Hearts and Spurs

by Linda Broday

Wind whispered over her bare skin. Sand squeezed between her toes. Dappled shadows from the cottonwood trees danced at her feet as she slipped into a chemise and petticoat. How had she lived without such simple pleasures?

  She lifted the plain, yellow dress and buried her nose in the cotton fabric. Although she had washed the garment before tucking it away, she detected a faint odor of smoke. A pang pinched her heart.

  Raising the silver medallion on a chain around her neck, she whispered against the warm metal. “Forgive me.”

  A crunch of boots behind her wrenched a gasp from her throat. She whirled to face the noise, clutching the dress to her bosom.

  Señor Barclay ducked his head and spun on his heel. “Sorry, ma’am. I—”

  A whoosh of breath cleared the fright from her lungs. “Un momento, por favor.”

  His head popped up and swiveled, but his eyes remained averted. “Sister Tomás?”

  “Not anymore.” Thank goodness the prohibition against hurrying no longer applied. Someone should have told the buttons on her bodice. When had they become too large for the buttonholes? “Malditos.” Her foot slapped the damp sand.

  A wall blocked the sun, and gentle, masculine fingers interceded. “Let me help.”

  His hands were no steadier than hers, yet the buttons slipped into place. Perhaps they were afraid he would shoot them. But, no. When at last her gaze found his in the shadow of the battered hat’s brim, no threat lurked in green eyes.

  Breath stuck in her throat. No physical threat. Dios mío. Clean, without the scruffy beard, the man was temptation personified. San Miguel himself could have been no more beautiful.

  ****

  Quinn’s gaze latched onto eyes so dark and deep he needed a map to find his way out. His pulse jumped. My God. Without all the trappings of faith, the woman could have been an angel come to Earth.

  “Señor, you stare.” The whispered words echoed in his chest.

  “So do you.”

  “Oh. Perdóneme. You look…different.”

  “So do you.”

  He forced himself to blink and disconnect from the hypnotic gaze. A mop of cropped curls shot through with fiery streaks gleamed in the dappled sunlight. A silver chain twisted through the lace trimming her high collar. When he tugged the links free, his fingertips brushed her throat.

  The jolt must have struck them both. She sucked a quick breath.

  A disc bearing the image of an armed angel fell into Quinn’s hand. “Rodrigo’s medallion. He’d be pleased to see—”

  “It was mine before it was his.” When she retrieved the engraved silver, elegant fingers lingered against his palm.

  On its own, Quinn’s hand enveloped the warmth of her skin. “Sister, I—”

  She jerked from his grasp as though she’d been burned. “You cannot call me sister anymore.” Turning her back, she bent to gather the discarded habit.

  “What should I call you?”

  “Rodrigo called me Dulce. You may, too, if you wish.”

  “Dulce.” Odd how the name lay so easy on his tongue. “Is it short for something?”

  She stiffened; straightened up, though her head remained bowed. At length, her shoulders slumped on a long sigh. “My name, in the world, was Dulce Elena Palomo de la Rosa.”

  A click echoed in the back of Quinn’s mind, like someone turned a key in a lock. Dear God, he hoped not, but if memory served…

  At his touch on her arm, she sidestepped. She didn’t try to escape the second grab. He spun her to face him.

  The last of the serenity abandoned her expression, leaving a mixture of shame and defiance. Shiny curls bobbed as her chin shot up. “Yes, Señor Barclay, that Palomo. Esteban was my father.”

  Dread wrapped around Quinn’s gut and squeezed. “Dulce, we got us a mess of trouble.”

  ****

  “What do you mean, ‘a mess of trouble’?” Señor Barclay dragged her across the rough ground with all the regard he might have given a sack of dead fish. Trying to match his long strides, Dulce tripped over the hem of her skirt with every third step.

  “Keep up, or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” She again attempted to wrest her arm from his grasp, but he held fast. “What do you mean, ‘a mess of trouble’?”

  He forged ahead, eyes fixed on the mission’s walls. “Five years ago, the hacienda belonging to the most powerful patrón in the Nueces Strip burned to the ground. We thought there were no survivors.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  He stopped, grabbed her shoulders and stared into her face with a look so intense, her skin burned. “Who, besides Rodrigo, knew?”

  “No one.”

  “Think hard.”

  “We took nothing. We told no one.”

  His fingers dug into her upper arm, and with a yank, he restarted the forced march. “Well, someone knows. The fire in San Miguel—that was a message. They know you’re here, and they’re coming for you. They want the loot, don’t they?”

  “Loot?”

  “Money. Gold. Whatever else your father stole to build his empire.”

  “There is no loot.” A dip in the ground tripped her.

  “So you say. The rumor’s never gone away.”

  “There is no loot. When my mother died, my father suffered a crisis of conscience. He gave everything to the church.”

  “I believe you, but somebody less trusting than me doesn’t.”

  “Why, after all these years—” A stone got in her way.

  Without breaking stride, he scooped her into his arms. “Rodrigo and I had been stirring things up. He was determined to find a couple of the men who worked for your father. I never asked why…but it seems pretty clear now.”

  “But how did they find me?”

  “Your father’s men—they would’ve known you wanted to marry Christ, right?”

  “I made it no secret.”

  “They’ve probably been checking missions and convents one by one.”

  That was preposterous. “There are a lot of missions in Texas, señor.”

  “Quinn,” he snapped. “Call me Quinn. If we’re gonna die together, we ought to be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”

  “We are going to die?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  His steps slowed and then stopped a few yards from the mission gates. Without a word, he set her on her feet and knelt.

  Lightheaded with the sudden change, Dulce lost her balance. Her knees hit the ground beside a bloody corpse.

  She scrabbled backward. “Edgardo.” Her stomach threatened to follow the horror from her lips.

  Quinn pulled her against him, turning her face to his chest, but she could not banish the image of the mutilated body. Naked and battered, the remains were missing parts no man should be without. Strong arms wrapped her closer, cradling her head against a steady heartbeat, but nothing could quell the trembling that rattled her bones.

  Though pitched low and soothing, his voice offered no comfort. “You asked how they found you. I think I know.”

  ****

  Quinn dragged a heavy cypress-wood bench across the outside of the church’s last courtyard door. Three benches blocked the gate. If the Palomas Negras wanted in, they’d have to come over the wall.

  Of course, they could just burn the place down. They were good at that.

  He scanned the courtyard for weaknesses one more time as long strides carried him to the rectory in the middle of the north wall. Much smaller than the church. Much easier to defend. And killing in a house of God? Even he hadn’t sunk that low.

  You are next, pendejo. We want the girl. The note, scrawled in Spanish and pinned to Edgardo’s body with a rusty pig-sticker, left no room for misinterpretation. At least the corpse hadn’t been Pedro’s. Bile rose in Quinn’s throat. Maybe they killed the boy quick and easy.

  The same way he’d dispatch the women and children when the time came. With him as their lone de
fender, they hadn’t a prayer.

  Musical voices filtered through the rectory’s open windows. Singing. Soft, innocent…and a target in the dead-still evening.

  He burst through the door, hissing a demand. “Quiet.”

  A roomful of terrified gazes pinned him. The doves merely stared, but the children shrank against the nuns and Dulce, sobbing.

  Well, that was a mistake. He beckoned Dulce with a bob of his head. “No singing.”

  “It calms them.” Damn that mask she adopted at will.

  “It’ll also tell anybody in earshot where we are.” He closed the door with a boot heel. “Silence will buy us time—not much, but some.”

  ****

  Waiting was the worst part of any siege, and for this one, the waiting was pure hell. Quinn watched the sun go down on the desert with no inkling of how many men he would face or when they would come. As uninterrupted as the nights out here, he would hear the attackers long before he saw them…if he saw them at all. With no moon, the desert lay under a pitch-black blanket.

  He slid down the wall to the floor and checked the loads in both rifles, both revolvers. Again. Then, with nothing better to do, his gaze roamed the room. Who would have thought he’d die in a rectory? Who would have thought he could move the padre’s heavy desk to barricade the door?

  The whiskey in crates stacked against the opposite wall mocked him.

  Dulce emerged from the small sleeping chamber, floated across the room, and eased to the floor at his side. “The children are sleeping.”

  In the darkness, her eyes glowed. How could he put a bullet between those eyes, even to spare her a worse fate? “Dulce—” His tongue tried to hold on to her name. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Even in two simple words, he heard mission bells.

  “For making a promise I’m not sure I can keep.”

  “You will keep it, Quinn Barclay.” She removed the silver medallion from her neck. “San Miguel is on our side.”

  Rising to her knees, she slipped the chain over his head. Delicate fingers brushed his skin, leaving behind an ache in his chest. San Miguel had done Rodrigo no favors, yet the medallion had been his most precious possession.

  Quinn tucked the silver disc inside his shirt. Men had died for much less.

  “How will we know when they come?” she asked.

  No fear in her voice. No fear on her face. Where did she get all that courage? He fought panic with each breath. “We’ll hear them. They’ll make sure we’re aware they’ve arrived.”

  Her gaze lodged on the Winchester resting across his lap. “Give me the other gun.”

  He shook his head.

  “I know how to shoot. Rodrigo taught me.”

  Now that was an odd thing for a man to teach a girl who dreamed of becoming a nun. Quinn cocked a suspicious brow. “What else did Rodrigo teach you?”

  “Patience. Kindness. Loyalty.” She wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them to her chest. “Where to find the best bait for fishing. How to see pictures in the clouds.” Her gaze rose to the crucifix on the wall. “He was a good man.”

  “Best Ranger in Texas. Best man I ever knew.” If only Rodrigo were siding him now.

  Maybe he was…from a distance.

  Gunfire ripped open the stillness. The mission’s bell rang.

  ****

  Dulce pressed fingertips to her chest. Her heart would explode any minute.

  Quinn crouched at the window, shoulders against the wall, rifle barrel pointed at the sky. How could he be so calm?

  “Give us the girl.” The roar shoved her into the adobe at her back. Quinn didn’t budge.

  She glanced at the Sharps between them.

  His teeth flashed in the darkness when he answered the demand. “What girl?”

  A harsh laugh fractured the night. “Do not play games, amigo. Send them all out. We will keep the one we want. The others... You can have them back when we are finished with them.”

  Quinn inched closer to the window frame, peering into the blackness.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “From what I can hear, maybe eight.”

  “You cannot see them?”

  “Dark as the inside of a cat out there.”

  A bullet barreled through the window and struck the wall.

  She grabbed the Sharps, chambered a round, and fired. A sharp cry preceded a heavy thud. A shudder darted through her.

  Quinn drew back from the window, staring.

  “I told you I could shoot.” But she had never shot at men. Then again, men had never shot at her, either.

  Her stomach rolled.

  An arm circled her shoulders and dragged her against a strong, warm body, away from the gaping black hole in the wall. A whisper touched her hair. “Breathe. You’ll be okay.”

  The rifle slipped from her fingers.

  The beast’s roar came again from the darkness. “Ranger! We can outlast you. Send out the girl, or you’re all dead.”

  Dulce pressed a hand to her middle, sending a silent prayer to San Miguel. “I should go to them. Those men, they mean what they say. The children—”

  Fingertips lifted her chin. “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let them get to you or the children.” Despite the grim set to Quinn’s jaw, the reassurance in his eyes flowed over her like a blessing. “Stay here. The fewer targets they have, the better.”

  But the lone target they’d have was the one she could not bear to lose.

  The Winchester’s thunder and an army’s reply sent her hand diving for the rosary beads in her pocket. Quinn’s strangled curse numbed her fingers. A dark splotch blossomed on his sleeve.

  She scrambled to his side.

  “Get back.”

  Ignoring the fierce hiss, she snatched the knife from his belt and slashed her petticoat.

  Her shoulders met adobe with a jarring thud.

  Green eyes blazed inches from hers. “I can’t fight you and them at the same time.”

  “You are bleeding.”

  “It’s a scratch. I’ll be fine.”

  He possessed an unusual definition for scratch. Blood soaked his sleeve from shoulder to elbow. He did not seem to notice or care.

  “Does nothing frighten you?” The shaky words surely betrayed her fear.

  A slow blink cleared the anger from his eyes. In the sudden silence, his hoarse whisper filled the room. “You frighten me, Dulce.” A calloused palm cupped the side of her face as his gaze draped her with a caress. “Losing you to a bullet scares the hell out of me.”

  Trembling lips brushed hers. So soft. So tender. So much strength in such a gentle touch.

  Too soon, he drew away. His thumb rubbed a circle behind her ear. “If we live through this, I’m not going to want to turn you loose.”

  Tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Then don’t.”

  A burst of gunfire spun him for the window. “Dammit. Show yourselves, you cowardly bastards.”

  A bullet ricocheted in the room, pinging off the walls until it found the liquor bottles by the door. Quinn’s gaze snapped to the sound, then to the scrap of petticoat in her hand.

  He scrambled for the crates, shooting her an order. “Make more of those.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Dropping to a knee beside her, he yanked the cork from a bottle with his teeth. Then he stuffed a strip of fabric into the neck, leaving a long tail. “I’m gonna light this place up like a bonfire.”

  ****

  Please—stay down. The desperate plea in Quinn’s voice kept Dulce plastered face-down on the floor. Brief bursts of light flickered on the walls. Each one outlined Quinn for the guns outside.

  Smoke burned her lungs. Gunfire throbbed in her temples. The occasional scream lanced through her, but none of the tortured cries came from Quinn, gracias a Dios.

  The beads in her pocket sped through her fingers, keeping pace with the words in her head. She would recite a million novenas if that would keep him safe.r />
  Not until a thunder of hoof beats and shouts in English erupted beyond the window did she raise her head.

  Quinn’s Colt jumped once and then stilled. As the hoof beats faded, he pivoted and slumped against the wall, gun hanging limp at his side. A long, shaky breath wound through pursed lips.

  Heart battering her ribs, Dulce forced herself to her knees. Quinn’s eyes slid open. In two long strides, he wrapped her in trembling arms and crushed her to his chest. She pressed even closer to the heartbeat outpacing hers while his cheek made a pillow of her hair.

  While their pulses slowed together, Dulce absorbed Quinn’s embrace. A warm tingle displaced the trembling. When he tipped her chin and sought her lips, comfort, peace settled around them both.

  Once more, he broke the kiss too soon.

  She aimed a plea at green eyes. “Do that again.”

  “Why?”

  “I am trying to decide if I like it.”

  A sparkle of mischief lit Quinn’s gaze. “Rodrigo didn’t teach you about kissing?”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. “He taught me many things, but not that.”

  The unrepentant rogue grinned. “Then I’m a happy man.”

  ****

  By dawn, the sparse brush beyond the wall no longer smoldered. The rectory, the church, the mission still stood—blackened a mite on the north side, but the first rain would wash away the soot.

  Not that anyone would be around to notice.

  Bull’s-Eye snuffled at Quinn’s singed cheek. Carelessness and hurry didn’t mix. “Dammit.” He pushed the horse’s head away. “I’m happy to see you, too, but aim for another spot.”

  The gelding grumbled, showed Quinn his rump, and aimed for Pedro.

  Captain Jeffries chuckled. “We’ll send wagons and an escort in a few days. Think you can keep the place standing that long?”

  Quinn frowned. “Boys gonna run those owlhoots to ground?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then we’ll manage.”

  The captain’s mustache twitched as he pulled a folded document from a vest pocket. “Might need this.”

  Quinn stared at the paper, teeth punching a hole in his lip…until a flutter of yellow cloth halfway across the courtyard grabbed his attention. Dulce stood by the door to the rectory, hands clasped at her lips, big, dark eyes staring a hole in his heart. She had surprised him more than once. What other surprises would he uncover in the length of a lifetime? “No thanks, Cap. I’ve got a promise to keep.”