Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (27 page)

      
The haggard, exhausted man who debarked in New Orleans harbor was a far cry from the self-assured youth who had set out a scant six weeks earlier in search of his wayward wife.

      
“I never believed I'd lose her, I guess,” he said to Claude that night at dinner.

      
Celine scarcely looked up from her plate but said between dainty bites, “I could discuss with the bishop—”

      
“No!” Rafael jumped up from the table and threw his napkin down. “When will you get it through your head? I will not dissolve my marriage. Deborah is my wife. She's carrying my child. There will be no annulment!”

      
Celine dropped her fork. “You never told me she was with child,” his mother accused.

      
“All things considered, there was scarcely time,” Rafael replied darkly. “I've wasted weeks while her trail grows cold. I think it's time to wring some truth out of my sister and her husband.”

      
Claude responded, “Nothing's to be gained by this, Rafael. That American will not tell you a thing.”

      
“He may not, but my sister will. I don't believe Lenore would let my wife go through the dangers of a frontier emigration if she knew Deborah was pregnant.” The more he had turned that thought over in his mind, the more convinced of it he became. He would learn the truth!

* * * *

      
Texas! Deborah was finally here, although her first sight of land was less than promising. At the mouth of the Brazos River, the Gulf plain was marshy and flat, seeming to stretch into the skyline. The overcrowded schooner that brought the Pettyjohn party of settlers to the banks of the Brazos had been becalmed for over a week. The water supply had run low and the humid heat had made Deborah's head ache. She was seasick despite the stillness of the ocean.

      
Exhausted, Deborah trudged up the muddy riverbank, dragging her trunk behind her with minimal help from Mr. Pettyjohn's surly son Thad.

      
“You got books 'n sech in this here box? It sure weighs 'nough,” he complained. Ever since she had rebuffed the lanky youth's unwelcome attentions on board ship, he had sulked.

      
“A few books, Mr. Pettyjohn, but mostly clothing,” she replied wearily.

      
“I told ya ta call me Thad, Deborah,” he said angrily, setting the trunk down abruptly in the mud.

      
“And I told you to call me Widow Kensington, Mr. Pettyjohn,” she answered waspishly.

      
“Jist cuz you got learnin' 'n plan ta be a schoolmarm in San Felipe don't give ya th' right ta look down yer nose at me, Mrs. Boston Prim!” His florid face was flushed with anger despite the drizzly weather.

      
Deborah had a backache, an upset stomach, and was thoroughly out of patience with the twenty-year-old lout. “Your manners match your grammar, Mr. Pettyjohn.”

      
“Well, ya cud learn me what's proper if ya wuz ta try,” he said, glancing around to make sure his father and the other men weren't within earshot.

      
When he put one grimy hand on her arm, Deborah flung it away furiously. “What do I have to do to make it clear to you that your attentions are inappropriate and unwelcome?”

      
Ignoring her question, he grabbed a handful of silvery hair and pulled her suddenly into his arms. “If I was ta tell my pa ya made up ta me, ya bein' a lonely widder woman 'n all, he'd believe me. Put ya off th' train quick as ya cud blink.”

      
“Why, you cheap blackmailer,” Deborah hissed, twisting in an attempt to get free of his noisome breath as he tried to kiss her.

      
Their struggle was suddenly interrupted when a large, reddened hand yanked at Thad's collar roughly. “Mebbe yew should larn some manners afore yew go 'a courtin', youngun.” The loud voice belonged to a woman as sturdy and rough as a Texas sycamore. She was dressed in plain black homespun and wore her graying brown hair in a snarled knot of braids across the top of her head.

      
“Why don't ya mind yer own business. Deborah here's my sweetheart 'n I'll tend ta her,” Thad said peevishly, shrugging off the woman's hand and turning to pull Deborah to him once more.

      
The woman's wide face creased in a fearsome scowl as she fixed the offending youth with a fierce, brown-eyed glare. “Jehoshaphat! Ain't they any boys with manners in this land th' Lord niver knowed?” With that, she hoisted the thin youth by his armpits and sat him down several feet from Deborah. When he took a menacing step toward her, she stood her ground. “I'd do me a pretty considerable o' thinkin' afore I'd come closer, tadpole,” she said as one hand produced a wicked-looking hunting knife from the voluminous folds of her wrinkled dress.

      
With a muttered oath the youth took a step backward and tripped over Deborah's trunk. While he lay sprawled in the mud, Deborah's rescuer reached down and plucked up the heavy luggage as if it weighed nothing.

      
“Name's Obedience Jones 'n I be a widder woman, too. Yew with th' Pettyjohn bunch?”

      
“Not anymore, I'm afraid,” Deborah replied as she followed the Widow Jones up the slippery bank. “My name is Deborah Kensington and I do thank you for your help, Mrs. Jones.”

      
“Jehoshaphat! Call me Obedience 'n don't fret none ‘bou thet boy. I seen his kind afore. All bluff 'n no guts. Where yew stayin’?”

      
Deborah shrugged helplessly. “Mrs. Pettyjohn had asked me to spend the night with their family, but after this, I suspect I might not be welcome.”

      
“Yew be welcome ta share my tent. Right this away,” she said, never breaking stride or pausing to inquire if Deborah agreed to her offer of hospitality.

      
“You're very kind, M—Obedience,” Deborah replied, following the big woman through the ooze to a crude shelter constructed of log poles and canvas.

      
“Ain't nothin' fancy, but it's dry,” Obedience said as she ushered Deborah inside and deposited her trunk on the earthen floor. “Heerd th' commotion 'n thought yew might cud use a hand. I wuz fixin' ta eat afore thet. Pull up a crate 'n join in. Not as good as I kin cook with a proper oven, but it's hot.”

      
Obedience was better than her word. She served up crisp, steaming cornbread and sizzling smoked bacon chopped into a plate of savory beans. They sat amid a scattering of crates and boxes, which Obedience explained were supplies for her brother's boarding house in San Antonio.

      
“His wife 'n my husband, God rest they souls, both passed ta their reward ‘bout th' same time. Seth needed a woman ta cook 'n clean 'n I needed a place ta hang my hat. Whut yew fixin' on doin' in Mr. Austin's colony?”

      
Deborah took a sip of fragrant black coffee as she framed her answer. When Caleb had signed her up for the journey to San Felipe, he had assured Mrs. Pettyjohn that she would be a welcome addition to the settlement as a schoolteacher. Of course, he did not know that in a few months her pregnancy would keep her from fulfilling her duties. Assuming her mother's maiden name, Deborah had also added the fabrication about being a widow to explain her condition when it became apparent to the rest of the settlers.

      
Uncertainly, she replied to Obedience, “I had planned to teach school. The settlers need teachers and I had a good education in Boston. Now, with all the trouble Thad Pettyjohn has made, well, they may not want me to continue on. I wish I had some other skills besides lettering and ciphering. Here on the frontier, I'm afraid I'm pretty useless. Why, I can't even cook.”

      
Obedience's face creased in a gap-toothed grin. “Jehoshaphat! Thet's easy 'nough fixed. I'll larn yew ta cook if n yew show me how ta write my name. Niver had no chance fer larnin' in th' hill country—east Tennessee, thet is. How'd yew git so fer from Boston? Yer man bring ya West ta stake a claim on free land?”

      
Having made up her story before she left New Orleans, Deborah considered retelling it once more, but something in Obedience's shrewd, kindly face stopped her. “Everyone here thinks my husband was a New England seaman who drowned when we came to Mobile, but...”

      
“But he warn't,” Obedience supplied. “If yew don't want ta talk ‘bout it, shore 'nough ain't my way ta pry. Lots o' folks in Texas got them plenty more ta hide 'n yew'll ever have. Don't fret.” With that she rose and began to clear off the dishes.

      
As she helped Obedience wash and dry the simple utensils, Deborah listened in fascination to the older woman's hair-raising tales about crossing the Tennessee wilderness in a wagon.

      
“Roughest part wuz when we tuk thet flatboat down th' Mississip. River pirates done fer Mr. Ryan.”

      
“Mr. Ryan?” Deborah questioned.

      
“My second husband. That's five years ago. Met up with Mr. Jones in Arkansas three years back. We's on our way ta Texas when he up 'n tuk a fever. Always wuz a puny man.” She shook her head. “Neither o' em worth a hair on my first man's head—Jeb Freeman. Now there wuz a man. Jehoshaphat!”

      
Deborah was flabbergasted. “You've had three husbands!”
And I couldn't even manage one!

      
“An’ fixin' on findin' me a fourth,” Obedience responded, unabashed. “One with a strong back. A woman my size tends ta kinda overpower most men. Mr. Jones used ta say, Lord rest him, ‘Obedience’, says he, ‘Niver was a woman so misnamed!’ Jehoshaphat, I reckon it's true. I kin out-lift, out-plant, out-dig, outtalk, out-cuss, 'n out-drink most any man alive since 't Mr. Freeman wuz kilt.”

      
“Then why look for a fourth husband?” Deborah was overwhelmed.

      
“Men is purely th' most worthless creatures God ever put on this earth—’cept fer one thing, if’n ya take my meanin’.” She gave Deborah as assessing gaze, then said, “Yep, I reckon yew do,” as she observed the younger woman's heated blush. “Ain't nuthin' ta get flustered ‘bout. Yew niver fíxin' on remarryin'? Lots o' men in Texas lookin' fer a good woman.”

      
Deborah studied her hands, then looked up into Obedience's clear brown eyes. “I can't remarry, Obedience. My husband isn't dead. I left him.”

      
Obedience considered that for a moment, then said, “Figgered somethin' like thet. Still, if'n yew meet up with a likely gent whut'll treat yew better'n yore first man did, marry him! No one'll know th' difference.”

* * * *

      
The rains intensified over the next several days, confining the emigrants to their temporary lodgings while they waited for the Brazos River to be safe for their northward journey to San Felipe. Good as her word, Obedience gave Deborah some rudimentary instructions in cooking and Deborah showed her how to write her name—Obedience Leona Morton Freeman Ryan Jones. Considering all Obedience's surnames by marriage, Deborah did not expect her friend to master them before they had to part ways.

      
Thinking of saying good-bye saddened Deborah, for she had become very fond of the outspoken older woman. Many of the prim ladies in the Pettyjohn party shunned the loud Amazon, but Deborah found her honesty and friendliness refreshing.

      
After her brushes with Thad Pettyjohn, Thad's mother was incensed, believing her son's tale about how Deborah had led him on. A week later, matters came to a head. Obedience could tell by Deborah's dejected walk that something was wrong when she returned from a meeting of the settlers. “Yew look like a wooden-legged man jist let out o' a room full o' termites. Whut happened?”

      
“The Pettyjohns have asked me to remain here when they leave for San Felipe next week. I'm trouble, it seems. A veritable Jezebel who tempts men to perdition.” She sat down shakily on a barrel. “Where will I go? I can't return to New Orleans.”

      
“Jehoshaphat! Thet's easy 'nough! My brother Seth's got him a big boardin' house 'n no women folk ta do fer it. Yew'll come ta Santone with me.”

Chapter Sixteen

      
By the time they arrived in the small town of Gonzales, Deborah was almost ready to flee to Boston and take her chances confronting Rafael. She had endured incessant bone-chilling rains and crude camps made by the trailside. She had slept on wet, rocky ground beneath Obedience's wagon and eaten the meager trail fare prepared hastily over sputtering fires. The fatigue and nausea that had plagued her since leaving New Orleans refused to abate.

      
Along the trail they encountered a trickle of emigrants who had heard rumors about a Mexican invasion in the west and had decided to flee east to safety. Just south of Gonzales, they encountered a sprawling, unruly army camp, consisting of nearly four hundred men and a motley assortment of wives, children, and other civilians. They looked ragged, ill-fed, and poorly disciplined.

      
“This is the army that's going to defend Texas?” Deborah asked incredulously.

      
“Uniforms don't always make fer th' fightenest soldiers,” was all Obedience replied.

      
In an attempt to cheer Deborah when they arrived in Gonzales, Obedience said, “Hot vittles'll shore taste fine after weevily hardtack. Ugh!” She made a grimace of disgust. Eyeing the jerry-built frame structure that served as a wayfarer's inn, she was not assured that her assessment of the place's food was accurate.

      
“It looks as if the roof leaks,” Deborah said, echoing Obedience's thoughts as she climbed down the wagon. “Forget the hot food—I want a hot bath!” She rubbed her aching rump with one hand and massaged her protesting stomach with the other.