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Samson helped Lillian dismount then tossed the reins over what fashioned as a hitching post. His brother dismounted at his side, in a squeak of leather and jangle of stirrups. Laughter erupted somewhere in the weathered building, and their gazes shifted toward it. Weak yellow light leaked out the windows and the doorway.
“I’ll do the talking,” Samson said. He tucked Lillian’s hand in his. “Stay close,” he cautioned her.
The tiny Mexican saloon glowed amongst a sea of cactus and sagebrush, a folk tune dancing into the night air from someone’s guitar. One of a handful of buildings at the edge of the desert, the tiny town sank deep into the rocky soil.
Samson led the way, entering amidst a swirl of whiskey-scented smoke. He caught the bartender’s eye, a middle-aged fellow he hadn’t seen before. “Enrico?” he asked.
No sooner had Enrico’s name left his lips than a gun clicked, and a barrel rested, cold, against his temple. Another click followed, Silas raising his gun, in similar manner, his gaze clear, his aim steady.
“I see you’ve brought the preacher with you,” Enrico said in heavily accented English. A man of short stature, he twisted his gaze upward toward Silas. His mustache twitched when he talked. “You have vowed to save lives, no?”
“God is a god of judgment,” Silas replied. “You have any sins you’d like to confess?”
A crooked smile rose on Enrico’s face, lighting his eyes, and he raised his hands in surrender. His grip on his weapon went slack. Laughter circled the trio, and Silas lowered his gun, tucking it back in his holster.
Enrico’s gaze changed. “Who is this gentle flower?” he asked. He spoke in his native Spanish then.
Samson replied in the same. “My wife.”
Enrico’s brow lifted. “A wife? I am surprised. I did not think you wished to be so ... attached.” Another man approached, whispering in his ear. Enrico waved him off, flicking his wrist. “Since you are celebrating, I will make you a deal ... our best room at half price.”
Samson frowned. “Half of that, and I need information.”
“Ah, now ...” Enrico tapped his forehead. “Information will cost you double.”
Silas’s arm lifted, his hand hovering over his gun.
Enrico glanced at it. “Of course, we are friends, and friends help each other.” He raised his gaze.
The two men stared, unmoving for a moment, then Silas relaxed his stance, and Enrico turned. He waved them to follow. They weaved through the handful of customers toward a set of narrow stairs, at the top, squeezing down a hallway to a bedroom at the end.
It wasn’t much nor lavishly decorated. A bed had been set against the wall, opposite it, a high dresser, and on its left, a round nightstand. One window framed the night sky.
Enrico remained in the doorway, his gaze on Silas. “Father Antonio will be glad to see you. I will take care of them.”
Silas appeared to debate on it but, at a nod from Samson, spun on his heel and vanished. Enrico reached for the door. “Whatever knowledge you seek, we will discuss later. I will send Maria to see to your needs.”
He shut them in, the door snapping closed. Lillian, facing toward him, made a slow circle of the room. She ended her perusal, gazing at him. “My Spanish is rusty, but you told him I was your wife.”
“For safety’s sake.”
“Mine or yours?”
He didn’t answer. His connections here ran deep, but these people held tightly to their religious beliefs, and he didn’t want to draw attention right now. Plus, a woman with her fair beauty stood out, much less her being this far south and unwed.
“Who is Maria?” she asked next.
Samson hooked his thumbs in his waistband. “She will come in the morning. If you’re hungry, I can send for something.”
Lillian seemed to wilt, her shoulders sinking. “I am tired,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever spent so many days on a horse. I am hungry, yes. I also want a bath, clean clothing ... and an explanation. I think what’s most important, though ...”
She stepped up to him and removed his hat, dropping it on the nightstand. She took his hand again and tugged him after her toward the bed.
He planted his feet.
She frowned. “Here’s where we get in a huge argument, and you prove how strong you are. We spiral around the room, smack into the wall, and have some battle of wills. I’m going to make a confession, though.” She shifted her grip to his shoulders and, turning him around, forced him to a seat. She sat at his side and pulled him down with her, tucking his cheek between her breasts. “As great as that sounds, I want sleep so much more, and I think you need to rest.”
He shut his eyes, relaxed by the knead of her palms, the kiss of her breath, and a childlike need for comfort. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself any moment of weakness?
“You cannot carry the weight of the world,” she said.
He’d tried. Or been forced to it by his father, his mother. Circumstances. And once begun, he hadn’t known how to release it. Nor was this the time to do so. Now, he had her safety to consider, what Francisco planned to do next, and how to stop the whole thing with only days to somehow have her home by Christmas.
“For this one night,” Lillian said, “just let go.”
She dug her fingers into his hair, the tips massaging his scalp, and he suppressed a groan, unsure how he’d gotten to this place. Sleep tugged at him, darkness capturing his mind.
A slap on his back sprung him upward to the light of early dawn. Lillian, tossed free, fell back against the wall.
The rotund woman grinning down at him released a chuckling laugh. “He said you’d brought a wife, and I see it’s true.”
Maria had gained weight, or it seemed like it.
“Samson?” Lillian spoke, bleary-eyed.
He sank back onto the bed, one hand rubbing his eyes. “Good morning, Maria.”
Maria spoke passable English, once they were alone. Her stomach in a knot, Lillian comforted herself that Samson wouldn’t have left her there without trusting the woman. Yet, so much of the last few days went outside her experience. Fording the river, a treacherous ride through the uneven terrain on the other side. Their purpose here.
He didn’t explain his reason for coming, and he wouldn’t. But he’d obviously spent some time here before. He’d mentioned obtaining information. She assumed it had to do with Francisco.
“I see your doubts,” Maria said. “Don’t you worry. We will be friends. I have been telling your husband to settle down for many years.”
She motioned Lillian to turn and began deftly unfastening her dress. The fabric loosened on her shoulders, and Maria worked Lillian’s arms from the sleeves. She stripped her of her underthings next and led her toward a tub of steaming water.
“No one so blessed should be forced to wear the desert,” she said. “Nor eat like a man. I will see he changes this.”
Lillian reclined. Hot water was bliss. She was free to heat her baths at home, of course, but often, she didn’t, rushed by her father’s needs or thoughts of discipline. He’d indulged her mostly, making the rules she abided by ones she’d written for herself. She’d imagined, growing up, that a parent wouldn’t always let the child have their way. As such, she would refuse herself things, a delectable at dinner, an adornment for her hair, even something as simple as hot water in the evening.
“How do you know him?” Lillian asked.
“He came here as a boy, tough on the outside, but inside ... all mixed up. We do our best to straighten him out, but his past follows his steps.”
Follows him everywhere, and last night, he’d been more of the boy who’d lost his mother than the man who’d gotten them this far. She trusted the man to make quick decisions, to react with accuracy. She trusted him to keep his word. He’d earned that, saving her life. At the same time, no one should ever back him against a wall where he felt trapped. That was a grave mistake that she didn’t trust him to handle at all.
Nor would he hold another man’s blame. In that light, Francisco had earned whatever would happen, but that unknown scared her near to death.
“Is it true about the Villa Marco raid?” The ghostly story of the house’s destruction hissed in her thoughts. She could not picture Samson’s involvement in something so horrible.
Maria spun a bar of soap in a damp washing cloth, making frothy bubbles. “Every man has dark corners. Señor Renegade has more than most, known entirely to him, and as such, it is up to him to clean them out. Do not take it on yourself.”
Which sounded a lot like what Silas had said. Silas. Lillian sat up, water sluicing off her shoulders. “You know his brother?”
Maria smiled and leaned in. She scrubbed Lillian in vigorous circles with her broad hands, and the action, surprisingly, pulled her eyes shut. Lillian sank below the water’s surface again.
“He is a good man, who has cleaned out all the corners. Still ...” Maria said. “I would not test if it were true. He is better with a gun.” She paused. “So pretty, you are. You will shine when I am done, and he will be pleased. I will have to give you time alone again.”
Maria chuckled, the hearty sound, uplifting. Yet, guilt picked at Lillian. How upset would these people be to learn he’d lied about that? For that matter, what would her father say if he could see her? She feared their reactions would be the same. But desperate actions had unforeseen consequences, and what had started as a means for survival held so much unsaid.
And wrote many questions. When ... and how ... would their time together end? And what would happen when it did?
Her heart pounded, almost painfully. She should not get so involved with a man her father called the enemy. But then, her father was wrong.
A bath and a shave worked wonders on his confidence after a good night’s sleep, and the laughter of the children outside the small church raised his spirits further. A boy, age nine, ran forward in greeting, and Samson took his hand and shook it, adult-like. “You have behaved yourself, Paolo?” he asked.
“Si, Señor.”
Samson tousled the boy’s thick head of black hair and raised his gaze to the priest poised at the entrance. A slight man, older, perhaps sixty, his hair turned white, he exuded a certainty brought about by his calling.
Samson approached, Paolo at his side. “It is good to see you, Father.”
The priest dipped his chin. “I was surprised to greet your brother last evening but happy to have time, discussing the things of God with him. He mentioned you had come on a matter of some urgency.”
“One not of my doing.”
“God will aid you to uncover the truth.”
Samson gave no reply. The truth was he presented an easy scapegoat. Francisco could have used any number of outlaws, but only a few would enrage the law like him and ensure a shift of blame. He also had to have considered, he’d hear of it and defend himself. But there again, it seemed Francisco was prepared.
“Your brother has gone with Enrico. We will wait indoors until they return.” Not minding what his response might be, the priest reversed into the building.
Samson stepped in after him and paused in the shadowy interior.
The idea of God as a merciful being felt foreign to him, yet he’d received kindness in this town. From the priest. From those like Enrico and Maria. He glanced across the rows of wooden pews and the flickering candles on the altar up front. Just the same, the God he knew held a mighty gun, the barrel smoking with damnation.
“Please sit,” Father Antonio said, motioning to a slatted bench.
Samson obeyed, the boy, Paolo, taking a seat at his side. Instinctual, he wrapped one arm around him, and the priest smiled.
“He reminds me of you. He is often full of himself, yet he is my most faithful helper and always remembers his prayers.” Descending to the bench in front of them, he turned in the pew, eyeing the boy, then raised his gaze to Samson’s face. “I heard you have a wife.”
Enrico would have told him that. Lying to a priest seemed the gravest error, yet Samson didn’t refute the statement. Couldn’t without admitting he’d lied.
“The role of a husband as protector is important, and not a struggle for you. You have practiced that for many years. Laying down your weapon and opening your heart are, I suspect, another matter, but a requirement.”
He’d done both last night but picked them up again this morning. Lillian was in Maria’s care, and he wasn’t needed. “Her father wants me dead.” If he must lie about their nuptials, he would tell the truth about the situation. “He’s convinced I did the crime which brought me here. Plus, it is his daughter.”
“I see ... and you seek the criminal who has caused you trouble.”
In a manner of words. Though, catching Francisco and seeing him arrested wouldn’t absolve his own running off with Lillian in Sheriff McCann’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why that mattered.
“Let me tell you a story,” the elderly priest said. “A man borrowed a prized horse to take a trip. He wished to purchase a goat. The horse had been bred for his beauty, to be ridden in leisure, and not trained to pull a cart or do hard work. While on the way home, the goat was stolen. Enraged, he set out to recover the animal. He was many weeks in this pursuit but, one afternoon, stumbled upon the goat in a farmer’s field. The farmer demanded a trade. He could have the goat for use of the horse to till his soil. Tell me, what should he do? The goat is his to gain, and the owner of the horse would be none the wiser, yet the horse isn’t his to lend, nor suitable for the intended task.”
Samson held his answer, unsure what to say. This wasn’t about a goat or a horse. This was a man’s daughter, far more valuable. With that thought, the point of the priest’s story jabbed him sharp.
Father Antonio’s gaze softened. “Our actions are not always clear, but the best choice is always on the path of peace. You love your wife, else you would not have married her, but there is another who loves her as well. You must seek reconciliation.”
Whether his wife or not, he could not reconcile with anyone without a noose tightening around his neck. Or suffering an emptiness of heart once she was gone. It swelled in him already, a familiar loneliness he’d fought since his youth.
The walls of the church closed in, and Samson filled with regret. Lillian should have so much more than what he could give her. He would have her plow a field to help him recover a goat?
Think logically, boy. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment, his father said. Just as soon as you let them have control, you’ll wind up dead.
He’d let things go too far. Lillian had wormed her way into his thoughts at the beginning. Her beauty and his desire for her had made him that much weaker, and as his father had said long ago, it would get him killed.
Footsteps turned his gaze toward the doorway. His brother’s broad shape stood outlined against the sun. Samson left the priest and the boy and motioned outside. They strolled well out of earshot.
“I’m leaving her with you,” Samson said. “Wait four days, then take her to her father. I will have found Francisco by then.” Hopefully, in time to stop him from killing anyone else.
Silas’s brow drew tight. “Are you sure that’s the right choice?”
Samson buried the pain, cutting into his heart. “I said I’d leave her somewhere, and I have,” he snapped. “Your job is to get her home. Don’t worry yourself about me.”
Silas raised one hand and curved it over his shoulder. “I will do that until you die.”
Which might be soon, and if so, then it’d be on his terms, not Francisco’s. Samson jerked free. “I know what I am,” he said.
Silas’s face shaded grave. “I don’t think you do,” he replied.
Time crawled slower than the stagecoach she and her father had ridden when he’d taken the sheriff’s job here. Seated between a squalling child and a garrulous widow, though the ride itself had gone smooth enough, the company had been draining and her father on edge.
This morning stretched just as long.
After her bath, Maria had set a table with a great variety of delicious prepared foods. No one had joined her for the meal, though, making it interminable. Afterward, with nothing to do, she’d paced, back and forth, back and forth, counting a dozen steps from one corner to the next and ten from the center of the bed to the doorway.
Something had changed, the surety of it settling in Lillian’s limbs. Maybe Samson had discovered information detrimental to himself or her father. Perhaps, he hadn’t returned because of making some plan to overcome it.
What could there possibly be to discover, though? If the gold was coming two days before Christmas, then he need only be there to catch Francisco in the act. Her father would see Samson’s innocence then and relent.
Relent? Her legs folding, Lillian sank onto the bed. He would never relent, even if Samson’s guilt were scrubbed clean. In his eyes, Samson might be free of the accusation in El Paso, but he’d done other things, and that was enough. He burned with a need for justice. Only, less justice than condemnation. He would punish others, since he refused to punish himself. If he hadn’t been away, chasing some scoundrel, he could have been there during her mother’s last hours, a thought he ran from continually.
Lillian’s thoughts shifted.
What of the elder Renegade, Silas and Samson’s father? They were a lot alike, him and her papa. Their families suffered because they would not change their ways. But justice should balance itself with mercy, and revenge be replaced by grace. Cling to either negative too closely, and all that you had turned black. It made no difference if you wore a badge or lived at the end of a gun, the state of your soul looked the same.
A knock at the door thrust her upright. She hurried over and, without calling out, opened it. Silas twisted his hat in his hands, his eyes rimmed with guilt, his manner uneasy. Words would not form, and her chest twisted with fear, soon, tears spilled from her lashes, staining her face.
“He is gone?” she asked, her voice stronger than her heart.
Silas dipped his chin. “He is afraid.”
Afraid of what? She knew instantly, and a sob crowded her throat.
Silas shuffled his feet. “I haven’t seen him like this since Mama passed ...” His voice faded, the lines of his face lengthening.
Lillian dashed at her tears. Though crying cleansed the soul, it did not present a solution. The fear Samson carried would kill him. Or her father would. “We must go after him,” she said. She’d come this far and survived. She could go further.
“It’s dangerous. I promised only to return you in time for Christmas.”
But Christmas would come two days too late, and Samson would be gone by then, taking her heart with him. Leaving his with her.
“I can handle my father,” she said. “You and I will head home.”
Silas didn’t blink for what became an uncomfortable length, then dipped his chin. “He has half a day’s head start. We’ll hang back and let him ride alone. We’ll turn south along the river. He’ll go inland.”
“We have to get there first,” she said.
Silas nodded and motioned her into the hall. “God will be our ally.”
Would He? She descended the stairs, her heartbeat pounding. Would God save a Renegade? And what happened to him and her if He did?
“God and a gun,” she replied. Because it’d take both.