Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (72 page)

But there was no time to consider personal affairs. His comrades would not be able to stand for long against Woll’s army if help did not soon arrive.

“Why aren’t you men preparing to advance?” Micah demanded. “Captain Hays is gonna be slaughtered up there.”

“We have received no orders,” Grant said.

“Well, I’m ordering you to mount up and move it.”

A sardonic grin slipped across Grant’s finely chiseled face. “You and who else?”

Micah knew he had little authority, but he put as much bluff and bravado as he could behind that little he had. “I’m authorized by Captain Hays, and his orders are for you to move.”

By now many of the men had gathered around. Grant’s eyes swept the group. “Anyone here see Hays?” Of course no one did, and none of them were going to take orders from anyone lesser. “We ain’t taking orders from you, Sinclair.”

Micah wanted to leap from his horse and strangle the man, not only for his personal agenda but because Grant’s blatant unconcern for his endangered comrades inflamed him beyond reason. Then he made the mistake of glancing again at Grant’s sneering, superior face, and reason left him completely.

“You low-down snake!” Micah growled as he vaulted from his mount.

He smashed into Grant with enough force to practically knock the air from both of them. He backed up the force of his body with a well-aimed fist, and Micah could not remember anything feeling so good as the sound of the crunching cartilage of that smug face.

Blood spurted from Grant’s patrician nose. He touched his face, then looked with horror at his bloodied hand. Grant was about to make a counterattack when a gruff voice stopped him short.

“What’s going on here?” It was Caldwell himself.

Micah pulled his attention from Grant, for though his hands itched to do more damage, he knew he had larger things to consider.

“Where’s the reinforcements?” Micah asked, his voice shaking. He didn’t care if this was the commander of the Texan army. He’d pound him, too, if he tried to wheedle out of his responsibility.

“You’re one of Hays’ rangers, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. We broke through the artillery, but it was no use because there was no one to back us up. We’re getting torn to pieces!” Micah didn’t even try to curb his accusing tone.

“The ground is too boggy, and our mounts are simply too exhausted to make a go of it,” Caldwell replied, somewhat defensively. “It’ll be in my report.”

“Hang your report!” railed Micah. “What about Captain Hays?”

But Caldwell was spared, for the moment at least, as Big Foot Wallace on his stout mule galloped into camp with the news that Hays was in retreat.

“Anyone killed?” Micah asked.

“None that I know of.”

Micah shot a glance at Grant as if he would have been held personally responsible had any of Micah’s comrades been dead.

“You want to finish what you started,” dared Grant, “I’m ready.”

Micah advanced, but Wallace, who had dismounted, sized up the situation and stepped between the two.

“Hold on there,” he said. “We have too many problems without adding fighting among ourselves to ’em.”

Micah swallowed his rage. He knew it was unfounded. This man was nothing to him, certainly not a rival for the affections of a girl he could never have. And as far as Hays’ failed attack, Grant could not even be fairly blamed for that. He was just following orders.

“I guess I overreacted,” Micah admitted, though through gritted teeth.

Grant touched his nose again. Blood was beginning to congeal and crust, and the skin was turning an ugly shade of black. “Wallace is right. There’s more important things to see to right now. But I owe you, Sinclair—for a lot.”

“What’d you mean by that?”

“No one takes what’s mine. That’s what I mean. Not that you
could
take what belongs to me, but I’m not forgiving you for trying.”

Micah snorted derisively. “That’s ridiculous. If you’re talking about Lucie Maccallum, I don’t believe she belongs to anyone—me or you. She’s her own woman. But aside from that, unless you’ve a mind to marry her, I got just as much right to pay her attention as you.”

“I’m merely protecting her from scum—”

Micah made another menacing move, but Big Foot intervened again. “Carlton, this is the last time I’m gonna stop my friend. Next unsavory remark from your mouth, and I’m gonna let him at you—and believe me, you don’t want that. I’ve seen Comanches fall before his fists, and I don’t reckon you’re anywhere near as tough as a Comanche.”

Grant’s inner debate was obvious on his face. Finally he took a breath and spoke. “You can’t blame a man for desiring to protect a woman’s honor.”

“Well, go do it someplace else,” Wallace said.

Grant stalked away, very obviously not in defeat but mollified for the time being. There were other battles to be fought. They both knew that.

When they were alone, Micah turned to Wallace. “Big Foot, I ain’t never fought a Comanche with my fists.”

“Never?”

Micah shook his head.

“Well,” Wallace said, an easy grin bending his lips, “I reckon you’d be pretty fierce if you ever did.”

“Thanks, Big Foot.”

“Now let’s go see to our men.”

Hays’ company had by now ridden into camp. Thankfully, they had but one horse killed and five men wounded. But they were as ready as Micah had been to vent their fury upon Caldwell’s army. Hays barely held them in check. Tensions, however, rode high in camp that night and weren’t helped when they woke in the morning to find that Woll’s army had slipped away during the night.

Reinforcements from Bastrop and La Grange brought the numbers of Texans to nearly five hundred. After several more successful engagements, Woll’s army fell into a full retreat. When the Mexicans reached the border, the Texan commanders argued to end the pursuit. There was a small contingent of dissenters, but the majority won out. There were too many practical considerations. The army was worn out from long marches and little food, and most of the horses had reached their physical limits. Ammunition supplies were also low.

Micah’s first taste of real battle since San Jacinto proved not to be as satisfying as he would have hoped. Most of the time he was off scouting, and the encounters he did participate in were far too few and too brief. He hated letting Woll escape across the border and was hardly mollified at the promise that the Texans would regroup in a month, after men and supplies were bolstered, to continue the pursuit.

Regardless of how disgruntled he was, he had to admit that at least this battle had not left a legacy of nightmares. He decided he had finally grown out of all that.

CHAPTER

22

S
EVERAL WEEKS AFTER THE DUST
of battle settled, as November made its appearance, Lucie made a point to go into town. Even her father did not protest. He knew as well as she the importance of being seen standing proud among their neighbors.

Manuel Ruiz, the shopkeeper, kept his eyes averted as he spoke to Lucie. “You have a long list, Señorita Lucie.”

She nodded, trying with her own eyes to get him to look at her, but he kept staring at the paper she’d written on. “We ran low on many things during the fighting,” she said to the bald spot on the top of Ruiz’s head.

“Supplies are low here as well, but merchandise has started coming in. Flour, yes,” he said referring to the list. “But no sugar. And I can give you a pound of coffee, no more. I may have a few buttons—white, not black.”

“That will have to do, then.”

Ruiz hurried to the back storeroom as if fleeing the Evil One himself. Ruiz had been a family friend, drawn closer because he and Lucie were among the few Mexican Protestants in the area. He attended her church, a small assembly that had sprung up since the revolution. But she tried not to blame him for his reticence now. He had himself to protect.

Some Mexican citizens of San Antonio had departed the town with General Woll. Among them were Juan Seguin and Antonio Perez, two prominent citizens. Those who left would never be trusted again. Those who remained were not officially reprimanded in any way, yet a pall of suspicion would hang perpetually over them, perhaps forever. They would have to work harder than ever to prove their loyalty. They would have to studiously avoid suspicious associations, such as with the sister of a notorious Mexican outlaw. Lucie understood this. She understood that the only reason she was able to remain north of the Rio Grande at all was because her father was an Anglo, and no one who knew him could honestly reproach his loyalty.

Many white males had taken Mexican wives and could thus be held suspect, and in fact, many were. But this alone could not condemn a man. Reid was probably the only one who also had for a son a man who was an outlaw and most assuredly an agent for Santa Anna. Yet Reid had many friends, including Sam Houston himself. It would take more than the likes of Axel Carlton and his handful of cohorts to discredit Reid.

Lucie wandered idly around the store as she waited for Ruiz to fill her order. She was looking through a small crate of books, the only books to be found in the store, when the front door creaked open. Glancing up from the volume she held open in her hand, she saw Micah Sinclair.

Framed in the open door with the glaring afternoon sun behind him, he looked as if he were some kind of ethereal creature, illuminated by a hallowed glow. For a moment Lucie forgot all about her animosity toward this man who had betrayed her. She saw only the handsome boyish face of the man who had saved her life, tenderly holding her, risking his freedom for her. She remembered how vulnerable and dear he had been with the orphaned baby, and how hard he had tried to camouflage the soft core of his heart.

Micah took off his hat as he entered the store, perhaps out of habit in the presence of a lady. His hair, seeming more golden than ever with the sun glancing off its tangled strands, had grown since she had last seen him, curling about his collar, the long side strands tucked haphazardly behind his ears. His complexion was quite ruddy from long hours in the sun, and his chin and jaw were covered with reddish stubble.

“Ma’am,” he began casually, then he took more than casual note of the woman in the store. “Lucie!” he said with soft intensity. For a moment his eyes glittered with blue warmth, and a smile invaded his lips.

Lucie tried not to think of the touch of those lips upon hers, or that even now, in spite of everything, she longed to be held by him again. But even as her heart skipped a beat or two, even as her body reacted hungrily to the sight of him, she remembered his betrayal. And she steeled herself against her own betraying body and heart.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said stiffly, formally.

“How you been doing?” He stepped fully into the store, letting the door slam closed behind him. Though his tone was casual, she sensed a forced quality to it. From guilt?

“Fine.” She snapped shut the book in her hands. “Just waiting while Señor Ruiz fills my order.”

“I’m here to pick up a few supplies as well.” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Won’t be long before the army invades Mexico.”

“Are you sure you should be telling me that?” she asked coldly.

“It’s common knowledge.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to reveal any state secrets. I may tell Santa Anna, you know.”

He squinted at her, perplexed, then shook his head. “I know you ain’t gonna do that.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do!”

The certainty of his tone made Lucie momentarily doubt herself. Yet no one else had known of her meeting that night with her brother.

How desperately she wanted to believe that Micah was innocent, but the facts of the matter were too clear to be denied.

“Then why did you inform on me, Micah?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“The whole county knows about Joaquin being my brother!”

“Well, they didn’t hear from me!”

“Who else?”

“Never mind, Lucie,” he cut in sharply. “You believe what you want to believe.”

He turned away from her and wandered over to a barrel of apples. He gave these his attention, pawing through the contents, lifting out one apple, then another, as if searching for the perfect one. He finally found a likely candidate, plucked it out, and wiped it against the sleeve of his shirt, a peculiar action since his sleeve had to be dirtier than any apple skin.

Thoughtfully, as if he’d gained some wisdom in the apple search, he said, “Listen, if it got out about Viegas, I reckon it’s only natural you’d think I was the one who told. I didn’t, but I’ll allow the way it must look.”

“Well . . .” she tried hard to be as magnanimous as he, “I shouldn’t really blame you for doing your duty as a ranger. It was wrong of me to place you in such a compromising position.”

“Except I didn’t do it.” A tense silence fell between them. Micah continued to rub the apple against his sleeve as if polishing silver. Finally he spoke again. “We just can’t cut a break, can we?” The regret was clear in his tone, clearer in the darkly blue surface of his eyes. “I won’t deny there is something powerful between us, something I can’t explain. But whatever it is, even you’ve got to admit it has been doomed from the beginning.”

“It hasn’t been given much of a chance,” she allowed.

“
Doomed
, Lucie,” Micah said with more emphasis. “You said it that last night. We are too different, and there are just too many things going against us. You made the right decision when you said we shouldn’t see each other again.”

“I know I did,” she softly, reluctantly admitted. “I was right, but—”

He gave his head a dismissive shake. “But nothing, Lucie! A polecat and a prairie flower ain’t never gonna mix.”

“A polecat and a prairie flower?” She permitted a touch of amusement into her voice. “Who is the polecat, Micah?”

“This ain’t no time to jest.”

“If only there had been more jesting between us, more fun. Have I ever seen you smile, Micah, really smile? Dear me, how I would have liked that.”

“I never smile much,” he said flatly.

She had a sudden urge, despite the pain of the words spoken between them, to do something outrageous—a flying somersault, or perhaps take that mop rag and perch it upon her head—anything to draw one raucous belly laugh from her solemn ranger. But it wouldn’t happen. Not now. It was too late.