Stronger Than Passion (30 page)

“Gringa Señoras . . . it is too bad you have only one little man to protect you. This is dangerous country for pretty Americanas! Your army is far too many miles away.”

“I am not a Gringa,” Christina said, “I am a lady of Mexico, cousin to Señor Lopez de Santa Anna himself. I am traveling to my home in Jalapa, to my estate - ”

Both guerrilla s burst into laughter - ugly and unkind. “A great Señora is traveling with only one little man to protect?” said the one who had spoken before.

“We were attached - by Americanos. They killed all of my escorts except this one here.” She placed a protective hand on Rene’s head, willing the hand not to shake.

“Where did this happen, Señora?” The other man spoke, his voice responding, as the other’s had not, with respect for Christina’s aristocratic tones and inherent dignity.

“About . . . thirty or forty miles from here. South, I think. I do not know - it has been most difficult for me . . . and for my English companion . . . . ”

English?” The first Santanista’s eyes crawled toward Penny, and she pressed a little closer to Christina.

“She is English. My manservant is French. We are none of us American!” Christina cried.

“Then why did your Frenchman fire on us, shooting our friend, eh?”

“Perhaps he thought you were Yanquis or banditos. I don’t know! But listen to me.” She leaned forward, careful to keep Rene’s cold gun hidden against her side. Her face was wiped of repugnance, but she fought to keep it neutral and persuasive. “I am the Doña Señora Christina de Sainz y Siguenza Cabra. My father-in-law is the Condé de Castillo. We are a rich family, and I will reward you well for your escort to Jalapa, to my estate. Or you may take us directly to Santa Anna; he will honor you for returning us to him. Either way, you will be wealthy men, if you do your Christian duty and aid me by restoring me to my home and family. I am a Patriot, Señoras; I only wish to go home!”

It was an impassioned plea, and all true, although Christina had no wish to travel anywhere accompanied by these men. And the guerrillas were swayed by her speech, she could tell. The one on the left, the more hostile one, looked at her speculatively. The other one appeared sympathetic.

But then the man on the left shook his head, smiling. “Almost, we pity you, Señora. Almost, we believe you.” He looked down at the gun in his hand, appearing to check it over. “Except that we know who this young, foolish Frenchman really is. And although we do not know you, we can only suppose that you belong - as he does - to El Diablo Indio . . . the one man in all of Mexico that we would most like to kill. The one we have been searching for days; apart from the rest of our unit.” He raised his eyes to her, cold and fierce in his dark, bearded face.

Christina glanced from him to the other. The man on her right looked apologetic, as if he really was sorry he could not accept her story. But not sorry enough to help her. Then Rene moaned - attracting everyone’s attention.

The first man spoke again. “Señoras, you must stand up and move aside. This Yanqui bastard must be put out of his misery. Then we will all ride out of here before any more of your compadrés ride in, eh?”

Christina’s mind and body froze, as though time had come to a complete halt. She couldn’t move; didn’t they see that? Neither could Penny.

Seconds passed. From somewhere, another room or another world, she heard someone say, “Ramundo - the Señoras are stubborn. Help them up.”

The one called Ramundo, the more agreeable one, started toward them. He reached for Penny - pulled her up and away from Christina, despite the girl’s struggles and shrill English oaths. Then he moved back for Christina.

There was a look of duty and concentration on his flat Mexican face as he bent over, gripping her left arm. But the expression changed at the horrendous noise of the shot . . . at the pain of the bullet fired point-blank into his chest. He toppled backward.

The other Mexican rushed forward. But then he, too, was knocked flat by the force of the second bullet to emerge from the barrel of Rene’s gun.

Christina looked at the smoking gun she held. Had she fired it? Had she been the one to shoot two men? She glanced toward Penny. How was the girl crying so soundlessly? Why was everything so quiet? Had she, herself, been shot?

The door opened, banging into the body of one of the Mexicans. Father Marco appeared, rifle in hand. He didn’t seem the least interested in the man he stepped over, beyond a cursory glance. Nor did he appear concerned with the pistol pointed at him by Christina. He came to her, instead, took the gun, and hugged her. He probably spoke to her, as well, but she couldn’t hear it. She was deaf.

The door remained open, and it was filled with the curious, pitying faces of the local townsfolk. Then the crowd shifted, and a tall man in a brown, flat-crowned hat with an eagle feather stuck in its brim pushed his way through. It was Julian Torrance, his expression harsh enough to terrify little children.

Over the Padré’s shoulder, Christina watched him replace his drawn gun in its holster. His black eyes had narrowed, and they met hers searchingly and even a bit uncertainly. Then they dropped to the Mexican at his feet, and he bent down, examining the lifeless body with terse movements. He glanced toward the other one, and at Rene; then toward Penny, backed into a corner and still sobbing. He looked again at Christina, still held in the arm of Padré Marco, still clutching Rene’s gun.

Then, to everyone’s surprise but Christina’s, he threw back his head and laughed.

*

Christina was only deaf for a few minutes. Her hearing returned with a loud, painful pop. By that time, Julian had taken control of her and everyone, alive and dead, surrounding her; and she had no desire to contradict his authority. She never wanted to make a decision about anything again in her life.

She was assisted to the town bathing spot - a tree-shaded area at a bend in the little stream running by the village - and cleansed of the blood which spattered her face and hands. Her clothes were removed and soaked in the stream. She was helped into the only other riding habit she possessed that was not ripped by now, and as it was a dark burgundy color - more shades of the color of blood - she wanted it off again! It took Penny five minutes of pleading, and the threat of calling Julian, before she consented to wear it.

All this was done at Torrance’s order.

But first he had seen to Rene, lifting the young man off the floor and placing him on the Padré’s bed to be looked after. He had ordered two of the villagers to drag the dead men out of the house and away somewhere. Then he had turned his attention to Christina, left sitting, in shock, on the dirt flor, her face streaked with blood and her eyes dilated. She didn’t know what he said to her; but there was both anger and something softer on his aloof face, and the hands that pulled her to her feet gripped her more protectively than anything else.

She was sent off with Penny to be washed. After that, her hearing restored and reaction to what she had done finally set in. Her body shook; she tried to cry, but produced no tears, only deep, gasping breaths. Penny walked her to the cantina, the villagers bowing as they passed. To them, Christina was a heroine. To them, she was something of a miracle!

Penny seated her at an uneven table and brought her tequila. She drank two glasses. She looked up, and there was Julian . . . gazing at her.

“Here, meniña,” he said gently. “Have some more. It’s what we all do.”

He poured her a third glass, and she obediently drank. By then, her body was warm and tingly; the shaking was beginning to ease. It was all due to the alcohol, no doubt. But who cared? ‘It’s what we all do,’ he had said. After what? After killing?

She was put upon a horse. It was dark; she barely saw Padré Marco’s face as she said goodbye. The horse began to move, at a gentle, rhythmic trot. She fell back, against the hard body that rode behind her. But that was alright. An arm encircled her, holding her steady, while a voice murmured in her ear, telling her to go to sleep.

There was nothing left to do now but sleep. Her eyes closed, her consciousness faded.. She forgot about blood and death and everything else. She slept.

And awoke, headachy and tense, to a complete change in circumstance. She and Penny were alone with Julian Torrance and two Indians. And they were headed east - back into Texas!

The idea of confronting Captain Torrance and demanding explanations of him would have seemed unthinkable to the Christina of two days ago. But that was before she had killed two men at close range. That was before she had gotten drunk on tequila, and fallen asleep on horseback in Torrance’s arms.

She wasn’t afraid of him anymore. And considering the state of being she awoke in early the next morning - her head throbbing, her mouth dry, her limbs stiff and sore - she wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody, period. She was angry and belligerent and, for once, unconscious of her own dignity.

She found him stretched out on the ground near a sparse tree, resting in the sunlight, his hat covering his face. Penny had told her the two Indians were somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t see them. No one else was visible in the harsh countryside for miles.

“Captain Torrance.”

His long body twitched, then his voice emerged from beneath the hat. “You may as well call me Julian It’s a strange name for a half-breed Indian, I’ll grant; but of course my English father is to be held responsible.”

“Julian” She kicked at a rock with the pointed toe of her boot. The rock flew high into the air, and came down sharply on Julian’s leg. He grunted.

“You’ve made your point, Señora. What the devil do you want/”

He sat up, pushing the hat to the top of the head. He fixed her with slitted black eyes.

“I would like to know where we’re going. I want to know how much longer we will stay with you, or whether you intend to turn us over to someone else - and if so, then whom? And I want to know where Michael is!”

He looked up at her, standing rigidly before him, and wondered if he would find it more difficult to deal with this now, self-assured Señora. He probably would.

“We are headed to Dos Rios. More specifically, la casa del Dos Rios. That is where you and your friend will stay - most likely for some time; until, that is, my dear cousin Michael does decide to show up and claim you. You will then be his property and his responsibility, thank God.”

“But where is he now?”

“In or near Saltillo, probably. Somewhere high up in the Sierra Madrés.”

“I had assumed he was - somewhere closer,” she said.

“He may be. I really do not know. Are you that anxious to see him?” Those eyes were intent now, and probing.

She looked away, her expression irritable. “No. Not unless he intends to let me go. I hate him.” That last had popped out of her, spitefully and untruthfully. Although, in her headachy, nervous frustration, she really did feel a massive anger toward him. If he hadn’t kidnapped her in the first place, she wouldn’t be what she was now - soiled, and practically a murderess.

Julian stood and stretched. “Then you won’t mind waiting a week or two more, especially since the house I am taking you to is extremely pleasant.”

“But is it in Texas?” she asked. She didn’t want to go there, to go backwards!

“Barely. It’s an old rancho situated between the Nueces River and the Frio. It isn’t all that far.”

“But . . . you mean you are simply going to take us there, and leave us? Alone?”

“Not quite alone,” he said, smiling at her perplexity and at the temper he saw she was about to display. So unlike her former, icy-calm manner!

“Diablos, Julian! Will you please tell me more? I am tired of not knowing anything, and I do have rights - especially after yesterday . . . ” her voice trailed off, and she frowned in memory. “At least tell me whose guests we will be. To whom does the rancho belong?

Julian looked amused and appreciative, and he reached down to stroke her flushed cheek. “To Michael Brett, meniña. And to me. Dos Rios is ours.”

She jerked away from his touch, ignoring his laugh. She felt oddly ambivalent.

It was as though the distant events of the last few weeks had never happened, or could be discounted. She remembered that cool, colorful day in Washington - when Michael had told her of his house in Texas. He had planned for her to go there then . . . and she had promised that she would, never really intending to.

Now, after everything that had happened, and against her wishes, she was still going.

There was an impossible irony in it all. His will had again proven stronger than hers, even at a distance! Or was fate on his side?

*

They crossed the Rio Grande in the dark and turned north, moving into the dry Texas grasslands.

Julian set a hard pace, matched only by his excessive caution.

He was taking no changes, even here in Texas, with passing strangers. He turned them away from every small village or rancho they came upon, sending the two Indians out alone in search of food. Whenever they crossed any suspicious tracks, he led his diminished band in a different, more roundabout direction. He was careful to conceal the visible smoke from campfires, and even to conceal the location of the camp; always choosing a site as defensible as he could find.