Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (2 page)

      
“Lay back, Pa. I'll get it.” Jim slid the drawer open and extracted a portrait, an exquisite miniature of a young woman with long black hair and a porcelain-white complexion. Her large dark eyes and haughty aquiline features were arrestingly beautiful. Looking at the worn old man on the bed, he sighed in defeat. “So this is what the future Mrs. Slade looks like. Hello, Tomasina.”

* * * *

St. Genevieve County, Missouri, August 17, 1836

      
”Miz Charlee! Miz Charlee! Where dat chile be?” Mose swore to himself as he thrashed through the dense underbrush, searching for his young charge, twelve-year-old Chastity Charlene McAllister. “Done gwine off squirrel huntin' agin, make no mattah Mistah Richard Lee packin' an’ Miz Lillian fit ta be tied.”

      
The old man shoved the scratchy ragweed and goosefoot plants aside as he cleared a path toward the sound of a shot echoing from the spring. When he found her, the small child had laid her old musket on the ground and was efficiently skinning a large red fox squirrel. Her brown hair hung in stringy wisps across her face and shoulders where her long pigtail had been torn loose by tree branches and brush. The thin, generously freckled face looked up, a grin splitting it, revealing even, white teeth.

      
“I bagged me three today, Mose. We'll feast good tonight. That oughta prove ta Richard Lee that I can take care of myself in his big ole Texas!”

      
“Yore mama be lookin' foah ya. She doin' poorly, Miz Charlee, whut wif Mistah Richard Lee goin' off 'n all.” The reproof in his voice was softened by the warm light in his eyes as he took the heavy antique firearm from the girl and accompanied her to the farmhouse.

* * * *

      
“Your father let that girl run wild for too long, Richard Lee McAllister, tagging along after you and your wastrel friends, hunting, carousing, Lord knows what all.” Lillian McAllister's slim, elegant hands rubbed together in nervous agitation as she spoke in her soft, melodious voice.

      
Richard Lee smiled his crooked, engaging grin and put his arm around her thin shoulders. “Now, Mama, I know I've been a bad influence on Charlee, specially since Dad died. That's just one more good reason for me to leave. You have Mose and Lizzie to handle the chores for you here. I'll get me a land claim. They're giving away over six hundred acres per single man in Texas now! Free! When I send for you and Charlee, I'll be rich!” He regarded his frail, golden-haired mother, reluctantly meeting the anguished plea in her china-blue eyes. At forty-one, after bearing Richard Lee and his sister, and surviving four stillbirths, Lillian McAllister was like a fragile flower. But she had aged since Micah died, no doubt there.

      
“Texas is a barren wilderness full of wild savages,” she protested.

      
“It's been settled now by hardy frontiersmen from Kentucky, Tennessee, and Louisiana,” Richard Lee countered.

      
“I rest my case,” Lillian replied, arching one delicate golden brow at the youth standing in front of her. The young man looked the way Micah had thirty years ago.
Where did all our dreams go?
she wondered.
The same place Richard Lee's will go someday.
“I need your influence with Chastity, Richard Lee. She'll listen to you about school, dressing like a lady, learning to mind her manners.”

      
Just then the subject of their discussion entered the parlor of the small tidy house, dressed in her elder brother's childhood castoffs, baggy homespun trousers and a brown cotton shirt tied in a loose knot at her waist. Her feet were bare and grass stained, and a smudge of blood reddened her nose where she had rubbed it while cleaning the squirrels. Carelessly swinging her fat braid behind her, she sauntered gracefully across the polished wooden planks onto the braided rug where her mother and brother stood.

      
There was more than a hint of willful rebellion lurking under the surface of her surprisingly husky voice as she said, “Mama, don't keep pesterin' Richard Lee ‘bout that manners business for me, please.”

      
“And why shouldn't I? Look at you, Chastity! The poorest colored boy in the county dresses better than you!”

      
“Smells better, too,” teased her brother, catching a whiff of squirrel entrails and river bottom slime.

      
“Harumph. That all the thanks I get for bringing in three big squirrels for tonight's dinner, Richard Lee! I knocked one out of the top of that ole cottonwood by the bend of the creek. You shoulda seen that sucker drop! Clean head shot, by damn!”

      
“Chastity! You know better than to use such language and act so crudely! Go to your room and I'll have Lizzie heat your bath water. I've laid out a lovely dress for you to wear.”

      
“I only wanted to show Richard Lee I could make it in Texas, Mama. I'm sorry.” As if heading to her execution, Charlee trudged forlornly toward her room, the bath, and the dress.

* * * *

      
Dawn streaked the eastern sky with vivid fuchsias, and reds as the sun ascended in a molten ball of fire. Richard Lee finished tying the last of his packs to his brown gelding's saddle. He had just bid farewell to his tearful mother in the house and was eager to be on his way.

      
‘Time to go, little sis. Gonna be a scorcher again today, and I better get me a good start on the heat.” Charlee was special to him, and seeing the tears welling up in her big green eyes, he leaned down and planted a kiss on her nose. “Now, don't take on so. I'll be a big impresario down there before you know it, an’ we'll all be rich, kitten.”

      
“You can't be an impresario now, Richard Lee,” Charlee replied in exasperation. ‘That was only when Texas belonged to Mexico, and they gave big land grants to men who brought in settlers,” she said with smug twelve-year-old dignity. Then she added teasingly, “You ain't the onliest one who reads newspapers, big brother.”

      
“Well, Texas is an independent country now, little cat, and the Texian government is still offerin' free land, over six hundred acres for a single man! Why, Sis, you can't imagine how big the place is—it goes on clear to sundown. I'll stake me a claim and get me some of them wild mustangs 'n longhorn cows. We're gonna be rich. Just you wait 'n see!”

      
“Then why can't I come along now? I can ride 'n I can shoot. I'm a hell of a better shot 'n you, admit it, Richard Lee McAllister! I can tan deer hides 'n bake bread, skin out a rabbit or pluck a wild turkey clean in two shakes of a mule's ass. I can—”

      
“You sound like one of them terrible river men, with all your braggin' and swearin', Charlee. You know how much Mama wants you to be a lady. You have to stay here and grow up for her, the way she wants. Dad and I were wrong to take you with us so much, like you was another boy. It ain't fittin' for a girl. Look, I promise to send for you as soon as it's safe, and to show you I mean it...” He took her hand and they trudged from the barn down toward the spring-fed creek, where a tall stand of cottonwood trees grew.

      
The tallest one was their carving tree, gnarled and scarred from the use of their whittling knives. Richard Lee and Charlee had recorded all the triumphs and tragedies of their young lives on it; their birth dates, his first girlfriend's name, her first kitten's name, the date he shot his first deer. Now, he gravely took out his knife and attacked a smooth place, carving a large rectangular box on it. Inside the box he carved “G. T. T.,” then his initials, “R. L. M.,” and the date, August 18, 1836. Just below that line in bold letters he whittled “C. C. M.” “As soon as I send for you 'n Mama, you come down here and fill in that date.”

      
“What does 'G. T. T.' mean, Richard Lee?” Her eyes were wide and bright green in the clear morning light.

      
He let out a whoop and laughed. “Men are carvin' it on their barn doors and fence posts from Missouri to Maine, kitten, leavin' the past behind an’ headin' west. G.T.T.—Gone to Texas!”

Chapter One

Bluebonnet Ranch, 1842

      
The afternoon sun was hot for so early in spring, its rays warming Richard Lee McAllister mercilessly as he paced by the side of the pond. Sweat ran down his face, soaking his homespun shirt. The water looked cool and inviting, but he had serious business to transact, no time for swimming. In agitation, he kicked a pebble from the dry ground toward the slope of the pool, where it bounced into the water with a resounding plop and vanished beneath the ripples.

      
“Damn, where's Markham!” Richard Lee swore and paced some more. It was just like that arrogant Englishman to keep him waiting.
A war of nerves, that's what he thinks he's playing. Well,
he told himself,
I grew up hunting in the Missouri woods. I know how to wait.
Remembering home made him think of Charlee. Lordy, she would be eighteen now, a grown-up young lady. He could scarcely believe it possible. The content of her letters gave little indication of the changes he knew must have taken place in her life.
      
“Soon, Charlee, soon we'll all be back together again. I swear it,” he promised her, whispering in the still afternoon heat.

      
Engrossed in his nervous pacing, the young man never heard the faint rustle of the willows behind him—a careless error for an old squirrel hunter. Then a twig snapped in the still heat, bringing him out of his reverie. He pivoted on one foot, but he was too slow; the blow aimed at the back of his head caught him in the temple instead. Richard Lee dropped to the rocky earth.

      
As he nudged the still form with his elegantly booted foot, Ashley Markham observed absently that McAllister looked taller sprawled full length.

* * * *

      
A faint breeze gave welcome relief from the glare of the sun that baked the earth falling in chunks onto the coffin. The large crowd was silent out of respect for the deceased. Jacob Carver had been one of the “Old Three Hundred,” an original pioneer who had come to Texas in November of 1821 to settle on Stephen Austin's vast land grant. Like most of the industrious Yankees Austin sponsored, Jake prospered in the wild new land of his adoption. He had arrived in Texas with three cows and two ponies. Now Carver Plantation ran thirty thousand head of cattle over forty thousand acres. Carver had been a county commissioner and a member of the upper chamber of the Republic's congress for the past year, until his untimely death at the age of forty-six.

      
Jim Slade looked across the clearing, over the gaping wound of the grave that was now being closed, but his attention was not on the burial. For as long as he could remember, his own life had been filled with sudden death. Rather, his gaze was drawn to the woman standing on the far side of the grave, Jake Carver's young widow, Tomasina.

      
He swore to himself as he studied her stoically composed face.
Damn, she's still the most beautiful woman alive
. The passing of six years had only refined the cameo perfection of her features. Slade’s preoccupation with bittersweet memories abruptly ended when his companion, Leandro Velasquez, cleared his throat.

      
“Everyone is leaving, Jim. Do you wish to offer your condolences to the widow?” He shifted his weight uncertainly, noting the faraway expression on his boss' face and the way Slade's eyes followed Tomasina Carver as she walked toward the waiting carriage. With a shock, Lee thought,
He's still in love with her.

      
Slade ran his fingers through his hair and donned his hat. He looked at the slim, dark youth and said, “What, Lee? Oh, yes, I suppose it's expected that I call on her, but not today. In the press of this crowd she has too many people to cope with already. Later.”

      
Slade waited and brooded for almost a week, then rode into San Antonio once more and reined in Polvo by the big stone and mortar house on Soledad Street, just off the Main Plaza. When old Don Simon had died, the house had gone to his daughter and her husband. Now the young widow resided in the lovely Spanish mansion, where she had first met Jim Slade.

      
From her sitting-room window Tomasina watched him dismount with the careless ease of a man born to ride. “So, Diego, at last you come to me,” she breathed low, then gave a soft, exultant laugh.

      
At Jake's funeral mass, she had watched Jim surreptitiously. He seemed older and more guarded. Well, it had been six years. But his long, lean body with its corded muscles still resembled a young cougar, poised, restless, ready to lash out. Dangerous. Yes, even as an uncertain youth Jim Slade had been dangerous. As a man of twenty-five, he would be a most formidable enemy. Ashley had better take care, she mused.

      
Tomasina considered her silver-gray dress trimmed with jet beads. She inspected her appearance critically as she smoothed the rustling pale silk. The subdued colors of mourning favored her gleaming black tresses and clear ivory skin. Patting the thick coil of hair at the nape of her neck, she glided to the door.

      
Tomasina made a grand entry. As she descended the spiral stairs to greet Jim in the foyer, she remembered their first meeting. It had been noisy with music and laughter, the joyous sounds of life. Soon it would be so again.

      
As he watched her float down the winding steps, Jim fought a sudden impulse to spring up and clasp her ethereal beauty in his arms.
Get a hold of yourself, Slade—you're not a green boy anymore,
he told himself. He stood patiently at the foot of the stairs, his lips twisted cynically into a half smile.