by Ryan, Nan
“You, Angie?” Bert Davis looked down into the sad little face. His tone softening, he said, “My dear, shall we be off?”
Not trusting her voice, her ice-cold hands clutched tightly together within the folds of her faded navy-and-white gingham dress, Angie bit her trembling lip and bobbed her head violently up and down, her lungs feeling as though they would surely explode.
Understanding her despair, Bert Davis clicked his tongue to the trusted old mare harnessed to the small buggy. His chest hurt, too. Bert and his wife, Pearl, had lived across the street from the Websters for the past fifteen years. Bert could vividly recall the day he and his Pearl had moved to the little white house on Sycamore. He had hardly lifted Pearl from the carriage before the most beautiful, child he’d ever seen came flying across the street, her flaxen hair afire in the bright July sunshine. Three-year-old Angie Webster was laughing, a sweet, bubbly sound coming from her tiny mouth. Shouting happily, “I’m Angie, who are you?” the pretty child ran right into his arms, squealing with delight when he lifted her from the ground.
Childless, the Davises immediately fell in love with the pretty three-year-old. Unfortunately, the love they had for the little girl was mostly heaped on her from afar. On that long ago July day, Jeremiah Webster had stormed from the Webster home, hurrying across the street to the strangers oohing and aahing over the appreciative Angie. His face stern, he nodded coldly to the Davises and took his young daughter from Bert’s short, chubby arms. Crisply introducing himself, he whirled and recrossed the street.
While the Davises stood in front of their new home looking toward the small frame house where father and daughter had disappeared inside, they heard the pitiful, terrified wails of the beautiful young girl as her father spanked her with his belt, shouting at the frightened youngster that she was never to speak to strangers again, that she was never to disobey him, never to leave her own house.
Feeling responsible for the innocent child’s overly severe punishment, Bert Davis looked at Pearl and said firmly, “I’m going over there!”
“Wait for me,” replied the outraged Pearl, and together the couple proceeded across Sycamore Street, knocking loudly on the Websters’ front door.
Smiling pleasantly, Jeremiah Webster invited them inside. From the back of the house came the soft, muffled sobs of the brokenhearted little girl.
“I’m delighted to meet you both,” Jeremiah Webster said coolly to the gaping pair, as though completely deaf to the sounds of misery piercing the still, hot air. “My daughter is constantly a trial to my patience. I’m a man of God and I try to be as Job in the Bible, but it isn’t easy. Angie must learn not to disobey me, I’m sure you agree. I do not, nor will I in the future, allow my daughter to visit with neighbors. It’s a strict rule she must learn to live by, and if you want to help me, you’ll see to it that she is not tempted to come to your home ever again.”
“Why, you …” the red-faced Bert Davis began, but his wife’s insistent hand grasping his bulging biceps quieted him.
“We understand, Mr. Webster,” Pearl Davis said with a nod. “It was truly our fault. We saw your beautiful young daughter and enticed her to come to us. Please don’t punish her further. It will not happen again. We must go.” She moved toward the door clutching her husband’s arm, pulling him with her.
Pearl and Bert Davis kept their word. Pearl was an intuitive woman and she told her Bert that Jeremiah Webster was a misguided, hard man that they could not change. “The only thing we can do, Bert—” Pearl looked sadly at her husband “—is never let the little girl know we even notice her. You understand?”
“Yes, you’re saying that if we so much as call hello to her from across the street, it might make her want to visit and that would mean sure punishment for the child.”
Pearl sighed heavily. “Exactly. We will never be allowed to enjoy our pretty little neighbor, just as it seems we will never be allowed to have a child of our own.”
“Now, Sugar,” Bert Davis soothed, and he patted her soft shoulder.
SO ANGIE WEBSTER had never in her eighteen years been inside the Davises’ home, and she had not one inkling how very much the couple loved her. From behind curtained windows, the kind pair, starved for the love and company of a child, watched the pretty flaxen-haired Angie grow from a precocious three-year-old into a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl. It was from behind those worn lace curtains, in the white frame house where Pearl and Bert Davis lived, that a heartbroken Pearl now watched tearfully when Angie came down the steps and was helped up into the buggy by her Bert. Pearl’s huge bosom shook with sobs as she watched the old buggy turn the corner at the end of the block and go out of sight. Weeping as though Angie were her own, Pearl Davis silently said farewell to the pretty young woman she would never see again.
SOME OF ANGIE’S GLOOM gave way to excitement when she reached the riverfront. Never had Angie Webster seen the Mississippi River, though she had lived all her life close enough to hear the distant whistles from the many vessels that crowded the mighty waterway. Her eyes sparkled as she tried, unsuccessfully, to see everything that was happening in the noisy bustling harbor. Great cranes lifted bales of cotton onto steamer packets; men, black and white, bare to the waist, shouted and sang, their knotted muscles flexing and bulging as they lifted cargo high in strong arms, their sweat-slick backs straining under the loads.
Staring, Angie heard her father berate her sharply. “Child, have you no better manners than to gape at half-naked men! I’m ashamed of you, Angie Webster.”
“I … I’m sorry, Papa.” She jerked her head around, much too excited to let his words sting her. Bert Davis helped her down from the buggy and escorted Angie and her frail father down the wooden wharf toward their vessel. Walking between the two men, Angie’s hand flew to her mouth to suppress her happy laughter. Tap-dancing merrily ten yards in front of the trio, a talented, smiling black boy of about ten drew admiration from the crowd and bobbed his head in approval when passersby tossed coins at his lively feet.
The river was magical to Angie. Everywhere she looked were new and wonderful delights. Vendors with pushcarts sold sweet-smelling fresh flowers, Gulf shrimp and ice cream.
Angie’s green eyes brightened as she neared the passenger steamer they were to board. Sweeping up the long gangplank, two handsomely dressed young couples laughed gaily. The ladies twirled dainty parasols to shade their milky skin, their expensive frocks of lovely pastel silks fashioned in the latest style accentuating their hourglass figures. Small gloved hands held possessively to the jacketed muscular arms of handsome young men in elegantly tailored coats and tight revealing trousers.
“I’ll say goodbye now,” Bert Davis said, pausing at the foot of the long companionway.
“Thanks for the ride.” Jeremiah Webster shook Bert’s hand.
“Yes, Mister Davis. We do appreciate it so much.” Angie gave him a dazzling smile and Bert Davis felt his heavy chest constrict. Longing to kiss the sweet upturned face and hug her to him for just one instant, Bert shook her hand.
“Goodbye, Angie, have a good life.”
Smiling at the man who through all the years had hardly said more to her than a brief hello now and then, Angie squeezed his big hand and realized that she would miss seeing him enter his house across the street from hers every evening at exactly 5:57 p.m. And she would miss seeing his stocky wife, Pearl, step out onto the porch each evening at exactly 5:55 to await the 5:57 arrival of her husband.
WHEN ANGIE stepped onto the deck, her elbow held securely in her father’s restraining hand, her spirits soared. She had the delightful feeling that it was going to be a wonderful trip across the Gulf. The decks were alive with eager travelers of all ages, and from under her lashes Angie cast stolen glances at the boisterous, good-looking young men. The brash young gentlemen didn’t try to hide their unabashed admiration for Angie. Even in the worn and faded dress she wore, her blond beauty turned heads. The heart that only scant minutes before had weighed heavy wit
hin her bosom, now fluttered alarmingly with her newfound adventure.
Angie’s spirits quickly fell when her father’s fingers tightened around her arm and he suggested that they go below to their cabins.
Refusing to hide her disappointment, Angie whirled and looked up at him, fire flashing in her green eyes. “You can’t mean it, Papa! I am on a ship for the very first time in my life and you want me to go below before I’ve had a chance to see anything, to meet anyone.”
Untouched, Jeremiah said coldly, “If you have forgotten the purpose of the voyage, I have not. I am transporting my friend’s future wife to him. Meet people indeed! I had hoped that you would know how to behave, but it appears you do not. I’m left with no choice but to order you to your cabin and to see to it that you remain there throughout the voyage. I had no intention of keeping you so closely quarantined, but you, as usual, have disappointed me and brought about your own confinement. I shall arrange to have our meals served in my cabin; you will take all of them there with me. You are to get below at once and not leave your quarters for the remainder of our travels.” He looked at the big sad eyes leveled on him. “I am sorry, but I assured Barrett McClain you would come to him an innocent woman and I intend to keep my word!”
Angie opened her mouth to protest. It sagged shut. What was the use? He’d never listened to her; he wouldn’t now. Besides, she had no desire to make a spectacle of herself in front of the fun-loving youths and happy families in their midst. Tiredly, her shoulders slumping, Angie let herself be firmly propelled to her small cabin below deck. One tiny porthole, so high up on the wall she would have to stand on tiptoe to peer out, was to be Angie’s only visual relief throughout the journey to Galveston, Texas.
Handing his disappointed daughter inside, Jeremiah Webster said to her back, “I shall lock the door and keep the key inside my trouser pocket. At mealtime I shall come for you, or should I become too ill, I shall have a tray delivered.”
With that the door was abruptly closed. Angie, whirling, heard the dreaded sound of the key turning in the lock, shutting her away from her fellow travelers. Away from the handsome young men and pretty girls, away from the music and flowers and dancing of the main salon, away from the smell of the sea, and the feel of the mist upon her skin.
As always, Angie Webster was shut away from life.
Chapter Four
A DARK FLUSH spread over Barrett McClain’s sun-bronzed face at the unwelcome sight of his tall son standing behind Emily’s chair with a mocking grin on his face. Pecos never failed to show up when he was least expected … or least wanted. Hoping this untimely visit would be a short one, Barrett forced a smile to his lips and said calmly, “How nice to see you, Son. I had no idea you were back in Marfa.”
Pecos pulled out a chair beside his aunt and dropped tiredly into it, winking at her. “Hello, sir,” he said as he nodded his dark head toward his surprised father. “Truth is, I was down in Mexico and I got this strange premonition.” His gray eyes sparkled with devilment. “Something told me I should come to Tierra del Sol right away, and here I am.” He leaned back in his chair and nodded when his happy aunt held up the silver coffeepot. “Has something happened here? Was it your prayers I heard, Dad? Were you praying for me to return home?” Pecos laughed and looked directly at his father.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit early in the day for your misplaced humor?” Barrett McClain was not amused. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but—”
“Why, Daddy,” Pecos said, feigning hurt feelings, “aren’t you happy to see me? I thought sure you’d …”
“That’s enough, Pecos,” the old man snapped impatiently. “Why you choose to constantly goad me, I’ll never know.”
“Please, Barrett,” Emily interceded, “the boy’s been away for weeks. Couldn’t you …”
“That’s all right, Aunt Em,” Pecos said. He flashed her a smile. “Obviously I’ve come at a bad time.” His gaze swung back to his father. “Have I? Is there some reason you don’t want me home right now?”
“How long are you staying, Pecos?” Barrett ignored Pecos’s question.
Eyes narrowing slightly, Pecos picked up his full cup of coffee and said levelly, “You tell me why you don’t want me to stay, then perhaps I’ll tell you when I’m leaving.” He took a drink of coffee and waited.
His temper rising, Barrett McClain slammed a beefy fist down on the table. “Stay forever or leave right now, it makes no difference to me, but I’ll tell you this once, and I don’t want to hear anything from you regarding my decision. I’m expecting guests at Tierra del Sol very soon. My old friend, Jeremiah Webster, is in failing health; in fact, he is dying. He and his daughter are coming here. After Jeremiah’s passing, the daughter will remain here with us.”
Hooded gray eyes impaled Barrett McClain. “Just exactly what are you saying? Is this woman to work here at the ranch? Is she to be a permanent houseguest? A daughter to you? A sister to me? What?”
“She’s to be my wife!” Barrett McClain sputtered, angered by his son’s uncanny ability to unfailingly make him feel foolish and guilty.
Pecos looked at his aunt. Her pale face wore a worried expression. “Pecos, dear,” she began, fearful of what he might say or do.
He smiled at her, his long lean body stretched back against his chair. His voice was calm and modulated when he spoke. Never one to react as expected, Pecos said musingly, “A brand-new mom. How grand. I do hope she’ll tell me bedtime stories and rock me when I’m fretful.”
“Must you always make a mockery of everything?” Barrett was furious. “I tell you I plan to remarry and all you can do is make jokes! Have you nothing to say of any consequence?”
His voice still low and calm, Pecos interrupted his father, rising from his chair. “Would it make a damn bit of difference to you if I cared? I can’t recall you ever asking for my opinion on anything.” He stood looking down at Barrett McClain. “Do what you like; marry some woman you’ve never met, it’s nothing to me.” Pecos bent and kissed his aunt’s cheek and whispered, “I’m going to say hello to Reno, then I’ve got to clean up and get some sleep. Let’s have a late lunch together when I wake up.”
“Yes, dear, I’d like that.” Her tired eyes lingered on the dear, handsome face as he once again looked at Barrett McClain.
“When do the blushing bride and her proud daddy arrive?”
Fighting desperately to hold on to his composure, Barrett replied, “Their arrival is still weeks away. I’m sure you’ll have tired of Marfa and Tierra del Sol long before the Websters get here.”
“Hmm,” Pecos said. He scratched absently at the dark stubble on his lean jaw and grinned. “I’ve been away from home too much lately, maybe I’ll stay and meet my new mom.” Loud raucous laughter rumbled from his broad chest as he pivoted and walked away, leaving his red-faced father and beaming aunt looking after him.
RENO SANCHEZ ROLLED OVER in his narrow bunk, trying to rouse himself. His dark eyes fluttered open for an instant, then once again slid closed. Soft snores erupted from his open mouth as one brown bare arm fell over the edge of the bed.
“Reno, you worthless bastard, open the door.” A man’s deep voice shattered the silence in the small one-room dwelling.
The dark eyes again opened. Reno licked his lips, frowned, rubbed a scratchy eyelid and lifted his sleepy head. Thinking one of the cowboys was bent on interrupting his slumber, he shouted indignantly, “Get the hell away from here, you loudmouthed gringo! If I have to …”
Reno’s threats trailed away when his front door flew open and the early-morning intruder strode in, grinning. The tall lean visitor stalked directly to the narrow bed in the corner, jerking the sheet from the sputtering Mexican. “Get your brown ass out of the sack,” Pecos said with a good-natured laugh …
Off the bed and grabbing for his trousers, Reno was laughing, too. “You son of a bitch, Pecos!” he chortled happily, “When did you get home?” Slithering into a pair of denims, Reno jerked t
hem up over his slim hips and embraced his tall friend, pounding affectionately on Pecos’s back.
“Just rode in, amigo,” Pecos said, pushing him away. “Damn it, Reno, you people can’t get a thing done because you’re always hugging each other. Keep your oily hands off me.”
Undaunted, Reno beamed fondly up at the man he so admired, his gold front tooth flashing in the sunny room. He laughed louder and again grabbed for the reserved Pecos, wrapping his short powerful arms around the taller man’s taut middle. “You cold bastard, Pecos. I’m happy to see you!” He grunted loudly and tightly embraced the fidgeting Pecos. Pecos finally stood obediently and took it, greatly relieved when at last the good-natured Reno released him and said, “Coffee, Pecos?”
“Got any bourbon?” Pecos looked about the sparsely furnished adobe hut that had been Reno’s home for as long as either man could remember.
Born at Tierra del Sol five years before Pecos’s birth, Reno, the son of a handsome vaquero and a fiery house servant, had been orphaned at fourteen. His hot-blooded daddy, unable to keep his eyes and hands off a lusty young woman who had come to the ranch to be the cook’s helper, had made the fatal mistake of indulging his passion one night when he was sure his wife and Reno were asleep. Reno’s jealous mother, Connie, had followed her amorous husband to a rendezvous in the hayloft of one of the many McClain barns, and the sight of him with another woman had been too much for her. Connie had drawn a small sharp dagger from under her skirts and buried it deep in the bare back of her unsuspecting husband.
No sooner had Connie Sanchez plunged the knife into her husband’s back than she was sorry for her rash action. Screaming louder than the shocked, terrified girl fighting to get up, Connie dragged her husband’s limp form from the girl and fell upon him, begging him to speak to her. But Raul Sanchez was dead. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Connie pulled the dagger from her husband’s broad back and laid him gently in the straw. While the other woman clutched her clothes to her and screamed, Connie Sanchez lay down by her dead husband, and with a sure deep plunge of the dagger directly into her heart, she took her life.
