Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (21 page)

      
Melanie's breath caught in surprise. Charlee had hit far too close to a painful truth she did not want to discuss. “So I don't want to look pretty and catch a man. That's not my goal in life,” she said stiffly.

      
Charlee searched the arrestingly beautiful face of the twenty-two-year-old who stared defiantly at her. Very slowly and carefully she chose her words. “I admit I wanted to learn to be a lady so I could take Jim away from his fiancée, Tomasina Carver. She was aristocratic and perfect, from the best family, just like the Slades and Sandovals. Did you know Jim's mother was a Sandoval?”
      
At Melanie's surprised expression, she continued, “Well, he's descended from real fancy bloodlines on both sides of his family. I was only a Missouri hill girl. My father, Lord rest his soul, was a drunk, and my brother was killed in a blackmail scheme. But your mama convinced me I was somebody, that I was worthy in my own right, the hell with who my family was.” Charlee paused a beat.

      
“She told me it was harder to find a man if you were a bluestocking than if you had African or Cherokee blood,” Melanie said, smiling with such sadness it tugged at Charlee's heartstrings.

      
“So that's it! You're Rafael Flamenco's child by an octoroon woman and you're afraid no man in Texas will want you if they know about your background.”

      
“My mother, like generations of Duval women before her, grew up to be an ornament! Be beautiful, Melanie. Dress carefully, Melanie. Watch how you walk, what you say—learn to flirt! All so you can get a rich young man from the very best family to place you. The Duval women are very particular, you know. We only sell ourselves to the highest bidders!” She was sobbing now and turned her face toward the bay window to stare blankly out at the street.

      
Charlee quickly crossed the distance separating them and took Melanie in her arms, turning the girl to face her. Melanie buried her head against Charlee's shoulder and struggled to regain her composure.

      
“You're not going to have that kind of life! Rafe and Deborah raised you to be the eldest Fleming daughter! You're not some backstairs relation they've hidden in the closet, Melanie. You have every right to expect a fine marriage with a man you choose,” Charlee said emphatically. Then more gently she continued, “Oh, Melanie, you're bright and good—and, yes, beautiful. There's nothing wrong with being attractive to men. Don't hide from yourself. Give yourself a chance to find the right man.”

      
“And tell him I'm a bastard with African and Cherokee blood in my veins?” She looked at Charlee defiantly.

      
“If he's the right man, he'll want you for being you. The rest won't matter. I ought to know. So should Deborah.” Charlee's green eyes met Melanie's gold ones straightforwardly.

      
Melanie walked back to the desk and began to fiddle nervously with the untidy stack of papers on it. “Maybe even if I could have a proper marriage and all that—what if I don't want to be tied down? To be fat and pregnant and have to do what some overbearing man says all the time?”

      
Charlee burst out laughing. “Yup, Deborah raised you, all right! Melanie, have you ever considered how seldom women like Deborah or me or Obedience do what we're told by our husbands? How often we do as we damn well please?”

      
“Still, women can't vote or control their own lives any more than slaves. I want to work to change those things,” Melanie said obdurately.

      
Charlee sighed and tried another approach. “Clarence Pemberton assigns you to attend social events and write about them for the
Star
, doesn't he? Well, don't you think if you looked comfortable and presentable at dances and teas, you might get folks to talk to you more naturally? Tell you all sorts of gossip they wouldn't confide to someone standing out like a crow in a flock of swans?”

      
Remembering Clarence's sardonic comments about male reporters being able to ply information from men in bars, Melanie considered the fact that she might very well make her sex work for her, too. A man might just tell a pretty woman all sorts of things he'd never tell a stuffy Massachusetts reporter. She said neutrally, “Maybe I could fit in better.”

      
Pressing her advantage and testing the waters at the same time, Charlee said, “You bet you could. Why, just the other day Larena Sandoval told me she felt sorry for you standing all alone at the Mendozas' barbecue like a poor waif.”

      
“Poor waif! She felt sorry for me, did she, the mealy mouthed twit! Let's go shopping, Charlee!”

* * * *

      
In the following weeks, an amazing metamorphosis took place in Melanie Fleming. Despite an occasional ink smudge on her nose and the inevitable pencil and writing pad in her reticule, she became a strikingly attractive woman. The old women clucked in amazement at Obedience's boarding-house, while the younger San Antonio belles cast envious glances. The men just stared. And they talked. Anything she wanted to know, Melanie found she could pry from an eager admirer.

      
The women, too, wanted to be included in her news articles. Her society column was filled with all the latest tidbits of gossip, news about fashions, engagements, weddings, and births. Even secret recipes were confided to her.

      
Feeling particularly superior and charitable one afternoon at a luncheon for the ladies who helped Father Gus's Indian school, Melanie deigned to initiate a conversation with Larena Sandoval and her mother Esperanza. Both women, she was dismayed to discover, were intelligent and gracious; and Larena was far too pretty. Larena mentioned Lee several times, speaking in such glowing terms about her fiancé that Melanie doubted they knew the same Leandro Velasquez.

      
Eager to get away from Larena, Melanie caught Father Gus's eye across the room and excused herself, saying she had to discuss a matter of importance with him. Such proved to be the case.

      
“And you're sure renegade Comanche chiefs are trading stolen livestock to licensed traders in return for whiskey and guns?”

      
“
Ja
. Lots of investigating I've been doing these past months.” The young priest's face split in a cherubic grin. “Letters I write, dozens of them to the Indian Office in Washington, even to our illustrious Senator Houston. And he so kindly replies.”

      
“He lived among my grandmother's people for many years. Some say he's the only real friend the Indians have in Washington,” Melanie said quietly.

      
“And in Texas, I think. That is not spoken as praise but condemnation. Many things my schoolchildren hear about those evil men who steal from the Indians. Licensed traders—licensed by Satan himself!
Ja,
and so few Texians care,” Father Gus added, his anger evaporating into sadness. The priest had learned a great deal during the past months since he had begun his campaign to sustain the impoverished children who existed on the periphery of San Antonio.

      
“Many people will help orphans of Mexican parentage, especially the wealthy Hispanic families prominent in local politics. But the Anglos and the
Tejanos
want nothing to do with Kickapoos, Shawnees, Tonkawas or Caddos,” Melanie said. “Even the Lipans, whose own fathers served faithfully with the rangers as scouts against the Mexicans and Comanches—even they are turned out to forage.”

      
“Enlisting you and Obedience has done great things, you know.” Father Gus's eyes twinkled.

      
“Oh, it's only because we're friends with Jim and Charlee, and Jim's related to the Sandovals. Once Charlee got
Señora
Sandoval on our side, well, a handful of charitable women can wring contributions from the worst tightwads in the country,” Melanie replied.

      
“But such benevolence on your ladies' parts should not be necessary if the government: keeps its promises.”

      
The idealistic young priest and his unorthodox female protégée were learning a lesson a day, and some were brutal to digest; but both of them were sure that they had a mission in Texas. Father Gus felt God had sent him halfway around the world from cool, green Bavaria to hot, dusty Texas. As for Melanie, Texas was already her home, and she would fight for it, for all its people, but not necessarily with the saintly patience of the gentle young priest.

      
“The men sent by the Indian Office from Washington, many are good men,
ja
—like Robert Neighbors. But these men have no real authority. And the state officials, never will they protect red men—not if it means keeping white settlers from moving farther west. Mr. Neighbors wants the rangers to stop traders from bringing whiskey to the Comanche.”

      
Melanie grew increasingly incensed. “Those Comanche raids last June that led to that massacre I wrote about could've been avoided if those fools in Austin had listened to men like Robert Neighbors!”

      
Father Gus shrugged. “Perhaps. Always the Comanche do not keep their word, either. But this much I do know—as long as the whites push west and plow the land, kill the game, the reds will fight back.”

      
“Until they're all dead,” Melanie said bleakly.

      
Father Gus sighed. “That I fear is the state government's plan. For many ranchers and traders here, I know it is their wish.”

      
“Father, what do you know about these licensed traders who're selling whiskey to the Comanche?” Melanie's mind was turning over a dozen ideas as she waited for the priest to reply in his slow, careful English.

      
“Several of my students' mothers…they are, er…” He struggled for a way to put it delicately to a lady.

      
“They are common-law wives to white soldiers,” she supplied helpfully.

      
“
Ja
, sort of like that. My students, they hear many things. They tell me about how traders like Lucas Blaine deal with renegades, selling them rifles in return for stolen horses.”

      
“Right here in Bexar County?”

      
He made an expansive gesture, “
Ja
, even here.”

      
“I think I'll just keep an eye on our Mr. Blaine,” Melanie said, her gold eyes narrowing.

      
Already, Father Gus didn't like the dangerous turn of the conversation. A nice young lady like Miss Fleming should not get involved with Indian traders or their ilk. Still, one look into those blazing eyes told him how useless it was to argue. He laughed good-naturedly. “Why is it,
Fräulein
, that I feel if I do not help you, you will use the skills of a reporter to write your story anyway?”

* * * *

      
Word arrived the next day from Renacimiento that Rafe and Deborah were the proud parents of another son, Joseph Paul, weighing nearly eight pounds, a fine healthy child. The posts being so uncertain and the elements so trying, there was no way to determine for sure exactly when little Joey had been born. The letter's ink had been smeared when it was exposed to a sudden dunking in some swollen stream between Renacimiento and San Antonio, erasing the date at the top of the first page.

      
Melanie was glad her mother and new baby brother were doing well. Obedience couldn't wait to see the whole brood. Deborah indicated they would be arriving for a visit in a month or so, as soon as she was feeling up to making the trip.

      
While they discussed this exciting news over breakfast at the crowded boardinghouse table, Melanie received an unexpected summons. A small, dark face with enormous black eyes and a wealth of shaggy straight hair peeped through the kitchen door, with Sadie's voice ringing out from the kitchen.

      
“Now, git back here! I done tole yo Miz Melanie's eatin'.” With an arthritic black hand she snatched at the boy's shoulder to drag him into the kitchen.

      
Practically overturning her chair in her haste, Melanie called out, “Wait, Sadie. That's Lame Deer. He's a special friend of mine from Father Gus's school.”

      
Melanie ushered the child out onto the back porch, away from the curious boarders inside, then asked eagerly, “What do you have to tell me, Lame Deer?”

      
“I saw the Fat Firehair go into the saloon, and I sneaked up to watch who he talked to and what they said,” the boy told her.

      
Fat Firehair was the unflattering designation for Lucas Blaine, the paunchy trader with carrot-red hair and beard.

      
“The
rinche
—ranger—he told Fat Firehair a big herd of cows will be held near the Cedar Fork cutoff of Clear Creek. There will be few
vaqueros
guarding them. He told Firehair that Buffalo Gall should steal the cows. Firehair gives the renegade guns in return for the cows. The two men, they are as evil as Buffalo Gall,” Lame Deer whispered fearfully.

      
“This ranger—describe him,” Melanie prodded.

      
“Big, tall. Gray hair with eyes the color of bullets,” the boy said. “He is a chief among them, I think.”

      
“If ‘n thet ain't Seth Walkman, I'd miss hittin' thet there post with my scattergun,” Obedience said grimly.

      
Melanie turned to confront the intruder. “Obedience, this is a private conversation between a reporter and an informant.”

      
“Jeehosaphat! This is plumb foolishness, thet's whut it is! Walkman's meaner’ ‘n a poked rattler, ‘n no gal reporter oughta git near him.”