***
Emmy lowered her book a smidgen and stole a peek at her papa.
It had taken miles of clattering track for the last bit of color in his cheeks to subside. After sputtering threats and frightening promises, using admirable restraint to hold his volume in check, he’d settled against the seat in a grown man’s version of a pout.
Emmy had taken refuge behind her copy of Little Women. At first, the story proved a convenient place to hide, but she soon became lost in the characters’ lives, due in part to a revelation about her own nature revealed within the pages.
Emmy’s temperament too closely matched that of headstrong, outspoken Jo. Like Jo, Emmy’s problems sprang from a tongue that was often too quick and too sharp and a mind that seldom engaged before she took action. Jo’s sister, the gentle, eager-to-please Beth, behaved more like kindhearted, forgiving Charity Bloom. It was as if Charity and Emmy were Louisa May Alcott’s characters in the flesh.
Emmy’s heart sank as Charity’s pretty face swam in her head. How different she would feel if the southbound railcar on which she traveled was headed north instead, carrying her to St. Louis to spend time with Charity and her new baby.
Sighing, she laid the novel in her lap and leaned toward the window to peer out at the rushing countryside. The rolling hills to the west had given way to flatland as far as the eye could see.
They’d left the station in San Antonio some time ago. The stretch of her legs she’d enjoyed there hadn’t been enough to ease the kinks from her bones. When she first heard of it, Emmy had dreaded the upcoming fifty-mile trek by wagon the most. Now, after hours spent sitting on the train, she couldn’t wait to get it started. The distance from Houston to San Antonio wasn’t the reason the train had trapped them for so long. Rather, it was the lingering stops at countless dingy, uninteresting depots along the route.
Emmy’s back ached, not to mention an unmentionable part of her anatomy that had fallen soundly asleep. A mite jealous of the serene expression on her mama’s face, Emmy longed for a little extra padding on her posterior region.
Sporting far less cushion than Emmy, tiny Aunt Bertha squirmed on the seat and moaned then pressed her nose to the glass. “Ain’t we there yet, Willem?”
Before Papa had time to answer, the conductor appeared at the back of the car to announce Uvalde as the next stop.
Mama grinned at Aunt Bert from across the way. “Ask and ye shall receive, sugar.”
“Well, it’s a blessing my sore bottom’s grateful for,” Aunt Bertha announced, and none too discreetly.
Emmy stifled a laugh when Papa’s mouth flew open. His head jerked around to nod and grimace at nearby passengers, most looking as scandalized as he did.
Evidently mentioning unmentionable parts in public didn’t bother Aunt Bertha one bit. Considering his wife had been friends with the feisty, outspoken woman for going on forty years, one would think Papa would be used to her by now.
The train lurched to a stop with a squeal of brakes. The excited travelers, likely as stiff and sore as Emmy, shuffled into the aisle muttering their relief. Unaware of the stir she’d caused, Aunt Bert squatted to gather her luggage from beneath the seat. Standing, she hoisted the heavy bags and motioned with her head. “Let’s go. Ain’t none of these folks waiting for us.”
Papa followed her with Mama close on his heels.
Grateful to escape the rolling prison, Emmy filed into the slow-moving line, clutching Mama’s sleeve to maintain her balance. After so much time spent wobbling and rocking along the tracks, she felt a little dizzy now that the train was still. The crush of people around her made her breathless, and the odor of unwashed bodies in such close quarters pitched her queasy stomach.
Mama glanced over her shoulder. “You all right, baby?”
She nodded, but sweat beaded her top lip and her hands felt clammy.
When had it gotten so hot?
Unconvinced by her answer, Mama stepped aside and pulled Emmy between her and Papa. “We’ll be off this contraption in a minute, sugar. You’ll feel better after you get a breath of fresh air.”
***
“Do you see ’em, old pal?” Cuddy lumbered to his feet, dipping and swaying as he fought to stay upright.
Diego reached a steadying hand and braced Cuddy against the wagon bed. “Not yet, but I reckon when people actually start coming off the train, it’ll be easier to catch sight of them.”
His heart aching, Diego studied Cuddy’s glassy eyes and unsteady stance, realizing there was no way under heaven to hide his drunkenness from Mr. Rawson’s guests. If they complained to their host about Cuddy’s sloppy state, it would seal his fate.
Diego had first smelled the liquor on his breath when they were saddling up at their campsite that morning and warned Cuddy to lay off the booze. Nearly to town, Diego caught him turning up a silver flask. Furious, he climbed aboard the rig and forcibly removed it, but by then the damage was done. When Cuddy wasn’t looking, he stashed the troublesome container inside the jockey box under the driver’s seat.
Cuddy pointed. “Eyes front. There they are.”
Diego’s gaze followed his wobbly finger. “How do you know it’s the Danes?”
“Look at ’em. Three old geezers and a little gal.” Cuddy released a whiskey-scented breath in a long, slow whistle, staring with eyes as hungry as a stray dog at the kitchen door.
A jolt shocked Diego’s middle. As the party drew closer, the first muddled impression of perfection sharpened to rows of corn-silk curls beneath a jaunty hat, a blush-colored dress that couldn’t begin to hide a lithe, perfect figure, and lips the same rosy color, stuck out like a petulant child’s.
Lips that begged to be kissed.
“Ain’t she something?” whispered Cuddy.
Diego tried to answer, but a lack of saliva had glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth—unlike Cuddy, who swiped drool from his face with his sleeve.
No doubt, she was the prettiest woman Diego had ever seen, but it wasn’t just her beauty. Greta was pretty. This girl carried herself like a stallion, fierce and proud, yet her eyes were wide and cautious, like a doe protecting her young.
She followed her three companions across the platform, heading his direction. As she neared, Diego’s chest tightened. When they came to a stop in front of the wagon, her roaming blue eyes locked on his, and he sucked air like a drowning man—a condition very difficult to hide. The effort rendered him speechless.
Luckily, Cuddy, who now seemed as sober as a preacher, stepped forward and offered his hand. “You folks must be the Danes.”
The older gentleman latched onto his palm and gave it a hearty shake. “That we are. I’m Willem. You must be John Rawson’s son.”
“Guilty as charged, sir.” Nodding at the women, Cuddy lifted his Stetson and pressed it to his chest, using the other hand to run his fingers through his hair. “Welcome to South Texas, ladies.”
He tugged on Diego’s sleeve, pulling him closer. “This here is Diego Marcelo, our foreman. We’ve come to escort you out to the Twisted-R Ranch.”
A sizable woman with hair the color of coffee beans returned his nod. “Thank you kindly, son. I’m Magdalena Dane.” She motioned to the slip of a woman at her side. “Allow me to present Mrs. Bertha Maye Bloom of Humble.”
The smaller woman, spry as a barn swallow, bobbed her head like one, and then Mrs. Dane turned to the vision in pink. “This is our daughter, Miss Emily Dane.”
The girl offered Cuddy her hand.
He bowed slightly and kissed it.
Diego’s hat came off fast when she turned his way. He wet his lips and opened his mouth to speak, not certain any sound would come out. “Miss Dane. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Marcelo. I ... I’m...” The glow of color drained from her face.
Mrs. Dane clutched her daughter’s arm. “Emmy, are you all right?”
She nodded. “Fine. I just...”
She didn’t look fine
. She looked green.
Diego stepped forward. “Perhaps the lady could use a glass of cool water? This part of Texas can be hard on a person unaccustomed to the heat.”
Swaying toward him, she blinked once before bending over and depositing her lunch in his hat.
CHAPTER 8
Once they left the depot in Uvalde, the scenery shifted and changed like the slow turns of a kaleidoscope. Instead of the miles of desert sand Emmy had expected, acres of waist-high grass covered the landscape, set off by an occasional grove of trees.
Farther along, after crossing the Nueces River, it changed even more. The grass alongside the road grew as high as the rider’s stirrups in some places then disappeared in others, choked out by rocks, sand, and brush. Live oak trees lined up next to sapling elms along the riverbank. Wide vistas of patchy grass mixed with scattered scrub brush and squatty trees that sported a tangle of wiry branches. Cacti dotted the landscape, lone sentinels, their fat green arms laden with purple fruit.
This piqued Emmy’s interest so much she couldn’t sit quietly another second. Scooting to the edge of her seat, she waved her hankie at them. “Look, Mama. What are those lovely bulbs on that cactus? I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Beside her, Aunt Bertha laughed. “That’s because you ain’t never seen any cactuses, child. Maybe the little ones in pots, but nothing like these beauties.”
Papa, who seemed in much better spirits, leaned around Mama for a better look. “Those are cactus pears. Very juicy and sweet on the palate, once you get past the spines, which I understand is very hard to do.”
“You mean you can eat them things?” Aunt Bertha’s voice was shrill with wonder.
“Yes, you can, Bertha.” Papa actually smiled. “According to John, they’re regular fare on the Rawsons’ table in season.”
Mama twisted on the seat, her lips pinched. “No more questions, Emily. You need to sit back and rest.”
Emmy’s face warmed. “I’m feeling much better.”
Mama smiled grimly. “I’m relieved to hear it.” She turned to the front, muttering that it wouldn’t be much help to Mr. Marcelo’s hat.
The heat increased in Emmy’s cheeks. The handsome young man rode a short distance in front of the wagon, squinting against the sun. He had pulled the red bandanna from around his neck and twisted it into a rope that he tied around his head. Still, the wind whipped his long curly hair in his face. Guilt squeezed her heart that he battled with the elements while she sat sheltered beneath the canopy of the two-seater.
They made camp at dusk, their two hosts graciously tending their every need, and were up and back on the trail as the sun peeked over the horizon. Emmy could hardly believe it when Papa grunted then nodded at the acres of plowed rows along the road. “We’re getting closer now.”
Mama shot him a quizzical glance. “How can you tell?”
“We’re beginning to see tilled ground. Carrizo Springs is rich in farmland.”
Frowning, Emmy voiced her confusion. “How can that be? I thought the south would be barren and desolate.”
He shook his head. “Not these parts. The fields are watered by spring-fed creeks.”
Aunt Bertha stretched closer to Papa. “What kind of creeks did you say, Willem?”
“Spring-fed. The area sits atop underground fountains called artesian wells. They bubble to the surface and create ready sources of fresh water.” He shrugged. “That’s not to say it’s all lush and green. The ground is still dry in most places.”
As if to vouch for his word, the wind bore down and snatched up a puff of sand. Invisible fingers fashioned a whirligig that danced across the open plain.
“Look!” Emmy cried. “Have you ever seen a dust devil so big?”
Grinning, Aunt Bert watched it wend its way toward them until it collapsed ten feet shy of the wagon in a shower of sand. “Will you look at that?” she hooted.
Emmy smiled. “I’ve never seen anything like this country. Lush here, desolate there. I guess it can’t decide what sort of terrain it ought to be.”
Mama and Papa laughed, and to her surprise, Emmy joined them. She had determined to despise South Texas, expected to have a miserable ride to the ranch, yet against her will the rugged charm of the land had worked its way under her skin and softened her resolve. Instead of enduring the long journey, the miles and hours swept by unnoticed.
She pointed at a staggered line of brush. “What are those curious spiny bushes?”
Her papa shook his head. “I can’t answer that one. Perhaps one of our escorts can shed some light.”
To her dismay, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Both men’s heads whipped around.
“My daughter has a question, gentlemen.”
Since the dark-skinned fellow was closer, the one named Cuddy grinned and waved him over.
Emmy couldn’t recall his name from their introduction because her head had started to whirl. She only remembered hair the color of raw sugar on his forehead and matching brown eyes—knowing, thoughtful eyes that must have witnessed things Emmy would never see. Yet the last expression she’d seen in their depths as she bowed her head to be sick was one of startled amazement. Luckily, she got a good glimpse because she didn’t dare look at them again.
He angled his horse up beside them. “What can I do for you, miss?”
His voice, as rich as Christmas pudding, drew Emmy’s attention to his mouth against her will. When he made an unconscious move to take off his hat—which wasn’t there, thanks to her—the gesture broke the spell. Emmy dropped her gaze to her clenched fists.
Thankfully, Papa came to her rescue. “She’s asking the name of that scrub brush yonder.”
“Those old, straggly trees? Miss Emily, those are mesquite.”
So he remembered her name. But then he would. After ruining his hat, he’d likely never forget.
“Mesquite grows like a house afire and provides a nice habitat for the wildlife,” he continued. “Cattle eat the beans when grass is scarce. Many people use them for food, too, as well as medicine.”
Aunt Bertha flipped up the brim of her bonnet and gawked at Diego in disbelief. Slapping her leg, she laughed. “Young man, I swallowed that part about picking fruit off a cactus, but don’t try to tell me folks around these parts eat trees.”
He laughed softly. “Only the beans, Mrs. Bloom. Wood from the larger trees makes good shelter and beautiful furniture. But most mesquite that size grows across the Rio Grande.” He shaded his eyes and stared, as if he could see the river. “It also fuels a fine cooking fire. Gives smoked meat a wonderful flavor.”
Diego directed the last part to Emmy, so she raised her head and nodded to be polite. His warm smile flashed teeth so white against his bronzed skin it took her breath and delivered absolution to her repentant heart. She couldn’t remember ever seeing so handsome a face. Even the no-account scoundrel from her past couldn’t compare to this man, and she’d always thought Daniel Clark the best-looking man she’d ever met ... until now.
Up ahead, lanky, towheaded Cuddy reined in his horse and turned in the saddle. “Hey, Diego!” He pointed toward a distant cloud of dust. The tension in his voice drew Emmy’s attention. “Riders. Heading our way.”
Diego. So that’s his name.
Papa sat forward on the seat as Cuddy wheeled his horse and rode to meet them. “Can you tell who it is, young man?”
Cuddy shook his head. “Not from this distance, but they’re closing fast.”
“Maybe it’s your father coming to greet us? Or someone sent by him?”
“No, sir, that’s not Father’s mount,” he said grimly. “Besides, he sent us to greet you.”
Mama gasped when Cuddy unsheathed his rifle and Diego slid a handgun from his boot.
Looking helpless, Papa frowned up at them. “So you expect trouble then? Banditos?”
Cuddy chewed his bottom lip before he answered. “Could be. I guess we’re about to find out.”
Papa spun to
ward Diego. “Do you have extra firepower? I’m a fair shot.”
Aunt Bert stood up in the wagon. “I can blast a buzzard off a carcass from a hundred yards.”
Diego sat straighter on his horse, his pleasing mouth a firm line. “We appreciate the offer, Mr. Dane.” He nodded at Aunt Bert. “You, too, ma’am.” His watchful eyes remained pinned on the horizon. “But you can be most helpful by sitting down and staying low.”
Pulling his attention from the intruders, his comforting gaze settled on Emmy. “Don’t you fret, miss. We’re prepared to defend you with our lives.”
His assurance made her feel better, but she prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Diego tipped his chin at Cuddy. “Let’s ride out to meet them, draw them away from the wagon. No need to advertise all the luggage.”
He pulled a shotgun from his scabbard and handed it down to Papa. “Keep the rig moving south toward the ranch while we stall them. You’re almost there. If anything goes wrong, push this wagon as if the devil were chasing you.” He gathered the reins, jutting his chin toward the horizon. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll catch up.” Pausing, he nodded at the gun. “And don’t be afraid to use that.”
Papa patted the barrel. “If necessary, I’ll find a use for it.”
Diego tapped his horse’s side with his heel and trotted toward the band of four men, closer now than Aunt Bertha’s buzzard.
Cuddy followed, his rifle braced across his saddle.
Papa shook the leads and the wagon jerked into motion.
No one made a sound, save that of heavy breathing. Their rapid, shuddering pants reached Emmy’s ears despite the creak of the wheels and the pounding of her heart. She had no desire to die that day but, oddly, didn’t fear for herself. Her muddled thoughts centered on the safety of the winsome young escort who vowed his life to protect her.
Tension crackled in the air. Papa sat so stiffly on the seat Emmy feared his spine would snap. Mama mopped beads of sweat from her top lip with one hand and worried a tear in the brown leather seat with the other. Beside her, Aunt Bertha’s jaw worked in circles, emitting the sound of grinding teeth.
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