by Lyn Cote
“I don’t hold with tyranny either,” Scully continued, and with each word, new strength sparked within him. And the words kept coming, as if without knowing it, he’d been thinking about all of it and waiting for this moment to declare himself. “I don’t want men like Santa Anna and Fernando Sandoval having the say over me and others. It’s not right.”
But would Alandra agree? Would she see that he had to go and do this for her? Leave her?
Dorritt looked paler but resolute, her chin firm.
Alandra spoke, her voice low and urgent, “What will you do, Tío Quinn? And Scully?”
Scully stared at her in the chilly barn with sunlight filtering through the boards overhead. In that moment, she appeared to glow with her own light, as though Quinn’s words about honor and liberty had fired her from within. Still, she didn’t draw nearer to him. He felt the space between them. He wanted to move closer to her but hesitated.
“We better make our plans and saddle up,” Quinn said. “We’ll head to Sam Houston, who’s commanding the Texas Army east of here. I don’t think it will be hard to find an army.” He grinned.
“You are going to go to war?” Alandra asked in a breathless voice. “Just like that?” Her eyes looked moist and she was blinking.
Scully couldn’t stop himself. He leaned over and touched her cheek. “Don’t worry.” She looked down, but pressed her hand over his briefly, then drew back. What did that mean? Did she want him to go? Or stay?
“Before we go, Scully,” Quinn said, “we have to figure out how to leave our wives well protected.”
Scully had already thought of this snag.
“I don’t see that as a problem,” Dorritt said, her voice gritty. “Ash is nearly sixty and he won’t be going to war.”
Quinn snorted. “The Anglos wouldn’t welcome him anyway. They don’t want black men to fight alongside them.”
Dorritt looked strained and nodded. “So he and Reva and our men will hold our ranch. Here, Alandra and I have Ramirez, Carson, Antonio, Emilio, and the vaqueros to hold Rancho Sandoval. We will manage to keep as safe as possible.”
Quinn grinned, lifted his wife’s hand and kissed it. “Forgive me. I forgot. My wife is strong.”
Scully moved closer to Alandra, wanting to take her hand, feel it soft and small in his again. He wished she would say something to him. Just a word of how she was taking this.
“Pa,” Carson spoke up, “I’m not staying here while you go fight.”
His expression sobering, Quinn looked to his son. “Carson, you are not yet a man. If you were sixteen, I’d say you should choose. But you have to stay and hold the land.”
“Ma just said that she and the vaqueros can hold the land. I want to go. I want to fight.” Carson’s face flushed to the roots of his hair.
Scully understood the boy wanting to go. And Quinn wanting him to stay safe.
Dorritt rested a hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Son, I know you do, but I need you with me.”
Carson looked mutinous.
Though still uncertain of his place with her, Scully moved to stand by Alandra. The five of them were grouped around Quinn beside the stall. And most of Alandra’s people were still watching from the doorway.
“Son, it is a big thing to ask of you,” Quinn said, “but I ask it too. I need to know that you’re here with your mother guarding her and the baby. This is a lonely world when one is an orphan. What if we lose your mother in childbirth? If I am also taken, who will care for the baby?”
Scully was surprised by Quinn’s bluntness. This was not the way men spoke in front of womenfolk. He cleared his throat. “Your pa’s right, Carson. No one will think less of you if you stay behind to protect the womenfolk. It’s hard being left alone.” All alone in the world like me. He wished Alandra would look at him.
“Sí,” Alandra agreed, “where would I have been without your mother and father to raise me? Family must stick together. Not like my relatives who came only to take whatever they could, but real family. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Real family. Suddenly, Scully felt choked, as if hands had tightened around his throat. Real family. He felt as close as family to these people. But I’m not part of this family. Not really. But he knew how to protect them, and he would.
The next hour raced past. Quinn and Scully packed as much lead and powder as they could into saddlebags. The housekeeper and cook quickly packed pemmican, tortillas, and three sacks, one of dried beans, one of coffee beans, and one of cornmeal, oil, and pans for campfire cooking.
Everyone was hurrying and helping, even Dorritt. Alandra felt completely useless. What could she do for Scully? He had already done so much for her. Would she let him go off to defend her and give him nothing? Then she remembered something of her brother’s and hurried to her bedroom.
Lying prone on the cold tile floor, she reached under the bed and felt around until she found the box secured underneath the bed frame. Holding it with both hands, she hurried back into the courtyard and saw Scully at the door. He would leave for war. Perhaps death. That final word pushed her past the stiffness that had possessed her and kept her silent, until now. He was no longer just the Anglo cowboy. He had become her husband, her friend, her champion.
“Scully,” she called, her throat trying to close. When he turned, she motioned for him to come to her so no one else would see this parting. He turned and moved toward her, looking as uncertain as she felt. That strengthened her, made her bolder.
When he reached her, she took his forearm and pulled him back into the shadows. “I want to give you something,” she murmured. She opened the leather box to reveal two dueling pistols. “These were my father’s and my brother’s. I want you to take them with you.”
He looked at them but made no move to accept them. “But they belong in your family.”
“Sí, they do.” She hoped he understood what she was trying to tell him. But then, what exactly did she mean by this offering? She wasn’t sure. How were they supposed to feel about each other? He had acted on her behalf, maybe was that just loyalty to the Quinns? Maybe more.
There isn’t time.
Closing her mind to this confusion, she took out each heavy, cold pistol and handed it to him. “In battle, I am sure it is best to have as many weapons as you can load and carry. And these are fine pistolas.”
Looking grave, he hefted each pistol in turn. Lifting his poncho, he slipped one into the back of his belt and the other to the left side of his belt. He was about so say something when Alandra heard footsteps approaching.
For some reason she could not have explained, she did not want to be seen alone with Scully in this very private moment. She tugged him deeper into the shadows in the hallway that opened onto the courtyard. She glimpsed Quinn and Dorritt also halt before entering the courtyard, the two of them not far away.
“Stop,” Dorritt said, turning to face her husband. “I’ll say my good-bye to you here.”
Alandra looked up into Scully’s green eyes, holding her index finger to her lips, then tugged him farther back into the shadows. She did not want to eavesdrop on her aunt and uncle. She meant to retreat even farther, but could not as Dorritt spoke again.
“I don’t know how I will bear to have you leave me,” she said. “We have hardly ever been parted since you made me your wife.”
Dorritt leaned her head against Quinn’s chest. He stroked her face and kissed her hair. “I do not want to leave you, my sweet wife, my tall lady. You have made my life more than I ever imagined it could be.”
Dorritt straightened and looked into his eyes. “I feel the same way. But we mustn’t speak as if we’ll never see one another again. I have faith that you will come home to me safe and sound.” She rested a hand on her rounding abdomen. “And be with me for the birth of this child.”
“I believe that too.” Quinn took Dorritt into his arms and kissed her.
Alandra’s emotions were so mixed and so many that she could not untangle them. All s
he knew for sure was that she did not want Scully to go to war. Turning, she wrapped her arms around his chest and clung to him. Do not leave me. Do not go toward danger. She thought the words but could not say them as she rubbed her face against the soft wool of his poncho. Would he push her away? Was she being too forward?
Then his arms came around her and his lips touched the top of her head. Though she was as close to him as one human being could be to another, she yearned to be closer still. She tilted up her chin. And Scully’s mouth came down and claimed hers. Her response was instant and overwhelming. How could mere lips wield such power?
She clung to him, no longer feeling the floor beneath her feet. At that moment, Scully Falconer, her husband, was the only thing that existed for her. The smell of his skin, the feel of muscles under her palms, his strength pressing against her.
But most of all, the exquisite touch of his lips on hers. She answered his kiss with hers and another, then another. Irresistible sensation, mesmerizing experience. Then his breath blew against her cheek and he was whispering into her ear, “I’ll be back. Just stay safe.”
Tears tried to form in her eyes. She blinked and drew in air, refusing them. “I will stay safe. Be careful, Scully. I want you to come home.” She took his hand and pressed it over her heart so he could feel how it raced because of him, because of his having to leave.
He stroked her cheek and gazed into her eyes. No man had ever looked at her this way. It was wonderful; it was overpowering.
Then Quinn, with Dorritt on his arm, stepped into the courtyard. “Scully!” he called. “Let’s be going.”
Scully dipped down once more and stole a quick kiss. It seemed that he wanted to speak, but then he shook his head and released her. “Go first,” he whispered.
“No.” She gripped his hand.
He resisted a moment but then allowed her to lead him by the hand through the courtyard and out the front doors. She wanted him to know how fine a man she knew he was, how much he had come to mean to her. Still, uncertainty over how he viewed their marriage kept her from using words. At this crucial moment she would do nothing to put a strain on the unexplored bond between them.
Dorritt stood beside Quinn, who was already in the saddle. Alandra went with Scully to his mount and waited while he checked the girth and then swung up. Just like Quinn, it hadn’t taken very long for him to be ready to leave for war. His saddlebags were full and a blanket was rolled up behind him. Two canteens hung from his saddle horn. He wore his poncho, with his long rifle slung over his back. All this made it real. He is leaving. He is going away to fight.
Dorritt moved to Alandra, took her hand and led her back to the doorway. Then she stopped beside Carson, who looked as if he were swallowing tears.
Alandra made herself look toward Scully and Quinn. “Vayas con Dios, Tío Quinn. Vayas con Dios, Scully.”
And to herself she said the deep words she could not say aloud, Mi esposo valiente y fuerte.
Scully and Quinn followed the Camino Real as far north as they could and then headed northeast to avoid Bexar. Santa Anna was still there, no doubt gloating over his victory, his slaughter of the Anglos. They followed the high, rushing San Antonio River, then looked for a shallow place to ford so they could cross and continue to head north to the Guadalupe River at Gonzales. It was there that they’d heard Sam Houston was gathering troops.
At midday they came to an abandoned cabin. The door stood open and chickens squawked in the yard. Only the horses had been taken. A cow lowed in the yard where it grazed. They moved on and before nightfall had passed three more abandoned houses. Farms here were sparse. And it was eerie to see them standing empty, even their doors left open.
It looked like people had just left with the clothes on their backs. Dishes of spoiled food still sat on tables inside. The empty houses gave Scully a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. He found himself keeping his voice low, as if someone were sick or had just passed away. At least, Alandra and Mrs. Quinn weren’t in his path. But the empty houses drove deep the fact that this was not a normal time. This was war. People were running for their lives.
He and Quinn stopped and gathered eggs in one chicken yard, knowing they’d make a good easy meal, and that if they didn’t, the eggs would go to waste anyway. Or would fall to the Mexican troopers, who Quinn thought would soon head eastward to engage Sam Houston. Santa Anna would go on killing until he succeeded in running the Anglos out of Texas, or until the Anglos ran him out.
Nightfall was nearly upon them and it was raining on and off when Quinn found a place for them to camp. A grove of oaks and poplar trees where they could take cover huddled around the sandstone riverbank. They hobbled their horses so they could graze and drink at will, then they built a small fire and made coffee and scrambled the eggs they’d gathered, wrapping them in warmed tortillas.
Scully held a tin cup of coffee in his hands and breathed in the fragrant steam. The night was damp and promised to grow chilly. “Where do you think we are?” he asked.
Before Quinn could reply, they heard the sound of voices and the hooves to the west, beyond the live oaks around them. Putting their coffee cups down, they drew their pistols.
“Anglos,” Quinn whispered.
Scully nodded. There had been something strange about the voices.
They silently worked their way through the trees till they could see the strangers coming down the road on horseback. To their surprise, it was two women.
Scully glanced at Quinn, who nodded for him to move out of cover. “Ladies!” Scully called out, pulling off his hat, letting his blond hair show. “Where are you headed?”
Both women were startled, which disturbed their mounts. When they finally managed to get their horses under control, the older woman called out, “Who’s there?”
“I’m Scully Falconer, a hand for Quinn, west of Bexar. And I’m here with Quinn. We’re on our way to join Sam Houston.”
“Quinn?” the woman repeated. “You mean Mrs. Dorritt Quinn’s man?”
“Yes.” Quinn stepped out from among the trees, “I’m Dorritt’s husband, Quinn.”
The woman pressed her hand to her heart. “Thank the good Lord! I’ve heard of your wife, the New Orleans lady who married the half-breed Cherokee. I have a friend in San Antonio who knows her. My daughter and I are traveling alone. Our men are already with Houston and we’re running from the Mexican Army.”
Scully didn’t like the way the woman talked about Quinn being a half-breed, but Quinn didn’t look irritated. He was probably used to such rude comments by now.
Quinn went forward and took the older woman’s reins. “We’re camping here for the night. You women should come on and stay with us. We’ll keep watch over you.”
“Praise God,” the younger woman said, slipping from her saddle. “We’ve been so afraid of staying on our own for the night without a man to protect us.”
She swayed as her feet touched the ground, and Scully gave her his arm. Then he took her reins and walked her horse into the oak grove. A few dry leaves still clinging to branches rustled overhead. Soon they’d hobbled the women’s horses and were all sitting around the fire, drinking coffee and eating tortillas and the rest of the eggs.
It was apparent that the women had left in haste. They hadn’t brought anything but canteens and blankets. “Why didn’t you stay on your land?” Scully asked.
“We’re frightened, of course,” the older woman replied, looking at him as if he lacked intelligence. “You can’t trust Mexicans.”
“You can trust some Mexicans and Tejanos,” Quinn amended. “De Zavala and Navarre are just two of the Tejanos who are for freedom for Texas.”
The woman sniffed. “You heard what that Santa Anna did to the men at the Alamo.”
The younger woman began weeping. “It’s all so horrible.” And then she was leaning against Scully’s shoulder.
He didn’t want her crying on him. He had the urge to leap up, but that wouldn’t be polite. “M
iss,” he said, “you’re safe here with us. Don’t cry.”
She looked up, and in the light of their fire her eyes were swollen and red. She sniffled and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. “It’s all so horrible,” she repeated.
Scully didn’t like the way she was looking at him as if he were a pie she wanted to eat. No, thank you, lady. “Why don’t you turn in?” he suggested. “When my wife’s upset, lying down helps her.”
“Your wife?” the young woman said, abruptly looking as if she were mad at him, in the midst of her tears. “You’re married?”
“Yes, Scully’s married the doña of Rancho Sandoval just days before the Alamo fell,” Quinn said, fighting a grin. “Now you ladies get your bedrolls out and lie down near the fire to keep warm. We’ll stand guard tonight. Sleep, and tomorrow you’ll feel better.”
“Yes,” Scully said, “we’ll keep watch.”
After finishing their coffee, the two women did what Quinn had suggested. Scully nodded to Quinn, letting him know that he would take the first watch.
“You married a Tejano?” the younger woman said, looking up at Scully before he moved off. “Yes.”
“Why?” the older woman asked. “I’m sure you could have found a decent white woman to marry you.”
“I married a fine lady,” Scully said, irritation digging into him like cactus needles.
The women rolled over and tossed, turned, and fidgeted until they finally settled down.
Scully found a stout tree trunk that would hide him from view, while Quinn picked up more fallen branches and boughs to keep the fire going against the creeping chill of the night.
When he passed by Scully, he whispered, “Aren’t you glad you’re a married man? I am.”
Scully managed a grin, but his mind was back at Rancho Sandoval with Alandra. He pictured her in her bed in her high-necked white nightgown. A yearning to be there on the floor beside her dragged at him like a physical pull westward toward home. He’d left her there in order to protect her from Santa Anna’s tyranny, but had that been wise?
He wished he could have cut himself in two, been in two places at once. He bowed his head a moment. God, I don’t like bothering you, but keep my wife safe. Keep them all safe. Please.
