The Lone Star Collection Page 19

  “He’s a fine one to ask, having abandoned his wife with one child and another on the way.”

  “We cannot speak of what we do not know, Sarah. Texas is a land of second chances. It has been for Bill, and it will be for us. If you do not believe that, why did you come?”

  Sarah blew out the light. In the darkness, she unbuttoned the fastenings at the front of her dress one by one. “Because even though he is eldest, Daniel was wrong to disown you. You would have paid off your debts, given time.”

  “Dan was right to fear my gambling would lead us all straight to the poor house.”

  “Still, family does not abandon family.”

  “Which is why our little sister tagged along to Texas? To protect me from myself?” Even though John laughed, there was bitterness in his tone that could not be hidden, even in the dark.

  “That is not the only reason. If I don’t see firsthand for myself, how am I to write about these people and their stories?” Sarah pulled her long-sleeved sleeping gown over her head, adjusting it about her waist as the length of it fell about her ankles.

  “Do you think any newspaper will hire a woman? You should have saved yourself the hardship and stayed in St. Louis.”

  “There are women who write.”

  “Women whose husbands own the printing presses.”

  “If you do not believe I can write, why do you buy me ink and journals?” asked Sarah.

  “Because you supported me enough to come here, and it costs so very little to invest in you. Regardless, Bill has sworn land for those who defend the fort. I’ll become a respectable rancher. Perhaps we can even purchase you a printing press.”

  “Now whose dreams are as big as the Texas sky? I fear your friend has sworn more debt than he can repay.”

  “He has found a new life here, Sarah, a life worth fighting for.”

  “Is it also worth dying for?”

  “I think Santa Anna will not come. Regardless, we will be fine, little sister. I promise.”

  †

  Taylor leaned back in her chair, releasing a long exhale. She looked up to see Alison intently watching her from the other side of the desk.

  “Where did you get this?” Taylor asked.

  “In the bottom of an old dresser in my attic. It must have fallen and became lodged behind the drawers.”

  “You have proof it’s real?”

  The condition of the journal was consistent with what Taylor would expect after being stuffed in a musty attic for decades. The script looked authentic for the era. That it listed dates and names seemed too good to be true. Taylor couldn’t help but be suspicious that it might be a hoax, either deliberate or perpetuated by a bored child with an overactive imagination.

  “It’s been dated and authenticated by several experts. Along with these.” Alison drew the certificates of authenticity as well as several more items out of her messenger bag.

  Taylor examined an aged Bible, the inscription inside reading, Sarah Lindley 1829. There were several penned letters, each bearing the signature of S. Lindley. The last item was a battered photograph. The faded image was of two women, one with light colored hair and an intense stare and a taller, darker haired woman with broad shoulders. Both wore their hair and clothes in the style of the era.

  “From the description, that’s Sarah. My grandmother used to tell me I’m just like her with her red hair and Irish temper.”

  Taylor could see the resemblance. But where Sarah’s looks were dulled by the age of the photo as well as the black and white composition, Alison was vivacious, her beauty vibrant.

  “Is this other woman a relative?”

  “No, I’m positive that’s Bailey Bowen, Sarah’s lover.”

  †

  February 23, 1836

  There was something different in the air this morning. I could smell it as soon as I awoke. It niggled at my insides even as I went to fill a bucket at the well in the town’s center. It gnawed as I lingered, listening as Dolores Sutter gave assurances to all that would listen that her husband, the doctor, claimed that the rumors of the Mexican army were greatly exaggerated. After all, he’d gone out on patrol more than any other volunteer Texian, and if there truly was danger, he would immediately see her and John Jr., to safety. It was what any responsible family man would do.

  It wasn’t until then that I noticed many of the locals loading their possessions into wagons and leaving with their families. Senora Torres, who has been very kind to us, would not meet my gaze as her husband drove their wagon past. It was shortly thereafter that the church bell sounded. The incessant ringing was akin to a rooster’s crow, urging us to awaken. As the first of the Mexican cavalrymen began descending from the Alazan hills, Bill ordered us into the compound.

  “Sarah, come away. We are housing the women and children in the convent and kitchen areas.” Bill took her by the arm, guiding her away from the main gates and the twin three-pounder cannons facing the entrance.

  Sarah scanned the compound interior. Her brother was assigned to the west wall directly across from the convent. The walls were a flurry of activity with men loading muskets and moving into position. Men seemingly without assignment sought out Bill, asking for direction. He took each new question or request as it came, firing off orders in quick succession. Knowing the stories that she wished to tell were to be found here and not in some kitchen, Sarah seized the opportunity caused by the organized chaos to remain at Bill’s side.

  Mr. Smith rode into the compound, Dr. Sutter beside him, and Sutter’s wife and son in tow. “Commander, we spotted their first line of cavalry, several hundred strong, about a mile and a half outside of town.”

  Sutter dismounted. “There’s hundreds, maybe thousands marching down from the hills. Smith and I barely made it back.”

  Smith shot Sutter a look suggesting that he had not wanted those details voiced aloud. Whether it was because the news was discouraging or exaggerated or delivered in front of women, Sarah was not certain.

  Two men ambled up, seemingly as calm as if they were out for a stroll. They wore dirty leather breeches and buckskin coats. The taller of the two sported a fur cap and the biggest rifle Sarah had ever seen. He addressed Bill in a thick backwoods accent.

  “Commander, where would you like us to post ourselves?”

  “Along the south wall beside the chapel, Dave,” said Bill.

  “But that ain’t nothin’ but a picket fence. It’s the least defensible position they got,” said the other man.

  “Which is why they need good Tennessee riflemen defending it, right?” Dave gave Sarah an exaggerated wink.

  “Activity in the town,” came a cry from the wall.

  A blood red flag was being hoisted at the San Fernando church, above the belfry. Silence fell over the garrison at the sight; the color meant no quarter would be given the Alamo defenders.

  “Smith, Sutter, take these messages, one to Goliad, the other to Gonzales. Ride fast; our very lives depend on the reinforcements you bring.” Bill handed a parchment to each man.

  Smith took his missive and headed out the front gate. Sutter mounted and paused, turning his horse in a tight circle. He looked down at Dolores and his namesake, John.

  “Take care of my son,” he said, before giving his wife a nod. He turned his horse, sinking spur and riding for the gate.

  They were scarcely gone when Sarah heard the sounds of rifle and musket fire. Shots rang out as defenders on the wall gave cover fire. She feared that the messengers had already been killed.

  Hooves pounded at the gate. Six riders rode in fast, firing over their shoulders as they barreled into the compound. Each turned their horse sharply to avoid the twin cannons at the entrance.

  “Get those gates shut. Barricade them tight.” Bill’s voice carried across the garrison.

  The riders were dressed in leathers and buckskin, armed with rifles, revolvers, ammo belts, and knives. Beads of sweat ran down their faces, leaving streaks of trail dust in their wake. Their hor
ses were lathered in sweat, and two riders broke from the rest to take the horses to the stables. Another stepped forward, approaching Dave.

  “Heard you were having a shindig down here. Hope we’re not too late to the festivities.”

  The voice was sonorous yet distinctly female. Sarah’s eyes widened. What she had first assumed was a horde of trail-dusty ruffians was, in fact, a group of women.

  “You can report to the kitchens under the guidance of Mrs. Sutter,” Bill said.

  The woman pushed her hat back, revealing a mass of ebony tresses. Blue eyes sparkled as she looked at her assembled women.

  “Obviously, you’ve never tasted our cooking. We came to fight as Texians, not boil prairie dog stew.”

  “I…you…D.C.?” Obviously flustered, Bill looked to the Tennessee frontiersman.

  “You any good with that thing, girl?” Dave asked, eyeing the rifle clutched in her grasp.

  “I’d say I’m fair to middling.”

  She hefted her rifle, sighted it across the compound, in the direction of the kitchen. She drew in a breath, released it, and gave the trigger a steady squeeze. A single shot rang out, followed by the sound of splintering wood some three hundred yards distant. The bucket on the drinking well swung back and forth, water spewing from a hole in its side.

  “The name isn’t girl, either. It’s Bowen, Bailey Bowen.” She looked at Sarah and winked in a manner nearly identical to Dave’s.

  “Well, then, Bailey Bowen, it’s a pleasure to meet you and it’d be an honor for you and your gir – Texian women to serve at the south wall with us Tennessee boys. That is, if you don’t have any other post assignment for them, Commander?”

  All eyes turned to Bill.

  “Um…no.” He shook his head and turned to address the men on the north wall. “Fire up that eighteen-pounder. Let’s let Santa Anna know it’s a fight.”

  †

  The color drained from Taylor’s face and she covered her open mouth with her hand. She stared wide-eyed at Alison for several long moments before raking a hand through her hair.

  “Do you have any idea what this journal is suggesting?” Taylor’s voice was husky with emotion.

  “That not all the women at the Alamo were noncombatants.”

  “This can’t be real. There’s no recorded history of women defenders at the Alamo.”

  “Until now,” said Alison.

  “No. There were records kept of the battle. Santa Anna and his men—”

  “Certainly wouldn’t have told anyone that a group of women held off his army for thirteen days. Think of how embarrassing that would be for the proud general if word were to ever get out. This is a man who maligned the character of the Alamo’s most famous defenders, claiming Travis committed suicide, Bowie cowered beneath his covers like a scared child, and Crockett begged for his life on his knees, all in an effort to demoralize any that would stand against him.”

  “There were survivors on the Texian side. Mrs. Sutter and the other women …”

  “History and what is remembered or forgotten, is decided by the rich and powerful. Whose word would have held more sway, that of a gambler’s sister or an esteemed doctor’s wife?”

  †

  Feb 28, 1836

  Cannon fire and gunshot have become nearly constant in the daytime; the Mexican army seems to have a never-ending supply of men and ammunition. The same cannot be said for our forces. Bowie is ill and grows steadily weaker with each passing day. He has relegated himself to bed in the low barracks for fear of contagion and has commanded his volunteer army to follow Bill’s orders as if they were his own.

  Bill spends much of his day strategizing and writing passionate pleas for reinforcement. He tries to keep up morale, but I can see that each day without help frays at the edges of his starched military demeanor.

  Thank goodness for Dave’s Tennessee riflemen and Bailey’s sharpshooters. Thus far, their marksmanship has held the sneak attacks by enemy forces at bay. I wish John or Daniel had taught me how to shoot so that I might be of more use than as a kitchen hand.

  “Two of them are widowed, but the others have never been married. I think it is admirable, fighting to own their own land without being dependent upon a man,” said Rosa Maria.

  “Well, I for one, say it isn’t decent.” Dolores Sutter emphasized each word with a crush of her pestle into the bowl of corn kernels.

  “They are quartered in their own barracks, far away from the men. And us.” Rosa turned strips of beef on a spit over an open fire.

  “Doesn’t matter. They dress in buckskins like men, they curse like men, they most likely think like men.” Kernels flew into the air as Mrs. Sutter smashed the corn with even more force.

  Sarah wondered how much of her dislike was for the Texian women and how much was anger over her husband’s hasty departure from the Alamo. Sarah had little stomach for kitchen gossip and with a mumbled excuse, left the stifling room to take food to the defenders.

  She worked her way along the west wall, giving each man his fair ration, lingering at her brother’s side for a few comforting moments. He looked weary but seemed in good spirits as he watched a dice game.

  “I’m not playing,” said John.

  “See that you are also not wagering, brother.”

  She continued her rounds, saving the south wall, specifically the positions held by the Texian women, for last. They greeted her enthusiastically, each taking their offered portion. Bailey was last to approach.

  “Cornbread and beef strips? Be still my beating heart, Miss Sarah.”

  “It’s all we have in abundance, I’m afraid. Even the dried beans are almost down to the bottom of the bag.”

  “We can always resort to cutting out the wagging kitchen tongues.”

  “Bailey,” Sarah said, eyes widening as Bailey thumbed the tip of her hunting knife.

  “You think we don’t know what the decent womenfolk say about us behind our backs?”

  “Not all of them, Bailey.” Sarah ducked her head and shyly looked up at her through red lashes.

  “No, not all, Miss Sarah.”

  Bailey backed her toward a shadowed alcove far from curious eyes. She reached out, stroking her thumb over Sarah’s bottom lip. Heart beating wildly in her chest, she remained motionless as Bailey’s mouth came closer, soft lips replacing her thumb. As the kiss ended, Bailey drew back, and Sarah placed trembling fingers against her tingling lips.

  “Bailey?”

  “I have had many regrets in my life, Sarah. If I am to face death, I won’t have one of them be not knowing the taste of your lips.”

  Bailey took the pot Sarah held between them and placed it aside. As Bailey stepped impossibly closer, Sarah braced her hands against Bailey’s forearms for support. Palms traveled up buckskin, draping over shoulders, fingers curling into ebony hair as she pulled Bailey down and into the first real kiss she’d ever experienced.

  Before she knew how it happened, they were in the long barracks housed on the other side of the convent. Bailey’s lips were everywhere: her mouth, her neck, near the top button of her dress. As she drew back, Sarah’s hands upon her shoulders prevented further kisses.

  “I’m scared,” Sarah admitted in a tiny voice.

  “Do not worry. All my women are stationed at the wall. We will not be disturbed.”

  “No, I…” Sarah’s eyes stole to the bed. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Bailey held her gaze and caught one of Sarah’s hands within hers. She guided her palm over the fabric of Sarah’s dress, caressing the expanse of her stomach in ever-widening circles. “Oh, Sarah. Have you never lain in your bed, holding your breath as your hands explore your breasts and between your legs?”

  “It’s not proper.” Sarah knew her blush gave her away, as did her strained whisper.

  Bailey leaned in so close that their lips were nearly brushing, and she was breathing into Sarah’s mouth. “I’m going to touch you like that, Sarah, only better.”

 
Deep in the night, as Sarah chased her passion, the texture of Bailey’s palms upon her flesh changed. Her calluses, once rough, now seemed as soft as fine silk.

  †

  Normally, dedication ceremonies were the sort of black-tie affairs that would have Taylor nearly dozing in her chair. Ever since Alison had shown her Sarah Lindley’s diary and had read her passages indicating that Sarah and Bailey were intimate, it was all she could think about to the point that Taylor was fairly squirming in her seat.

  Of course, Alison’s low-cut little black dress and high heels had nothing at all to do with that. Not in the slightest. Nor did the incessant flirting and subtle touches to the lapel of her shirt or the side of her breast as they sat impossibly close together at the banquet table. And it most definitely wasn’t the sound of Taylor’s zipper being dragged down and a hand beneath the table instigating itself into the fly of her jeans that had Taylor abruptly standing and excusing them for the night.

  Just as Taylor’s groan of “I swear, I never do this” wasn’t ground out from between clenched teeth in direct response to Alison biting her neck on the elevator ride up to her apartment.

  When Alison knelt on the floor before her, green eyes looking up at her as fingers hooked into belt loops and tugged the jeans off her hips, Taylor stopped denying her desire.

  †

  Taylor blinked against the intrusive light. Dimly, she realized it was from a streetlight shining through the window of her studio apartment. She blinked again, focusing on long slatted shadows stretching across the room.

  She rolled over, moaning at the soreness she felt. She flushed at her remembered reaction to Ali pushing her down on the mattress. She was surprised, and if she was being honest, more than a little turned on by the unfamiliarity of having a woman three fingers deep inside while she wantonly writhed beneath her.