Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  Amethyst studied the lined face, the haunted eyes. The question puzzled her. “I—I don’t know. I think possibly he might be a brother to our distant cousin in the Texas hill country—Diego de Durango.”

  “Aha! I thought so!” There was a glint in the woman’s eyes as she rattled her ring of keys, a note of triumph in her voice. And was that a hint of revenge . . . or madness in her expression?

  Amethyst stared at the large portrait on the wall behind the Mother Superior. The girl in the painting was no older than Amethyst herself, very lovely and very innocent. She vaguely resembled the nun, although the artist had flattered his subject as paid artists do.

  The old woman nodded. “Si, it is me, as I was many years ago in Spain . . . before I met Luis Durango, who painted that portrait.”

  She had a sudden feeling that the man had seduced and shamed the innocent girl portrayed in the painting. “Sister, I have no idea where this is all leading. Certainly I have never met this distant relative of whom you speak—”

  “Silence!” The Mother Superior’s voice cracked like a pistol shot as she stood, paced the bare stone floor. “You are as impudent and spirited as Mademoiselle Monique claimed in her letter! I took the veil because of Luis Durango; perhaps it is God’s justice that a Durango should finally come under my control!”

  That really was a glint of madness in the haunted eyes. Amethyst felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “But, Sister—”

  “Silence, I said!” The older woman whirled on Amethyst. “I didn’t give you permission to speak! Here you will learn humility and obedience! That low-cut gown is disgraceful! It will only invite the lust of men. Tomorrow you will exchange it for a simple uniform.” She sniffed the air as if she could not believe her nose. “Is that perfume I smell?”

  “Forget-me-not,” Amethyst explained. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with the delicate scent of the little wild violet—”

  “It attracts the lustful notice of men!” the woman shouted at her. “Everything about you would attract men! But I will change all that! After months of prayer and penitence for your sinful urges, you will be glad to put aside the wicked world and thoughts of men, even as I did!”

  Amethyst stood up. “I really don’t intend to stay that long,” she countered. “As soon as I convince Papa—”

  “Oh, but unless he counters Mademoiselle Monique’s orders, you will see no one for some months! When that fine lady wrote me, sending such a generous donation for our order, she bemoaned your rebellious nature. Your future stepmother indicated that perhaps after months of prayer over your hostility, you might even consider taking the veil.”

  “I think not,” Amethyst said coldly. Although the coming night was warm, she shivered. Tomorrow her last link with the outside, her chaperone, would leave on the stage that seldom came to this isolated place in the desert. After the woman’s departure, Amethyst might very well be held a prisoner here, never again to see the outside world. Did the Bishop know the Mother Superior here was as mad as a rabid dog? Evidently not or she would have been replaced.

  The woman crossed the room, pulled the bell cord. “The old serving woman will take you to your room, provide you with proper clothing. You will observe silence at all times. We rise at four in the morning, meditate and pray until five, at which time we share a simple meal of plain gruel. At noon, there will be vegetables and more gruel.”

  Amethyst knew better, but she was too ornery to pass up the remark. “Gruel!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yum! I can hardly wait!”

  For a moment, she thought the madwoman would strike her with the heavy ring of keys. “Young lady, you lack humility and you are sassy and impudent! But after a few months here, we’ll change all that. Your attitude will become a more pliant, prayerful one.” The Mother Superior smiled. “We’re in the business of miracles, you know!”

  The bent old woman came for Amethyst, escorted her to a small, sparsely furnished cubicle.

  Late into the night, Amethyst lay staring at the ceiling of the cell-like room. For the first time in her life, she was really scared. She had a feeling that any letters of entreaty to her papa would be intercepted, whereas the Mother Superior would write glowingly of Amethyst’s progress and happiness at the abbey.

  The ambitious Monique wanted a free hand with the Durango ranch and fortune. It dawned on Amethyst as she restlessly tossed and turned that even she might finally be broken in spirit by that madwoman until, like her, she would wish refuge from the world and decide to stay at the abbey forever.

  The only thing that could get her out right away was her marriage. And that wasn’t likely, since she’d been betrothed for all these years to a man she never expected to claim her. Indeed, Papa was such a man of honor that he’d refused to let other men pay her court because of the agreement he’d made when Amethyst was only a child.

  The thought of a husband brought to mind the big Texan’s taking her in his arms in the shadows of the trees. With a shivery thrill, she remembered the feel of his hot lips sucking at her small, pink nipples. At the thought, her breasts seemed to swell with anticipation. Closing her eyes, she remembered his square, hard hands as she’d kissed the backs of his knuckles. They had tasted and smelled of sunburned earth and soap. Again she felt those callused palms stroking her satin skin in a rough caress, his tongue invading her mouth deeply as he’d dominated her small body with his virile power. The act had offered such promise, such excitement.

  Amethyst frowned suddenly in the darkness, her violet eyes opening wide as she remembered the act itself. She couldn’t imagine why poets praised this act of passion. Certainly as far as she was concerned, love was a big disappointment. The pistolero had seemed to enjoy it, but not enough to be swayed into helping her. And that final indignity of stealing her small ring after taking her on the grass like a common servant! . . .

  But of course, he was common—just a saddle tramp—while she was of the finest family. She could never have considered him seriously anyway. The man she had been betrothed to came from as blue-blooded a family as her own.

  She touched her finger where she had worn the amethyst flower all these years and then ran that hand with great agitation and anger through her ebony tresses. Santa María! Bandit! Ah, si, he was only a bandido, a thief after all! She wondered what had become of him? Had the unsuspecting tejano been loco enough to ride that stallion right into the area from which it had been stolen six months ago?

  At that very moment, Bandit was riding up to an isolated little cantina a few miles to the north of Monterrey. Guitar music and laughter floated through the cantina’s open windows.

  A mug of beer would taste good, he thought, dismounting before the water trough, watering the pinto stallion. It was only as he led the horse over to the hitching rail before the cantina that he suddenly noticed the vaquero in the shadows, leaning against a post.

  Bandit started, his hand going automatically to the Colt worn low and tied down under his left hand.

  “Easy, hombre,” said the other in a voice that was almost a whisper. He slowly came out into the moonlight and Bandit noted he was slender and cadaverous, but handsome in a menacing sort of way, maybe part Indian. He took off his sombrero, ran his hand through black hair that glinted with streaks of silver.

  Bandit sighed, shrugged. “Beg pardon,” he apologized in his Texas drawl. “Been on the prod too long, I reckon; find myself slappin’ leather at the slightest noise.”

  The vaquero laughed softly, shifted the lucifer he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. His eyes reflected the moonlight, and Bandit noted they were as black as the pits of hell and reflected back at him almost like mirrors behind which there was no soul. Without thinking, he brought his left hand to his vest, to finger the lucky coin that his mother had pressed into his palm as she’d died.

  “Hombre,” said the stranger, “where did you get that horse?”

  Bandit’s hand dropped to his gunbelt again. “What in blue
blazes is it with this horse?” He thought of the lavender-eyed beauty again, felt her tiny ring encircling the smallest finger on his right hand. “Everyone is might curious about this stud. That’s the Flying Eagle brand of my folks from up near the Red River.”

  “Is that a fact?” The vaquero shrugged easily as he came over to study the stallion up close. He wore no pistol, Bandit noted. “Tejano, you look familiar. I swear I’ve seen you some place before,” he said, “have you ever been below the border?”

  “Never have.” Bandit shrugged, his hand still on the ivory-handled butt of his colt. “And you’re mighty nosy. Now if you’ll perdône me”—he gestured with his head toward the noise and music of the cantina—“I’m afixin’ to sample a little of the hospitality of the area, see if we’re simpático.”

  The saddlebags, mustn’t forget to keep those saddlebags with him at all times. Somehow sooner or later, he intended to return that army payroll. It was bad enough to have those three bank robbers searching for him; he didn’t want the whole United States Army after him, too!

  But even as he swung around to unbuckle the saddlebags from the big horse, a crowd of drunken vaqueros stumbled through the swinging doors of the adobe cantina. They paused uncertainly, swaying on their feet and laughing. “Hey, Romeros,” one called to the black-haired man, “we miss you inside! We want to have a drink with our caudillo, our foreman.”

  Romeros smiled, indicated Bandit with a nod of his head. “I was just coming in for some tequila, hombres, when I stopped to talk to this Texas pistolero.”

  The half-dozen drunken men stumbled forward to surround the pair, frowning at Bandit. “A tejano! We don’t have much use for tejanos! We are pleased to let the Indians rip into their soft, southern underbelly!”

  Bandit smiled back at them. Relations between Texas and Mexico had always been strained but the Mexican War waged a quarter of a century ago had created even more tension between that country and the United States. It was stupid to fight if he could use his charm to wriggle out of trouble like he’s so often done. “Compadres”—he grinned and made an open gesture—“I was thinking of buying everyone some cerveza.”

  But even as he spoke, they crowded in close around him, jostling him, making it almost impossible to draw. Then a bearded one seemed to see the horse for the very first time. “Holy Mother of God! It is the horse!” he shouted in Spanish. “This hombre has the stallion!”

  They were too close for him to draw. He’d have to bluff his way free of this crowd. “That’s the Flying Eagle brand from up near the Red,” he began, “and—”

  “You lie!” Half a dozen voices shouted in drunken anger, the men so close now he smelled their sour mescal breath, the stench of sweating bodies. “That’s el patrón’s missing stud! The reward!” one shouted.

  “No, compadre, you’re mistaken,” Bandit drawled. “That’s the Flyin’ Eagle brand—”

  “Romeros!” another yelled, “you’re old Don Falcon’s foreman for many years now! Is that not the famous Falcon brand? Is that not the fine overo pinto stolen from el patrón for which he has offered a reward?”

  Before Romeros could answer, the mob shouted back. “Sí! Remember the reward for its return—or for the head of the man who stole it!”

  Even as Bandit tried to back away from the drunken crowd to get himself room to maneuver, they crowded in, overpowering him as he went for his pistol. What in the name of blue blazes have I ridden into?

  He fought to get loose, hit one man on the chin. But he was grabbed again, his arms twisted behind his back as he cursed and struggled.

  A man stuck his head through the swinging doors of the cantina. “Hey, hombres, what is all that noise about?”

  One of those holding Bandit’s arms yelled back at the one in the doorway. “We have caught ourselves a horse thief to amuse us, and tomorrow, we claim the big reward!”

  Immediately a crowd came out of the cantina. Curious, they gathered around the struggling cowboy. Bandit’s arms hurt from being twisted cruelly behind his back but he still fought and struggled, dragging those who held him out into the dustry street as he fought them.

  “A rope!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Get a rope for the neck of this horse thief!”

  The foreman, Romeros, leaned against a post, chewing his match as if considering whether to take any action or merely watch the lynching.

  Out of the corner of his eye, as Bandit battled, he saw a vaquero take a lariat from his saddle, throw it up over the sign that hung before the cantina. He swore in furious border Spanish. “You can’t just lynch me without a trial!”

  “Yankee!” a man bellowed. “You’re in Mexico and under our laws! We’ll do anything we please!”

  Someone else took up the cry. “Sí! A rope right now is good enough for this horse thief! We’ll deliver his body tomorrow to the old don for the reward!”

  Bandit had faced death many times, but never had he had to deal with a drunken mob bent on lynching him for entertainment. As he fought to get away from his captors, he felt the cold sweat of fear gather in his armpits, run down his muscular body.

  He craned his neck, saw the ebony-haired Romeros still smiling as he chewed his match. Yet as a vaquero slipped the rough, braided rawhide over Bandit’s head, Romeros moved suddenly, pushing through the crowd. “No, compadres!” he shouted as he shoved his way through the drunken mob to Bandit’s side, “No, there’s been a mistake!”

  The slender man was evidently someone of great importance, because there was a sudden silence. Men made way respectfully for him.

  Romeros tossed away the match. “Hombres, I appreciate your concern both for justice and el patrón! But there’s been a mistake, comprende? This Texan had just brought the fine stallion to me himself to claim the reward!”

  Around him, Bandit watched disappointment etch the dark faces in the moonlight as the drunken crowd grumbled. “Aw, señor, are you sure? We had our hearts set on hanging the tejano.”

  “Have I not been the caudillo, the foreman, at the Falcon’s Lair for twenty-five years now?” Romeros commanded with a voice of authority. “Does el patrón not trust me, rely on me to keep his empire running? Who speaks for old Don Enrique if not me? I tell you, the Texan is innocent, he was just, handing over the horse when you came out of the cantina and misunderstood what was happening!”

  Bandit’s captors turned loose his arms with obvious reluctance, and he released a deep sigh of relief. “Gracias, Señor Romeros,” he breathed out, moving his shoulders to bring the circulation back into his arms. “Of course I was returning the horse. How could anyone think otherwise!”

  Amethyst. That little bitch! He thought of innocent violet eyes, remembered her questions about the horse. Evidently, she had recognized it and hadn’t warned him. He didn’t feel so guilty now about stealing that elegant lady’s ring, her chastity. Her silence had almost gotten him lynched!

  Romeros took his arm, the moonlight gleaming on his strange, expressionless eyes. “He had merely stopped here to ask directions to the ranch. See hombres? Do you think he would have been loco enough to ride back into the area if he had stolen the horse?”

  The common sense of his words caused the grumbling men to nod in agreement.

  The Falcon foreman reached into his vest for a pouch of coins. “Here, vaqueros, let Romeros buy every one of you a drink for your loyalty! I shall tell the don myself what fine men you are when this hombre and I ride out to return the stud!”

  That’s what you think, Pard, Bandit thought. I ain’t afixin’ to do no such thing! When I get free of this mob, I’m gonna hightail it out of here.

  A cheer went up from the drunken mob at Romeros’ words. Then the foreman shook gold coins into the eager hand of the saloon keeper and all the men pushed and jostled to go back inside. Within seconds, Bandit and the Falcon foreman stood alone in the moonlight, listening to the laughter and guitar music coming from inside as the vaqueros enjoyed the treat.

  Bandit heaved a deep s
igh of relief, reached his left hand into his vest for one of the slender cigars he favored. “Gracias, compadre.” He put his boot up on the hitching rail, struck a match on the sole, lit up. “I was beginning to wonder if you were just gonna stand there and watch them hang me up like a side of fresh beef!”

  “Left-handed.” It was more a comment than a question from the other man.

  That riled Bandit. “Sí! And I’ve heard enough snide remarks about it to last me all my days!” He took a deep puff, enjoyed the rich taste of the cigar.

  Romeros gestured toward the horses. “Come, let us ride and talk.”

  Bandit nodded, untied the big paint, and watched Romero mount a gelding that was as black as his hair and eyes. Then Bandit swung up and they rode away at a walk. As soon as he got far enough away from that drunken mob, Bandit intended to vamoose. He had no intention of returning the pinto. He’d never owned a horse he liked so much, and the big horse seemed genuinely partial to him, too. Besides, he’d need a fast horse if those three bank robbers or the U.S. Army got on his trail.

  Romeros stuck a match between his lips.

  Bandit glanced over at him as he inhaled his cigar. “That’s a bad habit you got, chewing those things. You better watch it, and not get the wrong end in your mouth. Lucifers are poisonous!”

  Romeros laughed softly. “Is that a fact! You’re the second person to tell me that. Now how would you happen to know something like that?”

  Because my mother finally committed suicide by eating a couple, Bandit thought. The painful memory of her death throes came to him—he smelled the slight, telltale scent of garlic—and of staring down into that cheap, pine coffin. Mona and the other whores had taken up a collection to pay the funeral expenses. “I don’t know; maybe I read it somewheres.”

  “Your concern touches my heart!” the dark man said with a touch of scorn as they rode down the road at a walk. “Now, Texas, tell me what you’re really doing below the the border; how you came by that horse?”