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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781490735061 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 05/15/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 168 KB |
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Blood And Shadow
By Margaret Nelson
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Margaret NelsonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-3508-5
CHAPTER 1
Veiled Conversation
"Keep yer eyes open," the stagecoach driver grumbled loudly to the shotgun guard. "It ain't the best place fer an ambush, but there might be a few Apaches hungerin' fer some mule meat."
Inside the coach, Bonita cursed silently, trying desperately to look calm and unconcerned. She didn't need an Indian attack or an ambush by outlaws to complicate things. She had enough to worry about already. She wished she had been able to buy a horse and ride down the trail by herself. However, she had been forced to sell her wedding ring to finance her traveling expenses, and she could not afford the added burden of a horse at this time. She also would not have been able to ride very well in the black dress and lace veil that she had been wearing lately, no matter what subtle modifications she had already made to them. Changing from this traditional Mexican feminine mourning attire to the boyish riding outfit hidden in her valise might have revealed her true identity. She could not be sure whether anyone still remembered her face or figure, which had never been as notorious as her late husband's, but it was safer not to draw attention to either until she reached her destination. There she could discard her disguise and be free to act like herself again. She really needed to get herself a horse. For now, though, it was better to remain "the young widow Valdez" traveling alone by necessity.
Although Bonita would have preferred to be completely alone on her long ride, there was another passenger in the coach opposite her on the forward-facing seat, a man she judged to be in his early twenties wearing Eastern-cut clothing. There was something about him that caught her attention, and she scrutinized him as unobtrusively as possible. He had curly black hair with deep-set black eyes and a sharply handsome face, except for a faint jagged scar along one cheekbone. Could that be what interested her? No doubt there was quite a story behind that scar. Still, she had seen many men with scars and had not felt this keen interest, this sense of having overlooked something about him.
Intrigued despite her intentions, she ran her gaze over his clothing. The suit he was wearing was well cut in an expensive style, but it did not seem to suit him somehow. The American West was home to people from many countries and different backgrounds, yet there was something about him that belonged to this country. Oh, forget the good-looking gringo, she told herself, annoyed by her interest in him.
To her further annoyance, the stranger had noticed her interest in him and chose to use it to make conversation with her. After several polite remarks about the weather and other general topics, he introduced himself as Andrew Hilgendorf, forcing her to tell him her first lie. With no valid polite reason to hold back on introducing herself, she told him she was Linda Valdez.
"Ah," Andrew commented. Knowing that the first name she had called herself was also a Spanish word meaning beautiful, and intrigued by the glimpses of her face he could see through the thick veil, he impulsively proclaimed, "You are very pretty, muy bonita!"
Bonita's slightly embarrassed smile changed to impassiveness when she heard his last word, thinking he had recognized her. She shot a hard glance at him, but his puzzled reaction told her that he had only accidentally called her by her real first name, since it was so similar in meaning to her assumed name. She forced herself to relax her grip on her valise, which she had instinctively grasped tighter, wishing she had hidden one of the guns in it under the clothing she was wearing.
Mistaking her glance as disapproval for his boldness, Andrew apologized. "Forgive me for offending you. I merely meant to compliment you, Senorita Valdez."
"Senora," she corrected him automatically, having done so many times since she first started her journey.
This time it was Andrew who was startled, having assumed it was her parents she was mourning rather than a husband. She had seemed so young even through the veil that he had assumed she was unmarried. He was tempted to commit a grave social error by asking how old she was, but he wanted to continue the conversation as long as she would let him, so he substituted, "I meant no harm, Senora Valdez."
"There is no harm done. I was merely surprised by your flattery. It has been a long time since anyone has said such kind things to me without some ulterior motive like rape or marriage, perhaps both together." Hurrying past her own social faux pas in mentioning such topics, Bonita continued, "I have been living with my family in Mexico for almost a year now. They never approved of my husband, nor have they forgiven me for marrying him, and since his death, I have been besieged by admirers who only see my youth, my beauty, and what my family might gift them as my dowry."
Bonita neglected to mention her late husband's notoriety, the fact that his name—as well as her own—was still whispered by outlaws and honest citizens alike, and that he had been neither Mexican nor Hispanic in any way. If she had hoped to end the conversation without any more such omissions, Andrew made that difficult when he asked, "If I may be so bold as to ask, was there no one there to protect you? Is there no one who could accompany you on your journey, however long or short it may be? Is that not unusual for a woman of your Spanish culture to be without a chaperone?"
"There was no one who was willing or able to come with me. I could not wait any longer to take care of some business that is very important to me. That is why I am traveling alone from Mexico City to New Mexico."
"New Mexico!" Andrew exclaimed. "That's where I'm headed too. Perhaps I might come with you?"
"There would be too much danger, both for you and for my friends there." Trying to turn the conversation into a safer channel, Bonita asked, "Is this your first trip to New Mexico? Do you have business there?"
"Yes, I have written to the Bar CD ranch near the border, and I have been invited—what's the matter?" Andrew broke off his statement because the hand holding closed the shawl around her shoulders had clenched into a taut fist.
"Do you know who owns that ranch, senor?"
"Yes, Chad Donovan. I corresponded with him briefly from back East. Why?"
"My husband and I used to live in a wild, spectacular place near the Bar CD that gringos call Spanish Canyon. There was a spring in the canyon, and we were very happy there—until Chad Donovan decided to add it to the rest of the land grant that he had stolen from my family. Spanish laws and titles mean nothing to the gringos who now control this territory, and Donovan uses his money and his hired gunslingers to buy whatever he wants. He killed my husband, stole our stock, and burned us out."
"But wasn't there a sheriff or peace officer ...?"
"There is too much prejudice against Mexicans. With my husband dead, I had to flee across the border to my family."
"It must be hard for you to come back to New Mexico."
"It must be done. I can no longer avoid it. Please, I do not wish to discuss it."
"Of course ... Pardon me for upsetting you."
With a curt nod, Bonita withdrew into silent memories, leaving Andrew with serious misgivings about his trip to the Bar CD ranch. He feared he had chosen a very bad time to visit there because if the Senora ever met up with Donovan, all hell would break loose, and it could get very bloody for anyone caught in the middle of that.
CHAPTER 2Unveiled
Bonita relaxed her vigilance slightly as the stagecoach left the broad main street with its false-fronted buildings and curious crowd that had gathered to watch the coach's departure. It had been difficult to get this far from Mexico City and extremely perilous so far—not that this next part of the trip was any less fraught with danger. Taking the Silver Junction Stagecoach into New Mexico presented its own brand of possible trouble as well as holding a certain irony for her. If Chad Donovan knew she was riding the stagecoach that he was largely responsible for maintaining, her life would be very short and unpleasant. Stagecoach travel through this region had been largely ended by the Civil War and the subsequent Indian raids throughout the region. Since the railroads that would help further Donovan's interests had not yet been built, he had organized the maintenance of this stage line to and through Silver Junction. Bonita had been fortunate to obtain passage, bribing several of its personnel with her jewelry and some of the secret documents she had brought with her. Still, some sharp-eyed man with a long memory might betray her. She was grateful that there were no new passengers on the stage today, just the scarred but attractive Andrew Hilgendorf. She had made her escape plans hastily, and she needed to decide some crucial points of strategy now that she was nearing her final destination.
Happily ignorant of the serious purpose of Bonita's thoughts and having already done his own planning beforehand, Andrew was glad to take advantage of Bonita's preoccupation to study her closely. Andrew was fascinated by the glimpse of beauty hidden beneath her veil and because she was so mysteriously and strangely alone. Her obviously Spanish culture had a strong tradition of chaperoned women, even widows as young as she seemed to be. Still, even if that was only a disguise for her, she had enveloped herself in it, wearing black from head to toe. The black lace veil draped over her head and around her face concealed most of her features except for her wary black eyes and a hint of her smooth, olive complexion. A thin black shawl was wrapped loosely around her shoulders over a black floor-length dress and perhaps several petticoats or other dresses. The only part of her clothing that wasn't black was a sometimes partly visible pair of shabby straw sandals like those worn by a Mexican peasant (peon). Yet Andrew felt that she was more of an aristocrat than a peon. She held her head proudly erect and sat up straight on the battered seat through the long, weary miles without any sign of slouching or weariness, ignoring the jolting and discomfort that she had to feel as much as he did. Part of that could have been the stoicism of some Indian ancestor(s) of hers, but there was an unconscious arrogance about it as well that Andrew suspected came from a pure Castilian noble heritage. She kept her hands tucked under her shawl most of the time, occasionally slipping one out to adjust her veil or to steady the large used valise beside her and keep it from sliding off the seat. Andrew noted at these times how shapely her hands were with graceful yet slightly calloused fingers, and how carefully she kept a closer eye on the valise than on him.
Andrew's curiosity about Bonita was an interesting distraction from the boring ride, and he only stopped his speculation when the stage braked to a stop on the grassy, tree-lined bank of a shallow, noisy stream. The two of them were glad to heed the driver's invitation to get out and stretch their legs.
Taking her valise, Bonita had stepped down from the coach before Andrew could offer to help. She strode toward a bend in the shallow, swift-flowing stream despite the shotgun guard's warning to stay close in case of an Indian attack. The grizzled driver began to unhitch the teams of mules to water them, and Andrew moved to help him while the guard kept a sharp lookout atop the stage.
"Yer no tenderfoot, boy," the keen-eyed driver told Andrew bluntly after a few minutes' work. "Ya handle them mules like ya growed up with 'em, an' I never knowed a city feller that could untangle harness so quick."
Andrew smiled, amused by the driver's perspicuity. "You're right! I grew up on a ranch working with horses and cattle, mules too. And I once worked at a stage station hitching and unhitching teams."
"Kinda strayed off yer range, eh?" This remark was in reference to Andrew's suit coat and creased pants, which were markedly different from those of a ranch hand and in which Andrew seemed rather uncomfortable, as Bonita had already observed.
"Well, the 'open range' isn't always big enough to keep a boy with no family or other interests from drifting into trouble," Andrew responded ruefully.
"What happened to yer kinfolk?"
"They were killed by Comanche raiders. Several of the neighboring ranches were also attacked and burned." For a moment Andrew was silent, gazing into the distance, and the old Westerner knew all too well from sad experience what Andrew saw of the past. "After that was over," Andrew continued quietly, "I had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go, nothing to do, no ties, no purpose, no responsibilities, too proud to accept 'charity.' I just drifted from place to place, and everywhere I went, I got into more trouble. There were always fights with the local bullies, mostly with fists, sometimes with a knife. I started to get a bad reputation. I even began wearing a gun, although I wasn't yet fourteen." Andrew shook his head. "I would have kept heading down that wild trail until I got myself killed or outlawed if I had not met a lawman who told me some things that really made me stop and think. I was drifting back through Texas toward the ruins of my old former home when I ran into him. Mostly, the law was more interested in shipping me off to an orphanage or running me out of town, but that Texas Ranger had heard of my family—my older brother, anyway. We got to be good friends, and we had some long talks about the past and my future. He introduced me to a greenhorn named Hilgendorf who had lost his only son through an accident he thought he might have prevented. Hilgendorf was looking for someone he could talk to about his son. I understood his grief, and helping me seemed to ease his conscience, so he offered to take me back East with him. I think he really hoped to adopt me."
"So ya jest let him sweep ya up an' carry ya off?"
"Yes," Andrew agreed, "but with the promise that I could come back out West anytime I wanted to if I told him about it first. That seemed fair to him, so we went to his home back East, and I started to use his last name because that pleased him. I stayed there long enough to sort some things out that were bothering me and make some decisions, which was easier to do when I wasn't worried about survival or being bothered by bullies. We talked things over, and finally, things seemed clear to me."
"An' here ya are out West again. Tired of livin' in his fancy house an' pretendin' ta like it?"
Andrew nodded, glad that the driver had assumed that was the only reason for Andrew's return to the West. He was relieved that no questions had been asked as to why Andrew was still going by the name Hilgendorf if he had not been adopted, or what name he had acquired his bad reputation under and whether that was his real name.
"Gonna stay out here?"
Andrew shrugged. "I haven't decided yet. Maybe I will, but I don't know what's going to happen the next month or two. I have a hunch I'm headed for a 'real adventure' here in New Mexico."
The driver chuckled at the sarcasm in Andrew's last remark, but Andrew, remembering Bonita's hatred for Chad Donovan and its possible impact on his Bar CD visit, didn't even smile.
"Lemme have that ornery critter, Hilgendorf," the driver muttered, reaching for the bridle of the mule Andrew was harnessing. "They don't call me Wild Bill fer nuthin', ya know," the driver boasted.
"Way Behind Bill, more like it," the guard retorted from his seat atop the stagecoach.
"Thanks, Bill." Surrendering the mule into the driver's capable hands, Andrew drifted away from the stagecoach, aimlessly strolling toward the bend in the stream, unaware of the glances exchanged behind his back by the driver and the guard.
Kneeling by the bank in a shady spot, Andrew splashed water over his hot, dusty face and scooped up cold, refreshing handfuls to drink. Then he again meandered along the stream, stopping abruptly.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blood And Shadow by Margaret Nelson. Copyright © 2014 Margaret Nelson. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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