Her Inheritance Forever

by Lyn Cote

  The little girl looked up.

  “You can call me Lonnie, like Carson did when we were children, and you can call Carson’s mother Tía Dorritt, like I do. Tía means aunt in Spanish. Sugar, we can walk right over there in the meadow by the timber. There might be some dandelions or maybe a bluebonnet or two. Bluebonnets are my favorite.” Alandra quivered but pushed down her own panic.

  “I recall one year going to San Antonio with Tía Dorritt…” She paused to nod at Dorritt. “…when I was a little girl, and the whole prairie was a quilt of green grass and bluebonnets.”

  The words flowed on their own from Alandra’s mouth, leaving her exhausted. But they stirred up the memory of her early journeys with the Quinns—after the death of her beloved brother. The brother whom Mendoza had wounded, and in the end who had died from the long-term effects of that wound. Now sorrow swirled in and around her miedo—her fear.

  Dorritt smiled at Alandra. “I remember that visit. The prairie was blue with them, and you wanted to just stop and play in the flowers.”

  With these simple memories, the deep well of sorrow over losing her brother opened wide again. Alandra tried to hide that the old sadness was trying to suck her under. She forced herself to keep smiling.

  According to what Carson had told them on the way to Buena Vista, this little girl might have lost everyone. At the very least, she had been left behind, left alone. As Dorritt had done for her years ago, Alandra took pity on the innocent child and held out her hand. “Carson likes flowers too. I used to pick them with him when we were children.”

  Like a wary dog approaching a stranger, the little girl inched toward her. Alandra kept smiling and holding out her hand. The little girl didn’t take her hand, but nodded toward the meadow. Closing the gap between them, Alandra finally took the little hand in hers with a gentle but firm touch.

  If she could not banish her own lingering dread, she could at least try to help this little innocent. “Come. We will make a chain of wildflowers and show them to Carson when he comes back for the next meal.”

  Dorritt sighed. “I think I’ll rest for a bit. Take a short siesta.”

  “We will not leave your sight,” Alandra promised. Then she led the child through and around the many individual camps where soldiers grouped together. And then they were in the open, luxurious green meadow, dotted by the spring flowers. The little girl began to pick the first brave daisies of the spring and the unabashed golden dandelions.

  Alandra showed her the low-growing blue dayflowers, flourishing between the tree roots. And then they examined white antelope horns, a kind of milkweed plant on which little white blossoms grew out like the spokes of a wheel, creating airy balls about two inches in diameter. And there were foxgloves, tall and lavender.

  As Alandra touched the delicate flowers, stroked their leaves, and sniffed their wild, fresh fragrances, her spirits lifted. The two of them roamed from clump to clump, picking flowers at will. Then Alandra sank to the ground, leaned back on her palms, and stretched her legs before her and leaned her head back. Closing her eyes, she let the sun warm her face.

  But in an instant she heard the sound of the pistol shot that killed her cousin exploding in her head. She saw the bullet plow into his chest and his body jerk. Her eyes flew open, her heart pounding as if she’d just sprinted across the meadow. I must not let the child see I am upset.

  The little girl had dropped down beside her. And just as every child did, she began plucking the petals of the daisies one by one. Alandra picked up one of the dandelions and held it to the child’s skin. The golden flower glowed next to the pale cheek. “You are pretty,” she said, dragging the soft flower down the side of the child’s face.

  The little girl shook her head and turned her back to Alandra.

  “I think you are muy linda, very pretty,” Alandra insisted.

  Another wave of terror slashed through her like a knife slicing into her flesh. She was being dragged aboard the ship, and then watched the captain pay the bandidos gold for her. She gulped air and held herself still, though her blood pounded and she wanted to spring to her feet and run.

  “Which flower do you like best?” she asked the girl, forcing herself to speak in as normal a voice as she could.

  The little girl looked over her shoulder at Alandra, then stroked a bluebonnet with one tiny finger.

  Alandra sighed. “Yes, it is hard to have a favorite, though. I like them all.”

  Another memory attacked her then. She was manhandled down the steps into a ship’s hold, which stank so vilely that she retched again and again. She was sure she was lost. For good. Scully would never find her.

  Alandra blinked back tears but couldn’t keep herself from stroking her wrists, which were still raw from all those days of being bound. She forced a smile for the little girl. What had the child seen or lived through that she kept her from talking, from even telling them her name?

  Alandra continued tracing the dandelion along the curve of the little girl’s ear. “You are going to be all right. We will take care of you.”

  Then, staring into Alandra’s eyes, the little girl began to cry, tears trickling down her smudged cheeks.

  Alandra pulled her close and rocked her in her arms just as Dorritt had held and comforted her when they had reached Buena Vista after the kidnapping. Alandra stroked the soft hair and sang the words that Scully had sung to her the night before. And as she did, the beautiful words flowed over her like water yet seemed unable to soak into her heart. She held her feelings in. No tears rained down her face.

  She starred up at the limitless blue sky above the endless rolling prairie. How could she shield this child from what might come? She had not been able to protect herself from her relatives stealing her parents’ land. Or from the bandits Mendoza had prompted to kidnap her. She kissed the child’s fine, silky hair. How could she shelter this little child in the midst of a war? How could everything or anything ever be all right again?

  As the shades of golden twilight were claiming the sky, even Scully was saddle sore. And worn thin as thread with the waiting. Days, weeks, nearly a month spent training had passed. Sam Houston’s troops, still avoiding the Mexican Army, were now retreating northeast to Harrisburg to protect the provisional Texas government, which had fled there.

  In all this time, Houston’s grumbling, frustrated army had seen no Mexicans. But knowing that Santa Anna’s army was out there, marching through Texas looting and burning, kept Scully’s nerves on edge. And the worst part was, he had to hide it. Alandra was still jumpy and withdrawn. He could not add to her worry.

  As he had for weeks, he had ridden all day with Alandra behind him. While nearby Dorritt rode on Carson’s horse with the little girl they now called Sugar. Her son walked beside them.

  Quinn had been away most of the day scouting. His reputation as a scout had reached Sam Houston’s ears, and Quinn had become one of the lead scouts, along with “Deaf” Smith. What would he find while scouting? Where was Santa Anna?

  Now, nearly dark, the order finally came down the line to stop for the night and make camp. Breathing a sigh of relief, Scully swung down away from Alandra’s soft form, which had moved against him with the horse’s gait—pure torture. Each night had been a similar torture for him. And another long night of it loomed ahead.

  The final glow from the sun radiated burnished rays like polished bronze over the horizon. Alandra looked over at him in the low light. He tried to read her expression, but as usual, her face was closed to him. Over the past weeks, she always looked pinched and tired. Her nightly bad dreams disturbed both of them, and they both suffered the same fatigue from broken sleep. But he had another reason for sleeplessness.

  Could he bear another night of having Alandra lying soft against him and not being able to touch her the way a man touched his wife? But she had been through a horrible ordeal, and they were in the midst of an army. This was not the time to ask her to consummate their marriage.

  “Something’s
happening ahead,” Alandra said, sounding exhausted. “Some commotion. I see Tío Quinn.”

  Scully motioned that he’d heard her. Knowing that he might be needed as a scout, he swung up into the saddle. He leaned down, squeezed her hand, then galloped toward the front of the assembled army.

  Had they finally found a way to face Santa Anna and his much larger force? Lord, let it be so. But he tried not to let his hopes rise as he rode past the forward troops, the infantry, who had stopped marching and had thrown themselves onto the ground, exhausted. Soon they too would light fires and begin preparing suppers.

  General Sam Houston stood amidst the scouts. Scully swung down from his horse and drew near enough to hear what was happening.

  Among the buckskin and homespun-clad scouts stood three unhappy-looking men, two in blue and white Mexican uniforms. Many pistols were aimed at them. Houston, holding a slim leather pouch and a document, looked around. “Anyone read in Spanish?”

  Quinn raised a hand, and Houston gave him the document. Quinn took a moment to read, then looked up. “We must have captured two Mexican couriers. It’s a dispatch. Santa Anna is telling General de Cos and General Fisola that he has burned most of Harrisburg but didn’t catch the Texas rebel government he intended to execute.”

  Execute. Scully had no trouble believing that. Images of the slaughter he had witnessed had been seared into his mind. He clenched his jaw to keep himself from interrupting.

  Quinn paused to read silently again before resuming. “The rebel governor has fled, he thinks, to Galveston or New Washington. So Santa Anna headed southeast along the San Jacinto River toward the bay. But he’s coming back to cross the river at Lynch’s Ferry.” Finished, Quinn handed the document back to Houston.

  A few men made sounds of surprise. Houston said, “So Santa Anna’s cut himself off from the main body of the army, then. And he’s only a day or so march ahead of us.”

  Scully’s breathing quickened. This information must be what they had all been awaiting. His horse fidgeted, and he stroked its neck, soothing him.

  Deaf Smith spoke up, “I done some nosing around up there, and Santa Anna will be taking his army onto a neck of wooded land that juts out between San Jacinto Bay and Buffalo Bayou. With a marsh to the east and another bayou to the south, it’s a perfect trap.”

  A trap? Was it possible that the strutting general who Scully recalled all too clearly might make such a blunder? Might lead his column of troops into such a snare out on the open prairie? In a heavy silence, he waited for their general to speak.

  Houston suddenly beamed. “So General Santa Anna has divided his army, weakened his advantage. And if he will be so obliging as to put himself into such an indefensible place then I think we better beat him to Lynch’s Ferry. We will be waiting there to spring the trap when he marches his army into it. If we can catch this general, this butcher who is also the dictator of Mexico, we will have a bargaining chip that could force the Mexicans to make peace on our terms.”

  The excitement that was suddenly on every face burst inside Scully too. Was this the chance they’d been waiting for? Could they catch Santa Anna away from his superior numbers? They were only about nine hundred men, a small force compared to Santa Anna’s thousands. But now that the Mexican general had evidently split his larger army into three parts, their numbers were about equal.

  General Houston rolled the document into a scroll and tapped it against his chin as he thought. Every man watched him, waiting for what they’d all longed to hear.

  Houston turned to his officers, who had gathered here too. “We won’t bother going to Harrisburg. The government isn’t there anyway. We’ll cross the small bayou ahead of us and then Vince’s Bridge, spanning the bayou of the same name, and head straight for Lynchburg and the ferry there. We’ll head out in the morning and get there as fast as we can march.”

  Quinn asked, “What about our women and the sick?” Scully had the same question.

  Houston’s expression turned serious. “We’ll leave them behind on this side of the bayou so they will be less easy to get to. And we’ll meet the enemy farther ahead, away from them.”

  He turned to Colonels Burleson and Sherman. “Have three days’ rations prepared, and be ready for me to address the troops in the morning. You scouts, don’t reveal this to anyone. I suggest all of you get some sleep. Tomorrow we are finally on our way toward a battle. Providence has given us a golden opportunity to corner Santa Anna before he can be reinforced by his other generals. Good night, gentlemen. And well done, scouts.”

  Everyone walked away in silence. Quinn fell in beside Scully as they made their way back to their wives. He murmured, “I’m glad our women will be safe back here.”

  Scully nodded. Still, he wondered about leaving Alandra behind. Whenever he left her sight just to go scouting, she said nothing, but her eyes begged him not to leave. Worry over her blunted his relief at finally taking action. How would she take this news?

  In the bright light of early morning, General Houston in a carrying voice had just announced the plan. A great shout went up from the troops—who had been muttering and sullen just the day before—“Remember the Alamo!” was shouted over and over.

  “Remember Goliad!” Scully added, and was echoed by Quinn and others. Then everyone was hustling, preparing the rations and making sure nothing useful was left behind.

  “You’re leaving us?” Alandra asked, looking at Scully in a way he had anticipated but still hated to see.

  “I’m sorry to have to leave you behind,” he said, taking her hand. “But this could be the battle that wins the war, and then we can all go home. Get life back to normal.”

  “He’s right,” Mrs. Quinn agreed. “It’s hard to let you men go to battle, but that’s the only way to end this and keep our land, our homes. Santa Anna must be defeated or Texas will be lost to us.”

  Still, Scully noted that she rested a hand on her swollen abdomen as if comforting the infant hidden there. He had held Alandra close last night, knowing that his parting was coming in the morning. Her expression now was wrenching.

  Carson was kneeling down in front of the little girl. “You must be brave and you must help your Tía Dorritt and Lonnie,” he told her. “Will you do that for me, Sugar?” The child wrapped her arms around his neck and began crying silently. Carson kissed her forehead and then, pulling away, stood up. He mounted his horse. “I’ll be back. Promise.”

  Scully couldn’t help himself. He pulled Alandra close and kissed her, kissed her like a husband kissed a wife before going into battle. He let all he had been holding back play out as his lips moved over hers. Her sweet breath exhaled into his mouth, and he deepened the kiss. There were so many words he wanted to say. But in this crowded place, he couldn’t voice them.

  Alandra, I want you to be my wife in every way for the rest of my life. What would she say if he said that out loud—here and now? He didn’t have a clue. When he could no longer delay, he murmured into her ear, “Keep safe. I’ll be back. Promise.” Then he turned and mounted his horse.

  Quinn was already astride. Without looking back, the three of them fell in with the cavalry ranks in front of the infantry troops forming into files. The cavalry held their excited horses on tight reins, waiting for the order to start the march toward the nearby Buffalo Bayou, which they would ford or ferry across. The order came. The Texas Army started forward toward the bayou.

  Her hands on Sugar’s shoulders, Alandra stood at Dorritt’s side and watched the men they loved head off to battle. Still reacting to the feel of Scully’s demanding lips on hers, she felt stirred and at the same time too weak to move a step. Sugar was weeping. Alandra felt the telltale shaking under her palms.

  She sucked in her own tears. She could not give in to despair. Sugar and Dorritt were counting on her. But a door had burst open as she watched Scully turn away. Fear had jumped out and was trying to make her lose control, show her broken and scarred.

  Major McNutt, who’d been
left in charge of the baggage and wagons, two or three hundred sick men, and the women and children like herself, Dorritt, and Sugar, rode up. “I need you, ladies, to help with the sick. They’ll need water, food, and tending.”

  “Of course, General,” Dorritt said, moving toward the few tents that had been left behind for the sick. Measles had broken out in the camp, and one tent was quarantined for those suffering from the contagion. Since both Dorritt and Alandra had suffered the disease as children, they could safely take care of the sufferers. Alandra dreaded another day of endless nursing. Watching such suffering lowered her spirits further.

  At the tent entrance, Dorritt turned to Sugar. “Now, I need you to go and play with your doll under that oak tree just there, not too far away. Will you do that, Sugar?” Dorritt had managed to sew a rag doll from her petticoat cloth for the little girl.

  The child stared up at them and then nodded. She walked over and sat down on the exposed gnarled roots of the ancient tree, hugging the doll to her. Alandra looked back once, smiled, then went into the tent. But her smile had only been for Sugar. It wasn’t genuine. The burden of worry about the men who’d just left them behind settled over her like a weighty shawl. She began praying silently for their safety.

  Underneath each word of concern for Scully, Quinn, and Carson, lurked her own desolation. Words from the psalm Dorritt had taught her from childhood bubbled up in her mind. Cease from anger…For yet a little while, and the wicked shall not be…

  But how long was a “little while”? When would she have her life, her land, her place in the world back again?

  No answers came to her as she began helping those too weak to sit up to drink water. In the midst of such high fever, Dorritt insisted that the men needed water as often as they could sip it. As Alandra carried the tin cup and the wooden bucket of water from bed to bed, she began praying for these men too, thinking of the women they had left as they set out for war. Every time she recalled Scully riding away, the fact of his leaving stabbed her. And she resisted touching her lips where his kiss lingered.