Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (16 page)

      
After spending the morning outfitting himself with clothes and visiting the barber, he felt more like a rancher and less like a renegade. Wearing a soft white shirt, tan wool suit, and gleaming new boots, he headed across the Main Plaza, intent on visiting several of the largest and most popular cantinas, the best places to spread the word that he wanted to hire vaqueros for Night Flower. “Night Flower.” He rolled the new name he had chosen for his ranch on his tongue.

      
As he walked, preoccupied, across the busy square, two pairs of female eyes watched him with great interest. Larena Sandoval and her cousin Teresa Ramirez were out for a late afternoon stroll on their way to confession at San Fernando Cathedral.

      
“That is him, Larena,” Teresa whispered from behind her parasol. “Leandro Velasquez.”

      
Her friend, a slim dark-haired girl of striking beauty, stared at the tall, lean stranger who walked with such catlike grace. “He looks different than he did six years ago, that is certain,” she said hesitantly, noting his wicked-looking knife and pistol and the harsh, angular planes of his handsome face.

      
“But still gorgeous! I think the scar on his cheek makes him dashing!” Teresa sighed.

      
Larena remembered the young man and his pretty bride who had been fast friends of her older sister Gertrudis. Now both Gertrudis and Dulcia were long dead, and so were their murderers—at the hand of this dangerous-looking stranger. She could not deny there was a certain frightening fascination to him.

      
“I've read the terrible story about him and what he did in New Mexico,” Larena said, recalling the story in that morning's
Star
. Teresa babbled on about the tragedy of his lost youth and unfair treatment at the hands of the Anglo government.

      
“But my cousin James has had him pardoned,” Larena replied to Teresa's diatribe. “I wonder what he's going to do now. Perhaps rebuild his ranch?”

      
“Let's ask him,” Teresa said, giving her friend's arm a yank and propelling her on a collision course with the long-legged man.

      
Lee was preoccupied with his plans and did not see the two young women until he had almost trampled them. Catching himself an instant before he lost an eye to the sharply pointed edge of Teresa's parasol, he pulled back sharply as the pretty young woman flipped it back with a feigned gasp of dismay, as if the last thing in the world she had thought to do was to run into him.

      
Doffing his wide-brimmed hat, he sketched a bow and smiled at the conspiratorial pair. The cute little brunette who had nearly blinded him was simpering coyly, but her delicately beautiful friend with the lustrous ebony hair was obviously embarrassed at their ploy. “A thousand pardons, ladies. I was not watching where I was going. Are you hurt?”

      
“Better to ask that of you, Leandro. Teresa wields a wicked parasol,” Larena said, with color staining her cheeks.

      
Lee chuckled and then looked closely at her, realizing she was familiar. “You have the advantage of knowing my name. Might I presume to ask yours?”

      
“I am Larena Sandoval—Gertrudis' sister,” she added quietly.

      
His expression betrayed a hint of pain, but it vanished in an instant, replaced by amazement. “But the last time I saw you, you were a schoolgirl with braided hair, in short skirts!”

      
“It was six years ago. Schoolgirls do grow up,” she said with a dimpling smile. “Oh, and this rather dangerous young woman is my cousin Teresa Ramirez.”

      
Lee smiled at Teresa and she was lost. Lord, how handsome he was! “As an old friend of our family, you must come calling some day soon. You've been back in San Antonio for weeks, and after the story in the newspaper, I'm certain Uncle José and Aunt Esperanza are very concerned for your well-being,” she said primly.

      
“Story in the newspaper?” Lee looked from Teresa to Larena as a sickening feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. She wouldn't have dared.

      
“The
Star
carried a long story about your life, Leandro,” Larena replied. Seeing the anger that darkened his face, she quickly went on, “Oh, it was not an unfavorable story. It told of the injustice done you by the government and how you were deserving of the pardon. In fact, it was very flattering to the
Tejano
community.”

      
“I'll bet,” he said tightly. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have to go read a newspaper.” He tipped his hat and stalked off determinedly.

      
Lee stormed in the front door of the boardinghouse and nearly collided with Violet Clemson, who gasped and leaped out of his way with surprising alacrity for someone of seventy-plus years. Ignoring her fright, he strode toward the kitchen and the sound of Obedience's voice.

      
Without a greeting, he slammed the
Star
on the table and glared at her. “Why the hell did you tell her all this? It was you, wasn't it? And don't deny that Melanie wrote this story, even though no name is on it.”

      
Thoroughly unintimidated, Obedience continued slicing the haunch of venison that was to be served for the boarder's midday meal. “Yep, I tole her part o' it. She talked to Jim 'n' Charlee, too. Anythin' in it not true?” She looked at him patiently.

      
Wanting to lash out at someone, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, furious with Obedience and the Slades. “Why did you help her? I didn't want the past dredged up, and I don't want people's sympathy because I was a
Tejano
who was done wrong by the Anglos.”

      
She shrugged philosophically. “If’n yer gonna make a life here, Lee, yew gotta figger folks is gonna dredge up th' past whether er not yew like it. Question ‘pears ta me ta be, is someone gonna set 'em straight? Till now, them ugly rumors ‘n lies, ‘bout yew wuz the onliest things they had ta go on. Yew have th' truth tole now, without yer havin' ta go over ’n over it with ever'body. Folks is willin' ta fergit yer mistakes in Santy Fe now thet they know why yew went ‘n how yew come back.” She looked at him, gauging that his anger was cooling slightly. With a twinkle in her eyes, Obedience added, “She done a helluva a job, didn't she?”

Chapter Nine

      
Father Gustav Schreckenberg wiped the sweat from his brow and ran his fingers through the thick swatch of straight yellow hair falling on his forehead. Unconsciously, he pushed it back and placed his hat over it once more.
And I thought it was hot in Munich!
The July heat was nearly unbearable. How far away the cool, dark green mountains of Bavaria seemed from the gold and azure of Texas with its brilliant skies and parched adobes.

      
Here at least the air moves, he consoled himself, remembering his landing in Galveston on a becalmed day when the humidity and sun had combined to drive even stray dogs and hardy burros to seek shade. He patted the small, sinewy beast he rode at a slow, gentle pace. “A long way we have come from Galveston to San Antonio,” he said aloud, practicing his English on the burro.

      
The priest observed the city as he neared the eastern boundaries. Mercifully, there were some tall cotton wood trees welcoming him with their shade. The river, too, was lovely as he followed its twists and turns, watching small dark-haired children with glistening brown bodies splash and cavort in the shallows while their mothers scrubbed laundry on the rocks at the water's edge.

      
So far everyone he had met appeared Hispanic. Where were all the Anglo and German settlers? The young priest's fair complexion was sunburned to a fierce cherry glow, adding to the cherubic appearance of his round, pleasant face with its bright blue eyes and generous lips. Seeing the young padre's cassock and collar, many of the young men and children called greetings to him in Spanish. Smiling, he blessed them, making the sign of the cross and nodding but venturing no further communication.

      
As he neared the center of town and began to see more northern European faces, he relaxed. Perhaps someone here spoke English, even German. Then, the tall dome of San Fernando came into sight. Recognizing it at once from the description he'd been given in Galveston by Bishop Odin, he urged the little burro in that direction, cutting through the thronging melee of the crowded market conducted daily in the Main Plaza. He was suddenly diverted from his goal by the baah of a nanny goat that was quickly drowned out by the shrill cries of a small child and the rumbling bass curses of a fat merchant.

      
Turning to stare in the direction from which the noise was coming, Father Schreckenberg saw a small Indian boy pulling frantically on a rope fastened around the neck of a protesting nanny. Boy and goat were fleeing the wrath of a cantina owner whose ample girth greatly impeded his speed.

      
Brandishing a broom, the fat man swatted at the boy and missed, overturning several crocks of milk, which elicited furious shrieks from the woman who was selling it. He ignored her and swore as the boy overturned a stall of oranges in his path. The youngster raced through a clutch of chickens, tripping over the squawking, fluttering fowl and losing his hold on the goat's lead rope. The latter quickly turned her attention to several spilled crocks of corn and an overturned jug of milk.

      
By this time a gaping crowd circled the peace disturbers. The fat man, whose loose, soiled cotton pants and shirt marked him as a member of the lower class of
Tejanos
, grabbed the child and hauled him up roughly. The boy was small and painfully thin, dressed only in ragged pants, bare chested and shoeless. His straight black hair and high cheekbones marked his Indian ancestry.

      
The cantina owner took a broad swipe at the boy with one hand while holding the squirming, bony little body with the other hand. A nonstop torrent of Spanish accompanied the blow and several more, which the child endured in silence as he struggled to free himself from the man's grip.

      
Father Schreckenberg observed the uneven contest for several seconds, then quickly dismounted and made his way through the crowd. The young priest was short but stocky and muscular. When he put his hand on the bigger man's arm, his fingers restrained a blow aimed at the dazed boy's head.

      
Whirling like an enraged bull, Enrique Santos snarled, then seeing the cassock and crucifix which the interloper wore, he quickly subsided. In Spanish he asked, “What do you want with this Indian trash, Father? He's stolen my goat from the back of my tavern. They all steal, you know.”

      
“That is a lie! I took her only to milk her,” the boy shot back, also in Spanish. “I worked all day sweeping and scrubbing his place for that milk, and he refused to let me have it when I was done.”

      
The two argued in rapid-fire Spanish, one standing on each side of him while the crowd milled and stared. Father Schreckenberg felt his face redden in consternation—as if the merciless heat of the Texas sun weren't bad enough!
The bishop warned me about interference. Why do I always get in these situations?
Aloud, he blurted to the irate cantina owner, “Please, it is wrong to raise your hand in anger, my son.” Rattled, he spoke German without realizing it.

      
Santos, who knew little English and nothing of German, had never seen a priest who couldn't speak Spanish. “What kind of father are you?” he asked in his language.

      
Before the priest could respond, the boy seized his chance and darted away. Quickly grabbing the child's arm, Father Schreckenberg said, “Not so fast. You wait, too. Stealing also is a sin.”

      
The boy's large black eyes silently mirrored the suspicion that Santos had verbalized. What strange guttural language did the foreign one speak? He squirmed while the cantina owner yelled.

      
“You aren't a priest, are you? Why do you wear the holy robes? I'll take you to Father Calvo!” He took a menacing step forward, his big ham like hands grasping the priest's cassock, tearing his clerical collar.

      
Just then, the crowd split to admit the slight figure of a dark-haired girl. “Perhaps I can help, Father, although my German is really rusty,” Melanie said haltingly to Father Schreckenberg. Then turning to Santos she said rapidly in Spanish, “He is a priest, only from a faraway land, like the farmers to the north in New Braunfels.”

      
Not loosening his hold on Schreckenberg, Santos said, “I never saw a priest in San Antonio who couldn't speak Spanish, or at least English.”

      
“English! Ja, English. I speak English! I practice on my burro,” the priest said, proud to regain his bearings.

      
“Ha! What burro,
tonto
?” Santos asked sarcastically. The boy, who had squirmed from Father Schreckenberg's grasp when the big
Tejano
attacked him, had shinnied up on the burro and kicked it into a startlingly fast gallop through the crowd.

      
“I told you,
indios son ladrones
,” the barkeep said in a polyglot of English and Spanish. He made the self-satisfied pronouncement, then scowled once more at Melanie and Father Schreckenberg. Looking at the girl, he accused, “You always meddle where you are not wanted. This man let a thief get away from me, and now he must walk for his sins. It's God's punishment on him for pretending to be a priest.” Furiously, he raised his hand once more in a fit of temper.

      
The priest quickly interposed himself between the small woman and the larger man; but before the confrontation could get uglier, a cool voice interrupted. “Let the priest go, Santos.” Lee stepped from the crowd, hand resting lightly on the Colt at his hip, the threat palpable in the air.