by Anita Mills
Behind her the prisoner called out plaintively, “Por favor, señora—agua—a drink for a poor man. Por favor, senora.”
As much as she wanted to help him, she forced herself to sit down. Nearly as angry with herself as with the ranger, she felt as though she’d backed down, making her almost as much a coward as the rest of them. But, she consoled herself, when she got to the Ybarra-Ross, she wasn’t going to bother with Captain Walker. No, she was going to demand the governor take action against Mr. McAlester.
Ramon gave the ranger and his prisoner a wide berth, circling halfway around the room to avoid them. As he sank into his seat, he said low, “I try to tell you—that man, he is more Indian than the worst Comanche, Maria.”
“I don’t want to discuss him any further,” she retorted. “I’ve nearly lost my appetite.”
“No—no. You listen to me now.” He leaned closer, so much so that his nose nearly touched hers. “Ask the station manager here, and he will tell you how McAlester was sent to guard a stagecoach through Wild Rose Pass because of the Comanche raids.”
“Look, Ramon—”
“No, no—this time you listen to me. The passengers, when they saw him, they were more afraid of him than an Indian war party. So help me God, Maria, they chose to go without him, saying they would feel safer taking care of themselves.”
“Oh, for—” She glanced to where the ranger sat, one hand on the shotgun, the other on a tin coffee cup. “He’s just a bully—an uncivilized bully.”
“No, it is more than that, Maria. You look at him and see an Anglo, but he isn’t. When he was very young, he was adopted by the Comanches, and he thinks like them. Even the Apache scouts are afraid of him—they say he knows how to torture a man to death, and that is why there are no prisoners.” He shuddered visibly. “Myself—I have watched him walk into a cantina, and everything stops—the music—the voices—everything. This I have seen with my own eyes.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” she declared with finality.
Abruptly, Ramon’s manner changed, and his hand closed over hers. “But I am here to protect you, Maria.”
“Ramon—please,” she hissed. “Not now.” Then, realizing it took nothing to encourage him, she added, “I don’t need protecting from anyone.” Uncomfortable, she tried to draw away, but his fingers tightened on hers.
“Maria—yes, we have not known each other very long, but I love you, Maria. You have had my heart since first I saw you, I swear it.” His voice rose earnestly. “I would cherish you, querida—I swear it. I will build the Ybarra for our children. Maria—”
“Amanda,” she corrected him crossly. “Or Amanda Mary, but never Maria—I have told you before that I don’t like being called Maria. And I just don’t feel—”
“Maria—Amanda—you must listen to me! I offer you my heart and my name! Surely you—”
“Ramon, this is not the place to—” She looked up nervously and saw that nearly everyone watched curiously. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered under her breath, “let go of my hand.”
Ramon finally turned her loose, then sprawled in his seat, his expression petulant. “I do not offer my name lightly, Maria,” he told her. “If the Sandovals were good enough for Dona Isabella—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Irritated, she exhaled audibly, then declared flatly, “Look—it has nothing to do with your name, nothing at all. I scarce know you.”
“Then I may hope?” He brightened slightly.
“Ramon, it is far too soon for this. And if you do not mind, I’d rather not discuss it further.”
“But I love you, Maria! I want to marry you!”
Exasperated by his unwillingness to listen, she finally snapped, “But I don’t want to marry anyone—at least not yet, anyway. So if you wish to maintain any sort of friendship between us, you will cease this nonsense right now.”
“Maria, you wound me—here,” he said, covering his breast with his hand. “But Ramon Sandoval does not accept defeat easily, Maria. One day you will be persuaded.”
It was obvious that nothing less than brutal honesty was going to deter him. “Look—in the plainest English possible, I am telling you I don’t want to marry anyone. Must I say it in Spanish for you? What is there about the word no that you cannot understand? It’s about as short and to the point as I can get. No. N.O.”
At that moment the station keeper interrupted them to set before her an unappetizing bowl of stringy meat and potato chunks floating in what looked to be more like brown water than gravy.
“Bowl of buffalo stew before the stage leaves?” he asked Amanda.
“I … uh … I’m not particularly hungry,” she lied, pushing the bowl toward her step-cousin. “He is welcome to have mine.”
“Ain’t much else to be had, ma’am.”
“Perhaps some tea?” she ventured hopefully.
“Nope—just coffee and rotgut. Beer’s been out since Tuesday, and m’order’s late coming out of San Antone.”
“Rotgut?”
“Nickel-a-shot whiskey. Nothing a female’d want,” he assured her. “Got to have a stomach for it.”
“Then I shall just have water from the pump and bread and butter. You do have bread and butter, don’t you?”
“Water’s brackish,” he maintained obstinately. “Ought to take the coffee.”
“If the horses can drink the water, then so can I,” she countered.
He shrugged and turned to Ramon. “What’s it to be for you?”
“Whiskey,” her step-cousin muttered.
“I dislike drunks,” Amanda reminded him.
He regarded her balefully before looking up at the other man. ‘Two shots—no water,” he declared defiantly.
As the station keeper passed the other table, the prisoner renewed his plea for water, only to be ignored. McAlester finished his coffee and held out his cup without speaking. The man took it and hurried to refill it. Bringing it back, he carefully set it beyond the prisoner’s reach.
Amanda had seen more than enough. Rising from her seat, she walked purposefully, her skirt swishing against her petticoats, to the bucket behind the counter. She put a dipperful of the tepid water into a battered tin cup, then carried it across the room. Her back to the ranger, she held it out to the Mexican.
He leaned forward as though he meant to take it, then lunged for the ranger’s shotgun instead, grasping the stock with both hands. Before she could react, McAlester shoved her aside and wrenched the gun free. Using the barrel like a club, he slammed it against the prisoner’s head, knocking him off the chair with such force that dust rose from the floor. Standing, he jabbed the weapon into the Mexican’s stomach and cocked it. He stood there, looking down, his finger hooked over one of the triggers.
The room went deadly quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of the prisoner’s gasps for breath. Finally, Amanda could stand it no longer.
“If you fire that shotgun now, Mr. McAlester, it will be murder,” she said evenly. “In front of witnesses.”
It was as though time stood still, but finally the ranger carefully uncocked the shotgun. As Amanda breathed her relief, he swung the butt around and hit the Mexican hard in the face. The fellow howled and rolled onto his side, his manacled hands covering what had been his nose. He choked, then spat blood and a couple of teeth onto the floor.
Still holding the shotgun with one hand, McAlester reached for the cup she’d brought and tossed the water into his prisoner’s face. Turning those cold blue eyes on Amanda, he demanded, “Just what the hell did you think you were doing?”
Stung, she stiffened. “Obviously I was trying to give him the drink he asked for.”
His eyes traveled over her, contemptuously taking in her expensive clothes, then returned to her face. “You’re damned lucky you didn’t get everybody killed.”
Furious at his manner, she fought to maintain her dignity. “You are no better than an animal, Mr. McA
lester, and when I am through with you, you will be fortunate if you stay out of jail,” she promised him, her voice tight.
He didn’t bother to respond. Leaning down, he grasped the chain that joined the Mexican’s hands and dragged him across the floor toward the door. At the framed threshold, he fairly flung the man through it, then he disappeared outside.
Aware that the stagecoach driver, the guard, and the station keeper all stared at her as though she were some sort of lunatic, she felt the heat in her cheeks. Rather than be outfaced, she picked up the empty cup, carried it to the bucket, refilled it, and went after him, her back stiff, the hem of her skirt brushing the dusty floor like a broom.
When she crossed the wood-framed threshold, McAlester had already shackled his prisoner to the spokes of one of the stagecoach’s wheels. As he straightened his tall frame, he saw her. He turned away.
“You could give this to your prisoner,” she said.
He didn’t answer. Without so much as another glance at her, he started back inside. She hesitated, then blurted out, “When I write my complaint, it won’t be to Captain Walker, I’m afraid. I think Governor Davis ought to hear of this.”
“Maria!” Ramon screeched from the doorway.
“And before you think he will not listen to me, I happen to own the Ybarra-Ross. People like me pay your wages, Mr. McAlester.”
He stopped, turned around, and walked back to face her. For all her words otherwise, she suppressed involuntary fear. For a long moment his eyes met hers. Then, very deliberately, he tucked his shotgun under his arm and dug in a coat pocket. Retrieving a worn leather coin purse, he opened it. Before she knew what he meant to do, he gripped her waist and forced her clenched fingers open to receive a coin. As he closed her hand again, he murmured, “That ought to more than cover your share.”
She waited to look down until he walked off. He’d given her a penny. “My share of what?” she demanded.
At the doorway he paused to answer, “The thirty-three dollars you and the rest of Texas pay me every month.” Lifting his hand in a mock salute, he added, “And when you write to him, be sure to tell Davis I’m bringing him Juan Garcia, and he owes me two hundred dollars.”
He went inside, leaving her to stare after him. Never in all of her life had she encountered anyone quite as insufferable, she was sure of that. He was cold, brutal, utterly arrogant—and he didn’t give a damn what she thought of him. She caught herself, realizing she’d actually thought the d—word. She’d only been in Texas for a few days, and already the roughness of the place was corrupting her, she decided wearily.
Sitting beside a decidedly sullen Ramon, Amanda fanned herself, trying to stir the stale, hot air, wishing she’d waited for another stage rather than sharing it with the grim, forbidding ranger and his prisoner. Yet for all her disdain, she could not quite help casting surreptitious glances at the two men opposite, wondering how even a man like McAlester could be so inured to such misery.
Juan Garcia lay against the side of the passenger compartment, his bruised, bloody head supported by the wall, his arm twisted behind him by the manacle that secured his wrist to McAlester’s. No matter what he’d done, he could not have deserved such a beating. No one could have. But she’d been entirely alone in her opinion, and that still irritated her.
They were all afraid of McAlester, and they didn’t mind admitting it. But even worse than that, they all seemed to take for granted his brutality. He’d lived among the Indians, Ramon said, as though that were some sort of excuse. But to her way of thinking, that was no reason for decent people to give him a badge and condone what he did. Torn between indignation and curiosity, she dared to watch him from beneath discreetly lowered lashes.
He was asleep, his tanned fingers laced together over his crossed gunbelts. Were it not for the frock coat, the white cambric shirt, and that pale hair, he would have looked every inch the savage he was, she decided. When he opened his eyes, he did, anyway. No, even if he visited a barber and dressed like Patrick Donnelly, no one would mistake him for a gentleman. Not with those merciless eyes.
She studied him openly now, scrutinizing his face, wondering how God could have made someone like him so handsome, yet so violent. But she had to wonder also if the Comanches hadn’t taken him, if he hadn’t been raised like them, would he have been different? Or had he been born the killer Ramon called him? Her gaze rested on his closed eyes, and she gave a start. Behind the narrowest of slits, dark pupils glinted. He wasn’t asleep at all. He was watching her.
Unnerved, she raised her fan, plying it faster in the hope he wouldn’t see her hot face. When she dared to look again, he hadn’t moved a muscle, and yet now it seemed there was the faintest of derisive smiles on his lips. And the awful notion took hold that he was amusing himself at her expense.
He’d been studying her for the better part of an hour, wondering how a girl like her was going to survive in West Texas. She was too pretty, and she had too much spunk, things life on the Texas frontier tended to take out of a woman. Given a few years, the heat and sun would tan that porcelain-perfect skin like leather and fade that dark red hair. He’d seen a lot of women who’d been pretty once, and most of them had either dried up from the relentless weather or gotten fat on too many fried tortillas. But none of them had owned the Ybarra-Ross, he reminded himself. Armed with expensive lotions and creams and a houseful of servants, Amanda Ross might beat the odds.
It didn’t matter, he decided. He wasn’t fool enough to think she was watching him because she had any real interest in him. He was a curiosity, that was all. By now, he ought to be used to that, and most of the time he was. But somehow that look coming from the self-righteous Miss Ross pricked his pride. As she fanned herself, he opened his eyes.
“Anybody ever tell you that ladies don’t stare?” he gibed.
Her flush deepened, almost burning her face. “No gentlemen, anyway,” she shot back.
She had a quick wit, he’d give her that. He leaned back, regarding her lazily, smiling faintly, trying to get her goat. It didn’t take long for him to succeed.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she snapped.
“What?”
“Look at me like that.”
“How was I looking?”
He had her there. She wanted to reach out and wipe that derisive half smile off his chiseled face. Instead, she nearly strangled saying, “You know very well, sir.”
“Sir?” One eyebrow lifted slightly. “Why, Miss Ross,” he drawled, “I was only trying to return your obvious interest.”
As several shots rang out, her caustic setdown died on her lips. The coach gave a lurch, nearly unseating her, then picked up speed. From the top of the box the guard shouted his alarm, but she could not make out the words. She half turned to Ramon and saw that he had a sick, pale look on his face.
McAlester leaned forward to look past his prisoner. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. Bending so close that his hair fell over her skirt, he quickly retrieved his shotgun from beneath his feet. As he straightened, his gaze met hers. “Get down,” he ordered brusquely, “and keep that red head out of my way.”
“Is it—?” Her mouth was suddenly too dry to finish the words. Her heart paused, and her stomach sank within her. Dear God, she thought, it must be Indians. A quick glance at Ramon seemed to confirm her worst fear. He’d drawn a small derringer from beneath his coat, but rather than looking out the window, he was cringing against the back of his seat.
McAlester eyed him contemptuously, then unholstered a polished Colt revolver and handed it across without a word. Breaking his shotgun open, he checked his load, and closed it again. Taking a key from a coat pocket, he unlocked the handcuffs, freeing his arm. He warned his prisoner, “You move, amigo, and the lady’ll be wiping your brains off that silk dress—savvy?”
The Mexican’s eyes flashed malevolently, but as the ranger cocked the shotgun, he cowered against the side wall, his hands protectin
g his face.
More shots rang out, and the guard toppled from the box, falling past Amanda’s window. She closed her eyes and swallowed, fighting nausea. Ramon leaned away from his side of the compartment, pressing his body against her shoulder, as he spun the magazine of the gun McAlester had given him.
The ranger looked her way. “Comancheros,” he explained tersely. Seeing the relief wash over her, he added grimly, “With or without your hair, you’re just as dead.”
Above them the driver was trying frantically to outrun his pursuers, and the coach careened wildly as he cracked his whip over the horses. A bullet hit the window next to Ramon, breaking it. He dived to the floor and covered his head with his arms. McAlester pushed her out of the way, then swung across to where her step-cousin had been. Putting the shotgun to the broken window, he aimed and fired, shattering what was left of it. The discharge reverberated through the passenger compartment, momentarily deafening her, while the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder filled her lungs. She coughed until her eyes streamed tears.
There must have been eight or nine Comancheros, and as the smoke cleared, they could be seen on both sides. As the ranger reloaded, one of them drew close and raised his arm to fire. McAlester cocked the hammer again and pulled the trigger. The Comanchero screamed as the buckshot tore through his body, knocking him off his horse. The animal reared, then bolted, dragging the dead man by a foot still caught in the stirrup. His body bounced over the dry earth, raising dust.
Ramon huddled against Amanda’s feet, his shoulders shaking convulsively as he wept like a baby. At first she thought he’d been shot, but then she realized he was too terrified to be of any use. Wrenching McAlester’s revolver from him, she drew her knees up onto the seat, crouching to face the opposite window. As another Comanchero closed in, she held the gun with both hands, cocked it, and fired, missing him. The smoke burned her eyes and throat. Blinking to clear her vision, she pulled back the hammer again, then squeezed the trigger. As the recoil jerked her wrist, the fellow fell from sight.
