With a gleeful shout of “Ba Ba,” Rose had run to Sinclair, and he’d scooped her into his arms and they’d exchanged kisses. Turning to Madame Brunet, the Texan had made quick work of ascertaining the ladies’ story, demonstrating little surprise when told they’d been literally dumped from the horses some half a mile west.
Then came the moment Julian had dreamed of for months. “Miss Magic, there’s someone you must meet,” Sinclair had said, a strange light entering his eyes. “This here’s your papa.”
The child had smiled brilliantly at Brazos, then gone without hesitation into Julian’s waiting arms. “Call her Rose, please, Desseau,” Sinclair had said. “Let’s not confuse matters for either her or Maddie at this point.” Then he’d turned to an obviously curious Lillibet Brunet and introduced Julian as Madeline’s father.
That’s when the lump first formed in Julian’s throat. He’d held the heavenly weight in his arms and listened intently to Sinclair’s instructions for returning to the colony. After giving Rose another kiss, the Texan had ridden off as though the hounds of hell nipped at his horse’s hooves. As it turned out, the Europeans had walked for little more than an hour before the colonists’ search party found them. Little Rose fell asleep in his arms as soon as they’d climbed into the search party’s wagon.
The band was less than a mile from La Réunion when the tears began to overflow. Julian sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving heavenward. No man on earth was as blessed as he. In but a single day he’d had restored to him God’s most precious gifts—gifts he’d feared had been lost to him forever. Many questions had yet to be asked, and he felt a burning need for answers. But even stronger within him was the desire to sit quietly and hold his daughters in his arms. Both of them.
As the roofs of the village came into sight, he smiled and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Soon now, he’d be able to do just that.
HAVING SPENT four long days in the saddle and three nights struggling to sleep on the cold, hard ground, Juanita should have appreciated the corn shuck mattress beneath her. But circumstances allowed her little comfort. She needed to keep her wits about her because she had absolutely no intention of allowing her life to come to an end in a dismal room in a whorehouse outside Corsicanna, Texas—especially not at the hands of a sadistic, leering Latin. She refused to play the victim again. She’d ended that part of her life when she’d fled Perote Prison along with Brazos Sinclair.
She held her breath against the stink of urine, sex, and stale perfume emanating from the mattress. Honesty forced her to admit her part in this disaster. It was her own fault she’d been found by Salezan’s lackeys. She’d acted the fool by walking into Dallas with Monsieur Bureau, particularly without wearing that cursed mantilla her Sin forced her to don in public.
Turning her head toward the window, where moonlight beamed a silver ray through the darkness, Juanita smiled sadly. He wasn’t really her Sin, was he? He was Madeline’s Brazos. Watching the two of them together had been proof enough. Despite all her hopes, Juanita had recognized that Brazos Sinclair would never return the love she offered him. Brazos was her friend, nothing more. Accepting that, she’d decided to leave Texas for good.
So she’d set her sights on the musical director, confident he had the connections to provide her with her second most treasured dream—to sing before an adoring audience in the great halls of Europe. Unhappy at La Réunion, Monsieur Bureau contemplated a return to Paris. Juanita had decided to secure an invitation to accompany him. Hence, the ill-fated trip into Dallas.
She’d known the minute she’d been identified. Oh, she’d never seen the man, but the sense of evil crawling up her spine had been undeniable. More the fool she for not confessing her imprudence to Brazos that very day. If she had, she felt certain, she’d not be tied to a whore’s bed awaiting what threatened to be a particularly violent rape.
Juanita knew she could survive such an experience. After all, she’d suffered a similar fate countless times at her husband’s hands. But she didn’t relish dying, and if she attempted yet another escape, the look in her captor’s eyes told her that death would be a distinct possibility.
The obvious option was to do all within her power to delay any further travel until Brazos found her. Because Brazos would arrive—of that she had no doubt. In the meantime, she’d play the whore and do it so well that Salezan’s slimy little man would find it impossible to hurry about his business. He’d never realize that the roles of victim and offender had been transposed.
As she watched the descent of the studded leather strap, Juanita retreated to that place within herself insulated from pain—that space so very similar to the one possessed by her dearly beloved friend. And she waited patiently for Brazos Sinclair.
THE ROOM reeked of sex and sweat. Joaquin Cuellar rolled off Juanita’s supine figure and lay on his back, his forearm covering his eyes as he fought to catch his breath. He was exhausted. The woman had wrung from him the last vestiges of his energy.
At that moment, he wanted nothing more than sleep, and with the woman securely tied, he was free to drift off. But now that his lust had finally been sated, the niggling worry that had bothered him occasionally during the past six or seven hours returned as a major concern.
He’d missed the rendezvous with Poteet, something the Texan would not take too kindly.
It’d been a mistake to stop here with the woman. Had he followed the plan, they’d have camped for the night some three miles north of here. But after spending days in the company of such a beautiful woman, one who challenged him repeatedly by attempting to escape, he’d found his need to master her overwhelming. So he’d pushed on toward this brothel, where he knew a mattress and total privacy would be assured.
But he never intended to stay here so long. A little sex; a little sleep. That’s what he’d anticipated. But the woman had been insatiable, and he—well, it had been the sexual zenith of his life.
Madre de Dios
. No wonder Governor Salezan had gone to such lengths to secure the return of this woman. No wonder he planned such a frightening reception for Brazos Sinclair.
Cuellar bolted upright as a new thought occurred to him. He’d been worrying over Poteet’s reaction to their delay. Maybe the one he should be concerned about was the governor himself. What would Salezan do if he ever learned that his lieutenant had sampled this woman?
Cuellar shuddered as he rubbed his bristled chin with his hand. He turned his head and looked at Juanita. She watched him with steady black eyes, a hint of amusement warming their depths.
Pinche cabrόn
, he cursed. He should have listened to Poteet. Rising from the bed, he searched through his saddlebags for a cheroot. Smoking always helped him think, and Cuellar had the uneasy suspicion that his life might depend on just how well he thought.
Poteet had warned him to keep away from the woman. He’d known she’d be a temptation. He’d known—Cuellar froze.
Poteet must have known that I would find the dark-eyed Juanita irresistible, and still he assigned me the task of escorting the woman to Mexico
. Cuellar tossed away the smoke he’d yet to light, staring as it rolled beneath the bed. He lifted his gaze to the naked beauty lying atop the dirty sheets. Had he been duped? Perhaps Poteet was threatened by his rise in power in the governor’s army. Possibly he worried that the second in command might replace him.
“Poteet seeks a hold on me. A threat. He intends to use you,
puta
. Well, I’ll not allow it to happen.” He lifted his knife from the table by the door and tested its point against the pad of his thumb. Killing her would be an answer. He could kill her and somehow place the blame on Poteet. The Texan would not be expecting that. His hard gaze raked Juanita, and he felt a stab of regret. He didn’t enjoy the idea of removing one of such talent and beauty from this world.
“Maybe I could release you,” he murmured. “If I had something to offer as proof of your death, something that implicated Poteet.…No, it would be too dangerous. I’ve seen how he pursues you, Señora Juanita. I dare not risk being discovered in a lie.”
Knife in hand, he straddled her. “My apologies, but I find I must kill you.” He drew the knife slowly across her throat, and a thin red line appeared in its wake. She fought her bindings, biting at the kerchief gagging her mouth, terror flashing in her eyes. Cuellar’s loins stirred at the sight. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her quite yet. Holding the blade against her throat, he entered her with one hard thrust.
Then the door burst open, and Brazos Sinclair tore into the room. Taken completely by surprise, Cuellar was slow to react. Lifting the knife, he twisted to face the intruder. Sinclair was there, backhanding him across the face with a gun and wrenching the blade from his grip. Sparing Juanita a single quick glance, Brazos knocked Cuellar to the floor with a hard punch to the gut, then threw a vicious kick to the groin. Through a haze of pain, Cuellar heard Sinclair ask, “Nita, you all right?”
Brazos grabbed Cuellar’s knife and cut Juanita’s ropes. The Mexican rolled to his hands and knees, and Sinclair kicked him down again.
Juanita rubbed her wrists as Brazos gently removed the gag from around her head, then poured her a cup of water from a pitcher by the bed. “I was beginning to worry you’d not arrive in time,” she said after quenching her thirst. “He planned to kill me, Sin.” She scrambled from the bed and pulled on her dress as Brazos, his expression icy, hauled Cuellar onto the bed and put his gun against his temple.
“Wait,” Cuellar breathed, fear turning his bowels watery. “I’ve information. Spare me, and I’ll tell you.”
“Information?” Brazos replied. “I don’t know. I’d just as soon kill you as look at you any longer.” He paused, cocking his head to one side. “Your call, Nita. It was you he hurt.”
“I’d rather you not kill on my account, Sin. See what he has to say.”
“All right,” Brazos agreed. “I guess a few minutes won’t hurt anything. What do you know?”
“You will spare my life?”
“I’ll make it worth your while, that’s all I promise.”
Staring up at his enemy, Cuellar realized that any mention of Sinclair’s wife would mean an instant death. He’d shadowed the Sinclairs long enough to know that the Texan wouldn’t hesitate to lull anyone involved in the abduction of his woman. Instead, he said, “Salezan wants more than Juanita’s return. He wants you and the band you wear around your arm.”
Brazos’s shirtsleeve moved as his muscle flexed. “The band?”
“Yes.” Cuellar nodded. “The governor has learned that it holds the secret to El Regalo de Dios.”
Juanita looked at Brazos. “The silver mine? But you have all of it, Brazos. Why would Damasso want to know where the mine is?”
“Actually,” Brazos answered, his gaze never leaving Cuellar’s face, “it wasn’t the mine itself that Miguel and I found. That’s all beside the point. What I want to know is how Salezan learned this information about my armband.”
Referring to the priest imprisoned in an isolated cell in Perote Castle would be only slightly less dangerous than speaking about Sinclair’s wife, Cuellar decided. He’d heard whispered tales of the
bestia
and his partner. He said, “I don’t know. I only learned about the band because I overheard the governor speaking to my boss, Winston Poteet.”
Brazos lifted his eyebrows. “Poteet? Win Poteet? Isn’t he a Texas ranger?”
“He is Salezan’s right-hand-man.”
“Well, son of a bitch. You never can tell about some men, can you.” He shrugged, then nudged Cuellar with the gun. “Tell me, son, if Salezan wants my armband so bad, then why didn’t one of you folks just shoot me and steal it? Since you got close enough to get Nita, I’m sure you had the opportunity to get me, too.”
“He wanted you alive.”
“Alive? Y’all thought to take me back to that hellhole alive?” Sinclair’s laugh was harsh. “You folks are dumb as dirt if you think you could get me back to Perote still breathin’. I’d just as soon shake hands with the devil before sunset as set foot inside Damasso Salezan’s little house of horrors.”
Juanita bent to don her shoes and moaned as her injuries pained her. The sound distracted Brazos just long enough for Cuellar to make the move he’d been waiting for. He made a swipe at the water pitcher beside the bed and swung it at Brazos’s head. Sinclair ducked, and Cuellar grabbed for the gun.
It proved to be a fatal mistake. The shot reverberated through the room, and the last sound Joaquin Cuellar lived to hear was Brazos Sinclair saying with disgust, “Yep, dumb as a cottonwood stump.”
BRAZOS AND Juanita rode hard to make the return trip to La Réunion in the shortest possible time. Throughout the long hours in the saddle, Brazos felt his mind racing from one worry to another. He fretted about Juanita and how she was making out after her ordeal. He wondered about Salezan and how he had learned the secret of the armband. He troubled over Lillibet and Thomas, and how the fake Indian raid would affect them over the long haul. But most of all, he brooded about Madeline and Rose and how the appearance of Julian Desseau would change their lives. His own included. Because somewhere between Corsicanna and Little Brush Creek, the idea that Desseau might take his daughters back to France had slapped Brazos in the face.
All this time he’d figured he’d be the one doing the leaving. Also, though he hated to admit it, he’d harbored the faint hope that if things with Salezan worked his way, he could return to Madeline and Rose. But now that their daddy had showed up, it looked like any returning would involve a trip to France. Lord knows he couldn’t face another boat trip if his life depended on it.
The midafternoon sun beat down upon the riders hot enough to pop corn in the shuck. Perspiration beaded on Brazos’s brow and plastered his blue chambray shirt to his back. He licked dry lips and tasted salt and thought of the sea and Maddie. An ocean voyage during the summer would be tough on her what with the seasickness and all. A person always felt worse when he was ill during the heat of summertime than he did when he was laid up in the cold season. Maddie would be much better off if Desseau would wait a few months to take her back to France. “I’ll have to be sure and mention it to the man when we get back,” he said, taking the kerchief from around his neck and wiping his face.