Allegiance Page 21

  He digested that in silence for a moment. “How well do you know these people?"

  "Felicité's father is the alcalde in Santa Fe. He's apparently on good terms with the governor. Don Alizar is a Spanish exile from Mexico City."

  "Influential citizens, all of them.” His tone brightened a little.

  "I suppose.” She jumped to the ground before he had a chance to help.

  For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. “You know, they are the very people Houston would love to reach in New Mexico. What an opportunity to get inside Santa Fe society! You couldn't help but pick up interesting bits of information. Who would suspect you of sending reports to the president?"

  "You want me to spy on them?"

  "Who could do it better?"

  "No, Tyler. I wouldn't feel right—"

  "You're already smuggling muskets across the border. What's so terrible about sending reports? We promised Houston we would."

  "You promised that you would."

  "Right. Get me the information, and I'll send it."

  She chewed her lip, thinking. Why was she constantly having to sort out right from wrong?

  "Amy, it's for a worthy cause."

  "What, exactly, do we want to find out from them?"

  "Basically, whether or not the citizens of New Mexico are ready to play the Texas game."

  "Texas game?"

  "Boot Santa Anna out and form their own government. Declare their independence. Unite with Texas or America for strength, maybe. You know—revolt."

  "Could they justify that?"

  "Amy—” He rubbed the back of his neck impatiently. “You've gone along with this from the beginning with every sign of approval. If you had doubts, you didn't say so."

  "All I considered at the time was the land grant Houston offered me. But I realize now we're talking about real people. It's not a game."

  "I wonder if you understand what's really happening.” His frown told her how slow he thought she was. “Mexico won her independence from Spain; they drew up a constitution with democracy and liberty for all. Then last year, Santa Anna single-handedly destroyed everything—tore up their constitution! The provinces are no longer bound by any agreements. Instead of a reliable system of laws, the people are subject to a tyrant's whims."

  "I wasn't aware of all that, but is it right for us to butt in?"

  He sighed, spreading his hands. “I don't know. I wake up at night and can't get back to sleep wondering about morality. Causes. Obligations."

  "So what's the right thing to do?"

  He straightened and placed his hat on his head. “I'm going to leave that decision up to the man in charge and concentrate on doing my job."

  "Who's in charge, Houston? Or the president?"

  "They're working together on this.” His challenging gaze didn't waver from her face. “So, are you in?"

  "If I thought I was helping these people, I wouldn't hesitate."

  "You might end up doing them the best favor anyone could."

  "I would have to believe that, Tyler.” Her eyes locked with his. “Or I couldn't do it."

  He nodded as though he understood and agreed. If only a more personal truce with him could be that easy. She gathered up a few of her bundles. “Could I prevail upon you to help me with my bags? Felicité is waiting."

  He hoisted her trunk and followed her across the encampment, speaking in a low voice. “You be careful around that Alizar, though. I don't like the way he looks at you."

  * * * *

  Dawn was no more than a gray promise in the east when Tyler rolled out of his blankets. Threatening dark clouds banked along the northern horizon. He stoked the campfire and boiled water for coffee and for washing up, all the while chafing at the delay that kept the wagons from rolling west.

  The wash pan of hot water Tyler set on the tailgate steamed in the brisk morning air. He upended a small barrel next to it and sat down at his makeshift table. After mixing a slurry of soap and water in a cup, he lathered his beard with a shaving brush, peering into a small mirror propped against the wash pan.

  Shaggy beast, am I?

  He adjusted the angle of the mirror and applied his razor to his right cheek. Lather, laced with whiskers, splatted on the tailgate. Did Amy think he'd enjoyed playing the part of a common bullwhacker?

  He cocked his head to get a better view and scraped at his jaw. Soon he'd be across the border into Indian Territory, out of reach of any spies who might recognize his clean-shaven face. From then on, he'd only have to worry about reports falling into the wrong hands.

  Shaving a mature beard was slow work, but at last he rinsed and toweled his face and neck, then reached for the scissors to trim his mustache a little. He wasn't sure why he wanted to keep the growth on his upper lip. Officially, it was against the army's strict dress code. Maybe that was why. Whenever he got to feeling the army owned too much of him, he felt compelled to wage a small rebellion to keep his sanity.

  The sweet aroma of raisins in the keg under him reminded him of Amy and her prideful bargain. If she caught him sitting on this particular cask, she would probably yank it out from under him and let him fall on his backside—providing her strength equaled her annoyance.

  He carried the washpan away and sloshed its contents over a dry-looking patch of grass. He wondered whether he would ever figure her out—eager as spring one minute, cold as winter frost the next. One thing for sure, she wouldn't be letting him close to her unless it was her idea. So be it.

  He sighed, remembering her outrage over the kiss he'd stolen the night before. He hadn't planned to do it, but when his hands gripped her sturdy little shoulders, and the faint smell of flowers rose up to intoxicate him, the wild urge to possess her had taken him by storm. He supposed he couldn't really blame her for her anger. Still, a girl who played with fire should expect a blister sooner or later.

  * * * *

  The morning breeze rippled the Osnaburg canvas over Amy's head, billowing, snapping, and sucking until it breathed like a living thing. Glowing in the yellow light of the sun, it illuminated every object inside the wagon in sharp relief. The tailgate hung open like a tiny back porch.

  Amy leaned out to study the sky. “Looks like rain coming. I see thunderheads to the north."

  Felicité crowded close to peer over Amy's shoulder, then moved aside as a servant girl climbed into the wagon, carrying cups of hot chocolate.

  Amy plopped down on a mattress roll to drink her chocolate. For getting a good night's sleep, she had to admit the large wagon was a comfortable refuge. Along the sidewalls, trunks of clothing and other personal belongings shared space with the mattresses which were rolled up during the day. In one corner squatted Maruja's chest of drawers. On top of it, tallow candles in copper holders stood next to a bottle of holy water and other religious curios. Above it hung a wooden carving of the Virgin Mary.

  Although Amy didn't share their religion, she could understand why Catholics might bestow sainthood on a woman who had borne a child and retained her virginity at the same time. The real miracle lay in the fact that Joseph hadn't treated her like a whore.

  Amy's face burned when she recalled Tyler's groping hands and rough kisses from the night before. He'd seemed as unconcerned about her feelings as if she'd been a flashgirl. And so pleased to send her away permanently—to spy!

  The memory rekindled her smoldering disappointment. There'd been no apology for his rudeness—not even a shame-faced expression. How her gift of affection and intimacy could change a considerate gentleman into a gruff, uncaring lout baffled her. It didn't seem natural that the next step after making love should be making hate. Well, she wanted no part of his hot-and-cold game. It would serve him right if she limited her dealings with him to business and eschewed even the friendship. In fact, she had half a mind to let him carry out the mission all by himself. It should be all downhill from here, anyway.

  Felicité sat down beside her. “I am anxious to depart this place. It has been so long
since I have seen my family."

  "You haven't explained to me why your father is calling you home."

  "It is because of this trouble we are having with Texas. Many Americans have sided against all Mexicans. They are no longer friendly to me. Some children threw stones at me on the street."

  "Oh, I'm sorry that happened! How could anyone hold you responsible?"

  "That I do not know. Always I have wanted to learn. New Mexico has no schools like yours. So I have this idea: as we journey, you can teach me what you know. And I will teach you something. What would you wish to learn?"

  Amy thought about the irony of the question following so closely upon the new assignment Tyler had forced on her. “I need to learn more Spanish."

  "Ah, sí! I will speak to you only in my tongue. You will learn as a small child does, a little at a time. And I will help with your sewing. Your plan to sell dresses in Santa Fe is good.” Felicité gave her a hug. “I am so excited!"

  Amy fought down a feeling of guilt. She hoped this spying business would help these people; otherwise she would have a hard time living with herself. “Did you bring any books?"

  "Sí, I have them right here."

  The sudden stomping of hooves on the ground outside the wagon announced a visitor. Amy turned to look out through the open tailgate.

  From the back of his horse, Alizar swept off his wide-brimmed hat. “Buenos días, Señoritas ... doña Maruja.” He spoke in rapid-fire Spanish and the duenna answered him. When he addressed Amy, he switched to English. “Soldiers have come to inspect the wagons in search of contraband. I will see that they do not disturb this wagon.” He gave her a little bow, replaced his hat, and allowed his impatient horse to carry him away to the next camp.

  Soldiers? Contraband? Amy's mouth went dry. Why would they search wagons unless they believed there was something to find? Had they somehow heard of a shipment of muskets passing through? She must warn Tyler.

  She scrambled to the ground. “I—I'll be back. I must see Ty—my brother."

  Felicité stared after her. “No need to be afraid—it is routine."

  "I'm sure it is.” Amy forced herself to walk—not run—toward her own camp.

  * * * *

  Tyler sprinkled fine dry sand over the wet ink of the one-page report laying on the small table he'd set under an oak tree. There hadn't been many facts to relate since St. Louis, but he'd managed to make a few observations. After weeks of pondering, he still hadn't figured out the safest way to send the reports.

  Thunder rumbled in the boiling clouds overhead like a prolonged echo of the gunfire closer at hand. Jeb and a couple of Mexican boys were shooting targets against a cutbank near the stream. Tyler was half-tempted to join them—anything would be better than fidgeting around camp all day. He wondered what it would take to get Alizar off his butt and out on the trail. If Tyler had enough money, he'd offer the Spaniard a bribe to get the caravan moving. He wouldn't feel safe until they had crossed the Missouri border.

  A flurry of activity startled Tyler out of his reflections. He stood up, stretching, and glanced around. The drowsy encampment had suddenly sprung to life. Two of Alizar's caballeros galloped by. Several men rummaged through their carretas while their women offered instructions in shrill voices. Bands of children dashed from place to place, calling to one another. Even the numerous dogs had dragged their lazy bones out of the shade to scamper about and bark noisily. Had the imminent change in the weather affected everyone or was something afoot?

  He folded his report and stuffed it into his shirtfront. Using the wagon hub as a step-plate, he climbed up to look further afield. Beyond the main body of wagons, riders had dismounted and were tethering their horses. They wore the blue uniforms of the U.S. Army—a detachment from Camp Leavenworth, no doubt. His stomach knotted.

  "Tyler!” Amy appeared below him. “Soldiers are here to inspect the wagons!"

  He jumped down. “I see that."

  "What shall we do?"

  "There's nothing we can do. Behave naturally."

  As she gazed at his fresh-shaven face with a bemused expression, the first cold drops of rain smacked the wagon's canvas top. Droplets bounced off Amy's straw hat and dampened the shoulders of her thin calico dress.

  The gunfire stopped, leaving a sudden quiet. Jeb melted away through the trees like a ghost. It was just as well he did, Tyler thought.

  He glanced at Amy. “Are we married this time?"

  She shook her head. “Not this time. Too many people here know who I am. If the soldiers are looking for Jeb, we can say he went on ahead."

  "All right.” He studied Amy's face, the soft curve of her jaw line, the blushing cheeks. He had contraband muskets the soldiers would dearly love to find, and if discovered, he stood a good chance of spending time in their guardhouse at the fort. Yet, he stood gazing at Amy as if he had nothing better to do than compare her eyes with patches of summer sky, her lips with ripe sun-warmed plums.

  She puckered her brow. “If we're going to do something, we'd better hurry."

  "What can we do that we haven't done? It's in God's hands now."

  "We could certainly use His help.” She doffed her hat and turned her face up to receive the rain as though it were holy water. Then she caught Tyler staring, and a shadow passed across her features. She dropped her gaze.

  It wrenched a nerve to have her withdraw from him like that, but he deserved it. At West Point, he'd worked hard on his self-discipline: drilled, reviewed, and tested it—even had the job of instilling it in the new cadets during the years he'd taught there. He'd been reasonably sure he could keep his head in most situations. But within weeks of meeting Amy, his morale had languished, and he'd lost any polish he'd ever had.

  "I've been thinking...” He cleared his throat, wondering how he could salvage the tattered remains of their friendship. “You probably believe that I don't hold you in high esteem. Based on the way I behave."

  She glanced up, her eyes lifeless, her spirit hidden away from him.

  "But that wouldn't be true.” He took a deep breath. “You bring me peace. Being near you makes my nerves calm down and stop fidgeting. The way I feel, I would be content to just hold you. Forever. While the universe spins slowly around us."

  Her lips parted, and her eyes widened in astonishment.

  He glanced away. “That sounded pretty stupid, didn't it? I wish I could explain myself better.” He started to reach out to pull her into an embrace, but quickly thought better of it. “All I know is you're very dear to me. No matter how ill mannered I am, I hope you'll remember that. And I'll try to temper the ... savage beast."

  A small smile touched her lips, and he gained the courage to gaze into her eyes. The moment stretched out as he lost himself in time. And world consisted of nothing more than Amy and him. And the rain sweeping across parched dust with a sound like a million insects on the march. And the sizzle of hot metal rims on the wagon wheels as the raindrops hit. Thirsty grass and weeds absorbed the cool moisture and steamed the air with the aroma of pungent herb tea.

  And then the soldiers came.

  Chapter 18

  Shivering in his wet clothing, Tyler tried to stare the corporal down. “I'm not willing to unload these wagons in the rain."

  The soldier shrugged. “Too bad, sir. Orders."

  Tyler studied the man's uniform: dark blue shell jacket with yellow trim. An ordinary dragoon—mounted infantry. He pointed to the small star and bar insignia above the cuff. “You regular army or volunteer?"

  "What's it to you?” Rainwater trickled off the soldier's hat brim and cascaded onto the papers he held in his hand. “Damn!” He shook them vigorously.

  "I want to talk to the man in charge. Who would that be?"

  The corporal gave Tyler a look that made him glad he wasn't a bug crawling near the man's boot. “Here comes the man who gives the orders.” The dragoon jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  A lieutenant strolled along the line of wagons dictating some
thing to a private carrying a slate and a piece of chalk. There was something familiar about the warrant officer: his stance, his profile ... Tyler had seen him before.

  "Hey, Lieutenant!” the corporal called. “Can I see you over here?"

  Illinois during Black Hawk's War? Sixth Infantry? What was his name?

  The corporal cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Shoo!"

  That was it! Schouffler. Dick “Shoofly” Schouffler.

  Lieutenant Schouffler ambled over. “Do they have a license to cross the Indian lands? Ask to see that first."

  "Yes, yes. I got that.” The corporal's tone showed his impatience and annoyance. “But they refuse to unload their wagons for inspection."

  Schouffler glanced at Tyler without recognition. He gaped longer at Amy sitting inside the wagon on a pile of blankets. “They don't look like Mexicans."

  The corporal gave a sarcastic snort. “Oh, you're quick, Lieutenant!"

  Tyler ached to knock the edge off the soldier's attitude with a charge of insubordination.

  Schouffler didn't seem troubled. “Did you get their names?"

  Tyler cleared his throat and identified himself and Amy.

  Schouffler nodded at Amy and touched the brim of his hat. “My pleasure, Miss.” Then his head whipped back around, and he peered closely at Tyler. “O'Donnell, did you say?” He grinned. “My God, if it isn't! I haven't seen you since we cornered Black Hawk up on the Bad Axe River. What in hell are you doing here?"

  "Well, I'm—"

  "Where's your uniform? Now don't tell me you've dropped out of the Army. I won't believe that for a minute."

  Tyler cringed inside. Calling attention to his masquerade in a voice like a hawker selling snake oil could get Tyler killed. “Could we talk in private, Shoofly? It's important."

  "Sure. Run along, Corporal. I'll take care of this one. Private, you go with him. My, oh, my, you're a sight to see, O'Donnell! What in hell are you up to now?"

  "Well, I found out the merchant trade provides a lot more money than marching to the fife and drum. Believe it or not, I'm a bullwhacker now."

  Shoofly guffawed. “Come on, O'Donnell! Don't give me that. You're a graduate of West Point, for God's sake! Top of the class. I might believe this if you were on a spyin’ expedition or something—"