Emmy's Equal (6 page)

The girl offered Cuddy her hand.

He bowed slightly and kissed it.

Diego’s hat came off fast when she turned his way. He wet his lips and opened his mouth to speak, not certain any sound would come out. “Miss Dane. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Marcelo. I ... I’m...” The glow of color drained from her face.

Mrs. Dane clutched her daughter’s arm. “Emmy, are you all right?”

She nodded. “Fine. I just...”

She didn’t look fine. She looked green.

Diego stepped forward. “Perhaps the lady could use a glass of cool water? This part of Texas can be hard on a person unaccustomed to the heat.”

Swaying toward him, she blinked once before bending over and depositing her lunch in his hat.

Once they left the depot in Uvalde, the scenery shifted and changed like the slow turns of a kaleidoscope. Instead of the miles of desert sand Emmy had expected, acres of waist-high grass covered the landscape, set off by an occasional grove of trees.

Farther along, after crossing the Nueces River, it changed even more. The grass alongside the road grew as high as the rider’s stirrups in some places then disappeared in others, choked out by rocks, sand, and brush. Live oak trees lined up next to sapling elms along the riverbank. Wide vistas of patchy grass mixed with scattered scrub brush and squatty trees that sported a tangle of wiry branches. Cacti dotted the landscape, lone sentinels, their fat green arms laden with purple fruit.

This piqued Emmy’s interest so much she couldn’t sit quietly another second. Scooting to the edge of her seat, she waved her hankie at them. “Look, Mama. What are those lovely bulbs on that cactus? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Beside her, Aunt Bertha laughed. “That’s because you ain’t never seen any cactuses, child. Maybe the little ones in pots, but nothing like these beauties.”

Papa, who seemed in much better spirits, leaned around Mama for a better look. “Those are cactus pears. Very juicy and sweet on the palate, once you get past the spines, which I understand is very hard to do.”

“You mean you can eat them things?” Aunt Bertha’s voice was shrill with wonder.

“Yes, you can, Bertha.” Papa actually smiled. “According to John, they’re regular fare on the Rawsons’ table in season.”

Mama twisted on the seat, her lips pinched. “No more questions, Emily. You need to sit back and rest.”

Emmy’s face warmed. “I’m feeling much better.”

Mama smiled grimly. “I’m relieved to hear it.” She turned to the front, muttering that it wouldn’t be much help to Mr. Marcelo’s hat.

The heat increased in Emmy’s cheeks. The handsome young man rode a short distance in front of the wagon, squinting against the sun. He had pulled the red bandanna from around his neck and twisted it into a rope that he tied around his head. Still, the wind whipped his long curly hair in his face. Guilt squeezed her heart that he battled with the elements while she sat sheltered beneath the canopy of the two-seater.

They made camp at dusk, their two hosts graciously tending their every need, and were up and back on the trail as the sun peeked over the horizon. Emmy could hardly believe it when Papa grunted then nodded at the acres of plowed rows along the road. “We’re getting closer now.”

Mama shot him a quizzical glance. “How can you tell?”

“We’re beginning to see tilled ground. Carrizo Springs is rich in farmland.”

Frowning, Emmy voiced her confusion. “How can that be? I thought the south would be barren and desolate.”

He shook his head. “Not these parts. The fields are watered by spring-fed creeks.”

Aunt Bertha stretched closer to Papa. “What kind of creeks did you say, Willem?”

“Spring-fed. The area sits atop underground fountains called artesian wells. They bubble to the surface and create ready sources of fresh water.” He shrugged. “That’s not to say it’s all lush and green. The ground is still dry in most places.”

As if to vouch for his word, the wind bore down and snatched up a puff of sand. Invisible fingers fashioned a whirligig that danced across the open plain.

“Look!” Emmy cried. “Have you ever seen a dust devil so big?”

Grinning, Aunt Bert watched it wend its way toward them until it collapsed ten feet shy of the wagon in a shower of sand. “Will you look at that?” she hooted.

Emmy smiled. “I’ve never seen anything like this country. Lush here, desolate there. I guess it can’t decide what sort of terrain it ought to be.”

Mama and Papa laughed, and to her surprise, Emmy joined them. She had determined to despise South Texas, expected to have a miserable ride to the ranch, yet against her will the rugged charm of the land had worked its way under her skin and softened her resolve. Instead of enduring the long journey, the miles and hours swept by unnoticed.

She pointed at a staggered line of brush. “What are those curious spiny bushes?”

Her papa shook his head. “I can’t answer that one. Perhaps one of our escorts can shed some light.”

To her dismay, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Both men’s heads whipped around.

“My daughter has a question, gentlemen.”

Since the dark-skinned fellow was closer, the one named Cuddy grinned and waved him over.

Emmy couldn’t recall his name from their introduction because her head had started to whirl. She only remembered hair the color of raw sugar on his forehead and matching brown eyes—knowing, thoughtful eyes that must have witnessed things Emmy would never see. Yet the last expression she’d seen in their depths as she bowed her head to be sick was one of startled amazement. Luckily, she got a good glimpse because she didn’t dare look at them again.

He angled his horse up beside them. “What can I do for you, miss?”

His voice, as rich as Christmas pudding, drew Emmy’s attention to his mouth against her will. When he made an unconscious move to take off his hat—which wasn’t there, thanks to her—the gesture broke the spell. Emmy dropped her gaze to her clenched fists.

Thankfully, Papa came to her rescue. “She’s asking the name of that scrub brush yonder.”

“Those old, straggly trees? Miss Emily, those are mesquite.”

So he remembered her name. But then he would. After ruining his hat, he’d likely never forget.

“Mesquite grows like a house afire and provides a nice habitat for the wildlife,” he continued. “Cattle eat the beans when grass is scarce. Many people use them for food, too, as well as medicine.”

Aunt Bertha flipped up the brim of her bonnet and gawked at Diego in disbelief. Slapping her leg, she laughed. “Young man, I swallowed that part about picking fruit off a cactus, but don’t try to tell me folks around these parts eat trees.”

He laughed softly. “Only the beans, Mrs. Bloom. Wood from the larger trees makes good shelter and beautiful furniture. But most mesquite that size grows across the Rio Grande.” He shaded his eyes and stared, as if he could see the river. “It also fuels a fine cooking fire. Gives smoked meat a wonderful flavor.”

Diego directed the last part to Emmy, so she raised her head and nodded to be polite. His warm smile flashed teeth so white against his bronzed skin it took her breath and delivered absolution to her repentant heart. She couldn’t remember ever seeing so handsome a face. Even the no-account scoundrel from her past couldn’t compare to this man, and she’d always thought Daniel Clark the best-looking man she’d ever met ... until now.

Up ahead, lanky, towheaded Cuddy reined in his horse and turned in the saddle. “Hey, Diego!” He pointed toward a distant cloud of dust. The tension in his voice drew Emmy’s attention. “Riders. Heading our way.”

Diego. So that’s his name.

Papa sat forward on the seat as Cuddy wheeled his horse and rode to meet them. “Can you tell who it is, young man?”

Cuddy shook his head. “Not from this distance, but they’re closing fast.”

“Maybe it’s your father coming to greet us? Or someone sent by him?”

“No, sir, that’s not Father’s mount,” he said grimly. “Besides, he sent us to greet you.”

Mama gasped when Cuddy unsheathed his rifle and Diego slid a handgun from his boot.

Looking helpless, Papa frowned up at them. “So you expect trouble then? Banditos?”

Cuddy chewed his bottom lip before he answered. “Could be. I guess we’re about to find out.”

Papa spun toward Diego. “Do you have extra firepower? I’m a fair shot.”

Aunt Bert stood up in the wagon. “I can blast a buzzard off a carcass from a hundred yards.”

Diego sat straighter on his horse, his pleasing mouth a firm line. “We appreciate the offer, Mr. Dane.” He nodded at Aunt Bert. “You, too, ma’am.” His watchful eyes remained pinned on the horizon. “But you can be most helpful by sitting down and staying low.”

Pulling his attention from the intruders, his comforting gaze settled on Emmy. “Don’t you fret, miss. We’re prepared to defend you with our lives.”

His assurance made her feel better, but she prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

Diego tipped his chin at Cuddy. “Let’s ride out to meet them, draw them away from the wagon. No need to advertise all the luggage.”

He pulled a shotgun from his scabbard and handed it down to Papa. “Keep the rig moving south toward the ranch while we stall them. You’re almost there. If anything goes wrong, push this wagon as if the devil were chasing you.” He gathered the reins, jutting his chin toward the horizon. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll catch up.” Pausing, he nodded at the gun. “And don’t be afraid to use that.”

Papa patted the barrel. “If necessary, I’ll find a use for it.”

Diego tapped his horse’s side with his heel and trotted toward the band of four men, closer now than Aunt Bertha’s buzzard.

Cuddy followed, his rifle braced across his saddle.

Papa shook the leads and the wagon jerked into motion.

No one made a sound, save that of heavy breathing. Their rapid, shuddering pants reached Emmy’s ears despite the creak of the wheels and the pounding of her heart. She had no desire to die that day but, oddly, didn’t fear for herself. Her muddled thoughts centered on the safety of the winsome young escort who vowed his life to protect her.

Tension crackled in the air. Papa sat so stiffly on the seat Emmy feared his spine would snap. Mama mopped beads of sweat from her top lip with one hand and worried a tear in the brown leather seat with the other. Beside her, Aunt Bertha’s jaw worked in circles, emitting the sound of grinding teeth.

“Watch them, ladies,” Papa said. “If they so much as flinch, I’ll lay the whip to the horse’s back.” Even as he issued the command, his head swiveled around three times to look for himself.

All eyes were fixed on the huddle of swarthy men in the distance. Emmy felt fixed in place, as if fear had melded the joints and sinews of her body into stone.

A sudden shout echoed across the plain. Papa’s head jerked around and Emmy’s legs tensed. She didn’t understand the strangely beautiful words, but the tone translated into anger. Papa reached for the whip, and a whispered prayer sprang from Aunt Bertha’s lips.

Then Cuddy let out a peal of raucous laughter.

Emmy’s gaze flitted to Papa, hoping the laughter meant they wouldn’t be scrambling for their lives. He released his breath in a rush and his rigid body slumped with relief. Warmth flooded Emmy’s chest, leaving her legs limp and her arms useless sticks in her lap.

“It’s all right, sugar. Everything’s going to be fine,” Aunt Bertha said, though her hand trembled as she patted Emmy’s leg.

Papa called, “Whoa,” to the team when the horsemen turned their mounts and headed toward them with Diego in the lead. Behind him rode a squat, older man even browner than Diego, with a long, heavy mustache. He rode alongside a slightly younger version of himself in similar clothes. Two men, closer in age to Diego, followed, with Cuddy bringing up the rear.

One of the straggling riders appeared to be the object of a joke. He suffered much teasing from the rest, especially Cuddy. They were all laughing or smiling, except the old man. As he reached the wagon, ridges in his forehead resembled a washboard, and his mustache sagged. Flashing eyes, so dark they appeared black, crinkled into sunburst patterns at the corners.

All of them wore big, peculiar hats sporting wide brims and tall crowns. Cuddy’s companion took his off and swiped at him. “Laugh hearty, foolish
gringo.
I know what I saw.” Catching sight of Emmy, he clutched the hat to his chest. “But what is this I see?”

He bowed from atop his horse, first at Papa, though he had to force his dark eyes to switch, then at Mama and Aunt Bert. “
Buenos días,
señores
.
Señoras.”

Bowing lower, his gaze swung to Emmy. “Good afternoon, señorita.”

They dismounted as Papa climbed down and held out his hand. “Willem Dane at your service. This is my good wife, Magdalena, her companion, Bertha Bloom, and my daughter, Emily,” he said, pointing at each of them in turn. “Happy to make your acquaintances.”

Diego, his accent thicker in the company of the men, made introductions all around. Señor Boteo, elder brother to Narcisso, the man who resembled him, father to Francisco, and uncle to Rico, proved to be the link connecting the family. With the old fellow still scowling and the others still snickering, it took no time for the yarn to surface.

“Please to pardon these simpering pups, Señor Dane. They seek to make sport of my son”—he regarded Cuddy over his shoulder, one expressive brow climbing toward his hatband—“when they would do well to sober and heed his warning.”

Grinning, Cuddy gripped Francisco’s shoulder. “Sober? I doubt you were any too sober when you chased that old bloodsucker off your goat.”

The old man made the sign of the cross. “It is unwise to jest about it, son. The stories of
el chupa sangre
are quite real. He has wandered this land for generations, feeding on our livestock, and in rare cases, our people.”

Papa stepped closer, his brows meeting in the middle. “Señor Boteo, just what is this creature?”

The old man raised his chin, regarding Papa with intelligent eyes. “An animal not of this earth, señor. A fiend that walks on four legs or two as the mood strikes him. The size of a small bear with spines from his neck to the end of a tail that drags the ground. He has the face and hands of a man, though his eyes are very large and his fingers heavy with thick claws. He doesn’t kill with his hands, however, but with two long fangs. With them, he slits the throat of his victim and drains it of blood with his mouth, wasting not a drop. He attacks under cover of night, and his eyes glow like burning embers while he feeds. When the herders or wranglers awaken, they find their animals shriveled on the ground like empty wineskins.”

Mama sucked in her breath and he swung her way.

“I beg your pardon, señora.” He tipped his hat. “I don’t wish to frighten you, but the bloodsucker is quite real as my son can now bear witness. It’s rash and dangerous to believe otherwise.”