Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (41 page)

      
“I only hope to find her quickly and return her to the convent, General,” Rafe replied in flawless French.

      
Woll's thick brows raised in surprise. “You are French, with a Spanish surname?” He was obviously intrigued.

      
“I am a New Orleans Creole.” Rafe embroidered on the tale about a wronged sister hiding in San Antonio with a dastardly Yankee. “Her name is Rosa Louisa and she has long black hair and dark brown eyes. Quite a beautiful child, actually.” He hoped that would be vague enough to fit at least a hundred girls living in the city.

      
Woll stroked his goatee and appeared to consider. “We captured the city only this morning, Mr. Flamenco, and I have a thousand details to attend to, not to mention reports to my superiors in Mexico. I will need time to make inquiries. If you would be so indulgent as to allow me a day or two?”

      
After agreeing to meet the general for luncheon the following day, Rafe left the harried conqueror to his reports. Carrying a safe conduct pass signed by Woll himself, he headed toward a cantina across the plaza to wash down the trail dust. Perhaps, he might pick up some information about Flores in the bar.

      
The cantina was dark and smelled of the sweat of men and horses. The elderly
Tejano
behind the bar smiled nervously. Rafe ordered a whiskey and headed for a rickety table in one corner where he might eavesdrop on several small groups of Mexican soldiers. They were the only patrons except for a couple of elderly
Tejanos
and one wizened Anglo.

      
The soldiers discussed the long march from the Rio Grande that had started the twenty-fourth of August and the battle early that morning in which a number of their companions had been killed. Over fifty Texian men, including a number of the Republic's illustrious politicians, had surrendered when they saw the impossible odds.

      
“Where have they put the bastards?” one soldier who was not on the plaza during the fighting asked.

      
“They're under guard in a big house on the corner of Commerce and Soledad Streets—the house they fired on us from.”

      
“I hope the general puts them on bread and water,” a third said with a nasty oath. A small series of guffaws punctuated the remark.

      
Then, the man who had described the battle said, “I don't think they'll starve—after all, General Woll is a gentleman. When the women of the city offered to feed the prisoners, he could scarcely refuse. It saves our rations and keeps the civilians happy.”

      
“Yes, and the general is also a Frenchman with an eye for beautiful women. That tall silver blond widow lady leading the delegation didn't exactly hurt their cause either.” Everyone laughed and traded jocular comments about the tall blonde Yankee with strange colored eyes who had marched into the general's office earlier in the day demanding to care for the prisoners.

      
Rafe sat frozen in his chair, the drink in front of him forgotten as his heart hammered in his chest. He listened further. The widow ran a boardinghouse near the end of Commerce Street and she spoke to Woll in fluent French! It had to be Deborah! I must have missed her in his office by a matter of an hour or less!

      
It was nearing the dinner hour now. Would she be at her boardinghouse or on the plaza where the prisoners were? Unsteadily, Rafe got up and walked to the door on wooden legs. He would go to the prisoners' quarters directly across the square and see if she was there, then proceed down Commerce Street to her boardinghouse if she was not. His thoughts were jumbled and a part of his mind screamed at him to think this through before he blundered in on her. But he could not stop himself—not after six years.

      
Before he knew it, he was nearing the large, low residence ringed with guards. Flashing the safe conduct with Woll's signature on it, he asked to see the officer in charge of the prisoners,

      
“Yes, sir, the captain is in the back, arguing with that widow who the general—”

      
The youth could say no more before Rafe spun on his heel and headed around the side of the building. He could hear the strident voices of his hated enemy Enrique Flores and Deborah raised in anger. Getting a hold on his emotions, he calmed himself before confronting them.
I can't kill Flores here and endanger Deborah and Adam. He's Woll's trusted officer.
Deborah and Enrique did not see him approach.

      
“I'd scarcely attempt to break fifty-three men out of your jail single-handed, Captain.” Deborah's voice was scornful as she addressed Flores in Spanish tinged with a charming New England accent.

      
“Ah, but if you bring in such big pots and kettles, who knows what may be hidden in the bottom of them? Now, if you would only let me and my men watch the food being prepared in your kitchens, then we can be certain—”

      
“—of gaining entry to my house, which the general has already forbidden his soldiers to do,” she interrupted fiercely.

      
“Such a beautiful face with such a suspicious mind,” Flores scolded.

      
“A fault she's always possessed, I fear, Enrique,” Rafe cut in smoothly. Every killing instinct he'd developed during six years of survival in the Texas wilderness took over now. He would protect his wife and deal with his enemy later.

      
Deborah froze, afraid to turn and face the owner of the low, silky voice addressing Flores in clipped Spanish. She watched the rapid play of emotions sweep over the captain's face as he turned to confront Rafael. Surprise, amazement, perhaps fear or anger—she could not tell which. Then he composed his features into an insolent mask.

      
“An incredible resurrection, but not without cost, I see,” Enrique said to Rafe as he inspected Rafe's scarred, sun-darkened face.

      
“A cost you will pay dearly for when the time is right,” Rafe replied evenly, one hand resting casually on the Patterson Colt at his side.

      
Flores smiled, glancing from Rafe to the woman. “You know the Widow Kensington?”

      
“We go back—all the way to Boston, but her name wasn't Kensington then,” he replied carefully. “I haven't seen the lady in six years. You will forgive us if we request a private reunion?” Rafe took a step forward casually, but his stance was menacing.

      
Flores shrugged indifferently. “As you wish, Mr. Flamenco, Widow Kensington.” He flashed Deborah a blinding smile and tipped his hat, then walked past Rafe, whispering as he departed, “Until later, I presume?”

      
As Rafe watched him turn the corner and vanish with a cocky swagger, Deborah observed Rafael, her husband. He was the same arrogant man she'd left in New Orleans but so changed she would scarcely have recognized him except for the silky voice. He was dressed in dusty, trail-worn buckskin pants and scuffed leather boots. A low-slung gun rested negligently on one hip, a big, wicked-looking knife on the other. His black vest and flat-crowned hat were studded with silver conchos, giving him the rakish appearance of a Mexican pistolero.

      
But it was his face that was most dramatically changed. Always swarthy, he was now sun-blackened with small lines at the corners of his eyes. His left eyebrow was cut through with a thin, white scar that ran up toward his hairline. Another thicker scar was visible through the darkening shadow of his beard, running along the right side of his jaw. His curly black hair was badly in need of barbering.

      
A slash of white teeth showed as he smiled slowly, almost hesitantly and pushed the hat back on his head, revealing a few faint gray hairs at his temples. “After all the years and places I searched...if I'd known you were here, I'd have dressed for the occasion,” he said in English, noting the way she eyed his grizzled appearance.

      
“God, Moon Flower, you're more beautiful than ever, if that's possible.” Her skin was no longer the porcelain white he remembered but a creamy pale gold now. Her figure, although still slim, was fuller. She stood facing him, posture ramrod stiff. He knew he must go slowly. “Hadn't we better get to your boardinghouse so you can muster up the ladies to bring the food?”

      
Deborah's thoughts were in chaos and her knees felt like rubber; but she forced one foot steadily in front of the other, avoiding his touch, walking past him toward home.
He already knows where I live. I can't hide from him.
“How did you find me here, in the middle of an invading army?”

      
He walked beside her, drinking in the faint essence of lavender perfume, carefully choosing his words. “I lost your trail six years ago in the war. I've looked all over north and east Texas but I never came southwest. My finding you here was a blessed accident, I'm afraid.”

      
She looked up at him in confusion. “Do you live in Texas now?”

      
His eyes grew hard as he replied. “I left New Orleans for good in the autumn of 1836. I've never been back. I never intend to go back.”

      
“But your family, your life—”

      
“You and Adam are my family, and my life is here now,” he interrupted.

      
She stopped short and said with a mutinous set of her jaw, “How did you know his name? Have you been to the boardinghouse and seen him?”

      
Unable to stop himself, he reached out and took one of her delicate hands in his, stroking the slim fingers as he drew her closer. “Your father told me.” He could feel her stiffen.

      
“I don't believe you!” She jerked her hand away and began to walk briskly once more.
His fingers are callused!
a part of her mind registered in amazement.

      
“I went to Boston this spring. Your father had his agents following me as well as trying to locate you. He let me read your letters to him, Moon Flower,” he replied softly, hearing her sudden intake of breath.

      
“Don't call me that,” she said angrily.

      
“What do you want me to call you—wife?” he added with a taunt creeping into his voice now.

      
Panic flooded her. He could drag her and Adam back to New Orleans or take her son away from her.

      
As if reading her thoughts, he said earnestly, “The reason Adam Manchester wanted me to find you was because he believes I've changed, that I will be a good husband to you now. I have a ranch, Deborah. It's in wild, isolated country, but it's beautiful and successful, too. My partner and I run thirty thousand head-of cattle and sell saddle horses.”

      
“You look more like a border ruffian than a rancher,” she said primly. When he threw back his head and laughed, the familiar sound gave her heart a fierce wrench.
I can't still love him! I can't!

      
Sensing her weakening, he said, “Let's just give ourselves a little time to catch our breath, all right, Moon Flower? You can introduce me to Adam and send out your army of mercy to feed the brave defenders of San Antonio. Then we'll talk.”

      
“What do you want of me, Rafael?” She had to get something straight before she turned her son's world upside down.

      
“Another chance—for me, for us, for our son. I was a spoiled boy when I left New Orleans. I've changed, Deborah. I want a chance to prove that to you both—at Renacimiento. My ranch—our ranch. I built it for you and our children. I always believed I'd find you one day, no matter how long it took. I've never given up.”

      
“Then, you don't plan to take Adam or me to New Orleans?” At least that was something for which to be grateful! She ignored his overture to renew their marriage and his reference to more children.

      
“When I broke with my father he disowned me just as he did Lenore. I'll never go back.”

      
Deborah's eyes shadowed with pain and wistfulness. “I always wanted to write Lenore and Caleb and tell them about Adam, but I was so afraid

      
“That my sister might betray you to me?” he supplied for her. “In a way, she did. When I told her you were pregnant, she and Caleb told me all they knew. They were frightened for you, Deborah. They have two beautiful sons now, but our stupid father will never acknowledge them.”

      
“But he'd acknowledge your son, wouldn't he, Rafael?” she accused.

      
“He'll never get the chance. Adam will grow up to run Renacimiento, not waste his life being a bored Creole dilettante,” he replied with a hint of steel in his voice.

      
“I see you've made all the decisions about our future,” she said stiffly. “What about my business and the life I've built here? I own a prosperous boardinghouse, Rafael.”

      
Damn! “We'll figure out a way to handle it, Deborah. Just give it time,” he evaded. “Is that the estimable establishment?” He pointed to the tall, whitewashed structure they were nearing. It was grand with a wide, cooling veranda circling it and tall oak and cypress trees shading the manicured yard and flower beds.

      
“My partner, Obedience Jones—Oakley now, inherited it from her brother. It was half-finished and shabby when we set to work,” she said with pride in her voice.

      
“You've done wonders,” he replied honestly. Now, he knew what it meant to build something with his own sweat and backbreaking labor. “It must be the most prosperous boardinghouse in the city.”

      
She looked at him in surprise. “You really mean that, don't you?”