Her Abundant Joy

by Lyn Cote

  “I saw those crowds,” Henri LaCroix added. “People running from the Mexicans, who were looting and burning their way through Texas.”

  “The Runaway Scrape,” Quinn said with a shake of his head. “Awful.”

  “I think the fear came from that time,” Sugar said, lifting her face to the bright October sun. “It had been hiding inside me from all those years ago.”

  “But no more, mi dulce.” Emilio, still on crutches, moved closer to her.

  Smiling, Sugar took his hand. “And Emilio and I have discussed what to do about finding out more about what happened a decade ago.” She turned to face Emilio. He smiled, encouraging her. “The past no longer frightens me. But what I am going to do is write to Sam Houston and ask him to see if my father, Ernest McLaughlin, appeared anywhere in the army records of the Texas Revolutionary battles.

  “If any of my family is still alive, that could lead me to them. But I think that since no one ever came looking, something must have happened to them. No matter what I find, I am happy in my life, here, as a Quinn and now as a Ramirez.” Sugar beamed suddenly and the sun lit her golden hair. “I am content and free of the past.”

  Mariel knew the feeling. She repeated silently, I also am content and free of the past.

  The last of the November weeks had passed by. Now the inner courtyard walls protected Mariel from most of the brisk December wind. A stout clay stove warmed the center of the courtyard. With her feet close to the stove, she was stitching the hem of her pale blue linen wedding dress. She wanted to use the last of the day’s sunlight to work the tiny stitches without interruption.

  Tomorrow, Remy would be well enough to go home. Two days after he, his sister, and father left, Mariel and Carson would be wed in a simple family ceremony here in this courtyard. With the occasion so near to Christmas and Mariel’s status as a widow, a quiet wedding was thought best.

  Mariel wondered if she had ever been fully alive before. Ever since Carson had asked her to marry him, she had felt a vibrancy that was a completely new experience. Smiles came easily, and laughing did too. She paused in her careful stitching to smile up at the pale blue sky above her. This was the way life should be, relished moment by moment.

  At times, her inner joy warmed her as it radiated outward like unseen sunshine only she could feel. The final words of her favorite psalm often slipped through her mind: “But the humble shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace….”

  Carson entered the courtyard. She didn’t have to turn her eyes to know this. She knew his step. She closed her eyes, cherishing the moment as she waited for him to reach her. Footsteps stopped; lips brushed hers. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

  She laughed aloud. No one had ever called her beautiful, and Carson did so often. The thrill of it did not pall. She had given up arguing against his compliments. He loved her, so of course she was beautiful to him.

  Finding herself truly loved felt almost like a fairy tale. Yet his love was real. She wouldn’t reach the end of their story and close the book. Or wake up and find that Carson had just been a dream.

  With eyes still closed, she reached up, found his stubbled chin, and stroked his smooth cheek. “Carson.”

  He sat down on the wooden settee beside her and drew her closer, his arm around her shoulders. “Is that dress nearly done?”

  “If you do not interrupt me, I will have it done in minutes.”

  “Then I will not say a word.” He punctuated this by kissing her left earlobe.

  Delight shivered through her. Somehow she looked down and started setting stitches again.

  Carson kept her against him. “The preparations for Las Posadas are about done. They will begin tonight.”

  Mariel had been very interested in the different customs here for Christmas. Evidently there would be no Tannenbaum. But Mariel had been intrigued by the excited children dressed in robes, practicing for the walk through the small village of jacales on the ranch, when the little Joseph and Mary would go door to door seeking shelter in a home for nine consecutive nights.

  On the final night, the children, followed by all the people of the ranch, would come to the main hacienda and finally be invited inside. As there had been room for Mariel here, so would there be room for Joseph and Mary. A huge party, a fiesta, would then take place in this courtyard and all around the Quinn hacienda. Acting out the nativity sounded like wonderful, yet sacred, fun.

  Into this quiet haven intruded loud voices. Mariel looked up from her sewing. Carson rose. A familiar but completely unexpected face appeared in the courtyard, followed by Carson’s parents.

  “Tunney!” Smiling, Carson called out. “What has brought you here?”

  Seventeen

  Tunney halted, then came straight to Carson. About halfway between the door and Carson, he stopped again and stood, holding his hat. His expression, his posture, all spoke of an unhappy man.

  Mariel’s whole body went cold. It was a feeling she’d never experienced. It was as if some icy, invisible hand squeezed her once. She tingled with chill foreboding. Something terrible had happened.

  No one spoke. Her numb fingers let her sewing drop into her lap. No longer smiling, Carson stood like a tree. Tunney stared at them. Carson’s parents had halted in the doorway behind Tunney and remained motionless, looking worried.

  Mariel realized that she had stopped breathing. She drew in as much air as she was able, but the cold air did nothing to warm her. Slowly, she rose to her feet, trembling but ready to help. “What has happened, Tunney?” she asked.

  The large man’s face twisted. “I’d give anythin’ not to have to tell you this—”

  “The war’s started again, hasn’t it?” Carson asked in a strained voice. “Taylor wants the Rangers back.”

  “Yes.” The man swallowed, then looked down.

  Mariel reached for Carson’s arm. I don’t want him to go. Not again. He’s done enough. And she couldn’t go with him this time. Emilio was still recovering, and Sugar wouldn’t be going. I can’t go by myself, can I? Yes, I can if—

  Carson turned to her and took her hands. As if he had read her mind, he said, “No, I don’t want you there.”

  “We can marry and I will come as your wife. I must come—”

  “No, you can’t,” Tunney broke in, “you can’t marry.”

  Both Mariel and Carson swung around to face Tunney, who looked stricken. “What?” Mariel asked, though her dry lips were trying to stick to each other. “What are you saying? Why can’t Carson and I marry?”

  The big man shuddered. “Your husband just arrived in New Braunfels. Dieter Wolffe isn’t dead.”

  It was as if the last four words had been written in red upon the cool dry Texas air in front of Mariel’s eyes. The words shivered, then flew apart. Someone broke out in laughter.

  They turned as one to the sound. Blanche had stepped out of her brother’s bedroom. Though she put a hand over her mouth, her mocking laugh hung in the air over them.

  Mariel’s knees bumped the flagstone beneath her. She hadn’t been aware that she was falling. Under her lay her wedding dress, crushed.

  Carson turned and reached to help her up. Then he froze. The look in his eyes forced the last bit of air out of her. He cannot help me, touch me. He must let me go. He must go.

  Carson tried to say something, but only a few garbled sounds came forth. He swung away from her and sped over the flagstones of the courtyard. Tunney raced after him.

  Mariel could not move. All the life, all the strength had gone out of her. She fought against the pull of despair. It was like a dark river that wanted to drag her into its killing current.

  She was familiar with it. Often in Germany it had pulled her under and drowned her hope. No. No, Dieter can’t be alive. They said he was dead and that I should leave Germany. And New Braunfels—how could she bear to go back, to face the people who had thought ill of her? Spread false lies about her? The thought of Dieter touching her made
her gag.

  Dorritt hurried to her and reached for both of her hands. “Come inside. You could use something hot to drink. We have to make sense out of this.”

  Mariel tried to think of words but found she couldn’t pull together, voice a rational sentence. She let Dorritt help her up. She left her wedding dress lying crushed near the oak bench. On wooden legs, she walked beside Dorritt, who kept up a flow of gentle words that Mariel couldn’t focus on. Dorritt urged Mariel to sit at the large round table, gently pushing her onto the chair. Then, between her shock-numbed hands, Mariel was holding a mug of hot coffee with melted chocolate. She didn’t know who had given it to her. She didn’t have the strength to bring it to her lips.

  Sugar had come and was sitting beside her. She lifted Mariel’s cup and nudged Mariel to open her mouth. Mariel obeyed, and the warm, sweet liquid flowed into her cold mouth and down her tight throat.

  “There has to be some mistake,” Dorritt said, gripping Quinn’s hand. “Your husband was dead and buried in Germany.”

  “That’s what I was told.” Mariel folded her hands around the pottery mug, trying to warm her hands, which felt as if they had been plunged into icy water.

  “You were told?” Sugar asked. “Weren’t you there when he…when your husband died?”

  “No,” Mariel said, speaking with difficulty, as if her mouth and jaw had rusted. “Dieter had gotten deeply into radical politics. He wanted Germany to become free…where men voted. He was arrested.” She paused to gather enough strength to go on, oddly gasping. “Dieter’s parents told me he had died…in prison before his trial…and he had been buried on the grounds…of the prison.”

  “So he wasn’t with you when he died?” Sugar asked, her voice rising.

  Mariel merely shook her head. Quinn lit the oil lamp in the center of the table. Mariel watched the tiny flame flicker in the air seeping in around the windows.

  “Didn’t his parents go to see him before his burial?” Quinn asked, sitting back down.

  “No, they had disowned him for his…treason. My parents were already dead. Cholera.” Mariel’s words came haltingly, each one uncovering a mark, a scar from the dreadful past. “My husband’s parents told me to go to Texas with the Adelsverein. They had no money or way to take care of me. So I came to Texas.” And when I met Carson, everything became better. I became a Texas woman, a strong woman, loved by a brave, good man.

  Early night dimmed the sunlight coming from the windows. A door opened and cold air rushed in. Without looking, Mariel knew Carson had come into the room. She’d recognized his footsteps, the way he breathed, the scent of him…. All eyes turned toward the door. Mariel rose. “Carson.”

  He came forward, near the pool of golden light over the table. He stopped before he reached her. Tunney hung back by the door, a sad shadow. “So you never saw your husband dead?” Carson asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “So he could be alive?”

  “Ja.”

  “How?”

  Tunney cleared his throat. “Someone at the prison made a mistake, sent a letter saying he had died when he hadn’t. When he got out, he found that you had gone to Texas. He had to wait until the next Adelsverein party left Germany. He’s at New Braunfels.”

  Carson sent a sharp look Tunney’s way. “What does the man look like?”

  “Medium height, brown hair and eyes, thin, of course, but that could be from bein’ in prison and then travelin’ all this way. He speaks good English.”

  “Yes, Dieter was a teacher of modern languages, like my father,” Mariel murmured.

  “Does that sound like your husband?” Carson asked.

  She nodded, unable to form words.

  “There has to be some mistake,” Sugar insisted.

  “No,” Quinn spoke up. “Things like this happen, especially when there are a lot of prisoners at one time. Europe has been going through political upheavals. Your husband must have been one of many who were imprisoned.”

  Mariel nodded again, the old bitterness rearing its spiked head. Dieter had always, always been much more interested in politics than in her. He’d only married her because his parents had given him money to set up his household with her. They had thought marriage would give their son something more to think about than politics. He’d wed Mariel for this bribe and for her small dowry. But he’d barely ever behaved as a husband.

  She let out a long, sharp-edged sigh. She had never wanted to marry Dieter. She’d been forced to, and now…This cannot be happening.

  Tunney cleared his throat again. “Carson and I have to leave tonight. President Polk rescinded the truce with the Mexicans.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Remy said quietly, speaking up from the shadows near the doorway to the courtyard. “Polk’s a Democrat. He doesn’t want Taylor, a Whig, to politically benefit from this war in the next election.”

  Mariel ignored this. She’d never understood German politics, much less American. She’d never heard of a Whig or a Democrat. And what did this matter to her? Except that Carson had to go away, was being taken from her again—forever. She put her hands over her eyes, trying to hide from the awful truth.

  “Anyway,” Tunney continued, “things are heating up and we got to get to Mexico as soon as we’re able. Polk allowed Santa Anna back into Mexico to broker a peace.” Tunney growled, “Instead, the butcher’s back leading the Mexican Army against us.”

  Quinn let out a sound of disgust. “Santa Anna always takes any chance to benefit himself. I don’t think he cares a thing about Mexico except to rule it.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Tunney said. “But we got to get there. Taylor needs us for scouting. Bad.”

  Mariel uncovered her eyes. This might be the last moments that she would ever see Carson Quinn.

  Carson took a step toward Mariel, his hands held out. Then he stopped and lowered his hands. “Good-bye, Mariel. I wish you the best.” He turned and disappeared into the shadows, Tunney at his heels.

  Mariel sank back into her chair. She clutched the edge of the table and tried to stay conscious. Gentle hands helped her up and led her to the room she shared with Erin. The same gentle hands helped her lay down, took off her shoes, and spread a quilt over her. Mariel lay without moving.

  In Germany she’d had no choice but to obey her parents and marry Dieter. Here, she thought she had left that all behind her. How could the past reach into her present and utterly destroy her future? Destroy the woman she had become.

  Carson rode without thinking much of the terrain or the cold wind on his face or the bleak moonlight. On the outside, a hard shell coated him; inside, he despaired. The desolate look on Mariel’s face would haunt him for as long as he managed to stay alive. Until just hours ago, he’d thought that he had glimpsed his future, a future of being a family man, of being a man whose sole purpose in life wasn’t fighting and killing but loving and building. He’d known that Taylor needed the Rangers, but he had hoped that he could, once and for all, put his Colts down and live a private life.

  Become a man of peace. “Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace.” His mother’s repetition of those verses had become a part of him. He had tried to live an upright life. His word was his bond. He protected the weak. He respected God. Carson stopped that train of useless thought. What is, is, and I can’t change it.

  Tunney rode beside him, a man twenty-five years his senior. He wanted to ask Tunney why he was heading back to war, why he hadn’t stayed with the German widow. What had brought Tunney back to the Rangers and now twice to war?

  Was a man ever able to quit Ranging? Put down his weapons? Had Carson’s path been set for him when he’d joined the Rangers at eighteen, before he’d ever thought about it? Had becoming a Ranger cast the lot of his life?

  Dorritt paced her bedroom. Quinn had been called out to the barn to consult over a lame horse. His absence chafed her. She’d watched her son’s heart being broken. She’d let him go to
war again almost without a farewell. She ached to help Mariel, shield her some way. Was there anything she could do? Dorritt rubbed her arms against the chill.

  Soon a servant would come and warm the sheets with hot coals in a long-handled copper pan. Winter was here. Dorritt noticed that she had not even lit the fire prepared in the small fireplace. She knelt and struck a match.

  Quinn entered and shut the door against the cold. Shrugging off his wool poncho, he walked directly to her and wrapped his arms around her. He was cold from being outside. She snuggled against him, trying to warm him. Quinn announced, “We must plan to leave when the LaCroixs go.”

  She looked into the blue eyes she loved. His understanding of what she wanted lit a glow in her heart. “Truly?”

  “We won’t let Mariel go back to that New Braunfels without us. Face them without us.”

  Dorritt kissed him, savoring the familiar feel, taste, and smell of the man she loved more than any other. “Carson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m frightened for him.”

  Quinn stroked her back. “You’re worried he will be reckless?”

  “Yes, dangerously reckless,” she whispered. Mortally reckless.

  “We will have to trust him to God.”

  Dorritt agreed by increasing her grip on him. “Mariel—I can’t bear to see her go back to those people. They gossiped about her, and Sugar told me that Mariel was forced to marry this man by her parents. An arranged marriage. To a man who didn’t, doesn’t, value her.”

  Quinn kissed her ear and down the side of her neck. “I don’t think that we can handle this alone. God must take care of them. All my life with you, we have prayed and believed that the Creator of all life hears us and works for our good. There must be a way of escape from this. Something we can’t see.”

  Dorritt rested her head on Quinn’s broad shoulder and stared into the dancing orange flames. Lord, I believe. Help Thou my un-belief. It helped a little. But her son’s stricken face lingered in her mind. Carson had worn the expression of a man without hope. A man that didn’t have much to lose. A man like that might take chances, risky ones, deadly ones. Oh, God, keep him from despair.