"Brant...I didn't know," she whispered thickly into the depression of his good shoulder.
"There's more, Annie. That's the beauty of it. Your pleasure grows with your ..."
"With what?" she asked dreamily.
"Nothing, sweet." He touched her eyelids with his fingertips. "Sleep, Annie. Rest."
And as she snuggled against him like a satisfied kitten, he lay there, thinking he must be crazy. He had almost said something foolish. He'd have thought he would have learned the first time. If he wasn't careful ...
Still, he lay quietly, not disturbing the exquisite creature that nestled in his arms asleep as the afternoon drifted into evening. There was the smell of their lovemaking about them, the smell of the fecund earth and the luxuriant foliage. As Anne had said, it was enchanted. It was a time of enchantment that would end with the sun's setting.
XXII
Her forehead resting on her forearm, Anne leaned weakly against the cabin's rough logs. The evening breeze refreshed her somewhat―until the next bout with the churning of her stomach. Then the vomiting would begin again, ending the dry heaving that would leave her limp.
She heard Brant behind her and did not know whether she was grateful or not for the support of his arm around her waist. What had happened between them―only hours earlier―was a tenuous thing...as shifting and unsubstantial as the pale light of the new moon. It was something she did not understand, did not wish to understand. She straightened. "It must have been the persimmons," she said faintly.
"Rafael's fixing some vegetable broth," he said, as he bathed her face with the damp cloth he had wet in the pond. "That should settle your stomach."
"Uunuh!" The thought of food made her want to gag again, but Brant carried her back inside the cabin, making her lie on the bed with the cloth across her forehead.
She saw Rafael's olive-complexioned face shadow with concern as he looked up at her from where he squatted before the fire. The meticulous, wellgroomed Spanish aristocrat was disheveled, his clothing rumpled, his face beard-stubbled. She propped herself on one elbow, saying, "You must be tired, Rafael, after riding straight through from Houston. Why don't you rest? The broth can wait."
"It's nearly ready now," he told her lightly. But a frown drew the raven brows low over his black eyes, as his gaze flickered from Anne's drawn face to Brant's impassive one. Carramba! One could never tell what Brant had on his mind. Sometime she would swear Brant was a full-blooded Indian.
And yet, watching his friend, Rafael could sense a tenseness in the lean body as Brant sat on the stool with the long legs stretched out before him, casually rolling the tobacco-packed paper, as if Brant were already aware of the news he brought from Houston. Or did the bowstring tautness of Brant's body have to do with something that had happened before his own arrival an hour earlier?
Rafael could still visualize the scene he had witnessed from the cabin's doorway. The surprise he had felt―and something else―at seeing Brant and Anne returning from the pond hand in hand. Something had happened that afternoon, something has passed between them ...a coalescence; a new solidarity to their relationship. Rafael thought he knew, but was afraid to venture.
"Well, Rafael?" Brant asked, holding the phosphorus match to his cigarette. His eyes squinted through the haze of expelled smoke at his friend. "What of Sam?"
Rafael looked briefly at Anne, then, at Brant's reassuring nod, said, "Houston wants Ezra to ride to Nacogdoches pronto―to deal with the Cherokees about their alliance with Santa Anna , and..." Rafael hesitated again, casting a glance at Anne.
"And?" Brant prompted.
"Mexico's declared a blockade of the Texas coast. And―" here Rafael scowled, "our Navy Secretary, Rhoads Fisher―he wants to reissue your Letter of Marque and Reprisal, Brant."
Brant stood up, a frown darkening his face, and went to the door, throwing it open to the evening's brisk coolness. As he leaned there looking out, Anne could hear the serenade of the crickets, and from the pond came the croak of a bullfrog. "So it's to be fighting still," Brant said, half to himself.
"Perhaps net, amigo," Rafael said. "There is talk in Houston that France will soon recognize Texas's independence. If so, will not Great Britain soon follow? And if―"
Brant, his hands jammed in his pockets, continued to stare at the blackness outside ,but even so his voice broke in bitterly on Rafael. "There are a lot of if's, Rafael. If France recognizes us, if Great Britain does, if the United States does ...then maybe―and only then―we might be free from Mexico's claim. Free to be admitted to the Union as a state. But that's a long time away, I'm afraid."
Anne could wait no longer. She had been too ill when Rafael first arrived to ask. But now, with the talk of Great Britain, her heart soared like an eagle in the sky. She had regained her bearings on life. Her priorities were again in focus. "Did you see―did you see Sir Donovan, Rafael?"
Rafael glanced uneasily at Brant's stiff back. Rising he drew forth a wrinkled, folded sheet of paper and crossed to the bed. Wordlessly he handed Anne the letter.
My Dearest Colleen, Anne read silently, her gaze lingering over the neat, rounded strokes of Colin's quill pen. I've just received word you're alive! You cannot imagine my joy! Yet even this is tempered by the sorrow that this wonderful news comes on the eve of my departure for London. Lord Palmerston has requested I return at once with my report on the affairs of this new Republic.
I beg you to wait for me, darling. I shan't be more than five or six months in London-enough time for you properly to mourn your husband's death. Then, if all goes well, my dearest Anne, you shall be the wife of Great Britain's future Prime Minister. With you at my side, my future in politics will shine as brightly as the stars in your Texas sky. 'Til Adelsolms ... Your Colin.
Quietly, Anne folded the letter. She should have been happy. Ecstatic. She was to be Colin's wife. As she had always dreamed and hoped, he had formally proposed. Yet to wait another six months, six interminable months, seemed too much to bear. Then there was also Brant. Her eyes searched him out across the room where he carefully cleaned his pistol, ignoring her.
Had she betrayed her pure love for Colin when she had lain with Brant? Yet Brant was here, his desert-colored eyes hot in her mind, when it was hard for her at that moment to remember the exact color of green Colin's eyes were. Even his handsome, boyish face was a blur in contrast to Brant's strong, harsh features. Perhaps Brant's tree was an enchanted tree. Perhaps it had cast a spell over her.
She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. "I'm going back to Adelsolms," she told the two men. She forced herself to meet Brant's gaze. "Colin will join me there when he returns from London," she told him defiantly.
Brant tested the trigger action, letting the hammer fall with a deadly click. There was a hard set to his face. A muscle flicked in his jaw. But his voice was lazy, mocking. "You're still married to me, sweet. And I don't take adultery as lightly as your husband Otto seemed to."
Anne sprang from the bed in fury. The room whirled about her. She closed her eyes, then opened them to Brant's sardonic face. "That Comanche marriage was a mockery," she told Brant, spacing each word like the fall of an axe. "There's no court in the land that will hold me to a―a marriage with a disgusting savage!"
Brant laid the pistol aside and came to stand in front of Anne. "And no court in the land would keep you from me―if I so wanted it." His eyes raked over her. "But I'm finding that I don't think you're worth keeping."
He swung from her to Rafael, who had tactfully kept his back to them as he ladled the simmering vegetable broth into a bowl. "Rafael―take our fine lady to Adelsolms," he sneered. "Then hightail it back to San Antonio and tell Ezra he has two weeks to get to Galveston before the Seawasp sails."
Anne shoved the broad-brimmed hat back from her head so that it hung by the cord around her neck. The dust-filled wind out of the northwest whipped her sweat-dampened hair from the pinned knot at the nape of her neck.
Below her, below the bl
uff on which she stood, twisted the Colorado River. She watched the current rushing by on its southeasterly course. Twenty-three miles down that river and fifteen miles due east waited Adelsolms. Her lips formed into a thin line at the cold reception she would find there. She knew all too well what the people would think of her, living as she had with the Comanches.
And what would they think if they were to know she carried a child in her womb?
Unconsciously her hands slid down over her flat stomach. How long could she conceal her pregnancy? She should have suspected it the evening of the battle at San Gabriel when she fainted. But even those first bouts of nausea had failed to warn her. Not until yesterday, after two hard days of riding with Rafael, had she been sure. Then, as her stomach again rebelled against food at the campfire last night, she had counted the days―and had known.
She carried Brant's child.
Her hands clenched into fists. Dear God, Brant must never know! If so, he'd never let her escape, never let her go with Colin. And Colin? Would he accept another man's child? She would know in six months time.
Anne closed her eyes, willing away the nausea that rose in her stomach, choking at her throat. If only she could will away the child as easily. And yet, she knew she would not, if she could. The child was as much a part of her as it was of Brant. It had been conceived on the wild Texas plains. It would be a Texian―at least that much Brant had accomplished.
When she turned back to Rafael, who fanned the campfire with his sombrero, there was a new tranquility in her eyes that softened the willful tilt of the chin. Even Rafael was aware of the difference and frowned, thinking it was a trick of the twilight. But she surprised him further with her next words. "Who is Laura?"
The man looked down, fixing his attention on the wild turnips and sweet potatoes that he chopped up in the tin pan. "She was Brant's wife."
Anne moved to squat beside him. "Tell me more about Brant. Please."
The black eyes fixed on her. "Porqué?"
Why? Even she did not know herself why she wanted to know. Perhaps it was the fact Brant was the father of her baby. Perhaps―she shrugged. "Brant did rescue me―twice. And I know so little of him."
Rafael stirred the stew with the flat of his knife. "There's little to tell."
"Then start with how you two met," she persisted.
"We were both eighteen that summer we first met. Brant had filed for the land bordering my father's hacienda at the Land Office in San Antonio ,and was working it when I first became aware we had a vecino―a neighbor. Sometimes I would help Brant fell the trees or build his pens. But we spoke little at first. Talking came hard for him―even in English. Eventually I persuaded him to visit my family for fiestas―saint's days and rodeos,"
"And?"
Rafael shrugged. "Poco por poco my father pieced together bits of conversations. That Brant had run away from home at fourteen and was adopted by a Tonkawa chieftain when his ship wrecked off the· Texas coast. It seems he had even taken an Indian wife, but she was young and died in childbirth. That was when he left the Tonkawas and returned to civilization―if one can call starting a rancho in this wilderness a civilization.
"It wasn't until word reached him that his father―his real father―had died that we discovered he was the son of a wealthy sea merchant. He came over to the hacienda one afternoon and told us he was leaving―going back to a place called Boston to settle his father's business―and asked that we watch his rancho while he was gone."
Rafael dished out the stew into the two rusted tin cups handing Anne one. Like Rafael, she ate with a knife. "Go on," she said, after the first mouthful. "When did Brant come back?"
"Not until a year later. And with Laura. She was from a―familia eminente―"Rafael spread one free hand, trying to find the word he wanted in English.
Anne nodded, her mouth full. "Eminent," she supplied. "Probably a well-to-do New England family."
"Sí. And she was beautiful. Every caballero in San Antonio fell in love with her on first sight. Her hair―it was as golden as spring sunshine. Eyes as blue as the Mexican Gulf at sundown. She was as lovely as a madonna. Too lovely.
"Like a doll. And as―breakable. You had only to look at her eyes to see the hate and contempt she had for this land. At first she tried, for Brant's sake, to make a go of it. But it was difficult for her. She never had the command of Spanish Brant did and so found little in common with us. And the few neighbors―they were just mainly uneducated poor people, looking for a better chance at life that Texas offered. For them she had only desprecio―she would have nothing to do with them―and her hate grew to include everything. Soon―like a flower―she began to wilt."
"So she ran off," Anne said, "at the first opportunity that presented itself."
"Sí. Con un Methodista padre. Brant never said what happened. But in San Antonio it is said she was found dead months later in un prostibulo."
Anne's eyes widened. "Murdered?"
Rafael's eyes lowered in embarrassment. "No, un aborte she did not want the baby she carried."
"Oh and Brant―what did he do?"
"That was three years ago. He disappeared at first. Then some weeks later he showed up at our hacienda. Unshaven, wild-looking. He asked us to watch his rancho for him again. He was offering his services as a scout to Sam Houston. I volunteered with him. Together we fought at San Jacinto. And he fought like a madman. Taking estúpido chances. As if he did not care if he died. Algunas veces, I think he enjoys these chances―adventures. They keep his mind from her."
Her. Laura. Anne wondered if Brant had used her as one of his adventures. To keep away the thought of Laura.
XXIII
Anne blinked several times. But there was indeed a light burning in the cabin that had been hers and Otto's. Whoever lived there now had installed in her absence windows and shutters through which the candlelight now seeped.
"Qué quieres hacer, Anita?" Rafael asked at her side.
"I'm not sure what to do," she said, not fully realizing she little by little was mastering the Spanish language.
She did know she had to remain in Adelsolms until Colin came for her. From the shadow of the trees her eyes searched out the other cabins, finding Matilda's. But like the rest of Adelsolms, the old woman's cabin was dark. Only the one light, the one in her own cabin, burned at that midnight hour. "Perhaps the occupants of my cabin will allow me to stay the night," she ventured.
Rafael's hand touched her shoulder. "Anita. I do not know what is between you and Brant. And, por Dios, he is my best friend, a brother casi. But this―" his head nodded toward the dismal stand of cabins―"this is not for you. If you do not want Brant, at least let me help you. I offer you my protection."
Anne's hand went to her shoulder to clasp Rafael's. Dear Rafael, he did not understand. His romantic soul believed it was some lover's spat between her and Brant. He could not know of the adoration she had carried for Colin since she was but a young girl. "Thank you, Rafael. But it is here I want to stay. I'll be all right here. I've friends here."
Only Matilda, she thought. But what matter when in less than six months she would have Colin―and he would be everything to her ...friend, lover, husband. He would take her back to England with him―or whatever post he was assigned ... but at least away from Texas. Unconsciously, she removed her hand from Rafael's and ran her fingers over the back of her other hand, feeling the penciled scar that bound her in marriage to Brant. She must get it out of her mind that she was married to Brant.
Resolutely she looked at Rafael through the darkness. "I'm sure there would be enough room for you in my cabin. Won't you change your mind and stay the night?"
Rafael shook his head. "No, Anita. I must return to San Antonio, and give Ezra Brant's message. And then there is Celia―" he made the sign of the cross and smiled. "There is no telling what trouble my sister will have gotten into in my absence."
Anne raised on tiptoe and kissed Rafael's cheek. "Vaya con Dios," she whispered. Tugging at
the roan's bridle, she stepped out of the shelter of the cottonwoods―and out of the shelter of Rafael's deep friendship.
There was no answer to her light knock on the door. She knocked once more; then, realizing the occupants must be asleep, she tried the door. It gave beneath the pressure of her hand. The draft from the open door caused the candle's flame to waver, throwing an eerie light on the room. A man sat slumped over a table asleep, his head cradled in his arms. Before him was an open book. At the same moment Anne recognized the worn book as a Bible, she recognized the thinning, straw-colored hair that fell across the man's forehead. She recognized Otto.
With a shock that shot through her veins like ice water, she stumbled backwards against the door. It slammed shut with a thud, and the man at the table slowly raised his head.
Anne screamed then. And screamed and screamed.
He was a monster. A fiend out of hell. A puckered seam of purple flesh slashed across his face, beginning at the center of his left eye, pulling it downward at the lower lid so that the white of the entire eye was visible in its socket, and stretching to the outer corner of his lips. The gash that was his mouth was jerked upward in a permanently hideous grin that revealed his pink gums. Slowly he rose from the table, and the thatched chair fell backwards.
"So―you're alive," he said. The words came out in a lisp from the thin lips that could not close properly. "The Indians did not kill you."
"I―I had heard you were dead," Anne said.
The mouth screwed up in a smile that was not. "They tried to kill me." His thin fingers touched the scar. "I ran―and saw them, with you, fording the river. I followed, shouting. At the river's bank a flying tomahawk did this."
Anne nodded, afraid to speak, afraid her words would reveal her horror.
"I remember falling forward―and the water closing in over me." He stopped to cough, then said, "The next thing I knew I was tangled in brush miles downstream. And it was dawn the next morning. I lay there for three days before anyone found me."
Bonds, Parris Afton Page 17
