Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (49 page)

      
Delirious and semiconscious as the laudanum wore off, Melanie talked. At first she rambled in incoherent whispers. Then, as her strength seemed to return, she cried out, reliving all the pain and fear of her childhood as the unwanted daughter of a neurotic
placée
. Even though Lee knew the superficial facts, hearing it pouring from her in this totally uninhibited and frightening way tore at him.

      
When she began to murmur about her first encounter with Leandro Velasquez on the Galveston waterfront when he was a handsome eighteen-year-old and she an impressionable girl of twelve, Charlee shrewdly ushered everyone from the room. Some things between a man and woman were too personal for anyone else to overhear.

      
But Lee listened and relived with her those long-ago days in Galveston and four years later in Austin. This time he saw them from her perspective. She also spoke of their encounter on the hillside and the forced marriage that followed it.

      
“Oh, Night Flower, Charlee was right and I've been such an arrogant, self-centered fool,” he whispered brokenly, kissing her glowing cheek as he sponged her.

      
Later, when she had quieted, Lee called Charlee back into the room, asking for fresh water and linens. Although she could see on his face the ravages of reddened eyes and tear stains, she appeared not to notice and quickly went off to do as he asked.

      
The fever had broken by the time Doc Westin returned the next morning, and Melanie fell into a deep, healing sleep. By that evening, Obedience pronounced her young charge on the road to recovery; and everyone but Lee breathed a sigh of relief. Until those wide, beautiful eyes once more looked at him with love, he would know no peace.

      
Melanie felt as though she had just been thrown from Liberator at a hard gallop—no, make that thrown into a pile of jagged rocks—then trampled by a herd of longhorns! She turned her head slightly and opened her eyes. It was dusk. The room was dimly lit by the fading sun, but she recognized it—the master bedroom—Lee's room. She was in her husband's bed and he was standing across the room from her. His face was darkened by a beard and lined from exhaustion. His wrinkled clothes and tousled hair also betrayed his long bedside vigil.

      
As he turned to look at her, she quickly closed her eyes and feigned sleep, struggling to gather her scattered thoughts before confronting him. His tenderness and words of love when he had rescued her from Blaine and Greer returned to her in a confused jumble.
Does he just feel guilty because I was shot? Or could he love me?

      
Experimentally, she tried to roll over, and a sudden burst of agony caused her eyes to fly open in shocked surprise. The gasp brought Lee instantly to her side.

      
“Mellie? Are you awake? Does it hurt, darling?” He gently pushed her into the pillows, flat on her back.

      
She moaned, unable to stifle the complaint of her screaming side. Then, sucking in her breath, she gritted out, “Yes. Damn, yes, it hurts like—ooh, God, Father Gus would faint if he heard me say what it hurts like. Did Blaine—Greer—”

      
‘They're both dead. Forget them,” Lee interrupted impatiently. “You've had a fever in addition to having had a bullet rip through your side. I thought I told you Moses French had retired,” he said with mock sternness; but the obvious happiness in his face belied the scolding.

      
“What a story I'll have for Clarence—once you fill me in on all the rest of the facts.”

      
Now it was his turn to groan.

      
Hearing voices, Charlee opened the door and entered the room, a huge smile wreathing her face. “At last Obedience can bring you some of that chicken soup she's been simmering in Kai's kitchen for the past two days. He's in a real snit because she took over his domain.”

      
Picturing the battle of wills between those two fearsome giants, Melanie laughed, then gasped in pain again.

      
“There are several people outside who have been driving us crazy waiting to see you, Night Flower,” Lee said.

      
As if on cue, Charlee opened the door and Lame Deer fairly flew in at her summons, followed by a scurrying Father Gus and an ambling, nonchalant Clarence Pemberton.

      
“Melanie! You—you are awake!” The boy could scarcely restrain the impulse to leap on the bed and hug his princess. But when she patted a place alongside her on the mattress, he eagerly sat down and gave her a gentle hug. “Are you going to be all right?”

      
“Yes. Just weak and sore now. Tell me what happened to you,” she asked, knowing the boy was about to burst with his tale.

      
“When you left with those bad men chasing you, I stole a pony and rode very fast for here. Kai was ready with many men and guns. Then the Comanche came and it was a terrible fight, but they did not burn your house,” he finished, expelling an exuberantly breathless squeak.

      
“I'm very grateful to everyone,” Melanie replied gravely. “And as soon as someone brings me a pencil and paper, I’ll write quite a story,” she said, casting a suspicious glance at Clarence, who had turned slightly pink.

      
“Well, perhaps you'd better wait until you've regained more strength and until you've read what I’ve already written. Alas, Melanie, news is news—”

      
“Only until it's passed around by word of mouth,” she finished the old newspaper axiom. “I suppose you talked to everyone from Jeremy to Lame Deer and then wrote the biggest action story since the Council House fight of 1840!” she accused with blazing eyes.

      
One shaggy white brow arched. “You were unconscious, dear child.” With a flourish he thrust a copy of the
Star
at her. “Once you've read it and, er, recovered all your objectivity, I’m sure you'll find a good deal that I’ve left out.” A flicker of a smile played around his lips. “When you write your first-person account of the grand finale, I'll even have Amos print your name at the head of the column,” he said magnanimously.

      
“Moses French?” she asked with a nervous glance toward Lee, whose face remained unreadable.

      
“Your husband has informed me in no uncertain terms Moses French is dead. No, I rather expect it should bear the name Melanie Velasquez. Has a ring of authenticity, don't you think?” With that startling piece of news, Clarence Vivian Pemberton actually winked at her, nodded to Lee, and then turned to leave the room with a jaunty stride. “See you at the
Star
—and don't be too long sending in that story. No one wants stale news.” With that, he was gone.

      
Melanie looked up at Lee with a mixture of joy and confusion on her face. “Why, that old—” She caught herself just in time and looked guiltily over to Father Gus.

      
Lame Deer, who often caught himself in just such lapses in front of the holy father, muffled a giggle.

      
The young priest laughed jovially. “It would seem, my dear, all our prayers have been answered.”

      
“I think so, Father,” Lee replied, his eyes never leaving his wife's face.

      
“ ‘Nough o' news stories 'n' prayin, ” Obedience interrupted. “I got this here ailin' youngun some fine vittles to put a bloom back in them peaked cheeks. Now, shoo, all o' yew! She needs food ‘n sleep.”

      
Melanie ate obediently and almost immediately fell into a sound sleep. Lee made a pallet on the floor and spent the night beside her bed. Over the next few days, they arranged a routine. Every morning when Melanie awakened, Genia brought her a special breakfast, carefully prepared by Kai. Lee's pallet was always carefully folded up and resting on the chest in the corner. Looking at it, she felt oddly warmed to know he watched over her with such devotion each night. But he was gone before she awakened.

      
Of course, he had a big ranch to run; and he did come to her room to share dinner each evening, keeping her posted on what had happened in town and at the ranch.

      
Jeremy Lawrence was recovering from injuries suffered in his fight with Walkman. Gall had been killed along with most of his followers and the rest driven off and scattered. With Blaine's trading post closed and Greer out of business, savage depredations on a large scale were over.

      
One evening at dinner, as she carefully balanced her tray and cut her steak, Melanie asked, “Who is replacing Seth Walkman now?”

      
“Lawrence,” was the terse reply.

      
His curt tone of voice caused her to look up in surprise. They had been getting on so amicably during her recuperation, even if they did only discuss superficial things. Still, he harbored an intense dislike of Jeremy Lawrence. “He's a good man for the job, Lee,” she said noncommittally. Surely, he didn't still think she and Jeremy were in any way involved?

      
Wanting to change the subject, she said, “I've been working on my story for the
Star
—my personal account of all I found out about Walkman and Greer, then of being abducted and taken hostage. I've almost finished. Lame Deer has filled me in on most of the details I missed.” She hesitated and looked at him. “You did mean what you said about letting me write for Clarence and using my own name...?”

      
He tossed down his napkin, still unsettled by her mention of Lawrence. “Why should you ask my permission to write your story? You never have before.” Seeing the surprised hurt in her eyes, he immediately relented. “Mellie, I'm sorry. I did talk to Clarence when the old curmudgeon came out to see how you were, and we agreed about the story—when you were strong enough to do it.” He did not add that it was he who had suggested his wife be allowed to use her own name on the news piece.

      
“I'm getting stronger each day, Lee,” she said softly, with a hint of challenge to her voice. “Once my health's returned, do we go back to the way things were before?” The minute the words were out she regretted them.
Fool! Don't ask questions when you're afraid of the answers!

      
He stood up and walked across to her bed, where he carefully removed her tray, setting it on the bedside table. Then, he sat down on the edge of the bed and placed one hand on the side of her face caressingly. “No, Night Flower, we don't. You asked me to bring you here, and here you stay. You're my wife and I love you. I want to build a life together.” He looked deeply into her expressive golden eyes, willing a response from her, yet afraid of what it might be.

      
“Then why—why haven't you told me until now? It's as if I have to wring a confession of love out of you.” She hated the accusatory sound of her own voice, but seemed unable to stop herself. “You had to marry me, and maybe you do love me—at least you desire me.” She reddened in mortification. “But—but you don't
want
to love me. I'm not your proper Hispanic ideal like Larena Sandoval...or Dulcia.” There, she had said it, mentioned her rivals.

      
Larena was alive and Melanie could fight her, but dead, Dulcia was the greater threat.

      
Lee dropped his hand from her as if burned and stood up. All his thoughts were so crazily jumbled up. He must not botch this now. Sighing, he began to pace and run his hands through his hair. “As to waiting to tell you I love you, there's so much to be said and explained. I wanted to let you recover your strength...and give myself time to think this through… While you were delirious with the fever, you told me lots of things, Mellie.” He saw a wary, frightened look flare in her eyes.
Damn, I’m messing this up!

      
“What things?” she asked in a low voice.

      
“The things that gave you nightmares. Remember all the ugly things I confessed to you when I awakened you with my nightmare?” At her wide-eyed nod, he went on, “Well, your confessions weren't that heinous. It wasn't what you'd done, darling, but what had been done to you—by Lily, by Rafe's desertion, and your grandmother's death.” At her stricken look, he quickly went over and sat down beside her, taking her in his arms.

      
“Oh, Mellie, I was a fool, a bloody cruel monster for all the rotten things I said to you about being a
placée`s
daughter. You grew up to be Deborah Fleming's daughter, and she and everyone else—including me—is proud of you.”

      
“But I'm still of that blood—African and Indian,” she whispered in a muffled voice, not wanting to abandon the comfort of his embrace, yet unwilling to let the issue be unresolved between them.

      
“I don't care. No, that's not true—I do care. If you share the blood of people like Lame Deer and Amos Johnston, I'd be a fool not to be proud of you. You're bright and lovely and good,” he said, stroking her shiny ebony hair. “You also talked about when we met in Austin.” He felt her stiffen in his arms.

      
“I was so hurt that you were married. Oh, Lee, she was the kind of wife you wanted.”

      
“I was eaten alive with guilt ever since Austin, Mellie. I guess that's why I took such a perverse delight in acting like a bastard every time I met you since then,” he said soberly.

      
Melanie looked up into his face in confusion. “Guilt? I don't understand.”

      
“Don't you see, my love? You've been jealous and afraid of shadows all this time. I was a naive boy when I married Dulcia. By the time we got to Texas, I realized it had been a mistake. She was a hothouse flower, prim and delicate. She hated the land of my birth, hated the ranch. Even worse, she hated my touch. She did her duty,” he said with sad irony in his voice. “When I left her in San Antonio and went to Austin, I met this vision in a mustard silk shirt and indecently split riding skirts—Rafe Fleming's spoiled little darling all grown up—and I wanted you.” His eyes bored into hers, angry with himself, yet pleading for her understanding.