Texas Angel, 2-in-1

by Judith Pella

  “You’ve no doubt had a long ride,” she said. “May I invite you in and offer you a cold drink?”

  It was the offer of yet another gift that snapped Micah back to himself. “No, miss.” He remembered the buckskin’s reins gripped in his hands. “I . . . uh . . . I’ve come to bring back your horse.”

  “I don’t understand. I gave him to you.” She looked truly perplexed.

  “I can’t accept him.”

  “But—”

  Micah’s resolve gathered back around him with each word. “I know you probably meant well, but I can’t take him. I don’t want, nor do I deserve, a gift for what I did.”

  “Are you saying my life isn’t worth a gift?” And to take something in return . . . it doesn’t set well with me. And no matter how you put it, giving me such a fine gift makes me beholden to you.”

  “Yes—I mean no! Confound it! That ain’t what I mean at all. It’s just . . .” Pausing, he saw how her eyes were searching him, seeking to understand. And all he could respond with was a jumble of half-formed emotions. “It’s not right. Don’t you see?” Micah tried once more to explain, yet it was difficult since he wished to avoid the issue of the stolen horses. “I did what anyone would have done in the same place.

  “I respect your sense of honor in the matter,” she responded, “but try to look at it from my viewpoint. I am indebted to you for my very life. The gift helps me to not feel so beholden to you.”

  “Is that why you gave it to me?” Instinctively, he thought differently.

  The way she ducked her head, glancing sheepishly at her toes, indicated his instincts had been correct. “I gave you Jose—”

  “Jose?”

  “The buckskin,” she amplified, then at his nod to continue, she did so. “Anyway, I gave you Jose because you needed a horse, and I wanted to do that for you. It is as simple as that.”

  Somehow he didn’t think it was that simple at all, but he knew she was telling the truth. He gave a deep sigh, then said, “And I can’t take it . . . simple as that.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t take it, Lucie,” interjected a new voice.

  Micah looked around to see a big redheaded man approach. Micah had never met Lucie’s father, but he was certain this must be he. In addition to a certain family resemblance, the man carried himself like the owner of one of the largest ranches in Texas. Micah was six feet tall himself, but this man seemed to tower over him by several inches. He was one of the biggest men Micah had ever seen. And his size was only emphasized by his husky girth—not fat by any means, simply big—and by his shock of thick hair that was truly as red as a carrot.

  Lucie’s voice drew Micah’s attention from the awesome figure. “Papa, you said if he was worth his salt, he wouldn’t take the horse.”

  “That’s right, I did.” There was a touch of smugness in the man’s tone. Then he turned fully toward Micah. “I’m Reid Maccallum, Lucie’s father.” He held out his hand.

  Micah took it and, remembering a lesson from his youth, gripped the man’s hand firmly. “Micah Sinclair.”

  “I am happy to meet the man who saved my daughter’s life.” For some reason Micah could not fathom, Maccallum’s tone was taut, lacking the ebullience his words might have called for. No doubt he wouldn’t forget the loss of his mustangs as easily as his daughter appeared to have done.

  “As I was trying to tell your daughter,” Micah said as he let go of the huge meaty hand, “I don’t expect no payment for what I did.”

  “I myself did not think you deserved any,” Maccallum said flatly.

  These words were unexpected. Micah opened his mouth to respond to what he had expected, then snapped his lips closed, nonplussed.

  A tight smile twitched upon Maccallum’s lips. “My daughter forgets that the men you were with got away with a fair number of my horses.”

  “I expect, then, you might have preferred that I hang,” Micah replied dryly.

  “I have always believed hanging a bit harsh for the crime of horse stealing, especially considering the murder of human beings often goes with a far lesser punishment. But that aside, I only know my daughter would have been extremely unhappy at your demise, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Maccallum glanced his daughter’s way, and Micah noted a hint of tenderness flicker across the man’s stern visage.

  “And that, sir, I could not abide,” he concluded.

  Micah remembered something. “Mr. Maccallum, if I recall rightly, your signature was on that transfer for the horse.”

  “Yes, Lucie prevailed upon me.” Glancing over the heads of both his companions as if embarrassed, Reid added, “I have been told I tend to be an overly indulgent father.”

  “At any rate, sir,” Micah said, “I won’t be taking the horse.”

  “Yet you need a horse in order to fulfill the terms of your release from jail, do you not?”

  “I’ll find one somehow.”

  “Somehow?” The man’s hazel eyes squinted with a touch of reproach.

  “Not by stealing, sir!”

  “You have the money to buy a horse?”

  “Not exactly . . .”

  “He don’t have one red cent,” put in Jed, who had by then rode up and, though still mounted, was listening to the exchange.

  “And who might you be?” Maccallum inquired, giving Jed a careful appraisal.

  “That’s my friend Jed Wilkes,” Micah answered. Things were getting complicated enough without the added element of Jed, who, if true to form, would only confuse matters more. “He was in jail with me.”

  “Ah . . . yes,” Maccallum said. “My daughter mentioned him.” Maccallum paused, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “As I said, you no doubt plan to purchase a mount. But having no ready cash, you might find this difficult unless you buy on credit.”

  “Credit?” Micah knew what this was, of course, and didn’t like the sound of it.

  “I wouldn’t speak so skeptically of this method, Mr. Sinclair. The entire Republic of Texas has made extensive use of credit for its survival and is no worse for it—well, at least it is surviving because of it. No doubt if the republic intends to pay you for your services as a ranger, it will do so by loans it has received from other nations and such. There is no reason, then, why you shouldn’t purchase a horse—a desperately needed horse, I might add—by the same method.”

  “Who would give me credit? I don’t have any collateral or nothing.” Micah knew there would be a ready answer for his query or Maccallum wouldn’t have brought up the subject.

  “I’ll extend credit to you for this buckskin. If it weren’t for my daughter, you would be dead now and thus in no need of a horse, so I feel rather obligated to make the situation right.”

  Micah restrained a smile at the man’s rather twisted logic. Part of Micah knew Maccallum was simply attempting to make the giving of the horse tolerable to Micah’s sense of honor. Thus he still wanted to refuse the offer. But it was such a fine horse. And how else was Micah to get a horse? He’d considered going out to the open prairie and catching a wild mustang, but that would take considerable time. Credit seemed to be the only practical way. So why not arrange some credit with Maccallum? Glancing at Lucie, Micah could think of many reasons against an arrangement that would tie him yet closer to her, but he could also think of a few good reasons for doing so. One of which was that her feelings would be terribly hurt if he didn’t. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

  “I guess since you put it that way . . .” Micah said thoughtfully. “I suppose we could work out a deal.”

  “Come on into my study,” Maccallum said, “and we will discuss it further.”

  Micah glanced up at the lowering sun. He didn’t want to refuse the man’s invitation, but as it was, it would be nearly dark by the time they returned to town.

  “I don’t mean to be unsociable, sir, but I’d like to get back to town before it gets dark.”

  Maccallum nodded, understanding. “Of course. Well, the matter is simp
le enough. Let’s say the horse and saddle is worth one hundred fifty dollars. You can pay me in monthly installments of say, five dollars.”

  Micah did some quick ciphering in his head. “That would take nearly two and a half years, sir!”

  “If you should come by a windfall and would like to pay the debt sooner, I would have no problem with that.”

  “I might not get a salary for months on end,” Micah said practically.

  “I will take that into account, since it would be through no fault of your own.”

  “What about interest?” Micah might be giving in to his better judgment, but at least he wanted to be businesslike about it.

  “I do not hold with the setting of usury.” Maccallum appeared firm about this, so Micah made no argument.

  “All right, then,” Micah agreed. “If you make up a contract, I will sign it.”

  “I believe a man’s handshake is better than any piece of paper.”

  Maccallum thrust out his hand.

  A bit bemused, Micah took it. They shook firmly. He glanced at the buckskin as if to remind himself again what this was all about.

  “He is yours now, Mr. Sinclair,” Lucie said. Micah had almost for-gotten her presence, caught as he had been in the wake of Reid Maccallum”fs presence.

  “I thank you kindly,” he said rather dumbly. He had made a business deal with Maccallum, yet he still felt beholden to these people. He shook away the vague sense of unrest over this. He needed that horse. Well, he needed a horse. He wanted that horse. “We best be on our way.” He swung up into the saddle of the buckskin named Jose.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Sinclair,” Lucie said.

  Glancing back at her, something strange happened inside him. His heart felt like a fist had grabbed it and shoved it up into his throat. He couldn’t speak. He could only lift a hand and wave in response. It was all he could do to ride away at an easy canter, when what he really wanted to do was ride like the Devil himself was nipping at his heels. He was more scared now than when he used to hear his father’s sermons about hell and brimstone. Lucie Maccallum was more frightening than that.

  “You are looking quite smug, Lucinda Maria Bonny Maccallum,” Reid said, thick arms crossed in front of him as he gazed quizzically down at his daughter.

  “We have done a good thing just now, Papa.” She gazed off into the distance at the rapidly disappearing riders. “We have helped set a man upon a path of . . . good, or even righteousness.”

  “Lucie, it is a mistake to try to change men.”

  “Don’t you think men can change? That God can change men?”

  “Let’s get in out of this heat,” Reid said and started walking toward the house. Lucie caught up as he continued. “Men change, but it is folly to try to effect changes, especially for women to try to change men they have an eye for—”

  “Papa! Really, I have no—”

  “I hope and pray you don’t, sweetheart.” They reached the kitchen door, and Reid opened it, stepping back to allow Lucie to enter first.

  It was hardly any cooler in the kitchen with the stove going in preparation of supper. After a brief greeting to Juana, the pair exited the room and continued back to Reid’s study. Inside, they found their favorite seats. Reid, the big leather chair behind the desk, and Lucie, the big upholstered chair opposite. By silent agreement, they both seemed to realize their conversation was not finished.

  Staring into her lap and toying with the tassel at the end of her belt, Lucie spoke reluctantly. “Why do you pray not, Papa?”

  He knew what she meant without further elaboration. “He’s a wild one.”

  “But weren’t you impressed by his returning the buckskin?” Her tone reflected her hopefulness at having her father’s approval.

  “I’m not saying he’s a bad sort, even though we came into his acquaintance through his criminal behavior.” He smiled. “Half the men in Texas are horse and cattle thieves. That’s how many of the ranchers around here got their starts.”

  “You, Papa?”

  “Harrumph.” Reid made the characteristic rumbling sound deep in his throat that usually indicated he was rattled or slightly abashed. “No men are perfect, no matter how much you want them to be, Lucie,” he hedged. “I expect from what you’ve said and from what I’ve heard that this Sinclair fellow has some good solid values and just fell into thieving as a means of survival.”

  “I am almost certain of it, Papa!”

  “But some men just got wild hearts, even if they aren’t basically bad.

  And I am afraid you’ll end up hurt if you try to tame this fellow.”

  Chewing rather disconsolately on her lower lip, Lucie lifted her eyes to meet her father’s gaze. “I’ll try not to, Papa.”

  “I think you already have,” he replied gently without rebuke. “That’s what the horse was all about, wasn’t it? You figured if he had a horse, he’d stick with this rangering job and keep away from crime.”

  A shaky sigh escaped her lips as emotion sprang into her chest. “You helped him, too, didn’t you?”

  “A foolish thing for me to do, but . . . if your heart’s going to be lost to such a wild one, I at least hope to keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  Reid leaned forward, his eyes turned to pools, and Lucie felt certain he was feeling a bit of emotion himself.

  “Lucie, can you try not to fall in love with him?”

  “I . . . I’ll try.” Her voice was small and uncertain. What was this young man she hardly knew doing to her? She was not in love with Micah Sinclair, was she? But what did she know of love? Did it have anything at all to do with the way her insides trembled when he was near? Or with how her thoughts were never far from him? Or how he figured into many of her dreams, both waking and sleeping?

  No, she was not in love with Micah.

  But her father was smiling a rather peculiar smile, wise and sad and full of resolve but with little humor.

  When she spoke again, she forced a firmness she didn’t quite feel into her tone. “Don’t worry, Papa.”

  But his smile looked worried.

  PART TWO

  LATE SUMMER 1842

  CHAPTER

  12

  MICAH’S FIRST ASSIGNMENT AS A ranger came within days of receiving the buckskin. The company, usually consisting of around two dozen men when Captain Hays could recruit that many, was sent to patrol along the Nueces, where increased Comanche activity had been reported. After a week with no enemy sightings, half the company returned to town while the remaining half was to make one more sweep of the area and then also return to San Antonio.

  Micah was with this half, and he wasn’t the only one getting itchy for some action. But it looked like any Comanches previously sighted had cleared out long ago. There weren’t any fresh signs. Tired, mostly from boredom, the men made camp late one afternoon, an hour earlier than usual. A hunting expedition brought back two plump turkeys to feast upon for supper.

  While a couple of men cooked up the meat, Micah set about cleaning his rifle, wondering if he was ever going to get the chance to use it. The last thing he expected as he began taking apart the weapon was to look up and see a woman standing like an apparition in the late afternoon light. He blinked once, but when she was still standing there, he laid aside his gun and jumped up.

  “Hello, ma’am,” he said softly. He noted now that she was ragged and battered and looked as skittish as a colt eyeing a rattler.

  “It . . . can’t be . . .” she rasped.

  Seeing that she was about to collapse, Micah rushed forward, catching her as she crumpled. “Tom! Come quick!” Micah yelled to his friend, who happened to be nearby.

  Tom came running as Micah was laying the woman down on the grass. Several others joined him.

  “What you got there, Micah?” Tom asked.

  “She just appeared out of the brush . . . just like that.”

  “She looks half dead,” Bill McBroome said.

  “Jed, get some water,” Micah or
dered. Then he said to the woman, “Ma’am, what’s happened to you?”

  “Indians!” she said. “They have my baby—“ Her voice rose shrilly, then disintegrated into a wracking cough.

  Just then Jed returned with a canteen, and Micah set it to her swollen and parched lips. As the water touched them, her tongue flicked out, catching some of the drips. Micah let a bit more drip from the canteen, and she lapped this up eagerly.

  “Easy now,” Micah said.

  The water seemed to revive her a bit, at least giving her strength to speak again, though still with great difficulty. “I thought if I could escape, I could get help. Please . . . save my baby!”

  She poured out her story in fits and starts, often incoherently. Micah tried to get her to stop and rest, but she seemed to have a need to tell it. Her name was Martha Hornsby. Apparently she, her husband, her ten-year-old son, and her infant son were traveling by wagon to their new homestead south of Austin when they were attacked. The husband and ten-year-old were killed, and she and the baby were taken captive. That had been, by her best guess, some four days ago, though she had been unconscious some of that time, so her estimation of time passage was not completely reliable.

  She was in bad shape. Dehydration and malnutrition were the least of her problems. The worst was a wound in her head and one in her leg from which she had lost much blood.

  As one of the men who had some skill with doctoring tried to clean her up and tend her wounds, Micah tried to get details from her that would aid them in tracking the Indians. Yet it seemed it might be a hopeless pursuit. The woman had managed to escape from her captors two days ago, giving the Indians a good head start.

  “Find my baby!” Martha Hornsby gasped again, nearly spent now. “They had him wrapped in hides and tied to a gray mule. That’s . . . what you . . . should look for. . . .”

  “We’ll find him, Mrs. Hornsby,” Micah said with confidence. Only a quick glance at Tom indicated he wasn’t as confident as his words sounded.

  Leaving four men behind to stay with the woman and guard the camp, the rest, eight in all, departed without waiting for supper. They didn’t want to waste the daylight left to them. Jed was told to stay behind, and Micah was certain he also would be one of the unlucky ones to be stuck in camp. But the others felt that since he had found the woman, so to speak, he should have the privilege of joining the search for the child. He was thrilled and excited as he hurriedly put his rifle back together, loaded it and his brace of pistols, and mounted the buckskin.