Page 6 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
Damned if he didn’t find Chapula on the first try. And it had a mark beside it, indicating a railroad. Of course, that didn’t mean the railroad was functioning. He’d learned that, too. The first thing the Mexicans did when they were pissed was to blow up the nearest railroad. It didn’t seem to matter who they were pissed at—the government, the localpatron,their dog—the way to express dissatisfaction was to blow up a railroad.
There was no way to be certain, but it appeared the tracks that passed through Chapula ran southwest to Verde Flores. Immediately, Ty’s spirits rose. When he reached Verde Flores, he was only a day’s ride from the no-name village he’d come all this distance to find. The first half of this lunatic journey would be ended.
Dropping the map beside the tub, he eased his head back against the rim and puffed on his cigar, scowling at the cracks in the ceiling.
In six years a hundred things could have happened to make this journey a total waste of time.
Marguarita might be dead. The child might be dead. Marguarita might have remarried. Or entered a nunnery. She might have moved or simply vanished. Maybe she had lied and there had never been a child. Maybe he was on a fool’s errand.
No maybe about that, he thought, swearing silently. This was a fool’s errand, and he was the fool who had agreed to undertake it.
Later that night, he received confirmation that Chapula was a three-day ride to the southwest. That, and one hell of a fight involving half of the village, improved his mood considerably. When he entered the stables at dawn and discovered his horse hadn’t been stolen, he felt almost cheerful.
He had a black eye and a cracked lip when he rode out of Mexla, but he was whistling between his teeth.
“I hate you!” Graciela stamped a tiny tasseled boot on the ground. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
Jenny frowned at the kid before she pulled the priest’s cassock off over her head and handed it to a grim-faced woman standing beside a better horse than any Jenny had ever ridden.
“Shut up, kid.”
“I want my mother!”
“I don’t want to start off by having to slap the hell out of you, so just shut up, you hear me?” She thrust her face down near Graciela’s, so the kid could see the threat in her eyes. “We need to be quiet until we get away from here. I know your mama told you to mind what I say, and I’m telling you to shut your mouth. If I have to stuff a rag between your teeth, I’ll do it.”
“I hate you!” At least she didn’t scream it this time.
Jenny reached for the clothing extended by the woman holding the reins of the horse. “This is a skirt!” she said, shaking out the top item. The woman didn’t say anything. She just handed Jenny a set of petticoats. “Well, damn.”
She needed to put tracks between herself and the cousins, and she was going to have to do it while carrying the kid in front of her and wearing skirts. A cussword exploded between her lips. At least Marguarita had a good eye for size. The skirt and blouse were a fair fit. The hat was laughable to begin with, and about as useful for keeping the sun off as a teacup would have been, but Marguarita hadn’t forgotten to include one. And she’d had the sense to send boots that were serviceable instead of fashionable.
The finishing touches turned out to be lace gloves and a waist-length cape, both of which impressed Jenny as ridiculous. The lace gloves would be rags after two hours of riding, and she’d broil under that cape twenty minutes after full dawn. She pushed both items into the saddlebags and her fingers brushed a pouch of heavy coins and a packet of papers. Good. Marguarita hadn’t forgotten the money.
“Come on, kid. Let’svamoose.” She extended her arms to Graciela, intending to hoist her up on the horse, but the kid jerked backward.
“I’m not going with you! I want my mama!” She cast an imploring look at the woman standing in the shadows, then ran to her and buried a storm of sobbing in the woman’s apron. “I hate her! I want to stay here with you!”
This was exactly the situation Jenny had feared. Frowning, she shifted from one foot to the other, running a dozen solutions through her mind. She could knock the kid unconscious, throw her over the horse’s neck, and go. She could hog-tie the kid, stuff the gloves in her mouth, and go. She could do just about anything except leave without the kid.
The woman’s dark eyes burned in the darkness, scorching Jenny’s face. Marguarita had told the woman and the kid that dying was her choice, Jenny knew this, but both of them seemed to place the blame squarely on her.
Pursing her lips, she inspected the lightening sky. In minutes, the sun would drift above the horizon. She wanted to be far enough away by then that Graciela would not hear the fusillade of gunshots from the camp. Jenny didn’t want to hear them either.
She stepped up to the woman and gazed into her accusing eyes. “I want to be far away before the sun comes up. Do you get my meaning?” She jerked a thumb toward Graciela.
The woman leaned to one side and spit near the hem of Jenny’s skirt. She glared hard, then bent to take Graciela’s shaking body in her arms. Soft crooning sounds sang in her throat.
“Remember what your mama said? Dry your tears, little one. This Americana is going to take you home to your papa.”
“She killed my mama!” Sobs slurred the words, but Jenny heard them clearly enough. She ground her teeth and clenched her fists. She wanted to smack the kid for wasting time.
“No, no, little flower.” The woman eased backward, smoothed a strand of silky brown hair beneath the edge of Graciela’s stylish little hat. She sent a murderous glare in Jenny’s direction, then managed a smile for the child. “Remember? Your mama was dying slowly. Now, she will join the angels swiftly and without pain. She will be happy as she was not happy on earth.”
“She’ll join those angelsverysoon,” Jenny reminded the woman, giving the sky a meaningful nod. “Graciela? Get your butt over here. We’re leaving.Now.”
The woman half led, half pulled Graciela toward the horse. “The Americana will take good care of you,” she promised in a soothing tone. Her hot eyes warned that if Jenny harmed a hair on Graciela’s head, she would hunt Jenny to the ends of creation and eat the heart out of her chest.
Jenny flexed her shoulders, then stared down at Graciela. She didn’t know how big a kid of six was supposed to be, but the feather atop Graciela’s hat reached only to Jenny’s chest. To her, the kid looked like a large doll dressed in miniature adult clothing. Aside from the fashionable attire, Jenny couldn’t identify much of Marguarita in her daughter.
