The Promise of Jenny Jones

by Maggie Osborne

  He watched the boy climb on a burro and ride out of the village,then he rented a back room in the adobe across from the cantina and paid for a washtub and hot water. For an additional peso, his sharp-eyed landlady agreed to launder and press the clothing he would wear tomorrow when he rode to the Barrancas estate to inform Marguarita that he was taking her and her kid back toCaliforniaand Robert. Thinking about it didn't improve his disposition.

  He resented his Mexican sister-in-law, and had argued with Robert against bringing her back. Marguarita had caused enough problems in the Sanders family six years ago. Her return would rekindle hostilities with her father, whose lands adjoined the Sanders ranch. Moreover, Ty didn't want his pragmatic, no-nonsense mother placed in the position of having to accommodate a skittish, spoiled beauty whose knowledge of cattle was undoubtedly limited to what appeared on her dinner plate.

  Because it galled him that Robert had defied their father and married Don Barrancas's daughter, he didn't refer to Marguarita as his brother's wife, not even in his thoughts. His father had often raved that Mexicans belonged inMexico, not theUnited States; Ty had to agree that if Antonio Barrancas had remained south of the border, Robert wouldn't have gotten mixed up with his daughter. And Ty wouldn't be here now.

  The boy still had not returned from the hacienda by the time Ty finished shaving, so he crossed the dusty lane to the cantina to have his supper and a tumbler of pulque.

  The no-name village looked better by night. Deep shadow concealed the refuse in the ditches, hid the poverty. Lanterns swayed from tree limbs spreading over the tiny plaza and imparted a festive glow to the drabbest cantina he had yet observed.

  The instant Ty stepped inside, the back of his neck prickled with the sudden tension of abruptly halted conversations. No matter how poor the village, there was usually music in the cantina, but not here, not tonight. And he noted the surprising presence of several respectable women. In utter silence he walked to a vacant table near the side door, aware of a dozen hostile eyes stabbing his back.

  Similar situations had taught the expediency of pretending not to speak or understand the language.

  "Supper," he said to a short waiter whose narrowed eyes made his resentment of this gringo all too clear. Rubbing his stomach, Ty spoke louder. "You speak American?" The waiter stared at him. "Food." He smacked his lips,then pantomimed drinking. "Pulque."

  A low hiss of relief and contempt buzzed through the hot closeness of the night, and conversation resumed. A slender man, his upper lip concealed by a luxuriant mustache, addressed the others in a fusillade of words that he fired like bullets.

  What the man said drove all thoughts of food out of Ty's head. He blinked at a savory pozole and a stack of flour tortillas, all appetite gone. After forcing himself to sample the stew, he concentrated on molding his expression into one of uncomprehending indifference.

  Within minutes he understood that Marguarita Barrancas Sanders was dead. What shocked the hell out of him was to learn that she had been executed by a firing squad. Disbelief pinched his nostrils. He could sooner imagine his father rising from the grave than he could imagine Marguarita Barrancas committing a crime worthy of execution.

  Old man Barrancas had sheltered Marguarita from the outside world, and Ty hadn't seen her often while they were growing up. When he did catch a glimpse, she had reminded him of a large-eyed doe, timid and poised to spring away. She had grown into a shy beauty with downcast eyes,who hid behind the curtains of her carriage or the edges of her fan. On those rare occasions when Ty had heard her speak, her voice had been low and musical and almost apologetic.

  This fragile creature had died against an executioner's wall?

  Highborn Mexican women were reared like hothouse flowers, protected and sheltered from life's unpleasant realities. They were guarded by hawkeyed duennas, fiercely shielded from insult by male relatives. Ty had long pondered how Robert had managed to get Marguarita alone long enough to impregnate her, and what he had seen in her to make him wish to bed her. From what Ty had observed of the aristocratic families in northernCalifornia, a patrician Mexican woman was the most boring creature in femininity. She prayed, embroidered, and gazed at the world with eloquent indifference.

  What in God's name had such a woman done to merit a firing squad?

  Pushing aside the platter of pozole, Ty leaned back on the legs of his chair and swallowed a long draft of pulque, letting the fiery alcohol burn down his gullet. Removing a penknife from the top of his boot, he lazily pared his fingernails, listening intently.

  Gradually he culled the information that the slender man with the proud mustache was named Emil and was apparently one of Marguarita's Barrancas cousins. Fury twisted Cousin Emil's features as he shouted and exhorted those in the cantina to join him in pursuing a witch who had cast a spell on Marguarita.

  "Think, Emil!" A woman stood, clutching a shawl to her breast though the night was hot. "You knew your cousin. Could theAmericanahave persuaded the senora to die against her will? The senora could have cried out and exposed the pretense. But she did not. What does this tell you?"

  "It tells me Marguarita was bewitched." Emil gazed at the faces frowning up at him. "Are we to sit idle and allow a murderess to kill my cousin and kidnap her daughter?" He spit on the ground in disgust. "Do the men of this village have no honor?"

  Until this moment Ty had not known if Robert's child was a girl or a boy. So it was a girl. He had a niece.

  The woman stepped farther into the light and spoke into a swell of angry voices. "Senora Sanders was dying. Everyone knows this. I have it from the senora's own lips that it was her plan to switch places with theAmericana. In return, theAmericanaagreed to take Graciela to her father in NorteAmerica."

  Emil flattened his palms on the table and leaned forward. His eyes glittered dangerously. "You lie. My cousin would never have trusted her daughter to a witch, to a convicted murderess. If Marguarita wanted Graciela to go north, which I am sure she did not, she would have asked me or Luis or Chulo to undertake this journey. Never would she ask a stranger."

  The woman hesitated. A sharp reply hovered on her tongue, but she gazed into Emil's hot eyes and did not speak.

  Emil's anger seared those around him. Spittle flew from his lips. "You all heard. Maria claims my cousin sent Graciela to her Americano father." His eyes returned to the woman and pinned her. "And where would that be?" he demanded in a voice that told everyone he knew the answer.

  "The father is inCalifornia," the woman whispered. She lowered her gaze and sat on a bench against the wall.

  "Then why did the witch take the train south? Explain that, Maria Torrez."

  "South?" Shock clouded the woman's eyes.

  "When Luis returns from the hacienda, you will hear it from his own lips. The witch abducted our little cousin for her own purposes. I say we go after the witch, kill her, and rescue Graciela. I say do not listen to a woman's prattle. My cousin would never entrust her daughter to a stranger. You know this. The honor of the Barrancas family and the honor of this village rest on saving Graciela from the witch."

  Ty folded the penknife into his boot top,then drained the tumbler of pulque, letting it scald his throat. He set the tumbler down hard and stared out the side door at a swarm of gnats circling a tree lantern.

  The witch business was clever nonsense. Emil played on the ignorance of superstitious villagers to refute Maria Torrez's contention that Marguarita had given her daughter to a stranger rather than family. That much Ty understood.

  But there was much that he did not understand. One thing, however, was unpleasantly clear. The knot behind his rib cage told him that he had abetted in the abduction of his own niece. Now he knew the truth about the fracas at the depot in Verde Flores, and he cursed his role in it. Damn his hide, he had helped a female desperado steal Robert's daughter.

  Cursing silently, he tossed some coins on the table,then stood. Cousin Luis was expected at any moment, and Cousin Luis wasn't likely to have forgotten th
e cowboy who came to the aid of the red-haired woman. Common sense urged Ty to step out the side door, fetch his belongings, and get the hell out of here.

  Halfway to the stables, he spotted the muchacho who had carried his message to the hacienda. The boy slipped off his burro and ran forward, waving an envelope. Without breaking stride, Ty flipped the boy a coin and continued toward the lanterns hanging outside the stables.

  After extracting two thin pages covered in flowing female script; he held them to the light. Dona Theodora Barrancas y Talmas begged permission to inform him that her great-niece, Señora Marguarita Sanders, and Señora Sanders's young daughter had unfortunately succumbed to the coughing disease three days since. Dona Theodora castigated her own rudeness but as much as she longed to offer her great-niece's brother-in-law the hacienda's hospitality, grief prevented her from opening her doors. She pleaded for understanding and prayed that Señora Sanders would forgive her for not receiving him at this desolate moment of dual tragedy.

  In other words: Leave. You no longer have reason to be here.

  For an instant, he considered returning toCalifornia. He could show Dona Theodora's message to Robert. Marguarita and the child were dead.

  Ty crumpled the pages in his first. Frowning, he glanced back at the lights shining out of the cantina.

  Inside, Cousin Emil was striving to incite the village men to rescue Graciela from a witch. Yet, Dona Theodora stated that Ty's niece had died with her mother.

  The answer came in a flash. With Marguarita dead—and all parties agreed on that point—Graciela became Robert's heir. And Don Antonio Barrancas's heir.

  His narrowed gaze slid down the squalid shacks flanking the main street of the village. What would Robert pay to ransom his daughter? Would he sell the cattle? The ranch? Ty didn't doubt it. He wasn't as certain about Don Antonio, as Barrancas had never accepted or acknowledged Robert and Marguarita's marriage. Still, the old man might turn sentimental when he learned his daughter was dead and this child was his only surviving family. If she survived. It occurred to Ty that the child's death would lead to an inheritance which was a less cumbersome solution than kidnapping and ransom.

  The promise of a hefty inheritance or ransom would strongly appeal to villagers living in shacks built of sticks and mud. If honor didn't motivate them, Emil would eventually relinquish shares in the windfall and let greed work its persuasion.

  Grim-faced, Ty saddled his horse and jerked hard on the cinch.

  The Barrancas cousins didn't know it yet, but a new player had entered the game. If they thought Dona Theodora's message had duped him into returning toCaliforniawithout Graciela, they were in for an unpleasant surprise.

  No longer was he inMexicoon a grudging errand undertaken on behalf of his brother. It was personal now. Dona Theodora had lied to him. He'd tasted Chulo's fists in Verde Flores. He doubted he was wrong about the cousins wanting Graciela for evil purposes. In the span of a few minutes, his motivations had altered.

  Giving the cantina a wide berth, he rode out of the no-name village, grateful for a sliver of moon to illuminate the trail.

  Near dawn, to keephimself awake, he focused his thoughts on the red-haired woman who had taken Graciela. What was her game? The people in the cantina referred to her as a murderess and implied that it was she who deserved the execution that had killed Marguarita. This didn't strike him as entirely implausible, he thought, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

  However, at this point, his mind locked. Was the red-haired woman rescuing his niece? Or had she, too, seen a way to profit by kidnapping the child? Or, and this seemed extremely unlikely, had Marguarita known a woman convicted of murder well enough to entrust her daughter into the murderess's keeping? At present he lacked enough information to form a clear judgment of the situation.

  As the glow of dawn revealed the low hazy silhouette of Verde Flores, Ty's lips thinned to a hard straight line. The Barrancas cousins were not going to hold his niece for ransom, and neither was the red-haired woman if that was her intention. This he swore on his father's grave. If he had to track her into the maw of hell, he would do it. He was not returning toCaliforniawithout his niece.

  When the sun climbed out of the desert, Ty was sitting on a bench on the Verde Flores depot platform, hat pulled over his eyes, dozing while he waited for the first train south.

  He no longer believed the red-haired woman had intended to go north. That had been a ruse meant to reach the cousins' ears and send them chasing in the wrong direction. She'd intended to take the southbound train all along.

  He would find her.

  * * *

  "Crud on a crust!" Jenny was unaccustomed to indecisiveness, and she didn't handle it well. Nor was she a patient sort. Pressing her nose to the train window, she peered at cacti baking in the desert heat. "We're stopped again."

  "They're fixing the track," Graciela said listlessly. She waved a torn paper fan in front of her heat red cheeks. "I haven't had a bath since I left Aunt Tete," she added in an accusing voice. "I want a bath."

  "Have we been on this fricking train for two days or three days?" No wonder Jenny felt ready to explode. People weren't made to sit in one spot for three fricking days. Her tailbone hurt. The hot greasy food sold at various stops along the way was burning holes in her innards, and the heat trapped inside the car was cooking her outsides. Chickens ran loose in the aisle and left strings of stench that fouled the air. The noise of crying babies and bickering children were frazzling already frayed tempers.

  "If we don't get off this hell train, I'm going to do damage to someone or something." Sweat pasted her bodice to her skin, and she pulled it away from her ribs with a grimace. She had to get off this train before she melted, and she had to figure out a plan.

  None of the villages and towns they had chugged through had been large enough to hide a flea. Jenny wasn't sure if hiding out was the safest scheme anyway. Instinct insisted that she should jump on the next train headed north, but what if Luis and Chulo had mustered reinforcements and were sitting in the shade on the Verde Flores depot waiting for her to pass through again? Which she would have to do if she backtracked.

  Chewing a thumbnail, she glared out the window at the heat waves shimmering above gray-brown dirt. She wished she knew what the damned cousins were doing. Were they in pursuit? Were they on a train somewhere behind this one? Or were they waiting for her to return to Verde Flores? This time there wouldn't be some foolhardy cowboy to help her. She'd be outnumbered. The cousins would grab Graciela as easily as plucking a flower out of a pot.

  Right now, she thought, covering her eyes with a sooty hand, she was tempted to hand them the kid and good riddance. Graciela was driving her fricking crazy. Graciela wouldn't do what she was told, squirmed constantly in her seat, complained about everything, and if Jenny heard the word "why" one more time, she would go raving, flaming berserk.

  "I want to go home," Graciela said mournfully. Accusation pulled her lips into a pout.

  "Shut up. I'm trying to think."

  "You have chicken manure on your shoes."

  This was true. It was also a great mystery how the kid could walk to the curtained-off latrine without stepping in offal or tobacco juice but Jenny could not. Jenny scowled at the strands of heat-damp hair sticking to the sides of Graciela's superior little smirk. She was considering slapping that smirk into next Sunday when the train lurched, belched black smoke, and crashed forward. "Thank God."

  Jenny waved down the conductor. "Por favor, Señor, what is the next town of any size and when do we get there?" His boots, she noticed, were as frosty with chicken crap as her own were. If there was any justice, some of the conductor's chicken manure would brush off on Graciela's hem. It didn't happen.

  "Buenos tardes, Señora, Señorita. We'll reachDurangoon schedule," the conductor announced blandly, "around seven this evening."

  "On schedule my butt," Jenny muttered in English. The train had spent more time stopped for one reason or another than in rolli
ng forward.At this rate, the train wouldn't reachMexico City , its final destination, until the next millennium. She would have said so except millennium was a new word, and she wasn't sure how to pronounce it in English let alone Spanish.

  Frowning, she watched the conductor kick aside a rooster,then proceed down the aisle. The question was: Should she stay on the train all the way toMexico Cityor get off inDurango?

  "A lady does not bite her fingernails."

  "Shut up."

  "I hate you! My mama never told me to shut up."

  That did it. Jenny could not spend another day confined with a hot cranky kid, choking on the stench of chickens and an overflowing latrine. She could not endure another night trying to sleep sitting up with Graciela sprawled across her lap. For some unfathomable reason, Graciela weighed as much as a freight wagon when she was asleep.

  "We're getting off inDurango," she decided. Even her stomach rebelled at heading farther south towardMexico Citywhen she needed to go north. At some point she had to risk getting off this train and turning herself and Graciela around.Durangowas as good a place as any to start putting things right.

  "I miss my mama."

  Graciela sank into another of those collapse routines, in which her bones seemed to fold in on themselves. Her shoulders drooped, her chest shrank, her hands went limp, and tears and snot flowed in copious streams.

  Jenny watched and felt wild inside. She didn't know how to deal with grief because she had no experience to draw on, and as far as she was concerned, mother-daughter love was a myth. Love itself was a vast enigma. She had no idea how much time was required to recover from losing a mother you loved.

  "Kid," she said helplessly, gripping Graciela's arm. "You're making me want to hit you. You've got to get over this. You have to forget about your mother and move on."

  "I'll never forget." Graciela glared at her with drowning eyes. "You killed my mama."

  "Damn it, we've discussed this a hundred times. You know I didn't kill your mother." Jenny shoved a hand through her hair, knocking the stupid bonnet to the back of her head. Changing the subject, maybe that would help. "Look, when we get toDurango, we'll find a place tostay, and you can have a bath. You'd like that, wouldn't you? We'll get something decent to eat, and we'll sleep in a real bed."