Amelia (24 page)

"So long as you don't run out of glassware," Amelia added wryly.

 

King was sitting quietly in the buggy with a miffed Darcy. Her coy flirting hadn't produced any results at all, so she'd gone back to grumbling about wasting a whole afternoon visiting a woman who wasn't well enough for company.

"You might have ridden over to tell me she was in such a state," she told King. "It would have saved me this trip."

King didn't reply. He was still getting over the aftereffects of having a carafe flung at him by his mother's pet mouse. He'd discounted a lot of things Quinn had said about Amelia because of her subdued presence when her father was around. Now, he wondered how much was true. It seemed that he hadn't known her at all, if that bout of temper was any indication. Amelia in a flaming temper was a totally different proposition than Amelia bending her head to take any abuse offered her. He actually felt disconcerted.

"You haven't said a word," Darcy muttered, glaring at him.

"I've been listening," he said pleasantly.

"What was that you mentioned last night about Quinn being missing?"

"He's down in Mexico, and we can't find him. The funeral is at four, tomorrow. I hope he can be contacted in time."

"Do you realize that it's almost two o'clock?" she replied. "I wasn't even offered a meal!"

"We had already eaten by the time you arrived," he said evasively. "How is your father's bad back? He mentioned the other day that it was bothering him."

Diverted, she began to talk about that, forgetting his sudden reluctance to talk.

 

Rodriguez embraced the girl and laughed as he swung her up against his ample girth and spun her around. "
Niña mía, niñita mía
, I have been so worried!" he cried, and there were tears of joy in his dark eyes. "Oh, my Maria, Juliano has just been brought home by Aunt Inez and Uncle Lopez, crippled and upset. He has told me that Manolito left you alone in Del Rio… I was even now getting together my men to come and find you."

"Manolito,
está aqúi
?" she asked quickly.

"No more,
niña
," he replied. His face clouded. "Manolito is dead," he added coldly, and his eyes held death. "How did you get back? And who is this gringo?" he added belatedly, glancing at Quinn.

Quinn was glad he'd hidden his star. He stared at the bandit with a total innocence. "I'm from Texas, sir," he drawled, extending his hand. "I found this here young lady in bad straits down in Del Rio, and, well, I sort of rescued her."

"This is true," she said heavily. "Papa, that Manolito, he left me in a… a
casa de putas
."

Rodriguez's face seemed to blow up like a red balloon. "A what!?"

She shook her head. "No, no, it is all right.
Señor
Quinn, he saved me! He protected me through the night from the attentions of other men, and at first light, he carried me out of that terrible place and put me on his horse and brought me back to you!" In her dialogue, she neglected to mention, of course, exactly how Quinn had "protected" her.

"You saved my little girl." Rodriguez caught Quinn in a bear hug, his big body heaving with sobs, tears running down his unshaven face as he stared up at the taller man. "The Blessed Virgin preserve you, my son, for this wonderful thing you have done! She is my life,
mi vida
. Without her, I have nothing!"

Quinn was embarrassed and uncomfortable. He felt as if he were flying a false flag. He didn't like doing dishonest things. On the other hand, this was a God-given opportunity to bring a notorious bandit to justice. He couldn't afford to turn his back on it. But the camp was full of heavily armed men, and he had to wait for the right opportunity to do what he had to do. Besides, he wondered how he was going to bear the look in her eyes when the girl discovered who he really was.

"Come.
Mi casa es su casa
, you know this saying?" Rodriguez was saying, clapping Quinn on the back as he led him into the small, bare-floored hut. "It is not much of a house, I agree, but you will always be welcome here,
todo tu vida. Aqúi estás siempre bienvenídas
."

Rodriguez was already addressing him in the familiar tense, the one used only with close friends and relatives. It made Quinn feel worse than he already did.

They sat around the small fire where Rodriguez's woman cooked enchiladas and beans for them, drinking mescal while the girl told of her ordeal in the soft, elegant Spanish which she spoke so well. After a minute, with a shy smile at Quinn, she excused herself and went to bathe and find a change of clothing.

"Ah,
pobrecita
, what a life she has had," Rodriguez told Quinn after she was out of earshot. "Did she tell you about her home, her old home,
señor
?"

"Just that her stepfather was cruel to her and her brothers."

"He was a madman," Rodriguez said coldly. "He tried to rape her, many times. She tell you this?"

Quinn lowered his eyes to the camp fire. No, she hadn't told him it was that bad. So it had been fear, not just innocence, that had made her fight. Afterward, he'd registered the ease with which her body accepted him. Now he felt worse than ever. She'd been emotionally scarred, and he hadn't known. What if he'd made things worse?

"What happened to her stepfather, after you got her to safety?" Quinn asked Rodriguez.

The man drew his forefinger slowly over his raspy throat. "It took a long time," he added quietly. "And I felt no pity for him. If you had seen the little boys,
señor
." He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "He did to them what he had done to her, and more. Men can be animals. I had not realized how savage a man could be until I found her cowering in the bushes. She was ten years old. She stood up when she saw me and closed her eyes. She stood there very quietly, waiting for me to kill her." The bandit's voice choked up. He had to stop and take a sip of mescal before he could continue. "She pleaded with me to save her. She meant with a bullet, but I could not kill a child so beautiful. I took her up in the saddle with me, and her last living brother was also found by my men. We brought them here, and they have been with me ever since. I cannot have children of my own," he said with faint embarrassment. "I have a… how you say…
accidente
. But I have these two
niños
now, and they are my own, you know, even if I did not know their mother. I have loved them like my own. I think they like me a little also," he added, chuckling, and his eyes twinkled as he remarked, "because they never try to run away."

As if an abused child would run from love, Quinn thought. He remembered his childhood, when his father had been a kind, happy man and his mother a delightful companion. Those days were so far away now, and his father had become a virtual madman. Amelia was trapped there, and Quinn could not make her leave. She felt sorry for their father. She was convinced that something was wrong with him. Perhaps there was, but Quinn was afraid that Hartwell would lose control one day and hurt her badly. He had to do something to help her, he told himself. He must find a way out.

"You are silent,
señor
," Rodriguez prompted.

"Sorry," Quinn said. He sipped the mescal, feeling warmth slip into his very bones. "I was thinking of my sister. She has had a very hard time of it with our father. He is not kind to her, yet he once was a good man."

"
Ay de mi
, how the world changes," the Mexican said sadly. "I have watched men become animals, because they cannot give their little children enough food to eat or even a pair of sandals to wear or a blanket to keep them warm at night. They live like dogs while the rich gringos come into our country and live like kings on our silver and gold. It has been the way of things since the days of the
conquistadores
, but I tell you, it must change. It must!"

Quinn frowned. "
Señor
, you sound like a revolutionary."

"A man should be when his people go hungry for the basic necessities of life," came the quiet reply. "You are not a rich man,
señor
?"

"I own my horse and my gun, and not much more," Quinn had to admit, smiling ruefully.

"Then surely you know what it is like to be without the things you most need. You know the gnawing emptiness of a stomach which craves food when there is none. You know the cold of a desert night when there is no wood to burn, no blanket to cover with."

"I have known these things," he had to admit.

"I have watched a baby starve to death," Rodriguez said, the horror still in his eyes. "It was my own little baby sister, and there was not enough food for both of us, so my mama gave the milk in her breasts to me. It is why I am alive, that sacrifice." Tears poured down his cheeks again. "Do you know why she did it,
señor
!" he asked, lifting his red eyes to Quinn's. "Because I was male, and when I grew up I would be better able to provide for her and
mi familia
than a daughter could. She had to choose between us. The little girl was new, but she had had me for three years, and I was precious to her. It was sacrifice one or both, and she could not let me die." He took another long swallow of mescal. "When I am tempted to stop robbing those rich gringos across the border, when I am tempted to come home and raise my goats and plant my fields, I go to the cemetery to that little grave of my sister, who died for me. And as I pray for her soul, I think of our beloved Virgin Mother whose only son was sacrificed to save us all. It makes me more determined than ever to keep on,
señor
. To keep fighting, so that no more little babies will have to starve because the gringos have all the money and all the land and all the power in this country!"

Quinn hadn't interrupted once. He stared at this terrible outlaw who was wanted by so many people for his lawless acts—and he hated the star in his saddlebags for bringing him to this. If Rodriguez was a bad man, where was a good one?

"I am wrong, you think, no?" Rodriguez asked, staring at the other man with eyes that did not waver or fall. "I shoot up the towns and kill the gringos and steal money and cattle, and for that I must be arrested and tried and hanged in Texas"—he pronounced it in the Spanish way,
tehas—
"for my crimes."

"I think that you have a long way to go before you can qualify as a criminal in the true sense of the word," Quinn said evasively. "Your people would die for you."

"
Sí
, that is true."

Quinn looked around at the Spartan little hut. Rodriguez had very few possessions, most of which were very old. There was a set of spurs and a nickle-plated, ivory-handled Colt .45 which Rodriguez was wearing, and they might have some intrinsic value. But there was nothing here that spoke of ill-gotten gains.

"Are you looking for the great wealth I am supposed to possess?" Rodriguez asked pleasantly. "Let me show it to you."

Quinn expected him to pull out a strongbox and open it, displaying coins and jewels. But the bandit got to his feet and motioned Quinn along with him.

They went through the pueblo then, and Rodriguez began to point to various new additions. There were good oak buckets for the central fountain from which the people got their water. There were carts and good harnesses to hitch, and mules to hitch them to, so the farmers could transport their goods from the fields. There were horses and cattle and pigs, shared between all the families. And most of all, there was a chapel with a gold cross at the altar and stained glass windows.

"Is it not beautiful?" Rodriguez asked as they stood inside the small chapel, with its long wood pews. "My people made these things. We did not steal them," he added carefully. "We did, I am sad to say, steal the artisan who makes the windows," he murmured, and crossed himself, "but it was in a good cause. We gave to him our prettiest young single woman, Lolita, whom he married. He now has five children, and he is one of us, and his windows are a glory to God and our people. So perhaps it was not such a very bad thing to steal him, huh?"

Quinn threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Perhaps it was not," he agreed.

Maria came back while they were walking in the pueblo, scrubbed, with her long black hair brushed clean. She looked very pretty in her white peasant dress and black mantilla and small sandaled feet. She walked beside Quinn, gently grasping his hand in hers.

"I see that you, too, may someday become a resident of our pueblo,
señor
," Rodriguez murmured dryly, glancing at the small hand curled trustingly into his big one. He pursed his lips in obvious calculation and eyed the taller man insistently. "So, tell me, what skills do
you
possess that will benefit our poor village?"

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A
melia was tired of being bedridden. She hated staring at four walls and feeling so weak and helpless. Her headache was better, although she was drowsy from the medication. But she felt different already. She had been released from the prison her father's illness had made for her, and life even with its uncertainties had taken on a new brightness. She might not even have a place to live when she was recovered, but she could face that. She could work as a seamstress or a nanny or even a governess. It would mean leaving Latigo. But there was no choice about that. King wanted nothing to do with her.

King had avoided her for the two days she'd been in residence. She had one glimpse of him, dressed in his nice dark suit the day before, as he joined the others for her father's funeral. Rosa sat with Amelia, who cried a little for the father whose memory was just beginning to return to her. But it was the old memories that made her sad, not the most recent one. She prayed for her father and hoped that he would be untormented in the realm he'd advanced to. The man who had beaten her was not her father; he was a product of the killing tumor, and she could not find it in her heart to hate a sick man.

It was time to think of getting back on her feet, though.