Dueling the Desperado

by Mimi Milan

  “Well, at least you know to stay away from that area now.”

  “Stay away? I can’t do that.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “I have to go back. I left some of my supplies there.”

  “Those supplies aren’t worth your life, Chel.”

  “Those supplies help me live my life.”

  “Can’t you just get more?”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” she popped up off his bedside and strode out of the room only to return a minute later, several jars of paint in her hands. “See these? They’re all I have left to paint with… and it’s not like they come from your general mercantile.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “I made some of them.” She quickly held a hand up. “Before you suggest I simply make more, hear me out. The ones that I made myself were from flowers I can’t readily find or buy around here. For example, I have one color that comes from the thread tip of a saffron flower. It came in my possession while I was in El Salvado thanks to an old friend named Georgia. I don’t know where she got the seeds for her garden, but it seemed like she had some sort of magic touch—anything she wanted, she found, and anything she planted, grew. One of those things was saffron. This is a problem, because now I’m not able to paint the Cempasuchil flower the right color.”

  “But if you could get your hands on the flower, or even the seeds, then you could make more of the paint?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then all we have to do is wait until we can write your friend to send some to you.”

  “And risk the plants being destroyed or lost by some careless driver?”

  “Alright. We’ll take a visit to El Salvado ourselves.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think about what he was saying. El Salvado? That would be a terrible idea! That’s where the law was after him the most, because that’s where the murder had occurred. He could never go back.

  Araceli gave him a curious look. “You’ll jump in front of a falling log to save my father, but won’t brave the forest once more?”

  “That’s different,” he insisted. “Your father’s life was at risk.”

  “I am at risk of losing my supplies.”

  He sighed. It wasn’t quite the same, but he relented anyway. “Fine. I’ll go and get them as soon as my legs are healed up.”

  She gave him a generous smile. “That’s very kind of you, but your legs could take weeks to heal. I don’t think it’s a good idea if I leave them out there that long. Too many things can happen between now and then. What if it rains?”

  He reached out and took hold of her hand, his eyes filled with serious concern. “Please, don’t go back there alone.”

  The warmth of his hand engulfed hers, traveling up to her arm and scrambling her thoughts. “You talk too much,” she mumbled.

  A sly smile crossed his handsome face. “I can do more than talk.”

  The suggestive comment made her head swim even more. She shook her head in a desperate attempt to clear her mind. “Perhaps we shouldn’t speak at all.”

  “Kind of strange to sit here in silence. Don’t you think?”

  He looked at her in a way that made her shiver on the inside. It was a foreign feeling to experience on such a warm day. She moved towards a canvas she had set up the day before. “I have some work to finish anyway.”

  “I noticed that. Are you painting my pain?”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “Actually, it has nothing to do with you. My subject of interest happens to be the Cempasuchil flower.”

  “Hmm. That sounds intriguing.”

  “Oh, don’t pretend you’re interested. Men don’t like such silly things.”

  “That’s not true. I enjoy hearing about anything that interest you—like that flower you just mentioned. It might be nice to see something like that one day.”

  She was slightly flattered by the thought that he liked hearing about things that appealed solely to her—especially when those things coincided with her painting. Most of the prospective beaus she had known before cared little to none that she was an artist. Plus, he had taught her how to shoot—in secret no less. She could appreciate the fact that he saw past her father and his business to acknowledge her personal needs and desires.

  “You would like to see such a flower?” she finally asked.

  “I sure would.”

  Araceli put the brush down and swiveled in her chair until she faced him. She appeared quite pleased. “Well, the painting isn’t finished. But perhaps you would like to hear the legend of how it came to exist in the meantime.”

  “Dinner and a bedtime story? Count me in.”

  Araceli chuckled and picked up the brush, her voice matching the strokes along the canvas. “Once upon a time—a long time ago, when my people were still Aztecs—there was a young girl named Xóchitl. Beside her lived a neighbor boy, Huitzilin. The boy loved to run off and have adventures, and even though it was unusual, the girl’s parents allowed her to go off with him. Together, the two of them would have great explorations. They would come home every evening with interesting forest finds—a spearhead or frog, or whatever it is children believe to be great discoveries.” Araceli’s hand paused over the painting. “Am I boring you with my story? I can stop if you wish.”

  Miguel sat up a little straighter. “Not at all. Please continue.”

  She gave him a satisfied smile and turned back to the canvas. “So, they spent their entire childhood together and became the best of friends. Of course, the only natural thing happened—the thing that is bound to happen when two people spend so much time together.”

  She fell silent.

  “Go on,” he encouraged. “What happens when two people spend that much time together.”

  She shrugged, refusing to admit that her face had grown warm again. “They fell in love, of course.”

  “And they lived happily ever after?”

  “Of course not. Leave it to a man to rush right ahead,” Araceli scoffed. “Do you not know anything about the Aztecs at all? The conquistadors came, declaring war. Hitzilin was killed in battle. So they did not live, as you say, ‘happily ever after.’ Everyone always dies in the end.”

  She turned back to her painting, her nose held half an inch higher than before.

  “You call that a story? Why, you might be a talented artist, but you’re a terrible storyteller!”

  “Oh? Do you think you could do better?”

  Miguel laced his fingers together and settled a little further into the pillow. “As a matter of fact, I do. Once upon a time, there were these two Aztecan youngins like you done mentioned. I mean, these two were so in love, they was beside themselves. Xóchitl spoke all nice to the boy and only made eyes at him. So, he done the same for her and even took her up to this big hillside where they could offer up flowers to the sun god, Tonatiuh. Well, just like it’d always done before and is bound to happen again, sure enough war broke out… and you’re right. Hitzilin was taken up to glory during one of the battles. Word got back to Xóchitl and she was just devastated! I mean, she done gave her whole life to this boy already—letting him stick frogs in her face and whatnot.”

  “Oh, stop it! That’s not how it goes.”

  “It sure does. They couldn’t get along a hundred percent all the time. It ain’t natural. Now you want me to finish this story or not? Cause I can stop if you wish.”

  She squinted at his canny ability to turn her words around, but smiled her approval, nodding that he should continue with his version of the legend.

  “Very well. Like I was saying, poor boy went to glory and she was a mess over losing him. So, she went to the sun god and begged him to turn her into a flower. Well, this is the part that gets a little muddy. See, some say that she had been such a faithful follower that Tonatiuh rewarded her by doing just that. Me, on the other hand, I think he was tired of her murdering all them flowers and thought it was the best way to make her stop picking the
m.”

  Araceli laughed. “You’re silly.”

  A wild grin stretched across Miguel’s face. “Hope you don’t mind me saying so, but that’s a mighty fine laugh you’ve got right there.”

  The compliment caught her off guard and set her heart fluttering once more. The way he kept making her insides react was unnerving. Her grin slightly diminished.

  Miguel feared he might have been laying it on too thick, being too flattering too soon. He rushed on, “ Anyway. She became a flower and they did live happily ever after, because Hitzilin had been turned into a hummingbird. So, anytime you see one of them sweep down low to drink from one, that’s really him… giving his gal a kiss.”

  “Is that so?” Araceli asked, her voice soft and mesmerizing.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her smile was so sweet and tender that it almost made him want to channel Hitzilin in hummingbird form and soar right off the bed to claim Araceli for himself. That could be disastrous, though. They weren’t quite there yet… and probably wouldn’t be for some time, if ever. After all, he had the law on him from New Mexico. Even if that mess wasn’t a roadblock between the two of them, there was still the issue of his past. She deserved to know who he really was. He simply couldn’t bring himself to tell her, though.

  “I must admit, Michael, I was a little startled by your story.”

  Miguel snapped out of his thoughts. “How so?”

  “Your version of the Cempasuchil’s origin was funnier than I’ve heard it told before, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. What caught me off guard, though, was the fact that you knew the end.”

  “You mean I was right?”

  “Please don’t feign ignorance.” Araceli gave him a pointed look. “How did you learn of the legend?”

  “I’ve been around. You know that, though.”

  The expression on her face said that she wasn’t entirely convinced by his explanation. Much to his chagrin, silence settled over them—which wouldn’t do at all. They were getting on with each other so nicely. It would be a shame for things to end on such a sour note. He struggled to find something to say, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

  “I wish I knew how to paint.”

  The declaration caught her off guard.

  “You do?”

  Miguel bit his tongue. That had been an unexpected response! Oh, well. What could be the harm in learning how to paint? He shrugged. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I want to?”

  Araceli looked thoughtful. “That might not be such a bad idea. It’s not like you have anything better to do. You certainly won’t be hauling logs anytime soon. The accident put you out of work for at least another week—maybe even two—and the accounts I have at the mill aren’t so pressing. I suppose I could teach you a thing or two if you really are interested.”

  Miguel liked the idea of them spending time together. Araceli wasn’t like other women he had known before. Of course, he realized that the first time they met. That was the only reason he could think that he never truly forgot about her.

  “So, when do we start?” he finally asked.

  “Tomorrow. Of course, we haven’t discussed payment yet.”

  “Payment? I didn’t make you pay.”

  “Oh, yes, you did. I had to give you a compliment for every missed shot. Remember?”

  Miguel chuckled. “I see. You’re wanting me to pay you compliments.”

  “Not at all.”

  His face screwed up with confusion. “Then what is the payment?”

  “That you answer whatever question I ask.”

  “Uh,” Miguel hesitated. “What kind of questions?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Araceli placed the brush down and held a hand out. “So, what do you say?”

  Miguel didn’t like the idea of answering questions that revealed too much, and he certainly wasn’t a liar. Well, not really. Going by the English version of his name didn’t constitute as a lie in his book. So, he didn’t want to start making up stories just to answer her questions now. Would he have to, though? It wasn’t like she had completely stuck to their bargain for the shooting lessons—giving him wayward compliments and even holding back one.

  He could do the same.

  He grasped her outstretched hand. “I believe you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter 8

  “How are you feeling, hijo?”

  Miguel carefully tested his legs, shifting from one foot to the other. “The legs are still a little sore, but things seem to be in working order.”

  “Well, the doctor said that might happen. The important thing is that the swelling has gone down.”

  “Yes, that is important,” Miguel agreed. He picked up his hat and placed it on his head. Then he walked over to the mirror to get a good look at himself. No number of hats, scarves or anything else could cover up his ugly mug. Two weeks of not even trimming and his beard looked like it was trying to give birth to a bird’s nest. He tugged on it. “I think this is the longest I’ve ever seen this thing get.”

  “I was going to mention something about that,” Señor Arroyo said. “I think a beard is much like a woman’s hair. When it is properly cared for, it is like a crown—a thing of pride. However, it can also be something quite frightening when allowed to become unruly. No young woman around here—especially one like my daughter—is going to be overly excited about a beard like that. You understand, no?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Although, I’m wondering why you believe Araceli would care about a thing like that… or me, for that matter.”

  Señor Arroyo smiled knowingly. “I am getting older, yes. However, I am well aware when a man and woman care for one another.”

  “That’s right! I forgot about the ever-helpful Ms. Priya,” Miguel teased.

  The older gent cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let’s not change the subject. I’m speaking about you and my daughter. I’ve passed this room plenty of times in the past couple of weeks and have seen the way you two look at one another. Do you deny your feelings for her?”

  Miguel felt equal parts embarrassed and elated. It appeared he had an ally who supported the match. The only problem was that the man didn’t know everything he should about Miguel.

  “I don’t deny them, but I don’t think my feelings are altogether appropriate either.”

  “Why in the name of Dios wouldn’t they be? What are your intentions with my daughter? Are they honorable?

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then what is the problem? You are both young… and I’m not going to live forever, either. I would like to see my daughter settled down, with the opportunity to find true happiness again—which I think has finally happened. I wouldn’t mind meeting a grandchild or two, either, but that is for another discussion.”

  “I understand, sir.” Miguel’s nerves bundled up into a ball and his senses were on full alert. He noticed little things around him. There was a spot on the wall that looked much like one of Araceli’s paints. Had it always been there? And the way the sunlight streamed through the window, casting light into the room. Had the sun always been this bright? He suddenly remembered he was still wearing his hat indoors. too. He swiped it off his head, mashing it in his hands until the brim was nearly beyond repair.

  “Well, whatever it is can’t be worth destroying a Stetson over. Get it out, hijo.”

  Miguel released a slow, pent up breath.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest. You see, I know your daughter. I mean, I knew her. Rather, I’ve met her before. Once. Briefly. It was but for a few minutes, you see, and I… well, I…” Miguel quietly groaned. “I’m making a real mess out of this.”

  Juan Arroyo smiled. “You are speaking about El Salvado?”

  Miguel’s mouth dropped open with shock. He snapped it shut again. “How did you know that?”

  The elderly man chuckled. “Ay, the young… they think they know so much. However, do you really think I would allow just anyone to st
ay in my house? Claro que no. Pete had told Mr. Atherton Winslet all about you before you even arrived.

  “What? He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

  “Well, what did you think—he was going to keep it from the man who helped him more than anyone else? Atherton is like a fairy godfather or something—he makes everyone’s lives better. That’s exactly what he did for Pete. So, there are very few secrets between the two of them. When Atherton approached me and we walked off in the forest to speak, he told me all about you—your past service in the army and the Americanized name you used. So, I immediately contacted some friends in El Salvado. I learned about your attempts to buy my land.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I never went through with it, though.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “But how?”

  Juan shrugged like a man in a poker match finally laying his own hand on the table. “Because I sold it before it could be seized.”

  Miguel was staggered by the man’s declaration. “You sold it? That’s why they refused my offers!”

  “Yes... but that doesn’t quite explain how you knew my daughter in El Salvado.”

  “She showed up there one night. I caught her inside, collecting some old jars of paint.”

  Señor Arroyo sighed. “That does sound like my Chel. Now you understand why I am concerned. She takes some of the most dangerous risks, but it is not because she is ignorant or careless. It is only because she’s so passionate for her work.”

  “She has every reason to be,” Miguel confided. “I think she’s probably the greatest artist I’ve ever known. The way she pays attention to the smallest details and how she mixes both light and shadows on the page… it expresses a real depth of emotion.”

  “I see my daughter has gotten to you—filled you with some of her zeal for experiencing life in a way so few truly understand or even appreciate.”