Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) (44 page)

Bandit looked off toward the sound. “Hang on, Mona,” he whispered. “Hang on. Help’s coming, We’ll get a doctor.”

Mona’s hand which had been on the knife handle protruding from her side, reached up to touch his face, left a bloody smear there. “Naw, Handsome, don’t lie to me. We both know it’s too late.”

Amethyst looked down at the woman through blinding tears, back up at Bandit’s blood-streaked face. “Oh, Mona,” she whispered, “you were so brave! You saved his life!”

Mona laughed faintly, looking up at her. “I mistreated you; I’m sorry for that. I wanted to be a real lady so bad.”

Bandit took her hand. “Mona, you are a
real
lady, and I’ll never let anyone say otherwise.”

The hoofbeats were closer now. Amethyst looked over at Bandit in desperation, then down at the woman in her arms. “Hang on, Mona, there’s help coming.”

“. . . Too late.” She smiled faintly. “Never meant to do such a terrible thing . . . Romeros poisoned Miss Callie with the matches to clear the way so I could marry your papa. I was afraid to tell. . . .”

Amethyst closed her eyes in anguish at the thought.
My dear Miss Callie
.

Mona groaned, and Amethyst felt warm blood welling up from the wound, soaking her own clothing.

“Amethyst,” Mona said, “take care of Wentworth, and you’d better take care of Handsome here, too.” She smiled up at Bandit. “I’ve always loved him, would have done anything for him, only he loved you.”

Bandit’s cheeks were shiny with tears, and he swallowed hard. “Oh, Mona, I just couldn’t help but love Aimée. I’m sorry.”

Mona laughed faintly. “That’s the roll of the dice, I reckon. I always seem to be kissing you one last time, Handsome . . . one last time. . . .”

Bandit bent his head, brushed his lips gently across hers.

She smiled, reached up to touch his lips, and then her hand fell limply across her breast.

Amethyst looked down at her still form in growing horror. “Mona? Mona?”

Bandit shook his head, and swallowed hard. “She can’t hear you, sweet. She’s gone.”

He stood up, held his hand out to Amethyst. Just then the vaqueros topped the hill and rode at a hard gallop toward them, led by Gomez Durango.

Gently, Amethyst laid the dead woman on the grass, rearranged her torn clothing. Then she took Bandit’s hand, stood up. She felt shattered. “What are you going to do?”

He looked at her, then down at the woman, his face grim. “We caught Romeros trying to rape her, okay? We fought, the bull got him. No one need ever know anything else!”

She nodded. Mona’s bravery had saved Bandit’s life. They owed her that small gesture of protecting her reputation. “I meant about the other?”

He sighed, squared his shoulders as the vaqueros rode toward them. “I’m finally going to do the honorable thing, Aimée. I’m going to tell old Don Enrique about my masquerade, admit I’m not his son.”

She looked toward the riders thundering down the rise, back at Bandit. “But don’t you understand, Texas? Everyone who knew the secret is dead but the two of us.” She threw herself into his arms. “I love you! We can be married! Only the two of us know you’re not really Tony Falcon! We could spend the rest of our lives together if you don’t tell Señor Falcon!”

His lips brushed her forehead. “No, Aimée, I’m finally going to do the honorable thing. You stay here with your papa; he’s going to need you. I’m going to Falcon’s Lair.”

The posse thundered through the corral gate, led by Amethyst’s father.

“No, Texas, don’t tell!” she pleaded. “I can live with this lie! I love you!”

“But I can’t live with it, sweet, not anymore! You see, there’s a secret that you don’t know, that nobody but me knows! I’ve got to tell Don Enrique!” Bandit strode over, caught his horse. “I’m tired of feeling rotten! Even if Falcon kills me because of what I’ve got to tell him, I’ve finally done the honorable thing!”

She clung to him, but he broke free of her, swung upon the big pinto.

“Texas, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Only we know you aren’t really the Falcon heir, so the secret’s safe unless the real Tony isn’t dead and maybe he comes back someday.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Bandit’s face was grim.

Amethyst had a sinking feeling that she was seeing her love for the very last time as she looked up at him. Vaqueros dismounted, came toward her across the ranch yard, led by Papa. “What is it you know that I don’t, Texas?” she whispered. “You sounded so final. What is it?”

“Tony won’t come back, ever. And that’s my secret I’ve kept from the first.” His voice and his face bespoke regret. Just before he reined around and galloped away, he said, “Now I must go tell the old man. You see, Aimée, I killed the
real
Tony Falcon!”

Don Enrique Falcon sat at his desk in the dimly lit library, staring again the small Monterrey newspaper item he had kept in his drawer for the last several weeks. Now it finally made sense, although he didn’t want to believe it.

The letter that had arrived in the afternoon’s mail had finally put all the pieces together. He looked from the envelope on his desk top to the miniature of a girl in his open desk drawer. As always, thoughts and regrets about his younger brother came to him.

Oh, Antonio, if I had it to do all over again. . . .
He buried his face in his hands, remembering the bitter quarrel over an unsuitable sweetheart that had driven Antonio from this house.

Antonio had been underage, only eighteen. Enrique, who had controlled the Falcon money, had forbade the boy to marry the
americana
he’d met on a trip to Texas. Then the Mexican-American war had begun and Enrique had been pleased. It meant that Antonio could not defy his older brother and return to marry the girl. He’d enrolled Antonio in the Military Academy in Mexico City, expecting that by the time the war had run its course, the boy would have gotten over his infatuation with this half-breed girl, and would have found a suitable wife of good Mexican family. Breeding and honor. Those were the two things that motivated Don Enrique Falcon.

Had it really been twenty-six years ago that Enrique had held his dying brother in his arms while Antonio had taken his last breath?

With a sigh, he picked up the tiny miniature from the drawer, studied the lovely girl’s dark face.

“If I had consented to his marrying you, Antonio might be alive today,” he murmured. “But I was so stern, so proud. I wanted my little brother to marry a girl of good family, as wealthy as we were. My own dear wife argued against my vanity. But I was so foolish, so unyielding.”

He had never met the half-Indian girl he’d snubbed, had condemned her without ever meeting her. Aloud, he said to the picture, “I’ve often wondered what happened to you? When my brother didn’t return as he promised, did you marry someone else? Or did you wait and wait for him to return? If I had only known your last name, I would have found you, told you Antonio was dead. . . .”

Even now, the past hurt. His younger brother would have inherited everything the childless couple had. The girl’s pale blue eyes seemed to stare up at him accusingly, and Don Enrique closed the drawer, stared into space.

Antonio. Who would ever have realized the war would become such a tragedy? That the
americanos
would invade from both the Rio Bravo that the Yankees called the Rio Grande and the coast? Suddenly, Monterrey itself was in danger of capture, and Mexico City was under seige. Enrique got his wife to a place of safety, then rode hard for Mexico City to rescue Antonio.

September. The rainy season. It seemed even now he could feel the drops of rain. He looked down at his wrinkled old fist clenched on the desk top. No, those were tears. He had been too late, the old castle at Chapultepec was under fire. Mexico City was besieged. He rode through the streets, oblivious to danger, thinking only of an eighteen-year-old brother who was so very precious to him.

Around Enrique, shells screamed and scarlet flames leaped high as buildings burned. Terrified dogs and burros ran through the streets. Amid piles of rubble, bodies of civilians and of Mexican soldiers lay crumpled and bloody. He dismounted, began to work his way through the littered streets toward the castle. A shell landed nearby, throwing up stone and dust, sending his horse rearing and bolting away.

He must reach the Academy housed in the castle at the top of the hill. Around him, shells exploded, women screamed, and babies cried as civilians fled the bombardment. A boy ran past him. Don Enrique recognized the military academy uniform, grabbed the fleeing youth.

“The Academy—”

“Under fire and about to be taken!” the boy screamed, fighting to pull away from him. “The
americanos
are everywhere!”

But Don Enrique held on to him with grim determination. “Antonio Falcon! Do you know Antonio Falcon?”

“I saw him somewhere . . . I don’t recall! Let me go!” The boy tore out of his hands, ran down the twisted street.

American soldiers brushed past Falcon, firing wildly but since he only stared back at them and made no hostile movements, they ran on. All around him were smoke and noise and screaming. Flames licked greedily at buildings. Men shrieked in agony as exploding shells showered them with bits of metal and stone.

He had money. Money could pay bribes, save lives, move mountains. Don Enrique worked his way through the rubble, toward the castle. As he reached the foot of the hill, a man near him shielded his eyes, pointed up toward the castle.
“Los niños héroes!”
The boy heroes.

Don Enrique looked up. On the edge of the parapet, on the top of the castle, a group of boys in Academy uniforms battled the enemy.
Antonio
?

Don Enrique held his breath, staring upward. The boys looked pathetically young, even as they fought the overwhelming American force, they were being forced nearer and nearer to the edge of the high parapet. The boys were outnumbered, in danger of being overwhelmed, and yet they fought on.

Why didn’t they give up, surrender? And then Don Enrique realized the boys were fighting to defend the big Mexican flag one of them carried. From the foot of the hill, he could only stare upward in horror as he watched the boys slowly being forced across the high rooftop, yet valiantly defending their country’s banner.

One by one the boys were hit by gunfire, fell. Finally only a single boy was left, and he had been backed to the edge of the parapet. Wrapped in the flag, he shouted his defiance. Even from the base of the hill, Don Enrique heard his words carried on the wind:
“Viva Méjico! Viva el Colegio Militar!”
Long live Mexico. Long live the military college.

And then the boy jumped, taking the flag with him rather than surrender it to the enemy. It trailed out behind him in the wind, flapping its brilliant red, white, and green colors for a heart-stopping moment. Then boy and flag lay broken and crumpled on the ground.

Enrique was not sure whether the scream he heard was the boy’s or was torn from his own lips. Antonio? He ran to the twisted body lying like a broken toy, still wrapped in the flag. He felt both relief, then guilt as he turned the dead boy over and saw that he was not his little brother.

He must find Antonio. Surely somewhere the boy was still alive. Searching through the rubble of the castle, he brushed past American soldiers. Since he wore no uniform, no one questioned him, tried to stop him.

He found his brother lying in the rubble near a stairwell. He might not have recognized him if it had not been for the light-colored hair. “Antonio? Antonio! Thank God I’ve found you!” He knelt, almost sobbing with relief, and then gasped as he cradled the big, blond boy in his arms, saw the blood dripping bright across the uniform.

Pale blue eyes flickered open in the handsome face coated with adobe dust. Antonio smiled crookedly, the cleft in his chin deepening. He reached up one big, square hand to pat his brother’s arm. “Enrique? I thought you would never come.”

He was sobbing now. “It’s all right, Antonio! I have money! I will find the best doctor! I will bribe the
americanos
to let us pass through their lines—”

“The Academy . . . did it fall?”

He held the boy, looking down at the familiar face now coated with plaster dust and smudged by smoke. Antonio was dying, he realized that.
“Sí,”
he whispered, “it has fallen. But it was defended bravely to the last by half a dozen cadets. The world will not forget them.”

Antonio grimaced. “I was trying to reach the top . . . to help them defend the flag . . . didn’t make it.” With great effort, he fumbled in his pocket, laid a small miniature of a girl in his brother’s hand. “My Texas sweetheart”—he gasped—“Lidah . . . I love her so. . . . In her language, she calls me sokol . . . that’s Czech for falcon. Sokol . . . funny word.” He laughed very softly.

Enrique Falcon took the miniature, wept as he hugged the dying boy to him. “Oh, Antonio, I was wrong! So wrong! I’ll get a doctor! You’ll marry your Lidah, I swear it! There will be the biggest wedding Mexico ever saw!” He reached for his own holy medallion with the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on one side, the Falcon emblem on the other. “Antonio, do you still have yours? We’ll pray together!”

The boy shook his head ever so slightly, spoke with great effort. “I gave it to Lidah . . . as a promise I would return for her. . . .”

Don Enrique pressed his own medal into the boy’s palm. There had been only the two struck from the gold of their grandfather’s noble crest and blessed by the Pope himself. Desperately, he looked around. The blond boy was past needing a doctor, he needed a priest. Antonio struggled to speak.

Enrique hugged him against his chest, willing him to live. It mustn’t end this way, not with all the anger between them. “Antonio, I’ll find this girl! I’ll give you my blessing! Tell me how to find her!”

“. . . Lidah . . . I love her so . . .
sokol
. . . falcon . . . ” Antonio smiled his crooked smile, then his pale blue eyes flickered closed and he was gone, almost as if God had leaned over and blown out that tiny, flickering flame of life. . . .

With a sob, Señor Falcon pushed away from his desk, stood up. He took the newspaper clipping and the letter, went over to stand before the library fire. Even on a warm May night, his old bones craved the heat. The clock ticked loudly, but otherwise the big
rancho
was quiet. Most of the vaqueros had gone with his good friend, Durango, to search for the missing pair. He reached for the holy medal hanging on a small chain inside the collar of his shirt, thinking, regretting. . . .

For a while after his younger brother’s death, Enrique was inconsolable. He thought he would lose his sanity. Night after night he paced the library, staring into the darkness, bitter regret in his heart. He tried to find his brother’s sweetheart, but Texas was a big place. He knew that she was a mixture of Czech and Apache, and that her name was Lidah, but that was not enough to track her down. Enrique had fully intended to make the girl a member of his family, but he could not find her.

Then a miracle had happened. The
señora
, who was well into middle age and had given up hope of ever having a child, presented him with a son, an heir. In his mid-forties he was to be a father. The Falcons named their son Tony in memory of Enrique’s beloved younger brother. But again tragedy struck. When the boy was eight years old, he was kidnapped. The ransom attempt was bungled, and the boy was never seen again.

Don Enrique stared into the fire, looked again at the letter he’d just received. Sixteen long years and now he knew. He reread the newspaper item, then the letter from his old friend, Swen Swenson, the Texas Ranger. He had met Swen and had forged a friendship with him years ago as he’d searched for his brother’s sweetheart.

The writing seemed to waver on the paper held in his shaking fingers. Don Enrique had never quite given up hope that whoever had kidnapped his son might have let the boy live, might even have adopted him. Tony would be twenty-four now if he were alive, and the frail hope of finding him was what had made life worth living for the old man. Then several weeks ago, a miracle had occurred. A big blond man claiming to be Tony had come home.

Don Enrique had been only too eager to believe this stranger. After all, he did bear an amazing resemblance to the Falcons. He smiled bitterly. He had been so eager to believe, perhaps he had seen a resemblance that didn’t really exist. But of course the real Tony was dead. The article about the tattoo artist and the letter he’d just received wrapped up the last of the puzzle.

He reread the letter, anger and pain in his heart.

Tony—his son—was dead and buried in Bandera, Texas, no doubt killed by the very man who had shown up to assume his place, tattooed with a fake birthmark.

Falcon’s wrinkled hand shook with fury and pain as he crumpled both the letter and the news item, tossed them into the fire, watched them burn. What was he to do, now that he knew the truth?

He had come to love the impostor as if the Texan were of his very own blood, and the ailing
señora
doted on him. If he were to tell her the terrible truth, it would no doubt kill her.

The don went to the gun cabinet, got out the case of dueling pistols, carried it over to his desk, opened it, and checked them. He would challenge this Texan to a duel and spill his blood for his duplicity.

No, he shook his head. He could not do that. The old
señora
was in frail health. He dare not let her know what he had discovered. It might mean her death from shock. As far as she was concerned, the impostor was the son she had lost. The don hefted the pistol, considered what to do. Honor meant as much to him as his bloodlines. The impostor had acted with dishonor, and yet Don Enrique loved him as much as if he had been the real Tony. The man killed at the gambling table in Bandera had been a stranger in every way but blood. And that man had been an outlaw. He had dishonored the family and, worse yet, had been caught cheating at cards. What a humiliating thing for a proud gentleman like Enrique.