Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (39 page)

      
By this time both women were crying and smiling at the same time, their overflowing hearts revealed in their faces and voices.

      
“Adam and I are going to miss you, but we'll get by. And without any help from Whalen Simpson. Adam has plenty of men in town who've adopted him—even Jim Slade rides in all the way from Bluebonnet to take him on outings.”

      
“Jehoshaphat! With him 'n thet fancy widder lady fixin' ta git hitched, I 'spect he'll be too busy come fall,” Obedience rejoined sourly.

      
“I admit, I was surprised to hear Jim was courting Tomasina again, after the way she jilted him six years ago to marry old Jake Carver, but I don't see how that will affect Jim's feelings for Adam.”

      
“Harrumph! Thet one's cold as ice 'n mean clear through. She'll try her damblastedest ta git Jim away from yew 'n all his Texian friends, jist yew wait. Whut yew should do is—”

      
“Take Jim away from her,” Deborah interrupted the familiar refrain. “Obedience, honestly, what do I have to do to convince you I'm not in love with Jim Slade, Whalen Simpson, or any man I've met in all of Texas. I can stand on my own two feet, run this boardinghouse, and raise Adam without a man to lean on. Lord knows, you've never needed a man for a crutch. Don't sell me short either.”

      
What Deborah did not say was as significant as what she did say and both women knew it.
I do not love any man I've met in all of Texas
. But what of the man back in New Orleans, the one from whom she had fled?

      
“I’m goin' ta write yew 'n Adam. Shore am glad yew showed me letterin', even if I warn't th' best pupil.”

      
The two women stood looking out over the large neatly planted garden remembering six years ago when they had begun their partnership with a half-finished house and weed-infested grounds.

      
A week after their talk, Obedience and Washington were married by a Methodist circuit rider who stopped in San Antonio on his preaching rounds. Because of the size of the crowd of well-wishers, the ceremony was held in the boardinghouse backyard.

      
“Whooie! Yew plumb take a feller's breath away, Obedience,” Wash Oakley said, placing her on the back of a large tan gelding.

      
Whut he means is liftin' a woman my size onta this pore critter plumb tuk his breath away,” Obedience said to Deborah, Adam, and everyone gathered on the lawn.

      
Wash accepted their laughter in good spirits, just as he and his bride had accepted their congratulations at the wedding banquet Deborah had given them earlier in the day. “It be time ta move on, Mrs. Oakley, if ‘n we figger ta make a good camp on th' San Marcos by tanight.”

      
Wash grinned as he swung into the saddle of his big bay. At six foot seven he was a giant of a man, with a barrel chest and a curly red beard streaked with gray. Even Obedience seemed dwarfed by his imposing bulk and booming voice.

      
“I got me my writin' paper 'n pencils all packed. As soon as I git a minit's peace from this here rascal, I’ll send yew a letter,” Obedience's voice rang out gaily as they set out across the plaza at a brisk trot. Deborah held Adam in her arms so he could wave goodbye over the heads of the crowd.

      
“I wish I had a papa like Wash! He's fought Indians with his Bowie knife and even kilt buffalo with a long rifle,” Adam said, looking down at his mother wistfully.

      
“Killed, not kilt, Adam,” she corrected automatically. Then, as she slowly put him down she said speculatively, “Adam, would you like for Mr. Simpson to be your father?”

      
“Him? Naw. He's just a stable keeper. He don't—doesn't even carry a gun,” he added dismissively.

      
Deborah grinned, both at his grammar correction and his evaluation of Whalen. Still, she felt compelled to say, “Mr. Simpson owns the largest livery in San Antonio. He's a successful businessman, Adam, not just a stable hand.”

      
“I bet he don't—doesn't know which end of a gun the bullet comes out of.” By this time, he was off and running around the side of the house before she had a chance to remind him to change out of his good clothes.

      
“Oh well, he already spilled ice cream on the pants,” she said to herself, relieved to find she and her son agreed about Whalen. But the boy wanted a father, someone big and masculine, a real frontiersman like Wash Oakley, who had bounced Adam on his knee, tossed him in the air, and tickled him—not to mention telling the impressionable lad all sorts of hair-raising tales about wild Indians, outlaws, and grizzly bears. Deborah sighed, thinking of Rafael, wondering what her Texian son would think about his elegant, dandified father back in New Orleans.

* * * *

      
However, Rafael was not in New Orleans. That very afternoon the bone-weary traveler arrived in Boston. As he struck the heavy brass knocker on the Manchester front door, Rafe Fleming laughed to himself. When he had come here six years ago he had been meticulously dressed as a Creole gentleman, quite different from how he looked now, after six weeks of grueling travel on horseback. The butler Ramsey's expression confirmed his surmise. His usually impassive face took on an affronted air. He could not believe the audacity of such a ruffian, coming to the front door!

      
“Sir?” The frigid tone of voice cast an aspersion on the polite form of address.

      
Rafe's unshaven face slashed with a shark like smile. “Don't you recognize me, Ramsey? I'm here to see my father-in-law. You do still work for Adam Manchester?”

      
Ramsey drew himself to stiff attention. “Mr. Flamenco? Of course, sir, come in.” Despite years of Boston propriety he could not quite mask his incredulity.

      
Adam was expected home from the bank momentarily. Rafe paced impatiently after carelessly tossing his dusty, sweat-stained hat on a chair. The butler had been too shocked to take it when he ushered him into Adam's study.

      
Probably put me in here for fear I'd soil the velvet upholstery in the parlor,
he thought with grim humor. Just then the door swung open and the tall, gray-haired figure of Deborah's father stepped into the room. He paused in mid-stride, then reached back and closed the door.

      
“Well, Ramsey told me you'd changed, but I must confess my surprise at how much,” Adam said as he stared at Rafe. His rough buckskin pants, homespun shirt, and scuffed, well-worn riding boots were a decided surprise, as was his unshaven face, which now bore several scars, giving his bronzed countenance a decidedly menacing air.

      
“My apologies for not taking time to change, but after so long on the trail, I was eager to talk with you,” Rafe said, extending his hand.

      
Adam shook it, feeling the hardened calluses. “I assume you've come all the way from Texas, Rafael. Why?” His blue gaze was level and tentative.

      
“It's been a long time since anyone called me Rafael. I go by Rafe Fleming in Texas.”

      
“You've lost your accent as well as your Creole name, I see. I repeat, why come all the way to Boston?”

      
Rafe smiled sadly. “A lot more has changed in the past six years than my outward appearance. I'm a rancher now. In fact, my partner Joe and I have one of the biggest spreads in north Texas. We built it from nothing but a crumbling stone house and a few hundred wild mustangs and long-horns. Now the house is restored, as grand as any built by my grandfather's people, with carpeted stone floors and whitewashed walls. We run over thirty thousand head of cattle and sell the best-trained saddle horses in the Republic.” He paused for a minute, looking at Adam, who remained silent. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've cut my ties with my old way of life and built something on my own.”

      
“And now you want Deborah to share it with you,” Adam finished the thought for him. “I've followed your career, Rafe. My agents reported you killed by savages back in '37. You've got more lives than a cat, I'll grant you that—and I know about your success with Renacimiento.”

      
Rafe's brows rose in surprise. “Even the name. If only your agents have done as well locating my wife.”

      
Adam hesitated, measuring the man who stood before him. “No, they've found no trace of Deborah. That's the truth, but I have heard from her.” He watched Rafe's body tense in anticipation.

      
“Is she well? What about the baby?” In his fear and excitement, he had almost grabbed Adam by the shoulders to shake him. Taking an iron grip on his emotions, Rafe let his hands drop, but he could not hide the naked anguish in his eyes.

      
Adam sighed and turned to his desk. He silently extracted a small leather stationery box from the top drawer and opened its lid. “You may read these. After all that you've gone through, it's your right,” he said wearily, handing Rafe an untidy, water-stained bundle of correspondence.

      
The pages were obviously the worse for their long transit from Texas to Boston, stained, dog-eared, and tattered. “She sends them via Galveston, up through St. Louis, even one posted from New Orleans. My agents have tried every means of tracing them, but she's found ingenious ways to hide her whereabouts.”

      
The letters were in chronological order. The one dated September 6, 1836 brought a brief blaze of joy to Rafe's face as he read that he had a son, but his elation was quickly overshadowed by bitter regret. His son was nearly six years old and he had never seen him. He read on, envisioning Deborah's sorrows and triumphs, seeing as the pages and the years unfolded, how she had matured and become a successful, independent businesswoman, asking help from no one, not even her father.

      
How similar their situations were. They had each made a life in Texas, breaking traditions and family ties.
Does she ever think of me? I wonder. Has she taken a lover?
Rafe shifted uneasily in the chair.

      
Adam left him alone to read and ruminate. It was a very painful, private experience and watching the anguish and wistfulness on that hard ruffian's face touched a chord deep within him.
Damned if I don't hope he finds her after all these years,
he thought, amazed.

* * * *

      
It was lonely with Obedience gone, but Deborah had to admit she seldom had time to brood over her friend's absence. “If only we could find someone to take over the kitchen,” she muttered aloud to herself for the hundredth time. Since Obedience had left, Deborah had doubled as chief cook with only Sadie and one
Tejana
assisting. With all her other duties keeping books, ordering supplies, bartering and bargaining with trades people and Tonkawa hunters, Deborah felt she was neglecting Adam.

      
Just then the subject of her thoughts burst through the door of her office. “Mama, Jim's here to see you!” His shiny black hair hung in curly disarray, wet from the soft, misty rain that had begun to fall early that morning.

      
She stood up and tousled his damp head as he flew into her arms. “Please ask him to have a seat in the parlor and I'll be right out,” Deborah said, then reached down to close her ledger and cork the ink bottle while Adam raced out to do as she asked.

      
When she reached the parlor door, she found an agitated Jim Slade pacing across the carpet. Despite the cool, steady rain he wore no coat and his shirt was decidedly wet. He was stalking around the room like a caged cougar.

      
“Take a seat, Jim, before you wear out my new rug,” Deborah said, smiling in puzzlement. “It's awfully early for a ride into town. Something wrong at Bluebonnet?”

      
Slade stopped and nodded at her, then ran his fingers through his wet, dark gold hair as he answered distractedly. “No, nothing's wrong at the ranch. I've just been thinking...well, I heard you haven't been able to find a woman to take over the kitchen since Obedience left and I think I have the solution to your problem.”

      
“Now, why do I have the sudden intuition it might also be the solution to one of yours?”

      
“I've had this girl, er, young woman working at the ranch for a month or so. Her brother was Dick McAllister.”

      
“You mean that cowhand of yours who drowned?” Deborah asked in puzzlement.

      
“Yeah—his orphaned sister. She's been helping Weevils with the cooking, but an eighteen-year-old girl working and living with a bunch of men—it isn't the best thing for her. Lee said he overheard you telling Paul Bainbridge that you still were looking for a cook. I thought maybe you might want to give her a chance.”

      
“I might at that,” Deborah said, understanding a great deal from her friend's overwrought manner.
So, Tomasina doesn't approve of an eighteen-year-old girl being under your roof. Small wonder!
“You say she can cook. Has she ever worked in a boardinghouse or restaurant?”

      
Jim shrugged helplessly. “Charlee's rather, er, unusual. I don't think she's ever held a position like this before, but she's a marvelous cook!”

      
“Charley?” Deborah's violet eyes widened.

      
Slade fidgeted, spelling out the name the way Charlee had for him.

      
Something was decidedly strange here, but if Jim vouched for the girl, Deborah was willing to try her. Lord knew she needed someone competent in the kitchen.