Allegiance Read online

  "How do I become a citizen?"

  "You make a request. The authorities in Mexico City decide. You would have to become a Catholic and swear allegiance to Méjico.” He met her gaze. “Would you be willing to do that?"

  "I will do what I must.” Because he studied her face so intently, she wondered if he believed her. Who was testing whom? “What are my chances?"

  "Not good, to tell the truth. Officially, most requests are declined. Many foreigners stay on in Santa Fe without citizenship papers, however. We don't ask them to leave unless they cause trouble. But to colonize Méjico, you must become a citizen."

  She frowned. “I would want clear title to my land."

  He puffed on his cigarrillo. “The best way to become a citizen and acquire land in Santa Fe is to marry an hacendado.” He winked and grinned.

  "I see."

  He took her hand, and his expression grew serious as he stared into her eyes. “Querida..."

  "Forgive me,DonAlizar.” With a feeling of alarm, she rose quickly. She wished she had more experience in coping with a man's ardent passion. “I am weary."

  The frustration she glimpsed in his eyes a moment before his mask slid into place indicated she had probably shattered an intimate moment in its infancy. She bid him good night and escaped to the privacy of the Lorenzo wagon.

  What a thorny situation! Ever since she'd joined the caravan, she'd been questioning Alizar and hanging on his every word. He probably interpreted that as a growing personal interest. Flirting with him to shift attention away from her true objective hadn't helped, of course. If there'd been anyone else half as knowledgeable about the militia and the Santa Fe government, she wouldn't have encouraged him at all.

  As she spread her blanket over the corn shuck pallet, she mulled over what he'd told her about having to marry a Mexican in order to own a ranch. Doubt nibbled the edges of her confidence. What if Houston's plan didn't work out the way he'd promised? She might be traveling a vast distance, exposing herself to who knew what dangers, all for nothing!

  Felicité climbed into the wagon carrying a candle. She set it on a trunk and plopped down on her mattress. The skirts of her new red satin gown billowed around her. “Did you see Toluca's face when he saw me in this dress? He could not take his eyes off me all night. He loves me, I think. His scar does not make him ugly, does it? Qué macho!" She turned her smile on Amy. “You two make a lovely couple, you know. He is dark and you are so fair."

  "Who? Me and Toluca?"

  Felicité laughed. “No! You andDonAlizar, of course. He's perfect for you: romantic, rich, handsome."

  Amy shifted her gaze away. “Yes, he's everything you say."

  Chapter 20

  At some distance from the wagon train, in the midst of the forest, Jeb spread out his saddle blankets and buffalo robe, making his bed wider than usual. He lay down to wait for Rosa. Overhead, the cottonwood leaves whisked together in the night breeze. The moon had set, plunging the woods into total darkness. The shallow Neosho River, nearby, gurgled through the dense willows, while far away Osage drums kept up a steady thumping like a great prairie heartbeat.

  He strained his ears for the sound of Rosa's approach. Time dragged and his eyelids drooped. At long last, a rustling sound on the trail brought him upright, all drowsiness banished. He arose and slipped behind a tree.

  In the dim light, she hesitated on the path, glancing around like a wary doe. As she moved past, Jeb stepped out behind her. She whirled, eyes wide, knuckles pressed to her mouth. He pulled her to him, and she laughed with relief. Her soft warm arms encircled his neck. One long kiss, then he swept her up and carried her to his hidden bower.

  He laid her atop the buffalo robe and stretched out at her side. There was no need for words. His fingers touched her cheek, traced the curve to her chin, slid down her neck to her shoulder—a marvel of smooth flesh. He tasted her honey-sweet mouth. When he jerked loose the ribbon on her blouse, her full breast popped out under his hand. He sighed with pleasure.

  Her fingers tugged ineffectually at his shirt. He sat up, removed his gun belt, and pulled his shirt off over his head. As she pressed him back down on the blanket, a silky curtain of her hair fell across his face. Her breasts brushed against his bare skin.

  "Ah, Rosa—” He kissed her again.

  She must have heard the out-of-place sound the same instant he did, for she lifted her head and froze. A twig snapped almost in Jeb's ear. He threw her aside and dived for his gun belt—too late! A heavy body fell on him, mashing him into the ground. A knee jammed into his back, driving the breath from his lungs. As someone yanked a fistful of his hair and snapped his head back, needles of pain brought moisture to his eyes. There was no mistaking the cold steel of the knife blade held against his throat. He stopped struggling.

  Rosa screamed.

  A man's voice growled in Jeb's ear. “You dare to touch my sister? Hijo de la puta!"

  "Raul! Do not hurt him! Please!"

  "He has no respect, Rosita. He must die.” Her brother shifted his weight on Jeb's spine, triggering an agonizing spasm.

  Jeb groaned. “I meant no harm.” The slightest pressure of the razor sharp knife started a trickle of hot wetness down his neck.

  Sobbing, Rosa pulled on Raul's arm. “No!"

  Jeb was afraid to swallow for fear the tiny movement would cause the knife to sink further into his flesh. If Rosa, bless her, didn't quit jerking on the devil's arm, he would die for sure.

  Raul snorted. “If the hijo bastardo had honor, he would marry you."

  "Please!” Her voice grew more shrill.

  Raul withdrew his knife—thank the merciful God—and shook Jeb by the hair of his head. “What do you say, Señor Baker?"

  "I think—I think we can work something out.” Jeb pulled air into his tortured lungs as Raul stood up.

  "Arriba!” Raul tugged none too gently on Jeb's hair.

  Holding the man's fist tightly against his head to relieve the strain, Jeb struggled to his feet. “Have a care! You're scalping me!"

  "Walk.” He released Jeb and shoved him toward the path.

  Jeb staggered, almost fell. Under the spreading trees, darkness was complete. He felt his way with his feet, careful not to trip over branches or stones. The patches of stars between the tree tops suggested where the open aisles lay between the trunks. When he went too slowly or angled off course, Raul gave him a shove.

  As he entered the Orlando camp, he pondered the mess he was in. He'd intended to pay a visit to Rosa's folks sooner or later, but he'd hoped to do it right—bearing gifts and assuring himself a decent welcome. Her family wouldn't likely welcome him now.

  The camp consisted of two carretas and a campfire about fifteen rods away from the main caravan. One of the carts was missing a wheel. The branches of several butternut trees served as supports for articles of clothing, leather bags, and pieces of harness. A yellow dog came out, wagging his tail, and sniffed Jeb's boots. A bug-eyed milk goat strained at her leash and bleated for attention.

  The night air chilled the sweat on Jeb's bare upper body. Raul forced him to sit on the ground while he threw fresh wood on the glowing embers of the fire. Rosa knelt beside Jeb, holding his hand and examining the knick on his throat with tears in her eyes. He wanted to comfort her, but couldn't think of a damned thing to say.

  Raul squatted on his haunches by the fire, studying Jeb through narrowed eyes. He had thick black hair as Rosa had, though blunt cut to the shoulders and held in place with a red headband. His face was round like hers, too, and just as hairless. He wore a short jacket, white cotton breeches, and poor-man's leggings of rawhide strips wrapped around his lower legs as a protection against thorny brush.

  Time passed slowly. Smoke from the smoldering wood burned Jeb's eyes. Raul didn't explain what he waited for, and Jeb refused to ask. Not that he was at Raul's mercy any longer—the knife had been returned to its sheath and now hung from the Mexican's neck on a thong. In truth, he could make a run for it if he
wanted. Or he could take Raul on in a hand-to-hand fight on equal terms. Jeb glanced at Rosa's tear-stained face and swallowed his anger.

  A pink stain spread across the eastern sky, illuminating a dewy mist that rose from the river and spread knee-deep across the meadows. The rest of the encampment took shape in the gloom. Stripped to the waist, Jeb shivered until the flames climbed among the dry sticks and began to throw off heat. About the time the coffee began to boil, a middle-aged man kicked his way free of a pile of blankets under a nearby tree. He yawned, stretched, and scratched his belly through the cotton shirt and pants. The heavy-set man looked much as Raul might in twenty years.

  "My Tío Domingo,” Rosa whispered.

  "Where's your ma and pa?"

  "No padre. Mamá sleeps under the cart."

  Domingo Orlando pulled a serape over his head and looped the long strap of his knife sheath around his neck. He came to squat beside the fire, glancing at Jeb and Rosa without noticeable curiosity.

  Raul poured his uncle a cup of coffee before serving Jeb and Rosa. Domingo made an observation in Spanish. There followed a mild exchange of pleasantries, after which both pairs of male eyes fastened on Jeb, signaling that he had become the topic of conversation. Their expressions remained bland, but their words must have carried some threat, for Rosa started crying again.

  Señora Orlando joined her family at the fire, pulling her black rebozo snugly around her head and shoulders. Her appearance triggered a rehash of the discussion; Domingo did most of the talking.

  "Ah.” The señora nodded her head gravely. She glanced at her weeping daughter, then stared at Jeb for so long that he began to squirm inside.

  After more palaver—Rosa's family could talk the hind leg off a donkey—Raul turned to Jeb. “You dishonor my sister."

  Blood pulsed loudly in Jeb's ears. He wondered what he was doing here, sitting cross-legged by a fire, braving the elder Orlandos’ piercing gazes and listening to Rosa's sniffles. “I meant no disrespect."

  Raul presented an image of patience, all sign of fury gone. “Tío Domingo asks what you will do to bring honor."

  Jeb supposed they wanted money or something to salve their wounded dignities. If they realized how penniless he was, they'd forget that. “What does he want?"

  "You ruin her chance to be wife and mother. Who will marry her now?"

  Jeb knew he was being suckered: Domingo had recognized a good thing and wanted to milk it. A Santa Fe girl with morals was a rare thing, indeed. Every Mexican girl dreamed of marrying a prosperous trader from America. He grinned, thinking how little he had to offer a bride: the joke was on the Orlando family.

  He glanced at Rosa's cherubic face, red and puffy from weeping, her eyes downcast. Something about the way she bowed her head and held her small hands folded in her lap plucked a tender nerve. He guessed he could do worse.

  Jeb took a deep breath and faced Domingo squarely. The rascal probably expected him to offer money or gifts to get himself off the hook. What would he do if Jeb called his bluff? “Tell him I'm askin’ for her hand in marriage."

  Raul's eyes widened, but he passed the message on without comment. Domingo and the señora put their heads together, muttering and gesticulating. When they looked up, they had big smiles on their faces. They stood up and started toward him around the campfire.

  Warily, Jeb got to his feet.

  Uncle Domingo rattled off some energetic Spanish and gave Jeb a bear hug, pounding him on the back with enthusiasm. The señora, introduced as Isabella Ruiz de Orlando, smiled and offered him more coffee.

  Raul pumped his hand vigorously, grinning from ear to ear and babbling about Santa Fe, a grand wedding, and how he would be Jeb's brother.

  Domingo and Raul seated themselves on either side of Jeb, dragged out their shucks and tobacco horns, and offered him a cigarrillo. He accepted, rolled it up as they did, and lighted it with a flaming stick. The Orlando men began to smoke and jabber at him like old friends. Rosa, with many a doe-eyed glance at Jeb, helped her mother prepare atole rich with goat's milk and corn molasses.

  "Are you Tejano?” Raul asked. “Tío Domingo wishes to know."

  Jeb blinked in surprise. “I'm no Texian—I'm American."

  With some difficulty, Raul translated another of Domingo's questions about whether the Americans had helped the Tejanos chase Santa Anna back to Mexico City like a dog with its tail between its legs.

  Jeb hesitated, unsure whether they were for or against the idea. “Santa Anna already surrendered. America wants to help the Mexican people."

  "El día gloriosa!" Domingo cried, grinning and slapping Jeb on the back.

  Raul pummeled him from the other side. “Bueno! Freedom for the people! Death to Governor Pérez!"

  Jeb's coffee slopped on his pants, but he ignored it, nodding and smiling at his prospective in-laws. He couldn't wait to tell Tyler and Amy what a welcome the muskets might receive in New Mexico.

  * * * *

  Smoke from countless breakfast fires drifted with a few wisps of ground fog across the large square of wagons. In the early morning light, Amy spotted Tyler standing over his fire, mixing something in a bowl—probably biscuit dough. Irresistibly, his broad shoulders and narrow hips drew her gaze. Just looking at him put a squirmy feeling in her belly. So near and yet so far ... Resolutely, she turned her back and, her arms full of fabric and sewing tools, sought her customary seat on a blanket under the cottonwood tree.

  She glanced up to see her brother approaching, wearing a sheepish grin. He led a chubby Mexican girl by the hand.

  "Amy, this is Rosa Orlando. We—we're going to get hitched when we reach Santa Fe."

  Amy's mouth dropped open. She'd watched the two of them dancing together at the baile and had been delighted to see her brother kicking up his heels and having fun for a change. After the horrible things that had happened during the last few months, she'd almost given up hope of him relaxing enough to quit looking over his shoulder and watching the back trail. But an overnight wedding engagement?

  "This is very sudden.” Amy set her burden down on the blanket and embraced Rosa. “I wish you both happiness."

  Jeb still had his silly grin as he accepted Amy's hug, patting her awkwardly on the back. She wondered about the bandana tied snugly around his throat.

  "Come and meet my friends.” Amy drew Rosa forward.

  Felicité stood unsmiling through the introductions. Her eyes swept from Rosa's scuffed leather sandals past the short skirt, to the top of her head. “Orlando, you say?"

  Taken aback, Amy wondered what kind of bee had gotten into her classmate's bonnet. She turned to her brother. “I'd like to give Rosa a gift. Would you wait while I get it?"

  "Sure."

  Felicité followed her up into the wagon. Amy began rummaging in her trunk, searching for something appropriate for a future sister-in-law. “Why were you so rude to Rosa?” she asked in a low voice.

  Felicité shrugged.

  "Is it because she's poor?"

  "No."

  "Because she's Indian?” Amy's fingers closed on a white lace mantilla she'd purchased in New Orleans. Perfect for Rosa to wear over her hair when she went to church. “Do you even know her?"

  "I do not hate the Pueblos.” Felicité flopped down on a mattress and picked up her embroidery. “She has a large family—aunts, uncles, cousins. They are bandidos, most of them. They raid the ranchos and steal the sheep and ambush the troops Governor Pérez sends after them. My father, the alcalde, hears reports."

  "Are Pueblo Indians wild and uncivilized, then?"

  "The Apaches are more savage. And the Comanches. The Navajos make much more trouble. Most Pueblos live in their adobe houses and raise their gardens. The Orlandos, however, are renegades."

  Amy stared at her in shock. Jeb wanted to marry into that clan? Why should she be surprised? With his own inclination for wildness, he'd fit right in. She sighed deeply and headed outside carrying the mantilla.

  * * * *


  The Lorenzo's Dearborn carriage dipped and swayed over the old ruts left by earlier caravans, jostling Amy so she could hardly make a recognizable mark on her paper. “Lord of mercy,” she muttered, “Can't your driver take those bumps a little slower?” She gripped her quill pen firmly and tried once more to write the words Felicité had dictated. She finally managed to scrawl the Spanish equivalent of Everyday I learn something new.

  Felicité, holding the inkbottle, nodded her approval.

  "How would I ask if anyone wants to buy a beautiful gown?” Amy asked.

  Felicité pronounced the words in Spanish, and Amy wrote them down.

  As the carriage topped a rise, Amy glanced up to scan the countryside as she often did from high ground, looking for signs of Indians. Other than the pathetic reservation tribes, totally subdued and dependent on the white man, she'd never had any contact with the kind that ran wild and free. For years, she'd wanted to meet one of James Fennimore Cooper's noble savages, but perhaps there were none left. The last of the Mohicans. The last of the Osage. The last of the Comanche. It was a sad epitaph.

  The sun flashed on the wide Arkansas River paralleling the trail. Creek willows choked the banks and shallows; here and there a cottonwood struggled through. Very little vegetation grew on the hillside above other than sun-browned grass. Up ahead, a small narrow stream with deeply cut banks ran across the trail. Several men, under the direction of Alizar, had forsaken their horses and were on foot for once, armed with axes, spades, and mattocks. Without enthusiasm, they dug at the banks and lay swathes of willow branches across the muddy bed.

  Being elected wagon master of the entire caravan had given Alizar a lot of responsibility. For many days, he'd been too busy to ride with Amy; consequently, she hadn't learned anything new to report.

  As the carriage approached the ford, Felicité stuck her head out. “Are you ready for us to cross, DonAlizar?"

  He beckoned them on. The Lorenzo's teamster cracked his whip over the rumps of the mules, and the carriage rolled forward.