Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (67 page)

“And you blame your father?” Lucie asked softly. She had sensed he was a man who had known pain, but to have it laid before her like this so clearly, so coolly, almost like it wasn’t a deep wound in his heart, was disconcerting. She sensed Micah was a man who had grown quite expert at shielding his true feelings.

He snorted a sharp, hard laugh. “Who else should I blame? He has even admitted to it.”

“He admits it?”

“Yeah. After my ma died, he acted like it grieved him terribly. He said it changed him.”

“People do change.” The hopefulness in her tone sprang from more than just trying to convince
him
.

“I don’t care. Even if he did, it was too late. He killed her. He ruined our lives. A person just can’t do that and expect forgiveness.”

“Maybe you are being a bit hard on him,” she ventured.

“Oh yeah!” he retorted. “Guess all you religious fanatics got to stick together.”

She blinked, shocked at the venom in his response.

He added a little more gently, “You didn’t deserve that, I guess.”

“I didn’t mean to defend your father, Micah. But I think all the hate you seem to be storing inside is hurting you more than it’s hurting him.

Hate is a double-edged blade.”

“What do you know about hate?”

He was studying her closely. Then, to her amazement, a small smile played upon the corners of his lips.

“You’ve never hated a soul in your life, have you, Lucie?”

“I don’t think so. I have never had reason to, I suppose.”

“I fear you’ll one day come to hate me,” he said, no humor now in his aspect.

“My mother and father had a little pact between them,” she replied. “They said they would never let the sun set upon their anger. I think hatred comes from anger that is allowed to fester.”

“Many suns have set on my anger,” he said grimly.

“My parents would give their anger to God.”

“I think . . . I hate God as well.”

“Oh, Micah!” She wanted to weep for him.

“I wish I could be like my Uncle Haden. He didn’t even believe in God. But unfortunately, I believe.”

“Who is the God you believe in?”

“He looks a lot like my father.”

Her barely checked tears now erupted at the vast emptiness in his tone. She reached out to touch his hand because she simply could not leave him there so alone, so empty. Her hand brushed his, and scarcely had contact been made when his arms came up and gathered her to him. He held her fiercely, but not like he had at the dance. Now there was a desperation in him, as if he might crumble without her to keep him intact. She felt the grate of his day’s growth of beard in her hair as he pressed his cheek hard to her head. She thought he was trembling a bit, but perhaps it was her own quaking she felt.

This was different than before, not a physical need, but a need that went to the heart, the very soul.

“It’s been so long,” he murmured. “So long . . .”

Lucie wasn’t certain what he meant, but she had a feeling he had not held a woman out of sheer emotional need since the death of his mother so many years ago. She wondered if anyone had held him, loved him since then. She encircled him with her own arms, patting his back, cooing comforting words.

Still holding her, he moved his head and looked into her eyes. “I knew you were dangerous. You are so decent, so sweet. . . . Oh, God . . .”

“I love you, Micah!”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why won’t you let yourself love a little?” she entreated. “Maybe it will chase away some of the hatred.”

“I’m not sure I’d know how. It’s been a long time.” He ran his finger along her cheek. All the shadows had fled from his eyes. They were the purest of blue now. “I could love you, Lucie.”

“That’s enough for now, then.” She smiled, though she knew she was lying. She would never be satisfied until his love was as complete as hers. “I won’t ask for more.” She was telling herself as much as him.

He bent closer and his lips touched hers. The kiss was as gentle and tender as the last kiss had been heated and passionate. He knew as well as she that what was happening now far surpassed anything physical.

“We better go back,” he said, his grip on her loosening.

She nodded. She did not know what would happen now. She only knew a line had been crossed, one she couldn’t turn back from. She loved this man. She prayed God would understand.

He rose, but she did not see the hand he had extended to help her as she jumped to her feet.

“Looks like your ankle is better,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh . . . uh . . . yes, it is.” She remembered her deception and felt all the worse for it after what they had just shared.

CHAPTER

17

T
HE SUN WAS LOWERING IN
the west as they rode up to the ranch. The sky was a dusky shade of orange and red with a deeper purple near the horizon. Micah and Lucie had been silent for most of the two.hour ride. There was so much more to be said, yet already they each had as much as they could handle to consider.

Micah could hardly fathom what had passed between them. Lucie had said she loved him. Even now, to remember her profound declaration made his chest constrict. He had not realized until that moment sitting there on the creek bank how desperately empty of things like love he had been. Until Lucie had come along, it had been easy to shrug off this need, and he knew it was indeed a need.

She had said maybe a little love would help wash away some of the hate. But he had lived with hate for so long that maybe it was too deeply a part of him. Maybe hate had made him the man he was. If he gave it up, it might be relinquishing too much. Yet that little touch of love he’d felt from her had been so sweet. And as he’d felt it, he realized just how much he’d missed it.

He glanced over at her. The lowering sun was shimmering in her dark hair like flames. She was so beautiful he could hardly believe she had reached inside him and touched something that had so very little to do with physical attraction. If he believed in God, or rather, if he acknowledged the God he knew was there, he’d feel certain she could be the answer to a man’s prayers.

She smiled, catching his open appraisal of her. “We’re almost at the ranch. Won’t you stay for supper?”

He could see the house and outbuildings on the horizon. He wondered what it would be like to sit to supper with these decent folks. That scared him as much as anything.

“I don’t know,” he hedged. “It’s getting late.”

“When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”

“A coon’s age, I reckon. You doing the cooking?”

She laughed. “Not tonight. But I do cook, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

He didn’t know at all if that’s what he’d meant. He was afraid of her thinking of him as a man evaluating the qualifications of a prospective wife. He shook away the thought. What was he thinking? He knew she was a dangerous woman.

They rode into the yard, and as they brought their horses into the stable, several of the men offered Lucie friendly greetings. For Micah they only offered cautious stares. Instead of being offended, he was glad these men felt a protectiveness toward her. He wanted her protected, cared for. He just didn’t know if he was the man for the job.

Once in the house, Lucie ushered him into a parlor. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I tell Juana there will be one more for dinner?”

He didn’t recall actually telling her he’d stay, but he made no protests. Micah wanted this as much as he feared it. He simply could not remember the last time he’d been in a family home. Once or twice when he and Jed had been youngsters and wandering around, a couple of folks had kindly taken them into their homes and given them meals. But for the most part he lived under the sky, with occasional visits to bawdy houses or maybe even a hotel when he had some money in his pockets. He’d never been in a simple cabin with a family, a woman in calico, children toddling about, the fragrance of bread in the air.

Not since his own home. And oddly, when he thought of home, it was the dingy Texas cabin that came to mind, not the fine frame house in Boston. For all the misery he’d known there, that cabin had represented something he now sorely missed. A certain cohesiveness, even security. Especially after his stepmother had come and brought a bit of happiness to the place. Not that Micah had ever been able to embrace that happiness. But if he had . . .

Micah shut out such thoughts. They were confusing, and the last thing he needed was more confusion. Instead, he wandered around the Maccallum parlor. It was a nice room, tastefully but expensively furnished. A far cry from the simple Sinclair cabin. The furnishings were made of dark-stained wood of Spanish design. Micah imagined they were old. No doubt Reid Maccallum had purchased them from former residents. Though of course he could have had them shipped from Spain or Mexico City, but the man did not appear the type to indulge in such tastes. In fact, Micah was rather surprised to find such fancy things in his home at all. Lucie had said her ma had died two years ago, so this might well be her influence. Still, most frontier women tended to ship household items from the States, not Mexico.

Micah ambled aimlessly over to the fireplace. This was made of good Texas stone. No fire burned on this warm summer day. Above the hearth was a large portrait of a woman, a beautiful woman. A Mexican woman. She was dressed in a deep red gown, stylishly designed and obviously expensive. On her head was a veil of the kind Mexican women wore for special occasions, which Micah had heard called a
mantilla
. It was of black lace and blended with her dark hair, piled fetchingly under the mantilla. She was probably thirty years old, but her creamy tan skin was flawless, and Micah thought this was more her natural appearance than the strokes of a skillful artist.

He stepped back from the portrait to get a better look. He didn’t know why it captured him so. Probably because out on the frontier one seldom saw fine works of art. Yet there was something else about this particular painting. Something vaguely familiar. Something—

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” came Lucie’s soft, almost reverent, voice from over his shoulder.

“Who is it?” His voice held a bit of reverence as well, though at the same time a small knot began to form in his stomach.

“My mother.”

His mouth went suddenly dry, and he could not speak. Perhaps he should have known all along. Her rich dark hair and eyes, her skin tanned—he’d thought from the sun. But maybe he hadn’t wanted to see, to know what now was so unavoidably true. Lucie was Mexican.

“Y-you never said anything,” he said hoarsely, with some accusation.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

He spun around to face her. What he saw was the absolute truth of her heritage. He also knew she was lying. She had known it might matter. She must have faced prejudices from whites before. And he knew without doubt he was prejudiced. Unlike some, he could not separate loyal Texan Mexicans from those who had murdered his uncle.

“I don’t know what to say,” he breathed, hardly able to speak the words because he knew they would cut him off from what his heart desired.

“I’m disappointed in you, Micah.”

“Me? How about you?” his voice rose with both defensiveness and accusation. “Why did you hide it, Lucie? Are you ashamed?”

“I am proud of who I am!”

With her chin jutted out and her eyes flashing, he had to believe her.

“I said nothing because it never occurred to me that there was any reason to stand and shout, ‘I am Mexican!’ And I didn’t believe you could be so petty until this afternoon when we were talking about the banditos. I glimpsed a bit of it then. Maybe I should have run when I saw it.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“I wanted to believe there was more to you, that the hate was only a small part that could be eased away with enough love. I see now it is bigger than I thought.” Her voice shook, but it was cold, too, especially as she spoke those last words. “You are just a bigoted fool!” She spat her final words.

“And I’ve got every right to be!” he spat back. “And it’s not just big-otry. It’s founded in solid facts. I watched while your people slaughtered hundreds of men, my uncle among them. Slaughtered them! Gunned them down when they were unarmed and couldn’t fight back. And then when they were dead, them Mexicans just kept shooting and shooting.

I swore I’d hate and kill as many as I could. That ain’t being a bigot.

It’s pure revenge.”

“It is bigotry,” Lucie retorted. “I wasn’t one of those murderers, and neither were many others. Yet you lump us all together.”

“It ain’t that simple.”

“Like hating your father isn’t simple?”

He could tell she knew her words would hurt.

“I think you just thrive on hatred, any way you can get it,” she added.

“I ain’t listening to this! You lied to me. You deceived me. So you don’t have any cause to get righteous with me!”

“Leave this house immediately!” she practically screamed.

“Oh, I’m leaving all right! I’m leaving right now!”

As he quickly saddled his horse and rode away, Micah didn’t know why he kept thinking she would come after him. And he certainly didn’t know why he actually
wanted
her to. She represented everything he hated. He didn’t go around gunning down every Mexican he encountered in the streets, though part of him wanted to. Maybe not women and children, ’cause he wasn’t an animal. But he held no great affection even for them. In San Antonio, ninety percent of the population was Mexican, so it was hard to avoid them. But he tried.

Even he had to admit, however, that it was wrong to lump them all together. He rode with a couple of Mexicans in Hays’ company of rangers. And there was an entire company of Mexican rangers run by Antonio Perez. They were good men. They had covered his back on numerous occasions. But he knew he consciously tried not to think of them as Mexican. Contrary to what Lucie had implied, he didn’t walk around with hate just oozing from him. He could be tolerant. But that didn’t mean he’d be squeamish about killing Mexicans when they deserved it.