by Nan Ryan
An hour later she swept down from a rented carriage, a long ermine cape shielding her from the cold night air. Inside the black-and-white-marbled foyer of a stately mansion on millionaire’s row, a liveried doorman took her long fur, bowing grandly. Her hostess, a stout, good-natured woman with graying brown hair and a loud whiskey voice, flew to meet her, her arms spread wide.
Angie took a deep breath, smoothed the lush black velvet gown to her hips and put a bright smile on her face. A bib of lustrous diamonds twinkled at her creamy throat, and more diamonds glittered among the carefully arranged shiny blond curls high atop her head. Angie stepped forward, pressing her cheek to the fleshy, powdered one of her hostess, while the chattering woman kissed at the air and hugged her.
“My dear Angie, I was so afraid you weren’t coming. I would never have forgiven you.” Beatrice Brown was proud of her title as the ultimate hostess in all San Antonio. Her position in the social circle was her entire life, and she worked tirelessly at her grand balls and dinners. No minute detail was left to her servants; Beatrice chose the menu, arranged the seating and oversaw the decorations.
“Forgive my tardiness, Beatrice—” Angie smiled charmingly “—I was in my bath and the time just slipped away.”
“No matter.” Beatrice squeezed a slim velvet-covered arm. “You’re here and now I can breathe easier.” She leaned close to Angie and whispered conspiratorially, “You see, it was absolutely imperative that you attend tonight. My guest of honor is a very distinguished Latin widower from Mexico City.” The stocky woman giggled and looked around the room full of well-turned-out people. “Every unattached female in San Antonio has been hoping I’d seat her next to the handsome Don Miguel Galindo, but guess what?”
Feigning interest in what she knew her mischievous hostess was going to tell her, Angie asked, “You naughty girl, you’ve given me the privilege?”
“Exactly.” Beatrice hooted with glee. “No one knows yet and all the ladies have been trying to pry it out of me. I can’t wait to see their faces when they realize I’ve let you have him.”
Angie pretended to be pleased. “I’m flattered you’d save the honor for me, Beatrice. I hope your guest will not be disappointed.”
When Angie gracefully took the seat the tall aristocratic Latin held for her, she suddenly wished her well-meaning hostess had seated her someplace else. It was not that Don Miguel Galindo was ungracious or dull; on the contrary, he was all Beatrice had promised. A slim man of perhaps fifty-five or sixty, his chiseled face was as smooth and brown as a man of much fewer years. His thick hair had turned from its once midnight black to a shimmering silver, and his expressive eyes were a dark ebony. He wore a finely tailored suit of black over his snowy-white shirt, and a bold red cummerbund hugged his still taut middle.
When he spoke, Angie felt the prickling sensation of having heard him speak before. It was strange and unsettling, and when Angie introduced herself to the gallant, charming Latin as Mrs. Barrett McClain, she saw the brief flicker in his dark eyes.
“Did you know Mr. McClain?” Angie inquired.
“No, señora, I did not,” Don Miguel Galindo coolly answered, and he changed the subject, easily entertaining Angie and the others seated near. Angie clung to his every word. Her appetite was gone. There was something all too familiar about this handsome Latin. The straight nose, the hooded eyes, the generous mouth, the strong chin.
Don Miguel Galindo disappointed his matchmaking hostess, the feisty Beatrice. While he was properly attentive and respectful to Angie, his dark eyes never caressed her with fire, his well-tended hands never reached out to lightly touch her arm or shoulder. He showed her no more attention than the other ladies eagerly smiling at him.
But Don Miguel Galindo had Angie’s rapt attention. She couldn’t take her eyes from him. It was not because she longed to have him for a suitor. There was something more than his abundant charm and virile good looks that fascinated Angie. It was the disconcerting feeling of familiarity about him that kept Angie stealing glances at his hard face as he spoke. All at once she began to flush. This Latin was an older version of Pecos McClain.
“Is something wrong, my dear?” Don Miguel immediately turned to her, his dark eyes full of concern.
Collecting herself hurriedly, Angie managed a weak smile. “No. I … it’s growing rather warm and I …”
“Yes, it is.” Don Miguel Galindo was solicitous. Rising lithely, he pushed back his chair and helped Angie to her feet. “Remain seated,” the don said to the collective faces turned questioningly toward him, “the señora and I need a bit of fresh air.” Twittering voices quickly filled the big dining room, everyone gossiping about the apparent attraction between the handsome don and the blond widow.
Don Miguel led Angie into a private salon. “It was quite stuffy in the dining hall,” he said as he smiled down at her. A lean, dark hand went up to his stiff white shirt collar. “Would you mird, señora?’ he asked her permission to loosen his collar as he took a seat beside her on a brocade couch of bright watermelon-pink.
“Certainly not, Don Miguel.” She watched as he deftly flipped his shirt open down to mid-chest and her breath caught in her throat. Angie didn’t realize she was staring until Don Miguel’s deep voice questioned her.
“My dear, are you sure you’re feeling well?” He was truly puzzled. “Have I done something to offend you?”
Her wide emerald eyes on his brown throat, Angie mutely stared at the unique gold Sunburst medallion resting on his chest. A heavy link chain supported the one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry that Angie vividly recalled resting on the full bosom of Kathryn York McClain in the portrait still hanging over the marble mantel at Del Sol. It all became clear. This handsome Latin was the lover of Kathryn York McClain. This silver-haired, charming Mexican was Pecos’s father.
Her pulse speeding, Angie lifted her eyes to his. She couldn’t keep from asking. “Don Miguel, have you … have you ever been to Marfa, Texas?”
Don Miguel laughed easily, “No, Mrs. McClain, I’ve not had the pleasure.” His dark eyes were unreadable.
“Well, have you …” Angie smiled and tried another tack. “That was a foolish question. What I’d really like to know is where you found such a beautiful, unique piece of jewelry.” Her fingers tentatively raised toward his throat. Stopping short of touching the gold medallion, she lowered her hand to her lap and watched his long fingers glide up to gently caress the golden disk.
A softness filled his dark eyes. “I did not find it, señora. A dear and beautiful lady once gave it to me.”
Knowing very well she was prying rudely, Angie urged him on. “Oh? Was she your … that is …”
Don Miguel abruptly released his hold on the medallion, lowering his hand to his knee. “The lady is no longer alive. She has not been for a long time.”
“Don Miguel do … did you and your wife have children?”
“Señora, my wife and I had no children. As you know, she is now dead and …” He rose from the couch. “Now, if you are feeling better, perhaps we can join the others for brandy and coffee.” He buttoned his shirt and extended his hand to her.
The subject was closed. She would ask him no more. She took the offered hand, smiled engagingly and inquired, “Don Miguel, how long do you plan to remain in San Antonio?”
“My dear señora, I leave tomorrow. I have been here far too long. Due to pressing matters in Mexico City, I must return.”
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, sir.” Angie couldn’t keep her eyes off the handsome, dark face, a face so like that of her adored Pecos.
“The pleasure was mine, Señora McClain,” he responded gallantly and ushered her back into the dining room.
Angie decided then to cut her trip short. She, too, would leave in the morning, and go immediately back to Del Sol. She couldn’t wait to get home. She intended to question Miss Emily.
TEARS MISTED Miss Emily’s blue eyes and she dabbed at them with a lacy handkerchief while defending her
dead sister. “Angie, Kathryn never meant for it to happen. Nor did Don Miguel Galindo. You see, Kathryn and I went to Mexico City one winter while Barrett remained at the ranch. We had some old and dear friends in Mexico.” Emily bit her quivering lip. “Kathryn asked Barrett to come along. You know Barrett. He told her harshly that he cared nothing for a bunch of Mexicans and he had no intention of joining us. Kathryn was secretly glad he stayed behind; I was, too.
“We had a wonderful time in Mexico City. When we’d been there for a few days, Kathryn attended a gala with friends while I went to bed. I was too young for balls.” Miss Emily smiled, recalling those dear dead days. “Kathryn met the handsome Don Miguel Galindo that very evening. They were strongly attracted despite the hopelessness of their situation. Kathryn was married to Barrett, Don Miguel to a kind lady who was an invalid. Don Miguel and my sister became lovers, and by the time we returned from Mexico, Kathryn was carrying his child.” Miss Emily’s delicate shoulders slumped and she sighed. “What choice was there for my sister? She pretended the child was Barrett’s, though I believe Barrett always strongly suspected; that’s why he was so cold to Pecos.”
“Miss Emily, does … was Pecos told?”
“No, he was not.” Miss Emily shook her head. “You know Pecos. Had he known, he might have thrown the facts in Barrett’s face.”
“Does Don Miguel know?”
“That’s the saddest part,” Miss Emily said, twisting her handkerchief. “Don Miguel Galindo never had children with his wife. She was in an accident shortly after their marriage when both were quite young. All those years he lived with a woman who was bedfast, she was unable to …” Emily smiled sadly. “The don doesn’t know. He would have been a wonderful father to Pecos if things had been different. Did you see the strong resemblance between the two?”
“Yes, I did.” Angie nodded. “I think it’s a shame they don’t know about each other. Perhaps it isn’t too late.”
Miss Emily’s delicate brow wrinkled. “I’ve thought the same thing many times over the years, but I don’t know, it wouldn’t do …”
“Miss Emily, Pecos was never loved by Barrett McClain. I’ve a feeling that Pecos would be delighted to find out he’s not the son of Barrett McClain.”
THE REMAINING WEEKS of the cold, harsh winter passed. Angie kept a watchful eye on the operation of Del Sol. No vaquero knew when the trousered, determined Angie McClain might come galloping into their midst, her emerald eyes flashing and her sweet voice coolly giving orders.
By day she stayed busy, by night she had long, quiet hours to think about Pecos. The knowledge that he was not Barrett’s son pleased her. Recalling the fact never failed to bring a shiver of delight. Since he was not the son of the despicable Barrett, perhaps he possessed some of the admirable qualities of his blood father, Don Miguel Galindo. Angie began to reexamine Pecos’s actions and to wonder if it were possible she had misjudged him. Perhaps she’d made a tragic mistake in sending him away and should consider writing to ask if he’d like to return to his home.
By mid March the snows had finally melted, and the days were filled with bright sunshine. The change lifted Angie’s spirits, and the imminent birth of Ángel’s offspring made Angie as eager as her pregnant mare for the upcoming delivery.
By April the desert was beginning to come into its own. The skies were a cloudless blue and the air was warm and clear, without being hot. A week into the new month, Angie awoke with a start. She sat straight up and smiled. Bounding from her bed, she hurried to dress and rush out of the house. Outside, she ran through the maze of corrals and stables behind Del Sol, completely winded by the time she reached Ángel’s quarters. Lifting the latch from the gate, Angie heard men’s voices speaking in rapid Spanish and her heart pounded anew. She stepped into the plank enclosure just as Ángel’s new foal rose on spindly legs.
“Ah, Señora Angie—” Roberto Luna, on his knees by the tired Ángel, glanced up at her “—Ángel, she has a fine colt. Like his daddy, no?”
Speechless, happy, Angie stood immobile, looking at the shiny black colt bravely trying his legs. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling and slowly moved forward, her eyes never leaving the ebony colt. Kneeling in the straw beside Roberto, she put a shaking hand to the exhausted Ángel’s sleek, sweat-drenched neck. She patted her gently and whispered, “Ángel, Diablo would have been very proud of his son. He’s a beauty.”
Roberto, smiling broadly, assured Angie that she’d had an easy time, and that the new black colt had the fine, distinct body lines of his sire. “What will you call the new colt, señora?” Roberto’s dark eyes sparkled.
“We’ll call him Dante,” replied the awed Angie.
Angie rose, turned and left the corral. She walked down an incline toward the empty stables where the new black colt, Dante, had been conceived. It was deserted now, unused since Diablo’s death. Angie threw the latch and let herself inside the big corral. She walked directly to the barn at the far side of the lot. Like a sleepwalker, she opened the barn door and went inside. Shafts of April sunlight fell on the straw-covered floor. A busy spider spun a shimmering web in the corner.
Angie’s eyes were drawn to the west wall where, on a cold winter’s day, she and Pecos had made love atop the hay. There she took a seat, and leaning back against the rough planks, she drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them with her arms. With heartbreaking vividness, she could hear Pecos’s deep voice murmuring passionate words into her ear, could feel his masterful hands gliding over her bare flesh, could recall their gasps of pleasure when she sat on his hard thighs, literally impaled upon him.
Angie felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. Her body ached with a deep and useless longing. It left her weak and ill.
Tears began to slide down her cheeks. Angie made no move to brush them away but let them fall freely. Slowly, lifelessly, she slid down into the straw. Where she’d once lain on the hay experiencing the height of human happiness, she now lay sobbing uncontrollably, gripped in the depths of human despair.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ANGIE WAS NEVER FREE of her thoughts of Pecos. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she remained the missing man’s prisoner. Memories of him filled her lonely world, wherever she turned there were reminders of Pecos. At the stables she admired the frisky Dante, scampering impatiently alongside his proud mama, Ángel. But the beautiful black colt reminded Angie of his magnificent sire, Diablo. Diablo of Pecos.
Strolls in the courtyard after sunset brought no release. There, too, Pecos’s powerful presence permeated the warm May nights. Whether she was reclining on the heavy padded chaise where once she’d seen him sleeping in the blazing summer sun, or facing the distant mountains with their eerie Marfa lights, he was there.
He was everywhere she turned. The stables. The courtyard. The far ranges. The cool Cibolo Creek. The dark mountain cave where once they’d spent a snowy, love-warmed night. The dining room, the library, the kitchen, the corridor. Her bedroom, her hearth, her tiled tub, her yellow bed. There was no peace for Angie. There would never be without Pecos. The longing that had been there since his departure had grown more intense after she learned that Pecos was not the son of Barrett McClain.
A smile curved her soft lips each time she was reminded that the handsome, irresistible Pecos was the only son of an aristocratic, decent Latin. The knowledge gave her a warm, happy feeling, despite the fact that their brief, blazing relationship was over. To Angie, it changed the tender moments they’d shared, and made those pleasurable times in each other’s arms pure and unstained.
The relieved smile rapidly vanished. Their loving had been right, good, perfect. Yet Pecos was gone because she’d cast him out. Had she used up all her happiness while barely noticing it was there? Would the remainder of her life consist of fading memories of a few stolen moments of supreme ecstasy with a man she might have stupidly misjudged? Could the glow left from the fire that had raged between them sustain her for a long, lonely lifetime? Had sh
e carelessly made the irreversible blunder of rejecting a warm, caring man who loved her as much as she loved him?
BY THE MIDDLE of May the ranges, so devastated by blizzards throughout the winter, were growing dry and powdery. And in need of rain. Each warm, still day was an exact replica of the preceding one. Clear, blue, cloudless skies and thin, dry, hot air. Water holes began to recede; foliage thinned and ranchers grew concerned. Angie worried.
She sat worrying over the account books on a warm May morning when Delores came into the library bearing a tray with a tall frosty pitcher of lemonade and the morning mail.
“Time to rest your eyes, Angie.” Delores smiled when Angie glanced up. She poured a tall glass of the cold drink while Angie looked through the stack of mail. A letter addressed to Mrs. Barrett McClain was postmarked Paso del Norte. The envelope was small, blue and perfumed. Puzzled, Angie picked up the silver-handled letter opener and swiftly slashed open the top of the envelope.
“Anything else I can get you?” Delores set a tall glass of lemonade on a linen napkin by Angie’s right elbow.
“Thanks, no,” Angie said with a smile, and watched Delores nod and retreat, her colorful skirts swishing around her.
Angie picked up the chilled glass, took a cooling sip and turned the blue parchment letter over to find the signature. The glass slipped from her shaking hand and to the floor, spilling its contents on the thick rug. Angie’s face paled and her heart skipped erratically. Her staring eyes widened in disbelief. There in the bottom right corner of the fancy blue paper, the signature was scrawled in a small, neat, distinctly feminine hand.
Your twin sister,
