Nan Ryan (36 page)

It didn’t matter.

He would rather be drummed out of the corps than to see this woman who had awakened an unfamiliar tenderness in him placed behind bars.

“I can’t do it,” he said simply, his shoulders slumping.

“I know,” she softly replied, reading his meaning.

He exhaled heavily and told her, “I have an old, dear friend who lives near Ranger headquarters. We’ll go there, and after you’ve rested—” he stopped speaking, closed his eyes, opened them, “after you’ve rested, I’ll look the other way while you escape me.”

The princess reached out, touched his forearm, and felt the muscles tighten beneath her fingertips. “And if I don’t want to escape you?”

“Don’t. Don’t do this to me,” he said without emotion, kicked the stallion into motion, calling over his shoulder, “Come on.”

Soon they were approaching True Cannon’s modest salmon-colored adobe three miles east of El Paso. Located on a slightly elevated spit of land near the border, the house, which afforded sweeping views of old Mexico and the rugged Franklin range of the Rockies, was at least a half mile from its nearest neighbor.

When the drumming of horses’ hooves intruded on the quiet of the summer evening, the silver-haired True Cannon got out of his chair and rushed out onto the porch. He saw the two horsemen riding toward the adobe in the moonlight. Blinking, trying to see better, he made out the set of Virgil’s shoulders, the tilt of his head.

At once, True began to smile broadly.

He stepped off the porch and hurried out to meet the pair as Virgil swung down and tethered the horses to the hitch rail. Affectionately slapping Virgil on the back, True nodded and smiled at the princess, waiting for Virgil to introduce them.

The princess swiftly stepped in front of Virgil, put out her hand, and said, “Mr. Cannon, I’m Eva. Eva Jones.”

True Cannon glanced at the tall man standing behind her. Virgil shrugged negligently and rolled his eyes. True returned his attention to the princess. Shaking her hand firmly, he said, “Mighty pleased to meet you, Miss Jones. Now y’all come on in the house. We’ll tend the horses later.”

True Cannon supposed that this red-haired woman calling herself Eva Jones was the thieving saloon singer Virgil had been sent to apprehend. So he asked no questions, just welcomed her into his home and fixed them a late supper.

True was more than a little curious as to why Virgil had brought his prisoner home, instead of taking her straight to jail. But he didn’t need wonder for long. Before an hour had passed he knew that they were in love. The knowledge worried True. Her kind of a woman could only lead to heartbreak.

It was not until the princess had retired for the night that True said to Virgil, “All right, son, what’s going on here? Come clean. Is she the Queen of the Silver Dollar? Is that pretty little gal in there the thief you were sent after?”

Virgil shook his dark head, rose from his chair, went to the front door, and stepped out into the moonlight. The older, shorter man followed. Virgil leisurely rolled and lit a cigarette. He took a long, deep drag, and released the smoke. True waited impatiently.

Finally Virgil began to speak. Talking softly, he told True all he knew about the woman, laughing hollowly when he concluded by saying, “She refuses to admit that she’s the Queen of the Silver Dollar. Insists on continuing to play some kind of game, to cling to a foolish fantasy. Keeps lying and saying that … she’s … she’s …” Virgil flicked his smoked-down cigarette away in a shower of orange sparks. “Jesus, True, she swears to God that she’s a royal princess. Have you ever heard anything so far-fetched?”

“Well, now, Virgil,” True said thoughtfully, “that might just be.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you don’t actually—”

“When I was up in San Antone a couple of weeks ago,” True interrupted, “I heard something about a red-haired princess coming out west on a bond tour.”

Virgil’s eyes flashed in the darkness. His heart beginning to beat double time, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t figure you’d care,” was True’s honest reply.

* * *

Next morning, as the princess slept, Virgil, feeling haggard and tired, sat down at the kitchen table. True Cannon immediately handed him a copy of the
El Paso Times
. Bare-chested, still half-asleep, in no mood for reading, Virgil gave him a questioning look.

True poured a cup of hot black coffee for Virgil. Then said, “I’ve got things to do this morning.” Heading for the back door, he added, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Scowling, Virgil said, “We don’t get any breakfast around here anymore?”

True grinned, took his hat from the peg by the door, put it on his head, said, “Drink your coffee and read that paper, son. We’ll have breakfast later.” His grin broadened and his eyes twinkled mischievously when he added, “That is, if you’re still hungry.”

And he was gone.

Frowning, Virgil took a drink of the coffee and picked up the newspaper. His half-shut eyes opened wide as he read the front page article about Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg visiting San Antonio on the conclusion of a successful bond tour that had taken her to several Texas cities. The newspaper began to dance and vibrate, and Virgil realized that his hands were shaking. He spread the paper flat on the table and read the entire article over again. He was halfway through it the third time when the princess appeared in the kitchen doorway and spoke his name.

Virgil looked up, saw her, and swallowed hard.

Barefoot, with her hair appealingly sleep-tousled, she wore one of True’s long-tailed white nightshirts, which reached well below her knees. She was yawning and rubbing the sole of her left foot against the calf of her right leg. She didn’t look like a royal princess. She didn’t look like a saloon singer. She looked like a cute, sleepy little girl.

She smiled, crossed to him, and looking curiously about, asked, “Where’s True?” She came to stand close beside him.

“Gone.”

“In that case,” she said, leaned down and kissed him quickly, “where did you sleep last night? I missed you.”

Virgil didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved a chair out for her with his bare foot. “Sit down.”

She sat down. He shoved the newspaper toward her. Tucking her wild hair behind her ears, she looked at him quizzically. He shook the paper at her. She took it from him.

“Read it,” he said, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his bare chest.

He stared unblinking as the princess began to read the article. After only a few lines, she stopped, looked up, and said, “I told you and you wouldn’t listen.” Dropping the paper to the table, she jabbed a thumb toward her night-shirted chest and said, “I am the real princess. The woman in San Antonio is standing in for me, pretending to be me.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. She came around the table, laid a hand on his bare brown shoulder, and said, “
She
is the woman you were sent to capture. Apparently she looks a lot like me and—”

“Try exactly like you,” he cut in curtly.

“Nonetheless, we are two different people. I am Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg. I don’t know who she is, but I assume that she is the thief you were sent after. My factor, Montillion, apparently chose her for her close resemblance to me, not knowing that she was in trouble. Virgil, it’s the truth, I swear it.”

Virgil continued to sit there with his arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, not looking at her.

The princess anxiously continued, “This whole thing happened because I got sick. We had been in New York and in Denver and were on the way to Fort Worth when I fell ill. The royal physician said it was a bad case of yellow jaundice. You should have seen me—my face looked like giant lemon. I couldn’t possibly go on with the tour. I was taken to the sanitorium in Cloudcroft and fortunately Montillion found a woman—I’m not sure how—who very closely resembles me so that the tour could go on as planned while I recuperated.”

Virgil didn’t comment, but she saw the fierce flexing of his jaw, the throbbing of the pulse in his tanned throat, and knew she was finally making headway.

“When you apprehended me at the Cloudcroft train depot, I had just gotten out of the sanatorium and was about to leave for Texas to take my proper place on the tour. But, as you know, renegade Indians had blown up the railroad tracks.” She gently cupped his rigid cheek with her fingers. “Please, look at me, Virgil.”

He slowly turned his head, looked up at her, and she saw the uncertainty in his beautiful brooding blue eyes. He was, she knew, beginning to believe her, and it was both painful and a relief for him. In a burst of affection, she hugged his dark head to her breasts, bent and kissed his disheveled raven hair, and said, “Don’t look so troubled, my love. You believed that you had caught a thief, a bank robber. It was a reasonable mistake. I hold none of this against you.” Again she pressed her lips to the top of his dark head.

Virgil gently pulled away from her. “Sit down,” he said once more, and when she started to drop onto his lap, he stopped her. “No. Take the chair. We have to talk more.”

“Yes,” she said, “we do.”

They did talk. They talked and talked as they had never talked before. She truthfully answered any question he asked and any lingering doubts he had began to fade as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

Finally she said, “I better get dressed before True gets back.”

Virgil nodded.

When she’d left the room, he rubbed a hand over his throbbing temples and wondered how he could have gotten himself into such a sorry fix. And how he was going to get out of it.

39

At noontime, True finally returned
to the adobe. He didn’t mention the newspaper article. Making only pleasant small talk, he cooked a late breakfast, which the princess and Virgil barely touched. After the meal, the princess, rising quickly from her chair, insisted on washing the dishes.

“Oh, now, sugar, no need for you to do that,” said True.

Virgil didn’t comment, but he shot her a skeptical look.

“All right,” she said, addressing only him, “I admit it. I have never washed dishes in my life. But I don’t suppose it is ever too late to learn. So there!”

“Want me to dry them for you?” asked True.

“No, I don’t. You two go on. Leave me to my task.”

True smiled. Virgil shrugged. They left her alone in the kitchen, and Virgil couldn’t believe his ears when she began to hum softly as she cleared the dirty dishes from the table.

Troubled, wishing now that she was really just the saloon singer he had believed her to be, Virgil headed for the front door, telling True to keep an eye on her.

“You going somewhere?”

“Think I’ll take a little ride.”

“Good idea,” said True, knowing where Virgil was going.

He would ride up through the sandstone buttes at the edge of the city and wind his way to the summit of Brizna Peak. Virgil always went to the top of that towering bladelike crest when he was troubled about something or had a tough decision to make or just needed to be by himself. There he knew he could be alone, his solitude ensured bythe dangerous trail up which others were reluctant to challenge. Brizna Peak was, and had been since his first trip up at age fourteen, Virgil’s favorite place to get away from it all.

The breakfast dishes washed, dried, and put away, the princess looked about at the spotless kitchen, pleased. She was quite proud of herself. She hadn’t broken a single dish or scalded herself in the water she’d heated. Maybe tonight she’d try her hand at cooking dinner.

Smiling with the simple pleasure of a job well done, she left the kitchen, went in search of Virgil and True. She found True out on the front porch, seated in a rocking chair, gazing out over the wide valley.

“All finished?” he asked, smiling up at her.

“Yes,” she said, looking around, eyebrows lifting. “Where is Virgil?”

“Aw, he just went for a short ride. He’ll be back in a little bit.”

The princess immediately felt her heart speed. Here was her chance to convince True that she was a royal princess. And, it was her golden opportunity to learn more about the Texas Ranger she had come to love. She sat down in a straight-back chair beside True’s rocker and, gazing out at the sunbaked land of old Mexico, said simply, “True, I am not who Virgil told you I am.” She turned her head, looked directly at him. Rushing her words now, eager to make him believe she was telling the truth, she said, “I am actually Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg and I …” She talked a mile a minute, bent on convincing him of her true identity, and finally when she stopped to draw a much-needed breath, the silver-haired True said, “I believe you.”

Surprised, she said, “You do?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “I’m not as cynical as Virgil. Somebody tells me something, I tend to believe him. Or her.”

Relieved, she exhaled, then asked, “Who is the other woman? The one Virgil thinks I am.”

“A Las Cruces saloon singer who must be the spittin’ image of you, child … ah … Princess …” He stopped, asked, “What do people call you when they get to know you?”

She smiled and said, “Your Royal Highness.”