Bandit turned at the sound of the door opening, of Romeros’s voice. He looked back at the lean, swarthy foreman peering at him from the library.
“Señor Falcon is waiting to see you.” Romeros jerked his head toward the room behind him.
Undecided, Bandit looked from Romeros to the front door. “I—I don’t know, maybe—”
“The patrón is waiting!” The man frowned menacingly.
Bandit looked from Romeros to the entry. Everything in him told him to stride out that door, spurs jingling, to forget about this deceitful plot. But in his mind, he saw the elegant girl’s face. The rich young Tony Falcon might claim her; a bastard gunslinger never could.
That decided him. Bandit took a deep breath, followed Romeros into the library.
Even though it was the first day of May, a fire crackled in the big fireplace to ward off the morning chill. A tall, old man rose stiffly from the fine leather sofa before the blaze, a proud Castilian with hair now turned silver and eyes as pale blue as Bandit’s own.
I would have known the old blue blood from his bearing alone, Bandit thought. And there was a long moment of silence as the two regarded each other, a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire.
“Tony?”
Maybe it was the pain in the faint voice, the hope in the proud, lined face. Without thinking, Bandit crossed the rich carpet, clasped both the old man’s hands in his, “Papa?”
For a long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. Bandit felt the other’s hands tremble as he clasped them in his big ones. All his life he had looked for his father, wondered about the blood that pumped through his veins. One thing he knew as he looked into the eyes of the elderly aristocrat; if he could choose his own relatives, he would ask for nothing more than to be blood kin to this man. “I—I’ve looked for you all my life,” Bandit said, swallowing hard, “and now I’ve finally found you!”
It was true; it really was true. He blinked back the mist that suddenly blinded him.
Señor Falcon looked down at Bandit’s hands, studying the mark, then back up into his face. His lips trembled as if he might break down, and then he controlled himself with noticeable effort. “Sí, of course you’re my missing Tony! Even if you did not have the birthmark, I would have recognized you! You have the Falcon family features!”
And at that point, he threw his arms around Bandit, hugging him to his frail frame, and Bandit had never been so touched. Or so guilty. Of course he would say that, Bandit thought sympathetically, looking into the furrowed face. Any man who had looked for a missing son for sixteen years would grab at any straw as if drowning, would want to see a resemblance in a stranger’s face.
He couldn’t look into the hopeful eyes any longer. The guilt was too strong. Bandit disengaged his hands, cleared his throat. “Papa, I’ve always wondered who I really was all these years. I looked for kin in every face.” It was true, he thought, so true. “I’ve always felt like a part of me was missing, that deep inside I was searching for my real family.”
The don patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Oh, my son, there is so much to talk about! How you must have suffered. You must tell me everything!”
Bandit shrugged, staring into the fire. “I don’t remember much. I’ve had a hellish life; drifting, no roots. But now I feel like I’ve finally found where I really belong.” Again it was the truth.
Romeros cleared his throat loudly and Bandit glanced over at him, remembered. “If Señor Romeros hadn’t found me, the vaqueros would have lynched me for a horse thief. I owe him much.”
Romeros chewed a match and grinned broadly. “I am only too happy to reunite my beloved patrón with his missing child.”
Don Enrique took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes. “Ah, si, Romeros, I forget about you in the excitement, but I won’t forget your part in this. The Falcons will be forever grateful to you, amigo, and there’ll be a rich reward—”
“No, gracias.” Romeros held up a restraining hand. “I ask no reward. Making my employer happy is the finest reward of all!”
You rotten hypocrite, Bandit thought with annoyance, rubbing the deep cleft in his chin. Of course Romeros wanted more than a reward. If he controlled the heir, he ultimately controlled the whole Falcon empire. Bandit felt a twinge of conscience as he stared back at the foreman’s grinning face. If you only knew it all, Señor Falcon, he thought.
But at least the old man was happy. He looked as if he might be smiling for the first time in years. “Tony”—Falcon patted Bandit’s arm—“there’s so much to discuss, so much to tell. I want to hear where you’ve been all these years and—”
“It’s a pretty tragic story,” Bandit said with conviction, “Not one a boy should have to live through, have to remember.”
“That’s right,” Romeros broke in. “Don’t question him too much, señor, the past may be painful to him. God knows what he’s had to endure growing up.”
Bandit thought about growing up in a parlor house, playing in the dirty halls while Lidah entertained clients behind her closed door. How in God’s name had she found out match heads were poisonous? Everyone had thought it was dysentery until she’d admitted to suicide as she’d died. “I—I have endured much.”
Señor Falcon nodded. “Comprendo, son. Life for us has been hell, too, especially for your mother.”
Your mother. Lidah was dead and buried in the town of Gun Powder. Mona had helped him get through that first terrible night. He would never forget the redhead for her tender kindness to a brokenhearted, half-grown kid.
Romeros paced up and down. “Speaking of la patrona,” he said politely, “we need to tell her.”
The old man slapped his open palm against his wrinkled forehead. “Of course! In my own excitement, I forgot about the señora.” He looked at Bandit anxiously. “We’ll have to break it to her gently—her heart, you know.”
“Then Papa”—Bandit paused, thinking he had never called a man that before, it had a pleasant sound—“you must prepare her so there’ll be no sudden shock.”
The old man nodded. “She is where she always is early in the morning—the nursery.”
Bandit’s face wrinkled with thought. “Did you say nursery?”
Don Enrique took his arm, gestured to Romeros. “Sí, every morning for sixteen long years. I think she prays in there for her lost boy. It breaks my heart, I love her so.”
“Well, the patrona is finally going to get her prayers answered.” Romeros smiled easily as they walked down the hall, started up the stairs. “God has taken action.”
God or the devil himself? Bandit thought, looking at the thin, dark foreman as the three of them went down the upstairs hall. Old Falcon bubbled with excitement as he tried to tell Bandit everything that had happened in the sixteen years since little Tony had been stolen from his bed late one night.
The two conspirators waited outside while the old man went in, closed the door.
Bandit rubbed at the tattoo as if to rub it off. “Dammit, what is this you’ve gotten me into? You didn’t tell me he would be such a fine old man, that I would like him so much.”
“You’ll like the patrona, too,” Romeros said smoothly. “Her health began failing the day after her only child disappeared. She had him so late in life after they had given up hope of ever having a child. And it was a double tragedy, for they had already lost the don’s younger brother.”
Bandit swore softly. “What kind of snake would kidnap a child?”
Romeros shrugged. “A poor one needing money. Or someone who saw the child as a threat. Anyway, the Señora’s heart could give out at any time so we all cater to her.”
“The old man seems to adore her.”
“You will, too.” Romeros promised. “She’s everything a man ever dreamed of in a mother.”
Bandit glared at him. “You should have told me they were such fine, decent people.”
“You didn’t ask.” Romeros moved the match from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Think
of it as doing two nice old people a great favor, returning their long missing son. I don’t think she’ll ask many questions either. She’ll be too afraid you won’t be the boy she’s prayed for all these years. Neither of them have that many years left.” He looked at Bandit with eyes as black and hard as obsidian. “Just don’t forget, when you finally do inherit everything, that I helped you and I could tell if you forget to share.”
“You can’t tell without endangering yourself,” Bandit reminded him, running his hand through his light hair.
“I think this is what you americanos call a Mexican standoff.” Romeros grinned evilly.
Bandit chewed his lip. “So what do I say if they press me for details of the past sixteen years?”
Romeros shrugged, chewed his match. “Make up a story. Maybe the kidnapper gave you to some family, a rancher, some old trapper. Plead amnesia. Tell ’m the horror of how you had to grow up has wiped most of the past from your memory.”
Bandit wished it had. Sometimes when his mother was drunk, all he got was milk and bread unless the redheaded whore, Mona, fixed him something. He smiled, remembering. Mona Dulaney. Where was she now? Last time he’d seen her, she was still working at Miss Fancy’s in San An tone, but he’d lost track of her after she’d left there. He frowned at the next thought.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Romeros said. “What are you thinking about?”
“A redheaded woman, a school Christmas tree.”
Romeros laughed. “Funny mixture. The woman I could go for, but here in Mexico, we’ve got piñatas full of toys and candy instead of trees.”
The memory was too painful to share. “I just remembered a particularly painful Christmas. Saloons and whorehouses do big business during the holidays, you know that?”
“You talk of the most loco things,” the lean foreman complained.
They heard a cry from inside the room, a cry half of amazement, half of joy.
Romeros took the match out of his mouth, frowned. “Hope the señora doesn’t have a heart attack over the news. We wouldn’t want the big homecoming to be spoiled by a funeral!”
Bandit grabbed him by the front of his shirt, doubled up his fist. “You’re rotten! You know that? Rotten.”
Romeros held up his hands in front of his gaunt face. “Is that a fact now? You’re a fine one to judge anyone, hombre!”
Of course, that was true. Ashamed, Bandit let go of the man, looked down at his boots.
They heard steps crossing to the door, and the old man flung it open. “Come in!” He gestured. “Come in! The señora is waiting.”
Hesitantly, Bandit entered the nursery. It smelled of dust, and the drapes were closed as if the room had been shut off from the world for a long time. There was a crib, a little boy’s clothes laid out in it as if he were expected back at any moment, shelves and shelves of toys, a big rocking horse, a red wagon. Bandit’s painful Christmas had involved a rocking horse not nearly so fine as this one. Tears came to his eyes as he recalled it.
“Tony?”
He turned at the soft voice. The elderly woman stood up from a chair, a rosary dangling from her hand. She had been a great beauty in her day, Bandit realized, but now her black hair had turned to silver and lines of grief had long ago etched her lovely face. This was a great lady even though she was as delicate as a fine, old porcelain doll.
“Tony? Are you really my Tony?” She held out her hands to him, hope and agony in her dark eyes.
She was the Madonna come to life; everything he had always dreamed of in a mother. He had never wanted anything so much as he suddenly wanted to be this woman’s kin. Something deep in his soul told him he had finally found his home.
Without thinking, without meaning to, he crossed the carpet, took the frail woman in his arms. “Madre! Madre!” He kissed the top of her silver hair while she collapsed, sobbing, in his arms.
“Tony! Oh, my Tony! We have waited so very long for you, my son! I have prayed and prayed for a miracle!”
And how had God answered her prayers? Bandit pulled away from her in shame. She had begged for her kin to be returned and God had sent her an impostor. Bandit swallowed hard, deeply ashamed.
Behind him, he heard Señor Falcon take out his handkerchief and blow his nose loudly. “Sí, Mamá. I told you we’d get him back someday.” His voice betrayed how much he loved the woman.
What would the powerful don do to Bandit and Romeros for hurting the señora if he ever found out the truth? But there was no reason they must ever know the secret, Bandit told himself.
The señora gripped his arm, holding his left hand tightly. She stared down at the design on the back of his hand, ran one finger over it. Bandit felt her delicate hands tremble while holding his big one, the heat of her tears dropping on his knuckles.
“Mamá, it’s all right,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I’m back where I belong.”
And it was true, he thought in bewilderment. He did feel at home in this big house, as if some part of him remembered it, and yet he knew he had never been here before.
“Son”—she wept, looking up at him—“all these years, I’ve come here every morning. I’ve felt close to you that way. And nothing has been touched since the night you disappeared. Your little clothes still lay as the maid laid them out for the next morning.”
“It’s all right, Mamá,” he said again, patting her hand, “everything is all right now.” Bandit looked at the pitiful, faded little clothing, feeling both anger and sorrow. What sonofabitch could have done such a thing? It would have involved a maid or an employee familiar with the house, someone the boy knew so he could be taken away without crying. But surely the old man had interrogated all the servants.
“Tony, do you remember?” She gripped his arm. “I saved your favorite toy. It belonged to your uncle, Antonio, first.”
“Of course, Mama, I couldn’t forget.” Bandit turned to look at the shelves and shelves of dusty toys. A beloved only child of parents already too old to have a son, he thought, looking around. How they must have adored the boy. Now just what toy was it? Romeros had forgotten to tell him. He looked around at the shelves and shelves of toys, then over at the foreman. Romeros’s eyes looked stricken, but he dare not speak to give the answer. The toy was old, because it had first belonged to Falcon’s beloved younger brother, Antonio, the one for whom little Tony had been named. But then, all the toys were faded, old.
While the others watched, Bandit crossed the nursery, studied the shelves. Balls, and tops, and stuffed animals. A jack in the box, a hoop, the big rocking horse, the wagon. He glanced back at Romeros and the man looked stricken. Which one was it? He hadn’t expected so many toys to choose from, had never seen so many toys in his life. And Romeros could make no gestures, do nothing to help.
Bandit turned and looked at the shelves again. In all his life, he had never owned a real toy. His gaze traveled across one shelf, down to another. Why in blue blazes hadn’t Romeros remembered to tell him?
And then somehow, the worn rocking horse seemed to call out to him as if somewhere in his past, it knew him. He would have sworn it called out silently: I belonged to Antonio first, then little Tony. Don’t you remember me? Doesn’t something in your past tell you I am the beloved toy?
Lucky guess, Bandit thought, knowing the wooden toy could not speak to him. Very slowly, Bandit walked over, bent to run his hands over it. Strange, he had never seen this thing before, yet it called out to him, seemed to feel familiar to his big hands as if somewhere in another life, he had stroked it many, many times. “This,” he said softly. “Sí. This is mine.”
The old lady cried out, put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Tony, of course it’s yours! Sí, that was your favorite toy as it was your uncle’s!”
He heard Romeros let out the breath he had been holding.
“I don’t know why I had the slightest doubt. . . .” The don’s voice trailed off, and he ran one shaking hand through his silver hair. “Oh, Tony, welcome home!”
And then the three of them were wet-eyed, hugging each other, suddenly embarrassed and shy due to the depths of their feelings. Bandit was so ashamed of his deception he could hardly look these two old people in the face. If they only knew . . .
Even the worn rocking horse seemed to stare up at him, accusation in its painted eyes as if it knew his secret.
But the señora gripped his arm again, smiling up at him, tears in her eyes. “Tony, what must I be thinking! You must be hungry! We’ll have breakfast together out on the veranda!”
Romeros cleared his throat.
The señor turned to him almost reluctantly. “Of course, I had almost forgotten! My dear, it is our good foreman here who found our boy, saved him from being hanged!”
“What?” Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked from Bandit to the lean, dark foreman. “Romeros, we are forever in your debt. I want to hear all about it, and of course you will join us for breakfast.”
Romeros looked modestly at the floor, shuffled his boots. “I only did my duty for my beloved employer, señora, and I would not dare to intrude on a family—”
“But of course you must join us—I insist!” So saying, the spirited old lady took his arm and Bandit’s. Then the four of them went out onto the veranda to breakfast.
It was pleasant on the veranda under the bougainvillea vines, Bandit thought as they all sat down while maids came running with rich chocolate in the finest porcelain cups. When he looked up, Romeros caught his eye and smiled in satisfaction. There was something basically evil about the man. Bandit was no saint himself, but he had a sudden feeling that Romeros would be willing to do things for money that he himself would balk at. How in blue blazes had he gotten into this? And now what in the hell could he do about it?
The old man leaned close. “Son, I always hoped when we found you, you’d tell us the details of the kidnapping. I always thought one of our own employees might be involved. Tell us what you remember.”
Bandit shrugged, acted disconcerted. “I—I don’t remember, señor, I was so young and—”
“Tony, call me Papá.” Don Enrique smiled warmly.
Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) Page 10
