Stronger Than Passion (29 page)

Christina did ask why there were being sent off, and when they would return. But he only laughed - an incongruous thing for him to do - and said they wouldn’t have long to miss him. The troop had a job to complete, and it shouldn’t take more than a day or so. Possibly even less. In the meantime, they should obey Rene and remember he was well-armed and had orders to keep them near him on pain of his own death. He had chosen Rene to guard them for the specific reason that he was young and handsome, and surely their sympathetic feminine hearts would be unable to stand knowing he would be killed, if they ran off.

There was no moon and no campfire, and Torrance was barely visible in the chill darkness. But Christina heard the evil satisfaction in his voice when he related his quite correct reasoning. He knew they would never try to escape Rene; knew it well enough to even explain to them why. He was a wicked devil, that much was certain, to derive so much pleasure out of outwitting them. Christina wondered if he weren’t keeping them alive merely out of a desire for amusement. If it weren’t that he ignored their existence most of the time, she might almost believe it!

Then he did something unexpected. He reached out to smooth back Christina’s tousled hair, caressing her in the same way he had that first night. But this time, his touch held more affection that mockery. And then he bent down and grazed her parted lips with his own, lightly and carefully. As though he had been doing it for years. As though he had no idea how thoroughly shocked she was by the gesture.

He was probably grinning as he pulled back, delighted with her surprise; it was too dark to tell. But all he said was, “Adios, Señora. Be a good guerillera and don’t give Rene any trouble.”

There was movement in the night, and he was gone.

*

The Mestizo village Rene led them to was a two-hour ride east. The French boy was morose and untalkative during the first half of the trip; apparently he resented being designated babysitter, and missing out on what his friends were doing. But during their picnic-breakfast his mood improved, and by the time they reached San Andres, he was chatting to the women in his normally engaging way.

However, he did take his job of their protection seriously. His brown eyes scanned the empty land they rode, peering through the acres of dry bush and running along the tops of the occasional barrancas.

When they reached San Andres, they found a village consisting of the usual poor collection of huts nestled by the half-dry banks of a stream. This village was large enough to boast an adobe church, a small cantina, and even an open-air marketplace. The town played host to any wandering vaquero who might be passing by; two gaudily-dressed Mexican cowboys lounged, smoking, in the shade of a tree outside the cantina, staring as Rene led his light-skinned charges past.

Other people paused as well to watch the rarity of European-dressed ladies traversing the town square, mounted on delicately-stepping horses. These were mainly reboza-draped women, a few children, and a handful of elderly men. Rene remembered his manners and inclined his head to everyone they passed, prompting shy waves and giggles from the younger women.

He led them to a little adobe house tucked away in the shadow of the church. The Padré emerged outside to greet them, smiling, hot in the dark robes of his office. He hurried them inside the relative coolness of his clean home.

Rene took the horses around the house to the lean-to which sheltered the Padré’s donkey. Father Marco, as he introduced himself, was prepared to be an amiable host to the ladies whom his amigo Señor Torrance had entrusted to his care. He fed them; or, rather, his Indian servant fed them; he offered them wine; and, when Rene joined them, he settled down in his locally-carved chair for a comfortable gossip before siesta.

Rene and Padré Marco appeared to be old acquaintances, and lost no time before embroiling themselves in a conversation rendered nearly indecipherable by their use of pet names and arch phrases. Christina attempted to follow it - out of politeness at first, then out of interest, as both Julian and Santa Anna’s names were used frequently. All she really understood was that Father Marco was concerned for the souls of all of his countrymen, Santa Anna included . . . but he was particularly worried about Julian Torrance, whom he had known from childhood when the boy was brought to the Mission of San Antonio De Bexar for school, and had taught. He was worried about
the devil inside of Torrance. The good Padré even crossed himself as he spoke of it.

Rene was unconcerned about devils; Santa Anna upset him more. He questioned the Father about his latest news, leading Christina to wonder what kind of Padré this man was, to be so well informed in such a small town. But it seemed Father Marco was a traveling man, serving a flock spaced out over many miles, which almost - but not quite - explained how he knew the American Army had departed Monterey and pushed on to Saltillo, the important town at a chief pass through the Sierra Madrés; and overtaken it without opposition. Santa Anna was still at San Luis Potosi; gathering more men and more money - he had not stirred to defend Saltillo. This had taken place only a few days ago.

“Oh,” Rene said, not letting on whether he had already heard. But then he added, with a glance at Christina, “That explains why we have not yet crossed the path of our Captain’s cousin, Michael Brett.”

The Padré nodded, also looking over at Christina. She was finding it mystifying. But, before she could ask for any clarification, Rene had changed the subject to horses, and whether there were any good ones in the neighborhood to either buy, or steal.

Their talking continued for another two hours, until Father Marco declared it was time for a siesta. He would retire to the church, where he had a room to rest in. The ladies would remain in his home, making it their own. Rene could do as he wished.

But before the stout little man departed, Christina did an impulsive thing: she asked him if he would hear her confession. She had not confessed for weeks; she felt overburdened.

The Padré’s brown eyes softened and he patted her hand. “Come with me now, my daughter. I see you have a great need of God.”

Under the startled eyes of both Penny and Rene, Father Marco led Christina out into the scorching sun and then inside the church, by a back door.

The church of San Andres was poor. There were no high, stained-glass windows . . . there was no glass in the windows at all. The few pews were big and rough looking. The altar was modest, as was the cotton cloth that draped it. The floor was dirt.

Yet, the strange beauty of this humble House of God struck Christina with force the moment she entered it, shawl thrown over her head. Perhaps it had something to do with Padré Marco, smiling as he made her welcome. Or maybe it was the quiet coolness of the place. Or possibly it was the presence of the simple wooden cross, hanging on the white-washed wall, behind the altar. She had needed to make peace with God for a long time.

Padré Marco heard her long, halting confession, which poured out of her uncontrollably. Her chief sin had to do with Michael Brett and making love with him. But mixed up in the feelings of guilt over her lust was also her betrayals; somehow against Santa Anna, her countrymen, even the servants on her estate. She had continued to sin against them all, and therefore against God as well.

The Padré forgave her, and refused to allow her a penance, due to the spirit of her contrition. But he did counsel her to visit him as often as Julian or Michael would allow. And he added to that a piece of original advice: Her sins were not of her own making, and surely God was aware of that. But God had a plan for Mexico, and Christina was caught up in it. She must reason no further than that.

Christina left the church feeling a mixture of absurd peace combined with bemusement. She wondered just how deeply Father Marco was also “caught up” in God’s plan for Mexico!

*

It was in the warm evening twilight that they heard the shots.

There were three of them, distinct and loud over the gentle sounds of the village. Immediately, the quiet card game between Rene and the Father was interrupted; Christina and Penny threw down their sewing. They all stood, and Rene reached for his guns.

But, before he was able to do more than locate them, the door to the Padré’s house burst open and a young boy rushed inside.

“Padré! Padré! Some men have come and shot Tio Pablo - he is dead, I think! Mama said to ask you what we must do - and to bring you to my uncle - ”

The boy’s shrill speech ceased at the touch of the Padré’s hand on his head.

“Run back to your mother, Renaldo. Tell her I am coming.”

The boy, eyes still big with excitement and fright, turned and hurried out. Father Marco and Rene looked at each other, silent speech passing between them. The Padré was grim, as was Rene; both of them suspecting something neither wished to bring up in front of the ladies.

Christina, taut and apprehensive, couldn’t stand the brief, quiet exchange. “What is happening?”

Rene turned to her, brown eyes narrowed and preoccupied and seeming much older than they really were. “I don’t know, Señora. But I will go now and find out. Please stay here; do not go outside, even for a minute.” His gaze took in both Christina and Penny. Penny nodded. Christina still seemed unconvinced.

“But who do you think it is? Bandits, or - ”

“Señora.” Padré Marco turned a solemn, surprisingly firm gaze on her. “These are troubling times. This village is bothered by violence most often, almost as a matter of course. Banditos, soldiers - no matter, death is death! And now - I must go to comfort the living, and prevent, if I can, any more killing. Please remain inside, as Señor St. Just asks. Ladies such as you and your friend are most valuable to men with no scruples.”

He held her eyes for another few seconds, until she dropped her own in frustrated acknowledgment of his request. Then he turned and slipped out the door. Rene followed him without a backward glance, his guns now concealed beneath the colorful serape thrown about his shoulders, his face hidden by his big sombrero. His youth was concealed as well.

Christina and Penny spent the next long minutes in acute anxiety. Forced to remain isolated, with no way of knowing what if anything was happening, their fears had ample ground in which to grow.

Penny spent the time reliving aloud her own terrifying capture by Julian’s men, speculating on her possible fate had Christina not spoken out for her rescue, and wondering if that same doom awaited both of them now. Christina barely heard her. She was concerned with discovering the identity of the killers who had ridden into town. If the men were mere bandits, or even rowdy vaqueros, then it would be up to Rene to either defend the two of them or prevent their discovery, lest they be molested and/or sold. But if the men proved to be Santanista guerrillas . . .
well, perhaps the ending might be different. Perhaps these men would listen, were she to tell them who she was. Perhaps they would rescue her from the situation she was currently in; and take her to Santa Anna, for the promise of a huge reward! Just possibly . . .

Following separate but equally tense trains of thought, both women were startled into gasps at the sound of more gunfire. This time, the shots were louder and closer by. They seemed to have erupted from across the square - or next door.

Suddenly, Rene dove through the doorway into the hut and rolled to a crouch, one hand clutching a bloody, wounded arm, the other still gripping his gun. He hobbled to the window, hissing, “Get down!” to the women, who stood frozen, watching, behind him.

There was another gunshot, and a bullet whizzed through the window to disappear into the wall. Christina felt a sharp tug on her hand; Penny had dropped down and was pulling her, as well. She responded, and the two of them huddled on the floor, half under the rough-hewn table, while the smack of bullets striking the wall continued to sound above them. Rene dodged the bullets to shoot, pausing only to reload and to wipe the sweat-stained hair from his forehead. His wound was bleeding steadily, but, when Christina crawled forward to look at it, he pushed her away.

“Take cover, Madame,” he said in French without once taking his eyes from the view in front of him.

“You’re hurt - ”

“It is nothing to being dead. There are only two of them now - I killed one other - but the odds are still against me. These are Santanista guerrillas, bad ones, part of the troop our compadrés are even now fighting. They know from town gossip that you and Penny are in here. They - ”

He never finished the sentence. He rose to fire and held the position a fraction too long. He was struck high in the shoulder; the bullet knocking him backward, so he fell almost into Christina’s lap. Penny screamed, the sound loud and shrill in the dead silence.

They would be coming now. Christina focused on the body of the young man sprawled beside her. He still lived; he was unconscious, and the wound bled copiously, but he was still alive. But for how long? Would these guerrillas - who had no compunctions against killing - spare Rene, hurt as he was! Would they believe her if she told them she was on their side, and would they let Rene live if she asked them to?

Probably not.

She didn’t think; she just acted. Maybe one day she would regret snatching up Rene’s gun and hiding it in her skirt. Maybe she would be sorry for her instinctive action. Now, however, there was no time.

A narrow-eyed Mexican burst into the hut, gun extended, and stopped to assess the situation before him. He was followed by another of the same kind. Both men wore a combination of military cast-off clothing - army shirts with shoulder braid, stuffed into a vaquero’s sturdy cotton pants, with a soldier’s boots, topped off by wide sombreros. At recognition of the women, the sombreros were doffed. The men grinned.