Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  He squinted at Lewis. “Maybe we hated ourselves the most, for not bein’ there to protect ’em like we should, but fightin’ an’ hatin’ was all we had after . . . what happened. Worse, I still had my Leonor, but she was . . . broken inside in a way I couldn’t get at to fix. She couldn’t or wouldn’t go back to bein’ a child, an’ I couldn’t leave her again . . . So, Sal and I, an’ Boogerbear, finished raisin’ her together, spendin’ more time chasin’ Comanches an’ Mexican bandits than we did at home. After a while, Leonor wasn’t a ‘girl’ at all, anymore. She was a ‘pure warrior,’ like Varaa called me. When our Ranger company joined General Scott to kill Mexican soldiers again”—he looked away—“Leonor made me take her, swore she’d go however she could if I didn’t. I couldn’t have her makin’ her own way where I wouldn’t be close . . . the next time. So, God help me, I brought her.” He paused, and looked searchingly at Lewis. “What kind o’ father takes his little girl to war?” he demanded in a tone of self-disgust.

  “The kind who loves her more than anything, I think,” Lewis said softly, suddenly realizing that somewhere along the line, he and this fierce Ranger he’d never really liked had become friends.

  “The crazy thing is,” Anson continued, “I don’t even hate Mexican soldiers anymore. I didn’t know it at the time, but I figure the proof is Teniente Lara. I actually like the kid!” He waved toward the city walls. “An’ the people here could all be Mexicans, the way they look, an’ all I want is to help ’em. Feels strange. I guess that’s the ‘idealistic’ part Varaa saw. But lookin’ back, even when we were with General Taylor”—Anson’s lip quirked upward—“an’ you thought I was a murderous bastard, I wasn’t killin’ in hate anymore. It was war, an’ I was just doin’ my job. I’m better at fightin’ than anything else,” he confessed, then frowned. “But so’s Leonor now, an’ she still hates.” He hesitated. “You know she fought by Lara at the beach. I think she wants to like him. Might even learn to if he’d shed that Mexican uniform—but he’s got the Uxmalos makin’ more of ’em for his lancers!” He shook his head. “Leonor just can’t get over . . .”

  He shut his mouth as Leonor herself came galloping up on the smallish striped horse she’d chosen for her own. She’d named him “Sparky” for the way his energy seemed to flare and die. He was very fast and would work hard until he got tired. After that, she couldn’t get him to do much at all. Anson disapproved of her choice, but Leonor liked the animal. At the moment, she was distantly followed by Samantha Wilde and Angelique Mercure sharing another horse. Both still rode sidesaddle, and the image struck Lewis as one of the strangest things he’d ever seen—aside from Har-Kaaska’s giant duck-lizard. . . . He grinned. And just about everything else over the last couple of months! Leonor stopped and nodded at Lewis and her father while Samantha and Angelique drew near. Lewis noted Leonor’s pretty but hard-edged face bore an expression he’d never seen. She looked angry, like almost always, but he would’ve sworn she also looked slightly embarrassed.

  “There you are!” Samantha cried. “We’ve been looking everywhere.” She glared at Lewis. “Your ridiculous Private Willis swore you were still in the city, only you weren’t, of course. We went down to see Father Orno at the temple and discovered preparations for another reception already under way at the Audience Hall! Not only were you not there either; you sent no warning to us to get ready!”

  Lewis and Anson exchanged looks. There was no excuse. They owed Samantha and Angelique a lot for all they’d done, assisting Dr. Newlin and adding their own insights from time to time. And of course, their very presence and generally bright natures helped maintain the men’s morale. Perhaps most important, they’d become excellent cultural ambassadors between the Americans and Uxmalos, making friends with highly placed local ladies and (ironically, considering neither was a citizen of the United States) demonstrating that—despite frequent appearances to the contrary now that the men were housed in barracks in the city and enjoyed regular leave to mingle with the civilians—Americans weren’t all just a bunch of smelly, uncouth barbarians. They’d even started a revolution in ladies’ fashion, and Angelique in particular was in much demand for her dress drawings. Finally, receptions like this weren’t just opportunities for social intercourse; the ladies obviously enjoyed them and deserved a chance to have fun.

  “I apologize,” Lewis said sincerely. “I’m afraid Captain Anson and I have a lot on our minds and are very bad company.”

  “Apology accepted, M’sieu,” Angelique said in her quickly improving English. “Colonel De Russy has already sent a note requesting the honor of escorting me,” she almost twittered, “but this time the two of you will dance with me as well.”

  Anson bowed in his saddle. “Of course, Mistress.” He glanced at Samantha. “An’ who’ll escort you?”

  Samantha laughed. “Captain Cayce endured that ‘honor’ last time and was badly wounded. And I imagine he had enough of my company while he was ill, whether he remembers it or not. I think it is your turn, Captain Anson.”

  The Ranger bowed again. “Delighted.”

  “I want to go,” Leonor blurted defiantly.

  Anson looked at her in surprise. She’d attended the last reception and been in the fight as well. He had no objection to her going again, but didn’t understand her tone. “Well . . . sure. Why not?”

  Leonor clenched her teeth. “I want to go as a girl, Father. Mistress Samantha’s offered to loan me a gown,” she went on rapidly. “She’s more”—she cut her eyes at Samantha—“girl-shaped than me, but we’re about the same height. . . .”

  “And I can quickly alter a very suitable dress,” Samantha stated forcefully, daring either man to defy her. Anson looked helplessly at Lewis, but there was hope in his eyes as well. Perhaps there was a chance his daughter might become more than a hate-filled warrior after all.

  Lewis was silent a moment, staring at the young women, then out across the parade ground, where men were preparing for war. Finally, he shrugged and smiled. “I’ve no objection. If anyone here hasn’t figured out Leonor is . . . a young lady by now, we should probably know who they are. They don’t have the brains to be trusted with deadly weapons.” His expression hardened. “Nor should that knowledge make any difference how she’s treated when it comes to her chosen profession. She’s proven how capable she is, and our strongest military ally and advisor, Varaa-Choon, is also female. Anyone who objects to whatever she wants to do—for the benefit of us all—will have me to answer to.”

  Leonor actually grinned, and the effect was striking. Gone were the sharp, severe angles and hard intensity in her eyes. It was as if five hard years suddenly fell from her face. Anson cleared his throat. “Um, in light of this development, Mistress Samantha, perhaps you’ll release me from my obligation so I can escort my daughter?”

  Samantha blinked astonishment. “I will not! As I said before, it’s your turn!” She shifted her gaze to Lewis and arched an eyebrow. “Leonor is not a child, nor does she require the protection of her father in all things any longer. She might even be better prepared to protect him in various circumstances than the reverse,” she pronounced, “and that’s something both of them might profit from learning!”

  “But . . .” Anson balked.

  Lewis licked his lips and said, “I’ll be honored to escort your daughter, Captain Anson. If she’s willing, and you have no objection.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Leonor had never felt like this in her life. She knew Mistress Samantha and Mistress Angelique had been working on her for some time, but the final decision to become a “lady,” even if only briefly, had been momentous. And it came so suddenly, like the instantaneous choice to draw her revolvers and charge an enemy. There’d been the same flash of anger and anxiety, crowned by determination, but also a . . . sense of vulnerability she’d never even tasted in battle. Perhaps the strongest impulse was rebelliousness, however. Not against Captain Cayce or her fat
her or the military conventions she’d flaunted; no one made her do that. But something inside her decided it was time to rebel against the dark part of her soul that had worked so long to construct the persona she’d assumed. There was another part, small and lonely, that still vaguely remembered a strong, happy mother who’d tolerated a willful little girl’s preference for the company of her father on the hunt or in the field over more feminine pursuits. And that hazy, barely remembered woman never begrudged her daughter doing “boy things,” because she knew her husband enjoyed the company. Leonor loved her mother even more for that, and had suddenly realized her bitter rejection of all things “girl” over the years had been like a rejection of her mother’s hopes for her as well. It was much more complicated than that, of course, and she couldn’t simply wall off everything that happened and all she’d become with the blue silk gown Mistress Samantha loaned her, but she and Mistress Angelique, barely older than she, if at all, had awakened those misty memories of a time when she had been a happy girl—along with everything else.

  The gown was beautiful, but it felt so strange, so . . . useless when she put it on. And the shoes Samantha provided were uncomfortable and equally impractical. She’d groused half-heartedly, “How on earth can you ride in these? An’ you’d cripple yourself if you had to run. Can’t I just wear my boots?”

  “You may not,” Angelique told her firmly.

  Then came the makeup, something Leonor never even saw her mother use, and she sneezed when the light dusting of powder went up her nose. “You need little of this,” Angelique said with satisfaction, then added sardonically, “when you are clean.” Samantha tried to do something with her straight black hair but had little success. It was too short. She settled for combing it back and curling it lightly inward at the bottom with an iron before—triumphantly, Leonor thought—tightly gathering the spray of hair that resulted at the back of her head in a slick blue ribbon that matched the dress perfectly—and according to local custom, proclaimed her to be “available.” When Samantha was finished, she produced a wavy, wood-framed mirror, and Leonor regarded the image with fascination. “That ain’t me!” she exclaimed.

  “Indeed it is, my dear,” Samantha assured, but Leonor shook her head in amazement. “I’m . . . I’m kinda pretty, huh? But damn, I look so . . . silly!” The ladies laughed and she hastily added, “No offense! Y’all look fine all the time, but I’m like a painted lizard.” She lifted the wide, pleated skirt. “Is there room for my pistol belt under here? I feel helpless as a painted lizard too.”

  Samantha looked sympathetic. She’d gathered a great deal about what Leonor had been through, but Angelique shook her head. “This one night you will go unarmed and rely on the gentlemen to defend you—as is your right.”

  Leonor was dubious and a little frightened.

  The journey from the quarters the two European women shared, adjacent to Reverend Harkin’s and his “protection,” took them through the middle of the tiny parade ground on the bay side of the city, surrounded by all the new barracks for the soldiers. A few locals had begun to move in—Periz had been generous, and space remained plentiful—but even the local “regulars” were allowed to stay in their homes if they had them, as long as they reported promptly for duty, day or night. That left Leonor’s “debut” exposed mostly to men who recognized her. There was shock, even confusion, on quite a few faces, and all the talking and noise of the troops preparing for a night on the town, or others just now marching dustily in from the drill field, was abruptly swallowed by a surrealistic silence. Men simply froze, staring at her, mesmerized, dumbstruck. A few pipes dropped from open mouths, spilling their smoldering contents, and Leonor was torn between upwelling fury and a cringing impulse to run and hide.

  Sal Hernandez had appointed himself the “armed escort” for the ladies, Reverend Harkin, and Dr. Newlin. Now he glared challengingly around, one hand dropping to rest on a Paterson Colt at his side, the other absently twisting one corner of his monstrous black mustache. Combined with the look in his eyes, it was difficult to say which gesture was more intimidating. But Captain Cayce had been right. Most who watched her grim march in company with the others to the six-burro-drawn coach Father Orno had sent only grinned and nodded knowingly, quite a few with satisfaction. They had known, for a while at least, either from guessing or hearing rumors. And who knew how long and strong the speculation had run rampant? Leonor even reflected that, given their situation, she probably hadn’t maintained her persona as diligently as she had in the past.

  A new confidence suddenly filled her, and she straightened as she walked, still clumsy in the uncomfortable shoes. The most important thing to her was that whether the expressions she’d glimpsed seemed surprised or not, she didn’t sense any hostility or outrage. That meant the men had accepted her as a steady fighter, no matter what else she was, and that was all that mattered.

  The badly scarred (and finally sober) Lieutenant Sime was waiting to assist them into the coach. Clearly less observant or perceptive than most, he seemed utterly astonished at the sight of her. “M-my word,” he stuttered. “My word.”

  “Don’t just stand there gawping, young man,” Dr. Newlin snapped. “Give the ladies a hand up.”

  Sime complied mechanically, but continued muttering, “My word.”

  Captain Cayce, Captain Anson, and Colonel De Russy were waiting on the steps of the Audience Hall when they arrived, nodding and smiling at extravagantly decorated Uxmalos passing into the great building. Leonor’s father gave a big smile when he saw Samantha Wilde, but looked confused when Leonor stepped down beside her. Then recognition came, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Major Reed was there as well, arm still supported by a dark blue sling matching his uniform, and Justinian Olayne stood beside him. Both were distracted at the moment. Leonor noted the different shoulder boards Olayne wore at once and quickly looked at Lewis’s coat. In addition to having been perfectly repaired, it now bore the rank of major. Samantha also noticed, smiling at Olayne as she advanced and touched a faded, gilded rectangle on his shoulder. “Major Cayce’s old ones, no doubt?”

  Olayne reddened and jerked his eyes away from Leonor. He didn’t seem as surprised she was a woman as he was suddenly captivated by how she looked. “Uh . . . yes, Mistress. I’m proud to wear them.”

  “Necessary promotions, my dear,” De Russy said. “It may have confused Major Reed’s men to have him taking orders from a mere captain.”

  Reed bowed to all the ladies, with a special, gallant smile for Leonor, before holding up his good hand. “Not me. Even if I gave a damn about seniority, I’ve been helpless while you all did so much. And I don’t have Major Cayce’s combat experience.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’m content to lead the infantry and leave decisions how to use it in someone else’s hands!”

  “It’s not that simple, as you well know,” De Russy said a little impatiently. “I’m doing my best to learn to lead while I perform my other duties,” he continued with a glance at Reed’s sling and a touch of embarrassment, “but you’ve at least fought, and you must be Major Cayce’s second in command.”

  “Of course, Colonel,” Reed assured. “I’ll advise and assist him any way I can.”

  De Russy nodded, glad that was settled, then brightened as his gaze settled on Olayne. “And may I present Captain Olayne. Duly elected to lead his battery, we’ve put him in charge of all three. Despite his still-insufficient rank, I give you the commander of Batteries A, B, and C of the First US Regiment of Artillery!” He blinked. “On this world, of course. The local regiments are still being consolidated, but meager as it is, with Captain Anson’s leadership of all other mounted elements, the um, Detached Expeditionary Force and Army of the Allied Cities finally have an official coherent chain of command.” He looked at Lewis. “All under your overall authority. God grant that they prosper and grow.” Then, with a hesitant smile at Angelique Mercure, De Russy crooked an elb
ow out to his side. “Shall we, my dear?”

  With a lingering look at Leonor, Anson offered his arm to Samantha. Leonor glared at Lewis, expecting the same reaction as her father’s, but if her transformation surprised him, he’d already hidden it well. He only smiled gently and said, “You’re beautiful, and I’m the luckiest man here tonight, to have you on my arm.” When he offered it, she felt the most amazing flaming chill inside as she thrust her hand through the waiting gap and ascended the stairs at his side.

  Dancing was another entirely new experience, or attempted experience. She was so incredibly clumsy! But Lewis only laughed at himself, not her, and apologized that he’d never been any good at it. She felt that same freezing fire in her chest. She’d been this close to men before. Her father, Sal, Boogerbear, other Rangers or soldiers she barely knew who’d thought her just “one of the fellows” and made no effort to keep their distance when fighting or performing tasks. That very familiarity and informality probably did more to keep her from violently recoiling from any man after that one terrible time. Even Teniente Lara had been this close during the fight on the beach, and she hadn’t mentally drawn away from him as much as his uniform. But this was the first time she’d ever been so close to any man in a social setting, let alone allowed herself to be held—even as loosely as Lewis did it.

  All washing and brushing aside, Lewis certainly smelled like a man. The scent of Arete was strong on him, as was the sweaty leather of his sword belt and boots. And whoever had fixed his coat couldn’t completely remove the aroma of sweaty wool. But those weren’t bad smells. They’d been in her nose all her life, worse often coming from her. She realized with a shock she liked him to hold her and was suddenly glad there were no pistol grips distorting her figure below her slim waist, bumping his right hand where he lightly laid it. She wondered briefly what he would’ve thought if there had been, then realized he wouldn’t have cared. That’s when she finally admitted to herself that she’d always admired him as more than a competent soldier. His broad shoulders and rough good looks seemed so intriguingly at odds with his disciplined, thoughtful manner. He was about ten years older than her but looked much younger this close—less tired and worn, as if he was actually enjoying himself.