Destiny's Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Tom brightened, turning and quickly wiping at his eyes, breathing deeply so as not to break down in front of the priest. “What about me? Did she remember me? Ask about me?”

  “Oh, yes. We talk about you often.”

  Tom met his eyes. “Does she . . . still love me? Or does she hate me for not being there when she needed me?”

  The father smiled sadly. “She could never, never hate you, my son. She holds no one to blame. She is just . . . more peaceful now, but I am not sure she can ever get over the memories, the nightmares. She still loves you, Tom, but do not expect the kind of love you are talking about. When you talk to her, you will understand what I am telling you. She is changed, and you must love her from a distance, at least for now.”

  Tom frowned. “What do you mean?”

  The priest put a hand on his arm. “You talk to her. It is something you must talk about alone. And be patient with her, Tom. I am sure you will be. You are such a good and strong young man. The sisters are with her now, helping her get ready to see you. While we wait, I wish to talk to you about something else.”

  “What is that, Father?”

  “You, Tom. I want to talk about you.”

  The young man looked away. “What about me?”

  The priest sighed deeply. “Tell me truly, Tom. Are you a part of this gang of renegades called Los Malos?”

  Tom looked at him in surprise, and their eyes held for a moment before he answered. Tom turned away again. “I cannot lie to a priest.” He looked back at him defiantly. “Yes. I am a part of it—more than a part of it. I am the leader.” He looked around warily, his dark eyes suddenly defensive and cautious.

  The priest put a hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry. No one would suspect, and I care too much for you to ever say a word to anyone. The only reason I suspected is because I remembered how you were when you first brought Juanita here—so full of hatred. And not long after that, the raiding began.” He squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “It is wrong, Tom. You know how wrong it is.”

  Tom swallowed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I know. I try to stop, but I can’t, Father. I keep . . . remembering her . . . the way I found her . . . what they did to her. And it isn’t just Juanita. It was Americans who destroyed my father’s ranch and wealth in Texas and turned him and the family into wandering nomads. My father has never been able to quite get back on his feet since then. The Americans seem to think they are superior to anyone with dark skin.” He shook his head. “My father was one of the first settlers in Texas. He lost a wife and two sons and a son-in-law there. He struggled against Comanche raids, drought, disease . . . and I lost my first wife there, to cholera. We fought so hard to make it work, and then they just came along one day and said we had to leave.” He sighed deeply. “I am sorry, Father, but I cannot forget those things or forgive them. Perhaps someday I will be able to, but not yet. If I go to hell for it, then so be it.”

  “I do not believe God would send you to hell, my son. If I, mortal soul that I am, can see the goodness in your heart, the gentleness in your countenance, the integrity and honesty in Tom Sax, the man, then surely God can see it much more. But what you are doing will not change anything, Tom, and it is wrong to take the lives of people who are perfectly innocent of the atrocities a few others of their kind have committed. Surely you know that. And more than that, the things you are doing will one day lead to your getting yourself badly hurt, perhaps killed . . . or hung. You must stop, Tom. The settlers are gathering their forces, setting traps. They are determined to capture Los Malos. Stop now, before it is too late.”

  Tom shook his head. “No. I made a vow that I would never stop until Juanita is completely well and is my wife. She might be better, as you say, but until we can find the love we shared before this happened, I cannot stop.”

  A nun came into the sanctuary then, announcing that Juanita was ready to see Tom. Both men rose, and the priest took Tom’s hands. “Think about what I have told you, Tom. My prayers will be with you. Give it up, Tom.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Father. But I can’t stop. Not yet.”

  Father Juarez frowned. “They are accusing you now of raping and murdering women and shooting down little children.”

  Tom’s eyes widened, and his jaw flexed in anger. “We have not done those things.” He drew his hands away. “Father, I swear to you, we have not done those things. It is someone else!”

  The father reached out and touched his arm. “I did not say I believed it, Tom. I am telling you how dangerous it is getting. You are hunted men now. It is only a matter of time before you are caught.”

  Tom’s breathing quickened with the desperate anger of being accused of things he had not done. He held the priest’s eyes. “It does not matter. If I cannot have Juanita, nothing matters.”

  The priest sighed sadly and turned. “Come. I will take you to her.” He motioned for Tom to follow, leading him through the sanctuary to the several rooms adjoining it where the nuns resided. He led Tom to one of the wooden doors and stopped in front of it. “Remember,” he said quietly, “be very patient. Remain calm. It has not been long that she has been so much better. Do not touch her unless she wishes to be touched.”

  Tom nodded, his heart pounding with anticipation. Juanita! She was better. She would know him. Surely she would get well now and they could be together in the way he had always dreamed of being with her. The priest left, and Tom lightly tapped on the door.

  A small voice told Tom to come in, and he suddenly felt weak and sweaty. He slowly opened the door, overwhelmed with love and desire at the sight of Juanita sitting near a window, wearing a cream-colored lace dress and looking to Tom like nothing short of an angel. Her dark hair was brushed out long and shining, and her milky dark skin looked creamy, her complexion more perfect than he realized. With the little weight she had gained she was the comely young woman with whom he had fallen in love. The terrible gaunt look was gone, as were the circles under her beautiful brown eyes.

  At first they just stared at each other, but then she looked down at her lap. Tom quietly closed the door, then stepped closer.

  “Don’t come too close,” she said quietly.

  He frowned, feeling suddenly awkward and almost afraid. She seemed so delicate. He wasn’t sure what to say, how she might react to him. “You . . . you look so beautiful, Juanita. It’s true then? You . . . know me now?”

  She kept her head down. “It is true. I . . . remember things. The only thing I do not remember is the many days . . . after they . . . first came. And I do not remember your coming for me . . . or my first weeks here.” She twisted her hands. “I am just sorry about the way you must have found me—”

  Her voice broke and his heart went out to her. He wanted so much to move closer, to hold her. But she looked as if she might run away at any moment.

  “It’s all right, Juanita. None of it matters. Surely you know that. If anything bad comes from this, it is that you should hate me for not coming sooner. Every time I think of it . . . that I could have saved you from all of it . . .” His voice began to choke. “It eats at me inside,” he almost hissed, “until sometimes I think I will be sick to my stomach. I will never forgive myself. Never! And no man could be more sorry.”

  She shook her head, wiping at a sudden tear. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You could not have known. I have never blamed you, Tom.”

  He stepped just a little closer, kneeling down. “Look at me, Juanita. Please look at me and tell me you forgive me.”

  She swallowed, sniffing and meeting his tear-filled eyes with her own. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said sadly, wiping at still another tear.

  Their eyes held, and she felt flushed with embarrassment at the realization of how he must have found her, what he knew had happened to her. But he looked so forlorn himself that she could not help obeying his request that she look at him.

  “Tell me you still love me, Juanita,” he said in a near whisper. The statement wa
s almost begging.

  Her small body jerked in a sob and she looked at her lap again. “I will always . . . love you. As the most wonderful man I have ever known; as a good friend and as someone with whom I once could have been happy. I love you more dearly than anyone I will ever know again. But I cannot love you in the way you mean. That . . . that is all over, Tom.”

  His heart beat so hard he could feel it. He wanted to grab her, shake her, squeeze her close to himself and order her not to say such things. He felt a rush of fear and desperation at the words.

  “Don’t say that, Juanita. You’re only saying it because the bad memories are still so fresh in your mind. In time—”

  “No. Time will make no difference. I am stained. The only way I can make up for it is to live a life of purity from now on. Perhaps Father Juarez did not tell you. I . . .” She continued to twist her fingers, staring at her lap again. “I have decided to stay right here at the mission. . . to be a nun. There is peace here. I can be purified. God will remove my stains—”

  “No!” He stood up then. “Don’t talk that way! I need you, Juanita.”

  She shook her head, more tears coming. “You are a good man . . . a strong man. You will love again, and—”

  “I will not love again! Don’t do this to me, Juanita, please. All these months I’ve waited for you to get better, visited you faithfully. Just give it time, Juanita.” He reached out and touched her shoulder and she jerked away, jumping up from her chair and moving away from him.

  “Please don’t . . . touch me,” she whimpered, backing up and looking at the floor.

  He breathed deeply for control, clenching his fists in despair and helplessness. “Juanita, I love you. I love you just the same as I loved you before any of this happened. To me nothing is different.”

  “But it is,” she whimpered. “It is all different and it cannot be changed.” She crossed her arms in front of her, beginning to breathe in rapid, frantic gasps. “It cannot be changed! I am staying here, and I will never . . . never marry. I am so sorry. I love you. I truly do. But I love you only as a good man who helped me.”

  He just stared at her, sensing that if he touched her again she might become overly upset.

  “Juanita, please don’t send me away with no hope for the future.”

  She sniffed, wiping at her tears with shaking hands. “I cannot. . . give you that kind of hope,” she squeaked. “I am so sorry. Go back to Colorado . . . to your father. Someday you will find another—”

  “No,” he said firmly but calmly. “There will not be another. Unless I can have you, I will not have any woman at all.”

  She felt her cheeks flush again, feeling sad that Tom was so beautiful standing there, looking so lonely and vulnerable. No woman could ask for a better or more handsome man. But she could not bear the thought of even this gentle man doing to her what the horrible men had done to her. Her own shame was so great she could think of nothing more than atoning for what had been done, sure that giving her whole life to God would help erase the ugliness, the horror of it all.

  “Then I . . . must pray for you,” she said in a shaking voice. “It is . . . all I can do.” Her dark eyes turned pleading. “The war is over, Tom. I am trying to also end the war in my soul. If you truly love me, you will understand. You will go on with your life.”

  A tear slipped down his cheek. “I have no life without you. But I will honor your wishes,” he said, straightening and speaking in a voice full of resignation. “You are right. I do love you enough to respect your wishes in giving yourself to the mission and to God. But it leaves me with nothing; nothing but emptiness and hatred. Death means nothing now.” He fought another urge to go to her and hold her, turning instead and walking slowly to the door, staring at it as he spoke. “I am glad you are better, Juanita. I have that much to be glad about. I suppose what you have decided is just another punishment for me, a proper one. I don’t deserve to have you now. I failed you.”

  “Don’t say that,” she whimpered. “It has nothing to do with you, Tom. You must believe me. It is just . . . how I am . . . what I feel. I would not be a good wife for you now. What I am doing—it is best for both of us.”

  He sighed deeply, shaking his head. He opened the door.

  “Tom!”

  He turned to take a last look at her, so beautiful, so precious. How he loved her. How he wanted her.

  “Will you . . . come back?”

  His dark eyes moved over her and he swallowed against a great, aching lump in his throat. “There is no reason to come back,” he said quietly. “You have made your decision. It would only make it all harder if I came back.”

  “But . . . how will I know if you are all right?”

  He struggled against more tears. “It won’t matter, will it?”

  Her chest jerked in a sob. “It will always matter,” she whimpered.

  “But not for the right reasons. Good-bye, Juanita. I love you. I will always love you.”

  “Good-bye,” she whispered. “Thank you . . . for what we had . . . for helping me . . . bringing me here. You are a good man, Tom Sax. I will pray for you. One day you will also be healed. You will love again. I know it in my heart.”

  He just shook his head, turning and going out. He felt as though a stone was tied to his heart. Nothing had turned out as he had hoped. He told himself that perhaps in time it would all change. He could come back in a month or two, and she would think differently. Yet after what she had been through, perhaps he had no right coming back again and trying to change her mind. If staying at the mission and becoming a nun would help her and make her happy, who was he to ruin it for her? But without her, there could be no joy in life for him. The only relief he could get now would be death. He would go and find it, meet it gladly just as his own father would do if he lost Sarah.

  Tom walked out, saying nothing to Father Juarez. He mounted his horse to ride back to the mountains and rejoin his outlaw friends. There would be more hell to pay.

  Juanita watched from a window, sinking to her knees and weeping bitterly, grasping her rosary and praying in great earnestness for Tom Sax.

  • Chapter Eighteen •

  “Oh, Caleb, I’ve ruined it all. I’ve ruined it!”

  Sarah lay in bed, perspiring heavily and putting a hand to her chest as though the gesture would somehow help her breathe better. The spring of 1848 was not really a spring at all, but rather a miserable continuation of winter, which had refused to leave and had brought a late, wet storm, as well as another bout with pneumonia for Sarah Sax. This occurred when Caleb was preparing to sell whatever excess items and horses he could and pack what was left into a wagon and head north to Fort Laramie. There they had planned to join one of the several wagon trains that headed for California and Oregon every year.

  Caleb had heard plenty of stories about more and more people heading farther west every year, and spring was the time to leave if one wanted to get over the Sierras before early snows hit those ominous mountains. But Sarah had taken ill, and Caleb knew that even if she again survived the pneumonia, she would be left weak for several weeks, too weak to make a trip west and suffer all the hardships that would involve. She simply would not be strong enough in time for the journey.

  “You haven’t ruined anything,” he assured her. “Besides, little Jessica is probably too young. It might be dangerous for her, too. Maybe this is God’s way of telling us this just isn’t the year to go.” He leaned close over her bed, kissing her cheek.

  Tears ran out of her eyes and down the sides of her face into her hair. “But it’s always . . . next year. And you want so much to find out about Tom. I don’t know why you put up with me.”

  “Sarah, stop it.” He grasped the sides of her face. “You’re worn out and sick, and you’re making too much of it. All that matters is your health.” He felt the unwanted lump in his throat, the desperation that always engulfed him when he feared for her life. All winter she had suffered more than usual from the unrelenting
pain in her joints that made it difficult sometimes for her to even get out of a chair. Now the pneumonia. “Just get well, Sarah,” he told her, his voice full of emotion. “You get well, and next winter we’ll pamper you like a woman of royalty. We’ll get you through the winter and then get you to California.” He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. “From all the things I hear about California, it’s the best place in the world for you, if I can just get you there. I can’t think of anything better than a place where there is always sunshine and warm weather. They say sometimes you can smell the air off the ocean.” He swallowed back the lump. “Remember how we used to love Lake Michigan when we were little, how we could smell the water and the fish sometimes?”

  She managed a dim smile. “That was . . . such a long time ago,” she whimpered. She began coughing, the deep, choking cough that made her have to sit up and bend over. Caleb held her, smoothing the long hair back from her face. There was a hint of gray in her tumbling red-gold tresses. He held her close, cradling her head against his chest until the awful coughing subsided. It left her even more weary, and he helped her lie back against the pillow, fluffing it for her with one hand while he supported her with the other. She settled back and Caleb picked up a jar of ointment a traveling doctor had left with them.

  “Oh, Caleb, that stuff smells so awful.”

  He unbuttoned her gown. “Soon as this fever goes down I’ll bathe you and wash your hair.” He dipped his fingers into the greasy salve and began gently rubbing it onto her chest, his dark skin a stark contrast to the soft, lily-white skin of her breasts.

  He leaned close again. It was the middle of the night, and he wore only the bottoms of long underwear, his broad, muscled chest bare. The sight of Caleb’s handsome face, his perfect build and still solid body, all brought a pain to her heart, the pain of not being a woman who could match him physically.

  He gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re my best friend, Sarah Sax. You have been that since I was nine years old. I need you in so many ways.” His eyes teared. “Get well, Sarah. That’s all that matters. I’ll be right here for whatever you need.”