The Lone Star Collection Page 20

  A wide grin spread across Taylor’s lips. She reached out, expecting to find Alison asleep beside her. Her palm felt along the flat mattress. Frowning, she sat up, eyes scanning the apartment’s open floor plan. Her boots and shirt, along with her underwear, were discarded in a trail leading to the bed. However, both her jeans and Ali were conspicuously absent.

  “Oh, no. No. No. No. No.” Taylor leapt out of the bed, forcing one arm into her shirtsleeve as she rushed to the hamper for another pair of pants.

  †

  Taylor found Ali in the church baptistery. She was dressed in one of Taylor’s denim shirts. She was also wearing Taylor’s missing jeans, although the belt was tightened as far as it could go, and they hung loosely off Alison’s hips. Taylor wanted to say she looked ridiculous, brandishing a pickaxe while wearing three-inch black heels. She wanted to, but found she couldn’t.

  “You might have left my pants,” she said instead.

  “This isn’t really the sort of work suited for a dress.” Alison set the pickaxe down beside a crowbar and her messenger bag.

  “So you just wanted my security pass.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining. As a matter of fact, I distinctly recall you begging for more and harder.”

  “So what, you watched me, stalked me, until you could work out how to get what you needed from me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t take that much effort. I saw your picture as the Alamo’s lead historian on the inside cover of the souvenir pamphlet. As soon as I saw you, I knew I could get what I wanted…and well, also get what I wanted.” Alison gave her a blatant once over, gaze stopping on Taylor’s breasts.

  Taylor defensively folded her arms over her chest. She was shocked and angry to find her nipples both sore and hard.

  “Are you looking for the infamous lost gold coins rumored to be hidden within the Alamo’s walls? Treasure seekers have been hunting for that for over a hundred years. It doesn’t exist.”

  “This isn’t about lost treasure.” Alison snorted. “It’s about lost history, a fact I thought you could appreciate.”

  “Don’t try to sell me on your great-great-whatever’s journal. It’s obviously as fake as you are.”

  “I swear it’s real. Sarah writes about a secret tunnel.”

  “One fact every Texan is taught in school: the Alamo had no back door.”

  “There’s a newspaper article from 1894 citing that the Franciscan monks ran secret tunnels connecting the missions in case of Indian or bandit attack.” Alison reached into her bag and pulled out a newspaper clipping sealed in plastic.

  Taylor eyed it skeptically.

  “It also describes a five-foot-square in the cement floor that has sunk over the years. It cited it as being in one of the monk’s cells in the sacristy, but I believe it’s here, in the baptistery.” Ali used her high heel to stomp on a cement square, producing a hollow sound.

  “Destruction of Alamo property is a crime. I should call the police.”

  “You won’t. It would be too embarrassing for you. What would your colleagues, your bosses say if they learned you compromised the sanctity of one of Texas’s greatest shrines because you weren’t thinking with your PhD? It would cost you more than your credentials, wouldn’t it?”

  “Get out. Get out, now.” Taylor’s hands balled into fists. “I don’t want to see you ever again. Not here, not across the street, not at my place.”

  “Don’t worry, your bed is the last place you’ll ever see me again.” Alison left the crowbar and pickaxe where they lay, but picked up her messenger bag. She stormed to the entrance of the church and yanked the door open. The rising sun shone around her, illuminating her fiery red tresses. She reached in her pocket, drew out Taylor’s wallet, and gave it an underhand toss.

  Taylor rushed to catch it, fingers fumbling upon the leather. She opened it, rapidly checking the contents. When she looked up again, Alison was gone.

  †

  March 6, 1836

  We lay together on her pallet in the long barracks, her fingers stroking my hair, my ear pressed against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. My eyes were closed and I was drifting off, dreaming of a time and place we could be together.

  Bugles, one followed in quick succession by many more, split the morning stillness. Santa Anna’s military band played Duguello, which the Tejanos had told us meant “cutthroat:” a hymn of merciless death.

  Merciless is what the enemy was. They attacked in never-ending droves from all sides. Word spread that Bill had been the first to die, shot on the north wall. Dave and Bailey and their sharpshooters held off an attack on the palisade at the south wall, gaining valuable time for us women and children to reach the church.

  The enemy breached the walls, coming in everywhere. Cannons were turned about, the enemy training them on our retreating forces. A force of twelve, Bailey amongst them, ran for the church. I held the door open, shouting at them to hurry. Four of them were gunned down. My heart clenched as Bailey faltered. She staggered through the door and into my arms. My hands went about her, finding my palms wet with her blood.

  I dragged her to the baptistery, behind the altar to the hidden supply tunnel the Esparza boy had discovered whilst playing a child’s game some seven days ago. Initially, Bill had thought it might be a way to send out messages and noncombatants. He sent men into the tunnel with torches, but they reported back, saying it was impassable. They had gone as far as they could until water had come up over their chests, and they’d held the torches over their heads, but could see no end in sight.

  The concrete slab was pushed back in place and forgotten. Except for a corner where it didn’t quite sit right. As the remaining men took up defensive positions in the church, I asked two of them to help move the slab. They shifted it, revealing a pitch-dark hole waiting below.

  “Bailey, you must go.” Sarah’s fingers were fisted in the front of Bailey’s blood-soaked buckskins. “Get below.”

  “Can’t.” Bailey shook her head, eyes glassy and unfocused.

  “You must.”

  “Tunnel’s not passable. Won’t leave you,” said Bailey, unsteadily looking around at the assembled women and children.

  “We’re noncombatants. They will not harm us if we’re not armed. But if they find you, they will kill you. You must stay hidden until they go.”

  “We’ll all hide in the tunnel,” said Mrs. Sutter.

  “We can’t. They know there are women and children in the Alamo. If they do not find us, they will torture whatever men are left until they reveal where we are.”

  “You hide her and we’ll gladly tell them.” Mrs. Sutter looked about her, as if expecting the other women’s unwavering support.

  “No, you won’t, Senora Sutter. You won’t be tellin’ nobody nothin’ if you have no tongue to do the tellin’.” Rosa Maria pulled Bailey’s knife from her belt, thumbing the blade and glaring at the other woman.

  Mrs. Sutter paled and clamped one hand over her mouth and another over her heart. She went and sat in a corner with little John Jr, rocking them both back and forth.

  Cannon fire echoed as something heavy beat against the church’s reinforced doors. A twelve-pound cannon returned fire from the high platform in back of the church.

  “They’re almost in,” one of the men shouted.

  “We must blow the magazine.” Evans and Esparza looked to Sarah.

  Sarah cupped Bailey’s face. “Please, if you love me, you will do this for me.”

  Bailey bent her head, giving Sarah a parting kiss.

  They lowered Bailey into the hole. The last Sarah saw was her upturned face, blue eyes staring unblinkingly back at her from the darkness. Then, Esparza and Evans moved the slab back into place. Taking torches from the wall sconces, they charged the church’s entrance.

  †

  Alison looked up from the paperback she was reading and swallowed thickly. Taylor Whitlock took determined strides across the hotel lobby directly toward her. Sh
e sat down in a chair opposite and looked Ali dead in the eye.

  “Thought you didn’t want to see me again.” Ali knew it was a cheap shot, but she felt cornered, and her natural instinct was to draw first blood.

  “I wanted to return this to you.” Taylor pulled out Sarah’s leather-bound journal and passed it to Alison.

  “And yet, you waited two weeks?”

  “I wasn’t sure you were in town or what hotel you were at. I was surprised when I found you registered as Alison Lindley Parker.”

  “Well, it is my name.”

  “I was also pissed and I wasn’t ready to see you.” Taylor let out a long puff of air. “I wasn’t ready to admit to you that after reading the rest of Sarah’s journal, I believe you have a valid theory about the existence of a hidden tunnel.”

  “I knew it. I knew if you read the journal, you’d believe.”

  “After I had it authenticated by my sources and researched the history of the mission before 1836.” Taylor held up a hand. “You could have simply asked for my help.”

  “I tried that with three other so-called experts before you. Whether you realize it or not, you Texans can be very proud, stubborn, and downright arrogant about your history. I had difficulty convincing you, a woman, that other women fought and died defending the Alamo. One of your male colleagues actually accused me of trying to corrupt the integrity of a Texas institution.”

  “Yes, well, I believe it’s a history worth discovering. But we’re going to do this the right way. With documentation and permits. I’m a historian, not a relic hunter.”

  “That could take years.” Ali’s heart sank and she slumped in her chair.

  “I know someone who can help. The Daughters of the Republic of Texas may no longer be custodians of the Alamo, but they are a very active force in the community, and they come from old southern families with deep pockets and influence over all things concerning the mission.”

  It wasn’t the immediate gratification that Ali had been seeking. But it was a step in the right direction. She looked at Taylor and bit her lip. “I’ll need a place to stay. I can’t afford a hotel for months on end.”

  Taylor’s expression was unreadable. “We’ll discuss it over dinner.”

  †

  March 7, 1836

  One by one, we were brought before General Santa Anna. He questioned each of us in turn. From speaking with the others, we were all asked the same questions and offered the same concessions.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “I have no husband.”

  “You came here alone?”

  “I was with my brother, John Lindley.”

  “And where is he?”

  Sarah’s heart ached. It was the only answer she hesitated on. “Dead. He died at the Alamo.”

  “Are you aware that amongst the dead, my men found the bodies of women armed with guns and knives?”

  Sarah clasped her hands in front of her. She looked the general in the eye, her gaze unwavering, even as she trembled.

  He leaned forward, taking one of her hands, turning it as he kissed her knuckles. She didn’t miss the way he caressed his thumb along the palm of her hand.

  Looking for calluses, she thought, remembering the roughness of Bailey’s hands. “No.”

  “No matter. The bodies have all been burned,” he said.

  She thought of John and bit her lip, but refused to give any other trace of reaction.

  “I will give you the sum of two dollars, a blanket, and your life. Tell everyone of the mercy of Santa Anna.”

  Sarah closed her eyes and nodded. She felt a hand on her arm, tugging her away. Then she felt a blanket thrust into her arms and clutched it tightly to her chest.

  †

  Taylor took a deep, steadying breath. Ali ran a soothing hand down her back. It had been six months since they’d started the petition process. In that time, Ali had moved into her apartment as well as her heart.

  Twin lights appeared from the darkness. They waited, peering into the dark, dank ankle-deep water coating the floor below the now-removed slab of cement in the baptistery. Gradually, the lights moved nearer, and two men wearing waders appeared. They climbed up a ladder, both soaked in water to their chests.

  In unison, they shook their heads.

  “Tunnel runs on for miles, but there’s too much water. Even though we pumped it out, it keeps seeping in from somewhere else. Might be a remnant of the irrigation system that connected to the San Antonio River.”

  They thanked the workmen and the DRT officials that had attended. The news anchor made a cutting signal across her throat and tossed her microphone at a cameraman. As they left, Taylor sat upon the stone slab, legs dangling over the gaping hole in the floor. Alison sat beside her.

  “Hey, you’re taking this harder than I am,” Ali said.

  “I’m sorry. I know Sarah’s your ancestor. I guess I just got caught up in the story of star-crossed lovers, and I got all worked up, imagining we’d find the other end of the tunnel or the lost treasure or even a musket ball. Anything to prove that someone was in the tunnels in 1836.”

  Ali nodded her head, chewing her bottom lip. She squeezed Taylor’s hand.

  “Hey, maybe we didn’t prove there were women fighters at the Alamo. And maybe things didn’t work out for Sarah and Bailey. But what say you and I work on making a little bit of history ourselves?”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Taylor, giving Alison a sideways look.

  “Well, I did see those replica costumes in the museum storage rooms and I was thinking you might look hot in buckskin.” She winked and climbed to her feet.

  Mouth open, Taylor stared after her for several minutes before shaking herself and scrambling to her feet, chasing after Alison.

  †

  March --, 1836

  “Where will you go, Rosa?”

  “I do not know, Senorita Sarah. The Sutter’s dismissed me since Senora Sutter is afraid to be alone with me.” Rosa pulled her hand out of her apron pocket, showing just the hilt of the knife she kept tucked away.

  Sarah’s throat clenched as she recognized Bailey’s knife. She chewed her bottom lip. She longed to have something of Bailey’s, but she would not ask Rosa. She had earned it.

  “I have family in Mexico. I could try to find them,” Rosa said.

  “Is it safe? Word has reached the trading post that Santa Anna’s men have spread across the countryside like wildfire and are marching here. They say none of Texas is safe.”

  “Where will you go, Senorita?” asked Rosa, eyeing the wagon that Sarah had loaded with provisions.

  “Home to St. Louis to live with my brother, Daniel. You are welcome to ride along.”

  “Think you have room for one more in that wagon?” asked a voice from behind her.

  Sarah felt her heart stop. She couldn’t breathe. When she turned around, her heart restarted at triple its normal rate.

  She flung herself into Bailey’s arms. Bailey staggered back beneath the full weight of Sarah against her. She clutched her tightly as if afraid she was dreaming, kissing her all over her face and her lips.

  “Ow, easy there. Still healing up from those musket balls.” Bailey leaned back, looking down at Sarah, blue eyes moist.

  “I thought you were…oh, I’ll kiss you as hard as I want, Bailey Bowen.” Sarah grabbed her by both ears and tugged Bailey’s face down to meet hers.

  “Senorita Sarah, it’s better we get moving,” said Rosa.

  Sarah drew back, seeing other people at the trading post staring, pointing, and whispering.

  Bailey limped to the wagon. Rosa and Sarah helped her to sit on the back end and scoot onto several bags of dried beans and flour. Rosa walked to the front of the wagon and climbed onto the seat, taking up the reins.

  Sarah moved a half full burlap bag aside, the ends tied closed with hemp, as she hoisted herself into the bed of the wagon and settled in alongside Bailey. She caught Bailey eyeing the bag, head cocked to the s
ide, a curious expression on her face.

  “Did you bring that from—”

  “General Santa Anna was generous enough to permit us to bring a small amount of food when we departed. I recall your fondness of cornbread.”

  “I’d be quite happy if I never see another skillet of cornbread again in my life,” said Bailey.

  Sarah patted the bag, feeling the kernels of corn shifting beneath her hand. A smile caressed her lips as she felt the spine of the journal she’d carefully hidden inside.

  “Let’s get moving,” Sarah called out to Rosa.

  “Um, where are we going?” asked Bailey, peering down at Sarah where she rested in the crook of her arm.

  “Into history, my love, straight into history.”

  ‘END’

  About the Author

  Del Robertson

  Del Robertson has always been an avid reader, particularly of fantasy, history, the unusual, the offbeat, and the simply odd. She enjoys mixing all these elements into the stories she writes. Thanks to the women in charge at Affinity Rainbow Publications, she’s found a place to tell her tales: From the swash-buckling pirate adventure in Taming the Wolff to the sword-wielding My Fair Maiden, to the real story of St. Nic in Thundersnow and Lightning. Being asked to contribute to the Tenth Annual Lone Star LesFic Festival is a great honor and she’s proud to have “Remember Me” included in their anthology. Contact Del at delrobertson@ymail.com.