Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (55 page)

      
Melanie's pretty mouth made a dainty moue. “Hardly, Papa! He was an absolute beast, treating me as if I were a child.”

      
“A grave mistake for certain,” he agreed solemnly.

      
She dimpled at him. “Oh, Papa, I'm so glad to have found you again!”

      
The worshipful delight in her expressive little face tugged at his heart. “And I am so glad I found you, princess.”

      
Her lower lip quivered for an instant as she said, “If only
Grandmère
and
Tante
Therese could have come, too. We could be a family again.”

      
“We've been over that, Melanie,” Rafe replied gently. “Losing two people you love is very hard, especially so suddenly; but you must remember all the good times you had with them and how much they wanted you to be happy. And I promise you, you will be happy in your new home, little one.”

      
With the mercurial temperament of a child, her expression changed from tearfulness to pleading. “I still don't see why I must live in the same house with
her
. Couldn't we live in another house, close by but separate? She was so mad at you and me in New Orleans. Why does she want me now? She has her own little boy.” Melanie couldn't bring herself to say Deborah's name.

      
Oh, Lord, Deborah, you will need the patience of your Puritan saints to win her over
, he thought woefully. Aloud he replied, “Deborah wasn't angry with you, Melanie. She and I had a disagreement, but it wasn't your fault. Deborah wants you and Adam to grow up like a real brother and sister.”

      
“You're my papa and his, too, I know, but she isn't my mother,” Melanie insisted with the stubborn logic of a child.

      
“Melanie, who loved you more, your mother or Aunt Therese?”

      
Melanie stared at him, her eyes beginning to glaze with tears. “You know
Mère
never loved me. She never even wanted me to live with her, but
Grandmère
and
Tante
Therese did. They loved me.”

      
“Deborah wants you to live with us. She will love you, too, just as they did, if you give her a chance, Melanie. Will you try, princess?” He held his breath.

      
Swallowing a tight lump in her throat, she nodded glumly. “I'll try, Papa.”

* * * *

      
The midday meal at Renacimiento was about half over and Adam had spilled his milk only once. Deborah was counting it a good omen, when she heard the sounds of hoof beats out front.

      
Adam, who had been quite excited about his father’s return with a new sister, jumped up from his chair, overturning his milk again. “They're here, they're here!”

      
Lucia reached her hand across the table to Deborah. “Don't look as if you're going to an execution, Deborah. She's only a little girl.”

      
“So Joe told me,” Deborah replied in a shaky voice. It had been six years since she had seen Rafael's small, dark-haired daughter. The sullenly beautiful young woman being helped down from the wagon looked alarmingly like a smaller version of Lily Duvall at first glance. Only upon drawing closer could Deborah see how young she was, as well as how tired. Her figure had begun budding, but she was still a very pretty child, not the young femme fatale she tried to appear. Her large gold coin eyes were round with confusion and the reserved manner Deborah first thought hauteur was, in fact, fright.

      
Rushing out to greet them, Deborah gave the girl a gentle hug, pulling her close. “Melanie, welcome to your new home. Your father and I want you to be very happy here.”

      
“Yes, ma'am,” came the rote reply with a proper curtsy.

      
“Please, Melanie, I want you to call me Deborah.”
At least for now
, Deborah thought, hoping to win a daughter's love from the lonely little girl.

      
Adam stood back, looking at his new sister in awe. She was taller that he, and dressed like a grown up lady, hardly the boon companion he had envisioned to ride ponies and climb trees!

      
Kneeling, Rafe drew Adam and Melanie to him and made the introductions. “Melanie, this is your brother, Adam. Adam, this is your sister, Melanie. I want you to take special care making her welcome in her new home.”

      
Adam nodded, looking up at Melanie uncomfortably. He positively hated the way she seemed to look down her nose at him. “I can take you down to the corral and let you pick out a pony. Then we could go riding tomorrow,” he said, looking at his father for approval.

      
Before Rafe could reply, Melanie did so. “I don't ride horseback. Ladies in St. Louis ride in carriages.”

      
Adam let out a snort of disgust. “This ain't St. Louis—it's Texas 'n everybody rides, even my mama, ain't that right, Papa?”

      
“Isn't, not ain't, Adam,” Deborah corrected automatically, but before she could deal with Adam's hostility, Rafe interceded.

      
“Melanie, you will have to learn to ride a horse in Texas,” he replied gently.

      
“And I'll be very happy to teach you although I'm not a very good rider. We shall practice together.” Deborah gave Melanie a smile, but the child did not respond.

      
“I'll learn to ride if you say so, Papa,” she said primly, turning to Rafe and ignoring Deborah.

      
“I think you've had enough excitement for now, princess. We'll save the horses and riding for another day. I want you to meet some special friends of mine and then Deborah will show you your room.”

      
Melanie's reactions to Lucia and Joe were as punctiliously correct and cool as they had been to Deborah and Adam.

      
“She's scared to death, poor li'l critter,” Joe said to Lucia later that evening after Deborah and Rafe had taken their children upstairs to put them to bed.

      
Lucia stirred her coffee in perplexity. “That is true, but she's also spoiled and willful. She'll try to drive a wedge between her papa and his wife and son.”

      
Joe snorted. “Rafe's crazy ‘bout thet boy! 'N his woman—why ya know she's all he cud think on fer all th' years they wuz separated.”

      
“Guilt can be a very powerful emotion,” Lucia said cryptically.

* * * *

      
“You never told me she'd be all grown up. She's taller 'n me,” Adam practically wailed.

      
Rafe propped one foot on a split rail of the corral and looked at his son's woebegone expression. “She's twelve years old, Adam. By the time you're twelve, you'll be lots taller than Melanie, I promise.”

      
“But that'll take years,” he said, mulishly digging his hands into his pants pockets. “Anyway, she said she didn't want to go riding with me this morning, even though Joe rigged up that dumb sidesaddle. Said she'd wait ‘til you could take her,” he added accusingly, affixing his father with a baleful stare.

      
Rafe sighed. “Maybe we'll all ride together. Let's go up to the house and see.” With Adam in tow Rafe headed toward the kitchen where the women were working.

      
Melanie had been at Renacimiento for two weeks now and was still behaving like a stranger, politely refusing all overtures of friendship from Deborah, Adam, Joe, and Lucia. She clung desperately to her father, constantly vying with Deborah and Adam for his attention. She was a perfect little lady, mannerly and prim, but very distant. At least that's what Rafe had seen, until he reached the courtyard and heard the din of angry female voices coming from the kitchen.

      
“You can't make me do that! It's servants' work! At home in St. Louis—even with
Mère
in New Orleans, we had slaves to wash dishes. It's your job, not mine. My papa owns this ranch!” Melanie's voice was shrill.

      
Rafe sent Adam to the library across the courtyard and entered the kitchen where Lucia and Melanie were embattled. The antagonists stood across a large, sudsy pan full of breakfast dishes.

      
“Here everyone works, Melanie. We have no slaves. And you'll treat Lucia with respect. She's been in charge of this household for six years. She's a partner here, not your servant.” Rafe's voice was soft, but the steel beneath was unmistakable.

      
“I've never cooked or washed dishes,” the child burst out in a desperate wail.

      
“You're living in Texas now, Melanie. When I left New Orleans, I had to learn to do a lot of things I'd never done before either. I worked with my hands in the dirt, sweated, and grew calluses. Men and women have to do hard labor to build a place like Renacimiento. We're building a whole new country. You have a chance to be part of that.” Rafe watched the trembling pout form on Melanie's face. “Now apologize to Lucia for your rudeness.”

      
Deborah stood in the door watching the scene. Part of her was grateful that Rafe had finally discovered the child's spoiled behavior for himself, but part of her ached for a frightened girl. The class system in New Orleans had taught her well. If the Flamencos were above her, people like Lucia and the cowhands were beneath her.
She doesn't understand the rules here,
Deborah thought.

      
Woodenly, hating the tears that overflowed her golden eyes, Melanie lowered her head. “I'm sorry, Lucia,” she murmured. Then, casting a pained glance at her father, she fled the room.

      
Deborah motioned to Rafe to let her go, then followed the child upstairs to her room.

      
The small bedroom was cozy and bright with its soft yellow curtains letting in the morning light like rich butterscotch. Although doubtless not as elegant as her room in her grandmother's brownstone in St. Louis, it was perfect for a young girl, carefully decorated in yellows and rusty reds with dainty white pine furniture. Deborah had worked hard to make her new daughter feel at home. So far, all had been for naught.

      
“Melanie, I want you to tell me how you feel—about the new rules at the ranch, about Adam and me”—she took a quick breath for courage—“and about your mother and your papa and your life in St. Louis and New Orleans. Don't hold anything back.” She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the girl's lustrous raven hair.

      
Melanie's face, buried deeply in the fluffy pillow, raised a fraction. She turned her luminous eyes to look at Deborah—eyes that looked disturbingly like Lily Duvall' s for a moment. Then, her mouth firmed and she asserted control over her tears. No, she was certainly as much Rafael's daughter as Lily's, Deborah thought with a sudden surge of relief.

      
“Why—why do you want to know? Why do you care about me? No one here likes me, now not even Papa...” Her voice trailed off as she fought the tears once again.

      
“And it's especially important to you that your papa love you,” Deborah prompted, not arguing about the child's evaluations of their feelings.

      
“When I was little, when I lived in New Orleans, Papa was the only one who loved me. He'd come and bring presents and throw me up in the air and call me his princess. He'd play with me. Mother…Mother
never did. She never wanted me to be there. When I was very small, she sent me away, after Francois died. She and Papa had these terrible fights and then Grandmother Marie and Aunt Therese came and took me with them to St. Louis. I was happy in St. Louis...” All this last rush of confession came out in rapid French, an unwitting lapse into the language of her early childhood.

      
“But you missed your papa, didn't you, Melanie?” Deborah asked softly, also in French.

      
“
Oui
—I mean yes,” Melanie replied, switching self-consciously back to English.

      
“It's all right to speak French. I love to hear it and speak it again myself.” Deborah smiled softly and was rewarded by the smallest hint of a wobbly smile in return. “Now, tell me about your papa.”

      
It was as if a dam burst. All the child's fears and insecurities spilled out—terror that Rafael had deserted her just as Lily had, then her grandmother's assurances that he still loved her and provided for her. She described her first Christmas in St. Louis when he made a surprise visit and took her back to New Orleans with him to stay for a whole month at the house on Rampart Street. After that, her visits to New Orleans were less frequent; but despite losing all closeness with her mother, she received letters from her father regularly: and, until he moved to Texas, he had visited her several times a year.

      
Melanie knew she was of mixed blood, occupying a unique position on the periphery of white society. Her loving grandmother had explained all that to her at a very tender age. But the worst blow was delivered by Deborah herself on that terrible day of confrontation with Lily. Melanie recalled every detail of the whole tragic scene.

      
“You were a white lady, his wife. My mother was just his mistress. I'm not even really a Flamenco, not legally.” She looked accusingly at Deborah, seeming to realize suddenly that she had bared far more of her soul than she wanted her adversary to see.

      
“You are Rafael's daughter—legally, by birth and blood. But we're not Flamencos—not you, not me. Your father changed his name to Fleming in Texas. We're Flemings, you just as much as I, Melanie. You asked earlier why I wanted to know about you, why I cared.” Deborah hesitated, her heart torn by the cruelty that had shaped this innocent, beautiful child's life.