Desert Storm

by Nan Ryan

  The cattle, their ribs showing in rows beneath their dusty hides, stood bewildered beside the dried-up water holes, dazed and thirsty. Steers too weak to walk crumpled to the hard, cracked dirt, unable to go one step farther in search of forage. Sick and dying animals lay scattered among those still able to stand, the buzzards and flies swarming in to feast on their fresh carcasses. Dozens were dying daily despite the all-out efforts of Angie and the men to haul in food and water to the starving, listless cattle. Vaqueros hastily burned stickers from prickly pears across the vast, dusty ranges, offering emergency food to the ravenous herds.

  It was at the close of one of those grim excursions that Angie first realized that this sunbaked land had become a part of her. With a feeling akin to shock, Angie thundered across the desolate range atop a chestnut gelding and silently acknowledged that she had finally become a Texan.

  She wasn’t sure just when, or why, but it had happened. Her head throbbed from the long hours spent beneath the baking southwestern sun, and her throat was parched and dry from the dust. Her back and shoulders ached painfully, and yet, as she rode toward the ranch in the late July sun, she felt that this was where she belonged, where she wanted to be for the rest of her life.

  Before her sat the sprawling, salmon-colored hacienda, its gun ports bespeaking the wildness of its past, its thick, impregnable walls a fortress against the elements—a true oasis in the desert. Behind her, the imposing rocky peaks of the cool Davis Mountains reached proudly upward to embrace the harsh July sun. All around her stretched a quiet, arid, treeless land she’d once thought of as ugly and impotent.

  It was no longer so. This proud, untamed land had taken on a unique beauty in her eyes. Even under the broiling sun it held a fascination for her. It boldly dared her to stay, to survive and flourish against the odds. That was just what Angie Webster McClain intended to do. She would remain in this primitive, savage land until the faraway day came when they buried her beneath it. It was the only place on earth she wanted to be.

  Angie lifted her chin and squinted into the sunlight. Sadly she smiled. What made this part of the world so attractive to her was that it reminded her of the wild, untamable, proud Texan never fully out of her thoughts.

  So be it.

  PECOS KISSED the blushing bride on her smooth brown cheek. He turned and, to Reno’s shock, Pecos hugged him affectionately. “Congratulations, amigo,” Pecos said with a grin, “you’re a lucky man. Have a long and happy life together.”

  The beaming bridegroom, one possessive arm around his new bride, clasped Pecos’s tall back, “Gracias, Pecos. You sure it is no trouble for you to look after the girls tonight?”

  “None at all,” Pecos assured the eager newlyweds. “You two deserve a wedding night alone. Right, girls?” Pecos, towering over them, smiled down at the three tiny brown-skinned girls giggling happily beside their mother.

  “Sí,” they all agreed. “We will spend the night with Pecos.”

  “You mind him, all three of you, you hear nie?” the new Señora Sanchez entreated, bending to hug and kiss each daughter before she departed with her amorous husband. Straightening, she said sweetly, “Pecos McClain, you are a kind man.” She flashed a charming smile, gave his lean jaw a kiss and added, “Someday you will have children, and Reno and I will look after them while you and your wife take a romantic holiday, sí.?”

  Pecos gave no reply. He grinned lazily and said, “Well see you two tomorrow.”

  Less than a week later, on a rocky hill outside Buenaventura, Reno, Magdelina and the three little girls were sharing a basket lunch at the site of their future house. Reno, lounging contentedly beside the checkered cloth, heard hoofbeats. He rolled to a sitting position and lifted his arm to shade his eyes, watching the rider approach.

  Pecos swung down from the saddle, dropping the reins to the ground. Smiling, he ambled toward the happy family group. Reno rose to shake his hand and he knew by the look in Pecos’s eyes that his old friend was leaving.

  “I’ve come to say goodbye,” Pecos announced evenly, twisting his Stetson in his lean brown fingers.

  “No!” exclaimed Magdelina Sanchez. “We will not let you go, Pecos.”

  “Amigo,” Reno gently questioned, “are you going back to …”

  “I’ve no idea where I’m going, Reno. I may be back in a few days, I don’t know. I just feel I need a change.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I think I’ll ride up to the Pass for a while, then … who knows?”

  The Sanchez family waved fond farewells to the tall departing man, and Reno, his arm around his wife’s slender waist, pressed his lips to her thick, dark hair and murmured, “I feel sorry for Pecos. He is not a lucky man like me.” He kissed her ear.

  Magdelina turned her face to his. “Sí, he is lonely, I think. It is so sad.” Her dark eyes were soft and warm. “I wish we could …”

  Reno’s eyes followed the disappearing rider. “Ah, mi esposa, it is up to him to work it out.” His gaze swung back to her lovely face. He smiled down at her. “Now, forget about Pecos and give your husband a kiss.”

  Magdelina put a small hand on her husband’s shirtfront and cast a hurried glance toward the three little girls happily playing inside the wooden shell of the rising mansion. Seeing they were momentarily occupied, her dark eyes flashed and she lifted her lips to her husband’s.

  TIRED AND HOT, his scraggly beard itching unbearably, Pecos rode into Paso del Norte when the July sun was at it’s zenith. Hat pulled low to shade his squinting eyes, his gaze slid lazily to the wooden sidewalk in front of the Pierson Hotel.

  His lethargy departed. He shoved back his hat and blinked in the glaring sunlight. He jerked up so abruptly on the reins, his horse snorted and whinnied in protest, tossing his head about and drawing the attention of the small, blond woman who’d just stepped from the hotel. Tilting her yellow taffeta parasol at an angle, she turned her golden head to look at the tall, dark rider.

  Pecos looked directly at the woman and swallowed hard. His gray eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. And he shouted her name so loudly passersby on both sides of the busy, dusty street stopped to stare.

  “Angel!”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  PECOS SAT OBEDIENTLY QUIET on the high-backed blue velvet settee in Angel’s Pierson Hotel suite. All around the spacious sitting room sat steamer trunks filled with gowns and shoes and personal items belonging to Angel, packed and ready for shipment. It was Angel Webster’s last day in Paso del Norte.

  “You’re very lucky, Pecos McClain. One day later and I’d have been long gone!” Angel stood, hands on her rounded hips, looking down at the dark, silent man gaping at her. She laughed throatily at the confusion in his expressive eyes and promptly turned and swept out of the room, saying over her shoulder, “Stay where you are. I’ve something to show you, Pecos. It will help you to understand what I’m going to tell you.”

  When she returned and thrust the tiny photograph out to him, Pecos’s hands remained on his knees. He understood nothing. He was completely baffled and made no effort to conceal his astonishment.

  “Pecos, take the picture,” Angel commanded and took a seat beside him. She held the photograph up close to his face and watched as the wide gray eyes fastened on the two blond, smiling women. His hand lifted slowly from his knee and he took the picture from her. A weak, tentative smile curved his full mouth and he murmured, “My God, it’s … you’re …”

  The photograph had been taken by a professional when Angie had visited Angel. In the picture, the two laughing girls sat holding hands, looking directly into the camera. The girl on the left wore the very gown that Angel was now wearing. The girl on the right was dressed in a low-bodiced, puff-sleeved dark dress that Pecos could vividly recall enhancing the blond, delicate beauty of the young girl at the big dining table at Del Sol on the evening he’d returned from the cattle roundup one hot August day last summer. His eyes locked on her, he asked softly, “What color was this dress?”

&nbs
p; “An emerald-green muslin,” Angel cheerily responded, “the exact color of Angie’s big, beautiful eyes.”

  Pecos’s smile broadened, stretching his happy mouth into a full-blown, teeth-showing grin. “Jesus, Angel—” his eyes finally lifted from the picture “—have you any idea what a fool I’ve been?”

  “The biggest,” she promptly accused, “and you’ve broken my sister’s heart because of it.”

  Pecos’s eyes again lowered to the photograph. His bright smile fled. His thumb idly rubbing over the image of the girl in the emerald dress, he said sadly, “I’d cut my right arm off if I could change what I’ve done to her.”

  Angel patted his shoulder and laughed. “That’s unnecessary, I think. Besides, you’re going to need both arms to hold my sister when you go home to her.”

  His gray eyes cut rapidly to Angel’s face. “Hell, how can I go home? Angel, you don’t know what I … you can’t imagine …”

  “Listen to me, handsome. I know everything you’ve done to Angie, and although I may think you’re a worthless scamp, unworthy of my sweet sister, the naive child is in love with you and won’t be happy till she has you.”

  Sheepishly, his dark face coloring, Pecos asked, “You know about how I …”

  “Honey, I know a lot more than you do about the whole mixed-up situation. You’ve some surprises yet to come, because my little sister may be too much of a lady to tell you everything, but I’m sure as hell not.” She rose and straightened her gown around her hips, and Pecos noticed for the first time that this woman standing before him was just the least bit plumper than the woman he’d held in his arms at Del Sol. Her voice was also lower and her face not quite as delicate. “Now you just keep quiet and listen to me; when I’m finished, if you’ve a lick of sense in that thick, arrogant head of yours, you’ll be on the next train to Marfa.”

  Angel paced back and forth and talked nonstop for half an hour, while Pecos, being shushed vehemently each time he dared to interrupt, heard the amazing story unfold. Each newly revealed fact made him feel more and more like the biggest heel that ever drew a breath. When Angel told him bluntly that it was he, Pecos, who had uncaringly taken her sister’s virginity, he was shocked, but not nearly as shocked as he was when she informed him that Barrett McClain had never managed to sleep with Angie. Pecos was still digesting that delightful news when Angel stopped pacing, spun about and said evenly, “There’s one last thing I think you should know, Pecos. Angie’ll probably have a fit if she finds out I told you, but I personally think you’ve a right to know.” Her emerald eyes twinkled.

  Already light-headed from all he’d heard from this honest, down-to-earth twin sister of the woman he was in love with, his mouth fell open in disbelief when she calmly informed him that he was not the son of Barrett McClain. “My handsome brother-in-law to be, you are half Mexican. It seems your passionate, beautiful mother had a glorious affair long ago with an aristocrat in Mexico City. You’re the result, my friend, and I’d say those two star-crossed lovers did themselves proud.” Angel laughed loudly, poured two glasses of bourbon and handed one to the stunned Pecos.

  He gulped the whiskey down and slowly lowered the empty glass. “You mean I’m not …” His words trailed off and he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, overjoyed to find out he was not the son of a man he’d never respected, a man who he’d always known was hypocritical and cruel. An unscrupulous man who’d never shown him any love.

  ANGIE AWOKE TO ANOTHER CLEAR, cloudless day. She sighed wearily, pushed her long tangled hair from her face and sat up. Tiredly she rose and went to the window, hoping against hope to see a few scattered clouds in the sky. There were none. It was a hot, still summer day. The sun was already pouring down, heating the dry, baked earth.

  Listlessly, Angie dressed. After a slim breakfast of fruit and black coffee, she mounted for her ride across the high range. By midmorning, tiny tufts of clouds had appeared high overhead. Angie hardly noticed. When she rode back to the house at noon, those clouds had grown into billowing milky mounds. Blinking, she looked up at the unfamiliar whiteness against the deep blue of the sky and silently wondered. Was there a chance?

  Angie took a nap after lunch. Upon awakening, she strolled out, yawning, into the sunny courtyard. Immediately she noticed the clouds had increased. Her heartbeat began to quicken. There were many more than she’d seen before lunch, and there were changes occurring in their shapes. Her hand shading her green eyes, Angie stood staring up at the puffy, thick clouds and murmured a short prayer. Perhaps something would come of it.

  By late afternoon a rumble of thunder broke the stillness in the library where Angie sat behind the heavy desk. Startled, she was immediately out of her chair and sweeping back the thick curtains to peer expectantly outside. Smiling, she excitedly threw open the carved double doors and stepped into the courtyard. The clouds had moved in her direction and the sun was momentarily hidden.

  It was while she sat at the dinner table with Miss Emily that she saw the first weak flash of lightning. She looked at the older woman. Emily smiled, nodded knowingly and announced matter-of-factly, “It’s going to storm tonight.”

  “You really think so?” Angie wanted desperately to believe her.

  “Yes, dear. I’ve lived here all my life and I know. The long drought will end before this night is over.”

  Miss Emily retired to her upstairs room shortly after dinner. Angie, excitement filling her breast, hurried to her room as the sky grew dark and ominous. Stripping, she took a leisurely bath in the big blue-and-yellow-tile tub, spreading thick, sweet-scented lather over her glistening arms and legs, a tiny smile on her face. Out of the tub, she padded to the tall bureau and pulled out a lower drawer, searching for a beautiful gown of champagne lace she’d purchased at an exclusive San Antonio shop and had never worn.

  Finding the expensive, feminine nightgown, she grinned foolishly and lifted it from the drawer. She gasped, the smile evaporating. There beneath the lacy gown was the gold-and-pearl music box that Pecos had brought into her room that first hot night he’d made love to her. Her bare knees rubbery, Angie lifted the lovely box from its resting place and slowly sank to the floor, gripping it in her hands. Her lips trembling, she gingerly lifted the lid. Soft, tinkling music filled the room as the miniature man and woman danced atop the open box.

  While the music played, Angie rose, the gown in her hand. Slowly, she slipped the gown over her head, gently easing it down over her full breasts and rounded hips. She sighed when its generous folds fell to the floor around her bare feet. The loosely woven lace was mildly abrasive against her clean, sensitive flesh and Angie felt little tremors race through her body.

  Seductively she swayed to the tempo of the tinkling music of the gold-and-pearl box, recalling the first time she’d heard it play. The gown tickled. While she danced, Angie released her long flaxen hair from its pins, letting it fall about her shoulders and down her bare back, its heavy softness adding a pleasing texture to the gentle stimulations of the gown, the music and the brewing summer storm.

  Angie picked up her silver hairbrush. She brushed languidly at the long, tangled hair and crossed the room to the heavy double doors leading into the courtyard. Tentatively she opened one and her senses were immediately assailed by the smell of sweet, heavy air. A few weak raindrops splattered on the stone gallery at her bare feet. Lightning flashed so close by that Angie jumped. A big rush of wind swished into her room, pressing the lacy gown against her warm, awakened body. Angie trembled, inhaled deeply and closed the heavy door.

  She leaned back against the carved wood, the brush in her hand. Her heart was beating rapidly, the low-bodiced lace straining over her rising breasts. She could hear the storm building outside. She smiled foolishly. The storm’s approach filled her with hope. With excitement. With desire.

  THE DROUGHT-DEVASTATED LANDS of southwestern Texas lay baked and barren as far as the eye could see from the train snaking its way eastward. Pecos hardly noticed. He was alone in
his private compartment. His long legs were stretched out full-length in front of him and his lean fingers were laced over his hard stomach. His dark head rested against the top of the padded leather seat. He had not looked out the open window since boarding the train in Paso del Norte. He remained unaware of the sight of the parched, dry rangelands spreading in all directions. Only one thing filled his thoughts while he sat mutely in the hot, dusty train compartment.

  Angie.

  Angel’s many revelations kept ringing inside his head. A broad, pleased smile rose to his full lips, only to be followed by a deep groan of regret and a hardening of his chiseled features. Of all the memories parading through his mind, the one that kept nudging the others aside was the hot night last summer when he’d slipped into Angie’s room and made love to her for the first time. What a stupid, insensitive fool he’d been! Why couldn’t he have seen what was so elementary now? The shocked expression in her lovely, wide, emerald eyes when he’d driven brutally into her, the tears, the obvious pain, the stiffening of her small, lovely body beneath his. She was an innocent virgin! He’d taken her virginity, then callously tossed money at her feet, calling her a whore. How could he have been so blindly stupid. He’d not even recognized the truth when he’d returned to his room to find tiny drops of blood on his body!

  Pecos shook his dark head. He couldn’t change the past; he could only make amends in the future. Optimistically, he pushed all the memories into the background and found euphoria in planning ahead. He was going to do everything right this time. He would return to Del Sol, beg Angie’s understanding and forgiveness, bare his soul to her, declare he’d been the biggest fool ever and persuade her to give him one more chance.

  Her permission granted, he’d be the mannerly gentleman from this day forward. He’d not try to seduce her; he’d not even be presumptuous enough to try to embrace or kiss her. He would be the attentive suitor she deserved, calling on her at prearranged dates, taking her to parties and dances and on picnics. He’d bring her flowers, take her for romantic walks in the moonlight, hold her tiny hand and pay her compliments. He’d be patient, honorable and keep his damnable passion in check.