Desert Storm

by Ryan, Nan

  Young Reno Sanchez awoke and heard the screams. He knew, even before he was able to slip on his pants and run as fast as he could. He knew. He was the first to reach the trio. Large dark eyes flashed with hatred at the trembling, contrite young woman standing over his dead parents. Immediately turning his attention to the prostrate pair, he dropped to his knees and listened for heartbeats. There were none. Dry-eyed, he rose, took a horse blanket from the wall nearby and covered them.

  “Dios, have mercy on their souls,” he whispered and crossed himself. He rose and left the barn, no longer a boy. It was on that hot moonlit night when he was fourteen that Reno Sanchez had promised himself he would never break the solemn vows of marriage. Nor would he ever let the stirrings below his belt buckle ruin his life or that of another human being. Reno never forgot that promise to himself. Loving and hot-blooded though he was, Reno had always very coolly kept his emotions under control. He had had one wife, and to her he had been faithful. Since her death, no woman had meant anything to Reno. He was sure one never would; he’d had the best and he wanted no other.

  Pecos had been nine years old when the tragedy occurred, and he had not been told the full story, but he had guessed. Longing to hear all the details, he had gone to the Sanchez hut a few days after the double burial to visit the fourteen-year-old Reno. When the sad Mexican lad had not volunteered the information the curious Pecos was seeking, Pecos came right out and asked, figuring that Reno was, after all, only a poor Mexican employee, more or less owned by the powerful McClains.

  Pecos stalked right up to the taller boy and said, “So tell me about it, Mex. Was your old man humping that new cook up there in the hay?”

  Fierce black eyes locked on the impudent Pecos and a brown hand grabbed his shirt collar. Surprised, Pecos was hauled up to Reno’s angry brown face. Through perfect white teeth, Reno Sanchez said coldly, “You stupid, spoiled, rude little bastard! Do not ever again speak to me of this! My mother and father are dead. How they died is not important. I loved them both and I’ll beat your arrogant Anglo head off if I ever hear you talking about them again! This is my house, get out!”

  He released Pecos and as the shocked, frightened boy backed away from the furious Latin, he noticed the sad tears shining in the black eyes. On that day Pecos McClain, in awe of the proud, manly Reno, decided he wanted Reno for his friend. It took a while, but Reno, forgiving and friendly, soon gave up chasing the nine-year-old away when he came by each day after supper. Reno admired Pecos’s honesty; the younger boy bluntly told his Latin hero that he wanted to be friends. Would Reno consider letting him be?

  With a flash of white, even teeth, Reno Sanchez had laughed and ruffled the boy’s blue-black hair. “Sí, Pecos,” Reno assured the child, “we will be friends so long as you never forget that I don’t give a tinker’s damn that your last name is McClain. Sí?”

  “Sí, Reno.” Pecos grinned up at him, “Why should you?”

  FROM THAT SUMMER eighteen years ago, Pecos McClain and Reno Sanchez had been as close as brothers. After that tragic July, the boys spent most, of their free time together, riding, swimming, hunting and lying on their backs under the stars, dreaming of the future when they both planned high adventures and lots of travel. Turning a deaf ear to the scoldings of Barrett McClain, Pecos loved Reno and told his harping father that he didn’t give a tinker’s damn that Reno’s last name was Sanchez. Pecos’s white bottom was bared and spanked for his language and disrespect. It did little good; Pecos had already decided to be like his best friend, Reno. He alone would pick the people he wished to spend his time with and no amount of switching by his disgruntled father would change that.

  PECOS NOW SAT STRADDLING a straight-backed chair, watching his old friend fill the coffeepot with water. A half-full bottle of Kentucky bourbon had been hauled out of Reno’s latest hiding place and set on the table.

  Pecos poured himself a whiskey, tossed it down, grimaced and poured another. “You should have been with me this trip, Reno. I met the woman of my dreams out at the Pass.”

  Paso del Norte, on the border between Texas and Mexico was a wide-open, exciting place where an adventurous young man could easily find the pleasures he was seeking. In a town boastful of the fact that every saloon, restaurant and gambling house stayed open twenty-four hours every day of the week, it was easy indeed to indulge one’s every desire, to sate every hunger, to taste all of life’s forbidden fruits. Pecos McClain found Paso del Norte to his liking and had passed many a happy hour at the green felt tables, the theater, the fine restaurants and the sporting houses. The rollicking town was well-suited to his restless nature and his unending search for thrills. One of a breed of young, untamed men roaming the Southwest, Pecos was well-liked by tavern owners and maître d’s, respected and feared by the gamblers and drifters and sought after by the two kinds of women of Paso del Norte.

  “Tell me about your dream girl,” Reno said as he rubbed his brown hands together, as eager as a child to hear his friend regale him with stories of his latest escapades. “First, give me a cigarette, will you, Pecos?”

  “Damn it, man, have you ever considered buying your own smokes?” Though his words were harsh, Pecos’s handsome face wore a warm smile of affection. Pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket with two long lean fingers, he handed it across the table. “Let me set the scene for you,” Pecos drawled and leaned back while Reno drew on his cigarette and nodded approvingly. “It was to be my last night on the border. I’d slept all afternoon, waking just as the desert sun was setting. I had a good soaking at my hotel, then dressed in fine evening clothes, intending to set some feminine hearts atwitter.”

  “Ah, sí, sí,” Reno said excitedly, “I’ll bet you—”

  Raising a slim hand, Pecos quieted the exuberant Mexican. “Who’s telling this damn story, me or you?”

  “Oh, sorry, I will not interrupt again,” Reno assured him, smiling.

  “Good. Let’s see, I dressed like a dandy and strode out of the hotel and into the plaza. I still had no idea where I was going. I crossed the dusty plaza and found myself just outside of Hurricane Gussie’s. I figured fate had stepped in to guide me there as I’d never been inside the place. It was then I recalled that some gentlemen I’d played poker with the evening before had raved about a beautiful lady singer they’d seen at Gussie’s. A girl so fair her skin looked like porcelain, with hair so blond it appeared to be spun of gold, and a sweet little body so soft and curvesome it had surely been made for loving.”

  Pecos paused and yawned, then rubbed his tired gray eyes. Reno snuffed out his cigarette and waited. Finally Pecos raised his long arms, laced his hands atop his dark head and continued. “Figuring their assessment of the girl was grossly exaggerated, I nevertheless went inside the club. I made my way through the crowd to the bar. I nodded to the white-jacketed bartender and was handed a bottle of their finest whiskey across the polished mahogany bar. A sparkling crystal shot glass followed. Just as he poured, red velvet curtains opened in the near corner of the plush room and a piano player below the stage struck a chord. From out of nowhere this beautiful woman stepped onstage, no more than twenty feet from where I stood. Everyone in the room started calling to her, saying, ‘Ángel, Ángel,’ while I just stared openmouthed at the most gorgeous creature these eyes have ever seen. She started to sing and that voice was like warm honey. I’m telling you, Reno, she was breathtaking. The name Angel fit her.” He fell silent, lowered his hands to the table and sighed.

  “What happened? This pretty Angel, did she like you, too?” Reno had forgotten his vow not to interrupt.

  “She did, my friend. Those big emerald eyes of hers swept once around the room and came to rest on me. She sang her love song just to me and I knew it was going to be one hell of a night. When she’d finished performing, she came straight to me and we found a private table for a late supper. We drank champagne, we ate our fancy meal, and that sweet Angel gave me warm kisses and warmer promises. She really had me going, and when
I suggested we go upstairs she was more than agreeable. Both a bit tipsy, we started up those wine-carpeted stairs, our arms around each other, my anticipation rising. Well, we were halfway up when a crazed Englishman comes dashing through the room waving a revolver. He’s yelling how Angel belongs to him and he’ll kill anyone else who touches her.”

  Big, round eyes were riveted to Pecos. Reno swallowed hard and murmured, almost inaudibly, “Dios!”

  “I shove Angel to safety and reach for my gun. Before it clears the holster, he’s squeezed off a shot at me.” Pecos shook his head. “Do you know the bastard was aiming straight at my crotch?”

  “Ooch,” Reno moaned and unconsciously grabbed his own crotch. “Did he …”

  “I’m happy to report I’m still a man. Luckily, the dude was a terrible shot. His bullet missed me completely and shattered one of those wooden spindle balls decorating the banister of the stairway next to my thigh.”

  Grinning happily, Reno bobbed his head. “You are lucky, Pecos! You sure are a lucky gringo.”

  “Not that lucky. Damned if the marshal didn’t hear the shot and come rushing in with a double-barreled shotgun. He didn’t stop to ask questions, he carted us both off to jail. Instead of spending the night in Angel’s warm bed, I spent it on the jail’s cold floor.” Pecos leaned close to the table and laughed. “The next morning I had to go before the judge and he fined me twenty-five dollars.” Pecos eased up from out of his chair, still chuckling. “I’m heading for bed, pal. Just wanted to stop and say hello. Why don’t we get together tonight, maybe go into Marfa.”

  Rising, Reno followed the taller man to the door, “Sí, we can go to town and visit Georgina and Lupe, okay? That Lupe, she’s been missing you, Pecos.”

  “We’ll see, maybe,” Pecos said and sighed. “Lupe’s pretty, but she’s not Angel. I mean it, Reno, that girl was … she’s just so … God, if she weren’t a whore, I’d marry her!”

  “You can’t mean that, Pecos McClain!”

  “Hell no!” Pecos grinned and clasped Reno’s bare shoulder. “That reminds me, though. Have you heard? My daddy is fixing to take a wife.”

  “Oh, I hear, I hear, Pecos,” Reno answered, shaking his head in dismay. “I am sorry, this is bad news for you, no?”

  Pecos squinted toward the big hacienda, then back at Reno. “Not really. You know how tightfisted my old man is.” He grinned lazily. “This Webster woman’s probably some dried-up skinny old maid with little charm or desirability. I believe that to worm even a quarter out of Daddy, a woman would have to look like my Border Angel.”

  Chapter Five

  WEARY OF HER IMPOSED confinement within the small damp cabin of the steamer, Angie undressed and slipped beneath the scratchy sheet. Her neck was stiff from craning to gaze out the high porthole at the lights of the other vessels in the Gulf and she sighed heavily, fighting the self-pity she knew to be a dismal waste of time. Searching for the bright side, Angie consoled herself that this was to be her last night locked inside this lurching, tossing prison on water. Tomorrow the steamer would reach the port of Galveston, Texas, and she would hopefully be allowed to join the other travelers topside to watch the bustling bay come up to meet her.

  With the arrival to look forward to, Angie smiled, closed her eyes and soon drifted into peaceful slumber. That slumber was pleasantly, provocatively interrupted by the dark handsome lover who’d invaded the girl’s dreams before. As was his habit, he unobtrusively lowered the sheet from Angie’s bare body while his noble head bent close to her face, his eyes warm and tender. He began to caress her eager flesh with a sure but gentle touch, lightly stroking; long lean fingers gliding slowly from high cheekbones to graceful throat, from bare shoulders down slender arms and then … warm lips came down on hers as his dark hand went to a pale breast. She sighed into his mouth when his thumb brushed back and forth on her nipple, before moving down to her trembling stomach. Warmth and well-being spread throughout Angie’s naked body and she arched her back and moaned with contentment. Fiery fingertips played upon her stomach while expressive, luminous eyes looked into hers. Stretching and purring lazily, Angie, trusting him completely, felt those persuasive fingers slipping lower, lower and she held her breath … eager … longing … burning …

  “Miss Webster!” A determined knock upon her cabin door accompanied the interrupting, nervous voice.

  Angie, still deep within her drugging dream, sleepily answered her lover. “No … Angie … call me Angie.…”

  “Miss Webster!” The man’s voice was loud, insistent. Angie’s eyes flew open and reality rushed in. “Miss Webster, it’s your father, he’s much worse. You must hurry.”

  Angie, heart thumping against her naked ribs, jumped from her bunk, chilled by the night air and fear. “Coming, sir,” she called through chattering teeth, and hastily pulled on her underpants, petticoat and dress. Cautioning herself to refrain from giving in to the panic, she slipped on her stockings and shoes and threw open the cabin door.

  A tall, stern-faced man stood with a lantern in his hand. “Come with me,” he said, taking hold of her elbow and propelling her down the narrow passageway. Releasing her at the door of Jeremiah Webster’s cabin, he said, “A doctor is with him. I must get back to my station.” He disappeared into the dimness, leaving Angie alone outside her father’s door. Knowing she must be strong for her father’s sake, Angie took a deep breath, smoothed at her sleep-tossed hair and knocked.

  The short, white-haired doctor stood before her, motioning that he wanted to speak to her in private. He stepped into the chilly hallway and closed the door behind him. Kind blue eyes looked at her and a gentle voice gave her the dreaded news. “My dear, I’m so sorry. Your father is dying. I’m afraid he’ll not live to see port. He’s calling for you and you may go in and sit with him. I shall be right outside here should you need me.”

  Stunned, despite the fact that she had known this hour was coming, Angie felt tears rushing to her eyes. “But, Doctor, isn’t there something you can do for Papa?”

  “My dear child—” he shook his white head and gently touched her shaking, slender shoulder “—I’ve done all I can. I wish there were more, but …”

  “I know,” she said as she nodded, “it’s just … I’ve known he was …” Angie blinked back the tears and gave the doctor a weak smile. “Thank you for helping. I’ll go in now.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Angie tiptoed into the little compartment. Eyes closed, her father lay barely alive, his gaunt face ashen and his thin frame ghostly beneath the covering white sheet. Tenderness and love filled the young woman’s sad heart at the sight of her father so sick and helpless. Swallowing the lump in her tight throat, Angie took a chair and pulled it close to his bed. “Papa,” she whispered, “Papa. It’s Angie.”

  Tired, watery eyes slitted open and slowly he turned his head a bit. A flicker of recognition came to his eyes and a bony hand lifted from his rattling chest. Angie took that hand in hers and her tears overflowed, washing down her cheeks. “Don’t, Angie,” said Jeremiah, his voice barely audible. “There’s no time for tears, you must listen to me.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Angie nodded her blond head. “I’m here; I’ll listen.”

  “Angie,” Jeremiah said as his fingers curled around her hand, “I want to tell you something.”

  “Anything, Papa,” she choked.

  “I want to say to you … that … I love you, child. I love you, Angie. And I think you’re such a pretty young girl.… I’ve always been so proud that you are so fair and so intelligent.”

  Wide green eyes looked down on the dying man’s pale face. Unbelieving, Angie listened while her father murmured the words she’d longed to hear all of her life and never had. Dumbfounded, she stared at him while he repeated that he was proud of her, had always been proud of her.

  “Papa,” she cried heartbrokenly, “you think I’m pretty?”

  “Yes, I do. If I’ve not told you, it was because I was afraid you’d �
� there’s things you don’t know, things I couldn’t …”

  “Tell me now, Papa.” Angie leaned closer. “What is it? Tell me.”

  “You have a …” Jeremiah coughed, a deep, painful cough, while Angie patted his thin shoulder. “There’s no time, Angie. No time. Listen to me and promise you will do as I tell you.”

  “I will, Papa,” she assured him, anxious to please.

  “You must give me your solemn promise that you will marry my good friend, Barrett McClain. Will you do it, Angie?”

  “Yes, yes, I will, I swear it, Papa.” She watched the look of relief spread over her father’s face and gladly repeated herself. “Oh, yes, Papa, I will marry Mr. McClain if that’s what you want.”

  “It is, child. I can go to my heavenly reward in peace knowing that you are in his care. He’s a good man, Angie. You’ll be well taken care of and protected from all evils.”

  “I know,” she agreed, “it’s for the best, isn’t it, Papa?”

  “Indeed it is. I’ve kept the cruel, decadent world away from you and Barrett McClain will continue in my stead. Say it again, Angie, say you’ll marry Barrett.”

  “I will marry him, Papa. I vow to you I’ll be Mrs. Barrett McClain and obey him just as I should.”

  Jeremiah Webster died at sunup. Angie was by his bedside when the final breath was drawn. She stayed beside him while the doctor pronounced him dead and pulled the sheet up over his face. She stayed beside him while the steamer made its slow, steady progress nearer and nearer to the Texas port city of Galveston. She stayed beside him while the sun climbed up into the sky and the sleeping boat awakened.

  After her tears had ceased, she sat alone with her grief and heard her father’s surprising words echoing through her mind: “You’re very pretty, Angie. I’ve always been proud that you are so fair and intelligent … so pretty … so pretty …” Angie shook her head at the still, lifeless form stretched out before her. Anger began to mingle with her sadness. All of her life she’d longed to please her father, to have him say he thought her pretty, thought her smart, and he never had.