But with Brant―she could not account for her
instinctive reactions to this man. Purely physical. Raw desire. There must be a
streak of baseness in her of which she had been unaware. Nurtured by those
frantic rites of violent passion she had so often witnessed at the voodoo
ceremonies. But she had endured and overcome the revolting relationships with
Otto and Pa-ha-yu-quosh, and she would yet put an end to her relationship with
Brant. One way or another she would reach Houston and the safety of Colin's
arms.
Emboldened by thoughts of Colin, her eyes met those
of Brant's with defiance. "Get Celia to wash you. I'm sure she's more
familiar with your body than I."
Brant laughed. "Come to think of it, you're
probably right. At least her hands would wash me more gently. And speaking of
hands, sweet," he turned her hand over, palm up. "Your hands would
shame a lady."
Anne flushed and tried to draw away, but Brant held
her firmly. "Tush, tush," his tongue clicked. "What would Sir
Donovan think of the way his love neglects her appearance?"
Rising from the tub and dripping water on the floor,
he dragged her across the room to the mound of his clothing he had deposited on
the floor. Withdrawing the long-shafted Bowie, he pulled her down next to him
on the bed. "Sit still," he told her, "or you'll have another
scar besides the one on the back of your hand."
Stiff, she sat beside him, feeling the wet warmth of
his arm against hers. She had only to look below where his hand cupped hers,
his knife flashing deftly across the built-up calluses, to see the astounding
beauty of his masculine body. Her heart began to hammer faster, the blood
thundered in her ears ,and a curious weakness sapped her own body.
Absurd! Absurd! her mind cried out. To want this man
like a common wench. With all her will, she forced her other hand to lie limply
in her lap. Suddenly she felt Brant's penetrating gaze on her and looked up to
find dancing in his eyes amusement mixed with desire.
XIX
The clank of the flatware against the tin plates,
the loud buzz of conversation, the pungent odor of blackstrap molasses and
flapjacks, bitter coffee and sizzling side meat―it was almost too much
for Anne to assimilate at once. She felt somewhat like a prisoner suddenly
released from his cell, blinking against the bright sunlight and inhaling the
precious fresh air.
At the small dining room's other tables, graced by
red checkered tablecloths, was a diversified stream of humanity, and her eyes
roamed over the diners as hungrily as her mouth had watered over the hotel's
specialty, the slum gullion stew.
The man in the tall beaver hat and frock coat―obviously
an Easterner. "Here to buy up land cheaply," Ezra had spat. The
wizened Indian with the military cap. "A scout out of Goliad," Brant
had informed her, meeting her inquisitive gaze. Then there was the gray-haired,
patrician-looking woman who dined alone―a descendent of one of Cortes'
conquistadors, who owned one of the largest ranchos in Texas. And at the table
next to the street window was a thick-muscled man with grime embedded in his
hands, the local blacksmith/dentist.
It was with some difficulty that Anne brought her
attention back to the low discussion between Ezra and Brant. And even then, listening
to Brant's husky voice, her thoughts drifted back to an hour before when in
their room above he had pared the calluses from her hands, when she had
half-expected to be attacked again and had only been raped by Brant's wicked
gaze before he negligently left her on the bed to shave himself.
Now he sat just as negligently in his chair. The
blue smoke from the cigarette held between his lips drifted up across his face
to screen the sharp eyes that restlessly watched the doorway. Rafael was late,
and Anne knew both men worried. Had he been set upon by marauding Comanches,
attacked by bandits who found safety this side of the Sabine River from the
powerful arm of the United States government, or suffered a more commonplace
accident like a broken neck in a fall from his horse? The possibilities were
numerous, yet neither Ezra nor Brant voiced their concern.
Ezra chatted lightly with Anne, his baritone voice
teasing, but his eyes were just as restless as Brant's. "You mean Brant
hasn't shown you the sights of San Antonio?" he asked Anne.
Anne's smile was bitter. "Hardly."
She glanced at Brant. There was a mischievous curl
at the end of his lips. Did he dare her to tell of the way she had been kept
the past week, like some odi in a sultan's harem? She opened her mouth only to close
it. It would be foolish of her, would only bring further embarrassment and
shame were the sordid story ever to reach other ears, could possibly endanger
Colin's career were the truth to come out after they were married―and,
God help her, she hoped Colin still wanted her. But she wouldn't let herself worry
about that.
As if sensing the conflict that linked his friend
with the lovely Scotswoman, Ezra filled in the disconcerting silence with a
description of the centuries―old city. "Before you return to
Adelsolms, you'll have to see the Spanish Governor's Palace. Then there's the
Mexican marketplace, the ruins of the Alamo, and the San Jose―" he
broke off, looking past Anne.
Anne looked around to see Rafael in the doorway. As
ever, he was dressed completely in black. But the white linen shirt was dusty,
and the black sombrero did not hide the weariness in his eyes. However, there
was a grim smile of satisfaction on his slim face. "Amigos―Anita,"
he addressed them, pulling out a chair for himself.
"You're late, Rafael," Brant snapped when
the hidalgo's gaze seemed to linger on Anne.
Rafael's eyes narrowed, but after a second he said
calmly, "I think I've found Flores, Brant. North of here, heading toward
the San Gabriel River."
At once Brant and Ezra sat up, leaning close over
the table. And Anne knew what Brant's business had been the past week.
"We'll leave at dawn," Brant said.
"I'm going also."Anne cut in.
Three pair of eyes jerked around to stare
incredulously at her. "Why not?" she demanded when they said
nothing. "Brant, you taught me how to load a pistol. And Pa-ha-yu-quosh
taught me how to handle a knife. And I can ride well enough to stay up with the
rest of you!"
"It's not the same," Rafael told her gently.
"At any moment we could be attacked―and there'd be nothing we could
do to help you."
Anne's eyes were mutinous. "I don't care.
Anything's better than being caged up in that room for another week. And what if
you don't come back?"she pointed out. "What am I to do? Besides,
you're going to need all the help you can get."
Surprisingly, it was Brant who took her side.
"There's something to what she's saying. And if we do succeed―if we
get the proof for Sam that Mexico is intending another invasion, it'll save me
a trip back here."
"How come?" Ezra asked.
"Anne's going to Houston," Brant told them
in a flat voice.
Fog-shrouded shadows hovered along the rolling hills
at six-thirty the next morning. Through the eerie fingers of mist rode Anne,
along with Brant and Rafael at either side and Ezra bringing up the rear.
Dressed in the white
camisa
and
calzones
of the peon, she was
indistinguishable from her companions. The floppy sombrero that hid her long
hair and worn huaraches at her feet completed the costume donated by Pepe.
A dozen yards behind the group followed a small
company of Texas Rangers headed by Lieutenant James Rice. If Lieutenant Rice
seemed puzzled to find a woman, especially a woman like the exquisite creature
ahead of him, riding with the three scouts, he kept a tight rein on his tongue.
The group traveled slowly, following the faint
tracks Rafael had picked up the day before. At noon they paused beneath the
shade of a grove of bodark trees, and Anne gratefully accepted the canteen of
water and the rope of jerky Rafael offered her. The water had a metallic taste,
and the jerky was barely palatable, but her hunger was eased. Brant did not
eat, but hunkered with Lieutenant Rice off from the others. In the red dirt he
drew lines with a stick, and Anne watched Lieutenant Rice nod his head as if in
agreement.
"I do not think my friend was wise in bringing
you," Rafael said at her side, his gaze following the direction of her
own.
Anne saw the concern in Rafael's eyes and said,
"I can take care of myself, Rafael." Her hands rested reassuringly on
the muzzle loader tucked into the band of her pants. Before they had left San
Antonio she had stuffed her pockets full of powder and balls and a few caps.
"
Ni
modo
, it is too dangerous,"
Rafael said' obstinately. "Brant's cabin is not many miles north from
here. When it becomes too dark to track, I will speak to him about leaving you
there."
Anne turned on him. "No! I'll not be left
behind again. When Brant finds Flores, he'll head for Houston. And I mean to go
with him!"
Rafael shrugged indifferently but was inwardly
puzzled by Anne's vehemence on the subject. What was so important in the
miserable, disease-ridden town of Houston? But then, if it were true the two
were married, she would of course want to be with Brant.
Qué lástima
,
that he had not met Anita first!
The journey resumed again, but at a brisker pace as
the tracks became more pronounced. They followed a small, dry creek through a
low valley rimmed by rocky hills sparsely covered with juniper and cypress.
However, darkness forced the search party to halt just east of the tiny settlement
of Waterloo on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River.
While the men talked easily around the small fire, Rafael
drew Anne aside and once more tried to persuade her to give up her idea of
riding with the search party. "If you won't go to Brant's cabin," he
said impatiently, "at least consider spending the night at Waterloo.
Another hour's traveling and you could be sleeping comfortably on a feather
mattress instead of the hard ground."
Anne smiled, realizing with her woman's intuition
that Rafael was indeed in love with her. And as warm and ardent lover as he
might be―and realizing full well that there were many belles in
Bridgetown that would adore having a suitor of his old world charm and
aristocracy―Anne knew there could never be thought in her heart for any one
but Colin. Gently she withdrew her hand from his.
"You forget, Rafael, that I am more accustomed
to the hard ground now than a mattress." She smiled to herself thinking
how, like Brant, she threw the ticking pillows on the floor at night and was
still somewhat uncomfortable in a bed. "I've survived a lot since coming
to Texas, and I shall quite probably survive this, Rafael."
The autumn moon lit the beautifully sculptured face
she turned up to him, and it was all Rafael could do to keep from kissing the
wide, generous mouth. He was half angry that she seemed to regard him as a boy
though he was more than seven years beyond her twenty. But then she had been
through a considerable deal more than most women her age. And though she never
spoke of her ordeal with the Comanches, there was a maturity to be found in the
large gray eyes that enhanced their loveliness. Reluctantly, he acceded to her
womanly wisdom and followed her back to the campfire.
The evening passed quickly until bedtime, with the
soldiers, who were exceedingly polite to Anne, recounting for her tales of
their daring exploits, many of which Ezra warned her laughingly to take with a
grain of salt. But when the bedrolls were laid out, Anne found hers spread
close to Brant's.
Since that morning, he had left behind the mocking,
cynical attitude he had adopted toward her after the episode of the peyote and
was once again the impersonal scout she had once known. It was as if, since he
had made the decision to return her to Houston―and Colin, he was giving
up his claim to her as her husband. So she was therefore somewhat surprised
that he still kept her near his side.
The fire was banked, and a quietness settled over
the camp as Anne stretched out in her bedroll. For a long time she lay watching
the dark shadow that was Brant's back, so close to her she could reach out and
touch him. It came to her that she did not know anything about the man, really.
And now that she was leaving him, she would like to know more.
If she had never met Colin, perhaps she might have
come to care for this stranger who claimed to be her husband ...and she smiled
to herself and yawned, thinking how silly her musings were, for Brant Powers
cared for her even less, wanting only one thing from her. And that in itself
surprised her...for what he took from her, the days and nights of love, he
could have from any number of women, from Dorothy to Celia. But then, there was
no accounting for the peculiarities of a frontiersman.
At dawn the party crossed the Colorado at Grantam's
Ferry and continued northward. There was no halt for lunch this time. Brant,
Rafael, and Ezra fanned out, hoping to come upon the tracks again that had disappeared
near the dry, rocky bed of Brushy Creek. Anne rode along side of Rice, a short,
wiry man with keen hazel eyes that peered out of a sun-baked face. He spoke
briefly to her of his family in San Antonio and his childhood home in Murfreesboro,
Tennessee. But for the most part his eyes traveled, as Brant's did, in a
swinging arc before him, taking in everything.
Near dusk Ezra came riding back, reining in abruptly
before Rice. "Brant's found fresh tracks―unshod Indian war
ponies," he told the lieutenant in labored breath. "Not more than
twenty minutes old. And in the lead, sharp cut prints."
"Such as left by a white man's mount?"
Rice asked.
"Or a Mexican's," Ezra said thinly.
Rice signaled to his Rangers, and the group plunged
ahead and in a few moments carne upon Brant and Rafael haunched near a scrub
oak. Anne dismounted and, with Rice, walked her horse over to the two men.
Brant rose and said quietly, "There are Indians camped in the heavy timber
along a small stream―just beyond the next rise."
Rice nodded and motioned to his men. In silence the
Rangers dismounted. Following Ezra and Rafael's example, they too fanned out,
stealthily forging ahead.
Brant hung back, catching the bridle of Anne's mount
as she moved out with the rest. The setting sun was at his back, and, looking
up at him, she could discern nothing but the bronze glints in his brown hair.
But she could hear the harshness in his voice. "You're to stay here. If there's
trouble, you're to ride back to San Antonio. I've left enough greenbacks with
the desk clerk at the hotel to get you to Houston."
Astounded, she opened her mouth, but Brant
interrupted her. "Damn it, Anne, try to do what I say for once!"
He stalked away before she could make any reply. She
had to content herself with waiting beneath the scrub oak while the moments
played out like a chess tournament. Then came the sudden burst of gunfire,
echoed by answering volleys. Anne's grasp tightened on her pistol's horn grip.
The seconds that followed were agonizing. When spine-tingling whoops rent the
air, she sprang to her feet.
It seemed she wasted previous seconds as she first
spilled the small amount of powder into her pistol, followed by the ball,
carefully poking it in well. Then she set out at a steady run. Her sombrero fell
from her head, and her hair tumbled down her back. The air emptied from her
lungs. Still, she ran.