by Linda Ladd
Inside a dingy, back-street cantina in the border town of Matamoros, Emerson Clan leaned back his head and exhaled a ring of blue smoke toward the ceiling. He glanced around the barroom, his slender cigar held loosely between his fingers. The place was crowded with Mexicans, but his table in the back corner was fairly deserted. The men in his group of bandits had spent most of the night drowning themselves in tequila and aguardiente and pawing the low-cut blouses of the coarse Mexican whores plying their well-worn bodies for a few pesos.
Let the fools have their good time, he thought with scorn, because tomorrow, as they slept off their drunken night, he would ride back across the border into Texas with his saddlebags full of the gold they had helped him accrue. Now that President Juarez had sent his Nacionales to stamp out the revolution in Mexico, there was little reason for him to remain among the filthy, ignorant louts he had been riding with. His bandit band had earned him a fair amount of gold, and he intended to put it to good use in the States.
First, though, he would ride back to the rancho where the old woman was taking care of his son. Once he had Carlos, he would set out for home. As far as he knew, he wasn't wanted by the sheriff of New Orleans. There were plenty of rich women and lots of money floating around the gambling halls and whorehouses of the old French part of that city.
Grimacing with distaste, he watched a fight erupt between two of his men and quickly escalate into bloody violence. He was damn sick and tired of them all. None of them had the intelligence to find their way down a mountain trail. If it hadn't been for him, most of them would already be hanging from a gallows or rotting alive in filthy Juarista jails by now. He would be glad to get rid of them. He looked forward to traveling alone with his son. He was proud of Carlos. The boy would carry on his name, ride at his side, and enjoy the wealth Clan meant to accumulate for them.
The only problem was finding a woman to take care of the baby, one willing to do exactly what Clan told her, like Nina had when he had first gotten her. Hell, he'd never had any trouble finding women—they were drawn to him like flies to molasses. But only a comely one; he never could stand an ugly woman. And she had to be timid enough to be controlled without much effort. Then he could use her to warm his bed when he wanted, as well as to take care of the boy. He would be on the lookout for someone as young and innocent as Nina. God, toward the end, Nina had gotten so that she shook from head to toe if he merely looked in the direction of his whip.
Frowning, he placed his hand on the leather-thonged bullwhip he wore curled neatly on his hand-tooled gun belt. She had deserved to die, the bitch, for betraying him to Kincaid. He smiled, a cold, hard tightening of the lips, at the memory of how he had repaid his old friend for enlisting Nina's aid.
Clan's pale eyes narrowed, glinting with pleasure as he recalled his meeting with Kincaid in the cantina in Saltillo. Stone's face had turned white. Clan had actually watched the blood drain down his neck and the pain glaze his eyes when Clan had flung the woman's braid on the table. That one entertaining moment had made worthwhile all the trouble Kincaid had caused him.
Never before had he broken through Kincaid's inscrutable facade to bloody up his emotions. He chuckled, amused just thinking about it. And despite her initial courage and resistance, Windsor Richmond had turned into a cowering victim by the time he was finished with her. Like so many others, her defeat had come when he had made Nina suffer in her stead.
Although he had triumphed over Kincaid once again, Clan wasn't stupid enough to think their game was over. Kincaid would come after him, like he always did. Kincaid's actions were incredibly easy to anticipate because he lived by his ridiculous code of honor, by his saintly conscience that upheld truth, honesty, and morality. That's why Kincaid always came out the loser. Goodness might prevail inside the pearly gates of heaven, but it sure as hell didn't on earth. How many times had Clan proved that?
As the hours lengthened, he grew tired of the noise and guitar music. He strolled across the saloon, stepping over a couple of his Mexican followers who were already too inebriated to stand. Let them have their good time, he thought. Tomorrow he'd be gone with the money.
He went outside, letting the swinging doors creak back and forth behind him. The narrow street was dark and deserted. Indeed, all of Matamoros seemed uninhabited, the night a warm velvet blackness all around him. He puffed desultorily on his cigar, then flicked it into the dirt and sauntered across the street to the livery stable. If he rode hard enough, he could get his boy and be across the border before the sun came up. He looked forward to being on his own again. He had ridden with a gang too long this time. Maybe he'd even settle down somewhere for a while. Marry a rich widow, if he could find one who pleased him in bed, one he could control without a lot of squawking and whining.
As he pushed the stable door ajar, a horse shifted restlessly, snorting and stamping a hoof. The odor of dust and straw mingled with horseflesh hung heavy in the dusky building, and loud wheezing snores alerted Clan to the whereabouts of the old Indian who cleaned out the stalls. As usual, he slept on his belly in the hay, an empty bottle of whiskey overturned on the floor near his head.
Clan picked up the lantern resting on an upright nail keg. The chimney windows were so dirty that only a dim glow escaped to guide him through the darkness. He held the lantern out in front of him as he walked slowly to the stall where he had quartered his bay mare. Maybe he would take all the horses, too, and sell them to the first rancho outside Matamoros, just in case any of the Mexicans tried to follow him and get their share of the loot. He doubted any of them had the guts, though; after months in the mountains together, they knew him too well. They had seen him wield his whip. He wouldn't mind killing them; in fact, he'd enjoy it. And they knew it.
Clan had never cared if those around him lived or died, at his hands or by the hand of another. Except for Stone Kincaid. Kincaid was different. He was smart, too, as smart as Clan himself. Clan had actually admired him when they were roommates at West Point. That had changed the day Stone had had him court-martialed for aiding the Confederates. Again, honor had ruled Kincaid's actions, the dumb bastard.
Clan lifted a leather bridle from a stall hook and draped it over the horse's ears, patting the animal's velvety nose as he buckled the straps in place. Suddenly he froze as something cold touched the side of his head. A soft click followed, the deadly turn of a pistol cylinder.
"Hello, Clan."
The hairs rose on the back of Clan's neck, undulating a cold chill down his spine. Stone Kincaid's low voice was uttered very close to his ear. Clan turned slowly, furious with himself for being so damn careless. He'd known Kincaid would come, but he hadn't expected it so soon. It was the first time he had underestimated him.
Their eyes locked. Clan smiled. Kincaid smiled back.
"So we meet yet again, old friend, and sooner than I expected," Clan ventured conversationally, inching his hand toward the vest pocket where he kept his derringer concealed.
"Move your goddamn hand another inch and you won't have a head anymore," Kincaid murmured in the same casual tone. "I hope you're stupid enough to go for that little gun of yours." Clan grinned. "So, amigo, we're still playing the game, aren't we? We've gotten good at it over the last six years, you and I. We take turns besting each other, cat and mouse, mouse and cat, but I always end up the winner. Have you ever wondered why, Kincaid?"
"Tonight the game ends."
Clan gave a derisive snort. "You think so? Well, you're wrong. Let me tell you why. You're too goddamn moral. That honor you like to carry around pinned to your chest like a big, shiny gold badge does you in every time. You can hold that gun to my head, you can make threats, and you can beat me to a bloody pulp like you did up in Chicago when your pretty little sister-in-law tricked me into coming there, but you'll never pull that trigger." He paused, letting his taunts find their marks. He knew Kincaid so well, he had no doubt his words were true. He smiled into Kincaid's eyes. "Nope, you haven't got the guts to blow my brains out.
You'll turn me over to the law again, like the fine, upstanding citizen you are, because it's the right thing to do. It's the American way—you know, God's way, the good Major Stone Kincaid's way. Yeah, you'll put me in jail just like you did last time, and I'll escape just like last time. Maybe I'll even come after your woman again, Kincaid. After all, she liked what I did to her. She got down on her knees and begged for more. Of course, my whip here had a little to do with that—"
Clan's words faltered, his pale eyes bulging slightly as he heard the soft scrape when Stone's finger pulled back on the trigger, but that was the last thing he ever heard on earth as the gun exploded and he was hurtled into hell.
30
The tiny chapel of the Hacienda de los Toros was nestled behind an ivy-hung corner of the inner patio, the heavy wooden door set with a large gold cross and half hidden by the heavily laden branches of an orange tree. The interior was dimly lit by a wall of arched stained-glass windows etched with Moorish designs. Bars of vividly hued light slanted through the beautifully painted panes onto plain wooden pews. Windsor stood motionlessly in the dusky shadows, her new black silk tunic and trousers blending into the darkness.
Early after her arrival at the hacienda, when Dona Maria had shown Windsor and Stone around her son's large estate, she had led them into the holy place where she practiced her faith. At the time, Windsor had wondered why Dona Maria had preferred a dark, hidden chamber to the lush beauty of the mountains and canyons beyond the walls of her house. But now that Stone had been gone for so long, the peace and solitude of the place seemed to beckon her.
At the front of the narrow vaulted room, the ornate altar rose in grand, gilded stairsteps, much like the graceful pagoda shrines along the Yellow River. But Windsor was drawn to an alcove at one side of the nave where rows of squat white candles in glass bowls flickered on invisible air currents. In the Temple of the Blue Mountain, similar racks of tapers had burned throughout the day and night, the soft yellowish glow mingled with the pungent sweetness of smoldering incense.
Kneeling on the red velvet cushion atop the bench in front of the votive stand, she gazed up at the statue set in a wall niche above her. The woman was Mary of Nazareth, the Blessed Mother of Jesus Christ. Stone had told her about Mary once when he had explained Catholicism to her. Mary's carved face was beautiful, serene and smooth, a faint smile etched upon her gentle face. Windsor was more strongly drawn to her than to the poor, tortured figure atop the Christian crucifix. Mary of Nazareth was a woman, a mother, a wife. Perhaps she would understand Windsor's pain and grief.
Stone Kincaid had been gone for over a month. He had kissed her good-bye and left without a word to anyone else, and now she longed so much for his return that her heart seemed wounded beyond repair. Sun-On-Wings tried to comfort her, but there was little he could say. He was fit again now, probably well enough to depart upon his long journey, but he lingered in hopes of Stone's return, wishing to bid good-bye to his friend.
All of Stone Kincaid's relatives were good to her, making her feel very much a part of the family, and like Windsor, each of them knew and understood why Stone had gone and why he had chosen to go alone. But now that so much time had passed, they were concerned about his well-being.
Closing her eyes, Windsor braced her elbows on the praying stand and clasped her hands together. She sighed, thinking how strange and violent their lives together had been, ever since they had stepped aboard the train in Chicago. How many times had they entered danger together and saved each other from harm? But if Stone should need her this time, she would not be there to help him, and that thought troubled her more than anything. If it were not for the child inside her, she would follow now as she had always done in the past. But she had another life to consider, an innocent babe yet to be born.
Stone was strong, she told herself. He was smart, and he knew the Evil One well. Had he not survived every encounter with Clan in the past? Unwanted words from the Old One came echoing through the cavern depths of her mind.
"Fortune wearies with carrying one and the same man always," she said aloud, trembling with renewed fear for the man she loved. She looked up at the benign face of the statue, her heart full. Mary of Nazareth, she prayed silently, I am not one of your flock like Dona Maria. I have my own gods. But I ask you to bring Stone Kincaid back to me. Her throat clogged, making her eyes burn. I need him so much. I love him so much.
For a long time she sat there unmoving, thinking, hoping, remembering; then she froze as a voice spoke her name from the back of the church.
Windsor came to her feet as Stone strode down the center aisle toward her. Wordlessly, she went to him, torn by emotion, her heart high in her throat. When she reached him, his arms closed tight around her. He smoothed her hair with his palm as she lay her cheek against his shoulder.
"It's over. Clan won't come after our baby. He won't hurt anybody ever again."
No other words were necessary. They stood together in silence, content to hold each other, relieved and thankful that the long nightmare had finally ended. Now, together, they would await the birth of the child growing inside her. Then, the gods willing, they would join their lives, and live in peace.
Stone paced back and forth in the front salon, his boots clicking a steady rhythm across the marble tiles until he stopped abruptly and stared up the stairs toward the upper hallway. He couldn't stand it much longer, he thought, clamping his teeth down until his jaw ached with the strain. Windsor had been in labor for hours. How the hell long was it going to take?
"Stone, I think you'd better let Chase pour you another drink," Gray suggested. "Good God, the way you're prowling around and wringing your hands is making nervous wrecks out of all of us!"
Stone growled an oath, then stood with arms akimbo, still staring up the steps. "Windsor's pains started last night, for God's sake, and now it's nearly dawn! She can't go on like this forever, dammit! Why can't I go up and see how she's doing? She might need me."
Chase splashed a liberal portion of brandy into a glass and handed it to Stone. "Quit worrying. We've all been through this. It'll be over soon."
"I don't see how you stood it when Carly had the boys! My God, I'll go crazy if they don't tell me something soon."
"Actually, I helped deliver the twins," Chase replied equably, sitting down on the sofa in front of the fireplace. "Actually, Tyler did most of it, because I was in a state similar to the one you're in now. Believe me, Stone, you're better off down here with us. You don't want to watch her suffer when there's nothing you can do to help her."
His face a tight white mask, Stone stared at him, then tossed back his brandy in one deep draught. He resumed his nervous pacing, pausing now and then at the base of the stairs to listen. All was silent. At least she wasn't screaming from the pain; he tried to draw comfort from that thought.
But what if something had gone wrong, like it had with poor Tyler when her baby had come early? What if Windsor was too small to deliver the child? She was so slender, with delicate, fragile bones, and she had grown huge during the past few months. He had heard about women dying in childbirth when the child was too large. The idea made his blood run cold. Swallowing back the hard lump of fear, he returned to the brandy decanter. He helped himself to another shot, downed it in one gulp, then partook of a third portion as quickly as he could pour it.
"Sit down, Stone. You're making things worse for yourself, and if you keep drinking at this rate, you'll be too drunk to know whether your baby's a girl or a boy," Gray predicted calmly.
Ignoring the other two men, Stone continued to roam, his nerves more on edge with each passing moment.
She'll be all right, he muttered inwardly. After all they had been through together, surely they deserved this chance. Clan was dead now. They could be happy.
Hell, he didn't even care if the baby turned out to be Clan's. A long time ago, he had resigned himself to the fact that it could well be that way. If so, he would raise the child as his own. He just wanted Windsor
to get through this ordeal alive.
Regardless of what she said, he was going to marry her, tonight, as soon as the child was born. He had waited this long only because she had asked him to. He had instructed Chase to summon a priest, and even now the padre waited out on the patio with Dona Maria and Tomas, ready to perform the ceremony. Even if Windsor protested, there was little she could do about it in her weakened condition. She wanted to marry him, anyway, he knew that. She was just afraid about the baby.
Moving to the window, he stared out into the night where rain fell in hard, slanting arrows. He rubbed his whiskered jaw. Fear gripped his heart, twisting, wrapping itself around every nerve ending in his body until he wanted to hurl something through the panes of glass and yell out his frustration. He had to do something to alleviate the terrible uncertainty. Oh, God, if anything happened to her, what would he do?
"Stone? Come quick, Windsor wants you! You've got a new daughter!"
Carlisle had cried out the happy tidings from the top of the steps, smiling from ear to ear. Gray and Chase called out their congratulations as Stone hurled himself up the steps three at a time.
"Is she all right, Carly?" he demanded, not slowing his pace as he bore down the upstairs gallery toward Windsor's room with long, eager strides.
"Yes, yes, they both are!" Carlisle cried, running to keep up with him.
"Then go get the priest," he said, and his sister laughed delightedly as she turned and darted off in the opposite direction.
Stone thrust open the bedchamber door and found Tyler and the doctor bending over the bed. They both looked up as he entered, but his eyes sought only Windsor, where she lay in the midst of fluffy white pillows, a small bundle resting in her arms.