It was late summer of 1848. The past three months had been agony for Tom Sax, who had had no feeling in his injured leg those first few weeks. Gradually the feeling returned, and it became evident he would not lose his leg. But the wound would leave an ugly scar on his left thigh, as well as leaving his leg stiff and slightly shorter than his right.
Through all the pain and rehabilitation, Juanita was with Tom almost constantly. Watching his suffering and being forced to be near him all helped in her own healing. Gradually she remembered the kind of man Tom really was and saw all the things she loved about him, as well as loving and admiring his strength and determination to be a whole man again.
But old fears still made her hope at times that he would not remember her promise. He had never mentioned it, and in fact behaved more like a close and sincere friend than a man who loved her She wondered if perhaps he was only afraid to say or do anything more. In spite of his injury and the long, slow struggle to walk again, it was a time of sweet friendship, and a time for a cleansing of the souls. They prayed together often, each asking for help in forgetting the ugly past.
To their relief no one came searching for Tom. Juanita convinced him to cut his hair to a neat, shoulder-length cut, worried that keeping it at its near waist length would draw attention to him as an Indian. With his hair shorter he looked more like a Mexican. It was important that people forget about the painted Indian who had led The Bad Ones. The rumor had spread that the Indian must have crawled away somewhere and died from the wound his attackers were sure he had suffered. Father Juarez, Juanita, and the sisters could only hope everyone would believe that to be the truth and would put the missing “Bad One” out of their minds and stop searching for him.
Tom finally reached the point where he could walk with the help of the sisters and Father Juarez, and he insisted that someone make a cane for him so that he could try walking with no one’s help. Juanita found just the right tree branch for a sturdy cane, sawing it off herself with a small hand saw, then cutting off the tiny stems that grew from it and cutting it to a height she hoped would be right. She brought it to Tom, where he sat in an open court at the center of the mission. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and roses bloomed everywhere.
The sisters had helped Tom walk to the inner gardens, where he eased into a heavy wicker chair. They left him there, and he put his head back to feel the sun on his face. He thought about his father, feeling guilty for not having written the man. It had been months. But he was determined not to write Caleb until he was well and walking on his own. Now it was getting almost too late. Winter would soon set in in the Sierras, and he would be hard-pressed to find someone willing to carry a letter over those menacing peaks before spring.
Father Juarez approached him, interrupting his thoughts with his footsteps. Tom smiled. “Hello, Father. Where is Juanita?”
“She will be along soon.” The priest frowned, sitting down on a stone bench nearby. “I have some news, Tom, that might concern you.”
Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Is something wrong? Are they looking for me again?”
The priest shook his head. “It is hard to say. We have a newspaper here in San Francisco, you know. Today I saw in it an article that one of The Bad Ones survived the ambush—a man named Rico.”
“Rico! He lived?”
The priest nodded. “Apparently the only reason his wounds were treated was to save him for a show before the public. They wanted a sacrifice, Tom, someone they could jeer at, watch hang.”
Their eyes held, and Tom realized what the man was telling him. He thought of what a good friend Rico had been. They all had died—all his friends—all because of Tom’s own need for vengeance. The last raid. If only they had not gone on that last raid. His eyes teared and he looked at his lap.
“They saved him—and then they hung him,” Tom said, “more a statement than a question.
“I am sorry, Tom. Yes. He was hung at Sonoma. They say he went to his death refusing to tell the name of the man who was his leader.”
Tom looked at the man again, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Do you think it’s true, or perhaps a trick?”
The priest shook his head. “I don’t know. I can only pray it is true. Either way, I thought you should know.”
Tom nodded, and Father Juarez rose, touching his shoulder for a moment. “It is done now, Tom. God understands.”
“I can only hope He does,” he answered quietly.
Father Juarez saw Juanita coming. He hurried to intercept her, quietly telling her the news. Her eager smile faded, and she walked past the priest, approaching Tom hesitantly. Father Juarez left them alone, glad that at least Tom’s coming to the mission had given Juanita a purpose in life and seemed to have had a healing effect on her.
Juanita moved closer to Tom, holding the handmade cane awkwardly, feeling his pain. “Father Juarez told me,” she said softly. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Tom quickly wiped his eyes and breathed deeply before meeting her eyes. “It was cruel—saving him like that just so they could hang him.” She saw some of the old hatred returning to his dark eyes, “Bastards,” he hissed, looking away again.
She knelt in front of him. “Let it go, Tom. It is done.” She pushed the cane into his arms. “Look. I made you a cane.”
He studied the sturdy branch, placing his hand on it.
“See how it’s curved on the end? It was as if God led me right to this branch. It’s perfect.”
He took another deep breath, putting on a smile for her. “Should I try it?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “But be very careful.”
Their eyes held. “You always make me feel better. You cut and trimmed this yourself?”
She nodded her head, her eyes beginning to sparkle. “Come on. I will help you stand up.”
She took his arm, and between her and the cane he used his good leg to get to his feet. Then she carefully let go of him, and he stepped out on his own with slow, halting steps. Perspiration broke out on his forehead, and it was obvious he was in pain.
“Not too much,” she warned.
“You, uh, you better help me get back to the chair.”
She hurried to his side and he put an arm around her small shoulders, leaning on her as she helped him back to the chair. Before he sat down his arm moved down to her waist, surprising her when he suddenly drew her close.
Her face flushed and her heart pounded. It was the first time he had done anything to hint at old, manly feelings.
“Don’t be afraid, Juanita. Look at me. Please look at me.”
Her breathing was quick, and her arms hung stiff at her side. Her full breasts were pressed close against his chest. “I . . . can’t—”
“Look up at me, Juanita.”
She swallowed, slowly raising her eyes to meet his.
“I have said nothing before now. But you are stronger, and I cannot take this loneliness any longer. Hearing about Rico—it only makes me know how much I need you.” She was so close. Now that he felt better, he had thought more about her as the woman he wanted for his own. “You made me a promise when I lay near death. Tell me it is true—that I didn’t just dream it.”
She swallowed, unable to take her eyes from his hypnotic hold. “It . . . it is true.”
A faint smile passed over his lips, even though there were tears in his eyes. “Mi vida,” he said softly. “Tell me you will not break that promise.”
Her own eyes teared. “I will not break it. But . . . I am afraid,” her voice squeaked.
He only held her tighter, and she was surprised that his strength was more comforting than frightening. Their eyes held, and she realized he was bending closer. She should tarn away, she thought, and yet she could not. In the next moment his lips were gently meeting her own in a kiss as light and tender as ever a man kissed a woman. This was nothing like the cruel, vicious acts of Emanuel Hidalgo and the others. Most of them had not even bothered with kisses.
A kiss was a tender introduction, an act of love and devotion. The kiss lingered, and she did not turn away.
He left her mouth, kissing her cheek, her eyes. “You tell me, Juanita. You are too delicate for me to decide. You tell me when you are ready to be my wife, and we will have the father marry us. We have time yet. I have more healing to do. I am not in any shape to be a husband in every way, so I guess we’re kind of even for now, aren’t we?”
She felt herself blushing and she dropped her eyes, suddenly hugging him around the middle. “Help me, Tom,” she whispered. “I do love you so, but I am so afraid.”
He encircled her in his arms, resting his cheek against the top of her head and breathing in the scent of her hair. “Trust me, Juanita. Trust me, and know that I love you beyond my own life. There is nothing wrong in loving a man with your body and letting him love you back. It is never wrong when it is for love, a way of giving pleasure to the one with whom you wish to share your life, taking his seed and letting it blossom into a child both can love. We both need that, Juanita—each other, a family. Soon I will write my father and tell him we are together and happy. Maybe he will even come to California. I tried to talk him into it once.”
He felt her tremble. “It’s all right, Juanita. It’s all going to be all right. I love you too much to rush you. I am a patient man. I just want to know you’re mine. I want you forever at my side. I will never leave you again or let you out of my sight.”
From a shadowed alcove Father Juarez watched, his eyes tearing. It was good to see them in an embrace. They would be all right now, as long as Tom was never singled out as the leader of Los Malos.
• Chapter Twenty •
“Are you sure you have everything you need?” Sarah fussed, walking over and straightening the collar of James’s shirt.
“Mother, you checked a million times.”
She met his eyes, her own tearing; then she suddenly embraced him. “Oh, James, are you sure you want to do this? To me you’re still just a boy.”
He sighed, hugging her back and patting her shoulder. “I have to do it, Mother. We already talked about all that. And I grew up a long time ago, back in Texas. I really want to do this, Mother.” He pulled away. “I’ll be all right. It’s a really big supply train I’ll be with, all the way from Bent’s Fort to St. Louis. I won’t be in any danger, and besides that, I’ll actually be working for them and making money on the way. Ole Willie Taylor himself is the train master. You know how much Pa trusts him. Willie will watch out for me.”
She squeezed his arms, breathing deeply to keep from breaking down. “It could be months before I see you again—maybe even years. You write to us right away, while we’re still on this side of the mountains so your letter will reach us quickly, before we leave for California. We’ll have to know where to write and let you know how to find us.” She swallowed back an urge to scream. What good would it do to tie him down and force him to stay? It would only fill him with resentment, especially toward his father. He was young and reckless and excited, and she had to admit he was intelligent and capable. It was only her own motherly instincts that made her want to grab him and never let go.
“I promised I would write,” James told her, sounding impatient.
“And you have the money your father gave you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She swallowed again, blinking back tears. “It’s so strange—all those years I never had my Lynda to raise, hold, love. I didn’t get to have her for myself until she was sixteen years old. And now with you, it’s the other way around. You’re the baby I got to hold and love and nourish and teach. And now you’re leaving me. But then I guess that’s the way it’s supposed to be, isn’t it, especially with a son.”
His own eyes filled with tears. “You’ve been a good mother,” he assured her, leaning forward and kissing her cheek. “I love you, and I’m sorry for some of the trouble I’ve caused—hurting your feelings and all. I’ve always thought you should have things better, but it’s never seemed to matter to you, as long as you were with Pa.”
She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Don’t hold him to blame, James. It’s all the prejudice that’s to blame. He’s worked hard, and he’s loved me more than any woman could hope to be loved. There are few men as good and strong and brave as Caleb Sax. You remember that, and remember that all those qualities are in your own blood. Please, don’t leave without telling him you love him.”
He sighed and nodded. “I have to go, Mother. Everybody is waiting outside. Pa will want to get going so he can get back here before dark. You know how he worries about you.”
She forced a smile for him, patting his arm and handing him a leather bag packed with dried meat and a variety of vegetables, homemade jam, and other items of sustenance. “I love you, James.”
He took the bag and she followed him out, walking straight and sure, ignoring the pain in her joints this day. She did not want her son going away with the sight of his mother in pain as his last memory. She met Caleb’s eyes when she got outside. He sat astride a big Appaloosa mare, ready to ride with his son to Bent’s Fort. He rode up closer to her.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, but he frowned with concern. He knew the torture this was for her. He looked over at Lynda, who was hugging James. She let go of him, and James turned to the rest of the family. “You stay near your mother today,” Caleb told Lynda.
Lynda walked over to the woman, putting an arm around her. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Caleb smiled, then waited for James to load his last bag of supplies and mount up. The boy looked at his father, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Caleb nodded. “Let’s go then.”
James took a last look at his mother, wondering if he would ever see her again, and realizing with some guilt that his own hatred of his Indian blood was the reason for all of this. “I’ll write, Mother. I love you.”
He struggled not to break down and cry like a child. He was not a child. He was a man. For a brief moment painful childhood memories swept through him, all the struggles in Texas, the few good times he had had as a much younger boy, when he was still friends with Cale.
But then there had been the war and the Indian haters. He tore his eyes from his mother and urged his own horse into a moderate run, realizing the horse represented one of the few good memories he had. His father had brought it to him as just a colt, after they had had to leave Texas.
He did not look back. He couldn’t. Soon Caleb was riding beside him. James stared straight ahead. He was riding beside a man who belonged in this land. But James was sure he belonged someplace else, someplace where he could be white, no questions asked. He became more and more sure of it as he studied the vast emptiness of the rolling plains, then watched his father whenever the man moved ahead of him, long hair blowing in the wind, the fringes of his buckskins dancing with the gentle lope of his horse. In the distance a heard of buffalo grazed, looking like a huge, black spot on the wide plains.
Caleb saw them and pointed. “I’m afraid that’s a sight that’s getting more and more rare. There ought to be some Cheyenne around the fort. I’ll let them know about the sighting. Maybe Cale will be there and you can see him again before you leave.”
James said nothing, and Caleb turned to look at him. “Maybe,” James finally replied.
Caleb turned away. “You’re itching to see the cities of the East, James.” He kept his horse close beside James. “I’ve seen all that—St. Louis and New Orleans, at least. Of course, it’s all probably grown a lot since I was there. It’s been thirty years or more. From the stories we get at the fort, those places are sure a lot bigger than when I knew them. But that’s not for me.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “This is life, James. Out here a man can be a man, find his peace with the spirits, be on his own. Back there—” He shook his head. “Be very careful, James. There are dangers there, too. Just a different kind. Men fight with papers and laws rat
her than brawn and weapons; and they’ll smile at you and stab you in the back at the same time.”
“It won’t be as hard for me, Pa.”
Caleb didn’t look at him as he pondered the meaning of the words. “No, I don’t suppose it will.”
The man said nothing more, and James felt the old ache of having botched the moment again. Caleb wanted to talk. These were their last moments together. James was at a loss for words. What could he say? His father knew perfectly well why he was leaving.
It was nearly a half-day’s ride to the fort, and they barely spoke the whole way. James was surprised that he was almost disappointed that Cale wasn’t there. There were times when he missed his nephew more than he ever thought he would. And in spite of his sureness and determination to leave this land, he felt a last-minute panic as he watched his father talking to Willie Taylor.
Everything seemed to happen too quickly then. They ate together. Caleb bought some supplies and packed them into his gear, then turned to James.
“I have to get back before dark. Willie’s leaving in the morning.” Their eyes held. “Good luck, James. I’ll pray for you.”
The boy’s eyes teared. “Will you, Pa?”
“Of course I will. I’m just sorry—” The man’s voice suddenly choked. “I’m sorry to be the cause of your unhappiness.”
James hung his head. “Pa, it’s not you—not directly. You’re my father. I love you.”
Caleb swallowed. “And I love you. Much as you don’t believe it, I love you just as much as Tom or Lynda or Cale or any of them. Someday you’ll understand that, James. But you’ve got some growing up to do, some learning, some decisions to make. You’re probably right to get away from here for a while. I’ll miss you, Son.”
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