Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (68 page)
Micah could be tolerant of Lucie as well. Question was, did he want more than a relationship of mere tolerance? And no matter what he felt, she had told him she loved him. He had repaid those extraordinary words by accusing her of deception and defaming her heritage. Being Mexican didn’t really change who she was, and it shouldn’t change what he thought of her. Maybe if he could find it in himself to accept this about her, it might go toward diffusing some of the hate inside him, just like she’d said.
He truly didn’t want to be so wrought up with hate, especially if it was going to prevent him from having any good come into his life. He was due for some good, wasn’t he?
“I reckon I can be man enough to let go of some of it. . . .” he murmured into the wind. “Just a little for now, then see what happens. Maybe I’ll die without it to sustain me. But just maybe I’ll actually like it.”
He reached out a hand, smoothing it over the buckskin’s dark mane. “What do you say, Jose? Do ya think I should give it a try?” He smiled. “You’re Mexican, ain’t you, boy? You’ve done all right by me.”
Shrugging, he nudged the buckskin to turn around and headed back to the Maccallum ranch.
Lucie was shaking as she sat on the velvet divan in the parlor. At first her gaze remained fixed on the place where Micah had been standing, as if he might reappear and the entire scene could be replayed and maybe changed. But as much as she wished the fiasco hadn’t happened, she was still angry. The things he’d said angered her, but even more, she was furious at the fact that she’d been so wrong about Micah.
Perhaps it was a good thing all this had taken place now, before she’d become any more entangled with the man. She could deal with their differences in faith because she’d felt so certain God could and would change him. She could accept his wild nature because she’d known there was a gentle side to him as well. But add bigotry to the mess, and it was too much. Too many barriers to overcome. Too many differences.
Lucie, some things just aren’t meant to be, she told herself, trying to feel pragmatic about it, even though she felt her heart was being ripped from her chest. She had told him she loved him, and she had meant it. But now she feared what her father, and even Micah, had said. Love wasn’t enough. But neither could love be turned off so easily. She knew she would hurt for a long time, but it was still better this way. She could not be with a man who disdained the very blood that coursed through her body. The one thing that could never be changed.
It was better this way.
Wasn’t it?
“God, I fear I have imposed too much of my own desire in this situation. I had hoped you were in it, but I didn’t wait to see. I blinded myself to good advice and blundered ahead, thinking I could perform miracles. I could not have been more foolish. I think I know better now. Miracles are your business, not mine. But is it wrong to still hope? I cannot help myself. I still believe Micah Sinclair is worth hoping for. And I believe you think so, too. I guess I just must be patient and wait to see what you will do with him.”
She smiled. Patience was not her best virtue. Yet she was indeed willing to wait on God. She only prayed He would let her know when to stop waiting and move on with her life.
Feeling a bit restored, she rose and went down the hall to look in on her father. As she passed the kitchen, she saw Juana busy with supper preparations. She should tell her their guest had left, but she couldn’t face that just yet. She continued on to the back. Quietly she turned the latch on her father’s door and opened it. He was snoring peacefully. She was glad the heated conversation earlier in the parlor hadn’t disturbed him.
Lucie returned to the kitchen and was about to tell Juana about their absent guest when she heard a tapping at the front door. Her heart jumped, thinking it might be Micah. Well, she wasn’t going to change overnight, she thought ruefully.
“I’ll get it, Juana,” she said and retraced her steps down the hall, trying to walk in a deliberate, sedate fashion, ignoring the urge within her to run.
She opened the door to find one of the stableboys. “Señorita Lucie,” the lad said, “I have a message for you.”
“Who is it from?” Again her heart raced.
“I was out a ways from the stable walking the newly shod mare when a man came up out of the shadows and called to me. He was a stranger.”
“What did he want?”
“He said I must tell you, and only you, to meet with him out by the mesquite tree, the big one that was split by lightning some years ago.
Do you know this place, señorita?”
“It happened before you were born, Pedro, but I think I know the place.” What Lucie did not know was how Micah knew about it. “Is that all he said?”
“Only that you should come alone and as soon as possible.”
Why was Micah acting so mysteriously? He certainly couldn’t be afraid to come directly to the house. And she just did not see him as trying to entice her into some romantic rendezvous.
“Thank you, Pedro.”
“I will go with you, Señorita.” The lad squared his shoulders in a sweet attempt to look older than his twelve years.
“I’ll be fine.” She smiled confidently. “It’s just a friend of mine playing games. Now run along and don’t worry.”
She saddled Belle as she fended off inquiries from the men in the stable. She told them she and her friend were just going on a moonlight ride. Questions of being properly chaperoned were broached, but she handily ignored them. Anyway, it was just sundown, hardly midnight. There was nothing improper about riding with a
friend
.
It was about a quarter of a mile to the tree on mostly level ground. She knew the way. As she went, she continued to puzzle over the oddity of Micah’s behavior. She also tried
not
to puzzle over her own swift response to his request. But she couldn’t ignore him, could she? Just because she had decided to give God full reign in the situation didn’t mean she was to cut herself off from Micah completely. Did it? What if he did apologize and recant all his harsh words? She simply did not know how she would or should respond to that.
Then she remembered something her mother had always said: “When in doubt, pray.”
So Lucie did just that as she drew close to the rangy old mesquite tree. Though the sun was down, there was still enough light for the tangled, gnarled branches to stand out a stark black against the faintly lighted sky. The tree looked quite pretty, even if most residents considered mesquite more a pest than a marvel.
“Lucinda!” came a soft call.
She gasped, the sound taking her by surprise. Only then did she wonder why Micah was using her given name. She did not think he knew it.
L
UCIE GASPED AS A MAN
stepped out of the shadows. A man, tall and lean, but not Micah.
“Joaquin!” Lucie breathed. “Oh, Joaquin, you came.”
“Hola, Lucinda. I wondered if you would remember the tree.” He spoke in Spanish.
“How could I not?” She also replied in Spanish as she dismounted. She knew he had his reasons for not speaking English, and she did not wish to offend him, at least this soon in the meeting. “I remember many races to this tree.”
“I always won,” he replied, his tone as soft as the gathering dusk.
“Yes.”
“But you never stopped racing me.”
“I loved you all the more, Joaquin, because you never pandered to my inexperience and femininity.” She smiled at the thought of those long-ago memories. “You were my friend as well as my brother.”
“Sometimes I could weep at the crazy hand life has dealt us.”
His face was drawn and hard, in no way indicating a man given to tears. Yet she remembered when she had seen him slip in unobtrusively among the crowd gathered at their mother’s graveside two years ago. Tears had erupted from the hard black surface of his eyes then. Tears only she had seen, for he had disappeared before even Reid had noticed his presence.
“I am so glad you have come,” she said.
“I could not stay away. I am a fool for doing so, but . . .” He shrugged as if to complete his sentence.
“But what, Joaquin?” she pressed. “Are you a fool for wanting to see your father before he dies? Are you a fool for not wanting to be cheated like you were two years ago?”
“I did not say I would see our father.” He shifted on his feet and chewed on his mustache. “But the few minutes today just was not enough.”
“You won’t see Papa?” Lucie’s voice rose. “Then why come at all?”
“At least I can see you—”
“I’m not dying,” she cut in fiercely. “I am not lying in bed aching inside because I fear I will not have one last chance to see my son before I die. You are so selfish! I thought you were better than that.”
“I am a bandit!” He retorted, his eyes flashing now. “I am better than nothing! I prey on others, especially you Texans. I have a price on my head—a large price. If I am ever caught, I will be executed on the spot. Is it selfish to guard my skin? I would like to live to a ripe old age, but I doubt I will. Yet, still I come . . .” He shook his head harshly. “No, you are right. I am selfish
because
I have come.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I hoped at least Papa would.”
“Tell me why you don’t come, Joaquin,” she implored, more gently now.
“Think about it,” he said. “If your association with me is discovered, it could bring you and Papa both down. Papa could lose everything if he is thought to be a spy for the Mexicans. I have seen it happen to others. You have also, I know. And it could happen to a gringo as well as a Mexican. Don’t fool yourself. Things are happening now, politically, that would make such an association even more dangerous. It is far too risky for me to come any closer than this to the ranch.”
“But why even come this close? It is Papa you need to see.”
“How bad is he?”
“He had a bad spell a few days ago and has been confined to his bed. We won’t be able to keep him down much longer.” Her lips twitched as she thought of the big Scot chomping at the bit like a racehorse hitched to a freight wagon. “It is hard for him to accept his illness.”
“I can well imagine.”
Joaquin’s gaze shifted up toward the dark sky. Lucie recognized the ploy as a way to hide emotion.
“Does he hate me much for not coming?”
“He loves you, Joaquin!” she said emphatically. “As you well know, at first he resented the fact that you sided with . . . the enemy.”
“Mexico was never my enemy,” he replied ironically.
Yes, she and her brother had always been caught in the middle. She was younger and more sheltered by her parents, so it was easier for her, Lucie supposed. And even though she had darker hair, Joaquin looked far more Mexican, aided by the fact that he maintained a more Mexican persona. He dressed in Mexican clothes, spoke Spanish almost exclusively, and he practiced the Catholic faith. As a boy he’d been frequently mocked for his heritage by neighboring Texans, even when he tried to look as American as they did. Then in his adolescence, he reacted by rebelling. He took on Mexican ways in open defiance of those arrogant Texans who, in his mind, thought they could come swaggering into the land of Mexico and rudely denigrate all the traditions of that land.
When the war broke out Reid had not been surprised, though it had sickened him, when his son joined Santa Anna. Lucie remembered finding her father in tears the day after Joaquin had left. Reid’s disappointment only deepened when after the war Joaquin had turned to outlawry in defiance of the new republic. At least he had protected his father’s name and even that of his Mexican grandfather by taking an alias for a surname. Nevertheless, Lucie hadn’t fully understood it all. She had never felt anything but Texan. Maybe, she thought bitterly, she would have thought differently if she’d encountered more people like Micah. Maybe that would have stripped away her loyalty. But she didn’t want to think of Micah now, for she was confused enough being confronted by her brother after so long.
“I cannot stay much longer,” Joaquin said suddenly.
In desperation, Lucie grasped his arm. “Don’t let Papa die like Mama did without seeing you one last time.”
“Do you think I wanted her to go that way?” He turned away from her, sighing, the tension almost visible in his broad, strong shoulders. “I tried to get back, but I was spotted as I crossed the border. Two of my men were killed.”
When he turned back to face her, she saw the pain he had suffered, both then and now. She knew he had wanted her to see it, and only for that reason had he revealed it.
“All I could do in the end was to creep like an interloper at my own mother’s grave! It is one more score against the gringos who have forced such a life upon me.”
For an instant he sounded far too much like Micah. Had her heart not been wrenched by the similarities and the irony, she might have smiled.
“You can make up for it now,” she suggested.
“It is a bad time now. More dangerous than ever.” He paused, seem.ing to carefully consider his next words. “Lucinda, things will soon be happening . . . and you will want to distance yourself more than ever from me.”
“What things?”
“Ah, you never could just accept things, could you, dear one?”
His mustache twitched, and she wanted to believe he had allowed himself the luxury of a smile. She remembered that even when they were children, her brother had seldom smiled.
“At any rate, I cannot tell you more. Only that you should keep away from San Antonio for a while.”
She asked no further questions. She didn’t want to know more.
How she hated being in the middle. She always had.
Joaquin continued, “Tell Papa I love him and explain why I could not come to see him. Tell him I hope he understands. Tell him also that I have taken a wife and have a child on the way—”
“A wife! A child!” Lucie exclaimed. Then impulsively she threw her arms around her big brother. She was tired of conceding to his reserve. “When?”
“The child should come by Christmas. My wife is in Mexico, of course, near Saltillo.”
“What’s her name?”