San Antonio Rose (Historical Romance) (25 page)

Ian picked up her dagger where she'd
dropped it and looked at Santa Anna. "You
don't know how close you came to death. She
would have been justified if she had killed you.
And I have little doubt that if Houston knew
her story, he'd have let her do it."

"So," Santa Anna said, feeling braver now,
"will you tell Houston?"

"The story is not mine to tell." He wanted to
ask the man if he'd laid his hands on Emerada, if he'd made love to her, but of course he
couldn't do that. He was afraid to know the
truth.

"Let us hope you sleep lightly," Ian taunted.
"One never knows with Emerada. She might
change her mind and pay you another visit."

"It is your duty to see that I am protected."

"Yes, you sniveling coward. I'd like to give
you the same chance you gave Travis and
Bowie, and so would many others." He
shrugged. "Yes, if I were you, I'd sleep
lightly."

Ian went outside in time to see Emerada riding out of camp, with her ever faithful Domingo
at her side. He knew where she was going.
When Houston could spare him, he would ride
to Talavera.

He walked in the direction of Houston's
headquarters. Emerada had been ill-used by all
of them. He could only guess what unspeak able acts she'd been forced to perform to keep
Santa Anna occupied.

Emerada was in a pensive mood as she rode
away from the encampment. Her work for
Houston was over. He had won, and Tejas was
free. But she found little gratification in that.
Perhaps one day she would, but not now. She'd
had Santa Anna under the blade, yet allowed
him to live. She had made terrible sacrifices,
and for what?

She felt every mile that stretched between
her and Ian. She loved him, and probably always would. In the deepest recesses of her
mind, she must have known it from the beginning.

"Where do we go, Emerada?" Domingo
asked.

"We go to Talavera. I will remain there for a
while. Then we will go to New Orleans and possibly France. I want to see my aunt."

"We will not rebuild the ranch?"

"It is not mine, Domingo. If you recall, Santa
Anna confiscated it."

"I feel sure Senor Houston will give it back to
you if you ask him."

"No. I will never ask Houston for anything
else-I will never see him again."

"Or Ian McCain?"

"I will not see him either. He told me that he
has a woman waiting for him in America."

Domingo said nothing more. Emerada had lost her heart to the tall American. And it
seemed to him that her affection was returned. Why, then, was she running from Ian
McCain, and why had Ian McCain allowed her
to leave?

Emerada moved through the charred ruins of
Talavera, pausing beside the fireplace and
chimney which were still standing. It seemed
to her that she could hear the echo of laughter
from the past, but, of course, it was only the
wind whistling through the chimney.

She shook her head and moved away. When
she left this time, she would never return. The
past was dead, and she had to deal with the living. Her aunt would soon be returning to New
Orleans; she had to be there when Aunt Dilena
arrived. There were many things she had to
confess to her aunt, and none of them would
make the woman happy.

Her hand went down to rest on her stomach.
She was carrying Ian's child. She had first begun to suspect it several weeks ago, when she
awoke every morning feeling sick to her stomach. Ian had impregnated her the first night
they had made love. Already her stomach was
slightly rounded, and her clothing was tight at
the waist. The time would come when she
would no longer be able to hide her condition,
and she must leave Tejas before that happened.

She had not yet told Domingo that she was
with child, but he was shrewd and had probably guessed it already.

She glanced up at the gathering darkness,
her thoughts tumbling over each other.
"Domingo," she called, as she hurried to the
stable. "Domingo. We must be ready to leave
before dawn tomorrow."

Domingo paused at his sweeping and leaned
on the broom. "Where do we go?"

"New Orleans."

"To see your aunt?"

"Si. I will never return to Tejas." She shook
her head. "I am not even certain that I will remain in New Orleans for long."

He nodded, feeling sad inside. For four
weeks he had watched the road leading to Talavera, expecting Ian McCain to come for
Emerada, but he had not come.

He leaned the broom against the wall and
laid wood for a fire. Perhaps he should have
found a way to tell McCain that he had fathered
Emerada's child. But it was not for him to tell.
"I will make ready to leave," he said simply.

Ian knew before he arrived at the stable that
Emerada had gone. He dismounted, cursing
the duty that had kept him at Houston's side
for so long.

He shoved against the door, and the rusty
hinges creaked open. The only sound that
could be heard was the calling of a mourning
dove and the beating of his heart.

She was gone!

He gazed around the walls and across the
floor. It was apparent from the cleanly swept
floor and the evidence of a recent fire that
someone had been here.

He bent down and examined the ashes. The
fire was still warm, perhaps three hours old. He
saw no blankets or foodstuffs. Emerada had
been there very recently, but from all indications, she would not be returning.

Desperation gnawed at his mind, and his
shoulders slumped under the heavy feeling of
loss.

Where could she have gone? How would he
ever find her? She could be anywhere. Hell, she
could even have gone to France.

He tried to remember all that Emerada
had told him about her aunt. What was her
name?

He walked outside and examined two sets of
footprints. The larger set of prints would be
Domingo's, and the smaller, Emerada's. He
traced the outline of her small footprint, feel ing as if his heart had just been ripped out of
his chest.

A despondent Ian mounted his horse and followed the trail long enough to discover that
Emerada and Domingo had ridden in an easterly direction. They could be heading for
Galveston to take a ship for France.

He suddenly smiled. No! She hadn't gone to
France. She'd told him about her aunt's home
in New Orleans. That was where she was heading. If she wasn't there, surely someone could
tell him where to find her.

He nudged his horse into a gallop. He could
not desert Houston now to follow her, but he
would never give up until he found her. He
tried not to think what his life would be like
without her. He tried to ignore the panic that
ate at his mind.

He tried.. .but he didn't succeed.

September

Emerada walked across the wide veranda of
the stately old house on Rampart Street that
was a remarkable testimony to the French
Colonial style. She stepped into the walled garden that her aunt had always taken pride in,
keeping two gardeners to care for it. Now it
was so overgrown with weeds that Emerada
could barely make out the pathway.

She stood very still, breathing in the wonderful perfumed mixture of flowers blending with
the musty aroma that was purely New Orleans. She and her Aunt Dilena had rarely been in residence at this house, since her aunt's dancing
kept them mostly in Europe. It wasn't until
four years ago that she had been separated
from her aunt for the first time. Emerada had
attended the Palitier's School for Young Ladies
here in New Orleans. She had been at the
school when she'd learned about the deaths of
her father and brothers.

Emerada wished for the peacefulness that
she'd once known in this garden. Now all she
could feel was the deep sorrow that washed
through her, the torment that tore at her heart,
and the loneliness that was so deep and tragic
that it haunted her day and night.

She glanced back at the huge house, which
was in desperate need of paint. It was there
that she had learned to dance from a dance
master her Aunt Dilena had employed for her.
When her talent had exceeded that of the master, her aunt had taken over her training, insisting that Emerada polish her skills.

Emerada stooped to smell a red rose,
plucked it, and ran her finger over the velvetsoft petals. There were sad memories here, too.
Her beloved Aunt Dilena was dead.

She bowed under the weight of her sorrow.
Now she had lost the last member of her family, and she was so terribly alone. Sadly, she
hadn't been with her aunt when she died, just
as she hadn't been with her father and brothers
when they had died.

Emerada raised her head as a mild breeze
dried her tears. How could she have known
that while she was in Tejas, her Aunt Dilena
would contract yellow fever? Molly, her aunt's
maid, explained to Emerada that her Aunt
Dilena had come home early from France and
found Emerada gone. She had taken ill the day
before she was going to set out to look for
Emerada. Her beautiful, kind aunt, who had
been her world for so long, had died alone,
without Emerada to comfort her. Had her aunt
known how much she loved her? She must
have.

Even beyond the grave, her aunt had reached
out and touched her life. She had left her this
house, but there was little money for its upkeep-she had been forced to dismiss all the
servants but Molly, who'd been with her aunt
for thirty years. Her aunt had also left her the
town house in Paris, which seemed more like
home than this New Orleans residence. Emerada had decided that when the baby came she
would sell this house and move to France.

She pressed the palm of her hand against her
swollen stomach, trying to think of something
happy. There was the promise of a new life
growing within her. This child, Ian's child, was
a great comfort to her in her sadness. With this
baby, a part of Ian would always be with her.

She had thought a great deal about how she
would present the baby to the world, and she had finally decided that she would give the
child Ian's last name. Ian need never know. He
wasn't going to find her in New Orleans, and
certainly not when she moved to France.

Emerada knew that she and Ian had touched
each other in a special way-with her it was
love, with him, probably something quite different. Even so, she knew that the memory of
her would be stamped on Ian's mind, just as his
was on hers. Their lovemaking had been beautiful and exciting. She wasn't wrong about that.
He'd even admitted it to her.

She crushed the flower in her hand and remembered the feel of his lips on hers. Yes,
thoughts of her might pass fleetingly through
his mind when he first took a wife to his bed.
But that was all she'd ever be to him-a fleeting
thought.

Perhaps, with the passing of time, when he
had fathered children by his wife, Ian wouldn't
even remember her at all.

But she would always remember him. She
would have his child to remind her.

Emerada was asleep and came awake with a
start. She gasped and ran her hand over her
stomach. She felt a fluttering like butterfly
wings inside her. With the moon streaming
through her window, she reached over and lit
the oil lamp.

Plumping her pillow, she propped herself up and waited for a repeat of the wonderful sensation. The baby had moved-that had to be
what she'd felt. It was alive and growing inside
her, taking nourishment from her body.

"I love you," she whispered. "Whether you
are a son or a daughter, I promise you that if it
is in my power, you will never know a sad day.
I will dry your tears, kiss away your hurts, and
be with you as you grow strong and honorable,
like your father."

The fluttering stirred within her again, and
her eyes widened with wonder. Now she truly
felt like a mother.

She turned onto her side and slid down on
her pillow. What little money she had would
soon dwindle. The well-being of her baby was
suddenly foremost in her thoughts. She would
have to do something soon to ensure the child's
future.

When she went to France, she would dance,
as her aunt had. Many of her aunt's friends
would help her in that. She was talented. She
knew that. Of course, she would have to dance
under another name in Paris. She would never
again be the San Antonio Rose.

She was thoughtful for a moment. Her Aunt
Dilena had used only her first name as her
stage name.

Emerada? Yes, that was what she would do.

Of course, after the baby was born, she
would have to practice long, hard hours. But
she'd worry about that when the time came.

She thought of a little boy she'd seen in the
market the day before. He must have been
about two years old. The father had gripped
the child's hand, stopping to introduce his son
to everyone he met. She thought of her own father and how he had influenced her life.

A child needed a father, and hers would have
only her.