Hearts and Spurs

by Linda Broday

  I blog the first Tuesday of every month, and sometimes in between, at Petticoats and Pistols, Romancing the West of Yesterday and Today and Prairie Rose Publications. The blog sites are dedicated to the love of western historical romances. Come visit me at https://petticoatsandpistols.com

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  The Second-Best Ranger in Texas

  Kathleen Rice Adams

  A washed-up Texas Ranger. A failed nun with a violent past. A love that will redeem them both.

  The bottle skittered away from Quinn Barclay’s fingers, teetering like a drunken cavalryman. Before he could coordinate a second grab, the tart in his lap lunged across the scarred tabletop and captured the all-but-dead soldier. She splashed the last of the watered-down rotgut into Quinn’s glass while he tugged the bodice of her dress even lower and nuzzled the top of a breast.

  Sabrosa? Picante? Rica? What the hell was her name? Didn’t matter. The scent of roses came nigh to smothering him, but the Tejana was soft and warm and willing.

  The grulla gelding beside Quinn snuffled at the overfilled glass, then curled his lip and shook his head, shuffling backward to plant his rump against the plank wall. Quinn chuckled against the dove’s skin. Bull’s-Eye never had been able to hold his liquor.

  Bottle in hand, What’s-Her-Name tried to wiggle to her feet.

  Quinn cinched her waist with one arm and snatched the bottle’s neck with the other. Raising the empty above his head, he waggled it at the bar. “Cal!” The gravel in his throat lent a growl to his tone. “Can’t have a proper wake without whiskey.”

  The barkeep waved another Tejana to the back of the dim room. They huddled for a moment before the second dove—older, ridden harder, and trying to spill plumb out of what little she wore—sashayed over with a refill.

  She stopped just beyond Quinn’s reach. “Cal, he says you can have this as soon as you take el caballo outside where he belongs.”

  Quinn cut a glance at the corpulent cuss. Cal set to polishing the dingy mirror as though three hundred pounds of elbow grease would make a difference. “Darlin’, Bull’s-Eye belongs wherever I am.” He lurched for the booze.

  Whipping the rotgut behind her back, the dove shimmied up against Quinn, molding her assets to his side as she leaned close and whispered. “But he cannot go upstairs with the three of us, guapo. The room, it is too small.”

  Now that argument bore some ponderation. Quinn hadn’t quite sorted everything out when the batwings flapped open and a familiar form stalked in amid a swirl of El Paso dust.

  The girl in Quinn’s lap shoved from his embrace and scrambled to her feet. Both doves flew, taking the firewater with them, dammit.

  Quinn palmed his glass and slouched into his chair. When the jangle of spurs came to a halt, he squinted up at a wavering wall of Texas Rangers. A couple of hard blinks, and all but one disappeared. “Have a seat, Cap.” He pulled on an egg-sucking grin. “I’d offer you a drink, but you scared off the supply.”

  Captain Jeffries arched a brow above a disapproving glower. “I think you’ve had about enough.”

  “Not yet.” Quinn hoisted the oversize shot in a salute. “To the best damn Ranger in Texas. May he rest in peace.”

  A hand clamped his wrist before the liquid reached his lips. Whiskey sloshed onto his vest.

  He glanced down on a sigh. “Now, that’s a pure waste.”

  “Get your ass up.” Captain Jeffries pried the glass from Quinn’s grip and hauled him from the chair, dodging a sharp clack of equine teeth.

  Quinn grabbed for the gelding’s headstall, missing twice before his fingers hooked leather. “Sorry ’bout that. Ol’ Bull’s-Eye gets a mite peevish when he drinks.”

  The captain’s scowl deepened. “You and that foul-tempered cayuse got thirty seconds to clear out of here before both of you wind up looking at bars from the wrong side.”

  “Clear out and do what, Cap? Ain’t you the one ordered me to cool my heels?”

  “Cool ’em…not drown ’em.” Jeffries’s handlebar mustache ruffled under the force of a heavy exhale. “Vega’s dead. Climbing into a bottle won’t change that.”

  No, it wouldn’t; and so far, whiskey and women hadn’t delivered the oblivion Quinn sought, either. Carousing wasn’t the same without Rodrigo Vega…and there wasn’t enough whiskey in Texas to drown the memory of his partner’s mutilated body.

  Or Rodrigo’s last words.

  Give this to Dulce. Sucking a breath through his teeth, Quinn rubbed the burning skin over his heart, beneath the Saint Michael medallion in his pocket. Take her away from San Miguel. And leave me a gun, amigo.

  Who the hell was Dulce? In the five years they’d ridden together, Quinn hadn’t heard the name until the day Rodrigo died. The girl had to be a dove. Rodrigo knew no other kind of women.

  San Miguel lay at the other end of a long, dusty ride, but Quinn had suffered enough forced confinement. He grabbed his Stetson from the table and dragged Bull’s-Eye away from the wall. The horse grumbled.

  “Barclay, stay close.”

  Quinn dropped the hat on his head. “Define close.”

  “If I whisper, I want you to hear me.”

  Rodrigo had possessed sharp eyes, Quinn sharp ears. Together, they had made one hell of a team. He arranged his face in a reassuring smile. “Uh-huh.”

  Well, that didn’t work. Jeffries settled into his hips, holding Quinn’s gaze until the smile threatened to collapse from fatigue. The captain presented his hand, palm up.

  The corners of Quinn’s lips drooped. “What?”

  “Your Warrant of Authority.” Jeffries flicked his fingers.

  Disbelief scattered the last of Quinn’s whiskey haze. “You’re cashiering me?”

  “I’m giving you a choice. Follow orders…or make room for somebody who will.”

  Quinn tugged the proof of his Rangers commission from an inside vest pocket. “You take this, I’m gone.”

  “I know.” Jeffries clamped the free end of the folded document between thumb and forefinger. “I’m hoping you’ll come to your senses and decide not to turn loose.”

  As Quinn’s fingers tightened on the crumpled paper, the burn over his heart kicked up something fierce. He relaxed his hand, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the only life he’d ever wanted slip from his grasp.

  He shouldered past the captain and towed Bull’s-Eye toward the batwings.

  The sharp edge in Jeffries’s tone followed him across the room. “Barclay—don’t get yourself killed.”

  Quinn huffed a harsh breath. “I’m a civilian now, Cap. Save the orders for somebody who gives a damn.”

  ****

  I will arrive before the Feast Day of St. Valentine.

  Be well,

  R

  Sister María Tomás read the end of the letter three times before tucking the note in her pocket. Correspondence from her oldest friend was a rare treat; a visit even rarer. Rodrigo must have recognized the desperation in her last missive. Only with his help could she untangle the mess she had made of both their lives.

  The crucifix on the raw adobe wall in the cell she shared with Sister Mary Vincent laid a balm across her heart. “Godspeed, Rodrigo.” She slipped from the tiny room.

  Despite the prohibition against hurrying—even for postulants—urgency lent momentum to her heels as she rushed across the courtyard beside the church and squeezed through a door near the front of the short nave. Hopefully, Mother Marie Celeste and Sister Vincent had noticed neither her absence nor her unseemly dash.

  She eased the heavy cypress-wood panel into its frame and tiptoed through a turn…

  …and bumped right into the reverend mother.

  “Madre de—” Sister Tomás smothered the mild oath with one palm while the other attempted to keep her hear
t inside her chest.

  Mother Celeste raised her delicate French chin and sent a disapproving look down her refined French nose. “I see we still struggle with our vows.”

  Her vows. Three simple promises, yet in five years she’d mastered only two. Chastity and poverty proved easy within the mission’s walls. She should have known obedience would remain forever beyond her reach.

  One impossible vow was the least of her reasons for wanting release from all three.

  A smile hinting at disappointment tipped the corners of Mother Celeste’s lips. “While you were…missing…three more brave souls departed.”

  A ragged whisper slipped from Sister Tomás. “No.” Making the sign of the cross, she bowed her head and clasped her hands at her lips. “Father, grant them peace.”

  And deny respite to the men who did this terrible thing.

  The heartless thought stabbed her with remorse. Charity was a virtue, especially among the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word, yet she could not bring herself to forgive some sins.

  Like the sin of murder.

  Rodrigo’s words arose from their slumber in her heart. I will find them, querida. I will find them, and I will make them pay. I promise.

  He was too good a man to bear the burden of such a sinful wish.

  “Come with me, Sister. We have need of your courage.” The ends of the reverend mother’s long veil fluttered as she turned.

  Sister Tomás picked up the beads from her belt, running the cool wood through her fingers. The words of the rosary tumbled through her mind as she followed Mother Celeste through the church’s front portal. Ashes no longer drifted on the February breeze, but the acrid tang of smoke lingered. The reverend mother stopped at the stone feet of San Miguel Arcángel, the patron and protector of the mission bearing his name…and a village that, three days ago, ceased to exist.

  Pedro, the rock of the mission at only twelve, waited nearby with the old ox hitched to a two-wheeled carreta.

  Mother Celeste folded her arms within the sleeves of her black habit. “Even the ones who are strong enough to survive their burns have not the strength to fight infection. Our supply of medicinal spirits dwindles.”

  Sister Tomás took a steadying breath. “Then we are fortunate the saloon withstood the—” She swallowed the vile word that leapt to her lips. “Unpleasantness.” Sending a reassuring smile to the boy, she consigned both of them to God’s protection. “With the help of Dios, Pedro and I will gather what we need.”

  ****

  If Dulce had ever been in San Miguel, like as not she disappeared with everyone else when the hole in the border burned to the ground. Somehow, the saloon escaped the flames, thank God. A man got mighty thirsty crossing half of Texas.

  Quinn tied Bull’s-Eye to the scorched rail beside a chestnut and buckskin carrying Mexican saddles and no brands. The long-gun scabbards on both horses sat empty. Chewing his lip, he slid the Winchester from Bull’s-Eye’s boot, pulled the brim of his hat lower, and sauntered inside.

  Two trail-worn hardcases held up the bar at the back of the dingy room. They glanced over their shoulders, and then returned to their beers. The tight-lipped cuss guarding the liquor claimed to know nothing.

  Quinn grabbed a bottle and retreated to a table in the front corner. He was three-quarters of the way to the bottom of the bad whiskey when hope arrived on painted wings.

  A small flock of bright birds fluttered in through a door behind the bar. They paused to chirp and preen for the disinterested hombres with the saddle guns and beers, and then headed for Quinn.

  He grinned.

  Without so much as a howdy, one of them plopped herself into his lap, jiggling everything she owned. The half-light did her a favor. “You look like a man who could use some company.”

  “Maybe.” He tossed a healthy shot of rotgut down his throat and slammed the glass onto the tabletop. “Looking for a girl goes by Dulce.”

  A dove squeezed between Quinn and the wall and snaked bare arms across his shoulders. Long nails toyed with the buttons on his vest while a honeyed whisper dropped into his ear. “All of us can be sweet, guapo, if that is what you want.”

  The whore in his lap ran a fingertip along his unshaven jaw. “We can also be very, very naughty.”

  That’s when the nun walked in.

  Sharp nails raked Quinn’s cheek when he dumped the dove on her ass and sat forward, blinking.

  Yep. A nun, wearing a habit so white it almost glowed, except for the black apron and the dust on the hem.

  He glanced at the near-empty bottle, then trained his gaze on the apparition’s ramrod-straight back as she marched across the room. The sister confronted the Tejano barkeep as though she did so every day.

  When she spoke, Quinn could’ve sworn he heard Spanish mission bells. “Señor, I beg your assistance.”

  Captain Jeffries was right. He needed to swear off the firewater.

  ****

  Sister Tomás avoided eye contact with everyone but the bartender. A surreptitious glance at the other three men told her more than she wanted to know. The lout in the corner had his filthy paws full of cheap women. The other two stared in amused silence.

  After sending a cautious glance to the disreputable pair, the bartender frowned at her. He braced his hands upon the scarred wood and filtered quiet words through a bushy mustache. “You do not belong here, Sister. Go beg somewhere else.”

  “There is nowhere else to go.”

  The taller of the men at the end of the bar snickered. “Leave her alone, Edgardo. She’s a damn sight easier on the eyes than those putas you keep around.”

  His companion jabbed him with an elbow, then muttered something and jerked his head toward the door. A glass at his lips, the tall one appraised Sister Tomás through narrowed eyes, as though, with his gaze alone, he could remove her vestments. Prickles crawled her skin until he abandoned his drink and followed his friend.

  As the echo of spurs faded, breath returned to her lungs. Begging Dios for fortitude, she smoothed a tremble from her voice. “Medicinal spirits would ease the suffering of the injured. The church would be grateful—”

  Edgardo’s uneasy gaze withdrew from the door, falling on her as he shook his head. “I cannot help you, Sister. Lo siento, but—”

  “Give her what she wants.” The low growl filled the space behind Sister Tomás.

  The bartender spat irritation across her shoulder. “This does not concern you, señor.”

  Wood scraped wood and boot steps measured the floor, stopping at her back. Mingled scents of whiskey, tobacco, and rosewater churned her stomach. She pressed folded arms to her waist.

  Edgardo tipped his head to keep an eye on the stranger. “Those hombres…” A swallow rippled the length of his throat. “Dios will forgive me for protecting what He has not.”

  The ratcheting click of a pistol’s revolving cylinder lanced through Sister Tomás and drained the blood from the bartender’s face.

  “It’s not God you need to worry about. Give the bride of Christ what she wants.”

  A storm of bright fabric and titian curls blew between Sister Tomás and the bar. Eyes swimming with sorrow nonetheless crackled as sharp words bolted from painted lips. “Why should we help? Our sister dies, and that old fool of a priest refused to hear her confession.”

  Of its own volition, Sister Tomás’s hand sketched the blessed cross. “Father Dominic did not refuse. He—”

  “Adelanta is but a child.” The woman smeared a river of kohl across her cheek. “She did not choose this life.”

  “Where is this girl?” The whiskey-roughened growl sent the harlot into a backward scramble for the door behind the bar.

  She bared her teeth. “No. Leave her alone. Cabrónes like you—”

  In two long strides, the stranger caught the woman around the waist and lifted her from the floor. Fists and feet flailing, she loosed a stream of foul words that would have blistered the paint had any adorned the walls. The bartender mad
e no attempt to intervene.

  Sister Tomás did. When the gunman dodged a blow, she wrenched the scarlet woman from his grasp, shoving her away and stepping toe to toe with the brute.

  He swung the full force of a bloodshot glare to her. “Keep the hellcat out of my way.”

  She hiked her chin. “Señor, consider what you do. Your immortal soul—”

  A bloody welt snaking through the dark stubble on his cheek twitched. “Your concern’s a mite tardy, Sister.” He tipped his head toward the front of the saloon. “That ox-cart outside yours?”

  If she could hold his attention, keep him talking, maybe he would forget his base desires. “I own nothing. The carreta belongs to the mission.”

  The intense green gaze separated from hers and swept the room, pausing on each face before fixing on the bartender. “Edgardo will load what you need. Leave space for the girl. Everyone else can walk.”

  ****

  As a boy, Quinn had run afoul of more than his share of tough-as-mule-hide nuns. Every one of them could have taken a lesson in feistiness from Sister María Tomás. Where did the tiny, white-robed critter find all that grit? Once she realized he intended Adelanta no harm, she rounded up three doves, Edgardo, a silent boy, and every bottle of booze she could lay hands on and marched them all toward the mission with military precision.

  The two-mile hike nearly did Quinn in. Edgardo and the doves trudged the last half mile like condemned prisoners. Bull’s-Eye grumbled about his unaccustomed status as pack animal, but leaving behind the meat and staples in a storeroom behind the saloon would have been criminal.

  The sister? Back straight, shoulders square, she ran beads through her fingers and mumbled the rosary so many times, Quinn feared his ears might bleed.

  “…siempre por los siglos de los siglos. Amén.”

  “Sister.” The word grated through his dry throat with more bite than he intended. He flicked a glance toward the whitewashed adobe looming closer with each step. “How many novenas you gonna say between here and those walls?”

  “As many as required to see us safely inside.”

  Quinn ran his gaze over the scrub and sand from one horizon to the other. “We’re safe enough. For now. Whiskey that valuable in these parts?”