Texas Proud (Vincente 2) (2 page)

Her lip curled in anger. Noble Vincente was
only a trigger away from being the last Spanish
grandee of Casa del Sol.

Noble Vincente pulled the brim of his black hat
lower across his forehead to shade his eyes against
the sun's glare. But there was no escape from the
heat that beat down upon the parched land like
fire on an anvil. He untied his neckerchief, dipped
it in the water and wiped his face. His gaze swept
across muddy Deep Creek past a clump of mesquite trees to the craggy cliffs that looked as if they
had been forcefully rammed through the earth by
a long-ago earthquake. The land had no continuity; there was an intermingling of canyons, shallow gullies, mesas and long stretches of flatland.
The never-ceasing wind rippled through the
straw-colored grass, giving the appearance of
waves upon an ocean, while a lone hawk circled
widely in the blue sky, riding the wind currents,
its eyes ever watchful for prey.

A rattlesnake slithered among the cactus and
coiled on a rock to bask in the sun. With its violent
beauty, Texas was a harsh, inhospitable land and
not for the faint of heart. It was a land of contradictions, the merging of cultures: Indian, white,
Mexican, Spanish, all interwoven like a patchwork quilt-yet united in one respect. They all
loved Texas.

Memories, emotions, old hatreds saturated Noble's mind and twisted his heart. Rage was never far from the surface, but he controlled it by sheer
strength of will. He'd seen so much killing in the
war senseless killing. Many of the dead had been
only boys, too young to die. Hell, they hadn't even
begun to live.

For two years following the war, Noble had
wandered with no particular destination in mind
he knew only that he could not go home. Without
any conscious thought in mind, his wandering
had taken him to Mexico, where he'd blended in
with the vaqueros on a horse ranch. He'd become
a faceless, nameless being with no past and no
future. In the beginning, he'd forced himself to get
up in the mornings, trying to find some reason to
go on living. Revenge, perhaps. Hatred, maybe.
Two months ago he'd realized that he could never
free himself from the tangled past until he came
home.

Noble's nostrils flared, and memories unwound
in his head as he inhaled the familiar pungent
odor of cedar mingled with the fragrance of multicolored wildflowers. There was no use lying to
himself-even though he'd sworn never to return
to Texas, the land had called him back. This land
was in his blood, in every fiber of his being, in
every intake of his breath.

Unaware that death stalked him, Noble allowed
his gaze to turn westward in the direction of his
family's ranch, Casa del Sol. If he rode hard, he'd
be home before dark. But even now a part of him wanted to mount his horse and ride away and
never look back.

No, he thought angrily. This time he would not
allow the hatred and suspicion of others to matter.
He was going home.

Years of war had honed and shaped Noble; he
was no longer the young man who had left five
years before. He had come home to erase the tarnish from the Vincente name, and he would not
leave until that had been accomplished.

Rachel's aim followed Noble when he bent down
and cupped his hands to drink thirstily from the
creek. She was attuned to his every move, and her
finger was never far from the trigger. The heat left
her breathless and jabbed through her like a dagger, perspiration plastered her clothing to her
body, and she could taste the dust like grit in her
mouth. Every breath scorched her throat. She was
so thirsty that her tongue stuck to the roof of her
mouth, and even though her canteen was within
reach, she must endure the thirst because any
movement on her part might give away her hiding
place.

She continued to observe Noble through her
gun sight, wondering what he was thinking at that
moment. Her gaze moved across his strong jawline. He hadn't changed much; though perhaps he
looked a little older than she remembered. His
coal black hair curled damply at the nape of his
neck, and sweat molded his shirt to his chest and emphasized the broadness of his shoulders. He
wore black leather Spanish trousers that outlined
his long, lean body. She watched him remove his
hat, toss it carelessly across his saddle, and brace
his back against a cottonwood tree as if he hadn't
a care in the world.

Suddenly Noble glanced in her direction, and
Rachel could almost feel the heat of those dark
eyes. His eyes were what she remembered most
about him. When he'd laughed, they seemed to
dance with mirth; when he was angry, his eyes
became an intense, swirling tide that could consume and burn whomever he chose to single out.
She also remembered his silent arrogance, and
the way he'd hidden his true feelings behind a
mask of indifference.

Rachel suddenly felt faint. With effort she
dragged air into her lungs, speculating whether
the sensation was caused by dread or expectation.
Reverend Robinson had once preached a sermon
on how Satan came disguised in beauty, and Noble Vincente was certainly a man created in
beauty, and surely Satan's own disciple. There
had not been a day since Noble had left that she
hadn't thought of him and prayed for his death.
Damn him, now she would see her father avenged
at last!

Rachel rested her cheek against the stock of her
rifle, licked her dry lips, and cocked the hammer.
No one would blame her if she killed Noble. Few
people from Madragon County would mourn him, and most of them would probably thank her if she
ended his miserable life.

All she had to do was squeeze the trigger and he
would be dead. So why, then, did she hesitate? It
was what she wanted to do, had dreamed of doing
for years.

Noble continued to stare in her direction. Although Rachel was well hidden, she had the
strangest feeling that he could see her. Her hand
trembled and she gripped the rifle tightly against
her body to steady it.

The Jingle of Noble's Spanish spurs jarred her
back to reality, and once more she aimed her rifle
dead center at his heart. Yet she felt frozen, her
fingers stiff, her heart hammering in her chest.
Taking a steadying breath, she watched him
mount and ride his gelding in the direction of
Casa del Sol.

Slowly she lowered the rifle, feeling sick.

It wasn't as easy to kill a man as she'd thought,
even Noble Vincente. She would let him live today
because only a coward would shoot a man when
his back was turned. She had given him the
chance he'd never given her flesh and blood. She
would force Noble to admit that he'd cravenly shot
her father in the back. Then, with him facing her,
she would shoot him. She wanted to be the last
image he saw before he closed his eyes in death.

Noble approached Casa del Sol with a strange detachment. After being away for so long, there was
no feeling of homecoming and no feeling of belonging. His mother had died ten years ago; his
sister, Saber, had been only a child when he'd left
to join his unit. He'd had no contact with his father since the day he rode away from Casa del Sol.
Perhaps his father wouldn't welcome him back,
since he'd brought so much trouble down on their
heads.

When Noble rode through the gates of Casa del
Sol a sudden gust of wind caught the sign hanging
above the entrance, and it made a ghostly sound
as it rocked back and forth on rusty hinges. Glancing up, Noble could hardly read the name of the ranch because the sign was so weatherworn. His
senses became alert all about him was evidence
of neglect and devastation. With the eyes of a
rancher, Noble took inventory of his surroundings. The north pasture, where once a thousand
head of cattle had grazed, was now deathly quiet.
The evidence of drought was all about him the
buffalo grass was strawlike, and tumbleweeds
were carried frivolously about by the hot, torturous wind. The lone trill of a mockingbird broke
the eerie silence, and the call of a raven was lost
on the wind.

Noble's father had once told him that Texas was
not a land for the faint of heart, and he'd been
right. The land had almost claimed Noble as a victim, and it still might, but not without a fight.

As Noble drew near the hacienda, uneasiness
gripped him. The stately oak trees that lined the
roadway to the house were almost dead from neglect. Their branches dipped and sagged as if in
sorrow; most of the leaves were autumn colors,
and it was still high summer. As he rode beneath
the arched branches, fallen leafage sounded dry
and brittle beneath his horse's hooves. His mother
had brought: the oaks to Texas as saplings from
her native Georgia when she'd arrived to marry
his father.

Noble spurred his horse forward until he
reached the slight incline where he could look
down on the hacienda that had once been the
showplace of Texas. Sam Houston had frequently been a guest at Casa del Sol. His father's friendship with Houston went back many years. They'd
fought side by side at San Jacinto. Later, when
Houston had become President of the Republic of
Texas, he'd attended many parties there. Now
Sam Houston was dead and a part of Texas had
died with him-the part that was courageous and
exciting. Casa del Sol stood like a ghostly reminder of graceful living - a time that belonged to
the past and that was gone forever.

Noble was relieved when he saw that the hacienda was still standing, even though many of the
red roof tiles littered the ground. His horse's
hooves clattered against stone as he rode through
the fountain courtyard. The ponds were filled with
dead leaves, and water no longer flowed from the
beautiful marble fountains that had been imported from Spain when the house was built.

Something was wrong. The place was deserted.
Casa del Sol had once employed over a hundred
vaqueros and servants. Where were they now?

He dismounted and walked through the broken
tiles that crunched beneath his boots. Taking a
deep breath, he climbed the steps and shoved
open the massive front door, only to hesitate before entering. It was dark inside, and the aroma
of dust and decay permeated the air. When his
eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw
that the imported furniture and valuable paintings were gone. His boot struck broken glass, and he bent to pick up a broken vase that had been in
his father's family for generations.

"Father, I am home." His voice resonated
through the house, echoing against the high
vaulted ceilings and through the unfamiliar emptiness.

He heard no reply.

He went into his father's office, but it was empty
like the other rooms.

"Father, where are you?"

With dread in his heart, Noble raced across the
entry, up the stairs and down the darkened corridor to his father's bedroom. Slowly he pushed
the door open and stepped quickly inside.

Empty.

"Father!" He cried out in agony as the significance of the silence hit him full force. "I'm home,"
he whispered, knowing no one would hear him.

Heaviness settled on his shoulders as he stood
there imagining the room as it had once been,
with the warmth of a loving family, smelling of
lemon oil, seasoned wood and leather.

After a time he slowly walked downstairs.

Had his father died? Had Don Reinaldo Vincente, Patron of Casa del Sol, suffered because of
his only son's disgrace? Where was his sister, Saber?

Without thinking, he went into his mother's
music room. He leaned against the wall, hardly
daring to breathe. His mother's piano was gone;
it had been a wedding gift from his father. Noble closed his eyes, remembering when this room had
been filled with music and laughter. If he concentrated, he could still see his mother sitting at the
piano, her nimble fingers dancing across the keys.

He shook his head as if to clear away the ghosts
of the past. But there were too many ghosts and
too many memories left to haunt him. Loneliness
pressed in upon him like a heavy weight. Perhaps
his father and sister had gone to visit relatives in
Spain but no, a Patron would never leave his
ranch while such a destructive drought endangered his cattle.

Beautiful little Saber, blessed with her mother's
china blue eyes, had been only a young girl of thirteen when Noble had left. She'd be eighteen now,
a young lady. He felt shame because he'd given
her so little thought over the years. Now he had
the strongest urge to see her, to know that she was
all right.

"Raise your hands, senor-slowly. Do it now if
you value your life."

The man spoke in Spanish, and Noble could feel
the gun jammed against his ribs.

"Turn around, senor, and do not make any sudden moves. I shall have no regrets if I am forced
to kill you."

Noble raised his arms and turned slowly, a
smile tugging at his lips when he recognized the
familiar voice of Alejandro Salazar. A member of
the Salazar family had held the title of gran vaquero of Casa del Sol for three generations. Ale jandro had been gran vaquero for as long as Noble
could recall.