Desert Storm

by Ryan, Nan

Chapter Two

  BARRETT MCCLAIN SAT ALONE on the south patio at Tierra del Sol. A silent Mexican servant, standing near the table, was waved away by the high-spirited, white-haired gentleman. “Coffee is all I want this morning, Delores. You may go inside until Miss Emily joins me.”

  “Sí,” A grin on her brown face, Delores backed away with a bobbing bow and disappeared inside the hacienda.

  The sun was barely up. Barrett McClain rose each morning before sunup. He had since childhood, he would for as long as he lived. Long years of hard work, rising early and retiring early, had become the pattern of his life. It was hard to change. A wealthy, powerful man, Barrett McClain no longer worked as hard as he once had, but he still ran the vast southwest Texas ranch with an iron hand and nothing escaped his scrutiny. Five hundred thousand acres of land, forty thousand purebred cattle, seven hundred horses, one hundred hired vaqueros and cowboys, fifteen house servants and gardeners and the red-tiled roofed hacienda sprawling impressively on the desert floor made up an empire that was one of the largest in all Texas.

  Barrett McClain liked to sit on the south patio in the quiet morning and let his eyes sweep over the vast expanse of land that was his. His thin lips, below the white mustache he kept carefully clipped and trimmed, always turned up into a pleased smile at the realization it all belonged to him. Every bit of it. From the distant property lines miles beyond his sight, to the finest, fattest steer, to the strongest, toughest vaquero, to the last piece of heavy carved furniture, to the most delicate cut of crystal. Everything and everyone belonged to him.

  And now he would have another prized possession to add to his sizable collection. Barrett McClain took a drink of coffee and looked about to make certain he was alone. Smiling, he set his cup aside and reached into his breast pocket. Two blunt fingers drew out a small photograph. Almost tenderly, Barrett laid the picture before him on the white linen cloth. Smiling up at him was one of the most temptingly beautiful young women he had ever seen in his life. Her hair was pulled demurely into a tight knot behind her head in a manner that would have made most women’s facial features appear too sharp. Not this child’s. The severe hairstyle only showed how delicately lovely she was; how perfect the big, brilliant eyes, the small turned-up nose, the prettily pointed chin, the full, generous mouth, the long, swanlike neck. She sat with her hands in her lap, her skirts covering what he was sure were small feet. Her shoulders were narrow, her waist incredibly tiny and her breasts rounded and full.

  Grinning foolishly, Barrett McClain ran a forefinger over the tiny picture, saying in a low, impassioned voice, “Ah, my dear, sweet child. I wonder if you know how lovely you are? I can hardly wait to taste the delights of your sweet little body. It must surely be God’s will that I remained friends with your father all these years. Now, in his hour of need, I can be of help to him and to you.” Barrett chuckled low in his throat, then added, “And oh, my sweet, do I intend to help you! If I know my friend, Jeremiah Webster, you’ve been raised up right; you’re as pure as a babe and as innocent. Fear not, fair Angie, I’m more than willing to make you into a woman.”

  The thought was so pleasant, a small twinge of guilt shot through Barrett McClain’s broad chest. It quickly vanished and to the air he said testily, “There will be no sin to it! The girl will be my wife; ’twill be my duty to keep her satisfied so that she will not be tempted to do anything that might endanger her immortal soul.” Barrett nodded his white head up and down and his eyes twinkled merrily. As always, he convinced himself that he was doing the right thing, the holy thing. If that right and holy thing happened also to bring earthly pleasures, so be it.

  “Good morning, Barrett.” He was shaken from his reveries by the soft voice of his sister-in-law. Guiltily snatching up the worn photograph from the table, Barrett thrust it back into his pocket as he rose.

  “Good morning, Emily.” He smiled engagingly and pulled out her chair, seating her, before once again taking his own.

  “Was there someone else out here, Barrett? I thought I heard voices,” Emily York said as she lifted a silver bell from the table and gently summoned a servant.

  “Ah, no … no.” Barrett needlessly cleared his throat. “Delores was out here a minute ago.” He hoped his face wasn’t coloring.

  “I guess that’s what it was,” Emily said, nodding. Delores, her colorful skirt swaying around thick hips, sashayed across the stone floor, in one brown hand a crystal platter of artfully arranged fresh fruit. “Good morning, Delores,” Emily said graciously. “I believe I’ll have hot cereal this morning, if I may.”

  Placing the platter of fruit at the table’s center, Delores poured coffee from a silver pot and handed the cup to her mistress. “Sí. With honey and raisins?”

  Emily lifted the steaming cup to pursed lips. “No, thick cream and one spoonful of sugar, nothing more.”

  When the flash of Delores’s skirt had disappeared inside, Emily turned to her brother-in-law. “Barrett, is there any further word on the Websters’ arrival?”

  Barrett McClain had told his dead wife’s sister that he had been called upon to help out a friend in distress. Over the years, he had spoken often of Jeremiah Webster, though he’d not seen the man, whose home was in New Orleans, for more than twenty years, not since the end of the War between the States.

  It was during that bloody four-year tragedy that the two men had met and grown close. Barrett, ten years Jeremiah’s senior, was the commanding officer of the younger man in the brave, renowned Third Louisiana regiment, and together they had seen raging battles, shared dreams and talked of God. It was to Jeremiah that Barrett had admitted that the beautiful, blue-eyed, dark-haired wife waiting for him back in Texas was not as religious as she should be, that there were times when she was too lazy to go to Sunday services, and that their only son, Pecos, was a willful child. It seemed the boy had taken his mother’s worst traits and that it was necessary to punish him severely for his disrespectful ways.

  Commiserating with his friend, Jeremiah Webster had shaken his head in complete understanding. Stating vehemently that he, Jeremiah, could think of nothing worse than falling victim to a woman of less than flawless morals, he had told his suffering friend that perhaps it would be better if Barrett left the unholy woman.

  “Ah, that’s just what I’d like to do,” Barrett McClain had said, looking into Jeremiah’s kind, blue eyes, “but I can’t. There’s the child, you know.” Barrett had failed to mention at the time that there was another reason he wasn’t about to leave his wife. It so happened that the Texas ranch he’d spoken of to his friend Jeremiah was owned solely by his headstrong wife. Upon her father’s early death some thirteen years before, the lovely Kathryn York had become one of the richest women in Texas. Barrett McClain had been courting the pretty Kathryn at the time, and within a month of John York’s death, Barrett and Kathryn were man and wife.

  “You’re a good man, Barrett McClain,” Jeremiah Webster said in honest admiration. “I shall pray for you and for your rebellious wife and child.”

  “Thank you, Jeremiah.” Barrett was touched. “And I shall pray that when you fall in love, it will be with a woman as pure in heart and as devout as you.”

  “That’s the only kind I shall consider,” Jeremiah stated emphatically, unaware that the woman whom destiny had chosen for him to take as his wife in the near future would make the wife of Barrett McClain look like a saint.

  “Barrett,” Emily asked again, “is there further word from the Websters?”

  “Yes, I received a wire yesterday.” Barrett toyed with the left side of his white mustache and tried to keep the excitement from his voice. “Jeremiah informs me that he and his daughter will board a riverboat on Thursday next, travel along the Gulf down to Galveston and from Galveston take the train overland to Marfa. If fate is kind, the Websters should arrive safely by the first of May.”

  Sipping daintily from her china cup, Emily asked, “Barrett, just how old is the daughter? Is she about Pecos’s age,
or older?” She looked him straight in the eye.

  Barrett fished in his pocket for a cigar. “Do you mind, Emily?” he asked, waving it before him.

  “Certainly riot, go right ahead.” She smiled sweetly. “I’ve heard you mention her over the years, but somehow I never got it clear in my mind as to her age.” She continued to face him down.

  “Miss Webster is very young, unfortunately. That can hardly be helped, can it? She needs my help and I shall provide it.”

  “How old?”

  “Eighteen!” He felt his temper rising and longed to shout that it was none of her business, but he did not. Emily and he had lived for years under a somewhat shaky, needed truce. He had needed her to take care of the young, motherless Pecos after Kathryn’s death, and Emily, a maiden lady with no money, had needed a home and security. That they had never really liked each other was an unspoken truth. In all the years Emily and Barrett had lived together, she had quietly, deeply hated him. To her the home she lived in was more hers than his. She had been born in the big front bedroom upstairs forty-three years ago and had never lived anywhere else. Ten years younger than her sister, Kathryn, Emily was only fourteen when their father died; the girls’ mother having expired giving birth to her. Emily presumed her young age had been the reason that everything was left to the older Kathryn. Emily got nothing in her father’s will, but the will required Kathryn to provide for Emily. John York had also stated in the will that upon Emily’s coming of age, he was certain that Kathryn would do the right thing regarding her sister’s inheritance.

  Perhaps she would have, had she not married Barrett McClain. By the time Emily was old enough to ask about her share of their father’s wealth, Barrett McClain was in charge. Emily found he always skirted her questions about her inheritance, assuring her that anything she wanted or needed was hers for the asking. She was not to worry, surely she trusted him. Why, everyone in southwest Texas knew what kind of man Barrett McClain was! Didn’t he go to church every Sunday? Didn’t he pray unceasingly? Didn’t he plead with his wife and son, and with Emily, too, to accompany him to services, to read from the Bible, to be upright and pure in heart?

  Emily would never, never know what Barrett McClain had done to persuade Kathryn to sign over everything to him in her will. But that was exactly what had happened. When Kathryn died at age thirty-seven, her twenty-seven-year-old sister was left penniless, as was her eleven-year-old son, Pecos. Barrett McClain inherited it all and had the audacity to act surprised when the will was read. Saying that it was God’s will, Barrett had assured Emily she had a home at Tierra del Sol for as long as she wanted it, and Emily, never greatly independent, without the skills to earn a living and loving her nephew as if he were her own son, stayed.

  Over the years her bitterness about her lost inheritance had dimmed. It was enough to know that upon Barrett’s death, he had only one heir, her adored nephew, Pecos. It would allgo to him; that was all that mattered. But Barrett’s proposed remarriage after all these years had given Emily the uneasy feeling that Pecos’s inheritance might be endangered. To sit and hear of her brother-in-law’s intention to marry an eighteen-year-old girl was devastating. Emily felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand up, and she pictured Pecos’s rage when he heard the news of the upcoming wedding.

  Calmly, she said, “Barrett, I realize you’re only trying to be kind to an old and valued friend. However, I think marriage is taking your concern just one step too far. Eighteen, indeed! Why, she’s a child, Barrett. Surely you can’t marry a girl of eighteen.”

  Feeling the heat creeping up from his stiff collar, Barrett drew on his cigar and made a show of slowly exhaling the smoke as though he were not in the least upset. “Emily, granted she is quite young, but Jeremiah tells me she is very capable; she’s been running his house all her life, as her mother ran off when the girl was only an infant. Jeremiah tells me that Angie … ah, the girl … is most adept at cooking, cleaning and—”

  Emily interrupted, her movements jerky and rapid as she pushed her cereal bowl away and leaned closer to the table. “Cooking, cleaning?” She snorted indignantly. “What has that to do with it? You’ve a house full of servants, Barrett. She’ll hardly be called upon to perform domestic duties, will she?”

  “Well, no, no … that is …”

  “Barrett, why don’t you bring the child here and let her live on the ranch with us? There’s no need whatever for you to marry the poor—”

  “I’m shocked at you, Emily York!” He tried to sound as indignant as his accuser. “Are you truly suggesting that a young single woman live here with me without benefit of clergy? Why, the church would be appalled, as well they should be!”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it. I live here; she’d be well chaperoned. There would be nothing wrong with the child living under your roof. No one would think—”

  The heat continuing to spread upward to his bronzed cheeks, Barrett jammed his cigar out in his half-empty coffee cup, and he, too, leaned closer to the table. “What about Pecos!”

  “What about Pecos?” she asked, blinking at him.

  “He lives here part of the time, too. He might … he could be tempted to … well, people would talk!”

  Emily put her elbows on the table, lacing her delicate fingers together under her chin. “Barrett, as you well know, Pecos is gone much more than he is here. Besides, he wouldn’t pay her any mind unless the girl were extraordinary, special … beautiful.” She paused and rubbed her chin from side to side on the backs of her hands. “Is she? Is she, Barrett? Pretty, I mean?”

  Leaning away from the table, he folded his arms over his chest and glared at her. “How would I know if she is pretty! I’ve never seen her, you know I haven’t.”

  “Hmm,” she said, pondering his answer. “I thought perhaps her father had described her in his letters, or … maybe even sent you a picture.”

  As he came close to losing his composure completely, his head snapped up and his first instinct was to lie. But he didn’t. “As a matter of fact, Jeremiah did send a rather fuzzy photograph of his daughter. She looks healthy and quite fair.”

  Emily slowly lowered her hands to her lap. She could tell by what Barrett didn’t say that the girl was pretty and pleasing to the eye. Fear leaped through her breast. If the girl was lovely and she married Barrett, might the child not cajole the foolish, woman-starved Barrett into leaving her his wealth?

  As determined as Barrett to keep her composure, Emily tried again, purposely making her voice modulated and as kind as possible. “Barrett, I know you are truly a good man. I know, too, that you want to do the right thing. But please, don’t feel that you must marry this child. It’s quite enough for you to generously take her in and care for her. I’ll help you with her, I swear it. The people of Marfa know what kind of man you are, Barrett. No one would think anything amiss at your having the daughter of an old friend here after the death of her father. Don’t you see that? No one could possibly see any wrong in it. Won’t you reconsider? Will you at least let her come and live with us for six months before you marry her?”

  Barrett cast flashing eyes at his sister-in-law. He reached out to toy with a silver spoon, as though intrigued with its shape. “Have you heard from Pecos lately?” he blurted out.

  Taken aback, she said, “No … no, I haven’t. Not in several weeks. You know Pecos, he’ll just show up one day.”

  “Exactly! And before he does show up, I intend to marry Angie Webster. I don’t want Pecos—”

  “Is someone calling me?” came a deep, laughing voice from the edge of the patio.

  Emily and Barrett turned at the same time. A tall, laughing man was coming toward them. His blue-black hair glinted in the glaring sun. His long, lean body moved catlike across the stone floor, his silver spurs clanking with his steps. The white, blousy shirt he wore was half-open down his brown chest, exposing a thatch of thick curling black hair. A gun belt of smooth black leather rode low on his slim hips. The shiny handle of hi
s gun caught the sun’s rays, temporarily blinding a stunned Barrett McClain.

  At the table, the lean, tall man, his white teeth flashing starkly in his swarthy face, continued to laugh a deep, low chuckle. He stopped directly behind Emily York’s chair, put his long, brown fingers gently around her cheeks and pulled her head back against his hard waist. Bending over her, he gave her smooth temple a kiss and said brightly, “How’s my favorite girl?”

  Slender lace-covered arms came up out of Emily’s lap to clutch at his warm hands, while she smiled in happy welcome.

  “Pecos! You’ve come home!”

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS WITH A GREAT DEAL of trepidation and melancholy that Angie Webster closed the door to the only home she’d ever known. The small, frame dwelling on Sycamore Street had been close to her entire universe since birth. Although she had often chafed at her imposed confinement within its aging walls, the thought of leaving it behind forever to travel to a strange and distant land to marry a man she had never met was terrifying.

  Her hand on the doorknob, Angie hesitated, taking one last sweeping look around the now empty parlor. Tears stinging her eyes, she longed to fling the old warped door closed and hide inside, refusing to come out.

  “Angie, stop dawdling, it’s time we were going.” Her father’s voice snapped her from her thoughts and she pulled the door shut, turned and hurried down the wooden steps of the porch.

  “Morning, Mr. Davis,” Angie said, smiling sweetly to the portly neighbor from across the street who had so kindly consented to driving the Websters to the riverfront.

  “Morning, Angie.” He nodded, offering his hand to the pretty young woman.

  She took it and was helped up into the high carriage seat where her father was already settled. Angie cast one look over her shoulder at their two valises, hearing the plank seat groan as Bert Davis lumbered up onto it.

  “Ready?” he asked clutching the reins in his fleshy hands.

  “Ready,” Jeremiah confirmed.