by Hebby Roman
“Will it make you happy if I help the Father?” he asked.
“Very happy.”
“Will you start talking to me again?”
This time she couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe.”
She turned and took her mother’s arm. “I’ve a day off, Mama, and I would love to take a nap. It was a late night, last night. Though, I didn’t stay for the end of the fireworks.”
“Yes, Crissy, let’s go home. I’m feeling a bit tired myself.”
Davie nodded and went after the priest. Then Carlos appeared, stopping their progress. He removed his hat and bowed low. “Señorita Shannon, may I be allowed to make the acquaintance of your mother?”
She noticed his English seemed to have improved dramatically, overnight. She was disconcerted, though, to have him approach them. She’d hoped he’d stay away, but her calling Davie over had obviously encouraged his forward behavior.
“Of course,” she said, lifting her hand. “This is my mother, Mary Shannon.”
“Mama, may I introduce Carlos de Los Santos. He and several of the neighboring hidalgos from across the border came to our celebration last night.”
Her mother stiffened, and she didn’t hold out her hand, as she had with Davie. Instead, she inclined her head and in her frostiest tone of voice, she said, “Pleased to meet you, Don Carlos.”
For a moment, Crissy didn’t know what to make of her mother’s strange behavior, and she noticed Carlos was obviously offended, as he stepped to one side and bowed again. “Señora Shannon, I’m happy to meet you. I had hoped to ask if I could escort your daughter—”
“Please, Don Carlos, not now. I’ve been ill, and I’m feeling a bit faint. I think I need to lie down.”
His plastered-on smile turned to a scowl, and he bowed once more. “Of course. I hope you feel better, Señora Shannon.” He turned to Crissy. “We leave at first light tomorrow, and I see you’re busy with your mother. But I will return to Brackettville, and I hope to find you again, Crissy.”
Her mother tugged on her arm.
Crissy said, “Have a safe trip, Carlos.” She followed her mother, not daring to reply to his rather pointed comment about seeing her again.
The westbound stage came into sight, throwing up a cloud of dust with its fast churning wheels and galloping team of horses. The stagecoach driver stood up and hauled back on the reins, setting the brake and yelling out, “Whoa, team! Steady up, there! Whoaaa!”
Chapter Eight
Crissy followed her mother into their room and once they were behind closed doors, she untied her bonnet and hung it on a peg. She planted her hands on her hips and turned to her mother.
“I know you think Davie is the man for me, but I’ve never known you to be rude to anyone—”
“That man, Don Carlos, is not just anyone,” her mother said, and Crissy thought she heard a tremor in her Mama’s voice. “He must be the son of Miguel de Los Santos, and I knew Miguel when he was going to St. Mary’s Academy in San Antonio.”
Crissy covered her mouth with her hand. “Do you mean—?”
“Yes, Crissy, he was one of my regulars. He was a young man and wild…” Her mother took off her bonnet, too, and threw it on the table. She faced Crissy.
“No, that’s not right. Miguel was beyond wild.” She shook her head and bit her lip. “I don’t want to go into details, but he hurt me, once, and Madame Sally had to have her hired thug, Harvey, stop Miguel from beating me up.” She frowned and clutched her hands together, sinking into a chair. “I’ve never forgotten the incident.
“Miguel was evil. He liked being mean for meanness sake. And his son… there was something about his son, which reminded me of his father.” Her mother shuddered.
“Oh, Mama, I didn’t know.” She went to her mother and embraced her. “I’m sorry. I danced with him a few times last night to make Davie jealous. I don’t much care for him, either. Though, I had no idea.”
“No, why should you?” Her mother returned her hug. “It happened before you were born, before I met your father.” She held Crissy at arm’s length. “And if I hadn’t met your father when I did, after what happened with Miguel, I believe I might have starved, rather than continuing to… to… sell myself.
“Then I met Renzo, and he became a regular. We fell in love, and he rented a room for us. We had you, and he was talented enough to help build the new mansions in the King William District. He got me piece-work from the rich families, embroidering handkerchiefs, towels, sheets, tablecloths and all manner of things.” She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I’d tried to find work, sewing, when Ian first left me. But I had no contacts, you see.”
Crissy sat beside her mother. “I know you tried to make your way, but there was no work—”
“Oh, I found work.” Her mother looked up and nodded. “Right enough, as a maid in a big house. But the owner, a wealthy banker, forced me…” She shredded the handkerchief in her hands. “I screamed and screamed, but the banker knew what he was about, dragging me off to the tiny room I had in the attic.
“When I tried to tell his wife… she refused to believe me. They threw me out on the street when I complained. Didn’t pay me. I was huddled there…” Her mother tossed the ruined handkerchief aside and got up.
Crissy stood, too. “Mama, you never told me any of this. Why not?”
“Because, Daughter, it was ugly, and I was young and stupid. I should have never waited for Ian until my money ran out. Should have written immediately to my brothers and—”
“You had brothers? I have uncles? But you didn’t tell me.”
“No, I was too ashamed.” She hunched her shoulders. “And now you’ve but one uncle, my younger brother was killed in the War Between the States.” Her mother sighed. “I told you I grew up in a small farming community in the hills of North Carolina. It was mostly Scottish folk who lived there, like my family.
“When the typhoid fever struck, both my Ma and Pa died, along with my baby sister. My older brother, Niall, was already married. He took me in but begrudged me every mouthful of food. Treated me like a servant, he did.
“When Ian came along with his sweet talking and coaxing ways, I thought I’d been saved. We ran off and got married.”
“Oh, Mama, I wish I’d known—”
“Why, Crissy? None of my kinfolk were willing to help me. Niall was glad Ian had taken me off his hands. Soon as the wedding night was over, Ian announced we were headed to California. He believed he’d get rich quick.” She moved to the bureau and got another handkerchief and blew her nose. “He was always a flighty boy, Ian was, but I had little choice.”
She reached into the cabinet and pulled out the coffee pot, filling it with ground beans and water from the bucket they kept in the dry sink. “I didn’t think to write to Calum, Ian’s brother, until after I’d started working at Sally’s. Somehow, Calum found out and refused to send money.
“The Shannons had one of the best farms. It was close to the creek and had good, black soil. Ian sold his birthright, like Esau, for a mess of pottage. Niall bought him out, giving him a grub-stake to go to California, but then he washed his hands of us.
“Calum was tight-fisted, and he wrote back to say since I was a whore, I wasn’t welcome at home.” Her eyes filled with tears. She stoked the embers in the stove and added some wood. “My brothers were both dirt poor. Still…” She shrugged. “It was too late, anyway.”
“But how did you… how did you become—”
“Become a whore? Sally found me, huddled on the street corner and crying, without a penny to my name.” Her mother put the coffee pot on the stove. “I thought, despite what she wanted me to do, she was helping me because she was kind. Later, I found out she routinely walked the streets around the big houses, looking for women servants who’d been thrown out or gotten pregnant or…
“San Antonio was a wild frontier town. I should have gone home, as soon as Ian left me there.”
“Oh, Mama, I had no idea, all you’ve suffered.”
“And I didn’t want you to know. It’s why I did embroidery work until I thought my eyes would give out. Renzo’s job made us a living, but I wanted to send you to convent school. I didn’t want you to see the things I’ve seen. My embroidery paid for your tuition.”
Crissy touched her mother’s arm. “Why are you telling me all of this now?”
“Because you’re old enough to know and because you have suitors.” She took Crissy’s hands. “I’ve been through a lot, but it taught me how to judge men.” She squeezed her hands. “At least, I believe so, and Davie is a good man.”
Her mother let go and touched the left side of her chest. “I feel it in here.”
“After what he did last night? I told you about it, this morning, before church.”
“I think he’s learned his lesson.” Her mother looked up. “You didn’t tell me that he’s an artist until today. Where’s the picture you were talking about?”
Crissy got up and crossed to the cabinet beside the sink. She went on tip-toe and found the paper where she’d left it, wedged in the back of the upper cabinet.
She unfolded the sketch and handed it to her mother.
Her mother spread the drawing on the table and smoothed it with her hands. “Oh, Crissy, you’re right. He is an artist! It’s so life-like. Why did you hide it?”
Crissy hung her head. “I didn’t want to talk about him, not at first, anyway.”
“Well, I’m sure he will come up with something beautiful for the lectern.”
The coffee pot rattled.
“Would you get us some coffee?” her mother asked.
“Of course, and we’ve got sugar.”
Her mother smiled. “That’s good.” She gazed at the picture. “Your father was an artist, too, in some ways.” She sniffed. “I still miss Renzo. He was such a good man.”
She pointed her finger at Crissy. “And I forbid you to have anything to do with Carlos de Los Santos. Do you hear me? He’s evil like his father. I know it. Promise me.”
“I promise, Mama.”
“You need to let Davie back in your heart.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m happy with my new job at the commander’s house and—”
“Having a decent job is important, but it’s not the same as finding a good man and marrying him.”
“Why didn’t you and my father marry? It had been a long time since your husband went away.”
“When we moved here, your father and I decided to go ahead and marry, but we didn’t want to marry in Brackettville. We’d acted as if we were already married when we came here. We needed to save money to go to Boerne, a small town outside of San Antonio, which had a Catholic church. Before we had the chance, your father had his accident.”
Crissy set out two cups, two teaspoons, and the sugar. She grabbed a dish towel and lifted the coffee pot from the stove, pouring two cups. “I guess I won’t be taking a nap.” She glanced outside. “I need to think about what to cook for supper.”
There was a knock on the back door. Crissy looked at her mother and asked, “Were you expecting someone?”
Her mother perked up. “I had hoped Isaiah might drop by. He always cheers me up.”
“Oh, Mama, I think you’re the one who’s falling in love. Not me.”
Her mother smiled. “Perhaps. Please, Crissy, open the door and see who it is.”
Crissy crossed to the back door, and sure enough, Dr. Irving was standing on the stoop. He inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Crissy. May I come in?”
She opened the door wider. “Mama was hoping it was you.”
The doctor smiled and held out an official looking envelope. “I’ve some news for your mother. It came on the stage.”
“Isaiah,” her mother said and got to her feet. “Is it what I think it is?”
“Yes, Mary, it’s from Sacramento.” He handed the letter to her. “I haven’t opened it. It’s your business; you must read it first.”
Mary took the letter, but she lifted her head and glanced at the doctor. He gazed back at her and gave her an encouraging smile.
Mary sighed and seized her teaspoon, turning it around, and using the handle as a letter opener. She unfolded the letter and placed it on the table, scanning its contents. Pursing her lips, she nodded and pushed the letter away.
“Mama, what does it say?” Crissy was anxious to know.
“It was as I suspected. Ian died, shortly after staking a claim on the American River. He was murdered by claim jumpers. His partner survived and reported his death to the authorities.” She sighed again and twisted her hands in her lap. “Ian hadn’t bothered to tell his partner about his next of kin or where he was from.” She shook her head and tears formed in her eyes. “All those wasted years for nothing.”
Isaiah sat down beside her. “Not nothing, Mary. You were happy with Renzo, and you have Crissy. She’s a good, kind girl and a devoted daughter. You did an excellent job raising her.”
Her mother looked up, and he smiled at her. Embarrassed by the unusual praise, she ducked her head.
Mary leaned forward, putting her head on the doctor’s shoulder. “You’re right, of course, Isaiah, and wise.” She held out her hand to Crissy. “I’ve been blessed by a daughter I can be proud of. It’s my lasting legacy.”
Crissy moved closer and took her mother’s hand. The three of them gathered together around the table. Knowing all of her mother’s sad story, she was glad Mama had the doctor in her life.
Mary sniffed and straightened, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Thank you, Isaiah, for your help in settling this. It’s good to know, one way or another. Though, I believe I knew, deep in my heart. Somehow. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise, Mr. Shannon would have returned to you. He couldn’t have been so foolish,” the doctor said.
“Perhaps,” her mother agreed. She took the doctor’s hands. “Won’t you stay for coffee and if we’ve enough, for supper, too, Isaiah?”
“I’d be delighted to stay, Mary, but first, I must ask you something.” He glanced at Crissy. “I’m glad your daughter is here.”
“Yes?”
“Will you, Mary Shannon, do me the honor of being my wife?” Dr. Irving proposed.
Crissy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
* * *
Davie tucked his sketchpad beneath his arm and slipped his lead pencils into the pocket of his dungarees. If he was going to draw something for Father Fernández’s lectern, he’d better get busy. He had this afternoon. Tomorrow, he’d be in the brig.
Hayes was on duty, watching Dawes, who had remained in his cabin all morning.
It was a long shot, winning back Crissy’s esteem, but he was willing to do anything. He found his favorite rock, overlooking the pond, and settled down.
He glanced around, noticing how the leafy boughs of the trees were outlined against the sky, the way the wild mustang grapevines curled around the tree limbs, and the carpeted grandeur of the wildflowers.
He drew a simple lectern on his pad, wanting to set a frame for perspective, to help him to know what he needed to fill it in. He stared at the paper for a long time. A barn swallow flew overhead, and he had an inspiration.
He bent his head and sketched, his hand hovering over the paper, shapes and contours of the natural landscape filling his vision, dancing before his eyes, as he struggled to put them on paper.
The sun descended from overhead, hovering at the tops of the trees. He’d finished the outline of shapes. Now, he was shading and correcting them, rubbing out misplaced lines and re-drawing them.
He heard the galloping of horses on the slope above him, and he wondered who was coming to the springs. He put his sketchpad to one side and scrabbled to his feet. Through the gaps in the trees, he glimpsed men, most of them wearing wide-brimmed hats… sombreros?
De Los Santos and his five c
ompanions were the only Mexicans remaining in Brackettville. He’d thought it odd, they’d stayed this morning, when all the other Mexicans had departed. Jealousy being what it was, he’d believed Carlos had remained to see Crissy, and the man had been at the consecration. Carlos had approached Crissy and her mother after she’d sent him to talk to the priest.
But what was de Los Santos and his men doing here, by Los Moras Springs? Then he realized what was on the other side of the slope—the Dawes’ cabin.
The Dawes’ cabin, unlike the new handsome limestone homes, which had been built in the past few years, was one of four of the original log cabins, dating back from before the War Between the States.
Those four cabins had been kept for non-commissioned officers with families because they were the sturdiest and best maintained. Like all the original fort buildings, they clustered close to the springs and creek, making it easy to fetch water.
Realizing what was happening, he drew his Colt. At least, this time, he’d remembered to bring it. He scrutinized his surroundings for anyone else who might be around.
Where was Hayes? Was he close by, watching Dawes?
The copse of trees he’d hidden in last night were at the top of the slope. He made certain his sidearm was loaded. He bent over and ran in a zig-zag fashion, through the trees, climbing slowly and steadily, going as quietly as he could.
A twig snapped to his left, and his head came up. He grabbed his Colt and pointed. He noticed a patch of dark blue among the green leaves. Hayes stepped out with his finger to his lips and inclined his head toward the top of the slope.
Now, there were two of them. But could they get close enough to overhear what was happening? He lifted his hand and pointed, making a circular motion.
Hayes nodded and edged back to the left. Davie angled up the slope, going to the right. He saw Carlos and his men a few yards away. Carlos and one of his men had dismounted and stood beside their horses, waiting among the trees. The other four men remained mounted.
Dawes appeared on the edge of the trees, swinging awkwardly on one leg and with newly-carved, homemade crutches. His broken left leg was still bent at the knee, splinted, and heavily bandaged.
