by Hebby Roman
“My father, Renzo Martinelli, was an immigrant, too.”
“Italian?” He asked and lifted his hand, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “You’ve the look of an Italian girl about you with your dark eyes and olive complexion.” He traced his hand down her cheek. “But I thought you said your name was Smith—not Martinelli.”
She sucked in her breath and looked down. Now she’d done it—she’d forgotten about the “false” name she used at the fort. But he was waiting—she’d have to come up with something.
She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. She thought she saw the flicker of something there… Had Nurse Phillips told other people? The woman had promised, but now, with Crissy’s part of the bargain fulfilled and the nurse leaving on the next stagecoach, there was nothing to keep her from talking. Was there?
“My father changed his last name to ‘fit’ in. No one knew how to pronounce Martinelli anyway. But he gave me my first name, Cristabelle. It’s an Italian name.” She crossed her arms and forced herself to chuckle, wanting to make light of anything he might have heard. “Besides, Davie Donovan, how would you know what an Italian girl looks like?”
He let what must be his sketchpad fall to the ground, face down, and grabbed both of her hands. “I know you’re an angel. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
She laughed. “You can be a silly goose, you know?” She was plain to look at, but he made her feel special, and it was wonderful to have someone admire her with such longing in his eyes.
“But I’ve got your attention.”
“Yes, and I think you’re way too charming to be real.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them. She looked down and bit the inside of her mouth.
“Because I kiss you… like this?” He lowered his mouth to hers.
His mouth was warm, and his lips were soft, skimming hers. She sighed and closed her eyes, enjoying the intoxicating sensation of his firm lips against hers. But before he could deepen the kiss, she pulled away, laughing, realizing she was far from being immune to his charm.
“Enough kissing!”
“Is there ever enough kissing?” he asked.
“Maybe not for you, but…”
“All right. Finish your story.”
“My father was a stonemason from Italy. He worked on many homes and store buildings in San Antonio. The Army offered him a lot of money if he would come to Fort Clark and help build the headquarters, the barracks, and...”
She lowered her head and fought back tears, remembering how sweet her father had been. “When the scaffolding broke on the headquarters’ building, he fell wrong, and broke his neck.”
There. She’d said it. And it still hurt—almost a year later.
“Ah, Crissy, I’m sorry. I wish your father hadn’t died.” He lifted her chin with one finger. “I should say my prayers, each night, because both my parents are alive and doing well. I can understand why you’re concerned for your mother.”
She nodded.
“I guess you’ve earned the right to see what I was doing. But if you make fun, I’ll extract a ransom from you.” He smiled and touched her lips with his index finger.
He picked up the sketchpad and showed her.
She gasped, seeing the picture of a spotted fawn at the pond, cleverly rendered on paper. “You did this?”
He turned his face away and gazed over her shoulder. “Yes, I love to draw, especially the wild things around the fort.”
“Oh, but, Davie, this is lovely and so life-like, too. Why would you want to hide it from me?”
“Because most people think my drawings are silly and a waste of time. My parents used to take me to task for whiling away the hours with sketching when I could be doing something more useful, like working in their carpentry shop. Which I did plenty of, anyway, after school.”
He shrugged. “And my fellow soldiers think it’s a sissy thing, too. Most like to whittle wood or play the fiddle or guitar or…” He grimaced. “When all you hear is criticism, it puts you on the defense.”
This was another side of Davie she would have never dreamed of—his vulnerability to other people’s criticism. She could easily put herself in his place, and it made her draw even closer to him.
“I know what you mean about people being mean or critical for no reason. Well, I don’t feel that way. I wish I had such talent.” She looked down at her raw and chapped hands. She shoved them in the pockets of her skirts and frowned. “Seems my only talent is for cleaning and washing stuff.” But her frown faded, and she couldn’t help but smile. “You should be proud. It’s a beautiful picture.”
He turned his head and pulled her hands free, raising them to his lips. “I knew you were an angel—didn’t I tell you? Thank you for your kind words.” He tore the sheet off the pad and folded it twice, handing it to her. “It’s yours. Please, take my drawing. I want you to have it.”
“Can I? Oh my, I’ll put it up in our room.” She gazed at the picture again, amazed at his gift. The drawing looked real, so like the deer she’d often glimpsed in the woods around the fort. She was in awe of his skill. “Thank you.” She put it into her skirt pocket. “I’ll cherish it.”
He faced her and grinned with his lips slightly open. She knew he wanted to kiss her again. And she was surprised she’d welcomed his kisses.
She’d changed. What had made her change?
After their first kiss, she’d been especially careful to avoid him. Somehow, today was different, though. The passing of Martha Gregor had made her sad and vulnerable, made her worry about her mother. The poison of the past had receded, buried by her need for comfort.
Having grown up in the shadow of her mother’s shame, she had trouble reconciling her fears with the way Davie made her feel. She’d never wanted a man to touch her… and then she’d met Davie.
She wanted him to kiss her again, but even more, she enjoyed learning about his life, getting to know him.
“Did you get your revenge on Sergeant Dawes? I noticed you lost a stripe.”
“Yes, and I lost a day in the brig, too.” He snorted. “Dawes is such a lick-spittle, he’ll do anything to get ahead. Now he’s the First Sergeant, and I’m demoted beneath him. Having to take his guff.”
He scratched his jaw. “No, I’ve not gotten him back… yet. I’m waiting for the right time.” He grinned, and his eyes twinkled. “Something will turn up. I want him to think I’ve forgotten and be taken by surprise when he least expects it.”
“Couldn’t you forgive him, as the Good Book says?”
“I could. And maybe I will.” He touched her lips with his finger, gently brushing them. “Sure, and begorrah, you could make me forget my own name.”
“Oh, Davie, you say the craziest things.” She put her arms around him and closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of his body and the hard planes of his chest beneath his thin shirt.
She buried her head in the curve of his shoulder, but she knew it wouldn’t deter him. If he wanted to kiss her, he would, and she’d more than welcome him.
He placed his hand under her jaw, his fingers lightly stroking her chin. He tilted her head up. He smiled at her again and slowly lowered his lips.
She heard the strident call of the bugle from the fort—a loud, trumpeting sound, shattering their kiss and the peace surrounding them.
Davie pulled back and frowned. He turned his head up, as if to listen.
“Sweet Jesus, it’s the call to arms,” he said. He got to his feet and helped her to stand. “Let me get you back to town. I might be called to muster out.”
“No,” she said, moving away from him, not wanting to make him late. “I can get back on my own.”
“But you don’t know who or what is causing the alarm. Let me take you back to your mother first.”
She grasped her skirts and whirled around. The fairy-like atmosphere was gone—sweet dreams signifying nothing. They lived in a wilderness of wild animals,
hostile natives, and Mexican bandits. How many times did her mother have to remind her?
And though Davie Donovan’s kisses left her speechless and silently begging for more, she knew he was a kind of fairy… or a phantom. As much as they might enjoy being together, she must care for her mother… and Davie would answer the bugle call of his profession.
Beyond that—she didn’t know what lay ahead.
Chapter Four
Crissy washed their supper dishes in the dry sink. She dried the last dish and put it away in the solitary cabinet beside the sink. Her mother was sitting on the bed; she was feeling better and had pulled out their homemade checker board.
Glad her mother was lively enough to play checkers, she reached down into the left-over suds and pulled the stopper from the sink, letting the water drain beneath the floorboards. Most of the buildings in town were built on cinder blocks, in case of flooding from the creek.
She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering this afternoon beside the pond and worrying about Davie. She’d run back to find her mother napping after leaving him. Not knowing if his squad would be called out, she’d returned to a copse of pecan trees at the front of the fort. Sure enough, Company C of the Fourth Cavalry had ridden out.
She’d watched from the protection of the trees and been proud of how good he looked on his chestnut horse. His back was ramrod straight, his shoulders broad, and his blue woolen trousers hugged his muscular legs. But as good as he looked, she knew he was riding into danger. She couldn’t help but worry.
She still had the picture he’d drawn, tucked away in her skirt pocket. She wanted to bring it out and pin it to the drab walls of their little room, but if she did, her mother would have questions a mile long. And until she knew if he was back and safe, she didn’t feel like telling her mother about Davie.
For her, it was like tempting fate. She knew it was pure superstition, on her part, which she abhorred, but somehow, she couldn’t help herself.
Or maybe she didn’t want to answer questions until she understood how she felt about him. Was he really the man for her? Were his intentions honorable? He’d called her his angel, but he’d said nothing of consequence, hadn’t courted her properly, as a man should.
At least, how she thought someone should court her—not that she had any first-hand experience of such a thing.
If his intentions were honorable, could she forget what her mother had endured, including a lawfully-wedded husband who’d deserted her? Why would she deserve better? Other couples stayed together, until death parted them, like the commander and his wife. But would she be so lucky?
She glanced at her mother, saw she was busy lining up the checkers. She pulled out the picture and hid it in the top shelf of the cabinet.
Someone knocked on their door, and she started. Before she could cross to the door, Maxine Brackett cracked it open and stuck her head in.
“Can I come in? I’ve a piece of cake for your supper and some news,” their landlady said.
Crissy folded her lips into a forced smile. She didn’t appreciate Maxine acting as if the room belonged to her, and not allowing them any privacy. The room did belong to the Bracketts, but she worked long and hard, paying the rent.
“Oh, yes, Maxine, please, do come in,” her mother spoke up. “What news do you have?”
Her mother didn’t know Maxine had probably been spreading gossip. And if she had known, she wouldn’t hold it against their landlady. Instead, she’d take the shame upon herself, feeling she wasn’t worthy of having her secret kept.
Sometimes, her mother was too kind for her own good. Crissy often wondered if her sweet nature was a part of what had driven her to the life she’d led. Had her mother been too weak to withstand the beguilements of unworthy men? And if that was the case, was she fast becoming like her mother?
Maxine flounced into the room. “Good evening, Crissy.” She held out a piece of cheesecloth-wrapped cake. “It’s ginger cake. I know how you and your mother like it. I saved you a piece.”
Crissy took the cake. Ginger cake reminded her of Christmas when she was growing up. Her mother had baked a lot during the holidays, and ginger cake was one of the treats of the season.
“Thank you, Mrs. Brackett. Please, have a seat and tell us the news.”
Maxine crossed her arms. “Well, I wish you’d call me Maxine, but I guess your mother has raised you properly.”
Crissy got out a plate and unwrapped the rich offering. A lot of eggs and butter had gone into the cake, not to mention the precious spice, ginger. She wondered why Maxine had bothered to give them only one piece of cake. Her mouth watered, thinking about its rich taste, but her Mama needed the treat more.
She fetched a fork and plate and gave the slice of cake to her mother.
Maxine sat down and folded her arms on the table.
“Crissy,” her mother said, “don’t we have some coffee left from supper? I’d like a cup to go with my cake, and we should offer Maxine a cup, too. Where are your manners?”
“Of course,” Crissy said through gritted teeth. It went against her nature to wait on Maxine, especially after what the woman had done.
She grabbed the coffee pot from the back of the stove, added some water to the left-over grounds, stoked the fire, and put the coffee on to brew again. She set out two cups and teaspoons, and their small store of sugar on the table.
She put her hands on her hips. “We don’t have any cream, Mrs. Brackett, er, Maxine.”
“Oh, this is fine, Crissy, and I don’t need sugar, either. Black coffee is all right.”
Her mother joined Maxine at the table, took a bite of the cake and closed her eyes, obviously savoring the taste. “This is the best yet, Maxine. You’ve outdone yourself. Just the right amount of ginger, too.”
Her mother half-turned in her chair and held out a forkful of the cake. “Here, Crissy, taste this.”
Obediently, Crissy leaned forward and took the bite of cake. It melted in her mouth, filling her senses with its rich, spicy sweetness. She swallowed and said, “It’s wonderful, Mrs. Brack…, er, Maxine. Sweet and savory at the same time.”
The coffeepot started to rattle and pop, and she grabbed a dishtowel, pulling it off the stove and filling their cups. And she felt like her insides were rattling and popping, too. She was desperate to hear Maxine’s news—knowing it must be about the soldiers.
Her mother took another bite of cake and smiled. She took a sip of coffee. Maxine cradled her cracked cup and sipped, too. Crissy stood to one side, ready to scream.
“Oh, I wanted to tell y’all the news.” Maxine put her coffee cup down.
“Yes, please, do. We have so few diversions.” Her mother licked the fork, polishing off the last crumbs of the cake.
“Well, Company C has returned, but the stagecoach line was attacked, about five miles from town. At first, it looked as if the Apache were to blame, but upon closer examination, Captain MacTavish realized it was Mexican bandits, made up to look like Apaches, to throw off our soldiers.” Maxine quirked one eyebrow. “Who would have thought of such a ruse?”
“The founders of our country, if you remember the Boston Tea Party,” Crissy interjected. The Ursulines had given her an excellent education, and she was proud of it.
Maxine glanced up and frowned. “Uh, yes, I suppose so.”
“Did they get the bandits? What about the stagecoach passengers?” Her mother asked.
“All the bandits were killed.” Maxine tossed her head. “And good riddance, I say.” She shook her head again. “Sad to say, they’d killed everyone on the stagecoach, except the front rider, who’d managed to get away and alert the fort.”
Crissy and her mother both gasped.
Maxine frowned. “Bloody business, living on the frontier. And there was a child, too, on the stagecoach, who either escaped or was taken by the bandits before the soldiers got there,” Maxine added.
“Captain MacTavish wanted to s
earch, but it was already getting dark. They’ll bring out the Seminole scouts tomorrow to look for the child.”
“What about the soldiers,” her mother asked, “did we lose any?”
The coffeepot rattled and perked again, and she moved it to the back of the stove. She was glad her mother had asked before she blurted out the question. She held her breath.
Maxine sniffed and touched her handkerchief to dry eyes. “Unfortunately, two of the soldiers were killed.” She put her hands together, as if she was praying. “It’s sad and awful to lose good soldiers, fighting those murderous Mexicans.”
Crissy’s heart galloped and climbed into her throat. She’d heard enough. She doubted Maxine would know the names of the lost soldiers, but she had to know if Davie was safe.
“Mama, I need to go out. I feel like taking a walk—”
“But Crissy, it’s dark and there could be other bandits out there—”
“I’ll be careful, but I have to go.” She tossed the dish towel onto the counter by the dry sink.
Both her mother and Maxine rose, as if to stop her. But she ignored them, lifting her skirts, and running for the door.
* * *
Davie rode back to the fort with his fellow soldiers. Today had been one of the longest days of his life. First, there had been the sorrow of the funeral for his commander’s wife. Then, he’d known heaven on earth, spending time with Crissy. They’d talked and learned something of each other. And he’d kissed her until he was crazy with wanting.
But at the end of the day, he’d been mustered out to stop a group of Mexican bandits who’d attacked the bi-weekly stage from San Antonio. He rubbed the back of his neck and his shoulders slumped, remembering. He’d seen a lot of killing today. And he’d put a bullet through the forehead of one of the bandits.
A man didn’t forget things like that—taking another man’s life—even if the man deserved it for murdering innocent stagecoach passengers.
They’d shot down the eight Mexican bandits who’d attacked the stagecoach. The front runner, Jesse Thompkins, who had warned the fort about the attack, believed the bandits had thought they were carrying the fort’s payroll.
