by Judith Pella
Indeed it was a warm evening, but the air was fresh and pleasant after the crowded, stuffy atmosphere indoors. It seemed Micah felt the same way. He was leaning against the sidewalk rail in front of the building next door. His hands gripped the rough wood of the rail, and he was gulping in air as if he had just risen from being buried alive.
Lucie had never chased after a man in her life. Her father’s words came back to her with alarming clarity. “Lucie, can you try not to fall in love with him?” Perhaps it was too late.
“Micah,” she said, coming up behind him.
He jerked around, truly startled. “What’re you doing out here?” he asked sharply.
“I . . . I was afraid you might be ill. You left so suddenly.”
“Go on back inside. It’s not right for you to be here all alone.”
“I don’t like people telling me what to do.”
He rolled his eyes with just a hint of humor. “I surely feel sorry for your pa, then.”
“Yes, I am a sore trial to him.” Her lips twitched with uncertainty at how her attempt at humor might be received.
“You ain’t worried about your reputation at all?”
“I suppose I am a little.” She moved up beside him and leaned her back against the rail so as to face him. He turned back to the way he had been standing before, hands on the rail, looking into the now quiet street instead of her probing eyes. “I was having a nice time dancing with you and didn’t want you to leave,” she added.
“Well, it ain’t right, that’s all!”
She gazed at him. He could have meant so many things with that statement, and perhaps he meant them all.
“Why did you leave?”
“If I’d have stayed . . .” He loosened his grip on the rail long enough to run a hand through his thick pale hair. It hung in waves to the top of his collar and curled slightly around his ears. He wasn’t wearing his hat. Maybe he had planned to return to the dance after all.
“I was afraid I might have . . . kissed you!” He swung around now, facing her full on. “Right there in front of everyone.”
“Oh . . .” She hadn’t expected that response, but now that he’d said it, she understood that the feelings she had been experiencing on the dance floor had been mutual. It pleased her, though she knew it ought to frighten her as well.
“I still want to.”
His eyes were riveted upon her and her heart nearly stopped with anticipation. But he made no move toward her.
“Oh my.” She could think of absolutely nothing else to say.
“Go back inside, Lucie, before—”
“Before what?”
His eyes, now pools of confusion and something else she could not quite define, raked over her in a manner that caused her to wince.
“You don’t belong with me, and I don’t belong with you. Simple as that,” he said.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” she replied crisply to hide her quelling insides.
“You are a God-fearing woman, aren’t you? Churchgoing and such?”
Perplexed, she answered, “Yes.”
“There you go!” There was a triumph in his tone, as if that settled everything. “You ain’t supposed to be unequally yoked.”
“Are you a heathen?”
“Look at me!” he practically yelled. “What do you think?”
“I do not judge people on surfaces. Neither does God.”
“Don’t tell me what God does. I know all about it. And believe me, God turned His back on me long ago. I’m a reprobate, a sinner—”
“We are all sinners, Micah.”
He cursed under his breath, almost with humor. “Oh yeah. I forgot that. But you know as well as I that churchgoing sinners smell a mite sweeter than horse-thieving, gun-toting, carousing sinners like me.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Where’d you get ideas like that?”
“My pa is a preacher.” He ground out the words, leaving no doubt that he believed this was a heinous admission indeed.
“You?”
Now he laughed. Bitterly, this time. “A real shocker, huh?”
It was, but Lucie didn’t want to admit it, so she said casually, “And your pa told you these things?”
“More like he bludgeoned them into my head.”
A silence fell between them. Again he had left her speechless. Part of her knew that at least some of what he had said was true. She did not wish to be “yoked” to a heathen. But now she was more certain than ever that Micah was far from a heathen. He had grown up in a religious home and no doubt knew the Bible better than she. That didn’t necessarily make him a Christian man, of course, but she knew now why she had sensed there was so much more to Micah than the surface presented. He had an intimate knowledge of God, no doubt, and for some reason was deeply bitter—toward God perhaps, but most especially toward his father. She wanted to know why. She wanted to know what lay in the deepest parts of Micah’s heart. And because of that, she could not let go. And probably because of that, as well, she did not want to let go. There was a diamond beneath that rough, tarnished exterior. She was certain of it now. And she had to see it chipped and polished into being.
“Maybe some of those things are true,” she said quietly. “I don’t know everything. I only know how I feel, Micah. And I feel something toward you.”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s too late.”
“I’ll bring you nothing but grief.”
She nodded, feeling the sting of tears rise to her eyes. “I know.”
“You are a foolish woman.”
“And you are a wild man. What a pair we make—“ she began glibly.
But he broke in fiercely. “We are not a pair!” Then, as if to belie his words, he grabbed her.
She gasped as his arms violently encircled her, tightly, nearly choking the air from her. Then his lips pressed down upon hers, hard, savagely as his arms drew tighter and tighter about her. She didn’t fight him and even tilted her head ever so slightly to better accommodate him. She’d never been kissed before and anticipated the sweet sensation of tender lips touching. But this wasn’t like that at all. This was rough, aggressive, punishing. She tensed in his arms, feeling the power of his strength, the awesomeness of her helplessness. She was lost, and the worst of it was that part of her wanted to be lost forever in that embrace.
But not like this.
Her resistance increased. She wrenched her head around, knowing all the while that her paltry strength was no match for his had he chosen to press home his assault. But the vicelike grip of his arms loosened. He was breathing hard as he let go, but no harder than she was herself.
He mastered his wits first. “Don’t ever get involved with a man who would kiss you like that,” he said.
Then he walked away.
“Micah!”
He didn’t turn back.
He had hurt her. Not so much physically, though her lips burned and throbbed, but he had hurt her by not giving her credit for having a brain. Didn’t he realize she’d see through his puny attempt to frighten her? Oh, she was frightened, to be sure, but not in the way he had intended. His very attempt to do so had only made her see another facet of Micah Sinclair. He was a good man. She knew it.
CHAPTER
15
MICAH AND ABOUT A DOZEN men of Hays’ ranger company were patrolling along Cutter Creek where they’d received word that Joaquin Viegas, with at least two dozen of his banditos, had been spotted.
Since the invasion of Texas by Mexico in March and the subsequent occupation of San Antonio, the rangers were being especially vigilant. The occupation by Santa Anna’s army lasted only a few days, but it was nevertheless harrowing for the residents. They did not want a repeat. In the months that followed, rumors flew rampant in the area, the most persistent being that the gangs of banditos threatening Texan borders were actually in the pay of the Mexican government, and their purpose was to disrupt Texan life enough to giv
e Mexico another chance to invade.
The rangers had been tracking Viegas’s gang for two days before finally coming upon the outlaws’ camp. Unfortunately, the Mexicans saw the rangers approach and opened fire.
The rangers quickly dismounted and returned fire. Micah killed two bandits in the opening volley of shots and only then realized the Mexican shooters in the front line were providing cover while the main force was escaping.
“Hey, they’re getting away!” Micah shouted.
By then the others saw the ploy. They also saw there were far more than a mere twenty-four bandits—more like fifty! Hays ordered pursuit but emphasized caution because of the disparity of numbers. More shots were exchanged, then Micah detected the pungent odor of smoke in the air. The Mexicans had fired the grass, and the wind, as well as the smoke, was heading directly for the rangers.
Cursing rose from the ranks of the rangers to join the blinding smoke. Micah pulled a bandanna over his nose, but it didn’t help much.
“Sneaky greasers!” he muttered.
The rangers had to pull back.
“Take defensive positions!” ordered Hays. The captain feared the fire was merely a cover for a full-scale attack.
Coughing and grumbling, the men obeyed, gripping their rifles. Eyes burning and watering, throats on fire, they waited. Micah tried to peer through the smoke, but it was too dense to make out anything. He hated just sitting there when Mexicans were so close he could smell them. Well, he could have if the acrid stench of smoke wasn’t numbing his nose! He’d only killed two, and he knew he could get more if given half a chance.
But when the smoke finally dissipated, Micah saw he’d lost his opportunity. The banditos were gone.
Determining that the Mexicans couldn’t have gone far, Hays decided to track them. Micah welcomed not only the chance for vindication but also the opportunity to hone his tracking skills. He didn’t think about what might happen if the rangers actually did catch up to the banditos. A dozen against fifty could be a bloodbath. But he’d seen these rangers in action now for some time, and he had every confidence in them. He also had no little confidence in his own prowess, despite a few mistakes he’d made in the beginning. Even Tom had told him he was coming along fine.
Lucie was happy to be back home in familiar surroundings. The time in San Antonio, especially after the events of the ball, had been trying. To make it worse, her father had grown ill after church the Sunday following the ball, forcing them to remain in town with friends for a few extra days. He was better now, at least not so frightfully sallow and breathless, but the doctor had strongly admonished him to keep indoors and to his bed whenever possible.
Lucie had nursed him faithfully, though he accepted her ministrations grudgingly. Until this morning, that is. Then he had lost his patience completely and told her to quit hovering about him like a fly on raw meat. He ordered her to go out and get some fresh air. So she did, leaving Juana in charge of the recalcitrant patient.
She saddled her piebald mare and rode away. The men had long since ceased arguing with her about riding alone, and she was glad of that because she especially needed to be alone now. She had hardly had a moment since the ball to mull over all that had occurred.
But first, she just wanted to appreciate the wide outdoors. Since her return from Mexico, she had been out riding only a few times, and then not far from the ranch for fear of her father needing her. She didn’t know what was different about today, but she wanted, perhaps even needed, to feel the open, empty vastness of the prairie around her. She sucked in a breath of the air, pungent with the scents of grass and earth and cow dung. Even in the summer heat there was a crispness in the atmosphere carried by the dry prairie wind.
She loved this land, hot and alive, dangerous and inviting. Not unlike the man who had been haunting her dreams and thoughts. The man whose kiss still burned upon her lips. The man who sought to push her away with actions that only made her desire him more. Both he and her father had warned her she would be hurt, but wasn’t that always a risk where the heart was involved? She knew so little of love, perhaps she should listen to them. To what purpose, then? To be safe and marry the likes of Grant Carlton?
If the Texas settlers had thought that way, they would have been denied the exquisite joy and yes, also the pain, of this wonderful magical land.
She rode south for about two hours and knew she was on the farthest reaches of her father’s ranch. She really should begin to think about turning back toward home. The sun had passed its zenith, the time further evidenced by the growling of Lucie’s stomach. She had brought a bit of food in her saddlebags and was looking about for a pleasant place to stop for a snack when she heard the gunshots.
She paused her mount’s easy canter and listened. They could not be more than a mile away. Sound traveled oddly on the prairie, but the shots seemed to be coming from north of her. Was it just vaqueros and ranch hands showing off? Or banditos? Or Comanches? If it was either of the latter two and they were involved in a skirmish of some kind, they might well soon be heading south toward the border. Right past her!
It was definitely unwise to head for home now. Nor could she hope to outrun them. Perhaps her best course would be to find some cover and wait it out. The stream, a branch of Cutter Creek that bordered the ranch, was not far. She had smelled the moist, muddy proximity of water. There would be shelter there.
“Come on, Belle,” she said to the mare, speaking mostly for the comfort of hearing something besides her pounding heart.
The shots had ceased by the time she reached the creek. It had probably been nothing after all. But just as she had begun to be successful in convincing herself of this, she saw a plume of smoke rise toward the sky from the direction of the gunshots. Now what? Did this have something to do with the shots?
No matter what it was, whether a mere prairie fire caused by care-less travelers or an attack, the creek was still her safest refuge. Easing down the creek bank among a stand of cottonwoods, she forced her racing heart to calm.
“It’s nothing,” she murmured.
Where the trees stood thickest, she dismounted. She tied Belle to a low branch, took her saddlebag of food, the musket she always brought when riding alone, and found a place to sit where she was as secluded as possible. It was an outcropping of rock set into the bank with a few boulders around it for good measure. Convinced now that she had blown the disturbance out of proportion, she relaxed, opened the bag, and took out a cloth in which some jerky and a biscuit were carefully wrapped.
She had barely finished the meal and settled back for a bit of a nap when the sound of pounding hooves shattered her solace. She froze. They were coming near, almost certainly heading for the creek. Scooting farther back behind the cover of the rocks, she clutched her rifle and held her breath. Quickly she loaded the weapon.
Her heart began thumping wildly when she heard the scramble of horses descending the creek bank.
“Alto, amigos! ” came a man’s voice. “I think we have lost them.” He spoke in Spanish, which Lucie understood as well as English.
“That was close, Joaquin.”
Joaquin? Now Lucie’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be he? Joaquin Viegas, he called himself. The famous bandito. She had to find out. She had to know. Gripping her rifle, she crept as stealthily as possible from her hiding place to the edge of the farthest boulder. She could see forty or fifty riders, all Mexican, all heavily armed. Her gaze focused on one in particular, mounted on a fine black stallion with one white sock. This man was taller than his companions, swarthy skinned, broad shouldered, lean and strong. He wore a sombrero, but she knew the crop of hair beneath the hat would be brown, not black, and much lighter than her own.
She studied him closely, forgetting all else. He sported a thick mustache now, something that had been absent the last time she had seen him. Other than that, he was not much changed.
“Why did we run, Joaquin?” asked one of the men. “We outnumbered them.”
“There is no point in taking unnecessary risks, especially when we have nothing to show for it.” Joaquin answered. “Besides, they were rangers, Gustavo.”
The tall bandito lifted a canteen from his saddle, took a long swig, then inclined his head, apparently listening. Lucie could not take her eyes from him. She took in his every movement as if she were imbibing a drop of water on a desert and it would be many miles till the next watering hole. She had forgotten the musket in her hand, and when her arm went slack, the weapon clanked against the rock.
“Qué es? ” one of the banditos said.
Before she could do anything about it, her presence was revealed.
Only vaguely did she realize that she had probably wanted to be seen.
Joaquin’s eyes met hers. Though his gaze flashed, the rest of his features remained passive. “What is this?” he said.
“Señor Viegas,” she quietly acknowledged him.
“Come out from behind that rock. Let me see you,” he ordered.
Licking her dry lips, she obeyed.
“Drop the rifle,” Viegas said.
She did so. Then they stared at each other for such a long time the horses grew restive, snorting, twitching, prancing.
“Joaquin, we must go,” urged the bandito named Gustavo.
“I must go,” Joaquin said to her in a soft, almost apologetic manner.
“I know,” Lucie replied.
“Can we leave her?” Gustavo asked. “She will give us away.”
Joaquin’s mustache twitched, and though it was hard to discern beneath the thick growth, he might have been smiling.
“Can we leave you, señorita?”
“Sí, Joaquin, you can.”
“I thought so.” To his men Joaquin added, “Vaquamos los hombres! ”
The banditos needed no more command than this and in a few moments were heading toward the creek. But Viegas paused and looked back.
“Joaquin,” Lucie called, “Papa has not been well.”
The bandito leader nodded. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“He would like to see you.”
