Pam Crooks - The Mercenary's Kiss

Because Creed wanted him to, Jeb looked at it. He recognized the presidential seal in the letterhead, the signature scrawled at the bottom.

“It’s a copy,” Jeb snarled. “Could be forged.”

“Maybe not,” Creed said, and looked at the lieutenant colonel. “And then again, maybe it is.”

Kingston shook his head emphatically. “President McKinley wrote the letter to the Secretary, Mr. Carson, but it’s about you. Mr. Alger has the original. For obvious reasons, of course. He didn’t want to risk the information falling into the wrong hands.”

The barmaid appeared, and the conversation halted. Jeb snatched the bottle of whiskey from her and refilled his glass himself.

“And whose hands might that be?” he demanded after she left.

“Mexican rebels.”

Jeb breathed an oath. He didn’t want to know. Or feel.

“There have been reports of revolutionary activities against the government of President Porfirio Díaz,” Kingston said quickly before Jeb could stop him. “The people are angry at his tyranny. The government is getting rich off them. Díaz is taking their land, and they’ve found hope in a young upstart named Emiliano Zapata.”

“Zapata.” Jeb recognized the name of the man who was fast acquiring a reputation as a fierce fighter.

“Yes. But the United States has refused to support him, and to retaliate, Zapata’s men have been robbing Americans on both sides of the border to fund their activities. One man in particular has shown himself to be unusually dangerous. His name is Ramon de la Vega.”

“So?” But the name branded itself into Jeb’s memory.

“We’ve cut off the flow of arms into Mexico, and he and his rebels aren’t happy with us. Last week, they stopped a train just outside of Eagle Pass northwest of here, robbed it and killed a dozen people. The month before, they raided a small village and killed another twenty.”

Jeb’s fingers tightened around the glass. “How do I fit into all this?”

“President McKinley fears a major revolution is forthcoming if Zapata and de la Vega are not stopped.”

“And?”

“And we feel that, with your expertise—”

“Find someone else.”

“There’s none other. I mean, you’re highly recommended, sir.”

Jeb snorted. Again he thought of his father. “I’ll bet.”

“By Colonel Theodore Roosevelt. Among others.”

He stilled.

Roosevelt.

Jeb had ridden with the man and his troops during an attack on San Juan Hill in Santiago. It had been a privilege to be part of the initiative with them. But Jeb refused to be swayed by Roosevelt’s influence, even in a matter as serious as this one.

“There are thousands of American forces who can do a hell of a lot more effective job than I can,” he said. “Enlist them instead.”

“Mr. Carson.” Kingston slid another uneasy glance at Creed, as if imploring his help in convincing Jeb to his way of thinking. But Creed merely leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping the discussion on Jeb’s terms. “Let me be frank here. Your skills as a soldier—”

“I’m not a soldier in the truest sense of the word, am I, Lieutenant Colonel? My father saw to that years ago.”

“A mercenary, then.”

A cold smile curved Jeb’s lips. For the first time since Kingston had arrived, some of the tension eased. “That’s more like it.”

The officer withdrew a thick packet from inside his uniform. “Mr. Alger promises generous payment for your services and has instructed me to give you the first installment.”

Jeb snorted. “And what happens to the rest of the money if I end up dead?”

“We certainly hope that isn’t the case, sir.”

“Let me explain something to you.” Jeb took one last drag on the cigarette, exhaled slowly and crushed the ashes in a small bowl. “I’ve been gone a long time. In fact, Creed and I have been back only a couple of hours. As you know.” His mouth quirked. “I’ve spent nights in muddy trenches, sweated days in mosquito-infested jungles. I’ve been shot at, knifed, beaten to within an inch of my life. I’ve been taken prisoner, and I’ve escaped. All in the name of my country.”

Once, he thought nothing of leaving the United States behind. A foreign country—it didn’t matter which one—offered danger and adventure. An opportunity to slake the hurt and rebellion gnawing inside him.

Not anymore.

He’d come full circle. He had traveled the world, seen some things no man should see and done some things no man should do. He’d evolved into a man who made his own rules and lived by them.

He was a patriot. Pure and simple.

But he’d had enough.

“Find someone else,” Jeb said again, and took another swig of whiskey.

“Mr. Carson.” The lieutenant colonel appeared crestfallen at the finality in Jeb’s tone. “You’re the best for the job. Your reputation to accomplish where others have failed is…is legendary.”

Jeb smirked. Legendary? Would the great and mighty General William Carson think as much of his son?

Never.

“Jeb has plans, Lieutenant Colonel,” Creed said, speaking up for the first time. “Chasing after Mexican revolutionaries doesn’t fit into them.”

“Plans?” The officer frowned.

“That’s right.” Jeb grabbed onto the line Creed tossed him. “Heading west first thing in the morning.”

Going to California wouldn’t be a bad idea after all, he decided. Creed’s family would accept him for the man he was. No questions asked. Something his own father had never been able to do.

“Is there anything I can offer you to make you change your mind?” Kingston asked. “More money, perhaps. I’m sure Mr. Alger would understand.”

“No.” He slid the packet back to the officer, who reluctantly returned it to the pocket inside his uniform. Jeb stood, and Kingston did the same. “Now, if you’ll excuse us. Creed and I plan to celebrate our return to this fine country.”

Jeb watched the officer go. He steeled himself against thoughts of revolutionaries. Of war and death.

Of being needed.

Instead, he forced his thoughts ahead to the pleasures that awaited him. Plenty of whiskey. A willing woman. And that thick, juicy steak.

For the first time in a hell of a long time, life was good.

The Next Day

T he deeper they traveled into the Texas woodlands, the more Elena became convinced they were lost.

“Pop, are you sure we’re going the right way?” she asked with a frown. “We haven’t seen anyone for a couple of hours now. Not even a ranch or farmhouse.”

The woods seemed to be getting thicker, too. She glanced up at the sky, gauged the sun’s location and determined it was more westerly than it should be.

From his place next to her on the wagon seat, Pop looked at the sky with her. “I’m sure this is right, Lennie. And if it’s not, we’ll still find our way to San Antonio.”

“San Antonio is north. We’re heading west.”

“There’s more than one road to take us there.” He patted her knee in gentle reassurance. “Soon as we get into open area, it’ll be easier to see where we’re at. Don’t you worry none.”

But Elena did worry. She didn’t like the eeriness she felt from being in the woods alone. A stop for some much-needed supplies had given them a late start, and the troupe had ridden ahead. She missed the protection that traveling with a large group provided.

They would be miles ahead of her and Pop by now. With every hour that passed, it seemed less and less likely they would meet up with them in time for the next show.

She sighed, leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands. The road was rough, hardly more than a rutted trail, and it bounced the wagon continuously.