The Promise of Jenny Jones Read online

  "Forget it." Angry now, Jenny made a chopping motion with her hand. "If I have to raise your kid, it's going to be just me. And it's going to be a damned hardscrabble life for both of us. She's not going to have fancy clothes, or servants waiting on her hand and foot. She'll be lucky to have food in her belly and a pillow for her head. Is that what you want for her?"

  Marguarita's head dropped and she closed her eyes. "I have no friends outside my family, no one to rely on. I have no choice, and neither does my Graciela."

  "That's not the worst of it," Jenny continued, being brutally honest. "I don't like kids. Never have."

  "Graciela is precocious. She's very bright. Much older and wiser than her years would indicate."

  "I don't care if she's a fricking prodigy. She's six years old. That makes her a kid, and I don't like kids. I don't know how to talk to them. I don't know how to take care of a kid." Jenny threw out her hands. "Kids don't know squat about how to survive in a desert or how to gut a rabbit or do a day's work. Kids get in the way. They whine. They cry. They're only half-human."

  "Why are you telling me this?" Marguarita asked softly, her eyes pleading.

  "Because I want you to know exactly what kind of a person you're willing to die for. If we change places, and I get stuck with your kid, I don't want to wake up some night with me and Graciela sleeping on the dirt with empty bellies and then start feeling guilty that you died for me, and I'm letting you down."

  "I am not going to die for you, Jenny Jones, make no mistake about that. I am going to die so that Graciela may live. I'll take the bullets for you only if you swear on all that you hold sacred that Graciela will not be left here to die at the hands of people she mistakenly loves! I'll stand in front of that firing squad only if you promise on your soul that you will save my daughter. I'd a thousand times rather that she be hungry than dead."

  "Where does your father, the wealthy rancher, fit into all this?" Jenny snapped. The two women glared at each other. "If your precious Roberto can't or won't take Graciela, why can't I just dump her off on your father's doorstep?"

  "He will never accept the childof a Sanders ."

  "Well, there's your answer." Jenny leaned back against the wall, stretching her feet out on the lousy mattress. "Just explain that to your greedy cousins, and the kid is saved."

  And she had just talked herself out of a chance to live. For a moment she cursed herself. Then she thought about trying to support a child and decided she would almost rather face a firing squad. Things worked out the way they were supposed to work out.

  "Graciela is my father's legitimate heir whether or not he accepts her. Which he will not. In his eyes, Graciela is Roberto's bastard. But when the court is presented with my certificate of marriage, which I will give to you, Graciela's claim will be secure. I have verified this."

  Jenny stared at a toe poking out of her broken boot. "I've told you that I hatekids, that I can't provide well for Graciela. Hell, I don't know what the future holds. I don't even know if I can get to northernCalifornia." She lifted hard eyes. "But you still want this exchange?"

  "You are Graciela's only hope."

  "Then Graciela is in big trouble." Jenny's laugh was harsh. She thought a minute. "They may shoot me while I'm wearing a hood over my face, but they aren't going to bury me in a hood. And the minute that hood comesoff, everyone around this place is going to know they shot you, not me. Have you thought about that?"

  Marguarita nodded slowly. "You'll have about six hours' head start." She hesitated. "Frankly, I don't believe the soldiers will bother searching for you. They wear uniforms, but they're little better than bandits. There is no profit in wasting time chasing a penniless woman. They'll have a corpse; that will satisfy the official records."

  "So what's this about a six-hour head start? A head start onwho ?"

  Marguarita stared at her. "My cousins, all of them, but especially Luis, Chulo, and Emil. Once my body is identified, they will understand all. But they will convince themselves you have abducted their beloved little heiress. They will convince each other that it is their duty to rescue Graciela. They will try to kill you both."

  "Well, son of a bitch!" Jenny pulled a hand through her hair. After a minute she glared at Marguarita. "You're sticking me with a kid, possibly for the rest of my life, and I'll have a bunch of murdering Mexicans trying to track me down and kill me. That's a heavy price."

  "You will be alive," Marguarita reminded her softly, meeting Jenny's gaze. She glanced at the shadows creeping across the stone walls. "Now you must decide. If we are to make the exchange, I have much to arrange and little time."

  Two minutes ticked by in the heat while Jenny thought about it. A sigh lifted her breast.

  "You know I'll do it. You knew that when you bribed your way in here." She shook her head and closed her eyes.

  Tears of relief glistened in Marguarita Sanders's eyes. "Let us be clear what each of us is promising. I promise to die in your place tomorrow morning. You promise to take Graciela to her father and give her to no one else. If Roberto cannot or will not take our daughter," a cloud of pain crossed her features, "then you will raise Graciela as your own child. You will try to love her."

  "Oh no." Jenny's head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. "I'm not promising to love some kid I've never met and already know I won't like. I'll take her to Robert. And I'll raise her up to be a woman if I have to, but don't expect me to love her. I can't do that."

  "You're a hard woman, Jenny Jones."

  "You don't know the half of it! My pa beat me from the time I was old enough to walk. The only person I ever loved, Billy, my third brother, died when I was nine, and it was my fault. My ma threw me out onto the streets ofDenverwhen I was ten. I've been making my own way ever since. Yeah, you could say I'm a hard woman."

  Compassion glistened in Senora Sanders's brown eyes. "I'm sorry. This should not happen to any child."

  "You're going to die tomorrow, and you're sorry for me?" Something sharp turned in Jenny's chest. "You're either a fool or a better person than I've ever met," she whispered, staring.

  The terrible truth of their transaction gripped her mind in a painful squeeze. This lovely, delicate woman would die tomorrow morning. Marguarita Sanders would face the firing squad in Jenny's place because she loved her child better than whatever life was left to her. She would spend her remaining hours arranging for Jenny's escape. She would say good-bye to a child she adored. With all this facing her, she could still feel compassion for a stranger's squalid past.

  "What will I tell Graciela when she asks what happened to you?" Jenny said, swallowing hard.

  "She is wiser than her years. I will tell her the truth," Marguarita said, standing. She shook her skirts, but the filth from the floor did not fall away. "I don't want her to blame you for my death. She must understand this was my choice."

  "Assuming we aren't killed by your cousins … and assuming that Robert is dead or something." Jenny coughed uncomfortably. "What if Graciela asks me what kind of person you were? I don't know anything about you."

  Marguarita's eyes settled on the iron bars. "Tell her that I loved her and her father. Tell her that I tried to live my life with kindness and dignity." She turned her gaze on Jenny. "Then tell her to forget me and honor the woman who raised her."

  They studied each other in silence. Then Jenny said softly, "You can be a hard woman, too."

  "Tell her not to burden herself with the past. Tell her to live and be strong, Jenny Jones. Teach her to laugh and to love. If she does this, and if she finds happiness, then wherever I am, I will smile and be happy."

  "Oh Christ." Jenny scrubbed a dirty hand across her eyes. When Jenny realized Marguarita meant to embrace her, she hastily stepped backward. "I'm dirty, and I've got lice."

  Amusement twinkled in Marguarita's eyes and a hint of color bloomed on her cheeks. "Senorita Jones," she said, smiling, "the lice will not trouble me long."

  She wrapped her thin arms around Jenny's waist and
rested her head on Jenny's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered. "I will pray for you, Jenny Jones."

  Jenny waved her hands in the air, then, helplessly, she returned Marguarita Sander's embrace, careful not to apply too much pressure against birdlike bones. Marguarita's size and delicacy made Jenny feel huge and awkward. As graceless as a new calf.

  When she stepped away, embarrassed and clumsy, she dusted her hands together and stared at Senora Sanders, memorizing her features in the fading light. "I don't know what to say. If it's possible to get Graciela toCalifornia… then I swear on my sacred oath, I'll do it."

  "I know you will." Marguarita stepped to the bars set in the doorway and summoned her strength to call the guard. "There won't be time to say good-bye when I see you tomorrow morning. So I will say good-bye now." She smiled and pressed Jenny's big callused hands between her small soft palms. "There are not words to express what I feel in my heart. Gratitude. Appreciation. Love. They do not touch the surface of what I feel for you. You are the salvation of my heart, which is my daughter. You are the answer to my prayers. You are the mother I give to my child."

  "Some fricking mother," Jenny muttered.

  Marguarita smiled and pressed Jenny's hands. "I think you will surprise yourself," she said gently. "I think you will love our Graciela. Your way will not be what mine would have been, but it will be good and strong and true. If you must, you will guide our daughter, yours and mine, into a womanhood we will both be proud of. I know this."

  Jenny stared at her. The woman was dreaming. She started to say so,then stopped herself. If it comforted Marguarita to delude herself that Jenny possessed hidden reservoirs of motherly virtues, then so be it. If that thought would ease her last hours, then Jenny was not cruel enough to take that comfort away from her.

  When the guard opened the door, he shoved Jenny across the cell with a snarl, then stepped back to let Senora Sanders pass.

  Jenny picked herself up off the cell floor, rushed to the door, and gripped the bars at the tiny window. "I've given my word!" she shouted into the stench of the corridor."…I've given you my word!" She wanted to say something else, something more, but she couldn't think of the right words. Maybe she was saying what Marguarita wanted to hear, that was her hope.

  Long into the night, she sat on the bare mattress, cracking lice in the darkness, and thinking about the woman who would die in her place when the sun rose.

  And thinking about the kid, Graciela. And the murderous cousins who would come after them. And pondering with a sinking heart what she considered the very real possibility that she would be stuck with the kid for the next twelve years and maybe longer.

  "I gave my word," she whispered. It was the only thing she had to trade for her life. And the only thing, really, that Marguarita wanted from her. A promise.

  If she had been on speaking terms with God, she would have whispered a prayer for Marguarita Sanders. And maybe she would have tagged on a word or two for herself and the kid.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ty Sanders was one pissed-off cowboy.

  He hadn't had a decent meal in half a month, or a bath or a shave, or anything softer to sleep on than desert rocks and dirt. Twice since he'd crossed the border his horse had been stolen and he'd had to buy another at prices that made him gnash his teeth. His butt ached from twelve-hour days of hard riding, and his thumb had festered around a cactus spine.

  Adding insult to injury, he didn't know where the hell he was. The map he carried was hopelessly inaccurate or outdated or a hoax to begin with, and was worse than useless. All he knew for certain was that he was two weeks intoMexicoand he had yet to locate an operating railroad.

  Jerking irritably at the brim of his hat, he rode down the center of the dusty street that split this mean little town into two sun-baked halves. There was no sign of a railroad depot. Only a few people in sight, none of them in uniform, thank God. Hopefully that meant the sporadic fighting that had erupted across parts ofMexicohadn't reached this area. In Ty's opinion, the Mexicans weren't happy unless they were fighting someone. If outsiders weren't available, they fought each other.

  He reined up at the central plaza, which was nothing more than a weedy courtyard for a church better suited to a town ten times this size. Two old men dozed on a bench beneath the only tree between here and a low ridge of brown hills.

  "You! What's the name of this place?" His Spanish had been learned inCalifornia, and his accent wasn't perfect by a long shot, but he figured the old men could understand him.

  One of the men pushed a sombrero toward the back of his head, revealing a face like a wrinkled bean. His dark eyes inspected the thick dust coating Ty's boots, his hat, his saddlebags, and the lining of his scowl.

  "Mexla, Señor."

  Ty had never heard the name. It wasn't on his map. He might be two hundred miles intoMexico, or he might have circled back toward the border. Removing his hat, he mopped the sweat off his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. What he wanted most was something wet and cool to drink.

  "Is there a hotel? A place where a man can get a bed and a bath?"

  The old man had to think about the question, not an encouraging sign. Finally he said, "Casa Grande." Then he pulled the sombrero back over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. The conversation had ended.

  Ty gazed back over his shoulder. The only thing grande in this village was the church. That's how it was in most ofMexico, at least theMexicothat he'd seen.Magnificent churches surrounded by shacks and poverty. Occasionally, the alcalde, if he was powerful enough, ruthless enough, had a house that might be described as grande. Maybe.

  Turning his horse, he traveled back the way he had come, searching sagging storefronts until he spotted a sun-flaked sign announcing the Casa Grande. On the other side of the streetwas an open-faced cantina and the stables.

  In the stables, he grabbed the shirt of the hombre who took his horse and pushed his face close enough to smell the man's last meal.

  "If anyone touches my horse—just touches him—I'm going to carve you into pieces, Señor . You understand what I'm saying?" The man's eyes widened. "I'm in no hurry. I'll track you down, I'll kill you." He jerked his hat brim toward the stall. "That horse better be there tomorrow morning, comprende?"

  "Sí, Señor!"

  "Excellente."

  His eyes were reddened from days of squinting against the blazing desert sun, his face burned beneath a two-week beard. He was filthy, he smelled goatish, and he supposed he looked just crazy enough to lend weight to his threat. Tossing his saddlebags over his shoulder, he crossed the street and entered the Casa Grande.

  It didn't surprise him that the clerk stood waiting with a key already on the counter. Let a stranger, especially a gringo, ride into a Mexican village, and within minutes everyone in the village knew about it and was busily scheming how to profit from the encounter.

  The only thing Ty liked about the Mexican people was their food. Even the language offended his ear. To him, Spanish sounded too soft, too feminine. You could slander a man's ancestry back to his great-grandmother, and damned if it didn't sound like you were singing a sonnet to a woman.

  He slapped a handful of pesos on the counter. "A room. A bath. And something to doctor this thumb with." Taking the key, he shifted the saddlebags on his shoulder and headed toward a staircase that looked as if it wouldn't bear his weight. "Where's the nearest railroad?" he said, stopping to stare back at the clerk.

  "Chapula, Señor." The clerk jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Two, maybe three days' ride that way."

  Maybe. But Ty did sort of recall seeing Chapula on his map. He continued upstairs, kicked open the door to his room, and was pleasantly astounded to discover a clean blanket on the bed. The window opened over a porch roof, convenient if he had to leave in a hurry. The furniture was sparse but serviceable. The mirror wasn't too cloudy to shave by.

  Twenty minutes later he was soaking in a tepid tub, happily inhaling the vilest cigar he'd ever placed between his lip
s, and eating tiny rolled tortillas stuffed with chicken meat and bean paste. He'd worked the cactus spine out of his thumb, and slathered it with the aloe the clerk had sent to his room.

  He still wanted to kick the hell out of someone, but the urge wasn't as powerful as it had been when he rode into town. He could trust himself to go to the cantina later, have a beer, ask about the nearest railroad, and do it without starting a fight.

  He had learned the hard way that unless three separate people offered the same set of directions, he didn't move.

  Shifting the cigar to the other side of his mouth, he shook out his map, careful to hold it above the grimy water. "There!"

  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 local patrón, 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.