Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) (9 page)

The cowardly white man did not deserve such a woman. But the children. . . . Cougar could see four little light-haired, blue-eyed ones staring back at him like cowering rabbits in the grass. He himself had been orphaned by white hunters, and he remembered suddenly how lonely that small brown boy had been.

But what was that to him? Cougar caught the woman’s arm, dragged her toward his horse. Around him, wagons burned and dead white bodies sprawled, their limbs at odd angles. Arrows sticking out of them. Blood and smoke seemed to be everywhere. Shouting, painted warriors ran here and there, scalping, grabbing up guns and booty. They had taken the white camp by surprise, and the gringos were too soft for this hard land.

The warriors were mounting up now. All of the enemy left alive were the woman he pulled across the earth, the man and children hiding in the grass. One of the braves gestured, smiled, indicating they would all like a chance to mate the woman.

Annoyed, Cougar shook his head. He watched her attempt to pull her worn dress up to hide her full breasts. He did not want to share his woman. He would take her back to become his wife, produce many strong sons for him. Perhaps he had already planted a ripe seed in her belly.

He tried to tell her she should be pleased and proud to be chosen by a warrior of many coups, many battle honors. Cougar knew the white man would not want the woman now that an Indian’s seed had filled her.

She did not seem to understand when he told her that. She looked at him as if she would like to go, then wept and begged in her strange tongue, shaking her head. The children. It dawned on him that she was begging not to be taken from her children. He could not take the children, too. This was a lightning raid. Any who could not keep up would have to be killed along the way or abandoned.

She fell on her knees, clasped his legs, begging; no longer proud. And because he had himself been orphaned, his heart softened and he did not take her.

Instead, he slipped his necklace of cougar claws and teeth around her neck, explaining that no Apache would harm her upon seeing it.
“Skii” ni nzhqq,”
he whispered in Apache. I love you.

She seemed to understand, smiled at him.

He touched his scarred, brown chest with his finger, “Ndolkah, Cougar,” he said.

“Ndolkah,” she repeated, fingering the necklace.

When the war party rode out, he left her standing alone on the prairie amid the burning wagons, her family still unseen by the others, hiding in the tall grass.

Forty years? Fifty years? Still Cougar could remember the way the blue-eyed woman had looked standing there in the carnage, still holding her torn dress over her fine breasts, her pale, long hair blowing about her naked shoulders.

Memories. Cougar stared into the fire, remembering that scene, that woman. To his very last breath, he would never forget her. He had always regretted his softness of heart, his decision to free her so that cowardly gringo could reclaim her when the braves rode away. He should have stolen her and raised a big family by her.

The old warrior stared into the flickering flames, smoked his pipe. Had he put a child in her belly that long-ago day? If so, that child would be long grown now, might have children of its own. He frowned, thinking his half-breed child would not have been welcome among the whites, would not have been wanted by that man who had watched with cowardice while Cougar mated his woman.

And if there was a half-breed child, there might even be a grandchild, a grandson of some twenty or more winter counts, cousin to Little Bear.

He smiled. Somewhere maybe a young Texan carried as his heritage, one quarter of old Cougar’s blood. Would the boy be blond like the immigrant woman? Would he look just a little like his grandsire? The thought cheered him some.

Memories.
All a man had left at the end of life were memories and the bloodline he passed on. All his kin was dead now but Little Bear . . . unless he had left that white girl with child.

Memories. Old Cougar thought of the trio of gringos and of what they had done to the last remnants of his family. His fists clenched around the pipe as he remembered.

Revenge.
The Mescalero would set a trap like the big woolly spider. Sooner or later, the three outlaws would come back this way and the scouts would be watching for them. Cougar renewed his vow as he stared into the fire. For what they had done to his son’s family, the old man would extract payment a thousand times over. When the braves finished torturing them, those three white men would beg for the mercy of death!

Just what had he gotten himself into? Bandit thought about it as he sat on a bench outside the door of the library of the big Falcon hacienda. This whole loco scheme of taking a dead man’s place had seemed like a great idea last night when he was getting that tattoo in Monterrey. But in the clear light of morning, Bandit wasn’t so sure.

What in blue blazes was Romeros saying to the old man that was taking so long?
No, it isn’t that long, Bandit reminded himself, studying the mark of the falcon with wings spread in flight. It just seemed like he was waiting forever while his fellow conspirator announced to the old. don that the long-lost son was found.

They were taking a chance in trying to fool this rich and powerful family, Bandit thought, staring down at the little tattoo on the back of his left hand. He felt deep guilt, remembering. He shrugged. The past couldn’t be changed, and that tragedy hadn’t been his fault. What he needed to concentrate on now was whether Romeros would be able to convince the old man.

No. Bandit shook his head. Romeros’s part was small. When it got down to the crux of the matter, it was Bandit himself who had to fool Falcon. Could he?

If the old man figured out their plot, he would probably throw both of them into a Mexican jail to rot away the rest of their days. Bandit shivered, thinking about the secret. If the old man knew that, with his money and power, he could probably have them both killed and no one would ever question his power to do so.

Even Romeros didn’t know how it would come out. Uncertainly, Bandit stood up, looked toward the front door at the end of the hall. It led out onto the porch. He suddenly realized that it wasn’t just the gamble he was taking that made him uneasy.

It was wrong, deeply wrong, to try to fool two sad old people who were so eager to believe Bandit was their long-missing son. Bandit had lived a hard, lonely life, sometimes doing things he wasn’t proud of, sometimes on the doubtful side of the law. But he’d never stooped this low before. Even an ornery hombre, such as he was, had a few principles.

Bandit looked from the closed library door, down the long hallway to the front entry. He wouldn’t be part of this rotten scheme. To hell with the greedy Romeros!

Bandit started down the hall.

“Hombre, where are you going?”

Bandit turned at the sound of the door opening, of Romeros’s voice. He looked back at the lean, swarthy foreman peering at him from the library.

“Señor Falcon is waiting to see you.” Romeros jerked his head toward the room behind him.

Undecided, Bandit looked from Romeros to the front door. “I—I don’t know, maybe—”

“The
patrón
is waiting!” The man frowned menacingly.

Bandit looked from Romeros to the entry. Everything in him told him to stride out that door, spurs jingling, to forget about this deceitful plot. But in his mind, he saw the elegant girl’s face. The rich young Tony Falcon might claim her; a bastard gunslinger never could.

That decided him. Bandit took a deep breath, followed Romeros into the library.

Even though it was the first day of May, a fire crackled in the big fireplace to ward off the morning chill. A tall, old man rose stiffly from the fine leather sofa before the blaze, a proud Castilian with hair now turned silver and eyes as pale blue as Bandit’s own.

I would have known the old blue blood from his bearing alone, Bandit thought. And there was a long moment of silence as the two regarded each other, a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“Tony?”

Maybe it was the pain in the faint voice, the hope in the proud, lined face. Without thinking, Bandit crossed the rich carpet, clasped both the old man’s hands in his, “Papa?”

For a long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. Bandit felt the other’s hands tremble as he clasped them in his big ones. All his life he had looked for his father, wondered about the blood that pumped through his veins. One thing he knew as he looked into the eyes of the elderly aristocrat; if he could choose his own relatives, he would ask for nothing more than to be blood kin to this man. “I—I’ve looked for you all my life,” Bandit said, swallowing hard, “and now I’ve finally found you!”

It was true; it really was true. He blinked back the mist that suddenly blinded him.

Señor Falcon looked down at Bandit’s hands, studying the mark, then back up into his face. His lips trembled as if he might break down, and then he controlled himself with noticeable effort.
“Sí,
of course you’re my missing Tony! Even if you did not have the birthmark, I would have recognized you! You have the Falcon family features!”

And at that point, he threw his arms around Bandit, hugging him to his frail frame, and Bandit had never been so touched. Or so guilty.
Of course he would say that,
Bandit thought sympathetically, looking into the furrowed face. Any man who had looked for a missing son for sixteen years would grab at any straw as if drowning, would want to see a resemblance in a stranger’s face.

He couldn’t look into the hopeful eyes any longer. The guilt was too strong. Bandit disengaged his hands, cleared his throat. “Papa, I’ve always wondered who I really was all these years. I looked for kin in every face.” It was true, he thought, so true. “I’ve always felt like a part of me was missing, that deep inside I was searching for my real family.”

The don patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Oh, my son, there is so much to talk about! How you must have suffered. You must tell me everything!”

Bandit shrugged, staring into the fire. “I don’t remember much. I’ve had a hellish life; drifting, no roots. But now I feel like I’ve finally found where I really belong.” Again it was the truth.

Romeros cleared his throat loudly and Bandit glanced over at him, remembered. “If Señor Romeros hadn’t found me, the vaqueros would have lynched me for a horse thief. I owe him much.”

Romeros chewed a match and grinned broadly. “I am only too happy to reunite my beloved
patrón
with his missing child.”

Don Enrique took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes. “Ah, si, Romeros, I forget about you in the excitement, but I won’t forget your part in this. The Falcons will be forever grateful to you,
amigo
, and there’ll be a rich reward—”

“No,
gracias.”
Romeros held up a restraining hand. “I ask no reward. Making my employer happy is the finest reward of all!”

You rotten hypocrite, Bandit thought with annoyance, rubbing the deep cleft in his chin. Of course Romeros wanted more than a reward. If he controlled the heir, he ultimately controlled the whole Falcon empire. Bandit felt a twinge of conscience as he stared back at the foreman’s grinning face. If you only knew it all, Señor Falcon, he thought.

But at least the old man was happy. He looked as if he might be smiling for the first time in years. “Tony”—Falcon patted Bandit’s arm—“there’s so much to discuss, so much to tell. I want to hear where you’ve been all these years and—”

“It’s a pretty tragic story,” Bandit said with conviction, “Not one a boy should have to live through, have to remember.”

“That’s right,” Romeros broke in. “Don’t question him too much,
señor,
the past may be painful to him. God knows what he’s had to endure growing up.”

Bandit thought about growing up in a parlor house, playing in the dirty halls while Lidah entertained clients behind her closed door.
How in God’s name had she found out match heads were poisonous?
Everyone had thought it was dysentery until she’d admitted to suicide as she’d died. “I—I have endured much.”

Señor Falcon nodded. “
Comprendo,
son. Life for us has been hell, too, especially for your mother.”

Your mother.
Lidah was dead and buried in the town of Gun Powder. Mona had helped him get through that first terrible night. He would never forget the redhead for her tender kindness to a brokenhearted, half-grown kid.

Romeros paced up and down. “Speaking of
la patrona
,” he said politely, “we need to tell her.”

The old man slapped his open palm against his wrinkled forehead. “Of course! In my own excitement, I forgot about the
señora
.” He looked at Bandit anxiously. “We’ll have to break it to her gently—her heart, you know.”

“Then Papa”—Bandit paused, thinking he had never called a man that before, it had a pleasant sound—“you must prepare her so there’ll be no sudden shock.”

The old man nodded. “She is where she always is early in the morning—the nursery.”

Bandit’s face wrinkled with thought. “Did you say nursery?”

Don Enrique took his arm, gestured to Romeros. “
Sí
, every morning for sixteen long years. I think she prays in there for her lost boy. It breaks my heart, I love her so.”

“Well, the
patrona
is finally going to get her prayers answered.” Romeros smiled easily as they walked down the hall, started up the stairs. “God has taken action.”

God or the devil himself?
Bandit thought, looking at the thin, dark foreman as the three of them went down the upstairs hall. Old Falcon bubbled with excitement as he tried to tell Bandit everything that had happened in the sixteen years since little Tony had been stolen from his bed late one night.

The two conspirators waited outside while the old man went in, closed the door.

Bandit rubbed at the tattoo as if to rub it off. “Dammit, what is this you’ve gotten me into? You didn’t tell me he would be such a fine old man, that I would like him so much.”

“You’ll like the
patrona
, too,” Romeros said smoothly. “Her health began failing the day after her only child disappeared. She had him so late in life after they had given up hope of ever having a child. And it was a double tragedy, for they had already lost the don’s younger brother.”

Bandit swore softly. “What kind of snake would kidnap a child?”

Romeros shrugged. “A poor one needing money. Or someone who saw the child as a threat. Anyway, the
Señora’s
heart could give out at any time so we all cater to her.”

“The old man seems to adore her.”

“You will, too.” Romeros promised. “She’s everything a man ever dreamed of in a mother.”

Bandit glared at him. “You should have told me they were such fine, decent people.”

“You didn’t ask.” Romeros moved the match from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Think of it as doing two nice old people a great favor, returning their long missing son. I don’t think she’ll ask many questions either. She’ll be too afraid you won’t be the boy she’s prayed for all these years. Neither of them have that many years left.” He looked at Bandit with eyes as black and hard as obsidian. “Just don’t forget, when you finally do inherit everything, that I helped you and I could tell if you forget to share.”

“You can’t tell without endangering yourself,” Bandit reminded him, running his hand through his light hair.

“I think this is what you
americanos
call a Mexican standoff.” Romeros grinned evilly.

Bandit chewed his lip. “So what do I say if they press me for details of the past sixteen years?”

Romeros shrugged, chewed his match. “Make up a story. Maybe the kidnapper gave you to some family, a rancher, some old trapper. Plead amnesia. Tell ’m the horror of how you had to grow up has wiped most of the past from your memory.”

Bandit wished it had. Sometimes when his mother was drunk, all he got was milk and bread unless the redheaded whore, Mona, fixed him something. He smiled, remembering. Mona Dulaney. Where was she now? Last time he’d seen her, she was still working at Miss Fancy’s in San An tone, but he’d lost track of her after she’d left there. He frowned at the next thought.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Romeros said. “What are you thinking about?”

“A redheaded woman, a school Christmas tree.”

Romeros laughed. “Funny mixture. The woman I could go for, but here in Mexico, we’ve got
piñatas
full of toys and candy instead of trees.”

The memory was too painful to share. “I just remembered a particularly painful Christmas. Saloons and whorehouses do big business during the holidays, you know that?”

“You talk of the most loco things,” the lean foreman complained.

They heard a cry from inside the room, a cry half of amazement, half of joy.

Romeros took the match out of his mouth, frowned. “Hope the
señora
doesn’t have a heart attack over the news. We wouldn’t want the big homecoming to be spoiled by a funeral!”

Bandit grabbed him by the front of his shirt, doubled up his fist. “You’re rotten! You know that? Rotten.”

Romeros held up his hands in front of his gaunt face. “Is that a fact now? You’re a fine one to judge anyone, hombre!”

Of course, that was true. Ashamed, Bandit let go of the man, looked down at his boots.

They heard steps crossing to the door, and the old man flung it open. “Come in!” He gestured. “Come in! The
señora
is waiting.”

Hesitantly, Bandit entered the nursery. It smelled of dust, and the drapes were closed as if the room had been shut off from the world for a long time. There was a crib, a little boy’s clothes laid out in it as if he were expected back at any moment, shelves and shelves of toys, a big rocking horse, a red wagon. Bandit’s painful Christmas had involved a rocking horse not nearly so fine as this one. Tears came to his eyes as he recalled it.

“Tony?”

He turned at the soft voice. The elderly woman stood up from a chair, a rosary dangling from her hand. She had been a great beauty in her day, Bandit realized, but now her black hair had turned to silver and lines of grief had long ago etched her lovely face. This was a great lady even though she was as delicate as a fine, old porcelain doll.

“Tony? Are you really my Tony?” She held out her hands to him, hope and agony in her dark eyes.

She was the Madonna come to life; everything he had always dreamed of in a mother. He had never wanted anything so much as he suddenly wanted to be this woman’s kin. Something deep in his soul told him he had finally found his home.