Laughing, Diego raised both hands in the air. “I surrender. Call me what you will.” Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he snuggled his tiny mother close. “Now then, what’s this about finding what I seek? In the fire, you said? Sounds like more tribal superstition.”
She shot him a warning glance. “You’d do well to heed my visions, son. And even better not to scorn them. They come to me from Chihowa Palami.”
Diego sighed. “I would think the Almighty had more pressing matters to concern Him.” He tucked his thumb inside his belt and affected a saucy strut. “Actually, I don’t need anything your fire might bring. I like my life just fine the way it is.”
Her short, dark lashes fluttered, the motion almost hidden by high cheekbones and deep-set eyelids. “Your posing may work on John Rawson and his vaqueros. Some days you manage to conceal your disquieted soul even from me. Just don’t think you can fool the Great Spirit.”
He grinned. “Now, Mother, I know for a fact God’s Spirit is too busy to worry about Diego Marcelo’s disquieted soul. He has His hands full hiding Pancho Villa from the Rurales.” He leaned close to her face. “Oh, and keeping Theodore Roosevelt from shooting off his toes.”
Her lips tightened into a determined line, and her fingers brushed his hand. “I don’t wish to astonish you, Isi, but God is more concerned about your future than I am.”
Diego feigned shock. His mother waved off his teasing then raised her strong chin and stared into the distance. “Chihowa Palami sees you on the inside. He’s in every beat of your lonely heart. God’s love for you is great. Many times He has whispered of you in my dreams. Your future will appear in a whirlwind of smoke and rise to meet you in flames brighter than the beard of my Irish father.”
He leaned closer and whispered next to her ear. “That future wouldn’t happen to have blond hair and blue eyes, now would it?”
She elbowed his ribs. “If so, she wouldn’t be the one you speak of.”
His brows lifted. “Not the lovely Señorita Rawson? Are you certain? I find myself disappointed.”
There was a slight pause in her stride before she recovered. “You fancy Greta Rawson?”
Diego guided her up the steps of the boardwalk. “So there’s something about me you don’t know? That astonishes me, Mother.” He winked and caressed her head between her dark braids. “As a matter of fact, I’m having serious thoughts about asking Mr. Rawson’s permission to court his fair daughter.”
She tilted her head to look at him, her eyes guarded. “Careful, son. Once outside the gate, you must ride the horse you’re sitting.”
He chuckled. “What sort of Choctaw proverb is that?”
“Only the wisdom of a concerned mother. Good sense speaks every language, except in matters of the heart. If you shame Greta Rawson, you shame her people. You’ll wind up the foreman of a different ranch.” She shot him a weighty glance. “In a different state.”
“Shame Greta? You know me better. My intentions are honorable.”
“Because you are honorable, Isi. I only meant that when you discover she’s not the right woman for you, you’ll have to end the relationship or live in misery for the rest of your life.”
He gave her a piercing look. “ When I find out? You talk like you know something you’re not telling me.”
She tightened her grip on his arm and focused on something in the distance. Diego smiled and shook his head. Watching her noble, determined profile, he wondered what secrets she kept and what mischief lay ahead for him.
A curse rang out from inside the grocer’s shop as they passed. Hurried footsteps brought the man who’d uttered the vulgar words onto the walkway behind them. “Whoo-ee! I thought my eyes was playing tricks, but sure enough, that’s a real red-skinned Injun squaw.”
Diego stopped walking so fast he nearly tripped his mother. He spun, his arm tightening around her shoulders.
Smiling widely, the jovial-looking, raw-faced fellow stood ten feet away, both hands on his hips. “Look at her, prancing down the street like she belongs there. If that don’t take the biscuit.”
Cuddy Rawson, the son of Diego’s boss, ducked out of the store behind the man. He shoved his hat on his blond head, his eyes round pools of disbelief.
Several others, with expressions similar to Cuddy’s, followed him outside.
The senseless dolt on the boardwalk cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Pocahontas...” Laughing now, he pointed north, presumably toward the Indian territories. “Your tribe went that way.”
Diego left his mother and approached the grinning bufón. “I’m feeling generous today, mister. I’ll give you one chance to apologize to my mother, but make it quick.”
The stranger furrowed his brow. “You mean that little buffalo muncher is your mama? Sorry, Cochise. I figured you fer a local.”
Cuddy rushed him at the same time as Diego, but Cuddy got there first. Catching the man by the scruff of his neck, he whirled him into the waiting crowd, who surrounded him and hustled him down the street.
“Hey,” he cried to his captors. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“A muy big favor, señor,” one of them answered. “We’re saving your life.”
Cuddy gripped Diego’s arms, holding him until the gang of men rounded the corner behind the livery. When his fists uncurled and his breathing slowed, Cuddy released him then shrugged and grinned. “Sorry, Diego. I had to step in and help him out. He’s new in town. Poor man had no idea what kind of trouble he was in.”
Diego drew a trembling hand through his brown curls and gave a shaky laugh. “It’s for the best, my friend.” He worked tense kinks from his neck then tugged his leather vest into place. “I suppose God watches out for fools.”
Cuddy glanced toward the spot where the crowd had disappeared. “He sure enough rescued that one.”
Diego winked and patted Cuddy on the back. “I was referring to myself.”
Cuddy tipped his Stetson at Diego’s mother. “Melatha. Good to see you’re feeling better.”
Diego’s mother smiled and nodded. Diego rejoined her and she slipped beneath his arm, her face void of expression. “I appreciate what you meant to do, but there was no need.”
“No need? He insulted you.”
“With empty words? No, Little Deer, he insulted himself and his people. If not for Cuddy, you would have done the same.” She patted his hand. “I do wish you’d learn to control your temper, son. A public brawl is no fit way to settle a quarrel. Remember, your ancestors were tranquil people.”
He drew back. “Tranquil? You’re forgetting a few ancestors, Mother. The Spaniards on my father’s side had lively dispositions, as did your father’s Irish relations, whose tempers boiled the blood in their veins. Both of those men would’ve avoided a public brawl, too. They’d have shot him where he stood.”
“I’d prefer you sought the way of the Choctaw. The way of peace.”
He wagged his finger in her face. “There, you see? If my soul is disquieted, there’s your reason. How could I know the proper way to conduct myself? I’m a mixed breed. A mongrel. A man without a past.”
Her brows bunched in disapproval. “Nonsense. Your past is rich in culture.”
“Which culture would that be? The blood is so mixed in my veins, I’ve lost all notion of who I am.”
“Tradition is stronger than blood, Isi. You learned this at your mother’s knee, and I’ve strived to teach you well. More to the point, only one bloodline really matters—that of Chihowa Ushi, the blessed Son of God.”
***
Melatha sat alone at her roughhewn kitchen table, gazing through the window at the rear entrance of the bunkhouse. Isi had disappeared through the door the minute they returned from town, his mood brooding and restless. His state of unease would add many prayers to her lips come nightfall.
Her gaze shifted past the vaqueros’ quarters to the field where wind-ripples danced through the tall grass like spirits playing tag. Scattered cactu
s stood with upraised arms, offering dark purple pears as sweet, juicy sacrifices. The fluffy white vine that young Cuddy called “old man’s beard” grew along the barbed wire fence in mounded clumps like the piled-up snowdrifts back home.
The Bible spread open on the table pulled Melatha’s attention to the present. She finished the passage in chapter 8 of Solomon’s Song.
“Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.”
She shuddered. The ancient words struck her heart with another confirmation of her fiery vision.
Chihowa Palami, bow my son to Your will. A bent reed turns to iron in the Father’s hand.
As she always did before closing the worn leather book, she read the words inscribed in bold script in the center of the first page: Melatha Rhona Flynn, daughter of Kelly Míchéal and Hatabushik Loosa Flynn. May you ever heed the truth revealed within these pages.
“Ah, Isi,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the letters, “your grandfather’s words are your heritage, the connection to the past you seek. Though you can’t see it yet, they’re the path to your future as well.”
His restless soul filled with longing, Isi had run so fast from himself he’d landed them both in Carrizo Springs near the border of Texas and Mexico. But no matter how far he’d run, his destiny perched on the horizon, determined to overtake him.
As for Melatha, she didn’t mind where her son’s desperate flight had driven them. She loved South Texas, the land Isi called “God’s country,” and had plans to settle in for good.
When they first arrived, the Rawsons had welcomed her into a room in their home but soon realized she needed her own space. Mr. Rawson graciously offered the northeast corner of the yard where Isi built her a spacious jacal out of mud and sticks. He’d seen to it that the walls were sturdy and sound, and Melatha blessed the day she’d first set foot beneath its humble thatched roof.
There was a spare corner in the house for Isi’s bed, but he insisted on sleeping in the drafty bunkhouse with his men. He claimed he needed their respect more than his own comfort, and he’d never ask them to do anything he hadn’t first done himself.
The strength of her son’s character and his willingness to take a stand in such matters was the reason Mr. Rawson promoted him from a greenhorn to foreman in only three short years.
Strength of character failed her son when the odor of griddlecakes drifted from her hearth in the mornings, or roasted ears of corn at night. For meals he left his charges to eat Cook’s grub in the bunkhouse and joined his mother at her table—a fact that warmed her heart as hot as her coals and kept her skillet sizzling.
Melatha had no knowledge of the life Isi had lived during their five years apart, and she had never asked him. Her interest lay in his future, not his past.
God’s Spirit had shown her this future while she prayed. Not a clear image—only hair as white as the vine tangled along the fence and eyes like a fair summer sky.
A lively young filly would come to her brooding son from the north. Their hearts would meld in a whirlwind of fire, and their passion would restore Isi to life.
CHAPTER 3
Emmy couldn’t open her hand fast enough ... or sling the hideous spider far enough. Chest aching, she realized it had been a matted web she’d seen all along. Mama’s hankie likely floated atop the foul pool below—forever lost.
“Nash!” a shrill voice called from above her head.
Emmy grew rigid. Mama!
She heard a muffled gasp from Nash then the rattle and whir of the crack as she plummeted wildly. Before she could think, scream, or pray—before she stood facing her Maker—she came to a jarring halt with a jerk and twang of the rope.
The ancient bucket collapsed beneath her, parts of it scraping and pinging off the rocks before landing with a splash. She gasped and tightened her legs on the remaining slats, gripping the rope so tightly the rough hemp burned her palms. Bile rose in her throat, made worse by the rancid smell of the water, much closer now. Even more disturbing, the plunge had snuffed her light.
Something cold sailed out of the darkness, landing on her bare skin then slithering up her leg. Not a snake, the thing had tiny grasping feet.
Frantic, Emmy brushed it off before clinging to her lifeline with trembling fingers. She opened her mouth to cry out to Nash, but Mama got to him first.
“Here you are. For corn’s sake, where’ve you been all morning? I’ve scoured the place for you.”
The fact that Mama stood somewhere above, her deep, strident voice echoing in Emmy’s ears, scared her nearly as much as the fall.
Get shed of her, Nash! And hurry!
“You been huntin’ me, Miz Dane?” Nash’s strained words tumbled down the hole. “Why, I been right here all along.”
“I’ve called and called. Why didn’t you answer?” Mama’s tone meant her hands had gone to her hips.
“’Cause I ain’t heard nary a one of them calls until now. I ’spose you might’ve yelled louder.”
“Oh, never mind. Have you seen Emmy?”
After a tense silence, Nash began to sputter. “H–Have I seen Miss Emmy? Now, that’s a good question. I did see her right after breakfast, sure ’nough. ’Course I saw her yesterday, too, and—”
“Just tell her this when you see her—Willem is on his way home. He’ll arrive by train tomorrow. He’s decided it ain’t safe for me and Bertha to go south alone, so he’s coming with us.”
Emmy’s heart lurched. Papa going with Mama to South Texas? The new development made it infinitely more important that she avoid the trip. Emmy’s relationship with her papa wouldn’t exactly inspire sentimental sonnets. On the rare occasions when he happened to be home, he spent all of his time correcting her, perhaps to make up for lost time, or ignoring her completely as if she made him uneasy. If given a choice, she preferred the lectures to his silence.
“Yes’m, I’ll tell Miss Emmy jus’ what you said. When I see her, that is.”
Emmy prayed with renewed vigor for the strength to wait Mama out. Busting her skull or drowning in stinky water might definitely impede her plans to visit St. Louis. Dying in a well or emerging from it a raving lunatic covered in newts and spiders meant she’d never have the chance to see Charity’s baby. However, all of these possibilities were more enticing than an extended trip with her papa or facing her mama’s wrath. She tightened her grip and held on for all she was worth.
“What are you doing out here anyway?” Mama said to Nash. “There’s no time today for lollygagging. You have work to do.”
“Yes, ma’am, I sho’ do.”
“Get on with it, then. What are you waiting for? The stalls won’t sweep themselves.”
“Um ... yes’m, Miz Dane. Jus’ as soon as I finish drawing a bucket for Miss Emmy’s horse.”
“Emmy’s horse? Well, I’ll be switched and tickled, there he is. What’s Trouble doing out here?”
“I ... brung him out to get a drink.”
Emmy could almost hear the gears churning in Mama’s head. “So, you’re telling me instead of taking water to the horse you brought the horse to water? To a hole full of putrid water, in fact?”
“W–What I meant to say was,” Nash stammered, “I didn’t remember this well being bad till I got out here.”
The hush meant more whirling parts in Mama’s head. Emmy thought she could smell the smoke.
“I see. So, why’s he saddled?”
“Hmm. Yes, ma’am, he’s saddled all right. I can see why you’d ask that question, too. I reckon it’s because Miss Emmy wants him ready to ride when I’m done watering him.”
Mama blew out her breath in a whoosh that rattled all the way down the well to Emmy. “That’s enough out of you. I don’t know what you and that girl are up to, and I don’t have time to ponder. Go on and get to those chores. Take Trouble with you. He can drink from the trough the way a critter’s meant to.”
“But I ain’t don
e hauling up the bucket.” With each word, Nash’s voice climbed the scale toward a soprano.
“Move aside. I’ll take care of it.”
“I cain’t let you do that, Miz Dane. It be too heavy for a lady.”
“Nash, give me the crank.”
“No!”
Heavy, cloying silence oozed down the shaft. Emmy hung surrounded in it until Mama recovered enough to speak.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said no. I mean, no, ma’am.”
“Jonas Nash...”
Emmy cringed. She’d gotten Nash into terrible trouble. Mama had used his Christian name.
“I reckon I pay you fair enough wages to get a ‘yes, ma’am’ to most anything I ask you to do around here. Especially something as trifling as this. Now give me that handle.”
Taller than most men and as solid as a boulder, Emmy’s bossy, controlling mama was a formidable opponent. The tumble of russet curls pinned up on her head made her appear even larger, like the ruffled feathers of a bird facing down a rival. Grown men cowered before her no-nonsense voice, and few of them in Humble, least of all Nash, had the pluck to stand up to her when she got angry.
Even so, surely he’d never relinquish his hold and scurry off to do her bidding, leaving Emmy to plunge to her death in the gloomy deep. She held her breath and wondered at the depth of the lapping water, hoping she’d break her neck and die on the way down rather than drown in the nasty stuff.
A scuffle ensued—Nash desperately pleading, Mama as mad as a whole nest of hornets.
Emmy felt the exchange of hands on the crank when she dropped a foot lower. She started to cry softly and pray with all of her might.
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