by Shirl Henke
His escape was not to be so easy. Deborah felt his hardness still buried deep within her. She pressed down on his chest, gaining leverage as she raised her hips. Rafe was pinned back on the bed, as his wife slowly lowered her hips, sliding down his swollen shaft. A half-stifled gasp escaped his lips. With her silver mane in a glorious tangle, she smiled down at her captive. Once again, she raised her hips, contracted her muscles to grip the flesh imprisoned within her, and thrust downward. This time, Rafe could not even begin to suppress the groan her movements provoked.
Deborah rode him with deliberately slow, tormenting gyrations until his breath came in labored, panting gasps. She watched as his body arched and twisted beneath her, as if she were astride a wild, unbroken stallion. Her violet eyes eagerly studied him as the tendons in his neck began to bulge and the muscles in his chest knot. Rafael, on the verge of release, closed his eyes.
Deborah stopped moving. “No, love, open your eyes!”
The voice was soft and velvety, but he sensed the undercurrent of command in it. When he opened his eyes, she was staring down at him. Only then did Deborah continue the slow, tormenting gyrations.
“A minute ago, Rafael, you looked into my soul. Now, you must let me look into yours.”
Rafe groaned but could not look away. She quickened the rhythm of her hips. Once again, the muscles and tendons of his body tightened. His eyes glazed but never turned from hers. Continuing her movements, Deborah leaned down, her face close to his. “Now, love, now!”
The dark body bucked with such force that she was almost thrown off. She felt his eruption deep within her, and cried out in wonder. Rafe collapsed back on the bed, totally drained.
Deborah leaned forward, pressing her weight down upon her spent lover. She kissed his cheek and asked, “Rafael?”
There was a long pause before Rafe, staring up into her waiting eyes, responded in a ragged whisper, “Yes, Moon Flower, I love you.”
Again she gently kissed his cheek, her own face aglow with a tender smile—a smile of love and a smile of triumph.
They lay silently for several moments, bodies still joined, sweat-soaked and spent, yet at peace. Finally, Rafe rolled her to her side. “What was that supposed to prove?” he asked as he traced a soft pattern on her collarbone.
“Oh, you didn't like it?” she asked innocently.
“You could see damn well how I liked it,” he growled. “But you never did that before, took over so completely.” He looked rather abashed.
“Rafael, ever since we met, you've been in control of our lives,” she began hesitantly.
He let out a low, ragged rumble of laughter. “You have a short memory, my spitfire abolitionist! You always managed to thwart me.”
“Except for one place—oh, Rafael,” she cried, feeling him stiffen in anger, “I don't mean I want to thwart you when we make love—you know how much I desire you. I love you and I need you...” Her voice trailed off.
Almost afraid to ask, he said, “And you resent it?”
“Yes, sometimes I do,” she answered truthfully. “We have something very special, I know that, but...sometimes it seems...”
Realizing her anguish, he pulled her closer and kissed her neck softly, whispering, “That I've used lovemaking to chain you?” He paused to search his own feelings and confessed, “Sometimes I have...out of fear of losing you. I love you so much, Deborah, can you doubt that?”
“I believe you always loved me, Rafael, even when you had Lily, too.” There, it was out! She had finally said what had been gnawing at her subconscious ever since he walked back into her life.
Rafe sighed. “I guess I knew sooner or later we would have to deal with this. When I left New Orleans, I pensioned Lily off, Deborah. I've not had a mistress since, nor will I ever have one again.” He took her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes. “Melanie is in St. Louis with her grandmother and aunt. I have a responsibility to support her and I'll never shirk that. Would you want me to?”
“No, of course not,” she whispered painfully. “But I guess it still hurts, knowing she gave you children, shared that with you.”
“Lily and I shared nothing but the bedroom, Deborah. We were both sixteen-year-old children when my father made our arrangement. It's taken me a long time to grow up. As for Lily”—he shrugged painfully—“she never even loved our daughter. She was ill, I guess, unstable mentally, desperately afraid of having another child after our son died.
“As I look back I can see better now the reasons for her fearfulness and unnatural actions. But then, she was forced into an unnatural life. I pity Lily, Deborah. I cared for her, but I never loved her.”
Thinking of his daughter growing up so far away, Deborah said, “Do you miss Melanie?”
He stroked her arm softly. “Yes. And I do love her, but she's grown up with her mother's family in St. Louis, not with me or Lily in New Orleans. It's for the best that she not be with her mother.” He paused, then said slowly, “Deborah, we can have a daughter, another son, lots of children—if you want to build a life with me. Do you? Can you forgive the past?” He held his breath.
Deborah looked into his anguished face. “Oh yes, Rafael, I do want to build a life with you, a life with our children here. I need you so much. I guess that's why I wanted some control, too, when we were making love.”
“Some control?” he echoed incredulously. “Lady, you nearly drove me out of my mind!”
Snuggling against his side, she pressed her lips to his neck and chuckled. “I know. I loved it.”
Rafe was a bit taken aback, but smiled indulgently. “Then I guess that makes us even, Moon Flower.”
He felt her warm breath as she murmured against his skin, softly, languidly, “Oh no, my arrogant darling...not quite yet...not for years and years...”
Chapter Twenty Eight
“Why now? Why after all these years, did this have to happen just when we've been reunited?” Rafe asked in an anguished whisper. The silent library gave him no answers. Once more, his eyes returned to the terse message on the expensive vellum paper.
Dearest Rafael:
I know we agreed never to communicate again, but circumstances make it imperative that I do so. I have sustained a double loss this month. My mother and Therese have been killed in a carriage accident. Fortunately, Melanie was not with them. The authorities in St. Louis sent her to New Orleans at once.
But there is a grave complication in having her make her home with me. I have taken your advice and married a Free Man of Color, Charles Bertin, a dueling master of some renown. Charles does not want any reminders of my past.
You promised to care for Melanie when we parted, Rafael. I have found a fine school in Virginia, but it is, of course, for whites only. Melanie betrays no black blood, Rafael, and if you would make the arrangements, I am certain they would accept her as your legal daughter. I have enclosed the address. I trust you to do what is best for Melanie.
In fond remembrance,
Lily
Rafe scoffed, realizing that Lily would reject Melanie regardless of what any husband of hers might say. I trust you to do what is best for Melanie. The words accused him from the page. Yes, it would be up to him, for Lily had never loved her daughter. She had provided him with a neat, simple solution, too. He could afford the tuition charges and farm the girl off to a fancy boarding school where she would easily pass for white.
But could he do that? Leave a grieving twelve-year-old child in the care of strangers? He had felt guilty enough about not seeing her these past years since he'd come to Texas, but at least he'd salved his conscience with the fact that Marie and Therese had lavished on her all the motherly love Lily was incapable of giving.
But if I bring her here, what will Deborah do? Melanie will be a constant reminder of all the painful things we've left behind. He stopped pacing the library and sat down, resting his head in his hands.
* * * *
“Whut in tarnation's eatin' thet varmint? All's I did
wuz ask him ‘bout them horses Micah spotted runnin' in Spider Creek Canyon.” Joe scratched his head in bafflement.
“I don't know,” Lucia replied. “Rafe's been on edge all week.”
Deborah walked across the courtyard, heading toward them.
“Mornin’, Deborah,” Joe said with a warm smile.
“I have to talk to you…” She faltered, then resumed. “Last week Rafael received a letter from a hired courier. Do either of you know its contents?”
“No, he has told no one what news it contained, not me, not Joe either,” Lucia replied.
“Whutever, it's made him mean as a poked rattler. But it ain't got nothin' ta do with you 'n Adam,” Joe assured her.
“I’m not so sure, Joe,” Deborah replied, chewing on her lower lip. “I suspect it may have a great deal to do with me.”
“He tell you thet?” Joe cocked an eyebrow in inquiry as he lobbed a wad of tobacco near one of Lucia's basil plants.
“No,” Deborah replied, thinking irrelevantly that she must do something about Joe's loathsome personal habits. “He's spoken barely half a dozen words a day to me since he spent that afternoon in the library. Every time I try to get him to talk about it, he gets angry and stalks away,” she choked out helplessly. “It must have been some news from his family back in New Orleans.”
“Thet fancy daddy o' his'n makin' more grief—er mebbee some bad news from his sister,” Joe ventured.
“No, not from Lenore. He'd tell me anything about her. It might be from his father or mother.” Or from his other family, she thought with dread squeezing her heart.
* * * *
The biting wind and gritty dust suited his mood. Men's and horses' breaths were like white puffs of clouds in front of their frozen faces. Rafe scanned the brilliant azure horizon and watched his mustangers driving the horses toward the blind canyon. He was reminded of his winter as Horse Tamer in the Comanche camp. Life was simple then. Just survive one day at a time. Ruefully, he realized he was doing just that now. I’m out here freezing my ass off, working ‘til I drop running wild mustangs to ground just so I don't have to face Deborah with what to do about Melanie. Swearing, he spurred his big sorrel into a ground-devouring gallop, waving a wide, coiled length of heavy rope at the terrified wild horses to turn them toward the carefully laid trap.
* * * *
“How long do these hunts usually last?” Deborah asked Joe as they sat by the fire in the parlor. Rafe had been gone two days and Deborah was worried.
“Depends,” he replied as he poked a big oak chunk until the orange glow of the coals blazed to his satisfaction. “This time shouldn't be long since Micah already spotted th' herd.”
“But it's so cold to be out-of-doors,” she replied, looking at the brilliant, starry night.
Joe laughed. “Rafe's tough. Why, even Lucia spent years livin' out in th' open with th' Nerms. She tole me once't she rode fer two days in a blue norther clean across th' Llano Estecado.”
Deborah could see the warmth in his face as he described Lucia's courage and ingenuity. Suddenly, she was struck by a startling fact—Joe was in love with the pretty Mexicana! Looking back over the past weeks, she realized how obvious it was. He followed her with his eyes as she cleared off the table after meals, found excuses to hang around the kitchen, brought her slips of wild herbs and medicinal plants that he found on the range. Joe teased everyone—Micah and all the vaqueros, Rafael and Adam, even her; but he never teased Lucia.
Lucia, however, seemed oblivious of Joe other than as a friend. Of course, Deborah realized that Lucia had been quietly in love with Rafael all these years. That bittersweet illusion had been shattered with the arrival of his wife and child. How painful it must be for both of them.
Her thoughts were interrupted as she caught sight of Lucia and Adam heading toward the library. Once they were out of earshot, Deborah said innocently, “Lucia's so good with Adam. Wouldn't it be nice for her to have children of her own?”
If she'd prodded him with the glowing fireplace poker, he couldn't have been taken more by surprise. “I 'spect she'd have ta find a man, first, Deborah,” he choked out sourly.
“How old are you, Joe?”
His shrewd brown eyes stared into her guileless lavender ones. “Whut's th' burr 'neath yore blanket?”
“Hmm, no gray in your hair to speak of. Good teeth—if you'd stop chewing that vile tobacco. You look to be in fit shape for a man of...” She let her voice trail off as she made a mock inspection of the squirming man before her.
“Forty-one,” he supplied uncomfortably. “Deborah, you ain't thinkin' o' me 'n Lucia?” He ended on a half whisper, half croak.
“Why not? You are in love with her, aren't you, Joe?”
He looked at her for a painful moment, then averted his gaze quickly. “It don't rightly signify what I am—I'm a half breed—part Indian 'n ya can't even begin ta imagine whut she's lived through with Indians.”
“Those were wild Comanches who enslaved her, Joe. She doesn't hate all Indians, certainly not a very civilized man of Cherokee ancestry.”
“There's other things...” He stopped, unable to voice his real objection.
“You mean the fact Lucia's been in love with my husband?” Deborah said softly.
His head jerked up and their eyes met. “They ain't never been together thet way, Deborah. You know it. Rafe loves ya too much ta even think o' her thet way 'n she never give him no reason ta consider it neither.”
“I know, Joe. Lucia and I had a long talk the day I arrived.”
His shrewd eyes assessed her. “I cud see th' two o' you'd started ta get friendly thet night. After th' fireworks when ya first laid eyes on Lucia, I don't mind sayin' I wuz glad ‘bout thet.”
“It took me a while longer to see what a natural pair you two would make,” Deborah said, smiling.
Joe shook his head vehemently, causing his black hair to fly like a shaggy fringe about his shoulders. ‘There's where ya git off th' trail, Deborah. She's a lady, no matter whut them murderin' Comanch done ta her. An I'm just a breed. Got me no schoolin', none o' them fancy airs like a caballero, nosir.”
“Joe, we could work on making you into a perfectly acceptable 'caballero.' I've had a pretty considerable of experience in making sows' ears into silk purses,” she said impishly, recalling how she'd made Charlee McAllister into the belle of San Antonio. “That is, if you really care about Lucia. She deserves a chance for happiness after all she's suffered.” She waited while Joe appeared to consider.
“Whut do I have ta do?” he said at last.
“We begin by throwing that in the fire.” Deborah gestured to the leather pouch filled with chewing tobacco. “On second thought, not the fire—it'd stink up the whole house. We'll bury it!”
Joe clutched the pouch like a beloved friend. “Ya cain't mean it?”
One look at her eyes, now turned steely, convinced him she did, indeed. With a hangdog sigh, he handed the sack to her.
Working with Joe over the next several days helped take Deborah's mind off Rafael. If Charlee had been a challenge, she found Joe to be significantly easier in some ways, but more difficult in others. There had been so much Charlee had to learn about how to walk, speak and dress. Joe's naturally courtly manner was good enough, with minimal polishing, to stand him in good stead at Renacimiento. He need not dance, pour tea, nor learn to curb his swearing in polite company. He already exhibited far better control over that vice than Charlee ever mastered in all the months Deborah had coached her!
Getting Joe to bathe, however, proved difficult. Not that he had ever been dirty, for he washed in the creek every evening; but it was a fast swim without benefit of soap. In very cold weather, he informed her, he made do with a simple sluice in a washpan! Women sat in tubs, not men—at least not intrepid Texian frontiersmen! Too much soap and hot water would weaken a man's virility! Did he question her husband's virility, she countered? He soaked in the tub that night…with soap.
Next,
she taught him how to clean his teeth and cut his nails, even pare the dirt from beneath them! Once he had quit using chewing tobacco, his mouth no longer smelled like the inside of a cave and his smile became positively dazzling.
The greasy buckskins had to go. Micah had several good shirts, sent by his mother from Santa Fe. They were slightly too small for the youth, who had grown since leaving home. They fit Joe's lean, wiry body perfectly. Deborah shortened a pair of Rafe's clean buckskin breeches and took in the side seams.
“Why, Joe, if I weren't already married, I'd steal you away for myself,” Deborah teased with a twinkle, admiring her handiwork.
Earlier, while Lucia was upstairs immersed in her bath, Deborah gave Joe's freshly shampooed hair a neat trim. All cleaned up and dressed in his new finery, he looked surprisingly handsome in a rough, Texian way. Without the long stringy hair and ragged cloth headband, his facial features were clean cut, and his smile was beautiful.
“I feel like an old fool, tryin' ta be a Galer...Gal—whut did ya call thet feller?”
“Galahad,” Deborah supplied gravely. “Now, why don't you wait for Lucia out in the courtyard. I'll shoo Adam upstairs and keep him occupied and send Lucia out as soon as she comes down.”
When Rafe arrived at the corral, he turned Bostonian over to Micah and asked where he could find Joe. He would talk over his dilemma with his friend before deciding what to tell Deborah. The youth's face spread with a broad grin and he replied that Joe was up at the big house. “You might have a hard time recognizing him, I think.”
