Rebekah shuffled her feet, hoping he would see how wooden they were and not want to embarrass himself with her as a dance partner. One thing she knew— Sancho was very aware that people watched him. He capitalized on every moment of it.
Rebekah got a glimpse of Abuelita Guerra watching from her platform situated near the dancing. The woman was frowning.
Sancho noticed Rebekah’s gaze and glanced over at his grandmother. He tugged Rebekah into his arms and swung her into the dance.
She almost went down, but he steadied her as he leaned close and said above the sounds of guitar and singing, “My grandmother has forgotten what it is to be young and filled with passion.”
Rebekah yanked her hand out of Sancho’s and twisted away from his grip. She didn’t look at him, not at Abuelita Guerra, not at the bandits around them wearing crossed ammunition belts at the celebration.
She strode away from the fiesta, aware of people who saw the incident. She had defied Sancho in front of his entire village. A bullet could strike her in the back any second.
When she made it to the kitchen door of the hacienda, Rebekah took a deep, shaky breath. Her punishment would come later.
Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe months. Abuelita Guerra said time held no meaning in Los Abrigos.
Chapter 9
Jimmy’s stomach growled like usual when the guard brought his meal one evening. He was frightfully hungry—as usual—but it was partly because of the awful food they served in that jail. He could hardly eat it each of the three days he’d been there, but he had to and fast, before his cellmate finished his own portion.
The guard slid two trays through the slot at the bottom of the bars. Jimmy grabbed his quick. He was never the smartest in a bunch, but he was a fast learner. He woofed down the plate of beans and tortilla before his cellmate started looking for it.
Then they did like usual. Sat on the cots on opposite sides of the cell and stared at each other.
From what Jimmy could make out, his laughing, long-term cellmate’s name was Pedro, and was in jail for busting up the local cantina. Other men were in and out of the jail, but Jimmy guessed Pedro couldn’t pay his fine and had to serve longer time.
Jimmy still didn’t know why he’d been arrested himself, and there wasn’t anyone who could talk English to explain it to him.
With nothing but time on his hands, Jimmy thought about how silly he was to get all excited about Doc Beck going to celebrate a birthday for him. He recalled something from the Bible that stuck with him, something a Preacher in it said about the day of a man’s death meaning more than the day of his birth. If Jimmy died helping Miss Rebekah, that day would sure mean more than any birthday.
After staring blankly at Pedro for awhile, like they had every day for the past three days, Jimmy sighed and slid off the cot onto his sore knees. He’d experienced saddle soreness, foot soreness, and head soreness, but never knee soreness. Maybe he should make that a habit.
Jimmy bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Lord, I’m asking You again to get me out of here to save Miss Rebekah, or else, You save her. She’s been awful good to me, Lord, and I haven’t done nothing for her. She can take care of herself but I don’t figure she’d mind if You helped a whole lot right now. I’m scared for her, Lord, scared what that Sancho fellow might do to her, even tonight. Lord, please, I’m begging You, look out for her, would You?”
Something brushed Jimmy’s arm and he jerked back, opening his eyes. Pedro was lumbering beside him, swaying like he was going to fall on Jimmy.
Jimmy quickly put his hands on the man’s backside and helped him lower himself to sit on the cool cell floor.
They sat cross legged staring at each other awhile. Then Pedro gestured, making a sign of folding his hands as he spoke. He looked at Jimmy, a deep question in his eyes.
Jimmy nodded. He didn’t know how, but he understood. Pedro wanted Jimmy to pray for him.
Jimmy wasn’t sure if it mattered that he prayed in a different language than the man spoke. He did want Pedro to know his next prayer was for him, so he tentatively put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He’d been a little scared of the big man in the cell with him, remembering the giant Pinto Diaz slinging him around like a rag doll.
But Pedro was asking for prayer, so Jimmy closed his eyes again. “Lord, I can’t understand this man, but You can. You know how he’s hurting right now and what he needs. Most of all, I know he needs You. I’m asking You to send someone who can show him how to follow You.”
Jimmy peeked up to see what Pedro was doing. The man bowed his head and began muttering in Spanish. Then he paused, took a deep breath, and began again. This time, Jimmy was sure he heard the man say the words, Señorita Rebekah.
Good. There were at least two praying for her now.
Chapter 10
A dog barked as Laramie Jones rode into the otherwise quiet Mexican village set in the Chihuahuan Desert.
By the pitch of its tone, the dog was a small one, its yapping high and nervous. Probably what Laramie’s voice would sound like if he tried to speak.
He guided his big gray gelding at a slow walk up the only street of the village, his eyes darting back-and-forth between the adobe buildings. Only one person should know he was coming, but a lone man riding into a border town like this was risky.
Something Laramie had in his favor—he didn’t look like a greenhorn. He wore two six-guns tied down and an ammunition belt across his chest. His face was unshaven for the past five days, and his hair was already overdue for a cut when he left the McKinnon Ranch in Wyoming. The edges had a curl now.
All in all, it wasn’t a wonder he made it to the cantina without anyone challenging him.
Laramie swung down from the saddle and tied Slate to a hitching post. There were bandit-eyes watching him from the shadows, but as long as they didn’t make any quick moves, he wouldn’t either.
He crossed the dirt porch and went through the swinging doors of the cantina. The smoke-filled inside was as quiet as the rest of the village. Nothing happening but a game of poker in one corner, and another group of men eating a late dinner at a table close to the door. They were dusty and armed to the teeth.
Every head in the room raised a touch to observe Laramie, then the men returned to their game and meal. But he knew they wouldn’t stop watching him, and he planned to do the same.
A polished bar ran alongside the right of the room. The middle-aged man who tended it was the one who watched Laramie the longest.
Laramie ran his hand along the smooth surface of the bar as he followed it down to the bartender. Midway down, Laramie was able to make out a slumped over figure at a table in the shadowy corner.
Laramie kept sliding his hand down the bar, past the tender. He let his hand drop off the end of the bar and ambled over to the table. Pulling out a chair to the man’s left put them side-by-side to where Laramie could see the whole room like his friend could. He turned the chair backward and straddled it as he sat.
The barkeep came over and Laramie said, “Tequila.”
Though he wasn’t a drinking man, having something sitting in front of him could come in handy, especially if anyone approached and he needed to start a fight.
The man beside him had his hat low as he hunched over a mug, eyes down.
After the barkeep set Laramie’s drink in front of him, the other man took a sip of his own and spoke English in a quiet voice. “The boy you wired about is being held in Golden, not many miles from here. The sheriff took him into custody before he got himself killed, wandering around Mexico looking for Sancho Guerra.”
Laramie put one hand on his leg, partly turning to his old friend, Fernando Contrera.
“Good,” Laramie said. “Best to leave him there. I’ll pick him up on my way out.”
Contrera half-smiled as he took another sip, saying into his mug, “Still the old capitán. Confident as ever when he’s on a mission. No matter that not all of his missions have been successful.”
&n
bsp; Laramie knew Contrera didn’t mean the comment to be offensive. He was just reminding Laramie what a dangerous situation they were in and to take heed.
But there was no other way. When Laramie reached the town of Hagan, he found Sheriff Thad Biggins and his posse returned from trying to catch Sancho Guerra before he reached the border with Doc Beck. He told Laramie how the boy, Jimmy, had kept going despite the warnings of the dangers across the border from bandit villages and hideouts, not to mention the deadly desert itself.
That was when Laramie wired his friend in the Rurales, Fernando Contrera, about the trouble and asked for the boy to be picked up. Contrera offered to join him on this mission that could get them killed.
It was a fool’s errand and they both knew it, but that kind of knowledge never stopped them when they served together in the U.S. Cavalry. Their last fool’s errand got them dishonorably discharged.
Laramie shook away the memory and said, “I’m not figuring on failing in this mission, my friend. That valley is holding an American woman, and I want her back.”
Contrera pushed his sombrero up enough to scan the room. “There is a man from Guerra’s valley, Los Abrigos, here now. Seated to the right of the card dealer at the poker table. He thinks I sell weapons to renegades, and is the only contact I have in the valley. After routing Sancho Guerra at the mission school, the Mexican army is most anxious to break into Los Abrigos at last. I do not believe I have sufficiently gained the man’s trust, but now with your news, I see I can wait no longer to make my move into the valley.”
Laramie tightened his grip on his leg. “I’m not asking you to risk your life.”
The half-smile came to Contrera’s face again. “It is no different than former times, yes?” He pulled his sombrero down close to his eyes again, still observing the room as he added solemnly, “We will get her out, my friend. I have a plan.”
“I hope it’s a good one.”
The man sipped from his mug, foam sticking to the black whiskers of his mustache. “As do I.”
He looked at Laramie from the corner of his eyes, the brim of his sombrero tipped down so that no one could tell which way he was looking. “I am anxious to meet this Doc Beck,” Contrera said. “You must love her fiercely to risk all for her.”
“I reckon it’s natural to care for someone who saved your life—more than once.”
Contrera nodded, and touched a short white scar on his jaw. “I know this feeling.”
Neither of them needed to talk about the times Laramie saved Fernando Contrera’s life. Just like Laramie didn’t need to say anything else about Doctor Rebekah LaRoche, his oldest and truest friend.
Chapter 11
Because Carmelita and Antonia quartered in one of the casitas near the Grande Colina Hacienda but on the hill above the rest of the inhabitants of the village, it gave the Fuentes sisters the best of both in this eerie world. It also gave Rebekah a refuge like it had her first day in Los Abrigos.
Two weeks into her captivity, Rebekah found herself seated outside of the sisters’ quarters with Carmelita and Antonia as they wove on a loom. Antonia was quite an artisan in making serapes and blankets. She helped Rebekah get started on a blanket that Rebekah hoped to not finish.
Since the fiesta last week, Rebekah did her best to stay clear of Sancho Guerra as she secretly gathered supplies for an escape. There was no indication that Abuelita Guerra was going to trust her as a doctor, and that didn’t leave much else but death for Rebekah. Or worse.
Rebekah focused on the dyed red wool she wove through the loom. She had done similar work in her growing up years and found it peaceful for her mind.
While they worked, Antonia peppered Rebekah with questions about where she was from and what her life was like before coming to the village. When Rebekah told them she had traveled around the United States by train, Antonia froze with the ball of green yarn she was rolling.
She gaped at Rebekah. “Please, Señorita, tell us what a train is like.”
Rebekah was surprised at the intensity of the question. She decided to answer with one she had. “Have you never traveled by train, Antonia?”
The sisters looked at each other and giggled. Carmelita shook her head.
“Señorita Rebekah, neither my sister nor I have ever left this valley. Our papá barely has. Though we have heard there is a large, large world out there with many, many people and civilizations and history, I do not know whether to believe it is true. But then, here you are. Perhaps we will believe you.”
Rebekah stared at the sisters, trying to comprehend their isolated lives. They had never known anyone or anything beyond the walls of this valley. If only she could take them with her when she escaped—if she made it.
“Tell us more, Señorita,” Antonia pleaded.
Rebecca cast about in her mind for stories to tell them. Of grand cathedrals in Europe? Washington DC, their neighbor’s capital? Her own people, the Omahas?
But she felt drawn to share something that applied directly to their lives.
“In the United States of America, there are many laws,” she began slowly. “There are men who arrest those accused of breaking the laws, and a judge and jury decides if they are innocent or guilty and how to punish them. It is an imperfect system but it is intended to keep people who live justly protected from those who do not.”
Antonia stared at her, trying to understand the meaning of Rebekah’s words. But Carmelita stiffened.
“It is most imperfect, Señorita,” Carmelita said. “Those you speak of with the law are the ones we must protect ourselves from. They hate us because we are better than they.”
Rebekah wanted to change the subject, but something prompted her to continue. “As I said, it isn’t perfect. In Hagan, New Mexico, there was a trial for one of the men from Los Abrigos here. He was falsely accused of murdering a girl. Thanks to one law man’s determination to see justice done, the real killer was caught and found guilty rather than Pinto Diaz.”
Antonia dropped the ball of yarn. It hit the ground and rolled.
Rebekah scooped it up and looked at the girls who stared at her, mouths agape. Carmelita recovered first.
“Señorita, Pinto Diaz is our mother’s brother. Our uncle. He…he always brought us gifts and extra food.” Carmelita blinked, her eyes reddening with tears. “He survived the slaughter at the mission? Where is he now?”
Rebekah swallowed. She could hardly form words about the brutal man who was a blood relative of these sweet girls, and apparently a much different kind of man when he was inside Los Abrigos.
There was no easy way to break the news. “Pinto did kill a lawman in Hagan. He was hanged for it. I’m sorry.”
Antonia covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Her tears spilled out and she jumped up from her loom and ran inside the casita. Carmelita sat stock-still, staring at Rebekah, challenging her for the entire truth. She seemed to find it and her eyes dropped, her hands still on the loom.
Rebekah swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”
And she truly was. Sorry for the life these girls were raised in. Their grandfather, Gabino Fuentes, was right to grieve not leaving the valley long ago.
They sat there quietly, so the echoes of distant gunfire were clear. Rebekah quickly stood, dropping the ball of yarn, and staring toward the only road leading into the valley. She always sat where she could see it—studying every rock, every dip and curve, every piece of it for when the time came for her escape.
Now a billow of dust rose from the top of the road. A wagon appeared, escorted by three men on horseback and a fourth on the springboard seat. They were shooting in the air and whipping the team as they charged down the hill. Two of the escorts were Sancho and Edgardo Guerra.
The villagers dropped their work and ran to meet the wagon heavily laden with supplies. From the distance of where she stood at the Grande Colina, Rebekah could tell something was being dragged behind the wagon that had probably popped out of the back of it, like the pot that br
oke loose from the side and fell unheeded.
Rebekah followed Carmelita and other hacienda servants who rushed down the slope and to the center of the village where the wagon was brought to a stop.
One of the horses halted Rebekah in her tracks. He was a magnificent large gray, one very familiar. But it would be impossible for him to be there, in a harness, pulling a wagon into Los Abrigos.
With the dust settling and the mob of villagers converging on the wagon, Rebekah glanced to where the horsemen were nudging close to the item that had fallen out of the wagon and dragged by ropes.
To her horror, she saw the item was a man.
Chapter 12
Two shots fired in the air stilled everyone. Rebekah glanced over to Sancho and Edgardo, still seated on their horses. Edgardo holstered his pistol and Sancho sat tall in his saddle, scanning the people with his controlled smile.
“As promised, here are the supplies to begin replenishing the village,” he said. “We will soon disperse the supplies. But first, we must deal with a threat to our security.”
His gaze fell on the bloodied body behind the wagon. The injured man moved one leg with a moan.
Rebekah’s instinct was to rush to him, examine his cuts and scrapes, and check for signs of internal bleeding. But she was frozen in the presence of Sancho. For the moment, he was ignoring her and that felt terribly important.
Sancho turned in the saddle to watch his grandmother, also on horseback, coming down from Grande Colina. Bedecked in jewels and seated like a queen on her throne, Abuelita Guerra rode sidesaddle with her chin raised as she approached the gathering.
The people moved aside and she took her place in the center of them. She stared at the crumpled body behind the wagon.
“Bring this man to the arbor,” she commanded.
Rebekah noticed several people looking at the wagon with longing as two men cut the rope loose from the wagon. They lifted the injured man and followed Abuelita Guerra toward an arbor near the road.
Desert Captive (Doc Beck Westerns Book 4) Page 5