by Lyn Cote
Her Inheritance Forever
Texas: Star of Destiny
Book Two
Lyn Cote
Dedicated to my friend Leslie.
Thanks for your help and encouragement.
The Lord knoweth the days of the upright: and their inheritance shall be forever.
They shall not be ashamed in the evil time.
Psalm 37:18–19 KJV
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
Señor Scully’s wavy golden blond hair gleamed as the last…
One
In the dim light, Scully let Quinn and Ash, crouching,…
Two
“We need to talk about what’s happening all around us,”…
Three
Hours after Scully had left, Alandra was just finishing her…
Four
Scully and Alandra halted, waiting for riders to approach. In…
Five
Alandra was drowning in fatigue. But more than that, how…
Six
A lighted candlestick in hand, Scully closed the door to…
Seven
With eyes dry and gritty from lack of sleep, Alandra…
Eight
Scully looked at Alandra and then at Quinn. A time…
Nine
Scully and Quinn headed farther northeast, trying to find Sam…
Ten
In front of the hacienda, Dorritt took the ransom note…
Eleven
Alandra had never been as terrified in her life. Though…
Twelve
With Alandra up behind him, Scully led Quinn and Carson…
Thirteen
The next afternoon they rode up the lane of Buena…
Fourteen
Alandra and Dorritt watched their men ride off to join…
Fifteen
After that long, hurry-up day, Scully rode beside Quinn as…
Sixteen
Alandra and Dorritt froze at the same moment. Distant thunder?
Seventeen
Finding Scully alive lifted Alandra, but seeing him marred by…
Eighteen
Slowly, she rose and pointed. “General Santa Anna.” Her voice…
Nineteen
A week had passed since Scully and the rest of…
Twenty
Scully knew he had to be a man and pluck…
Epilogue
Later that year when the days were growing shorter, a…
Historical Note
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Lyn Cote
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
To Texas history buffs: In this novel, I’ve taken dramatic license with two facts. I’ll explain them and the reasons why I “adjusted” history in my historical note at the end.
Prologue
Spring 1835
Señor Scully’s wavy golden blond hair gleamed as the last of the sun’s rays streamed in the west window behind him. Alandra had just hesitantly entered the crowded vaqueros’ sleeping quarters where he sat. Now she looked down at Señor Scully’s hand, which he’d just unwrapped from a makeshift bandage. Sinking into a chair at the table, she sucked in breath. “What were you doing to cause this wound?”
Sitting across from her, the Anglo cowboy tried to hide the long cut with his other hand. Fortunately, the skin was lying over the wound like a flap. But it looked as if someone had neatly sliced the skin back to take a closer look at the bones. She hoped her billowing queasiness was not visible. The other vaqueros leaned or sat around on the bunks and chairs, pressing in on the two of them.
This was the first time she had been left in charge at the Quinn rancho. Both the Quinns and Ash’s family were away, so of course, she should have expected something like this. The Mexican vaqueros would not make a fuss over her treating a wound, would expect it of her. But this Anglo…
She fought to keep her composure. She could not recall ever feeling this aprensivo, squeamish.
Scully growled at her, “I told the others I can take care of this—”
“I am the doña.” She drew herself up proudly.
“That’s right, and a lady like you shouldn’t be even looking at something like this.” He hid his hand under the table.
“You are wrong. This is for me to do.” Ignoring his objection, she reached for his hand.
He jerked away. “You’re just a girl—”
Why was he causing such a fuss? The other vaqueros whistled and scolded the Anglo. A rush of hot embarrassment overwhelmed her. She rapped the top of his head with her knuckles.
“Hey!” He half rose and looked at her resentfully.
“That is what Tía Dorritt does when Carson acts like a child,” Alandra said, trying to hide how fast she was breathing.
“I’m not letting a green girl touch—”
Stung, she leaped forward to rap his head again. He stepped back.
“Scully, are you going to dance the fandango with the señorita?” one of the other vaqueros teased. “Or let her doctor your hand?” The others chuckled and whooped.
Alandra flushed up to the roots of her hair. “Sit,” she ordered, and pointed toward the chair he had left. “Now.”
Scully’s green eyes blazed. The power of the man, so much anger, so much strength, rushed toward her, enveloped her. He glared, looking like a bull ready to charge.
“Toro, toro,” the grinning vaqueros chanted as if this were a rodeo.
Alandra tried to ignore le frivolidad. She devoutly wished she did not have an audience. “Señor Scully,” she ordered, “let us get this thing done.”
She sat back down with dignity. Bending over, she opened the wooden chest at her feet, trying not to reveal how her hands trembled. She went about laying out the brown bottle of iodine, the silver needle, and the silk thread.
Still hanging back, Scully weathered a few more moments of the chanting. Then, with ill grace, he capitulated, dropping down onto the hard chair and placing his hand on the scarred table in front of her.
“Una momento,” a vaquero said. He brought out a half-full bottle of tequila and poured a dram into a glass, shoving it toward Scully. “Drink. For medicine.”
Alandra nodded. The tequila would help the pain.
Scully shook his head. “I don’t drink hard liquor.”
“Stubborn—” Alandra began.
“Toro, toro,” the vaqueros chanted again, teasing the Anglo.
Still glaring, Scully took the glass and downed the shot.
The vaquero poured him another.
Meeting no one’s eye, Alandra acted as if she were unaware of this. She threaded the needle, telling herself she could do this, must do this. I am the doña. I take care of the people.
The vaqueros watched her every move. Their concentration weighed on her. She held her lower lip with her teeth, holding in her sick feeling. She carefully, slowly, stitched, trying to think of cloth, not skin. Scully remained the stoic Anglo throughout—until she poured iodine over the wound.
This forced a yelp from him. The vaqueros joined him, and all of them yowled and yipped like coyotes. Then they called out their approval and applauded her.
Still nauseated and shaky, Alandra packed up the nursing supplies and rose to leave. Politely, Scully stood, but the tequila had done its work. He swayed on his feet.
Amid more catcalling, she pushed him back down. “Come to the big house in the morning, Señor Scully. I’ll need to check for infeccion.” Just before she marched out the door, she looked back. Two of the vaqueros were helping Scully to his bunk. So the proud Yanqui, the severo Anglo,
was human after all.
One
Mid-February 1836
In the dim light, Scully let Quinn and Ash, crouching, move ahead. Not even he could hear Ash and Quinn creeping over the coarse grass, rocks, and sand. Scully made sure of each of his own footfalls.
Ahead, he saw one small fire. It must have been of dried mesquite since it barely revealed any smoke against the nearly dark sky. The three of them eased around in the shadows. Every sound from the camping Indians and their horses made his nerves tighten more and sharpened his listening. Then he heard it—rocks sliding down the hill.
And worse, the Comanches heard it too. Suddenly they were scattering away from the fire, grabbing rifles. How many?
Scully glimpsed Quinn lift his gun. A half-naked Comanche moved into the firelight. He held the señorita clamped against his side. With his other hand, he held a knife to the señorita’s hairline, about to scalp her.
No. Scully aimed and fired. His bullet smacked, plowing deep into the Indian’s forehead. The man was lifted off his feet. The force carried the señorita with him into the shadows beyond the fire.
Scully burst into the camp then, his tomahawk held high. The Mexicans came charging into camp too. Yelling. Gunshots. An arrow whizzed past Scully’s head. A few sharp shrieks. The sound of horse hooves. And then all was silent.
Scully halted at the campfire and looked around. The other Indians and their horses had melted away into the sudden nightfall. He scanned the gloomy darkness for the señorita’s paler skin and found her. He hurried to her side. Kneeling, he lifted her from the ground. Her slender body was limp on his arms; her hair tumbled loose. “Are you all right?”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide with shock. A thin line of blood showed where the knife had etched her flesh. “Why did you shoot?” she demanded, suddenly coming alive. “You could have gotten me scalped.”
He ignored her obvious hysteria and drew her closer to the fire to see if she’d been harmed. Touching her was strange but necessary. Added to the thin red line, her cheek was bruised and her face was smudged with dirt. Tears formed furrows on her cheeks. But her clothing hadn’t been torn. Quinn came to them. “The rest have scattered. How is she?”
“Tío Quinn,” the girl moaned, reaching for him.
Quinn knelt beside her. “You’re alive. You’re fine. We’ll take you home now.”
She pulled away from Scully, and Quinn hugged her.
Scully drew back. That was proper. Quinn and his wife had raised the girl from when her brother died. Ash had explained that tío was Spanish for uncle, and Mrs. Quinn was Tía Dorritt. Years before, Scully had hired on when Quinn was in Louisiana at the end of a cattle drive. The first time he’d seen this señorita, she’d been just a young girl.
Scully listened to their muted exchange as she told Quinn, no, she hadn’t been compromised. Relief like silent thunder rolled through him. Trying to forget the unaccustomed feel of her, soft and light in his arms, he returned his hatchet to his belt and reloaded his rifle.
Then he lifted his canteen to drink and stopped. “Here give her some water.” He wiped the mouth of the canteen with his buckskin sleeve and handed it to Quinn.
She took the canteen but gave Scully a fierce look. “You could have gotten me killed, shooting like that. What if you’d missed? He might have scalped me.” Then she drank long from the canteen.
“I don’t miss.” Scully stood up and turned his back to her. He knew she was not using her normal sense. Still, the señorita’s thankless attitude pierced and pricked him as if he’d swallowed a cactus. Ladies like her, frail and fine, didn’t belong on the frontier. Quinn could have run both ranches, his own and hers. She’d inherited Rancho Sandoval when her brother died. The señorita could be—should be—in Mexico City, where living was easier.
Quinn stood up and handed the canteen back to him. “That was a good shot, Scully. You did right. He was going to scalp her. He thought he could do it and still escape. He was showing off.”
Scully shrugged in response. Now that they’d found the señorita unmolested, a new question occurred to him. “What I want to know,” he said, turning around to face Quinn, “is why this bunch kidnapped the señorita.”
Quinn gazed at him in the faint light. “I want to know the same thing.” He raised his voice. “Did anyone capture any of these renegades?”
Ash came into the faint firelight, his dark skin making him almost invisible except for his glistening eyes and the silver in his hair. “Thought you might want one able to talk.” Ash held up a limp, unconscious Comanche by the shoulder.
“Good.” Quinn helped the señorita to her feet. “Ash, tie up the renegade and gag him. When he comes to, we’ll persuade him to tell us why this happened. Was anyone injured? Did we kill any more of them?”
While the other vaqueros searched, Scully dragged the body of the dead Comanche away from the fire and began covering it with rocks. But in case any other young brave wanted to show off, Scully still watched the shadows of night around the señorita.
A quick survey of the area revealed no others. Quinn whistled to his mount. “If I thought our horses could make it, we’d head back now. But they need rest. Ash, Scully, and I will take the first watch, the rest of you bed down for a few hours.” He repeated this in Spanish.
Quinn settled the señorita wrapped in a blanket near the warmth of the fire but beyond its light. He gave her more water, some pemmican, and the Mexican flatbread. Finishing his task, Scully found he couldn’t look away. He watched her, the girl they’d spent hours searching for. She leaned her head in one hand as she ate. She lifted his canteen to her mouth again, and he watched her swallow. Then as she looked over Quinn’s shoulder at Scully, her expression soured.
Irritated, he drifted away, farther from them, listening and watching. He found a concealed spot and settled back on his heels. He blinked his dry eyes. It was going to be another long night. The Comanche renegades wouldn’t have taken her if they’d meant her no harm. But why had they taken her in the first place? Who would want harm to come to the señorita?
Saddle sore, Scully admitted to relief at seeing the outline of the jacales and adobe buildings of Quinn’s rancho against the cool gray afternoon sky. And Quinn had pulled the rescue off. He rode with the señorita behind him, beside Scully.
Since the night before, neither Scully nor the señorita had exchanged as much as a glance. Somehow this had settled like a sun-baked brick in his stomach. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. I’m just tired.
When they reached the ranch house, Quinn dismounted and helped the señorita off the horse. Quinn’s son Carson came around the side of the house with his mother. Ash slipped from his saddle to be greeted by his wife and son.
Family.
Along with the other vaqueros without family, Scully turned his horse toward their long low adobe house behind the barn.
“Wait, Scully,” Quinn said.
Scully let the others pass him. “What, boss?”
“I want to know why this happened. Put the Comanche in the unused storehouse. Make sure he’s bound tight and can’t escape. All we have to do is pen him up a few days and he’ll tell us anything to get free.”
Scully nodded. The tactic made sense. He pushed up the brim of his hat. “Will do.” He turned away again.
“Scully,” Quinn added, halting him. “Come to supper at the house tonight just before dark. Until then rest.”
Against his will, Scully glanced at the señorita, who was clutching Mrs. Quinn’s arm and mounting the few low steps into the adobe ranch house. She glanced back at him, looking as if she wanted to say something. What?
Then the vaquero who’d been leading the Comanche handed Scully the end of the rope attached to the prisoner’s wrists. Scully headed for the unused storehouse back near the corral. What was this all about? Why did Quinn want him to take supper in the main house? Vaqueros were never invited to eat with the family. Certainly he had never been. He shut his min
d to this. Wondering was always fruitless. He’d find out tonight.
That evening, Scully appeared at the door of the hacienda. He had slept most the day, just waking in time to bathe. He’d dressed with care in his newest buckskins, a red bandanna around his neck and his blond hair tied back with a leather thong. It was an honor to be invited for dinner in the hacienda. Curiosity about why he had been invited had tightened in his stomach. His guess was that it had something to do with the señorita. But what?
Ash’s wife, Reva, plump and pretty, beckoned him inside with a smile of welcome. He doffed his hat and stepped over the threshold. Instantly, the aromas from the kitchen hit his empty stomach, along with the warmth from the welcoming fire on the hearth.
Mrs. Quinn walked forward with her hand held out. He’d gotten used to the fact that though she was an Anglo woman she often wore bright Mexican-style dress at home. Tonight it was blue with fancy embroidery around the neck. But whatever she wore, Dorritt Quinn was always a handsome woman. “Thank you for coming, Scully.”
“Thanks for having me, ma’am.” He grasped her hand for just a moment. It always surprised him how small women’s hands were. He scanned the candlelit room, seeking the señorita, then he stopped himself. Now that she was safe here, she was not his business. Then he glimpsed her through the doorway, near the table. Their gazes connected and she primmed up her mouth like a spinster schoolmarm.
Smiling, Mrs. Quinn took Scully’s leather hat and jacket, hanging them on the pegs alongside the arched Spanish door. “Come. We are ready to sit at the table.”
He followed her into the midst of large open room its massive fireplace to his right. She led him to the left side, where the round, polished oak table gleamed in the candlelight. Under his feet was a wide-stone floor. Raised on dirt floors, he always looked with wonder at this floor. He’d heard that Quinn had ordered the stone all the way from a quarry in Mexico.
The beamed ceiling was higher than in most houses because Mrs. Quinn said it made the rooms cooler in the hot Texas summers. The walls of the house were thick white adobe. And the furniture was of pine, oak, and leather. Silver candlesticks glowed in the low light. There were feathers and pinecones in a polished wood bowl atop a glass-covered bookcase, and near the windows sat several cactus plants in brightly painted clay pots. Mrs. Quinn had a way of making plain things look elegant. Scully liked that. He drew in a deep breath of satisfaction. This wasn’t a house—it was a home. And the nearest he’d ever get to one.
