Bonds, Parris Afton

by The Flash of the Firefly

  Anne paused in her dressing, remembering seeing such a man ride into Iron Eyes' camp more than three weeks before. Pa-ha-yu-quosh had made her remain in his tepee until the man left the next morning.

  Brant's voice was grim. ''That's Flores. I trailed him to Iron Eyes' camp. He's promising the Indians the land'll be returned to them if they take part in the uprising."

  "Must you two always talk business?" Celia was asking when Anne raged through the curtained doorway.

  So great was her fury, Anne saw only Brant lounging in the chair balanced on its back two legs. His long legs were propped on the table before him, and his thumbs were jammed into the band of his breechcloth. A thin cigarillo dangled from the corner of his mouth. If he evidenced no surprise at her stormy entrance, only the sardonic lift of one dark brow, the other man present, dressed all in black, whistled a low, "Carramba!" through his lips.

  "You―you polecat!" Anne hissed between clenched teeth. "You weren't even planning on rescuing me. It was this Flores you were trailing."

  She hurled herself on Brant, tipping him over. The two went rolling on the floor."I just happened to be in the right camp, didn't I?" Her voice came in sobbing gasps. "And it was convenient for you, wasn't it? Bring me back and collect Colin's money!"

  Brant was above her now, pinning her to the floor. His light brown eyes laughed down at her, as if he welcomed the confrontation that had been brewing between the two of them. "Why you're not fit to―to spit on!" Anne cried, beating at his bare chest and pummeling at his face until he caught her two wrists and held them above her head. "You bastard!" She spat up at him.

  "Give me the aguardiente," Brant told Celia.

  "Con mucho gusto," Celia said and handed him the wicker-covered bulbous flask.

  "My, my," Brant mocked. "A young lady like yourself―cussing. You need your mouth washed out, Annie Maren."

  With one free hand, he grabbed Anne's jaw and squeezed, forcing her mouth open. Then he began to pour the fiery liquid between her lips.

  Anne gasped and sputtered and tried to turn her head, but Brant held her firmly.

  "Dios mio, Brant," Rafael swore, "déjala! What's got into you?"

  There was a sudden stillness in the room. Hard brown eyes glittering like an Indian's clashed with the flashing jet black ones of Rafael. Brant's voice was deceptively gentle. "Do you want to fight me for her also, mano?"

  The muscles in the slim brown jaws tightened, but Rafael, in soft, Spanish-accented English, only said, "I would not destroy our friendship. I would only remind you that you are no longer living among the Tonkawas."

  Celia laid a caressing hand on Brant's bronzed shoulder. "Querido, are you not to meet this man, Señor Ezra, in San Antonio tonight? Why do we not all go there together? We can celebrate this Flores discovery, can we not?"

  Anne squirmed beneath Brant, furious that she should be ignored while the three discussed their plans. But Brant's thighs held her pinioned. His eyes flicked from Rafael and Celia down to her. A slight smile curved his long lips. "Maybe you got a good idea, niña," he said, rising and hauling Anne up by her wrists.

  Celia stamped her sandled foot. "I am no longer a niña, Brant Powers!"

  Brant released Anne with a negligent glance at the dark red liquid that ran down the cleavage of Anne's heaving breasts. "So I've noticed, Celia." His hand tipped up the young girl's chin. "Get your rebozo and the buckboard then. You'll celebrate like a woman tonight with the rest of us."

  His gaze swung to Rafael, as if seeking the brother's consent, but Anne felt the tension between the two men. The handsome young hidalgo shrugged his approval, but his Latin eyes were on Anne, mirroring his intense curiosity about the relationship between his friend and the lovely young hellcat Brant had brought back from Iron Eyes' camp.

  "I will have Juana find something clean for you, señora," Rafael told her with a small bow, indicative of Spain's old world charm. As if, she thought, she were a lady of the royal court and not the gypsy wench she knew she must resemble at that moment.

  And it was at that moment that the roles for the four were imperceptibly delegated for the evening.

  XVI

  The four of them were to be actors there in the smoke-hazed barroom section of the gaudy Military Plaza Hotel. Celia and Anne were the only two women present, with the exception of a heavily rouged and scantily dressed middle-aged woman whose job, it appeared to Anne, was to entertain the customers.

  Anne wrapped the red woolen rebozo more tightly about her shoulders, trying to shield her daring display of golden décolletage from the admiring gazes of the men there. Yet all the while her own gaze roamed about the large room, taking in the plushness of it all―the raucous laughter, the gilt-framed mirror running the length of the bar, and the brass trumpet that shrilled from the gallery above. She found the atmosphere seductive―reminiscent in its own way of the lush, tropical nights when the faint beat of the native drums could be heard across the island when, she knew instinctively even as a child, lovers would come together in sensuous rites as old as the voodoo drums.

  Only the chilling look in Brant's eyes dispelled the amorous illusion. He, too, she thought, was an actor. He looked different now―dressed in the leather chaps with the red bandana knotted above the faded blue shirt, and the pistols trapped to his hip. His long, saddle-brown hair had been clipped by Juana, so that it lay in thick swirls at the nape of his neck and over his ears, with the sideburns jutting down the lean jaws. And, Anne noted sourly, he had shaved.

  As Celia had apparently also noticed, for her forefinger lightly traced the tattoo on Brant's chin. She leaned close to him with a teasing smile, breasts swaying enticingly beneath her own low-cut blouse. But though Anne could not hear what she whispered―she could see Brant's long lips part in a half smile, could see the narrowed eyes regard the young girl with a lazy interest. And she could see the rapid pulse beat at Celia's throat.

  "You do not drink your tequila, señora?" Rafael asked softly.

  Anne tore her gaze away from the intimate scene before her. "No, I'm sorry, Rafael. I don't like it." She set the glass from her, still conscious of the bitter aguardiente Brant had forced her to drink. Her head ached with a stifling feeling.

  "Don't be upset," Rafael said. He nodded at Brant and Celia. "Mi amigo is usually not this way. Perhaps it is the tequila," he offered, knowing it was not. His friend had often drunk as heavily and could still put a plug through a bottle at fifty paces in one rapid draw―though Brant did seem to drink more than was usual tonight. And what was between these two―his friend, and this enchantress with the hair like polished copper and eyes like the blue-gray light of brandy flames?

  "You do not mind, Rafael―I mean that your sister ..." Anne faltered, embarrassed. She had not intended to be rude.

  Rafael sipped at his drink. ''That Celia flirts like a puta? No, señora," he smiled sadly. "It's her way―with no mother to bring her up, and now only me." His voice lowered to an undertone. "She is half in love with Brant―and me, I would like very much to have him as mi cuñado."

  Anne caught Brant's gaze on Rafael and herself. His expression was inscrutable, yet she shivered as if in premonition. "You must drink your tequila, Annie," Brant said, his tone light and even. "It's rude as a guest of Rafael to refuse to drink with us."

  Gray eyes locked with brown ones, but Anne's bravado gave way in memory of only a few hours earlier when Brant had forced her to drink. Would he do so now―in front of everyone?

  Coming to her aid, Rafael, resplendently handsome in black tight pants and a short jacket decorated with silver conchos, lifted his own glass. "A toast," he said. "To our Republic."

  He handed Anne her glass. "And to the play tonight," he said softly.

  Anne lifted her glass, and her eyes met Brant's over its rim. Defiantly she tossed down the fiery liquid. To cover the gasp at the burning sensation in her throat, she leaned close to Rafael, turning her face from the other two, as if in personal conversation. "The play, you s
aid?" she asked breathlessly.

  Rafael's black eyes sparkled with laughter at her reaction to the tequila. "Sí, señora."

  "Anne," she prompted, her eyes smiling with the conspiracy.

  "You must be aware of the performance tonight, Anita." Her name rolled from Rafael's tongue, making it sound like a title to royalty.

  Anne looked at Brant, who sipped at his drink while his eyes, that never seemed to reveal anything, swept over the room with detached interest. Was he waiting for Ezra, she wondered. Or was he merely biding his time ...waiting for something else?

  "Yes, I've noticed," she murmured, taking another drink. The tequila, it wasn't so bad now. Once it burned its way to the stomach. It settled there, pleasantly warming the body. Anne pulled aside her rebozo. In fact, it was awfully warm, too warm in the crowded room.

  Neither Rafael nor Brant missed the gesture. Or the other men in the room near enough to see the glint of perspiration on the peach-toned skin. Incredible, Rafael thought. Never had he seen skin of that delicious hue―and like satin, so that a man wanted to reach out and touch it. And, he thought wryly, no doubt risk a bullet from Brant.

  "I've already assigned the roles," Anne told' Rafael. "You, my friend, are the dashing Caballero." She glanced over at Celia, whose dark eyes danced at something Brant said, her small, pearl-like teeth parting in an inviting smile. "And your sister is the Seductress."

  Anne's forefinger played absently along the rim of her glass, and Rafael felt the hardening of his loins. "And Brant," Anne continued in a whisper without looking up, "he's the Stalker."

  "And yourself, Anita?"

  Anne looked up now, focusing glittering gray eyes on the aristocratic face so near her own. "Myself? I don't know. The Observer, perhaps."

  "Oh, no, cara mia. You are most certainly the Catalyst." Sangre de Dios, he was half falling in love with her himself. Was she worth risking Brant's friendship? Worth courting possible death? He must. be getting a little drunk himself. Already his sister swayed, tilting her head to rest on the arm that Brant laid across the back of her chair. And this amante of Brant's―was she indeed that, Brant's mistress? She obviously was not used to drink. The gray eyes were glassy. The soft lips moist―with invitation?

  And Brant? Was he drunk? Rafael doubted it. The brown eyes were sharp in spite of the half closed lids and the casual way he sprawled in the chair.

  Rafael's suspicion was confirmed when Brant suddenly seemed to spring alert, a brief smile touching the lips. And then Rafael saw a large, bearded man making his way through the maze of tables.

  "Brant!" Ezra called, grabbing Brant's hand and pumping it. Brant introduced Ezra to Rafael and Celia, whose eyes widened as they traveled up the gigantic frame to the bearded face and the eyes that regarded her good-naturedly.

  Ezra's gaze lingered on the small, lovely girl before it fell on Anne. "You found her!" he exclaimed.

  "Ezra," Anne said warmly. "I didn't think to ever see you again."

  "Miss, you're the prettiest sight my eyes have seen in two weeks―your sister excepted," he said to Rafael. He turned back to Brant, taking a seat between Rafael and Celia, and leaned across the table on folded arms. "Vicente Cordova's our man in the eastern part of Texas, Brant. I've just come from Chief Bowles' camp, and the Mexican's been there, stirring up trouble like a fox in a chicken coop."

  "We need proof he's one of the agents before we can return to Sam," Brant said, taking up the glass again.

  "Shit, Brant! Old Sam wouldn't care about the proof. He'd shoot Cordova and Flores like the terrorists they are."

  "You're forgetting our Congress, Ezra," Rafael said. "We can't afford to have another war with Mexico―at least not without proof of Mexican interference. With proof―then we might be able to persuade the United States to offer their aid."

  Watching Rafael's face, Anne thought how strange it was he did not consider himself a Mexican but a Texian in spite of his Spanish heritage. But then was she not now a Texian in spite of her Scottish heritage? And there were the Swiss and French and Irish settlements scattered through Texas―foreigners who must also feel the same loyalty for their new homeland as Rafael did. A loyalty: she would certainly never feel.

  Sensing Anne's gaze on him, Rafael turned to her. "Will you dance?" he asked, wondering at his own bravery―or was it disloyalty?

  Startled, Anne looked at the dance floor. Only one couple danced there, the middle-aged woman and an unshaven, bleary-eyed man in a beaver hat who looked like an itinerant salesman. The two moved drunkenly to the trumpet's slow, discordant music. Anne's glance slid to Brant, who was deep in conversation now with Ezra, and Celia, whose head rested in the hollow of Brant's arm. "Why not?" Anne told Rafael.

  The tequila, she thought―it was stronger than she had supposed. If it were not for Rafael's hand at her elbow, she was sure she would stumble. But no, Rafael seemed to propel her easily among the tables. And when he took her in his arms, he held her firmly, supporting her, so that the two of them danced with a natural grace. Once, when she missed the step, he caught her to him until she again moved in time to the music.

  "Thank you, Rafael," she whispered. He was handsome―though not like Colin. It was the first time she had thought of Colin in days. Up till that time she had not let Colin enter her thoughts because he was too special for the woman she was, now―a woman who had lived with the Indians like some animal, who had given herself to her mercenary rescuer, again like some animal. But when she once again wore the dresses of a lady, when she was once more Anne Maren, then ...then she would go to her love.

  "Of what do you dream?" Rafael asked. "Your thoughts are far―" but he broke off as Brant was suddenly there. So, his friend was not as absorbed by the talk of Mexican terrorists as he had thought.

  Brant's lips curved in what Anne would hardly have called a smile. "It's time you turn in, Annie sweet."

  Her hand stiffened in Rafael's gentle clasp. Her chin tilted up at Brant rebelliously. "I'm not sleepy."

  "But I am―and I wouldn't like to leave my bride to the mercy of these ... gentlemen."

  "Bride?" Rafael asked, his face registering shock.

  Anne's gaze swept over the crowded, smoke-filled room, not missing the hungry eyes that watched her from the bar and the gaming tables. She did not even bother to look to Rafael, whom she knew could not help her, or Ezra, who sat enraptured by Celia's sparkling black eyes.

  Wordlessly Anne accepted Brant's hand―the lesser of two evils.

  XVII

  "How dare you address me as your bride!"

  They faced each other in one of the rooms above the barroom of the Military Plaza Hotel. The light of the candle on the notched bureau flickered over their faces, one contemptuous, the other reckless.

  "Oh?" The brows slanted rakishly over Brant's hot, coffee-colored eyes. "So―you're taking our wedding vows as lightly as you did your first ones?"

  "You know that's not the same!"

  Brant advanced on her slowly, relentlessly. "No, I don't. I was under the impression the Kwahadi's Great Spirit and your late husband's Lord God were one and the same."

  He was right, Anne knew. She had felt as bound to Brant Powers―no, more so―by the mingling of their blood in the presence of Chief Iron Eyes than all the eloquent words spoken between her and Otto in that cold church in Bridgetown.

  "They were vows taken under pressure!" She had backed to the bed. Behind her, her hands touched the bedpost, steadying her. The tequila ... why had she been so foolish as to accept Brant's unspoken challenge when they toasted below? She closed her eyes to shut out the revolving room.

  "They were taken of your own free will, sweet."

  Anne opened her eyes to find Brant before her. His hands took her shoulders, and she twisted loose, scurrying past the bed toward the door. Brant moved at once between the door and her. There was a dangerous glitter in his eyes that frightened her as Pa-ha-yu-quosh never had been able to, and she realized that Brant, too, was more than slightly dru
nk. She forced a calmness to her voice that she did not feel as she edged toward the bureau. "I've been used by my husband and Pa-ha-yu-quosh, Brant Powers, and I'll not be used again!"

  Brant's voice was equally cool as he came toward her. "And what do you think your beloved Colin intends?"

  Anne watched, eyes wide, as he closed in on her. I was right, she thought. He is the Stalker. And yet she knew she would never give in. It was the last dignity left her―the right of refusal. "Colin offers me his love―not the rutting posture of an animal!" Quickly, before he could move, Anne grabbed the tin plate holding the candle and hurled it at Brant. He dodged and laughed, and the candle sputtered out on the floor in its melted beeswax.

  In the sudden darkness Anne could barely perceive the golden-flecked brown eyes that gleamed like those of a lean hunting cat. Her breath came in pants now, and she turned to run, only to have Brant grab her from behind. She kicked at his shin, and heard with pleasure the wincing grunt of pain. Breaking free, she scrambled toward where she imagined the door to be. There―her hands found the knob.

  But Brant was there before she could yank the door open, his hands on either side of her, holding the door shut. She whirled to face him. "Does it matter to you that I find you crude and uncouth?" she hissed. "Will you still take me―like the beast you are?"

  He caught her up in his arms, and she smelled the odor of leather, of woodsmoke, and finally tequila as his mouth closed angrily over hers. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions whipped at her, and Anne trembled when Brant at last raised his head. His voice sent shivers of fear through her like shards of ice rubbing against her skin. "A beast―maybe. But your husband―yes."

  Her fists pounded his chest as he carried her toward the bed. "I'll kill you for this!" she sobbed. "I swear!" And then, "I hate you ...I hate you!"