Saints and Sinners

by Tatiana March

  SAINTS AND SINNERS

  BY

  Tatiana March

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  Kindle edition

  Copyright 2011 by Tatiana March

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of the author except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner to create a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Historical Notes

  Chapter One

  The walls of the small church pressed in on Eliza Hargreaves. In the front pew, her father leaned down to whisper something to the woman sitting next to him. The widow Redwood smiled, a coquettish smile that didn’t soften the hard glint in her calculating eyes.

  Worry threaded through Eliza, mixed with relief. At least her father wasn’t using her as bait in his latest swindle. The dying desert town of Lone Gulch had no rich bachelors to lure, only a wealthy widow.

  Since she’d turned sixteen two years ago, Eliza had done her best to make herself invisible. It hadn’t worked. Instead, she’d managed to become drab. Clothes hung on her thin frame. Her anxious expression invited no conversation. An ugly brown bonnet hid the thick chestnut hair that she always pulled into a severe knot.

  If no man desired her, she couldn’t be asked to lead them to their ruin.

  The preacher opened his hymnal. Joy crept over Eliza, like a ray of sunshine. Her eyes fluttered shut. True and strong, her voice would echo from the rafters if she let it soar. But she only mouthed out the words, hiding behind the silence.

  Inside her head, she sang, free and pure. Something she’d never be.

  When the voices of the congregation faded, Eliza bolted to her feet. She’d taken the end seat in the last pew. Her father expected her to keep out of the way, in case the widow Redwood disliked the idea of a stepdaughter.

  The church door clattered against the wall as she flung it open. Terror at having drawn attention to herself twisted in her heart. Eliza spun back. God be praised. Her father hadn’t noticed. Tall and lanky, he was busy helping up the widow, trying to make the robust woman feel delicate.

  As if a beanstalk could make a pear appear less round.

  The thought drew a smile to Eliza’s lips. The faint sign of rebellion lingered, even as she took a shortcut across the dusty bank beside the church. If she hurried, she might get home before anyone else came out. Glancing back toward the entrance, she checked to make sure that she remained safe, unnoticed.

  A hard slam against her shins sent her tumbling in a flurry of petticoats. Her bones jarred as she hit the ground, but she didn’t dare to make a sound. She’d learned not to. Her father demanded that she suffered punishments without complaint, and he liked to beat her with a wooden stick on her arms and legs, where the bruises wouldn’t show.

  “Are you all right, Miss Eliza?”

  Warmth surged inside her when she heard the rich voice with a lilting Spanish accent. The man she’d crashed into rose from where he’d been sitting beside the whitewashed timber wall. Lean and dark, dressed in solid black, he looked like the devil’s own. Every Sunday, when Eliza rushed out after the service, she’d seen him sitting near the church.

  As if he wanted to listen, but didn’t like the idea of going inside.

  Maybe he truly was the devil’s own. The thought sent a shiver of apprehension down her skin. With an alarmed glance at the church door, Eliza flapped away the man’s hands as he tried to help her up.

  “My father will see,” she warned him, her voice so low it caught in her throat.

  Joaquin Pereira nodded. “Sorry. I tripped you up.”

  “You usually sit under the tree.”

  Knowledge flashed in his dark eyes. Hot color washed to Eliza’s cheeks. She’d revealed how aware she was of him. Her jaw lifted in a stubborn angle. She might have no life, but she was allowed to dream. Dreaming was all she’d ever do, and if some of her dreams included a young Mexican with a flashing smile that contradicted the sadness in his eyes, it was her business, and only hers.

  “I wanted to watch you sing.” He gestured at the small window that cast a shaft of sunlight into the church. Then he returned his gaze to her. His eyes lingered, intent and burning as he studied her features. Not her body, and not with a look of lust, but as if seeking to learn her secrets.

  Eliza took a step back. “I have to go. My father will see.”

  His straight black brows drew together. “And he’ll disapprove?”

  She didn’t reply. Slowly, her feet dragged down the slope as she retreated without turning her back on him. She swept one last glance over Joaquin Pereira, and whirled and fled. The reply she should have made to him pounded in her head. Not disapprove. If you show any interest in me at all, he’ll calculate how much that cantina of yours is worth, and force me to try and swindle it from you.

  Saints and sinners.

  Her footsteps pounded the words on the hard baked earth as she ran home. The town had it all backwards. They saw her reading the bible and thought her good and saintly. If only they knew. She was merely trying to wash off the coat of sin, so she wouldn’t end up in hell.

  Either in this world or the next.

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  Eliza had already cooked dinner when her father appeared. He settled his gaunt frame at the kitchen table and twirled a spoon in the steaming bowl of stew she’d hurried to place in front of him.

  “Is there more?” he asked, before even tasting.

  “A little,” she replied. It defeated her, how someone could eat so much and yet stay cadaver thin. If he liked what she’d prepared, he would demand most of her portion, claiming that she had sampled the food while cooking.

  Eliza had learned to do just that.

  “The widow has accepted my proposal,” her father said. Triumph glittered in his sharp eyes. “We’ll stand before the preacher next Sunday.”

  Eliza tried to swallow the fear that clogged her throat. “Do you think it wise?” she asked. “This one is in robust health. You can’t expect her to die soon. Not like...”

  Her father’s fist slammed against the tabletop, sending a lick of stew spilling on the waxed oak surface. Longingly, Eliza stared at the wasted drops.

  “I’ll have no such talk in this house,” he roared. “I dearly loved both my departed wives, and I miss them deeply.”

  “Yes, father.” She lowered her head, and sat down opposite him with her own serving.

  “That’s too much for a young girl.” He reached over and switched his nearly empty bowl with her full one.

  Eliza didn’t protest. There was no point. “Are we going to move into her house?” she asked.

  “Monday morning.” Her father jabbed his spoon in the air to emphasize his words. “I want to put her property up for sale and leave this town within a month. No point in taking unnecessary risks. The owner of this house could arrive any time.”

  Eliza nodded. After the railroad further north had put the stage line out of business, Lone Gulch had started slowly dying. A few properties were boarded up, falling into disrepair, but when they arrived, they’d found an empty house in good condition. Her father had told everyone that they rented the place from the ab
sent owner. In truth, they’d broken in. Finding the rooms adequately furnished with heavy old pieces, they’d occupied the dwelling and had lived there for the past six months.

  “I don’t like it,” Eliza said. “There’s a shrewd edge to that woman. She’ll not be happy to stand by and watch while you squander her fortune.”

  Her father raised his gaze. Instead of the surge of rage she had expected, his features twisted into a cruel grin. “In that case, she shouldn’t be marrying me,” he told her calmly, and resumed eating his stew.

  Eliza suppressed a shudder. One day, something would catch up with them. The law, divine retribution, a victim who refused to be swindled, a relative seeking revenge. Her stomach curled into a tight ball, ready to reject even the meager portion of stew she’d consumed.

  Soon, she thought. I want it to happen soon. Once disaster strikes, I can stop fearing it.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Two

  Joaquin Pereira saw Eliza Hargreaves before she saw him. The girl was hurrying down Main Street, a shawl thrown over her slim shoulders against the morning cool. Her face was hidden by a plain brown bonnet. Glancing back, as if to make sure no one noticed, she darted between the livery stable and the old stage depot that housed his cantina.

  Joaquin followed. She intrigued him, that one. Sometimes, the saloon girls visited him to seek what little comfort he could give, and they had shown him the way of women. Clothed or naked, he could tell pretty from plain. This one had the makings of a beauty, but she tried to hide it. The ugly clothes she wore swamped her slender frame. She scraped her hair back into a severe bun, and when she caught someone looking, her features twisted into a sullen frown.

  On Sunday, when she’d crashed into him, for a brief instant she’d been too startled to cling to the protective armor of her sour expression. He’d seen her animated then. Just like she was when she sang. When music filled the church, elation softened her face. He’d observed her through the window, and, even without hearing her voice, he knew she sang like an angel.

  Just like Manuela had.

  Joaquin’s chest tightened at the thought. That’s why she drew him, this timid girl. Something about her reminded him of his childhood friend. He’d let Manuela down, had not saved her when he might have done. Somehow, his past failings had triggered inside him the need to protect Eliza Hargreaves. He ached to shield her from whatever had turned her into a cowering shadow instead of the happy young woman she ought to be.

  “Kitty, kitty, kitty.” She knelt by the wall of the livery stable, where a plank of timber had broken loose. A black and white kitten squirmed out through the gap. Eliza withdrew a small bundle of muslin from her skirt pocket. Too impatient to wait for her to finish unwrapping, the kitten climbed up her arm to snatch the sliver of meat from the folds of the cloth.

  With a low laugh, the girl scooped up the kitten, held it high between her hands and planted a kiss on its shiny pink nose. Something shifted inside Joaquin. It had been a long time since he’d witnessed innocence.

  Even though he enjoyed their company, he felt nothing more than friendship for the saloon girls. Once he’d longed for more. Had expected more. Wife and family. Then he’d failed Manuela, and any right he might have had to happiness had died while he’d watched every last drop of life draining from her broken body on the flagstones beneath her bedroom balcony.

  A shout came from inside the livery stable, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps. Eliza lowered the kitten to the bundle of straw that spilled through the hole in the timber wall. Jumping to her feet, she turned to dash down the alley. Once more, she crashed into him. A muffled cry of alarm caught in her throat.

  “It’s all right.” He curled his hands over her upper arms to hold her steady.

  She flinched, as though in pain. Instantly, Joaquin eased his hold.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” he told her. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. Her chin rose in a defiant tilt. She took a step back, came flush with the stable wall behind her and halted. “I’m not afraid of you.” Her voice was low. “I’m just...afraid.”

  The honest admission of fear tore open the wounds Joaquin carried inside him. Manuela had been afraid too, so afraid. “It’s all right,” he murmured. Instead of touching the girl, he braced his hands on the weathered timber, one on either side of her head, using his body to shelter her in a protective cocoon. “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

  Her eyes snapped wide. He could tell that she hadn’t expected the question. For a moment, she contemplated him in silence, her pale green gaze like sunshine playing on the water in a muddy pond.

  “Everything,” she said finally. “Of living and not living. Of dying and not dying. Of being punished and not being punished. Of lies and the truth. Of the wrath of God and that of man.”

  Startled by the cryptic words, he frowned at her. “That’s a lot of things to fear.”

  She nodded in response.

  Slowly, Joaquin leaned in, drawn closer to her against his will. Pursing his lips, he breathed warm air across her cheeks, like animals do when they learn each other’s scent, learn to trust. “Easy now,” he whispered in between the soft puffs of air. “Let go of the fear.”

  “I can’t,” she said, in a little broken voice that clenched at his heart.

  “Yes you can.” Joaquin let his lips touch her skin, the merest hint of a contact. She made a tiny sound of alarm, a cross between a sob and a cry. He brushed his mouth against hers. A shudder shook her body, but she pressed into him, seeking his shelter. Keeping his hands braced to the timber, he deepened the kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, bolder now.

  Her hands rose between them and fisted into his shirt.

  Gently, Joaquin eased her into his arms. His right hand splayed across her narrow back, his left tangled in the wispy curls at the nape of her neck. Their bodies connected from knee to breast, and despite the barrier of clothing, his arousal nestled against her, a more perfect fit than a fully consumed union with any of the saloon girls.

  A hot need washed over Joaquin. The kiss turned greedy. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips until she opened for him. Swooping inside, he swept away her brief resistance. His arms banded around her, seeking to mold them together. His mouth feasted on hers, and, for a few brief moments, the world around them ceased to exist.

  The hard slam of a door and the jingle of spurs jolted him back to reason. Dios Mio. His heart pounded like the blacksmiths anvil. What the hell had just happened? Never in his life had he lost control like that. He’d kissed an innocent, in the middle of town, in plain view of anyone who might stroll out through the back entrance of the livery stable.

  Carefully, Joaquin eased away from the girl whose fingers remained curled in his shirt. Her head tipped back, exposing the hollow of her white throat, where a fevered pulse throbbed. Her chest heaved with urgent breaths. A flush warmed her pale skin. The ugly brown bonnet sat askew on her head.

  Thoughts refused to form in Joaquin’s mind. It was as if all his powers of reasoning were consumed by absorbing her nearness, storing every detail of how she looked and felt in his arms, so he could recall them later, when he relived the kiss.

  Before he’d gathered his wits, Eliza stirred in his arms. Her eyes flew open. “Whatever you were planning to say, I forbid you to apologize,” she told him in a low, urgent tone.

  Without appearing to move, she slipped free from his hold and fled down the alley. Joaquin was left staring after her, still stunned by the power of his reaction. He’d just meant to hold her for a moment, in an effort to banish her fears.

  How in hell had a casual embrace turned into an all-consuming kiss?

  Edgy and rattled, Joaquin stalked back to his cantina, The Watering Hole. Reluctantly, he accepted it had been one of those moments his mother used to call ‘earthquake moments’—they were not significant events, but deep down you knew that the repercussions could alter the cou
rse of your life.

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  Eliza dashed toward Main Street, her legs barely carrying her. She’d never known a kiss could be made of fire. For an instant, even the hunger that was her incessant companion had ceased gnawing in her gut. She’d been kissed before, by a balding old carpenter and a fat newspaperman with a bushy moustache. Reptilian kisses from one. Slobbery, ticklish kisses from the other.

  Her father had never yet forced her to use the promise of her body to entice a man to invest in one of his fraudulent schemes. But the time would surely come. Eliza knew it as well as she knew the verses of the Psalms.

  “A bit more decorum, Miss Hargreaves.”

  “What?” Startled, Eliza surveyed her surroundings to see where the tart voice of the widow Redwood had come from. She spotted the woman standing on the mercantile porch. Despite the sun that blazed down, the portly widow was smothered in black. Her waxen skin and the lack of warmth in her manner made Eliza think of an embalmed corpse dressed for burial.

  “A lady does not hurtle down the street.” The widow sailed down the steps. Her white parasol snapped open as she stepped out from the shade of the covered walkway. One gloved hand reached out and fingered the sleeve of Eliza’s worn calico dress. “As soon as the wedding is over, I’ll look in the chest in the attic to see if I can find something more appropriate for you to wear.”

  Barely daring to believe she’d heard correctly, Eliza stared. Could it really be that someone would care for her, would take her in? Not once in her life had someone offered to help her. Apart from making sure that she could play her part in his money-making schemes, her father had never been concerned about her appearance, her welfare, or her happiness.

  “Were you at the livery stable talking to Rhett Bartlett?” the widow asked.