The Mercenary's Kiss

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.

Chapter Two

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.

She tried not to think about being lost. Pop knew what he was doing. He always did. They’d traveled together for her entire life, and he had an uncanny knack for direction. Not once had they missed one of his shows because he made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.

But today could be the first time.

She eyed him covertly, and her worry deepened. He’d begun to show his age these past months. He tired more easily, moved a little slower. Countless hours riding on a hard wagon seat in all kinds of weather was beginning to take its toll.

Only his medicine shows invigorated him. Doc Charlie thrived on them.

Not so, Elena. Once, the crowds exhilarated her. The smells and sounds. The opportunity to travel and see parts of the country she might never see otherwise.

It was all she knew, this traveling, and she had grown weary of it. She longed for a home—a real house—of her own. With a yard and a garden and neighbors to wave to when they passed by.

She sighed again. Pop wouldn’t understand this change in her. In fact, he’d be devastated if he knew.

Winter would be upon them soon. As always, they’d find someplace to stay for the coldest months, work on new routines, and Pop would make plenty more of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound. Come spring, he’d be ready to go again.

Except Elena wouldn’t be with him.

She simply had to tell him her decision. The sooner, the better.

Even more important, she had to convince him not to go, either. She wanted him to settle down with her so she could take care of him in more comfortable surroundings. He could even open his own apothecary. He could find plenty of new opportunities to sell his elixir. Lots of patent medicine companies did.

She drew in a breath. “Pop?”

“You’ve got something on your mind, Lennie. Have now for a while, haven’t you?”

She straightened. Had it been so obvious? “Yes.”

“If you’ve got a problem, we can’t solve it if I don’t know about it. Isn’t that right?”

Elena gave him a rueful smile. Pop might be slowing down physically, but his mind was sharp as ever. “Yes.”

He covered her clasped hands with one of his. “Well, go on. I’m listening.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but a soft noise in the back of the wagon closed it again.

“Is that who I think it is?” Pop asked, his eyes twinkling at the timing of the intrusion.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. We’ll talk then, okay?”

Pop winked. “I’ll be right here on this wagon seat.”

Bracing herself against the jerky motion, Elena slipped through the narrow door leading into their living quarters. She pulled back a tiny curtain over the window. Daylight filtered inward, enabling her to see the dark-eyed baby wiggling in the crib.

Her son, Nicholas. The love of her life.

“Hello, sweet-cakes,” she cooed, scooping him into her arms for a hug. “You took such a good nap, didn’t you?”

“Ma-ma-ma.”

She kissed him on the nose. The warmth from his chubby body soaked into her as he cuddled close, laying his head on her shoulder. But in the next moment his head came up again, and he peered at her, his grin happy and expectant.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, laughing.

Nicky was always hungry, but then, he was growing so fast. She could hardly believe they’d already celebrated his first birthday.

She laid him in the little crib. “Mama will change you, and then you can eat, okay?”

Stepping to the small bureau where she kept his clothes in a drawer with hers, she retrieved a fresh diaper. By the time she returned to the crib, he’d already pulled himself up and was trying to climb over the rail.

Elena laid him back down again. She could barely keep up with him anymore. He had boundless energy and curiosity. He delighted in staying just a step ahead of her and found it all great fun when she was forced to give chase during his adventures.

She removed the soiled diaper and replaced it with the clean one, her fingers deftly maneuvering the pins while her thoughts drifted to when he’d first learned to climb out of his bed. They were traveling somewhere in western Louisiana, and it’d been pure chance she peeked into the wagon to check on him while he napped.

She nearly had heart failure seeing him toddle toward the back door. His pudgy hand turned the knob, and by the time she clamored through to reach him, he’d pushed it right open.

A shudder went through her just thinking of it. One lurch from the rig and he could have fallen out. He could have become entangled beneath the heavy wheels.

He could have been killed.

Of course, they kept the door locked after that. Still, a traveling wagon was no place to raise a child.

Settling him on her hip, she found a box of crackers and returned to the driver’s seat with Pop. She wouldn’t be able to warm anything until they stopped to build a fire, and given their urgency to catch up with the rest of the troupe, Pop wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.

“Why, there’s my little man!” Pop boomed in greeting.

Nicky wiggled with excitement at seeing his grandfather. Pop lavished him with his usual round of kisses against the curve of Nicky’s neck, which never failed to send him into shrieks of laughter. Pop lifted his head and pried his goatee from little fingers, then sat back in his seat. His eyes gleamed with pride. And love.

“What a joy that boy is to me, Elena,” he said.

A surge of emotion welled inside her. She hugged Nicky close. “To both of us.”

She centered her world, her every thought and action, around him. He’d been conceived in a few horrible moments of violence, that cruel twist of fate which had torn apart her virginity and planted him in her womb, a tiny human being innocent of the horrors of the outside world.

But a constant reminder of them.

Haunted by the hate which threatened to destroy her, Elena had had every intention of ending the pregnancy. She wanted no part of the brutal Mexican who had shattered her innocence and tormented her with nightmares. How could she bear it?

How could any woman?

But the days passed, and slowly she healed. Pop’s devastation from her attack ran deep, but he loved her unequivocally, and the rest of the medicine show troupe—the only real family she’d ever known—surrounded her with overwhelming warmth and support. From them, the people who loved her most, she drew courage and went on.

The hate eventually died, buried beneath the hope and anticipation that unexpectedly grew in its stead. She began to realize the baby growing inside her was her own, and no one could ever change that. Perhaps it was God’s way of helping her survive the ordeal; she thanked Him every day for giving her Nicky.

“Ma-ma-ma.”

After finishing his cracker, he patted her chest and plucked at the buttons of her blouse. He didn’t nurse much these days, and the thought that he’d be fully weaned soon saddened her. Another sign of how fast he was growing and that he didn’t need her as much. Pop handed her a baby blanket and Nicky’s favorite stuffed horse from the basket tucked beneath the seat; she cuddled her son close, and he began to nurse.

He lifted his hand and curled his fingers around her thumb. Elena pressed her lips to the warm skin, shades darker than her own, then gently brushed the wavy hair away from his temple—hair thick and gleaming black.

Like his.

The differences between mother and son were striking. Nicky was as dark as Elena was fair. Someday he’d question her about it, and she’d have to tell him the truth. Until he was old enough to understand the circumstances surrounding his heritage, however, she wouldn’t dwell on them.

Instead, she marveled at what a handsome little boy he was in his red shirt and denim dungarees. As if he knew what she was thinking, he grinned up at her as he suckled, and she laughed at his impishness.

“Elena, honey.”

At the seriousness in her father’s voice, she darted a quick glance toward him. He stared over his shoulder at something that clearly alarmed him.

“Looks like we got trouble.” He pulled his Winchester from behind the driver’s seat and laid it on his lap. “Hang on to Nicky. I’m going to try to outrun ’em.”

“Outrun who?” Her gaze clawed through the woodlands. “Why?”

And then she saw them. A group of a dozen or so heavily armed Mexicans. They were everywhere in the trees behind them—and gaining fast.

“Hee-yah!” Pop yelled, and slapped the reins against the team’s backs.

The wagon lurched forward and picked up speed. Elena held Nicky in a death grip with one arm and clutched the edge of her seat with the other. The sound of horses’ hooves pounded in her ears, but nothing matched the terror thundering inside her heart.

She and Pop had heard of these men. Fierce revolutionaries who thought nothing of robbing innocent Americans of their money and then killing them for their trouble—ordinary citizens who had little to do with their cause but who found themselves helpless against their ruthless tactics.

The rebels followed no pattern. They killed at whim, whether it was a train or a stagecoach, large or small.

Oh, God. Pop’s medicine wagon would make easy pickings.

The rig careened wildly as the team sped over the narrow, rutted path, and Elena braced her feet to keep from toppling over the edge.

“Pop!” she gasped. “Slow down! We’ll upset if you don’t.”

“I can’t let them get us, Lennie!” he said tersely.

Elena heard his desperation, and her fear increased tenfold. Pop wasn’t a fighter, and while she knew how to handle a gun, she’d never shot at a living thing in her life.

“They’re closing in on us,” Pop said.

The men were close enough now she could see the gleaming rows of bullets in their ammunition belts.

He did all he could to handle the team as they lunged and lurched between the trees. Elena ducked to keep from being struck by low branches; she held Nicky so tight he squealed in complaint.

Suddenly a group of the revolutionaries broke away and formed a blockade in the road ahead of them. A formidable row of ruthless men, fanned out and impenetrable with their rifles cocked and leveled right at them.

“Pop! Stop! You have to stop!” she cried.

To crash through the wall of men and horses was unthinkable, and her father swore in frustration. He yanked hard on the reins, and the team reared, their shrill screams piercing the air.

One of the men barked an order, and the revolutionaries took up position on both sides of the wagon. Elena’s focus locked on him, and the blood froze in her veins.

Two years had passed, but she recognized the wavy-haired Mexican as if it were only yesterday.

“It’s him!” she whispered in horror.

She knew what he was capable of, and if she did anything, anything, she had to keep him from seeing Nicky.

She averted her head and frantically covered him with his blanket. Every inch of him. And though he had long since lost interest in nursing and wanted only to sit up now that the wagon had stopped, she kept him tight against her, pressing his face to her bosom to muffle his protests.

As if the past two years had fallen away for him, too, Pop snarled and whipped out the Winchester.

“You son of a bitch!” he bellowed, and cocked the rifle.

But the leader was too quick. A shot exploded. Pop jerked and toppled from the wagon seat with a sickening thud.

Elena screamed. She bolted toward the edge of the rig, her free arm reaching for him though he was sprawled on the ground, too far to touch. Blood bloomed on his shoulder and stained the fabric of his suit coat. She cried out his name on an anguished sob. Ashen-faced, Pop gripped his leg, twisted at an unnatural angle.

“Get into the back, Elena! Now!” he grated through clenched teeth.

He wanted to spare her from seeing what would happen to him next, she knew, and the wagon’s interior would help her protect Nicky.

But Elena wouldn’t leave Pop. She couldn’t. And she’d be a fool to think the men would let her out of their sight if she tried.

“You should have killed him for his insolence, Ramon,” one of the men grunted, dismounting and taking the rifle, which had skidded out of Pop’s reach.

“There is still time for that, eh, Armando?”

The male voices swirled around Elena. Ramon had controlled her once, left her hurting and humiliated, as helpless then as Pop was now. A fury unlike anything she had ever experienced before erupted inside her, and she spun back toward the Mexican.

“Leave us alone, damn you!” she snapped.

He dragged his glance from the side of the wagon, as if he only now had taken the time to see the colorful lettering proclaiming “Doc Charlie’s Medicine Show” and his infamous herbal compound. Beneath the brim of his sombrero, something flickered in those cold, black eyes.

And a slow smile curved his lips.

“Señorita,” he purred.

A thousand times, she’d heard the taunt of that word in her nightmares. Her nostrils flared with hate. “We have no money. Search the wagon. You’ll see the safe is empty!”

Pop had deposited the last show’s take two days ago. The rebels would be disappointed in the small amount of cash he’d kept back for them to live on until their next performance.

Ramon made a slight gesture, and one of his men circled toward the back. The locked doorknob jiggled; in the next moment a gunshot exploded. Within moments, the rebel could be heard thrashing among her and Pop’s belongings.

Nicky squirmed, and his arm shot up out of the blanket. Horrified that he’d managed it, Elena snatched it back down again.

Ramon’s gaze sharpened over her.

Her defiance died.

“Let me see the child, señorita.”

Raw fear clawed through her and stole her ability to speak, to provide a logical reason why she kept her baby hidden beneath a blanket.

Ramon drew closer. Elena’s pulse pounded. She eased away from him toward the far edge of the wagon’s seat.

“You know what will happen if you disobey me, señorita, do you not?”

Her foot found the step that would help her get down. She’d run from him. As fast and as hard as she could.

“Elena. Oh, God, honey.” Still sprawled on the ground, too badly wounded to help, Pop sobbed her name, his anguish as real as hers.

But she ignored him.

Instead, she moved away from the wagon. And toward the woods. One step at a time.

Armando turned his mount as if to give chase. Ramon spoke sharply in Spanish, and he halted.

Ramon himself rode toward her, his horse’s gait slow. Lazy. Calculated.

“I want to see this child you keep from me.” His voice held a suspicious edge.

“No.” She shook her head, her panic rising in leaps and bounds. “No, no.”

Abruptly she turned, but too soon he was there, in front of her, his horse blocking her path. She pivoted and darted into the trees. Nicky squirmed and wiggled against her, and Elena shifted her grasp, her concentration momentarily broken in her need to hold him better. She stumbled over the splintered branches scattered over the ground.

By the time she righted herself, Ramon loomed in front of her again. Lightning quick, he yanked the blanket from Nicky’s head.

Nicky blinked up at him.

Ramon stared downward.

“Por Dios.” His glance dragged to Elena. “You were an innocent—the child’s age—he looks like—”

Elena cried out and spun around, but Ramon swore viciously and grabbed Nicky by the back of his shirt, plucking him from her arms with more force than Elena could fight without hurting her son in the process.

“No-o!” she screamed. She lunged toward Ramon, her fists pounding against his thigh. “Give him back to me. Give him back!”

As if he were a trophy to show off to his men, Ramon turned and held Nicky up high, out of her reach. The resemblance—the thick wavy hair, the black eyes and golden skin—could not be denied.

A moment of stunned silence passed through the revolutionaries.

“Ramon, the gringa speaks the truth. There is no money.” The rebel who had been searching the wagon poked his head out the door.

“I have found something more valuable, Diego.” Ramon settled Nicky in front of him and slid an arm around his waist. “My son.”

“No-o!” Elena screamed.

“Armando!” Ramon snapped. “See that the wagon cannot give us chase.”

“He’s mine!” She lunged toward him, her arms tugging at Ramon’s thigh as she tried to pull him from the saddle. “Nicky is mine!”

“Ramon, she is the child’s mother,” Armando frowned. Clearly, he didn’t approve.

“You can’t take him from me!” Elena pulled on Ramon’s thigh again, this time with a Herculean strength dredged from deep inside her. He jerked sideways, almost losing his seat. With a savage epithet, he regained it again and kicked out. The toe of his boot slammed into Elena’s temple. She staggered backward from the blow.