Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (25 page)

      
“Nothing like you, that's for damn sure,” he shot back.

      
Tears of furious rage suffocated her, closing her throat and making her voice raspy. “Yes, me—a bastard born of a misalliance with the blood of Indians and African slaves flowing in my veins! You couldn't dream of giving the precious Velasquez name to any mongrel children of mine, could you?”

      
Lee stood riveted to the earth, unable to deny the truth of her painful accusations. Here she was, having made chaos of his life, now making him feel guilty! He forced himself to calm, lest he say even more hurtful things to her, then shrugged carelessly. “It really doesn't signify whether or not I'd consider you a fit mother for my children, since we don't intend to have a real marriage. You don't love me and I don't love you. We just have to make the best of this disaster for the next year or so.”

      
Melanie turned over in her mind what he said.
Forget the pain—you've always lived with it. It'll never change. You are who you are, and you don't need any man.
“All right,” she began in a low, rational voice, “we'll get married in name only. After things settle down”
and my parents go back to Renacimiento,
she thought with a stab of desperation, “I'll go to Galveston and get the annulment. Maybe Clarence knows an editor there who'd hire a good reporter.”

      
“What's wrong with Boston? You've got a grandfather there and all sorts of crusades to join,” he said, guilty once more over the image of a tiny woman alone in a rough port city.

      
“Texas is my home too, Lee. My parents and brothers and sister are all here,” she replied, angry again.

      
“Be grateful they're alive, Melanie,” he said softly, looking out across the fields with a shuttered expression on his face.

      
She felt an unexpected surge of pain for his losses.
That will always be between us, won't it, Lee?
Forcing her thoughts to more practical considerations, she said, “Let's bury the past and think of the future. We'd better settle how this so-called marriage is going to work. I'm not your household ornament and bed warmer. I'll want other more useful things to do.”

      
“Such as?” He quirked one brow, knowing what she was leading up to.

      
“I intend to keep my job at the
Star
. It's not that far from Night Flower Ranch to San Antonio.”

      
“Haven't you gotten in enough trouble—nearly got me, you, Pemberton and that poor old printer all killed with your escapades? Moses French is dead, Melanie,” he finished on a note of flat finality.

      
“Moses French may be, but I will still do my society news and gossip columns,” she shot back angrily. “And I'll continue to help out at Father Gus's school, too.” Her gold eyes flashed, daring him to refuse.

      
He shrugged with seeming indifference, realizing how impossible a hoyden she'd always be. “Do your good deeds and write about teas and dances. But as long as I'm responsible for you, I'd better never catch you risking that pretty little ass again!” His black eyes glittered, daring her to refuse.

      
After a long, hard look at her proudly set jaw and rigid stance, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked back toward the boardinghouse, saying only, “I'll see you in church.”

      
Melanie watched as he disappeared from sight. Then, she finally released the tears held in check for so long.
Anger, pure venomous anger, that's all it is,
she told herself as the silvery droplets deluged her cheeks. She clung to the tree trunk and slid down its scratchy surface to huddle forlornly against its base, sobbing brokenly, damning Lee Velasquez with every ragged breath.

* * * *

      
In the years since his ordination, Father Gus had performed numerous marriages, but he would never forget this one. The bride was wooden and subdued, ushered into church by her parents and younger siblings. Adam, a tall replica of his darkly dangerous-looking father, was as impassive as his parents, seeming to understand that all was not well with his sister's hastily arranged private marriage. Caleb and Lenore were boisterous, happy children behaving with their best “church manners,” while the baby Joey slept peacefully in his mother's arms. The priest made a mental note to speak to her in a few days about the child's baptism. For now he would not press the issue, for Mrs. Fleming looked sad as she attempted to soothe her unhappy stepdaughter.

      
Rafe Fleming seemed protective of his daughter but sternly forbidding, as if he and she had exchanged sharp words earlier, doubtless about the necessity of the marriage. Father Gus smiled. Melanie was a willful daughter. Small wonder Rafe looked so grim.

      
But Fleming's mien was mild compared to Lee's fierce scowl yesterday when he'd come to make his confession and seek guidance. What guidance could the priest give? The wronged girl's father and Jim Slade had discussed the matter with him the preceding night—rather forcefully. After his careful interrogation of Lee the following morning, he concluded that their insistence on the marriage was justified. Lee had acted abominably toward the girl and exposed her in a shameful scene in front of a large group of men.

      
Watching Melanie' s nervous glances toward the back of the church, he said in his most reassuring voice, “Never fear, daughter, soon he will be here.”

      
“That's what I do fear,” she replied tartly before receiving a quelling look from her father.

      
Melanie reached down and smoothed her silk gown in agitation.
What a lovely picture she makes
, Father Gus thought to himself, so different from that drably dressed girl he had met his first day in San Antonio. Now, she was a vision in pale green silk. The gown was plainly cut with a high neckline and long sleeves, but its very severity emphasized her delicate features and dramatic coloring. Had Lee Velasquez been responsible for this transformation?

      
Just then Lee's footfalls echoed down the aisle of the quiet church. He was accompanied by the Slades and their noisy brood, much more at ease in the familiar church they attended every Sunday than were the Fleming children. Perhaps, Jim and Charlee looked more positively on the forced marriage than the Flemings did, he mused.

      
The towering hulk of Wash Oakley and his Amazonian wife completed the small company here to witness the private marriage ceremony. Being of fundamentalist religious background, they were obviously uncomfortable with the ornate grandeur of the vaulted-roofed San Fernando. Still, when Lee walked over to stand beside Melanie, the priest was sure he saw Wash and Obedience exchange a wink and a grin. If only the bride and groom were as pleased as their friends!

      
Lee reached out his hand, palm up, offering to take Melanie's hand. She responded woodenly, visually prodded by her father to do so. Lee's slim dark hand enveloped her tiny pale one, and they knelt before the altar.

      
Father Gus carefully went through the preliminary explanations about the permanence and sanctity of the sacrament of marriage.

      
Then in a strong voice, struggling to overcome his thick German accent, the priest read, “If anyone can show just cause why this man and woman may not be joined together, I exhort him to make known such objections or forever hold his peace.”

      
Silence. Breathing a sigh of relief in spite of himself, the priest began the ceremony. When the time came for Lee to place the ring on her hand, Jim Slade stepped forward and handed it to the bridegroom. Lee hesitated for a moment, his eyes flashing in amazement back to his friend. He recognized the antique gold band set with rubies and had not expected it to be the ring he would place on Melanie's hand.

      
The priest cleared his throat, waiting patiently for Lee to continue. Finally, reluctantly, he slid the ring on her finger and repeated the words. Father Gus could see Melanie's wide golden eyes staring up at her groom, confused and angered by his last-minute hesitation.

      
As he pronounced the final benediction after the mass, Father Gus couldn't help but sigh with relief, thanking the Heavenly Father that the church was still standing. Already, he anticipated a great many hours on his knees, praying for the success of this most unlikely union.

      
“I should have told him first,” Jim said to Charlee as they stood on the church steps watching Lee lift his tiny bride into the carriage for their ride to Night Flower Ranch.

      
“If you had told him, he would have refused to give it to her and you know it,” Charlee said emphatically. “It was his mother's ring, and it should belong to Melanie now.”

      
“When you found it in that attic trunk of Pa's, I should have given it to him for Dulcia,” Jim replied uneasily.

      
“I was saving it for the right woman,” Charlee said with a gamin grin. “Don't worry, no matter how much he fumes now, he'll come around.”

      
Jim grunted. “Melanie didn't look any happier than Lee. I only hope she comes around, too.”

Chapter Thirteen

      
They rode in strained silence for several minutes, as they left the whispering cypress trees and stout adobe buildings of San Antonio behind on their journey to Night Flower. Thinking of the months to come living in his house, Melanie nervously twisted the ornate old ring back and forth on her finger. Finally, she worked up her courage to speak. “Why did you hesitate—about the ring, I mean?”

      
At first she didn't think he'd reply. His profile remained impassive as he stared straight ahead. Then he sighed and said quietly, “It was my mother's ring. I hadn't seen it since Will Slade pulled me off her body that day....I was six years old then, but I still remember the ring. It's been in our family for generations. I guess old Will kept it hidden somewhere, and Jim and Charlee only recently found it.”

      
Melanie nodded mutely.
You would have given it to Larena but not to me.
She fought back the hated tears.

      
Lee could sense her mute misery. Guilt and anger tore at him as he gazed surreptitiously at her bowed head.
Damn, if only you weren't so beautiful, so desirable
. He forced his thoughts away from that dangerous consideration.

      
“Can you cook?” he asked abruptly, wanting to change the subject.

      
“No,” she answered, a chill in her voice.

      
“I didn't think so,” he replied glumly. “Well, you'll just have to get used to Kai, then.”

      
“Kai?” she questioned, looking up at him.

      
“Molokai—shortened to Kai by the hands. He's Kanaka—from the Sandwich Islands in the Pacific.”

      
“I know where they are located. I studied geography,’’ she interjected with asperity.

      
He slapped the reins lightly and groused, “Never learned to cook but you studied geography. It figures.”

      
“How did a Kanaka,” she stumbled over the foreign word, “get halfway around the world to Texas?”

      
“He escaped from Molokai as a kid. It was a leper's colony then.” At her look of horror, he said quickly, “He's not contaminated—that was over thirty years ago. He signed on a whaler and ended up in Mazatlán. That's a city—”

      
“On the northwestern coast of Mexico,” she finished impatiently.

      
Smiling in spite of himself, he continued, “Well, anyway, I met him through Raoul Fouqué, a, er, business associate in Santa Fe. We three rode together for a few years. He's six foot seven and very good with knives,” he warned her.

      
“Can
he
cook?” she asked, undaunted.

      
“Yep. That's why I hired him. He hated life in the
Apachería.
Funny, he's really a gentle giant once you get past his intimidating face and size. He showed up at the ranch a few months ago, not long after I'd begun to rebuild.”

      
“What's it like, the new house? All I saw that day were the burned-out ruins of the old place.” She was curious about her new home, even if it was to be only a temporary one.

      
For the first time, she felt him warm to a subject. “It's more beautiful than either of the first two houses. I had money to buy the best materials this time. I built it on the pattern of a traditional Mexican
estancia
with a central courtyard and a fountain. It's set alongside an underground stream that bubbles to the surface for several hundred yards and twists its way through a lush shallow canyon. The interior isn't quite finished yet. I expect it could use a woman's touch. You can select any furnishings you want—that is, if you want to bother.” He looked over at her, his expression once more guarded.

      
“I—I'd like that very much, Lee,” she answered, surprising herself with the answer. Then, remembering how lovingly her father had built Renacimiento for her mother, filling it with all Deborah's belongings, her heart ached.
He built Night Flower for Larena, you fool, not you!
They lapsed into silence for the rest of the ride.

      
Suddenly, Lee pulled the horses up and pointed to the valley floor below. There, nestled between a twisting creek and a copse of cypress trees, sat a lovely house of whitewashed adobe, sparkling pristinely in the afternoon sunlight. The low, thick walls shaded by trees would keep it cool on the hottest days.