by Braun, Matt;
On impulse, he abruptly decided to end it. The time for stubborn pride was past, and the consequences of further delay might very well prove disastrous. He would strike the best bargain he could, and then worry about outfoxing the Yankees. It was just that elemental, and given the alternative, another night in Matamoros, it was no choice at all.
Hardly was the decision made, when a knock sounded at the door. Laird called out, quickly stuffing his shirt into his pants, and the door opened. His lawyer, Warren Pryor, stepped into the room.
“Good morning, Hank.” Pryor was a gnome of a man, with a perpetually constipated expression. His eyes flicked about the room, then shifted back to Laird with a look of mild reproach. “Another night of debauchery, hmmm? It’s really quite remarkable, Hank. Your stamina, I mean. Even the Yankees are talking about it.”
Laird nodded. “Aye, that’s the way of it. Them with a wee set of balls always does the talking.” Suddenly he laughed, watching Pryor redden, then went on. “But enough-of that. What’s the news? Has our greedy friend come around?”
“Yes and no,” Pryor remarked stiffly. “General Stark has agreed to endorse your amnesty request. But the price has gone up. He now wants twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“God’s teeth!”
“And he insists it be paid in gold.”
“Of course. The man’s a bloody pirate!”
“I agree. But we’ve little bargaining power left at this point. His troops are running short of supplies, and it’s down to a matter of whether you or Starling receive the quartermaster contract. Naturally, the general still demands a percentage off the top.”
“How much?”
“Five percent. He was very firm about that.”
“Yes, but it’s lower than his original demand. Which means Starling must have offered him a bit less.”
“I got the same impression.”
Laird deliberated a moment, knuckling his mustache back as he considered the alternatives. At last he slammed a meaty fist into his palm, and turned on the lawyer with a cryptic smile.
“Tell him it’s a deal. But I want it wrapped up today. All of it, his endorsement and the quartermaster contract.”
“Just like that?” Pryor hesitated, clearly surprised. “No counterproposal?”
“Just like that. Get it in writing and he gets the gold.”
“Hank, you’re a sly and devious man. I can see it in your face. You’ve got something up your sleeve, don’t you?”
“Hide and watch, bucko. Just hide and watch.”
Laird rode into the ranch headquarters shortly after nightfall the next evening. Built like a fortress, the casa grande stood on a small knoll overlooking Santa Guerra Creek. Clustered around the main house were the adobe huts of vaqueros and their families; corrals for livestock and a blacksmith shed; storerooms, workshops, and a chape] where a lookout kept watch in the tower night and day. A thick adobe wall enclosed the entire casco, and in the event of raids by bandidos or Indians, it quickly became a fortified village.
The main gate swung open with a massive groan as Laird approached. A figure, armed with a double-barrel shotgun, emerged from the shadows and stepped into a patch of moonlight. His features were obscured by a wide sombrero, and a serape hung draped over his shoulders, but there was no mistaking the segundo of Santa Guerra Hacienda.
“Hola, Ramon!”
“Hola, Patron! Welcome home.”
“Que pasa?” Laird reined his horse to a halt. “Have the Yankee soldiers returned?”
“Cabrones!”
Ramon Morado spat the curse, mouth set in a tight grimace. His face looked as though it had been hewn from rough walnut, with an angular nose and high cheekbones and the brooding eyes of an eagle. A jagged knife scar, relic of some ancient duel, marked one jaw from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth.
“Twice they came, Patron. Each time they herded Los Lerdenos into the courtyard like cattle. Then the barbarians searched every building with the thoroughness of starved dogs. But I did as you ordered. I held my tongue and made the vaqueros appear before them unarmed. There was no violence, and the gringo flinches found nothing. Your gold is safe, Patron.”
Laird understood perfectly. His segundo was a man normally given to few words; the outburst had been a tactful display of rage and shame. The vaqueros called themselves Los Lerdenos—Laird’s People—a name they bore with pride and great dignity. To humble themselves before anyone, particularly yanqui soldados, was an unspeakable humiliation. They had done it to protect his gold, nearly $300,000 put back during the war, buried beneath the earthen floor of the blacksmith’s forge. Ramon Morado had politely reminded him of the vaqueros’ loyalty and their willingness to suffer any indignity for the patron. Unstated but tacitly understood was his own obligation to Los Lerdenos.
“Bueno! You have done well, Ramon. Our men too, eh?”
Gracias, Patron. I will tell the people of your pride in them.”
“And Dona Angela? What of her and my daughter?”
“They are well, Patron. La Madama faced the soldiers with great bravery. She has the courage of a true guerrero, and none dared offend her.”
“Bien! God smiles on us, Ramon. But now ... enough of this talk! I have business at home. Hasta luego, compadre!”
Ramon grinned, his teeth flashing like rows of dice in the moonlight, and stepped aside. Laird feathered the horse with his spurs and burst through the gate at a. dead lope. Moments later he slid to a halt in front of the house and dismounted. He left the horse ground reined, certain Ramon would have it fetched, and hurried up the porch stairs. The door opened and suddenly Angela was there, framed in the cider glow of lamplight.
A long stride took him across the porch, and he pulled her into a rough embrace. Neither of them spoke, but her cheeks were flushed and a faint smile haunted the corners of her mouth. Then her lips parted and her arms went around his neck with a gentle urgency. He kissed her, aware of her scent, fresh and clean yet musklike, somehow sensual. Her body pressed against him and he drew her closer, felt her tremble. After a long while she pulled away, buried her face into his chest, clutching him to her with fierce possession.
“You’re home.” Her voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. “Praise God, home and safe. That’s all I prayed for, Henry.”
Only Angela called him by his given name, and the sound of it brought a surge of anticipation he hadn’t known in weeks. For all his whoring and drunken brawls, his passion for her had never diminished. She was his wife, the mother of his child, and the one woman in all his life to whom he’d never been unfaithful in spirit.
He laughed and nuzzled the curve of her neck. “Aye, lass. Home from the war and hungry as a bear in rut.”
“Henry, your language. Have you no shame in your own house?”
“None a’tall! And you wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“That’s not true. You know it’s not.”
Without a word, he lifted her in his arms and walked into the house. She struggled briefly, but as he kicked the door shut behind them, her arms circled his neck and she lowered her head to his shoulder. On the way down the hall, she suddenly laughed and began nibbling his earlobe.
Chapter 3
Angela lay motionless, burrowed deep in the hollow of his arm. Moonlight flooded the bedroom, and she watched her breath eddy through the matted curls on his chest. She felt languid and sated, limp with an exquisite kind of exhaustion. Yet there was the other thing, the part that always crept over her afterward. Emotionally she felt wretched, loathing herself and the weakness of her own body.
Nothing changed. In all their years together, it was the same whenever he returned home after a long absence. Her need was no less urgent than his own, consuming mind and body in a haze of agony the instant he touched her. All else forgotten, they took one another in a frenzied burst of craving, lost in
an incandescent thrash of arms and legs. It was only afterward, locked beneath him in a world cloyed with the musk of warm flesh, that the disgust set in.
There was no tenderness to the act, nothing of a spiritual union between them. It was merely animal hunger, together yet apart, satisfying brute lust without words or emotion. Then, panting and disheveled, drifting on a quenched flame, she was always overcome by a sense of uncleanliness. She condemned herself for yielding to the witless demands of the flesh. But even worse, she despised him for how easily he aroused that wanton need.
He made her feel like a whore.
A tear scalded her cheek, and suddenly she felt revolted by her own nakedness. Fearful of waking him, she slipped from his arm and slowly eased out of bed. She stopped, searching the floor for her nightgown, then found it and quickly pulled it on over her head. But the gown fitted snugly across full breasts and tightly rounded buttocks, and did little to hide her figure. She was a small, compact woman, neither delicate nor plump. Childbirth hadn’t spoiled her figure, though she was perhaps a bit wider through the hips, and the natural symmetry of her face seemed untouched by time. Her oval features were framed by hair dark as obsidian, and her eyes, large and expressive, forever betrayed her innermost thoughts. Incapable of guile or deceit, she was nonetheless haunted by guilt. She kept her eyes averted as she passed the bureau mirror, unwilling to look upon even a reflected image of herself.
“You’ve a damn poor sense of timing.”
Startled, she turned to find him watching her. “I’m sorry, Henry. I thought you were asleep.”
“Asleep or awake, where’s the difference? You’re still quitting my bed, aren’t you?”
“That’s not true! I was simply going ... to the ...”
“On your way to the privy?” Laird grunted, shook his head. “No, if it’s the necessities you’re after, there’s a john-nypot under the bed.”
“You needn’t be coarse, Henry.”
“And you’ve no need to rush off and have yourself a good cry. It’s a queer sort of a welcome—damned if it’s not!— right after a man’s made love to his wife.”
“I wasn’t”—She faltered, fought back the tears. “I’m not crying.”
“Ah, lass, it’s no good, don’t you see that? The time for mourning is past, and you’ve not yet buried the dead. You must put it from your mind or you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“Is it really that easy, Henry?” Her mouth went tight, scornful. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be ... if you’d been there ... when it happened.”
“He was my son too! Or have you allowed yourself to forget that part?”
“Yes, but you weren’t there ... were you?”
“By the Sweet Jesus, you’ll not talk to me that way!” Laird sat up in bed, glaring at her. “It’s not the boy—and never was! It’s your father. Him and his saintly ways—you’ve never got over it, have you?”
“Oh god, Henry.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “How can you be so cruel? That’s a terrible thing to say ... terrible.”
“Aye, but all the same true. Any time I ever touched you I knew it for a fact, and it’s not gotten better since he died; it’s gotten worse.”
“He didn’t die—neither of them did—they were killed’”
“A distinction, I’ll grant you, but one I hardly need thrown in my face.”
“I’m not so sure, Henry ... perhaps you do.”
“And what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”
A look of agony twisted her features, and she appeared on the verge of speaking. Then her mouth clamped in a straight line and she lowered her head, staring dully at the floor. Laird watched her for a moment, thoroughly confounded, and finally let out his breath with a deep sigh.
“I’ve no wish to be cross, but it’s gone on too long now. You’re still living with ghosts and there’ll be no peace between us till you’ve laid them to rest.”
He smiled, held out his hand. “Come on, get back in bed and we’ll chase away the miseries.”
“I can’t, Henry.” She edged toward the door. “Please, not again ... not tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” Laird fell back against the pillow and rolled onto his side. “But don’t say you weren’t invited.”
Angela turned and fled. Still barefoot, she walked quickly along the hall, went through the kitchen, then out the door and onto the back porch. She took a deep breath, slowly released it, tried to distract herself by watching low clouds that scudded across the moon. But the thought persisted, and under the pale light, tears glistened in her eyes.
There was so much to forgive. So little she could forget. Sometimes she wished he would stay away forever. Then, when he left her alone and went to Brownsville on business, she bitterly resented the emptiness of being without him. Yet whenever he returned, like tonight, it was always a time of joy. A sudden deliverance, filled with laughter and happiness and his devilish, teasing ways. Until he took her to bed. Ruined everything by making her feel dirty and ashamed of herself and ... guilty.
It was her father, of course. Even in death he stood between them. The Reverend Hiram Johnson, self-appointed messenger of Jehovah. Since childhood, particularly after her mother’s death, he had drummed it into her head that lust was sinful, that those who fornicated for pleasure rather than procreation were doomed to the fires of Hell. Try as she might, she couldn’t drive his warped vision of the Scripture from her mind. Not even twelve years of marriage had erased the sound of his voice, those nightly sermons on the evils of man and the pitfalls of temptation. Nor could she absolve her husband of blame—the horrors of that final night—her father’s unswerving belief even in the face of death.
The memory always jolted her, arriving unbidden from some dark corner of her mind. She blinked back tears, trying to push the nightmare aside, not to remember. Never to see it again ...
Brownsville was in flames. The Confederate commander, upon hearing that the Union army had landed on the coast, put the torch to Fort Brown and retreated in panic. The fire touched off a powder magazine, and the force of the explosion showered fire-brands all across town. Buildings kindled and burst into flame, and along the levee, thousands of bales of cotton burned with an eerie brilliance under a pall of smoke. Darkness brought the drunken border scum from both sides of the river, looting and rioting unchecked through the streets. Stores were plundered, homes sacked, men who resisted were killed outright and their women ravaged.
And Angela waited, listening to the mop, her husband downriver with another load of cotton. Then the howling came closer, rose to a murderous pitch, and men began pounding on the door. Her children, Trudy and little Hank, were hidden in the bedroom. But her father stood before the door, disdaining weapons, certain that not even border ruffians would harm a man of the cloth. At the last instant, when the door splintered and tore loose from its hinges, she armed herself with a shotgun. Her father raised both arms, like a holy man warding off evil spirits, and gunfire erupted from the doorway. He slumped to his knees, still imploring mercy, then pitched forward on his face. And Angela pulled both triggers on the shotgun. The blast ripped into the mob, shredding bone and flesh with a double load of buckshot. Several men fell dead, others screamed, and those at the rear of the pack turned and fled. The door emptied and a sudden stillness settled over the room.
Angela gagged—sickened by the carnage—slowly dropped the shotgun, and turned away. Then she froze. Little Hank lay in the doorway of the bedroom, the top of his skull blown off, brains and gore puddled around his head. A scream shattered the stillness, and she threw herself down beside him, only dimly aware that the cries she heard were her own.
Even now, after nearly two years, she couldn’t forget or forgive. The screams still echoed through her mind, and she saw there, fixed forever in a grisly vignette, a little boy with his head destroyed by a stray bullet. Yet it was all so confused. A common thr
ead somehow linked the loss of her son and the death of her father to that older guilt she felt in the bedroom. In her heart, she told herself that Henry wasn’t at fault. His grief had been no less than Her own. Perhaps deeper, since she would never give him another son. Still, if he hadn’t been downriver that night it wouldn’t have happened. If he were a gentler man, tender and understanding, perhaps she wouldn’t feel like a common whore with her own husband. So if not Henry, then who was to blame?
Angela swayed, clutching at the banister for support. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and for a moment, the moon tilted crazily in the sky. Then her vision blurred and a splitting pain drew a sharp intake of breath. She put both hands to her head, pressing with all her strength, as though her skull would burst apart unless she held it together. Her knees buckled and she slowly collapsed on the porch, her body wedged up against the banister. Softly, like some wounded creature of the night, she began to cry.
Trudy speared another flapjack onto her plate and drenched it with molasses. Then she stuffed a large bite into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment, and glanced up at her father. “Pa, couldn’t you change your mind? Please! Just this once.”
“I’ve already told you, sprout. Business comes first. Steamboats don’t run themselves, you know. Takes a firm hand at the wheel.”
“Oh fiddlesticks! Uncle Art could look after those silly old boats. Besides, it’s the captains that run ‘em anyway, isn’t it?”
