Her Inheritance Forever

by Lyn Cote

  Soon he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, hasty ones. The señorita rose. A plump priest in brown robes and sandals, followed by a servant, hurried inside. “What is it, Señor Veramendi?”

  The older man consulted with the priest in heated whispers, while Alandra prayed and Scully stood guard. Finally, the priest looked up and gave instructions to his servant, “Come to the front.” The man hurried through the small door behind the altar. Señor Veramendi went to Alandra, helped her up and walked up the aisle on his arm. Scully and Ash walked behind them.

  At the front, the padre looked at Scully. “Though you are an Anglo, I’m sure you are a good son of the Church. Please join right hands.” The man gave Scully no opportunity to reply, but went right on in a language he didn’t recognize. Not Spanish. Was it Latin?

  He glanced sideways at Ash, who shook his head, obviously telling him to say nothing. The Anglos who entered Texas were supposed to convert but few had done so. And the Mexicans ignored the issue of religion unless forced to do otherwise, especially since there were so few priests in all of Texas. Scully knew of only this priest here and the one north in Nacogdoches though there might have been more.

  Finally, when Scully was about to ask if the man was going to marry them or not, the priest turned to him and asked in English, “What is your full name?”

  “Scully James Falconer.” His tight throat made it hard to speak.

  “Scully is your first name?”

  “Yes.”

  Then the priest went on with the ceremony in English. “Do you Scully James Falconer take Alandra Maria Inez Sandoval to be your bride?”

  “I do.” Scully had to scrape the words up from the bottom of his throat.

  Then the priest turned to Alandra and asked her the same question. “Do you Alandra Maria Inez Sandoval take Scully James Falconer to be your husband?”

  There was a long pause while everyone waited. Señor Veramendi whispered to her and she shook her head. Finally, the señorita whispered, “I do.”

  Scully sucked in air. Nearly there. He had promised Quinn he’d protect the señorita, and he was. An odd tingling ran through his flesh, as if reminding him that this was real.

  “Is there a ring? And do you have las arras?” the priest asked, holding out his hand.

  Scully was taken aback by the questions. Las arras?

  “I have it,” Ash spoke up. He pulled out a leather pouch and counted our thirteen gold reals. He handed the coins to Scully. “Drop these coins, which are for the poor, through the bride’s fingers to show that you and Alandra will be generous to the poor always.”

  Scully took the coins and did as he was told. The coins dropped between Alandra’s fingers into a collection basket that the priest’s assistant held under her hands.

  “The ring?” the priest prompted.

  Scully looked down at his hand. He had a ring. The gold ring barely fit his little finger on his left hand anymore. He had never thought to take it off but now had a reason to. he grasped it and twisted it slowly, working it off. Then he put it in the priest’s palm.

  Alandra watched him, her head tilted to the side.

  Scully took her hand again. Without the ring, his hand felt naked, and inside him something was shifting, changing. The priest blessed the ring and instructed Scully to slip it onto Alandra’s finger. He did so. The small ring fit her finger as if it had been made for her.

  This wisdom of this hasty marriage seemed like something that should be prayed about. Scully usually figured God had enough to take care of. So Scully took care of himself. But both his mothers had prayed. And so he added silently, God, help me protect this woman. Help me keep her land. I hate that these people are trying to cheat her out of her home. Don’t let them do it. Nobody should be robbed of their home.

  Like I was.

  He glanced at the señorita, and she appeared ready to faint. He took her arm. She looked up at him, her face a pale oval in the dim light. Beautiful.

  The priest took a large double string of beads and laid it around Alandra and Scully’s necks, joining them with it as the sun was rising outside the open doors. Señor Veramendi looked grave, as if this were a funeral, not a wedding. Impelled by the feeling of the moment, Scully leaned down and brushed the señorita’s lips with his. He ignored the rush of sensation that coursed down his neck to his heart. Alandra reacted with a widening of her eyes.

  “What should I do now?” he whispered in her ear, tempted to brush it with his lips too.

  “Thank the priest and pay him,” she whispered back.

  Scully reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch. He gave the priest several gold reals. The priest thanked him, lifted the string of beads from around their necks and made the sign of the cross over them. “Gracias, padre.” Scully took Alandra’s arm and turned her, saying as a husband should, “I need to get you to the inn. You’re done in.”

  The lady said nothing. But she walked beside him as stiff and straight as the long rifle looped with leather that he wore over his back. Leading their horses, they walked outside the church gates, ignoring the curious stares from the townspeople just coming to the church for morning prayers.

  Outside, Señor Veramendi halted under an oak tree. “Señorita Sandoval…I mean Señora Falconer, I must warn you that this is not the time to be in San Antonio. Reports have come to me that are very unsettling. After the siege in December, my son-in-law Bowie with the man Travis are in charge at the old fort. Do not linger here. I am planning on closing my house and going to visit relatives in Chihuahua this very day.”

  “Gracias, señor.” Alandra clasped his hand.

  “Sí, gracias.” Scully held out his hand and the man shook it.

  “Before I leave, I will make official note of your marriage in my last dispatch to Mexico City today. Vayan con Dios.” Veramendi hurried away with a wave.

  Scully, at Alandra’s side, began walking down the dusty main street toward the open plaza along with the others. He couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the señorita. Her face was frozen like the statue in the church. He didn’t know what to do to help her. Or if he could do anything. But she was a good woman and so much trouble had come upon her.

  The fresh pink dawn radiated, reflected, shining even on the cloudy western sky in front of them. But the rosy sky did not lift his spirits as it usually did. None of them spoke. They reached the inn and Ash finally said, “I’ve got family here in Bexar. I’ll take Carson there with me and Antonio. You two check into one room and get some rest. Make sure you stay in one room together. We don’t want this marriage to be in doubt.” He looked to Scully. “We’ll be back after the siesta and then we’ll talk about what to do next.”

  One room. Scully felt as if he were caught within strong arms, which were crushing him. Alone with the señorita. Who didn’t want to be married to him or anyone.

  Ash nodded at the inn servant who ambled over to take Scully and Alandra’s horses to the inn’s livery. Scully watched Ash, Carson, and Antonio leave them. Then he led the lady on his arm into the adobe inn. Within minutes the innkeeper, obviously curious, led them up the steps to their room.

  Five

  Alandra was drowning in fatigue. But more than that, how had her life spun out of control like this? In the past at fiestas, she’d seen men who had drunk too much wine lose their way in the midst of dancing the fandango. They began to wobble and turn and nearly topple. Friends helped them from the dance floor, laughing at their antics. But here and now, though she wobbled and feared she’d fall, she didn’t feel like laughing. How can I turn my life back to the way it was?

  Her numb feet managed to carry her up the stairs and into the small room. Since the coming of the Anglos, San Antonio had grown to a city of over two thousand, but the innkeeper, of course, knew who they were. He lingered in the doorway, smiling but plainly bursting with curiosity. She stared at him, unable to speak and hoping she would not fall on her face.

  Finally, it must have occurred
to Scully that the man was waiting for a tip for walking them up to their room. He reached into his pocket, gave the innkeeper two pesos, and the man left. Scully closed the door behind him. And turned to her.

  Feeling as boneless as a rag doll, she slid down to sit on the edge of the bed. Then the last fragments of her composure began crumbling. I do not want to cry. Do not want this fear, or to let it show. But humiliating tears began to leak from her eyes. She turned toward the shuttered window so Scully wouldn’t see them.

  “Señorita, you must be tired. You should lie down. Try to sleep.”

  His low sympathetic voice ripped away the last remaining thread of her self-control. Deep, loud sobs wrenched her. She felt as if a reckless force had plunged deep into her, ripping her apart. The tears shamed her. The sobs embarrassed her. Yet she could not stop them. Lying back, she turned away and wrapped her arms around herself as if she were coming undone.

  A large hand touched her shoulder. The touch was uncertain and gentle, like a shy colt nudging her. Yet she couldn’t turn toward Scully, let him see her like this.

  “Señorita, don’t cry. Please don’t worry. We’ll get through this.” The low voice came again, cutting away her mask and opening her to him.

  She tried to stop weeping but couldn’t. Tried to pull herself back to one piece. She couldn’t.

  “You don’t think I would try and…hurt you?” Scully’s question sounded hesitant. “You know you are safe with me. Don’t you?”

  She rolled back so she was facing him. She still could not stop crying enough to form words. So she took his hand and tried to squeeze it. Yes, you would never hurt me.

  He knelt beside the bed so their eyes were level. His large hand covered hers. It was so heavy, yet his touch so soft. She resisted its pull. She could not give in, act the helpless female. She was not just any young woman.

  I am the doña.

  She tugged free of his touch, and he stepped back and folded his arms. She sensed that she had wounded him with this snub, but could not help that.

  Slowly, slowly, she gained control again. The sobs waned and she began wiping away her tears with her fingertips. In the low early light, Scully’s gold band now on her ring finger caught her eye. Who had worn this ring before she? Dare she ask this distante vaquero, her almost-husband? No. It was not for her to pry.

  Scully pulled a red bandanna from his pocket and handed it to her. “Use this,” he ordered gruffly. “It’s clean.”

  For some reason, this made her smile. She used the bandanna, which smelled of buckskin, to wipe away her tears. Finally she was able to sit up. “I am sorry I broke down like that. I am not a helpless weeping female.”

  His large eyes remained on her. “I don’t think you’re a helpless female. You’ve just been through a heck of a lot in one week. You were kidnapped by Comanche renegades. Relatives come and say they’re going to take your land. And then you have to ride all night to marry someone you hardly know. And an Anglo to boot,” he added, with an edge to his last words.

  She did not know how to take back rebuffing his kindness, so she fastened on the only thing that mattered between them. “I know you. I know the kind of man you are. Tía Dorritt and Tío Quinn value you. They sent you to protect me. I know that I can trust you.” Then she added his full name, “Scully James Falconer.”

  Scully looked embarrassed by her words. In the early morning light streaming from the window, his wavy hair was almost the same color as a polished gold real. Her fingers itched to delve into his hair. To warm her fingers there? “Why do you always cover your hair?” she asked, then blushed at her forwardness.

  He too looked even more discomfited now. “I’m out under the sun all the time. I burn easy.”

  His modesty disarmed her. She sat very still gazing into his deep-set eyes. They were as vivid a green as a palm leaf. She rushed to end the sudden silence. “You are right, of course. About both matters. This week my life has…” She couldn’t come up with a word or words to describe what had happened to her. She drew in a ragged breath and strengthened her voice. “But I will not give in. I will fight for what is mine.”

  Scully nodded solemnly. “Yes, miss.”

  “You must stop calling me that,” she instructed him. “You must call me by my name, or querida.”

  “What does querida mean?” he asked.

  “Dearest or dear one.”

  “I couldn’t call you that. Wouldn’t be right.”

  His shyness eased her qualms. “Then you must call me by my first name. You would not call your wife ‘miss,’ would you?”

  “Guess not.” He closed his mouth and looked stern. “Alandra, you must rest now.”

  She nodded, knowing she could do nothing else. “Would you pull off my riding boots?” She hated to ask him but the boots were made to fit tight. And once more her fatigue was numbing her, as if her body were falling asleep bit by bit before her mind gave in.

  “Sure.” He moved to the bed. Brushing her ankles with his fingers, he quickly slipped her boots off and set them on the floor. “Now you rest. I’ll just bunk here on the floor.”

  She was already almost asleep, but picked up the other pillow and tossed it to him. “Good night,” she whispered, lying down, closing her eyes and hearing him moving around, fading into sleep. Bless us. Keep us safe…

  Upon hearing a quiet tap on the door, Scully rose from the floor beside the bed. The señorita…or he should say, Alandra, was sleeping soundly. When he opened the door, he found Carson in the hall. Scully held a finger to his mouth, stepped out, and shut the door behind him, murmuring, “What is it, Carson?”

  “We slept the morning and then had dinner at Ash’s family’s place. I decided to come here and see how you two are doing.”

  “The…Alandra’s sleeping still. I don’t want to disturb her.”

  Carson looked at Scully with brows drawn together, reminding him strongly of Quinn. “Things are happening here in town. Rumor has it the Mexican Army is on its way to the Alamo.”

  Scully shoved his hands through his hair. “Think it’s true?”

  “Don’t know. But Señor Veramendi isn’t the only Tejano packing up and leaving town. I talked to a few I’ve met in the past and they say it’s true. They don’t want to be here if there’s another battle or siege. No matter which side wins.”

  Scully glanced toward the closed door behind him. “Carson, will you stay here with my…with Alandra while I go take a look at the Alamo?”

  Carson took a moment and then nodded.

  “Go inside and sit in the chair by the window. When she fell asleep, she was plenty upset, and I don’t want her to wake up without someone she knows here.”

  Carson nodded. “You coming right back?”

  “Yes.” He let Carson in and picked up his hat, which had been discarded by the pillow on the rug where he was napping. Then he left silently, hurried down the stairs and outside. It was raining. He realized that he had been aware of this in some part of his mind. He just hadn’t put the sound of the rain on the roof together with actual rainfall. I must be as tired as the señorita…as Alandra.

  Scully went to the inn’s livery and, from his saddle bag, removed his many colored poncho, made of such tightly woven wool that it shed water like oilcloth. He slipped his head through the hole in the middle and then walked as fast as he could toward the old mission fort, the Alamo. As he proceeded up Commerce Street, he saw that Carson was right. Even in the drenching rain, Tejanos were packing up and leaving. His gut tightened. I need to get Alandra home safe and soon.

  He reached the Alamo, and the old colonial fort and mission looked dismal in the rain. This would be where it would happen. This is what the Mexicans would want to take back after General de Cos had lost San Antonio de Bexar in December. What were the Texians doing here to prepare for that?

  The unpleasant answer came quickly. Nothing much was going on within the walls. Scully walked into the old fort without any challenge. He gazed around. Some m
en lounged near a long building. One of them looked up and hailed him.

  Since the man was under the protection of an overhanging roof, Scully walked over and ducked under the cover. He recognized the Anglo, though he didn’t recall the man’s name.

  “Aren’t you Quinn’s man?” the stranger asked.

  Scully nodded and held out his hand. “I’m Scully. What’s going on?”

  “I’m Allen.” The man shook his hand and shrugged. “We’re just waiting to see if the Mexicans are going to try to take the fort back.”

  “Rumors are that the Mexican Army’s on its way.” The rain poured off the wood shake roof, splashing up on Scully’s boots.

  “Let ’em come,” Allen retorted. “One Texian with a rifle is worth a hundred Mexicans.”

  Scully didn’t like this man, but what did that mean? Nothing. He had worked alongside vaqueros long enough to know that skin color meant little. What was inside a man’s heart counted. Just like his boss had proved that what most people thought about half-breeds was false.

  Scully scanned the fort and was glad he wasn’t going to be defending it. Though the stone walls were thick, they weren’t all that high. With a boost from below, a man could climb over them. There was a gap too.

  Two other Anglos had been listening in. One asked, “You come to join up?”

  Scully shook his head. “No, I’m just taking a look around.”

  “What? Are you a coward?” the same one sneered. “You afraid of some Mexicans?”

  Under his poncho, Scully’s hand automatically drifted down to his side where his pistol sat in his belt.

  “Hey,” Allen warned, holding up a hand, “this is Scully, a top hand for one of the biggest ranchers in these parts, Quinn.”

  Scully stared at the two strangers.

  “Well, then why isn’t this Quinn and Scully joining up to fight the Mexicans?” the same Anglos jibed, his hands on his hips.

  “We got other things to do,” Scully said. “You’re not from around here.” He kept his hand on his pistol though he doubted he would need to use it.