Kathryn Albright - The Rebel and the Lady

“I don’t think he has healing on his mind right now.”

“No.” Travis’s stare was measuring. “I’d have to agree with you. Rather curious considering his chosen occupation. He was anxious to see some action. Perhaps I provided it for him.”

Jake winced at the arrogant sound of that. Brandon didn’t have any idea what he’d gotten himself into, but Jake did. And it wasn’t all male camaraderie and whiskey. War changed a man, usually for the worse. Especially someone as idealistic as his brother. If Brandon couldn’t see through the designs of one industrious female—the provocation for this foolhardy journey—he certainly wouldn’t be able to comprehend the strategies of warfare and the manipulation of soldiers.

Noting Travis’s perfectly fitted waistcoat and tailored white shirt, Jake wondered if someone so young and full of himself could actually hold the common soldier as important and necessary, or would he see him only as an expendable risk in one officer’s rise up the ranks.

“What is the terrain like to San Patricio?” Jake asked, growing more concerned by the moment.

“Passable—if you follow the river rather than going straight overland. That will take extra time though. A good six days. And I don’t have anyone extra to send with you.”

Jake grunted. “Believe me, if I can find my way here from the Carolinas, I can get there without someone holding my hand.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he considered his options. Fury needed to rest up if that gash was to heal. The horse would obey whatever Jake asked, but that didn’t mean Jake would ride the beast into the ground. Maybe he could leave in a few days and still catch up to Brandon.

A knock at the door sounded and two Tejanos entered the room. One appeared close to Jake’s age of twenty-eight and had the bearing of an officer, although he wore no uniform. Instead, with the split-legged trousers and striped poncho, Jake pegged him as a land owner of some merit. He removed his wide-brimmed hat and held it before him, waiting for permission to speak.

The other looked younger—not quite a man yet, but nearly there judging by the fuzz on his upper lip. His build was slender and bony at the hands and shoulders. He swiped off his hat, stained with grime and sweat, as he stepped up to the desk.

Travis rose from his seat. “Captain Seguín. Diego. Good. You’re back.” He turned to Jake, a new urgency in his voice. “Look—your brother will be back by the end of next week. Why don’t you relax. Rest up a bit. We’re having a party at the cantina tomorrow night celebrating Washington’s birthday.”

Jake raised his brows. “This isn’t the United States.”

“But there are plenty of men from the States here itching for something to combat the boredom. A party should do it. Come have a drink with us.”

It was tempting, Jake thought as he rubbed his scruffy neck again. A shave. A bath. Besides, that mean-looking gash on Fury’s flank had started to fester. He’d stitched it up as best he could, but it was oozing a nasty-smelling discharge. He needed to take care of it. “I might still be here. Where can I find the apothecary?”

“Hospital is up at the fort. Talk to Dr. Pollard. You’ll find lodging there, too—for you and your horse.”

Victoria walked down the street carrying a kettle of chicken soup and grumbling to herself. She had been to the edge of town that morning and still there were no soldiers posted as lookouts. Didn’t the officers understand how close Santa Anna’s army was? Why did they not prepare? It had been four days since she’d arrived in town. She’d expected to help Juan secure his house here and move into the fort—and perhaps prepare the women. No one took her warnings seriously except Juan.

She glanced down at the heavy iron pot she held. All she’d done so far was take food to the hospital in Maria’s stead—not nearly the action she’d desired. Juan had dismissed his cook after hearing the news Victoria brought, and smartly the woman had packed her things and headed back to her home west of town to warn her husband. The soldiers might enjoy this soup after the rations of corn tortillas they’d endured, but what would happen to the injured and ailing men once Santa Anna invaded the streets?

Again she worried about the lack of readiness. Shouldn’t people be doing something? Preparing? It seemed a few Tejanos were, but not the stubborn and blind Americanos.

She strode past the barracks, making a beeline for the stairs to the hospital floor. Just as she mounted the first step, a dark blur of motion dashed out from under the stairway. The large mud-colored mongrel bounded toward her with its teeth bared, a rumbling growl in its throat.

“No!” she cried out, teetering on the brink of losing her balance as the dog dove into her skirt and between her legs. “No! Eyiee!” Hot soup sloshed out from under the kettle’s lid and over the edge to burn her fingers. She would lose it all if she dropped it!

Suddenly a strong hand gripped the kettle and then grasped her elbow, steadying her. She looked up into a face that hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a razor in weeks. His beard was the color of rich coffee but it couldn’t hide the handsome contours beneath. Anglo, she reasoned. Easy to spot with the dark hair, streaked blond by the sun, and cobalt-blue eyes. His body tensed as he held tight to a ruff of fur at the dog’s neck and pulled it away from her skirt. “Guess the smell of that soup was more than the poor mutt could take. You got that now?”

“ Gracias ,” she said, gripping the kettle to her like a shield. Juan had warned her against being too familiar with the soldiers, saying they saw few women and were as uncouth a lot as he’d ever known. She sniffed. This man reeked of horse and sweat and days on the trail—not exactly a heady combination.

He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jake. Jake Dumont.”

“ Gracias ,” she said again.

He was blocking her path. She started to sidestep to go around him but then he sidestepped and was in front of her again.

His eyes narrowed under his dark brows. “You don’t speak English? A shame.” His gaze slid over her, moving from the heavy blue cloak that covered her head all the way down to the base of her gray skirt where the tips of her boots peeked out. Angry heat flushed through her. He had nerve, this Anglo!

She raised her chin and gave him the haughtiest look she could muster under the circumstances. Repositioning her grip on the kettle, she started up the stairs, surprised when the man shoved the dog purposely to the side and followed her. She stopped and turned, putting the hot soup between them. If he thought to annoy her, she had plenty of protection.

He glanced at the soup and then back up at her. A devilish look came into his eyes. “You think that would stop me?”

She tipped the kettle in warning. A drop of hot liquid splashed onto his pants.

Faster than lightning, he grasped her wrist. “Careful woman. There may come a day you won’t want that part of me scalded.”

Oh! He was a wicked man!

“Look. Let’s not start a battle where there doesn’t need to be one. I’m just going in the same direction as you—to see the doctor.”

“You are sick?” He seemed like the last man on earth who’d be ill. His firm grip revealed only quick reflexes and crushing strength. Too late she realized her ruse was up. She’d spoken her thoughts out loud—in English.

He smiled slowly, his gaze knowing. “No. But my horse is.”

Captured momentarily by the deep blue of his eyes, her heart thudded in her chest. He was different from anyone she’d known before and so sure of himself. Was this an American trait? She wasn’t sure she liked it. It bordered on rudeness. They had not been properly introduced and here he was still touching her wrist.