity, but the way the bells disappeared from her voice on those last words… She felt the townspeople’s loss as though it were her own. No cold, distant taskmaster, this nun.
The group skirted the graveyard sprouting several dozen yards from the mission gates. As they neared a statue of a winged man bearing a sword and shield, a herd of youngsters burst from the walls and ringed the sister, babbling in animated Spanish. Smiling, she distributed pats and kind words. “Yes, you may help unload the carreta. Pedro will give each of you something to carry.”
Wearing that smile, she put the granite angel to shame.
Quinn reeled back on his heels, giving his head a shake that rattled his brain. What the hell’s the matter with you? She’s a nun. He suppressed a bizarre urge to cross himself and beg forgiveness.
The sister glanced up from the rowdy urchin chorus, and her lingering smile struck him between the eyes. His gaze sought sanctuary with the stone angel. “Who are they?” he asked. “Survivors?”
“Huérfanos. They are the reason the sisters are here. Father Dominic saw a great need.”
Huérfanos. Orphans. The statue snapped into focus: Saint Michael the Archangel. San Miguel.
A burn dug into Quinn’s chest behind the medallion in his pocket at the same instant a notion kicked him in the gut. Could Dulce be an orphan? Take her away from San Miguel. Why would Rodrigo want her out of here?
The sister would know about the orphans. The padre would know the rest.
“Ay, no.”
The distress in the cry drew Quinn through the mission’s gate at a run. Pedro shuffled the children through a door in the side of the church. At the back of the carreta, the doves stood in a semicircle behind Sister Tomás. No longer smiling, the nun made the sign of the cross and laid a faded blanket over Adelanta’s face.
For reasons Quinn refused to examine, the doves possessed the crazy idea he could make the priest grant the girl absolution. They rounded on him, tear-stained stares caught between plea and accusation.
He rubbed a bunched muscle along the side of his neck. “Where can I find the padre?”
Her face set in that serene mask that didn’t suit her, Sister Tomás nodded toward the graveyard. “He died two days ago.”
****
The brazen gringo took so much joy in giving orders, he should have been a soldier. Yet, there appeared to be a heart somewhere inside the gruff exterior. Last night he dug four graves, including Adelanta’s. In consecrated ground.
Sister Tomás smothered inappropriate amusement. Mother Celeste had not approved—especially of his blunt suggestion that if she wanted the bodies moved, she could do the job herself.
The soul of charity, the reverend mother already had put the episode behind her. Now, standing among the crates and loose bottles of liquor in the rectory, she nodded in sage agreement with everything the unkempt drifter said. A layer of dirt still caked every inch between worn cavalry boots and the waves of auburn hair dusting broad shoulders. A healing welt slithered through a scruffy growth of beard much darker than his ragged hair. The cross-draw holster on his hip, though—that shone with meticulous care, as did the protruding walnut pistol grip and a Bowie knife on the other side. The gun and knife went everywhere with him, even into the church.
“Edgardo and I will see what we can salvage in town.” Standing hipshot, Señor Barclay ran his fingers around the brim of a battered Stetson. At least he had been respectful enough to remove the hat. “He’s good with his hands. If we can’t find what we need to make another cart, travois will work.”
“You cannot expect the wounded to travel.” A sharp glance from the reverend mother lowered Sister Tomás’s gaze and her voice. “They will not survive.”
“None of you will survive if you stay here. Even with what we brought, you don’t have enough to feed everyone for long.”
“The Heavenly Father will provide, Mr. Barclay. Our survival is not in doubt.” Mother Celeste sighed. “But that is not the point. Without Father Dominic… Lacking a spiritual leader, we must return to the mother convent. Our souls—the children’s souls—require nourishment.”
“Then everything’s settled. I can see you as far as San Felipe del Rio or Presidio. Take your pick. You can find transport to Galveston in either place.”
Galveston. The mother convent. Sister Tomás cast her gaze heavenward. Beloved Dios, you know I cannot go with them. Please grant Rodrigo speedy passage.
In the stark silence, the soft whisper of vestments drew Sister Tomás back into the room. Mother Celeste stood in the doorway. “I must speak with Sister Vincent about our journey. Sister Tomás, if you will begin preparing the children?”
“Right away, Reverend Mother. I will enlist Pedro—”
“I am afraid Pedro will not be of much assistance.” Mother Celeste’s lips thinned. “Mr. Barclay dispatched him on his horse early this morning. For earthly help.”
Sister Tomás struggled with her composure only long enough for the reverend mother to depart. Then outrage spilled from her lips. “You sent a boy through the desert alone?”
“He’s carrying plenty of food and water. And he won’t be alone for long. Texas Rangers are all over this part of the country.”
Based on Rodrigo’s letters, the man spoke the truth. Her pulse settled a bit. “Nevertheless—”
“Bull’s-Eye’s smart and fast. The boy’s perfectly safe…and there was no one else to send.”
Closing her eyes, she sent a quick plea that the mission’s patron saint would travel with Pedro.
“Sister.” Her eyes opened on a deep-green plea of another kind. “Maybe you can help me.”
“A prayer for your soul, señor?”
His lips slid into a humorless grin. “Only if you have a special touch with lost causes. What I need is information.”
“I will help if I can.”
“The friend-of-a-friend I’m looking for. I need to know whether she’s here.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Dulce.”
Sister Tomás’s heart froze in her chest.
****
Quinn had never seen anyone’s skin turn so white so fast. The nun kept to her feet, though, and the serenity glued to her face never wavered. Tough little thing.
“I do not believe I can help you, señor. I must see to the children.”
Her voice was too wispy. She knew more than she wanted to tell. And damn, she was quick. He barely snagged the trailing edge of her sleeve. “Hold your horses, Sister.”
Dark eyes snapping in a face still pale, she whirled and showed him her teeth. “Release me at once.”
“Not until you tell me what you know. The girl. Is she one of your orphans?”
Her chin jutted with a defiance he couldn’t recall seeing in a nun. “No.”
“Then where can I find her?”
“I do not know.”
Quinn leaned close, narrowing his eyes on a growl. “Lying is a sin, Sister.”
Her gaze fell to his chest, and she shrank into herself. If she got any smaller, she’d disappear. Her whisper barely reached his ears. “Why do you seek this Dulce?”
“To deliver a message…from a friend, like I said.”
“What friend?”
“Texas Ranger name of—”
“Rodrigo Vega.” The breathy words struck Quinn at the same moment a wide, dark gaze collided with his. He barely kept his jaw from striking the stones underfoot.
She must have noticed. Her brows inched toward one another as she studied his face. “Who are you, señor?”
The better question: What the hell had Rodrigo gotten him into? “You’re Dulce.”
She shrugged from his grip and stepped into the room, drifting halfway to the window in the opposite wall before she stopped and spoke to the floor in a small, tired voice. “I used to be. In another life. Maybe again someday.” By the time she pivoted to face him, her back had straightened; her expression returned to the mask of forced serenity. “The message. Rodrigo has been delayed?”
You might say that. “He was coming here?”
“Sí. For a visit.” She relaxed a bit, indulging a weak smile. “He is my oldest friend—el hermano de mi corazón.”
The brother of my heart. Ah, shit. Quinn hadn’t anticipated a heart. Rodrigo picked women for their other assets. How could he tell those big, dark eyes, that angelic smile… He scanned the walls, hoping the right words would appear in flaming letters.
They didn’t, but the medallion in his breast pocket sizzled. He yanked the totem free by the chain before the hunk of metal burned a hole clean through his chest. Smile fading, the sister’s unblinking gaze fixed on the spinning silver disc.
When she didn’t move or speak—or breathe, as far as Quinn could tell—he lifted her hand, turning it over so he could lay the engraved image, face up, in her palm. Then he folded her fingers around Saint Michael and held them so she wouldn’t drop all that remained of the man who had been a brother to them both.
The only words he could find emerged as a raspy whisper. “I’m sorry.”
For long, silent moments, she stared at his fingers wrapping hers. Then she drew the medallion to her heart. The swallow she shoved down her throat scraped the lining from Quinn’s. “If you will excuse me, I must pray for his soul.”
****
The beads slid through her fingers and the practiced words flowed from her lips, but both the beads and her tongue would turn to dust before Sister Tomás found comfort in the hollow ritual. Vows meant to redeem another poisoned everything they touched. A nun’s life should be a journey of love, not of atonement for her father’s sins. Given time and maturity, she might have discovered that before making a monumental mistake. But she had been granted neither until too late.
Now she had her own sins to bear. Rodrigo’s vow to her, equally ill-considered, had cost his life.
A gentle hand cupped her elbow and raised her to her feet. She shook the fog from her head.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Señor Barclay pulled off his hat and dragged a sleeve across his brow. “You’ve been down there a long time. Thought you might need help.”
“Thank you.” She brushed bits of fresh earth from her habit before surveying the graveyard. So many new mounds, and more would follow. The few remaining survivors drew farther from life by the day. Dios would grant them all peace in His own time.
Intense green eyes watched her as he picked up the shovel. “Come on. It’ll be dark soon. You’ve done enough for today.”
And so had he. For a Godless man, Señor Barclay possessed a respectful spirit. Nothing had prepared her for the tenderness with which he laid the dead to rest, each in a separate grave. Then he stayed beside her, head bowed, hat in his hands and sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his back, as she prayed over each one. The silent strength he wrapped around them both spoke with a reverence far surpassing the automatic words that trudged from her lips. How had he known she needed that strength, so like Rodrigo’s?
She swallowed the ache working upward from her heart. “We will leave soon?”
“Couple days, maybe.”
“You are waiting for the others to die, aren’t you?”
With the blade of the shovel, he poked at the ground beside his boot while he walked, taking short steps so she didn’t have to rush. After a half-dozen metallic snicks, she quit listening for an answer.
The cool evening breeze ruffled the veil around her elbows. She drew the desert air to the bottom of her lungs, borrowing its enduring tranquility while she rubbed the medallion in her pocket. Two weeks on foot with a dozen children. They would need the protection of all the saints.
At the gate, Señor Barclay faced her, a small pucker settling above his nose. “Sister… Why did Rodrigo want you out of here?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because that’s what he said. ‘Take her away from San Miguel.’”
“Is that why you make us go?”
“I’m not making you do anything, Sister, but I think you’ll be better off somewhere besides in the middle of nowhere.”
She increased the tempo of her fingers across the medallion’s graven surface. “You do not believe we are safe?”
“We’re safe. You worry too much.” He hiked a tawny brow. “And you’re avoiding the question.”
Yes, she was. She did not relish baring her soul to this man, but he had scolded her about lying once before. “Rodrigo did not want me out of here. I wanted out of here.”
Señor Barclay cocked his head on a quizzical frown.
“From the time I was small, I wanted to be a nun—I thought. I was wrong. I am not even a good postulant. I would make a terrible nun.”
His lips slipped sideways into a strange, sad smile, showing the tips of white teeth amid dark stubble that grew thicker daily. “All my life, I wanted to be a Ranger—I thought.” He shrugged. “Dreams change. So what now?”
“I ask Mother Celeste to release me from temporary vows.”
“Why haven’t you done that already?”
“I waited for Rodrigo.” So she could release him from a vow, too. “Once I am discharged, I must return to the world. It is hard to do that in the middle of nowhere.”
A deep chuckle added creases to the corners of his eyes. “Talk to the reverend mother. Unburden your conscience.” As he swung open the gate, he swept off his hat and bowed her inside. The gesture brought an unaccustomed rush of blood to her cheeks. “Once we get the flock moved to wherever Mother Celeste decides, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Long silhouettes cast by the setting sun crawled across the sand in the courtyard. Though she and Señor Barclay stood apart, their shadows overlapped. A faint glow limned the hat the taller shade raised to its head.
Rodrigo had sent her a guardian angel. “He must have loved you for your kindness.”
The sad, brittle smile returned. “I’m not kind, Sister. Just trying to keep a promise to the best man I ever knew.”
&nbs
p; ****
The last of San Miguel’s injured had gone to whatever reward awaited those who suffered in vain. There would be no more graves. No more watching as the stoic little nun prayed over the departed, her serene façade holding up despite enough cracks to do a parched riverbed proud.
Quinn rubbed the backs of his knuckles along a jaw free of stubble for the first time in weeks before stepping into his denims. He shrugged into his shirt, and then planted his ass on the wide, sandy bank to pull on his boots. Bathing in the Rio Grande was akin to floundering in a mud puddle. He couldn’t tell whether he gained or lost dirt in the transaction, but at least the muddy water dissipated the smell of death.
No amount of water would wash away Rodrigo’s blood. He must have loved you. Slamming his eyes shut, Quinn jammed the heels of his hands against his temples and tried to rub the throbbing memory from his head.
“Don’t die on me, partner.”
“I am already dead.”
Whatever bastard had wielded the knife possessed a stomach much stronger than Quinn’s. The best Ranger in Texas, the best lover in Texas… Rodrigo would be neither anymore.
“Leave me a gun, amigo. God will forgive me.”
Fighting an unbearable tightness in his throat, Quinn gave his partner’s hand a final squeeze. “Vaya con Dios, hermano.”
Then he pulled the trigger before he could change his mind.
The violent blast inside his head jerked his eyes open on a ragged gasp. Shaky fingers wandered the riverbank until they found a small stone. Sucking on the pebble might bring some moisture to the desert in his mouth and throat. A whole roomful of whiskey at the mission, and he hadn’t touched a drop—and wouldn’t until he delivered the nuns and their charges to San Felipe and Sister Tomás to wherever she wanted to go.
After that, the nearest saloon had better be well-stocked.
****
She had not taken a bath—an honest-to-goodness, naked-as-a-robin bath—in five years. The river ran shallow here, but Dulce was nude and the water was wet. And cold. One more dunk, and she must dry and dress and begin a new life.