He could not forget the look in Mary Cousteau’s eyes when the story had come to that part. Her husband had not even named the man, but Rafe Cousteau had appeared uneasy and tense, and Mary Cousteau had seemed hesitant to talk about her rescuer. For a time she had lost her mind. Had she fallen in love with the man who had rescued her? Had there been something between them?
He leaned over a perspiring, groaning Mary Cousteau. “Sage,” she whispered again.
What kind of lie was this woman living? Surely she carried some secret torture that her sense of ethics would not allow her to shed. She apparently wanted her husband to believe this baby was his. It was probably very important to her.
She screamed out again and the doctor got back to the business at hand. He would know soon enough if this baby was premature or full term.
Outside the room Rafe paced. It was February, 1848. The baby was coming. But it was too early. What if the child died? It would destroy Mary to lose a baby now. But worse for Rafe, what if the baby was not his at all?
No! No, he would not allow himself to consider the possibility! He had been able to bear everything else, but not this!
He cringed when she screamed out again. How he hated this waiting! There were no parents to wait with him. Mary’s parents were still in Texas but were preparing to return to New Orleans. Charlet St. Claire had had her fill of uncivilized places. His own parents still lived in New Orleans. That would always be home to them. But Mary and Rafe had moved here to St. Louis, where Rafe managed his father’s warehouses and furniture store, as well as having opened a supply store of his own.
St. Louis was a good place to do business. It was the key supply post for immigrants heading west, and every year more and more of them seemed to be headed that way. Why they would want to go into those wild, hostile lands, Rafe could not imagine. He much preferred the city, and he liked St. Louis. It was a wild, bustling, growing city. A man could get rich quickly here—or rather, as in his own case, richer than he already was.
He and Mary could have a fine life here. St. Louis was still not as refined as other cities, still unorganized and rough around the edges. Every kind of person imaginable came through St. Louis, and Rafe did not consider the city completely safe yet for Mary. He had moved her into a Georgian mansion a mile outside the city. There were not many homes like this one yet, but Rafe knew there would be eventually, as St. Louis grew and prospered, and as more men like himself settled here and grew with the town.
Their home stood out grandly. It was made of brick, and the entrance door was graced with a projecting pedimental pavilion, supported by huge, white, fluted columns. White shutters graced the paned sash windows, and the house was two stories high, containing twelve rooms.
He sometimes wondered why he had purchased such a huge house when they hadn’t even had their first child yet. But in the back of his mind he knew, much as he hated to admit it. He was trying to show Mary how well he could provide for her, how much more he could give her than Sage MacKenzie ever could have given her.
This was the life to which she had been born. She could never have survived with that man. And he secretly knew he was just putting on a show for others—the beautiful, happy, successful Cousteaus. Maybe the house and their style of living and all the servants could erase the ugly horror that had been visited upon Mary Cousteau—and erase the ugly gossip about her.
Yes, it had even followed them here, where a few people knew Rafe’s father and knew the story about Mary. But they didn’t know the whole story and Rafe refused to discuss details with them. It was not their business. All they needed to know was that he and Mary were still together—that he still loved her and that now she was having his baby.
He closed his eyes, the heaviness moving over his chest again. It was all different and he knew it. They could put on a show for the others, and they could look at each other and say nothing had changed. They could even make love. That part was easy. After all, Mary was beautiful, and whether she was faking it or not, she was satisfying in bed.
But a vast emptiness was engulfing them both, and there was something between them now that could not be named—or could it? Rafe knew its name. Its name was Sage MacKenzie.
Oh, how he wanted to love her as he once had. But sometimes when he made love to her, he could see those filthy Indians mauling her, see the whiskey trader, and who knew how many others? And then he would imagine Sage MacKenzie—big, handsome, rugged Sage MacKenzie—loving her.
How could he not have loved her? Rafe loved her, too, but it was all so different now. How could a man love a woman, yet wonder how much longer he could go on living with her, pretending none of the things that had happened to her mattered? He hated himself for letting it matter, yet he couldn’t seem to control those feelings of betrayal. And now it had dawned on him that this baby could be Sage MacKenzie’s.
He glanced into a spare bedroom and spotted the homemade rocker she had insisted on keeping. He never should have let her. He wanted to burn it! He thought about how the rocker was a fitting representation of the kind of life Sage MacKenzie would have given her—rough, rugged, with none of the finer things. She never could have survived that kind of life. At least that was what he wanted to believe. But the fact remained she had survived the worst ordeal a woman could suffer, and she had faced grizzly bears, hauled wood, made a home out of a simple little cabin. She had spent a night amid drunken Ute Indians, slept out under the stars for months on her journey back to Texas, ridden a horse the whole way. She could make camp fires and cook over them. She had skinned rabbits, and washed clothes in streams.
Yes, Mary St. Claire Cousteau was a true survivor. Maybe she could have lived that way a lot longer. Who was to say? And on top of all the other strains their relationship had suffered, there was his own feeling now of inadequacy, the feeling he was always being compared to Sage—a feeling he knew was probably all in his own mind. But he also felt almost inferior now to Mary. She had survived an ordeal he wasn’t even sure he could have survived himself. She was stronger than he had ever thought possible, and it somehow made him feel weaker. That irritated him, made him angry with her, when it wasn’t even her fault.
The baby would help, at least he had thought it would, until now.
He heard Mary scream again, heard the doctor telling her to push. The baby was coming, but whose baby was it?
Mary lay on her side, so exhausted she could barely move. She pressed her new son to her breast, and he found his nourishment, sucking at her breast while his little fist opened and closed against her skin, lightly pinching her.
Her eyes teared with a mixture of joy and sorrow. If only Sage could see his son, could know he had a child. But he would never know, and no one else must know that this boy belonged to a man who was not her husband. It was her secret. But she would love this baby the same no matter who the father was. She had a baby again! No one would steal this one away. No one would take her baby and smash its head against a rock. The memory made her groan aloud, and she squeezed her baby son closer, wondering how she would ever let go of him even to put him down to sleep.
She leaned down and kissed his fuzzy head. His hair was light and fuzzy, and she wondered if it would turn darker like Sage’s. She remembered a woman’s telling her at a tea just a few days earlier that a baby’s hair turned color when the child lost its baby hair and the stronger hair came in. “Sometimes even the eyes change color,” the woman had said.
Mary had never been able to keep a baby long enough to find out. Her new son’s eyes were dark brown. Sage’s eyes were dark brown, but then so were Rafe’s. That would help in making sure the man thought the baby was his. The baby’s skin was a ruddy red, but he had no flaws and his little face was perfectly formed. All fingers and toes were present, and she knew she would kill before she would let anyone harm this child.
The door opened and she turned her head to see Rafe coming into the room. She managed a smile for him. It was time to pretend again, for his sake, a
nd for the baby’s. She didn’t want her son to suffer emotionally because of anything that had happened to his mother. He must always look at Rafe Cousteau as his father.
“Rafe,” she said weakly, still smiling.
He looked at her strangely, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel, Mary?”
“Just very weak,” she answered. She pulled the blankets away from the baby as the child continued to suck at her breast. “Rafe, look at our son! He’s so perfect and beautiful! I haven’t named him yet. I wanted you to name him.”
Rafe reached out and touched the soft cheek, his feelings torn between love and hate. He grasped a little fist, and tiny fingers automatically wrapped themselves around his big finger. “He’s beautiful,” he said in a near whisper. “But he’s awfully big and strong and healthy looking for being born a month too early, don’t you think?”
Her heart tightened, and she looked up at him, losing her smile. She saw tears in Rafe’s eyes, and felt a sick feeling in her own stomach.
“It’s Sage’s, isn’t it?”
Their eyes held. Now that he had said it, she could not deny it. She didn’t have to. He saw it in her eyes. She had been so sure she could fool him, and in one quick moment he had learned the truth. She felt panic building inside.
“What difference does it make?” she groaned. “He’s my baby. I need him, Rafe…after Elizabeth. And he’s just…just a part of all that happened. It isn’t his fault. I want you to love him, Rafe. Don’t take out your anger at Sage on this innocent little baby. Please don’t.”
Rafe closed his eyes and sighed, rising from the bed. “I’m not that kind of man, Mary. You know that. I don’t hate the child. It’s just…it just makes…everything…so much harder.”
“Rafe, we’re together now. Nobody needs to know he’s not your son,” she answered, tears of fear and rejection coming to the surface. “And I love you. I’ll get pregnant again, and it will be yours. We can have more children, Rafe, many more.”
Rafe let out an odd, sarcastic laugh. “And if I die everything goes to my firstborn son, right?” He turned and looked at her. “I’m a rich man, Mary—and all I have would go to this child, who isn’t my child at all! What am I supposed to do, cut my first born son out of my will? I’m not that cruel, Mary, but it’s cruel to me—to have to live that kind of lie, to have to give everything I own to a child conceived by a man I’d like to kill!”
Her eyes widened and she pulled the baby closer. “Kill?” Tears spilled out of her eyes. “Rafe, you never showed this much hatred before.”
He threw back his head, clenching his fists. “Damn it, Mary, if you hadn’t had the baby, maybe it all would have been easier. But now there’s this…this child…whom I’ll have to look at every day…a constant reminder! You should have told me when you were first pregnant. You shouldn’t have let me think it was mine!”
“I love you,” she answered desperately. “I thought it would work, and that you would love me better, be happier, if I had your baby. I was…only trying to spare you, Rafe, because I love you! But if you’re going to hate this baby, then I can’t live with you! I won’t let him grow up under a father who hates him.”
She choked on a sob. “Why can’t you just be a father to him? What difference will it make? He’ll love you, Rafe. He’ll look to you as his father, be dependent on you. He’s innocent, Rafe! He’s not to blame. I…I thought you understood…what I’ve been through…why I turned to Sage. My God, Rafe, I thought I had lost everything, including you! I didn’t know! And if you’re going to hold it over me the rest of my life, then our marriage might as well be considered over! Either you have to accept me and this child, or send us on our way.”
She broke into heavy sobbing, cradling the baby close and crying into her pillow. “I’ve done…all I can do. I’m so…sorry…Rafe.”
He walked over to the bed, leaning close and touching her hair. “I’m sorry too, Mary. Let me just…think about things a while.”
Her only answer was even heavier sobbing.
“We’ll…we’ll work it out…somehow,” he told her then, always feeling like an ass when he made her cry. She was right. None of it was her fault. That’s what angered him more than anything else. It was not her fault, and yet a part of him blamed her, for no good reason whatsoever. He sighed deeply, straightening. “I’m meeting with the owner of a new shipping line this evening, Mary,” he told her then. “The man’s wife is dead, and he’s just arrived here with his daughter and they’re both eager to meet people, get settled in. I might as well keep the appointment. I was invited for dinner. When you’re better, we’ll reciprocate and have them here for dinner and show off our…our new son.”
She felt him take her hand, and again hope was renewed that she could keep this marriage together and face a life without Sage.
“I’m sorry, Mary. This is all…so hard for me.”
“I know,” she sobbed.
He let go of her hand. “Whatever happens between us, the child will be known as my son. I won’t let him be gossiped about, I promise you that much. I…uh…I think James would be a fitting name…after your father. James Raphael—for your father and me.”
She felt the coldness in the words, the stiff attempt once again to do what was human and right. She could have loved him for it, if only he had been genuine in his intentions. He would call this baby his son, but he would never love the child.
“James Raphael is fine,” she said in a near whisper.
Rafe left the room. She kissed the baby’s fuzzy head again. Rafe would never be cruel to a child, but he would not love this baby; and surely as the boy grew older he would sense it, would know his father didn’t love him and would wonder why. Somehow she had to protect him. She would love him twice as much. She would make up for Rafe’s lack of love. But maybe the boy would be so sweet Rafe wouldn’t be able to help but love him. Maybe if their own marriage survived, and she had more children, Rafe would grow to love them all the same.
It was July, 1848, ten months after the siege at Chapultepec, when Randy Lucas knocked on the door of the mansion that had belonged to James St. Claire. Sage waited in the hills beyond the house. From his perch he could see that Austin had grown more, and he knew that with the vast new territory Americans would claim now, Texas would be even bigger, and grow faster. He wondered what the Mexican War would mean to other places in the west. How fast would California grow? How many thousands would move across the plains this summer, over the Rockies and the Sierras? How would it affect the Indians?
He wondered about Red Dog, how he was doing and if he was even still alive. There were so many people he would probably never see again, and he held out one last hope that he could be with Mary. He had to know. He couldn’t go to California without knowing she was all right, but neither did he dare show his own face at her parents’ door. He didn’t want to interfere with her life, risk letting her see him, if she was settled and happy now with Rafe.
He winced as he shifted in his saddle. His recovery had been slow and painful, the worst experience of his life. He had only been walking on his own for the last five months, and even now he walked with a limp. He would never regain full use of his hip, never be able to give his leg a full swing. Two different doctors had told him that, after painful examinations and forcefully moving his leg.
Mounting a horse was always painful, but he had refused to remain a complete cripple. He had to ride. He was born to ride and wander. How could he sit in a wheelchair in one place the rest of his life? He would rather die. Besides, what if Mary needed him? He had willed himself to heal and get back to Austin, make sure she was all right before he resigned himself to never seeing her again and moving on to California.
He had no particular concern over what he would do now. He was going to California only because Randy was going and he had no better plans. He only existed now, a man with no future, no goals. There were times he didn’t want to live at all, but a man had to go on. Wha
t choice did he have? He had had his chance to be killed at Chapultepec, but he had lived, and he had realized then that he still wanted to live after all. But his only hope in life was that somehow he could be with Mary again. He knew it was a foolish, stupid hope, but without it there was nothing left for him in life.
He waited impatiently, while below Randy knocked on the door again, until finally a middle-aged woman opened it.
“Mrs. St. Claire?” Randy asked.
The woman frowned. “No. I’m Mrs. Browning. The St. Claires don’t live here anymore.”
“Oh, excuse me, ma’am.” Randy removed his hat, flashing a handsome smile that he knew unnerved the woman slightly and would help make her tell him what he wanted to know. “I was told the St. Claires lived here. Could you perhaps tell me where they are now?”
“They moved back to New Orleans.” Her blood felt warm under the young man’s handsome gaze. “Do you know the St. Claires?”
“No, ma’am. I’m inquirin’ for a friend of mine. We both just returned from the war in Mexico. My friend knew them well but he’s laid up—injured, you know.”
“Oh, my! Oh, we dearly appreciate what you men did down there,” the woman answered. “I’m sure the St. Claires would want to know what has happened. But I’m afraid you’d have to go to New Orleans. Can your friend travel?”
“Only by stretcher, ma’am,” Randy lied. “He’s in a hospital on the coast. I’ll arrange to get him on a boat for New Orleans then.” He looked past her into the elegant home. Sage had described the place, but Randy had not believed it until now. Mary Cousteau must have been a very rich lady. Randy found it a wonder that such a pampered lady could have survived what Sage had described.
“What about their daughter?” he asked casually then. “Does she still live in Austin? I could get in touch with her.”
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