Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) Page 26

  Lee grinned. “What did your two emigrant children decide when they couldn't find any incriminating evidence?”

  Father Gus shrugged good-naturedly. “An argument between the girl and her brother began. She said I had no—er, extra appendages. He was afraid to come closer but yelled that she was lying. As red as a beet my face was with all the stall keepers laughing. And this one”—he gestured at Obedience—“she grabs my cassock and pulls it free to rescue me. Then she asks them where is their mama.”

  “Jist then this here woman comes tearin' through th' crowd ‘n yanks th' girl by her ear ‘n gives her a swat. Th' boy follered her off like he wuz scalded, both o' them younguns lookin' over their shoulder at Father Gus.” She paused to scratch her head. “Still wonder who won thet argument—th' girl er th' boy…”

  “Mother Obedience here, besides being my rescuer in time of distress is also our school cook. And a splendid one she is, indeed. One good meal each day the children receive while they learn,” the priest said fondly.

  Obedience looked up warily. “I’m jist a good Baptist lady doin' my Christian duty feedin' hungry younguns. Don't yew sweet talk me with thet ‘Mother Obedience’ stuff agin. Too many o' yew Catholics round hereabouts ta make me rest easy, even if ‘n yew ain't got no hooves er tails,” she added with mock gruffness, looking from the grinning young priest to Lee.

  As if sharing an old joke, Father Gus said, “Ach, good Mother Obedience, what a splendid abbess you will make! Daily I pray for it—and your conversion first, of course.”

  “Jeehosaphat! Reverend Foster done like ta drowned me when he baptized me in th' Tennessee River back in twenty-seven. I ain't never doin' no more convertin' fer shore, ner lettin' a preacher near me with talk ‘bout baptizin' me agin! No siree!”

  “Wash Oakley might just have something to say about losing his wife, Father,” Lee said cheerfully, winking at Lame Deer, who had begun to giggle despite his painful cuts and bruises.

  “He, I believe, would make a splendid bishop!” Father Gus said triumphantly. “He could fill the pulpit in Galveston Cathedral and thunder at the city elders: ‘Send Father Gus more books!’ ” he intoned in a rumbling bass voice.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Melanie sat alone in the hotel room she and Lee had shared, staring bleakly at the door he had slammed with such finality moments earlier. She felt numb with shock as the enormity of what they had done the preceding night washed over her. All their plans for a discreet annulment were impossible now. She was truly married for the rest of her life. Slowly, unwillingly, yet with a quivering stir of curiosity, she walked to the mirror, letting the sheet she had wrapped around herself trail carelessly to the floor.

  Naked, she stood in front of the long oval floor mirror and inspected herself critically. Do I look changed? Will everyone be able to tell what happened last night when they look at me? Were her eyes haunted by a new knowledge? She ran her hands down from her shoulders, over her breasts, across her flat little belly, then around the flair of her hips. I don't look different, she reassured herself, but she felt different; she was different.

  Melanie bathed and dressed, preparing to go to the newspaper as if it were merely another ordinary day. Despite her best resolve, every time she passed a store window or mirror on her long walk from the hotel to the office, she found herself staring at the sad-eyed woman reflected in it.

  Taking a deep breath, Melanie opened the door to the newspaper office and stepped into the dim interior from the bright sunlight of the street. The place smelled comfortingly of dust and linseed oil.

  Amos grinned at her and continued setting type, his dexterous fingers moving across the case boxes with blurring rapidity. Clarence cleared his throat and gave her his usual cursory inspection, a gesture that normally elicited no more than a saucy swish of her skirts as she went to her desk. Today, she actually felt herself beginning to blush, the heat stealing up over the primly starched collar of her white blouse. He can't know—he just can't! She stood rooted to the floor for a moment.

  “I assume you danced with the senator and got all the latest Washington gossip?” he said at length, apparently ignoring her flustered appearance.

  “Yes. I'll write it up immediately. I have a good story about Houston, and all the frills and furbelows the ladies wore at the ball,” she said in an overeager rush to get past his scrutiny.

  “Your Mrs. Wolcott was here this morning again, sanctimonious old crow,” Clarence muttered waspishly.

  ‘‘She's not my Mrs. Wolcott, but she is a fine woman—a truly visionary leader in the temperance cause,” Melanie said defensively. “I plan to do a series of articles on temperance as well as gambling and prostitution. Your female readers will love it.”

  “I'm rather more worried that my male readers will hate it,” he replied sourly.

  As she worked, Melanie considered how right Stella Wolcott was in her condemnation of demon rum. If Lee hadn't been drinking last night... She stopped what she was writing and furiously balled up the paper, tossing it angrily on the floor. Her concentration was abysmal; but somehow she got through the day and finished a credible series of stories, one on Sam Houston, a gossip column about the dance, and even a brief article using the news items Stella Wolcott had delivered for her that morning.

  Lee had already left for the ranch when she finally returned to the hotel. A terse note lay on the dresser beside her hairbrush, admonishing her to come home before dark and to use the buggy he'd left at the livery. One of the vaqueros was waiting in the hotel lobby to carry her valise and drive her to the ranch. The hotel bill had, of course, been paid.

  She felt like a kept woman.

  On the long ride home Melanie dreaded confronting Lee. She could still see the blazing anger in his face, sense the leashed fury holding his body taut as he delivered his scathing rebuke to her that morning. You don't want me. You don't really want any man—just your goddamn causes! His words still rang in her ears. Was he right? Was she an unnatural woman, cold and unfeeling? Then why did she feel so bereft when he had told her he regretted touching her—and vowed he would never do so again? But would he keep his word? Did she want him to?

  “You all right, Miz Velasquez?” Ray asked.

  She had buried her head in her hands and huddled back in the corner of the buggy like a wounded child. “Yes, yes, of course, Ray. Just a little tired from a long day's work.”

  Finally, the ranch house loomed ahead. She felt an odd mixture of dread and welcome. It was so enchantingly lovely, nestled beside the stream with the trees whispering above it. Their cool, leafy fingers caressed the roof like a lover. Why did I think that? she scolded herself as she climbed down, her resolute step belying her anxiety.

  Genia greeted her warmly and already had bathwater heating. Delicious smells wafted from Kai's kitchen. As she sank into the tub in her room, she murmured wistfully, “I could love this place like home if only...” If only he could love me. The thought seemed to complete itself. She bolted upright in the tub, splashing water over the sides with her sudden movement.

  Would it really be so bad to love him? To have him love her? To have a real marriage? Slowly she sank back in the tub to consider all her whirling thoughts. You both have passion, Genia had told her. How right the canny old woman had been. But passion alone was not basis enough for a marriage; it took love, trust, respect. Given her background and his bigotry, there seemed no solution for them.

  She dressed for dinner that night as if preparing to do battle. If I've acted like a passionate placée, I might as well look like one. Rummaging through her closet, she selected a gown she'd never worn, a deep cranberry-red velvet trimmed with deep black lace. It clung to every curve of her body. She decided it was the sort of gown that Lily Duval would have liked. If Lee thought her yellow satin with its billowing skirts was outrageous, wait until he saw this. That priggish Hispanic don would probably have apoplexy! Of course, no one but he and the servants would ever see it.

  Nervously
, she pulled on the lace at the rounded low-cut neckline, trying to fluff it up a bit to conceal her cleavage. Then, considering what Charlee would say about her endowment, she smiled archly and smoothed the lace back down. She left her hair loose, caught over to one side and adorned with a small cluster of the wild primroses that she had picked near the house. Very simple, casual, the artless way a placée would appear for her lover. Scorn her he might, but he would suffer for what he'd said.

  Lee had arrived at the ranch early that afternoon and had busied himself with stock work for several hours, hoping the exhausting riding would take away some of the tension still simmering inside him. Last night had turned his world upside down. A long afternoon of backbreaking labor left him aching and tired but no nearer to a resolution of his confused feelings than he had been when he awakened with Melanie in his bed that morning.

  When he came into the ranch kitchen, dusty and sweaty despite the cool fall air, Kai grinned broadly. “Bathwater's heating for you. Figured you'd need it. Genia's taken care of your wife already.”

  Lee grunted as he hung his hat on a rack by the door. “I assume she just returned from town.”

  “She put in a full day at the newspaper. She wrote all about Senator Houston. Promised to read me the story tomorrow,” the big Kanaka said with almost childlike enthusiasm.

  The servants were certainly won to her. Genia's acceptance he'd expected, since she was a born romantic; but the fierce old scalper Kai was Melanie's devoted friend as well. Lee felt the subtle pressure both of them placed on him. Kai continually sang Melanie's praises, and Lee was sure Genia had told her mistress what a splendid husband he could be if only...

  Lee sighed in perplexity as he stripped off his dusty clothes and threw them on the floor of his bedroom. By the time he had finished undressing, Kai was there filling the tub. Gratefully, he sank into the water, trying to think of anything else other than Melanie and the fact that he would have to confront her across the dinner table.

  To take his mind off that, he idly considered packing up an assortment of books from his library and sending them to Father Gus for use in his school. He felt an unreasoning surge of anger when he recalled the Rojas bullies beating up that small Lipan boy this morning, then laughed at the irony of Lee Velasquez rescuing an Indian, even if he was a child.

  A child. If he and Melanie had children, they'd have Indian blood, a fact she had repeatedly thrown up to him whenever he had weakened and tried to touch her. Now, she could be carrying his child. No, he dismissed the idea. It was very unlikely after only one night, and he had promised her he would never again force himself on her—a promise far more easily made in the heat of anger than kept in the long years stretching ahead of them. There would be no annulment, no other marriage. What if there were no children to carry on the Velasquez name, to inherit the ranch he had sweated and struggled so long to build?

  As he brooded and turned those disquieting thoughts over in his mind, his bathwater grew cold. Finally, he roused himself and quit the tub, drying off quickly. Kai had laid out a fancy ruffled shirt and one of his best wool suits. Ignoring this obvious hint from the Kanaka, he donned a simple open-collared muslin shirt and buckskin pants, then headed to the library to select some books for Father Gus's school.

  When Melanie came into the dining room, Lee was nowhere in sight. Then, she heard a noise from down the hall. Following the sounds of rustling pages and thudding books being tossed onto a pile, Melanie paused in the door to the library, puzzled. Lee was standing with his back to her, rummaging through the shelves against the window wall, pulling down volume after volume, flipping through each, replacing some, tossing others onto the growing heap threatening to spill from the desk.

  She observed his casual attire, feeling angry at his cavalier attitude and embarrassed because she had overdressed. Nevertheless, even in a simple pair of buckskins and homespun shirt, he was elegantly handsome. While he was unaware of her perusal, Melanie watched the play of lean muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the way the soft leather pants hugged his long legs. One inky lock of hair spilled over his forehead, which was creased in concentration.

  Suddenly, he sensed her presence and looked up. If she'd pole axed him between the eyes, he would not have been more stunned. Covering the surge of breathless pain her beauty evoked, he asked harshly, “Aren't you a bit overdressed for a simple dinner at home?” With insulting thoroughness, he surveyed her lush curves encased so revealingly in red velvet.

  “Perhaps I felt I owed you something,” she replied cryptically, fighting down the dizzying wash of humiliation his inspection brought. She walked over to the desk and picked up a Latin grammar, blowing the dust from its pages. “It seems an odd time to clean out your library,” she commented, wanting desperately to change the subject.

  Now, it was Lee who felt an unreasoning surge of embarrassment. “I was just packing up a few old books for Father Gus,” he said nonchalantly, turning back to his task.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “For his school—for the Indian children? Lee Velasquez helping Indians? How out of character!”

  “No more so than a women's rights crusader wearing a dress like that,” he shot back, tossing the last of the books from the case onto the desk.

  Just then Kai appeared in the doorway to announce dinner. He could sense the crackling tension between the boss and his wife. Both of them seemed glad to quit the library and file silently into the dining room to eat the superbly prepared meal. It depressed Kai to realize that neither would taste a bit of what they consumed.

  * * * *

  The next morning two of the vaqueros from Night Flower Ranch pulled up to the weathered adobe schoolhouse with a wagon filled with books. One of the men handed the overjoyed priest a terse note.

  Dear Father Gus:

  Please don't try to make me a Cardinal for this, but I thought you could use these. I brought them from my Uncle Alfonso's library in Mexico City many years ago. Jim Slade saved them for me while I was in exile. Since it was his father who first gave me a love of books and a chance to read, I only repay a debt of long standing by passing them on to you.

  Lee Velasquez

  Melanie left early that morning for town. Lee was already down at the corral making work assignments to the men, trying to concentrate on the business of running his ranch. He wanted nothing more than to forget his wife, at least for the day. Seeing two horsemen approach, he recognized Jim Slade's big buckskin, Polvo, at once and a broad smile crossed his face. Then seeing the man with his friend, he immediately scowled. It was that damn ranger Jeremy Lawrence! What the hell is he doing on my land? His hand went automatically to the Colt on his hip.

  Jim nodded tersely to Lee, noting the way he looked at Jeremy and touched his gun. “You won't be needing that, mano. I'll vouch for Lawrence here,” he said levelly.

  “I don't want rangers on Velasquez land, Jim. You know that,” Lee replied tightly.

  “Will you forget all the old hates just long enough to listen to what we have to say? It's important, Lee. I'm asking you as a friend...as a brother.” Slade's amber eyes pierced Lee's armor.

  Shrugging, Lee let his hand drop away from his gun and swung up on Sangre. Several vaqueros lingered around the busy corral, curious about what was going on. They were aware of the hate their boss had for the rinches. Ignoring them, Lee said, “Let's ride out a ways where we can talk in private.”

  After a few minutes of riding in silence, Jim said, “What I have to ask you comes direct from Houston, Lee.” As he expected, Lee's eyes narrowed in surprise, then shifted to Lawrence. “Jeremy works for the Indian Office. He was an agent for the superintendent in St. Louis for several years. Now he's been assigned to Texas.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with me? You know I have no use for Indians or rangers,” Lee replied in a low growl.

  “Look, Velasquez, I know we got off to a bad start—” Jeremy began but Lee cut him off.

  “We didn't get off to
any start. I don't deal with rangers—or Indian agents,” he added contemptuously.

  “You have plenty of reasons to hate Indians and rangers,” Jim interjected, “but you sure as hell ought to want to stop a full-blown Comanche uprising incited by a crooked ranger. Or do you want the wars of a generation ago to start up again?”

  Lee's face was set in grim lines. “From what I've been hearing lately, they already have.”

  Patiently Jeremy replied, “The raids that have been increasing in the Bexar area are being instigated by a crooked trader who runs whiskey and guns to the renegades in return for stolen horses and cattle. The whole operation is being protected by Seth Walkman. That's why Houston and my superiors in the Interior Department picked me for this assignment. I'd been a militia volunteer in east Texas several years ago and I worked for the bureau.” He paused a moment, then smiled coldly. “Surely you'd like to stop Walkman and Blaine, not to mention a murdering bastard like Buffalo Gall.”

  Lee looked straight ahead, digesting what Lawrence said. “So Walkman's dealing with renegades,” he murmured, half to himself. Ever since he'd first run across the cold-eyed ranger, he'd known the man was especially dangerous. “Just exactly how do you know it's Walkman and Blaine who are dealing with Gall?”

  Jim shifted nervously in the saddle and Jeremy cleared his throat uncomfortably. Jim spoke first. “Houston knew Blaine was getting big cash payments for bills at his post supposedly run up by Comanche chiefs. He's smelled a rat as far as Blaine's concerned for years. As to Walkman—”

  “Your wife found out about his conversation with Blaine. That's what we were talking about that day in the restaurant,” Jeremy interrupted.

  “Melanie! How in the hell did she find out about Walkman?” Lee's eyes narrowed on Lawrence accusingly.