Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

Lydia teased out the narrative. “She indicated that she was an old friend of yours. I told her you left for Fort Worth and I didn’t know how long you’d be gone. She was very pretty, but thin and frail. She looked ill.”

Hughes raised his brows in curiosity. “An old friend of mine? Here? In San Antonio?”

“Yes,” said Lydia, peering up at Hughes, who towered a foot above her head. “A somewhat older lady, yet lovely nonetheless. She said her name was Leighselle Beauclaire.”

Hughes stopped. “Leighselle? Here in San Antonio? My God if that doesn’t take me back. I haven’t seen her in, hell, almost eight years.”

“Are you happy that she’s here?” Lydia pouted, her voice thin with jealousy.

“Happy—yes. And curious. She was like a big sister to me. She saved my life many years ago when I left New Orleans.”

“Saved your life? That frail thing? How?”

“By telling a crafty lie.” Hughes took Lydia by the elbow and escorted her inside, a sliver of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

S
EPTEMBER
27, 1860

Leighselle sat straight-backed, high-chinned, and perched on the edge of her chair, a queen presiding over her court. She reigned at the head of an empty table that took up most of the space in the sunny breakfast room at the Brazos Guest House. Her black woolen shawl was pulled tight around her thin shoulders despite the warm breeze that fluttered the gingham curtains. The windows were thrown wide to the garden to invite in the scent of musk rose that perfumed the morning air.
 

Sipping from her teacup with her left hand, pinky finger extended, her right hand lay tucked in her lap. In it she clutched a black silk and lace handkerchief embroidered with her initials in bold red script. The long skirt of her black receiving dress puddled at her dainty feet, which were buttoned up in fashionable leather boots. Dark mourning colors she wore not to show a lady in bereavement. She preferred yellow, even though yellow was the color of her youth. She chose dark fabrics as a practical matter. It was easier hiding the speckles of blood that often accompanied her cough these days.

“Miss Beauclaire, your guest stands at the door.” Oma Klein stepped into the entryway of the breakfast room, her curly white hair springing from her head like tightly wound spools of wire, her soft hazel eyes sparkling with curiosity as she regarded her lodger. “Ja, he looks much better than when he rode in last night. Hard to tell it was Mr. Lévesque underneath that blood and dirt.”

A cough tickled Leighselle’s throat. She fought to repress it, dreading the quaking spasms that had grown more troubling. “Blood and dirt? My heavens. Please, show him in. And bring some more tea if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Ja, no problem.” Oma Klein retreated into the kitchen, returning holding a tray heaping with an assortment of pastries and strudels, a clean-scrubbed, fresh-shaven Hughes Lévesque on her heels.

Hughes looked at Leighselle and smiled, his amber eyes crinkling at the corners. He took both of her gloved hands in his and kissed each one. “You’re as lovely as the last time I saw you, Leighselle. When I left New Orleans for good, you made sure I landed on my feet instead of landing myself in jail, or worse.”

“No one ever leaves New Orleans for good. You’ll be drawn back someday. It’s been too long, Hughes. You look well. Handsome. You’re not the scrappy youth I remember.”

“A lot changes in eight years.” He pulled up a chair and set next to his dear old friend, a look of worry and curiosity on his face.

And some things never change, thought Leighselle, some things like the heartache of a lifetime of shameful secrets. A cough bubbled up and she held it back with her handkerchief and kept it in her mouth, just a small sound escaping this time.

Leighselle smiled. “You’ve filled out and hardened around the edges, but it suits you.”
 

“Besides tutoring me in German, Oma feeds me wonderful pastries. She wants to fatten me,” Hughes laughed. “I tutor her in English. The Germans insist on pronouncing every letter, so, she even getting my name right was a challenge. I had to spell it for her as ‘Hu Le Vek’ before she understood the pronunciation.”

“You’ve always excelled in unique linguistics. It was bird calls and wild animal sounds when you were a boy, and of course, French. Then Creole and Navajo dialects, from what I remember. Any other languages since coming to Texas?”

“Spanish. Comanche. A few other tribal vernaculars. It comes in handy on the job.”

Hughes tapped the five-point star pinned to his vest lapel with a look of pride. It was forged, like all Rangers badges, from a silver Mexican peso. As essential as a knife or a gun, a Texas Ranger’s badge opened doors quicker than a polite knock or a forceful kick.

As Hughes spoke, Leighselle studied his face. She considered his square jaw, the fine angular slant to his nose, his intense, wide-set amber eyes, and she took in the way the sunlight streaming in the window brought to life the honey gold strands that glistened in his dark brown hair.
 

His countenance reminded her of a lion, powerful and majestic, although in Hughes’s case, almost too handsome to be dangerous. But she knew better. She knew the truth behind the sensuous smile, the manicured nails, the scholar’s vocabulary, and the well-placed manners. He was a gentleman, yes, but dangerous and capable of audacious deeds.

“It’s difficult for me to reconcile the precocious young boy from New Orleans with this rough-and-tumble lawman sitting before me.” Leighselle laughed at the memory. “Not one to be told ‘no,’ you kept showing up at my saloon until one day we tired of chasing you away. Oh, how my girls doted on you.”

“I’m not always rough-and-tumble, wearing this badge.” He leaned in close. “I tell you a little secret. Sometimes, when not Rangering, I’m employed by our federal government. I take care of business that others don’t want to.”

“Ever the chevalier,” she whispered. There was no point in asking or in saying any more. She assumed he’d shared with her as much as he was able to divulge.

A violent cough erupted with a sudden force that wracked her body, bending her forward, shaking her shoulders. Her entire body heaved as she fought to catch her breath. Leighselle covered her mouth with her black handkerchief, wiping at speckles of blood she feared marred her face.

“My dear, are you all right?” Hughes was at her side, patting her back, then he took the handkerchief from her and dabbed at the blood that stained the corners of her mouth. “Here, sip some tea. Can I get you something else?”

“No. No, I’m fine. Thank you.” Her shoulders rose and fell in slow motion as she took deep breaths, trying to refill her lungs.

“Ladies who are fine do not cough blood. There’s a doctor in residence at the Menger Hotel where I keep a room. I’ll send for him.” Worry was etched in deep lines on his forehead.

“No, please don’t trouble yourself. More tea would be lovely.” The smile she gave was weak and unconvincing.

“You should let me send for the doctor, Leighselle. That cough concerns me.”

“It’s too late for a doctor, Hughes.” She cupped a hand over his, her pleading eyes telling him to let go of the idea. “My doctor advised that there is nothing more to do short of easing my pain.”

Hughes swallowed, and then took her hands in his. “Is that why you’re here, Leighselle? Did you come to see me one last time? I should have come back—”

“I came to San Antonio to ask a favor of an old friend. Your brother told me where to find you. I didn’t want to write. I wanted to see you, to ask you face to face. I need your help, Hughes, in tracking—” Another cough even worse than the first rattled Leighselle’s emaciated body, her tiny frame seeming like it might break in two. “Please excuse my coughing. Today is the worst so far.”

“Would sitting outside in the fresh air help?” Hughes offered her a glass of water.

Sipping it, she nodded. “It would. Let’s take a short stroll.”

Hughes took Leighselle by the arm and steered her outside, where the warmth of the late September’s morning sunshine hinted at an afternoon suitable for siestas. An umbrella stand that Oma kept on the front porch held a ladies parasol. Hughes opened it, carrying it over Leighselle’s head, shielding her from the rays of the Texas sun. They walked, unhurried, arm-in-arm, passing by the Spanish Mission where the Battle of the Alamo had occurred.

As they strolled the esplanade that hugged the San Antonio River, Hughes pointed out the Menger Hotel where he kept a room. It was a conspicuous European-looking building amid Spanish Colonial architecture, thanks to a German immigrant who built the hotel next to his beer brewery.

“What a grand building. I would very much like to tour it later,” Leighselle said, accepting the offered chair that Hughes pulled out for her.
 

Adjacent to the hotel, a cluster of tables sat under the sweeping arms of cypress trees that lined the river’s banks. Hughes pulled a chair and sat across from Leighselle. “As you wish.”
 

A man dressed in a gray morning coat with a gleaming white towel draped over one arm approached. Hughes greeted him with a smile. “Hello, Jameson. This is a dear friend of mine from New Orleans, Miss Leighselle Beauclaire. She was more like a big sister, really.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Beauclaire.” Jameson bent at the waist.

“Enchantée.” Leighselle smiled and nodded, impressed with Jameson’s manners and French pronunciation of her name.

“Bring us two lemonades, if you will, Jameson. A small shot of whiskey on the side for me,” Hughes requested.
 

Leighselle held up two fingers.

“Make that two shots of whiskey, Jameson, and also send word to Doctor Schmidt that I’d like a moment with him, at his convenience.” Hughes winked at Leighselle.

“Of course, Mr. Lévesque, right away, sir.” Jameson bent, whispering something to Hughes, while at the same time tucking a note into Hughes’s vest pocket. Then, turning on his heels, he marched away with brisk, purposeful strides.
 

Hughes said, “Please, indulge me.”

“There is nothing a doctor can—”

“Please? Indulge me. Let Doctor Schmidt have a look at you. What’ve you to lose?”

“Time. A commodity of which I have precious little. But, I’ll agree to see your doctor just so
you
will feel better.”
 

“Thank you,” he nodded. “You’ll like Doc Schmidt. He’s well respected. And, he’s an avid though rather inept poker player. If nothing else, you might persuade the good doctor to cut the cards with you. Who knows, you may walk away with a little spending money. Maybe go buy yourself a new petticoat, parasol, or pistol.”

“I have plenty of undergarments and umbrellas, but a new little pocket Derringer might be fun.” Leighselle’s laugh melted into a blood-red cough, her thin shoulders lifting with the weight of each spasm.
 

Jameson returned with a tray of refreshments and a new folded note for Hughes. After pouring the lemonade into tall tumblers with sugared rims and serving the dark amber Old Crow in short cut crystal whiskey glasses, he stepped back and clasped his hands in front of him, waiting for further instructions.

“Excuse me, Leighselle. This needs my attention. I’ll be just a moment,” said Hughes as he put the second note into his vest pocket.
 

“Of course,” she said as she poured the whiskey into her glass of lemonade. “I have a suspicion that this will treat a cough better than tea with lemon and honey.”

“Fix mine up like that, too, if you will. I’ll be right back.” Hughes stepped away from the table, Jameson following.
 

Leighselle watched as they stepped into the shade of the walled patio at the side of the hotel, Jameson speaking, Hughes attentive. Hughes took the notes from his vest, looked at each one, nodded his head, and handed them back to Jameson, who then marched away, disappearing from view into the dark doors of the hotel.
 

Hughes returned to the table, apologizing. “I hope you’ll forgive the interruption.” He sat and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of the potent lemonade concoction. “Mmm. Refreshing. Intoxicating. This may become my new favorite beverage.”

“It’s mine, without a doubt.” She waited for a moment, wondering whether or not Hughes would volunteer anything about the secretive notes, but decided that he would not. Men like Hughes kept secrets. Women like her understood.

“All right, my dear, you have my undivided attention.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers tented, eyes alert and on hers. “Tell me what favor you came all this way to ask of me.”

Leighselle brought her handkerchief up to her mouth anticipating a cough, but it never materialized. “Must be the new medicine,” she said, sipping her drink. “I came here to ask you to help me find my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Hughes leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I didn’t know you had a daughter. And she’s lost?”
 

“Only a few people knew I had a child. Most of them, if not all of them, are dead now. And she’s not lost. She was taken from me when she was an infant just days old. I was drugged and blackmailed into giving her up. It’s such a long, complicated story, I . . . I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning. Start there.” Hughes leaned forward. He took her gloved hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
 

“The beginning. I was fifteen. My father sold cattle to a Texas rancher. He wasn’t a Texan. He was an Irish immigrant who settled in Texas. He would come to our ranch in Vermillion Parish to purchase our pure-bred Brahman cattle and have them shipped to his ranch in Corpus Christi on the Texas Gulf Coast.”

Hughes listened, watching Leighselle’s confident posture weakening as she spoke, her hands twisting and untwisting the lace handkerchief in her lap.
 

“He visited several times a year, and every time I would catch him staring at me. Long stares, not casual glances, but vulgar stares so intense that I felt his eyes left a stain on my skin.”