by Lyn Cote
Summoning everyone to the meal, Quinn seated his lady at the round table. She looked up at Scully and motioned toward the chair to her right. “Scully, will you please seat Señorita Alandra?”
Scully tensed. He’d never seated a lady before. And now he had to do it for this Tejano lady who was still irritated with him—only heaven knew why. Following Quinn’s example, he moved forward and pulled out the chair. The señorita didn’t look back, but slipped in front of him and sat down. He slid the chair closer to the table, drawing in the sweet fragrance from her glossy black hair, now twisted into a neat figure eight and pinned up at the nape of her neck. This morning it had been loosed, looking wild like the mane of a black mare.
“Gracias,” the señorita murmured.
“Welcome, miss,” Scully muttered. She always had that edge to her voice when she talked to him. Still uncomfortable, he sat beside her, where Quinn had waved him.
Then Ash and Reva with their son Antonio, and the Quinn’s son Carson, with his other friend Emilio Ramirez, gathered around the table too. The three friends, Antonio, Carson, and Emilio were close in age, gangly and just leaving off being boys and becoming men. The skin of each showed their heritage. Carson was tanned from the sun and Quinn’s Cherokee blood. The other boy, Emilio, had the Tejano complexion and Antonio was the darkest and favored his father Ash.
“We’ll give thanks first,” Quinn said, and bowed his head. “Dear God, thank you for loving us and bringing us safe home. And thank you for keeping our little Alandra safe. And thanks for this fine meal. Amen.”
Scully looked up. It always surprised him when Quinn prayed. He didn’t look like a praying man, with his long tail of hair and buckskins.
In the door behind Mrs. Quinn a plump Tejano girl in a bright turquoise skirt, waiting to serve the meal, grinned at him, flirting. In several trips she carried in bowls of hominy, beans, flatbread in rounds they called tortillas, pickled red and green peppers, and a large beef roast, crusted with black pepper. As she placed a dish in front of him, the girl smiled at him. He acted like he hadn’t seen it, but Ash winked at him.
The señorita glowered at the girl.
Ignoring this, Scully accepted bowls of food and passed them on with care. The proud señorita beside him made him feel that he didn’t belong here. And in truth he didn’t—he had lived a rough life. But an honest one. The serving girl came to him and filled his glass from a clay pitcher. She managed to brush up against him, and he felt his face burn.
The señorita sniffed and averted her eyes.
The girl finished serving and left the room. Scully wished he could too. Sitting beside the señorita made him feel as awkward as a mule harnessed with a thoroughbred.
“Tío Quinn,” the señorita spoke up right away, giving Quinn a pointed look. “I am not your little Alandra anymore.”
“I beg your pardon,” Quinn said. “I keep forgetting you’re all grown up.” His voice was light but his eyes were serious.
“I am nineteen and I am running my own rancho,” the señorita said, lifting her chin.
Quinn smiled and raised his glass to her. “You are indeed. Again, mi culpa.”
Scully was still amazed that an unmarried woman would tackle running her own cattle ranch. But Tejanos, like Comanches, did things differently. He began eating then, savoring the rich flavors and the tenderness of the beef. Mrs. Quinn always raised a few cattle on corn at the ranch, and he’d come to love the taste of cornfed beef.
As he chewed, he had the feeling that he was being watched. He turned his head and caught the señorita quickly looking away. Why was she looking at him? Wasn’t he eating proper enough for her? He wiped his chin with the white linen napkin, then continued eating, staring at the bookcase on the far wall.
Finally, Quinn cleared his throat. “We’ve got some talking to do,” he said, “and Scully, I wanted you to hear this because I’m going to need you to take on a new responsibility.”
Scully nodded. He had no doubt this would have something to do with the kidnapping.
Alandra wondered what Quinn meant by that. Why was the distante Anglo vaquero here at all? She shut her eyes for a moment. A night and day of fear had weakened her. Though she had fared well, her body still ached from her rough treatment by the renegades. And at times the terror of the first few hours still caught around her lungs, making it hard to breathe. But stretching her shoulder muscles bit by bit, she shoved this down again. I was not hurt. I am alive.
Then she noticed that her fork was shaking, her hands betraying her. She pressed them together in her lap. Tears tried to well up in her eyes. She blinked rapidly and took in breath slowly, willing herself to calm, to show no aftereffects of her fear.
Unwillingly, she looked toward Scully again, and found him watching her in that remote way of his. As always, she was intrigued by the gold wedding band he wore on the little finger of his left hand. Had the man lost a young wife?
Quinn cleared his throat again. “Scully, I want you to go to Rancho Sandoval and work for Miss Alandra.”
Alandra’s head snapped up. “What?” Beside her, she sensed Scully go very still. She swung toward him, examining his cool green eyes, the mirror of his soul, according to what Dorritt had taught her. The Anglo cowboy appeared just as shocked as she was. And just as hesitant to be thrown together. This Scully never missed an opportunity to let her know that he didn’t think she could run a ranch.
She looked to Quinn, holding in her distress. “With respect Tío Quinn”—and she did respect this man who had protected her and raised her—“but I am the one who hires men for Rancho Sandoval.” Her stomach started jumping. Quinn’s words had unleashed everything she wanted to forget about last night.
Quinn looked even more serious. “Yes, you do. But Dorritt and I agree that there is something strange about this kidnapping. It doesn’t follow.”
Ash nodded, pushing back his chair. “I agree. There was no reason for these renegades to skirt Quinn’s thousand acres and single you—the Sandoval—out. The Comanche don’t care about wealth like you have. They care about horses and guns, not gold or deeds.”
“Then why did they take Lonnie, Pa?” Carson demanded, his changing voice cracking, making him turn red.
It warmed Alandra to hear Carson’s outrage and worry, and his use of his nickname for her. He was the closest person to a younger brother she had. But it chilled her to confront this question. Why had she been taken?
“I don’t know,” Quinn admitted, folding his hands and resting his elbows on the table. “I questioned the renegade late this afternoon but he still wouldn’t tell me anything. I don’t know if he even knows anything. I’ll keep trying till I think it’s hopeless.” He shook his head. “I just didn’t see anything like this coming. Since I came to an agreement with the Comanche when I built this house, they’ve stayed away from us…and from Rancho Sandoval.” Quinn lifted his cup of coffee and shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense.”
Alandra looked down, afraid her face might betray her. She must not let fear rule her life. She was the doña now. “But—”
Quinn interrupted. “Alandra, that’s why I want Scully to go home with you—”
No. Not this stiff Anglo.
She protested, “But I have Emilio’s father, Ramirez—”
“Ramirez is a good man, a good foreman.” Quinn cut her off. “But while the Comanche don’t bother Anglos, they don’t mind attacking Mexicans. If Scully—an Anglo who’s been my top vaquero for years—is at your rancho, the Comanche will think twice. His reputation is known to them. The fact that he took out the brave last night in the dark from that range is enough to make any other renegade shy away. Don’t think that story won’t spread.”
Alandra thought on what Quinn had said, clasping her hands tight together. She could not argue even one point. All Mexicans resented the fact that while Comanches, the most feared tribe in Texas, seemed to look upon Anglos as adversarios to be careful of, they had no problem raiding Mexi
can or Tejano ranches. Since the Quinns had run her ranch while she grew up, it had come under Quinn’s protection. But perhaps the Comanches thought that this had ended when she took over management of her ranch. And, yes, Scully’s reputation as a fighter and vaquero had been established even before last night’s daring shot.
The sound cracked in her ears again. The knife blade cut into her forehead. A scream crawled up her throat. She stared down, holding everything in, aware of Scully’s attention on her—as if he knew what she was feeling.
Breaking the abrupt silence, Carson asked, “Pa, do you think someone will try to kidnap Lonnie again?”
But Dorritt, not Quinn, replied, “If we don’t know why she was kidnapped this time, how can we know that, son?”
“We don’t know who to take aim at,” Quinn added, hitching up one shoulder. “Who we’re up against.”
“Well,” Ash drawled, “I recall one person who hated Alandra’s brother enough to try to shame him and kill him.”
Alandra froze. Scully’s hand resting on the table next to her plate suddenly clenched.
Sitting beside Ash, his wife Reva nodded. “I remember that lying snake too.”
Alandra swallowed a gasp, her pulse racing. Then her words gushed out. “That is not possible. My cousin has been gone all these years. My brother—may he rest in peace—hired men to hunt him till they finally gave up. He told me he thought our cousin must be dead.”
Dorritt took her hand. “Yes, but your brother could have been wrong. Your cousin might still live—”
“And you think he still hates me?” Alandra murmured, a shudder ripping through her.
“And that isn’t all the bad news,” Quinn added.
“What do you mean, Pa?” Carson asked.
Alandra held her breath. She had some idea what Quinn was about to say, but at his words, she wanted to close her eyes, jump up and run away.
Two
“We need to talk about what’s happening all around us,” Dorritt replied, instead of Quinn. “It will certainly affect us all no matter who wins this rebellion.”
“You mean what happened in Bexar in December?” Scully asked. The trouble in Texas had been going on for nearly a year now. He didn’t say it out loud but he didn’t see how the battles between the Mexicans and the Texians would affect him.
Mrs. Quinn nodded. “Yes, the Mexican General de Cos surrendered to the Anglos. But San Antonio de Bexar, with the old fort—the Alamo—is too choice a stronghold to be relinquished. I have every certainty that General Santa Anna will try to win it back.”
“Santa Anna,” Ash said, “scares me.”
Scully didn’t believe any man scared Ash, but Ash saying this caught his attention. This was serious, then.
Looking down, Ash slid an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “More than a decade ago, Santa Anna was with General Arredondo when he massacred the American adventurers, the filibusters, who were trying to take Texas for the U.S. Not only the filibusters, but every man with them. Over three hundred slaughtered.”
A horrified silence pressed down over all of them around the table. What kind of man had three hundred people killed?
“Angloamericano settlers,” Quinn spoke up, “have never had any real intention of becoming Mexicans. But as long as they were left alone north of the Rio Grande, they were fine, enjoying the land that is making them rich from slaves and cotton. But I don’t think the powers in Mexico City are going to let things go on as they have been.”
“They want to make the Anglos knuckle under,” Ash added.
“And the Tejanos too,” Emilio spoke up for the first time.
Scully had been surprised that many Tejanos, Texians of Mexican descent, didn’t like being classed as Mexican, what he had mistakenly called them at first.
“What do you think will happen?” the señorita asked, sounding worried. But Scully noticed she purposely turned her head away from him.
Mrs. Quinn laid a hand on the señorita’s arm. “We don’t know, but we can’t bury our heads in the sand. We have to be alert and careful. We want you to go home and be with your people. But this is the other reason we want Scully to go home with you. War is dangerous even to those who take no part in it. Innocents always die. History has taught us that awful lesson.” She pressed her lips together.
And we don’t want it to happen to you, Alandra. Scully heard Mrs. Quinn’s unspoken words. And they dropped inside him like a handful of lead shot. War. He knew what his decision about this should be. But it was hard, very hard.
After the evening meal Alandra stepped out onto the wide porch into the chilly, starry night to get away from all the concerned faces and to think. She pulled her dark wool rebozo tight around her. Barely recalling the meal she had just finished, she wished everything could be the way it had been three days before. But even that would be no remedy. This fight between Mexicans and Texians had started nearly a year ago.
Scully followed her outside, no doubt on his way to join the other vaqueros. She did not want this man on her land. The thought of him being sent as a guard irritated her like an ill-fitting sleeve catching her with every move.
Then her mind dragged her back to the night before. Fresh, sharp, and appalling sensations slashed through her flesh. Awakening to a hand clamped over her mouth, being dragged from her bed, gagged and bound with bands of buckskin and bundled out her window.
Twisting, clawing, punching, she had fought the Comanche every step of the way. But she had been overpowered, helpless. In the moonlight, her captor had grinned at her, amused by her efforts.
Another rush of raw terror made her stumble. Scully caught her before she fell. For just one moment she clung to him. His sinewy arm was as stout as a tree limb. Show no weakness, especially to this Anglo. She stiffened and pushed away from him. “Gracias. I am afraid I am still a little fatigued.” Still a little terrified.
She drew up all her reserves, all the endurance that she had gained from life here on the frontier. Her brother had been strong to the end, and she would be too.
But had someone wanted to bring her end early? She looked away, willed away the telltale moisture in her eyes. I am the dueña of Rancho Sandoval. I am strong. I take care of my people, myself.
Against her will, she looked up at the Anglo. He was taller than Quinn and Ash and had the same slender but sturdy build. Scully always put her in mind of a mustang, tamed enough to accept a bridle but still wild. And proud.
She drew in breath. She probably owed this man her life, or at least her scalp. She should try to explain why she reacted as she had when he had saved her from the renegade. This task made a bitter taste in her mouth. No, she couldn’t speak of her panic that night. Men always deemed showing any emotion as a sign of weakness—a reason to dismiss a woman as less than a man.
But it would be ungracious not to express her thanks. She cleared her throat. “Please, señor, I wish to thank you—”
He cut her off. “Don’t mention it.”
Alandra glared at him. She’d forgotten this man was no gentleman. A gentleman knew how to accept an expression of gratitude with grace. She primmed her lips. “Then I bid you buenos noches, señor.”
He started down the steps but then halted. He looked up. Their eyes connected and held. “You don’t think you need me at your rancho, right?”
She did not want to need this man, or any man. And why was he speaking like this? Usually this Anglo did not speak unless asked a question. Why was this vaquero so silent, so reservado, now speaking to her? Pity?
Offense stiffening her spine, she turned her back to him and leaned against the nearest porch post. She said to the night, not to him below her on the steps, “You do not want to come to Rancho Sandoval, do you, Señor Scully?”
“No, I don’t.”
His bald answer made her react perversely, and she heard him take another step away, leaving. To detain him, make him wait on her, she glanced over her shoulder at him. He had come to this rancho while she
was still a girl and yet he remained a stranger. “Where do you come from?” Why are you here?
He eyed her a moment before replying. “Born in Kentucky.”
She held him still with her gaze. She would force him to reveal something more of himself. “Is your family still there?”
“Don’t have family.”
His stark reply touched that tender place where the ache of never having known her parents and her deep love for her late brother still lingered. She pressed a hand to her heart as if able to staunch that deep emptiness. Her stiffness vanished. “I have no family, no blood relatives either.”
In contrast to her sudden softening, he made no response other than a slight nod.
She studied his profile in the candlelight glowing from the windows. Then she stared away into the night. She shivered. The terror crouched inside her, waiting to seize her again. Two nights ago her life had changed. Or at least her perception of it.
Before that night, she had taken safety for granted. Who would harm the mistress of Sandoval, Quinn’s adopted niece? Now she wondered if she could ever feel that safe again.
But even if her dread lingered, why couldn’t her own people protect her? She did not want this man, this distante Anglo, as her protector. She did not want to believe that war might come to Rancho Sandoval.
She rubbed her arms, warding off the penetrating night chill, but her voice did not betray this. “Tío Quinn thinks you should come to Rancho Sandoval. But I am the one who must decide whether I agree or not.”
“Oh?” he countered in that low, expressionless voice.
She stared down at him, putting him in his place. “Yes, but I understand you take your orders from Quinn.”
She turned and walked back inside. Instantly, two different emotions—one after the other—crashed over her. First, the familiar hacienda welcomed her—the glowing fire on the hearth, the sight of Quinn reading his Bible aloud while Dorritt, nearby, knitted cotton yarn into socks and listened to her husband. And on the floor in front of the fire, Antonio and Carson, sprawled on their bellies, played chess while Emilio watched, teasing the other two. Home.
