by Ryan, Nan
Angie looked up at him, “Please … please don’t …”
“This won’t take a minute,” he assured her casually and pulled a stethoscope from his bag. The mattress sagged beneath his great weight as he took a seat beside the trembling girl. Promptly, he placed the cold instrument to her chest, listening intently to the drumming beat pounding up to his ears. When his big hand nonchalantly pulled the sheet down, exposing Angie’s breasts, she closed her eyes and wanted to die.
The doctor moved the stethoscope around to her back. Angie frantically jerked the sheet back up to her chin, her face scarlet.
“Breathe deeply, Miss Webster,” the huge man was saying. The shallowest of breaths was almost impossible, but Angie gulped and did her best. Relief flooded her when the doctor rose, folded the instrument and placed it back inside the bag. That relief was short-lived.
While Delores stood near the bed smoothing Angie’s tumbling hair back off her forehead, the doctor hooked his toes around the leg of a short footstool, sliding it up to where Angie’s bare feet rested on the carpet. Promptly straddling the small stool, he lowered himself to it, his bent knees virtually trapping Angie inside. He said evenly, “Now, if you’ll just lie back.”
Angie’s racing heart fell to her stomach. Horror rapidly registered in her brain. She looked at the doctor pleadingly, but his yellow, owlish eyes bored into her, unmoved. A rough hand went to her bare shoulder and pushed, and Angie found herself flat on her back, looking up at the yellow canopy above her bed. None too gently her legs were lifted from the floor, her knees bent and the soles of her feet placed on the bed.
Frantically pushing at the sheet while she put her ankles together, Angie heard the doctor’s command, “Miss Webster, let your knees fall wide apart.”
“No, I … Delores, help me.” Angie began to cry. “Don’t let him …”
Delores, tears rolling down her fleshy brown cheeks, sat down beside the sobbing girl and held her cold hand. “Oh, my baby, don’t fight it. It will soon be over.”
Out of patience, the doctor put a hand on each of Angie’s shaking knees, pulled her legs wide apart and tossed the sheet back over her stomach, baring the lower part of her body to him. Oblivious to the sobs filling the quiet room, he leaned his face down between Angie’s parted legs and unceremoniously pushed a forefinger into that tight, feminine place where nothing had ever been before. Angie screamed her outrage, but the determined doctor carried out his examination. He twisted, turned, pushed that intruding finger into her, while his other huge hand spread out on Angie’s jerking stomach to explore, touch, hold her down. Abruptly, he removed his prying, punishing finger, rose from the stool and smiled down at Angie. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said calmly.
Brokenhearted, Angie turned into a tight fetal position while the caring, kind Delores covered her and sat with a protective arm around the sobbing, shaking girl. Black eyes flashing anger, Delores spat at the tall doctor’s disappearing back and turned to soothe and comfort Angie.
Barrett McClain, absently stroking his white mustache, waited just beyond Angie’s door. The tall physician clapped the expectant man on the back and propelled him toward the library. “Barrett, Miss Webster is as pure as the day she was born. No man has ever touched her.”
Brown eyes sparkling, mustache twitching, Barrett McClain said proudly, “I never doubted it for a minute, Dr. Wilson. Not for one minute.”
Angie remained in her room for the rest of the day. Terribly upset and feeling betrayed, she refused to come to the dining room for meals, and Delores huffily informed her employer, Barrett McClain, that young Angie needed rest and that he most certainly could not go to her room to console her! Miss Emily said nothing; she’d not been told about the examination and had no idea why Angie was so unhappy.
After picking at the supper Delores brought to her on a tray, Angie thanked the servant and said she wanted to be alone. “I’m all right now, Delores. Really I am.”
“Sweet señorita, it was terrible for you, I know, but it is normal to have an examination before one marries.”
“Delores, it’s not to be … we won’t …” Angie ducked her head. “It won’t be the usual kind of marriage.”
“Oh?” Delores’s eyebrows lifted.
“No, you see … Barrett and I are …” Angie stopped talking. In no mood to explain, she said, “Good night, Delores. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Delores gone, Angie aimlessly paced her room. Thinking Barrett surely must have been responsible for her unpleasant morning at the doctor’s hands, she felt cheated and let down. Recalling the solemn vow to her dying papa that she would marry Barrett McClain, Angie felt her stomach knotting. Jeremiah Webster’s words echoed in her ears and Angie clasped her hands to the sides of her head.
She would not think about it tonight. She couldn’t. The six months were rushing past; too soon November would arrive, the end of the waiting period. She would become Mrs. Barrett McClain, forever throwing away the chance of true happiness with a man of her own age.
“No,” she breathed aloud in a strangled voice, “I will not think about it tonight.” She hurried across her big room, threw open the double doors and went onto the darkened porch. Breathing deeply of the hot August air, Angie strolled aimlessly toward the tall iron fence at the back of the big courtyard.
From the distant mountain peaks, a strange, eerie light shone brightly, then disappeared, then returned. Momentarily forgetting all else, Angie stared wide-eyed at the mysterious lights that Pecos had told her about when she’d first arrived at Del Sol. Transfixed, she watched the mystical gleaming radiance, so caught up in the puzzling appearance, she didn’t notice the red tip of a cigar glowing in the darkness just behind her.
“The ghost lights of Marfa,” she murmured, mystified, and felt a shiver skip up her back.
“You’re right, Angel.” Pecos’s deep voice frightened her. She whirled around, her heart lurching in her chest.
“Oh, Pecos, you scared me, I …”
Tossing his cigar away, Pecos murmured, “I’m sorry, honey,” and his hands came up to cup her shoulders. “Shall I tell you the legend of those ghost lights?”
Childlike, Angie loved a spooky story or riddle. Goose-flesh spreading over her bare arms, she nodded. Pecos stepped closer, gently turned her around toward the lights and stood behind her, his hands slowly running up and down her arms from shoulder to elbow while he made up a yarn.
“Many years ago a beautiful blond, young, avaricious woman came to Marfa to marry an old miner who had struck it rich in gold. She was eager to get her hands on his fortune; he was eager to get his hands on her. She agreed to wed him, and he promised to show her where he’d buried his vast treasure as soon as she became his bride. On their wedding night, the young beauty and the old man went up there into the mountains, and he showed her where he stashed his gold. No sooner had he done so than she pulled a gun, killed him and buried him there. The calculating woman came down from the mountain a rich woman. She rode straight into the arms of her true lover.”
Angie, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, waited. Pecos said nothing more; he continued to hold her close in front of him. She turned her head to the side. “I don’t understand.”
“From that night the lights have shone up there in the mountains. It’s said to be the ghost of the old miner hunting for his lost gold.”
“And the girl?”
“Ah, that’s the sad part. Those lights drove her insane and she finally killed herself. Her lover took all of the gold and left Marfa.”
For a time Angie stood silent. She knew Pecos all too well. She knew he’d made up the story to taunt her about her upcoming marriage to his rich father. On another occasion, her temper would have flared and she would have sparred with him. Not tonight.
Knowing nothing of her earlier ordeal with the doctor, Pecos was shocked, and almost sorry, when she slowly turned and looked up at him with big, sad tears in her beautiful green eyes.
> “I don’t want the McClain fortune,” she sobbed heart-brokenly and ran past him into the house.
Chapter Seventeen
ANXIOUS TO LIFT Angie’s sagging spirits, Barrett McClain told her the next day that he had a pleasant surprise for her. Fear gripped his heart when she looked at him coldly and said, unsmiling, “I need no more new dresses, Barrett. Thank you, but I …”
“No, no, dear, it’s nothing like that,” he said with a smile. “Colonel Albert Brackett, Third Cavalry, United States Army, is giving a grand party at Fort Davis,” he explained. “Colonel Brackett is a charming man, and his wife is a well-bred lady.” Barrett reached for her hand. Angie fought the strong desire to snatch her hand away; his was icy and a slight tremor swept through her. “I’m anxious for you to see the fort, Angie. I’m an old army man myself, you know. I was stationed at Fort Davis back before the War between the States. Before I met your dear father.” Barrett patted her hand. “Ah, Jeremiah Webster, what a prince of a man your father was, child.”
Barrett McClain was crafty. He knew that mentioning Angie’s father from time to time made the young beauty recall exactly what she was doing here at Tierra del Sol, lest she forget. Barrett wanted her position as his future wife never to slip from Angie’s thoughts. He knew her to be an honest and religious girl. Each Sunday he took her to church services where she sang in her sweet, clear soprano and sat reverently while the minister shouted out his fiery sermons. Her virginity had not surprised him; the child was good and pure and in only a few months, she’d be his. He intended to keep her just the way she was until that happy wedding day.
Barrett knew his son was attracted to Angie. He knew also that Pecos teased her and flirted with her, but as far as he could tell, the sweet girl was immune to Pecos’s dubious charms. Barrett was not surprised; she was much too genteel, too modest and high-minded, to be drawn to his vulgar, hedonistic son. She was safe; he’d watch over her and bring her dear, departed father into their conversations on occasion. He’d pamper and please her and continue to build up her trust in him. Why, in no time at all, she’d be upstairs in his bed, his naked, golden wife: his to command that she parade around in the big room bare so he might look to his heart’s content; his to run his eager hands over, touching every sweet, intimate part of her; his to lay across his bed and spread her legs wide.…
“Are you not feeling well, Barrett?” Angie forgot her displeasure. Barrett’s face had grown beet-red and his eyes held a strange, glazed look. She was alarmed that he was ill, that he might be having a heart attack.
Shamefaced, he quickly regained control. “Dear, I’m all right. I just have a slight headache, nothing to concern yourself about.” He smiled and turned the conversation back to the upcoming Fort Davis soiree. “Angie, dear, the party at the fort will be especially enjoyable for you. Many of the young officers have their wives at the fort with them. You’ll meet young women from many different parts of the country. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were one or two from New Orleans.”
The date of the Fort Davis party rolled around in late August, and still it had not rained in southwest Texas. Everyone went around declaring the summer of ‘86 was the hottest, driest one they could ever recall. Day after day, Angie had sweltered in the never-ending heat, and when each scorching day finally drew to a close, she’d sit with Barrett on the moonlit gallery while he told her of his worry, explaining to her that unless the rains came very soon, Del Sol and the rest of the desert southwest would be in drastic trouble. Streams were drying up, grass was burned to a crisp, and cattle had begun to die.
Despite his concern, Barrett was in high spirits on the simmering Saturday night of the party. Miss Emily had complained throughout the long, hot day of a raging headache, and with sundown’s approach, she conceded she wasn’t able to attend the gala. Angie was disappointed; Barrett McClain was not.
While the dying summer sun slid toward the horizon and ushered in the welcome nightfall, Barrett rode proudly on the high seat of a fine covered carriage, Angie beside him, breathtakingly beautiful in a dress he’d surprised her with earlier in the week. He’d picked it himself, and though Angie wore the dress to please him, she would have chosen a frock more modest, more suitable. The gown was lovely, but it was quite daring and elegant, a rich midnight-blue silk fashioned in the latest style to show off her hourglass figure. The waist was nipped in to the point that she had difficulty breathing, and the extremely low bodice accentuated her generous bust. The shimmery silk was molded tightly over her stomach and hips, swirling to a flounce in back. Her flaxen hair was swept atop her head in fat, shiny curls, a few rebellious tendrils escaping the hairpins to curl around her oval face.
Angie rode in silence beside Barrett McClain. To the rear of the fine carriage, Barrett’s two bodyguards followed at a respectful distance on horseback. The presence of the two men had made Angie nervous when she first came to Tierra del Sol, but she’d since gotten used to them; wherever Barrett McClain went, they went also. Even at the ranch they were never very far from their employer. Angie never bothered to question it; she supposed that since Barrett McClain was wealthy, it was unsafe for him to go about unguarded.
Angie sighed and pushed a curl behind her ear. Barrett looked at her and smiled. “We’ll be there soon, dear. I’m sorry it’s so hot; it will be cooler at the fort. You’re in for a treat, I assure you.”
Barrett was correct. At twilight the carriage rolled beside a lovely, clean little stream winding through a tall canyon. On each side, shadowing basaltic rock towered over them. And in the narrow canyon, lovely, sweet-smelling wild roses made a carpet of color beside the roadbed. Her eyes sparkling, Angie looked at Barrett. “This is Wild Rose Pass, my dear. That little stream is called Limpia. The cleanest, clearest brook you will ever see.” Before Angie could respond, the carriage emerged from the pass to a grove of great tall cottonwood trees and the busy frontier fort named after Jefferson Davis.
“Barrett, it’s … it’s …” Angie twisted her head around, taking in the pleasant, bustling post located on the canyon floor at the foot of sharply rising palisaded rock walls on three sides. Amazed at the unique beauty of the fort, Angie alighted from the carriage feeling cooler than she had for weeks.
On the parade ground, the regimental band was warming up. Lovely ladies and their escorts strolled the long wooden galleries of the pine-slab buildings with thatched roofs and glazed windows. Handsome officers cut dashing splendid figures in their dress blues. The scent of wild roses filled the air with sweetness as dusk turned to darkness.
Angie was soon having a lovely time. Many of the wives in residence at the fort were Southern girls; all were friendly, all were lonely on the rugged Texas frontier. Not an hour had passed before Angie was happily gossiping with a group of young ladies, feeling as though she’d known them all her life. Barrett, approvingly nodding her way, joined his old friend Colonel Brackett and his adjutant in the colonel’s quarters for a brandy and a discussion of the drought, leaving Angie in the capable hands of the friendly wives.
“I really think it’s too daring,” Angie was saying of her new silk dress when a woman from Birmingham, Alabama admired it. The topic for their chattering quickly turned to fashion, and Angie, for once in her life, could join in and speak of the many gowns and dresses in her big dressing room at Del Sol. It was a heady, glorious feeling. These girls hung on to her words as though she were a noted fashion expert. She generously promised that she’d be more than happy to loan her clothes to them should they want something different to wear on social occasions.
When the subject turned to men, Angie was less sure of herself, but determined to hide her naïveté from her newly found friends. She was also determined not to mention that she was to be the wife of the aging Barrett McClain. Each woman had proudly pointed out her husband in the crowd, and to the man, all were young, dashing and tall. Angie had no intention of letting these girls know she would settle for anything less than the romantic love they ha
d found with attractive sweethearts their age. The ladies, though married, were not blind.
A slender, dark-haired beauty called Missy by her friends leaned closer to the circle of gossiping girls and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t look now, ladies, but the most handsome man God ever created is standing not a stone’s throw away. He’s presently engaged in conversation with Captain Donaldson and Private Hanna. If he so much as smiled at me, I’m positive I would faint.”
Angie laughed gaily, just as all the other lively young women did. Waiting a decent interval, she turned to glance casually over her shoulder. She turned back immediately and the look on her lovely face was telltale.
“You know him!” exclaimed the violet-eyed brunette girl.
“Yes, I do,” Angie announced. She lowered her lashes, as though to hide a deep secret. It had the desired effect.
“He’s your sweetheart!” A slightly plump redhead gowned in pink muslin clasped Angie’s forearm.
Knowing she’d go straight to hell for a lie, she had an inspiration. Coyly, she said, “He’s Pecos McClain, and yes, my name will be McClain in a very few months.” She flushed prettily and added, “He is rather attractive, isn’t he?” She held her breath.
The oohs and aahs escaping the envious lips of her new circle of friends ended abruptly, and Angie thought her heart would stop when one of them whispered excitedly, “He’s coming this way!”
Mortified, Angie was caught. Pecos would give her away. These likable women would know she was dissembling and that would be the end of their friendship. The heart that had stopped, started once again, thumping furiously against her ribs. She’d had no idea that Pecos would be at the party. What if he were here to court one of the young ladies? After all, some of the older officers had daughters her age. Perhaps one of the very group surrounding her was his date for the evening! What could she do? It was too late to run. Trapped, she inhaled deeply and, crossing the fingers of her right hand, Angie turned.
