by Jane Toombs
Maria grasped her arm and pulled her toward Mark. “Senor, por favor, take Violet to her padre. He is Vincente Gabaldon.”
“Do you want to go home?” Mark asked Violet.
“I want to go to Billy.” She covered her face with her hands and sank to the ground weeping.
“Stop that!” Mark gripped Violet’s elbow and jerked her to her feet.
She gasped and stared at him.
“You’re behaving like a baby,” he said sharply. “You’re upsetting Senora Zamora.’’ “But he’s gone.” Her lower lip quivered.
“If you mean Billy, he’ll be back; he always comes back to Lincoln. Now stop crying and I’ll take you home.”
Violet remained subdued as Mark guided the black toward the Gabaldon ranch. He wondered how a girl like this had ever gotten mixed up with Billy, whose taste usually ran to an entirely different type of woman. What was Violet’s father thinking of to let her even meet Billy?
A half-mile farther, three riders pounded from the cover of trees just off the road and spread out to block his way.
“Alto!” one of them ordered. “Halt!” “Who are you?” Mark demanded.
“I am Vincente Gabaldon.”
Mark reined in the black. “Good. You can take your daughter.”
“What are you doing with her?” Vincente demanded. His two scowling associates kept their hands near their Colts.
“Maria Zamora asked me to bring the girl home.”
“That is your story.”
“Damn it,” Mark said, “I don’t even know your daughter. From the sound of things, you’d do well to keep an eye on her—she was trying to run off to join Billy the Kid.”
‘This I cannot believe. You lie!”
“Papa,” Violet said, “this man has nothing to do with--”
“Silencio!” Vincente thundered. “Hija de la puta! You are no daughter of mine.” Violet flinched back against Mark. She began to cry.
“I think I recognize you, senor” Vincente said. “You are one of those who work for Senor
Dolan. Bastardo!”
“I haven’t worked for Jim Dolan since last July. I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal now.”
“Lie upon lie.”
The two men with Vincente eased their mounts toward Mark and he saw they intended to flank him. He began to believe even his deputy marshal’s badge wouldn’t stop Vincente, who seemed driven beyond reason. Looked like the Mexican meant business.
Three against one. Bad odds.
Act now or it would be too late.
Mark grabbed Violet tightly about the waist, at the same time whooping in imitation of an Apache war cry. He dug his heels into the black, yanking the horse’s head to the right at the same time.
Sombrio swerved right and laid himself into a gallop as Mark directed him off the road and across open ground toward the trees along the Rio Hondo. Hooves pounded behind him, and he hoped the Kentucky-bred Sombrio could hold to his reputation for speed, tired as he was and with a double load.
Would Vincente hold his fire because of Violet? Mark counted on it, but the Mexican had called Violet the daughter of a whore and maybe he didn’t care whether the girl lived or died.
“I’ll set you down under the trees,” he told Violet. “Your father can pick you up there.”
She clutched at him. “No, please, I’m afraid to go home. Papa will beat me, maybe even kill me. Take me with you. Anywhere, I don’t care.”
Mark had no time to argue. He slowed Sombrio at the cotton woods, then plunged among the trees and headed downriver for the ford. A gun cracked and a bullet thudded into a tree trunk.
Violet moaned in fear.
Hell. He couldn’t dump her here and leave her for Vincente. The man must be mad.
Mark splashed through the water short of the ford and headed for the opposite bank. They wouldn’t expect him to cross early—at least he hoped not. He had to buy time now that he was stuck with Violet.
The black struggled up the bank, coming out by the graveyard in back of Tunstall’s store. Mark wished it were darker. He shoved Violet down against the horse’s neck and crouched over her. A rifle spat from across the river.
Sombrio reached the street and Mark headed for the sheriff’s office. As he neared, he jerked his Colt out and fired three times into the air, jammed it back and slowed the black.
Longworth dashed out the door, Colt in his hand, ready.
Mark reined in the black. “Meet me at Maria Zamora’s,” Mark called to him, urging Sombrio on again.
Mark pulled the black up in front of Maria’s just as Tessa and Rutledge turned into the path leading to the front door. They both stopped and stared at him.
He slid from the horse, pulled Violet down. “Run into the house,” he ordered.
She picked up her skirts and did as she was told.
“Mark Halloran!” Tessa cried in disbelief. “What on earth .. . ?”
“Get inside!” he snapped, “Trouble’s coming.”
Hooves thudded, coming nearer. Tessa hurried after Violet.
“See here, Halloran . . .” Rutledge began.
Mark passed him, leading Sombrio around the house. “You want to get shot, stand there and argue,” he called over his shoulder.
When the black was inside the corral, Mark sprinted for the back door. By the sound of it, more than one horseman was pulling up in front. He ducked inside. He could hear pounding on the front door and ran through the house.
“Quien es?” he called, motioning everyone away from the door and standing clear of it himself. “Who is it?”
“Longworth.”
Mark opened the door;
“I’ve got three of the boys with me,” Longworth said. “What’s up?” Mark told him.
Longworth scowled at Violet, who was crumpled on a settee with Tessa’s arm around her.
“Leave it to that damn Kid to cause trouble one way or the other,” he said finally. He glanced at Rutledge and Maria, then turned to Mark.
“I’ll try to parley with Gabaldon,” Longworth said, “but he ain’t the most reasonable man in the world.”
Violet sat up abruptly. “I won’t go home,” she cried. “Ever! No one can make me.” Longworth ignored her. He walked back outside, closing the door behind him.
Violet turned to Tessa. “You won’t force me to go with my father, will you? I am afraid of him. He called me—” she bit her lip—”called my mother a terrible name. And my abuela, my grandmother, told me before she died that I must be careful never to anger Papa as my mother had done or something dreadful might happen.” She grasped Tessa’s hand. “Please help me.”
Tessa pulled Violet close. “Of course I will. You can stay with me.” She looked at her landlady. “You don’t mind, Maria?”
Maria shrugged. “I don’t like trouble, but I don’t send a girl to die. She stays.”
Mark listened to them uneasily. He didn’t know much about Vincente Gabaldon. The man might be angry enough to beat his daughter, but would he kill her? Who could tell? It was plain the girl ought to stay away from her father until he cooled down. Mark didn’t like to see Tessa mixed up in such a mess but there was no help for it.
A fine greeting this was. His first day back in Lincoln and he’d already brought Tessa trouble. He stepped to the window to look out. Longworth was gone. No sign of Gabaldon.
“I will make coffee,” Maria announced, retreating into the kitchen.
Jules came into the living room, blinking as though he’d been asleep. He stared at Mark for a moment. A smile lit up his face and he ran across the room to Mark’s side, stopped, and held out his hand. Mark shook hands with him. “How are you, Jules?” he asked.
“Maria doesn’t have a piano,” Jules told him solemnly.
Mark remembered and reached into his shirt pocket. The reunion he’d planned to have with Tessa was so much snowmelt down the river, but he could still give Jules the present he’d brought from St. Louis.
“This is a harmon
ica,” he told the boy, handing him the instrument. “Some call it a mouth organ. Have you ever seen one?”
Jules shook his head, turning the harmonica over and examining it on all sides.
“You put it to your lips and blow into those little holes,” Mark said. “You can learn to play tunes on it, just like on the piano.”
Jules blew into it and his eyes widened at the sound he made. “Is it mine to keep?” he asked.
“All yours. I’ll teach you to play it but not tonight. I want you to take the harmonica back to your room now and stay there. All right?
Jules nodded, all his attention on the harmonica. He started to leave, turned at the archway and said, “Thank you. Thanks a lot.”
Mark half-smiled. Jules had lost almost all of his English accent. He sounded like any other American boy.
Longworth rapped at the front door, calling to Mark. He hurried to open it.
“Gabaldon won’t bother you,” Longworth said to him. “I convinced him you’d just gotten into town and you really were an honest-to-goodness deputy marshal. He says to tell the girl she can either come home with him tonight or as far as he’s concerned she’s no longer his daughter.”
“I won’t go!” Violet cried.
“Well, I guess that answers that,” Longworth said. I’ll pass on the message.” He eyed
Violet. “Sure you ain’t gonna change your mind?”
“Never!”
“Okay. See ya around, Mark.”
“Thanks. Tom. Anytime I can return the favor, you let me know.” “Don’t worry--I got a list.” He grinned at Mark and went out.
“If there’s an extra blanket around, I’ll camp out by the corral tonight,” Mark said to Tessa. “Just in case Violet’s father has a change of heart.”
“I’ll take care of things here,” Rutledge announced. “I think you’ve caused enough trouble already, Halloran.”
Mark bristled. Tessa rose quickly. “I’d prefer you both went home,” she said, firmly, looking from one man to the other. “I’ve met Vincente Gabaldon and I believe he’s a man of his word, whatever else may be bothering him. We’re perfectly safe, but thank you both for the offer. Good night.”
Mark tried to hold her gaze but she turned away to fuss over Violet. He suddenly felt very tired.
He was afraid he’d lost Tessa for good.
Chapter 13
Longworth woke Mark early the next morning. Sheriff Kimbrell was back from White Oaks, where he’d gone to check on counterfeit bills passed there. He wanted to see Mark as soon as possible.
It turned out that the sheriff had heard the men passing the bills were heading for Mesilla and he hoped Mark, as a deputy marshal, would go after them.
The lead sounded good and Mark could hardly refuse, since it was clearly part of his job.
He tried to see Tessa before he left, but she was in the schoolhouse, and when he rode there, she told him he’d have to wait until she was through teaching to talk to her.
“You haven’t been in a hurry to visit me until now,” she said tartly. “I believe it’s been almost a year, hasn’t it? A few more hours certainly won’t matter.”
“I have to leave town for a week or so.”
She shrugged, turning away from him. He longed to grab her, whirl her around and take her in his arms, but not with ten pairs of eyes staring intently at the two of them. “I’ll call on you when I get back to Lincoln, he said finally.
“I won’t hold my breath waiting,” she told him. She picked up a speller and asked one of the pupils to recite.
Mark thought about Tessa all the way to Mesilla. Somehow he had to redeem himself in her eyes. How the hell was he going to accomplish that?
He managed to catch up with one of the counterfeit bill passers, but the other had fled across the border into Mexico. When he headed north again, he encountered cavalry attacking Victorio’s Apaches and wound up fighting Indians with the army. He arrived back in Lincoln in the middle of July,
School was out, but Tessa wasn’t in town. She’d gone to Santa Fe with Susie McSween, Maria told him.
“Senorita McSween, she look for new obogodo, how you say-— lawyer?”
“When will she be back?”
Maria shrugged. “Who’s to say?’“
Mark started to turn away, paused to ask. “Whatever happened to Violet Gabaldon?”
Maria’s face darkened. “She run off two, three days after I take her in.”
“Did she go home?”‘
“No. Word comes she is at Fort Sumner with Billy. That one, he will not marry her. She is most foolish.” Maria shook her head. “Violet’s padre, he give up the rancho. They say he join up with Comancheros. Muy mal. Very bad.”
Mark raised his eyebrows, Violet’s flight didn’t surprise him, but the Comancheros were a wild and brutal bunch of outlaws—American, Mexican, and Indian—universally despised and feared. Vincente Gabaldon hadn’t seemed the type of man who’d associate with such a desperate crew. Perhaps he had gone a little mad.
* * *
In the privacy of her bedroom, Tessa sighed in pleasure as she sloshed water over her bare shoulders. On the long ride back from Santa Fe, she’d thought at times she’d die from the August heat. At least she’d had the sense to leave Jules behind in Lincoln with the Banks. Their son, Bob, one of her students, was Jules’ age and the boys had had a fine time together on the Banks’ small ranch east of town.
In fact, Jules was still at the ranch as he’d been invited to stay there one more day to celebrate Bob’s birthday. Maria was off visiting Rosalita, so Tessa had the unaccustomed luxury of being alone in the house.
She slid lower in the tin tub, savored the coolness of the water. Her breasts and thighs gleamed white, contrasting with her sun-browned arms.
She’d made the trip to Santa Fe out of duty, for it was increasingly difficult for her to enjoy being with Susie. All Susie could talk about were her plans for revenging herself on Colonel Dudley. Susie was certain it was at her instigation that he’d been removed from the command at Fort Stanton, but she wanted to see him cashiered from the army and ruined completely.
She was a vindictive woman.
Susie had reason to be, Tessa reminded herself, then shook her head. She couldn’t imagine herself wishing to see a man destroyed. Terrified as she’d been when Hank Kilgore had tried to rape her, she’d been relieved to find that neither she nor Mark had killed him.
She’d never expected Mark to come back to Lincoln. While Calvin Rutledge didn’t affect her emotions as Mark had, she’d hoped to come to feel more than a pallid affection for Calvin.
Maybe in time she would have.
If Mark had stayed in St. Louis.
Tessa rested her head on the rim of the tub and closed her eyes. The moments she’d lain in Mark’s arms in the ruined adobe were as clear in her mind as if she were still there. Her body, too, remembered his touch, making her restless during sleepless nights, making her dream he was with her again when she did sleep, his hands caressing her breasts, exploring in forbidden places ...
No! Tessa sat up abruptly, splashing water onto the floor. That was over and done with. She must think of Calvin, who wanted to marry her, not some fly-by-night who didn’t even have the courtesy to say good-bye when he left, then showed up almost a year later and expected her to behave as if he’d never been away.
She heard the kitchen door close. Maria must be back. It was time to get out of the bath and dress.
Tessa stood up and reached for the towel.
Through her closed bedroom door, she heard footsteps along the corridor.
“Maria?” she called, wrapping the towel about her. “I’m in the bedroom, taking a bath.”
The footsteps ceased. After a moment they came on, closer, and Tessa frowned. Maria’s shoes shouldn’t make such a harsh sound on the floor.
The door latch pushed up and the door swung open. Tessa gasped and shrank back, clutching the towel tightly to her.
&
nbsp; Mark stood in the doorway. Before she could cry out in protest, he kicked the door closed, strode to her and gathered her into his arms. His lips came down on hers, warm and demanding.
Her anger and outrage withered and died. Passionate desire sprouted in their place, thrusting through her until she was consumed with need.
She reached to hold him closer, and when he eased away to lift her into his arms, the towel fell to the floor. She heard him draw in his breath.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” he said gruffly, carrying her to the bed.
Tessa lay on her side, watching him take off his clothes. His body was strong and lean. Like hers, it was whiter where the sun didn’t reach. His manhood pulsed with his desire for her and a thrill of anticipation shook her.
He lay beside her, stroking her breasts, running his fingers along her body, kissing her mouth, her throat.
“Mark--oh, Mark,” she murmured as she smoothed his hair.
It was as she’d dreamed, only more exciting than any dream.
His lips, his tongue trailed over her breasts, then lower, lower, tasting the soft flesh of her thighs, her womanhood.
Tessa moaned, beyond thought, her body throbbing with delicious enjoyment. She wanted him to go on forever.
He shifted to kneel over her and she reached to touch his hardness, heard his groan and knew he felt the same unbearable yearning to be joined. She led him down to her mid and cried out with exquisite pleasure when he entered.
Mark drew back and she pulled him closer. “No,” she cried, “Please don’t stop, don’t ever stop.”
She arched to him as he thrust deeply, felt the strange and wonderful inner quivering begin that she knew would grow into a rapturous flower.
Mark ceased moving, staying inside her as he kissed her, their tongues entwined, for long, long moments until, unable to wait, she began a circular motion with her hips.
“Tessa, “he cried, thrusting again and again until her flower of rapture exploded into bloom. He shuddered and lay still.
He finally turned onto his side and drew her against him. “I always meant to come back to you if I could,” he murmured. “I never wanted to leave you, but—” A door closed.
