The Outlaw's Lady

After they both had finished, Parrish excused himself, and Delores took their plates away, returned and gestured for Tess to follow her into the small adobe building designated as hers. The wagon had been left right outside the door.

The door itself was a colorfully woven blanket, which Delores pushed aside so Tess could enter, though the lintel was so low Tess had to duck her head. The room was bigger than it had looked from the outside. Thin, makeshift curtains that had obviously been a pair of dish towels covered a small window. The interior was divided into a larger and a smaller room by means of an ornate screen—where had he stolen that? The larger room contained nothing but a rocking chair—probably also booty—and a pallet on the floor.

Delores mumbled something, pointing at the screen, and went back outside.

Tess went and peeked behind the screen. Here she found a pallet with threadbare but clean sheets, a pillow and a light blanket, and a large brass-bound trunk. Lifting the lid, she found a small, purple cut-glass stoppered bottle lying atop several items of folded clothing. Unable to resist her curiosity, she wiggled the stopper until it came out and held it near her nose. The bottle was empty, but the perfume it had held had been musky and overpowering—not the type of scent a demure woman would use. Had this been Alma’s? Where was she now? What had happened to her?

Restoppering the bottle and setting it aside, she pulled out the garments and examined them. There were two skirts, one a much-laundered, faded-brick red, the other of a dingy hue that must have originally been green. Beneath them she found two bleached-muslin blouses with gathered, bright embroidery-banded sleeves and drawstring necklines. There were also a pair of fine white lawn camisoles beneath them and a lace-trimmed nightgown.

The last items in the trunk were the most surprising—a tarnished, brass-framed hand mirror that had a diagonal crack bisecting the glass, a black lace mantilla and a pair of combs. For all her practical habits when it came to clothing, Tess wouldn’t have been female if the mantilla hadn’t made her sigh with pure feminine delight and reach out to wrap the garment around her head. Instantly, she felt transformed into a woman who was mysterious, unpredictable—fascinating!

Tess sighed and refolded the garment. It wasn’t likely she’d ever have occasion to wear it, unless perhaps Delgado compelled his band to attend church on Sundays. The thought made her giggle.

It was getting increasingly warm as the sun rose higher above the canyon. Tess supposed she had better try on the borrowed garments so she would have something cooler to wear than the perspiration-dampened clothing she had arrived in. Peeking outside, she saw no one heading toward her hut, so she stepped back behind the screen and stripped off the dusty navy skirt and waist and pulled one of the blouses over her head. The soft, worn fabric felt soothing as it settled around her shoulders. Tying the drawstring at the neck in a bow, Tess studied herself in the cracked mirror, and supposed the neckline was modest enough, though if the drawstring were loosened, it would sink lower around her shoulders. The lower neckline of the blouse revealed the small, gold cross necklace which she always wore, reminding Tess that just as Parrish had said, God was with her, even here in this outlaw camp.

Next she dropped the skirt over her head. It also fastened with a drawstring. Alma must have been a few inches shorter than she was, for the skirt revealed her ankles, but she supposed if she kept her boots and stockings on, it would be all right.

She lifted the curtain again and gazed around the camp, seeing a few men caring for the horses, but there was no sign of Sandoval or Delgado. She wondered what Sandoval was doing.

Her brain ached with fatigue, her eyes felt heavy. The pallet looked so inviting. She hadn’t slept soundly as the wagon had rolled over the uneven ground, and she was still tired. It wouldn’t hurt to lie down until someone fetched her….

Chapter Five

“Is Francisco here?” Patrick Hennessy tried to sound calm, but he couldn’t keep the anxiety from his voice. He exchanged a look with Sam Taylor, who had come with him. Sam looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink last night, either.

“Sí, señor, I will call him,” Francisco’s father said, but before he could do so, the boy appeared at the door of their small house. He must have heard the approaching horses.

“Hola, Señor Hennessy, Señor Taylor,” he said, smiling upward and raising a hand in greeting.

“Good morning to you, Francisco,” Patrick said, but did not return his smile. “Francisco, Tess is missing,” he said. “She never came home from Mr. Taylor’s barbecue last night. The housemaid found a note in her room, saying she was all right, but it wasn’t in her handwriting. Her mother is frantic, as you can imagine.”

Francisco blinked and his eyes widened in alarm.

“Have you seen her?” Patrick asked.

“No, señor. What could have happened to her?”

Patrick could see his surprise at the news was genuine. The boy looked as worried as he felt. He had reason to be grateful to her. After all, Tess was his friend as well as his employer. She’d taught him an unusual skill, developing photographs and mounting them, passing on a gift her uncle had given to her.

“We don’t know,” Patrick Hennessy said, wiping a weary hand over his face. “We’re just checking to see if she might have stopped here, or told you she was going anywhere. She…she didn’t say anything about going to New York, did she?” His heart told him his daughter wouldn’t sneak off like that, without even saying goodbye, but he had to ask.

The boy shook his head vehemently. “She wouldn’t have gone to New York, señor, this I know. She told me she wasn’t ready for that. She said she had to have something….” He clearly struggled for the English word. “A…a collection of pictures, do you know what I mean?”

“A portfolio?” Samuel Taylor asked.

Francisco seized upon the word. “Sí, sí, a portfolio. To show Señor Brady, the great master of photographers. She said she didn’t have enough good pictures yet.”

Patrick’s gaze sought Sam’s again as he considered the boy’s words. He felt waves of apprehension dancing down his spine.

Patrick saw the boy move a step closer to his father, as if he feared the two men wouldn’t believe him, and managed, through his worry, to also feel regret that he had caused the boy to be afraid. The Hennessys and the Taylors and most of their Anglo neighbors had always lived in harmony with the Tejanos among them, but prejudice and bigotry were not unknown among the Anglos.

“You…you haven’t heard of anything unusual happening, have you, Francisco? Señor Luna?” Patrick persisted, including Francisco’s father in his question.

“Anything happening, señor? What do you mean?”

“Anything like raiding,” Taylor answered for Hennessy, his voice stern, uncompromising, like that of the Ranger captain he had been in his younger days.

“Señores, one of my neighbors tells me Delgado’s men were seen last night, riding along the main road about sundown. This man, he did not challenge them, but hid so they would not see him.”

The very thing Patrick had feared. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “Not Delgado! How am I going to tell her mother Delgado took her?”

Sam still looked as worried as he, but he spoke quickly. “I never heard tell of any bandit troubling to leave the family a note, and in English, at that. I don’t reckon Delgado knows how to write Spanish, let alone English. No, there’s got t’ be more to this disappearance than that, but I’ll be cussed if I know what.”

“We’ve got to go see the Rangers,” Patrick said. “They have to go after her!”

“Miss Hennessy?” Sandoval called, standing outside the blanket-door, but there was no answer. “Tess, it’s Sandoval.” Still no answer, so at last he stepped inside the hut. As his eyes adjusted to the cool darkness of the main room, he saw she was not here.

Where could she have gone? Could she have been so foolish as to try to escape already? But where would she have gone? It was not as if she could climb the steep vertical wall of the canyon, or walk right past his compadres who were dicing in the shade, cleaning guns or caring for the horses.

And then, as he stood still in the semidarkness, he heard the quiet, even sound of her breathing, beyond the blanket that divided the room. Moving quietly, he crossed the room in three quick strides and pushed the curtain aside to peer into the sleeping area.

Tess was lying on her side on the pallet, fully clothed in her new, borrowed garments, and fast asleep. One arm lay under the pillow, the other cradled her cheek. Her knees were flexed beneath the faded skirt so that only the tips of her toes stuck out. Her features were relaxed in slumber, the fear and anger that had marched across them earlier entirely absent. She looked so innocent….

As innocent as Pilar had looked before Delgado had ridden into Montemorelos, luring her into leaving with him. As I live and breathe, Tess Hennessy, this will not happen to you, he swore silently. He would not fail her as he had failed Pilar.

A wave of longing passed over Sandoval as he continued to look at her. He wanted to drink in the sight of her sleeping until she woke up, even if it took hours, but he knew he couldn’t. Even if Delgado wouldn’t become impatient and come looking for him, he didn’t want to frighten her if she woke and found him staring down at her.

Sandoval stepped carefully and soundlessly backward, letting the blanket fall back into place across the doorway. He called again, louder this time: “Miss Hennessy? Tess? It’s time to wake up. It’s Parrish, and I’ve come to take you to Delgado. He’s ready to have his picture made.”

He heard her utter a quick, involuntary cry of alarm and the pallet rustled. Sandoval imagined her pushing herself up into a sitting position and stretching, perhaps trying to remember where she was.

“I…I guess I fell asleep,” he heard her murmur. “Wh-what time is it?”

Sandoval smiled to himself. There were no clocks in the canyon hideout. The banditos rose with the sun and, when not going raiding, ate and slept when they wanted.

“Late afternoon, Miss Hennessy. You slept through lunch. But no matter. I am sure you needed the rest after your journey, and Delores will be making supper before long.”

“Oh! I—I didn’t mean to sleep so long! I’ll be right out.”

He forced himself to sound casual, even disinterested. “Take your time, Miss Hennessy. Delgado merely thought you might want to take advantage of the afternoon light,” he said, stepping back outside. “With your permission, I’ll have Esteban and Manuel pull your wagon of supplies over in front of Delgado’s hut.”

She joined him three minutes later, one side of her face still faintly imprinted with the mark of the wrinkled pillowcase, and tendrils of escaping hair curling around her face. “Your new garments become you,” Sandoval told her. It was the truth. Her dark-blue skirt and long-sleeved blouse had masked the delicacy of her bones and her womanly form. Her neck was long and elegant, rising above the gleaming, golden cross necklace he spotted just above the drawstring. She was more beautiful in these simple garments than most women would be in satin and lace.

He swallowed with difficulty, trying to look away. “I hope they are comfortable?”

She nodded, gazing down at them. “I daresay they’re more practical than what I wore here.”

“One might almost think you a señorita in a Mexican village, were it not for this,” he said, reaching out and touching the thick plait that ran halfway down her back. “It’s an unusual color for a mexicana.” He saw her blush then, and let go of her hair. What had he been thinking, to take such a liberty?