The Comanchero’s Bride – Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

The vein in Grayson’s temple bulged and throbbed, blurring his vision. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger as he crushed Elizabeth’s note in his other hand.

“Take a deep breath, Gray. You’ll give yourself a stroke.”

Grayson opened his eyes as Doyle emerged from the spacious walk-in closet. “There’s nothing noticeable missing from here or in her wardrobe—clothes, shoes, luggage—all neatly arranged with no gaps where something used to be. No sign of a struggle anywhere. It looks to me as if she just walked out and left everything behind. Including you.”

Grayson nodded, but he wasn’t really listening. I knew I should have killed the bastard myself. It was obvious that somehow she’d gone south after Valderas had contacted her through the priest.

“Amanda!” Grayson’s voiced boomed. There was no response. He looked around, irritated. “Where is that stupid girl?”

“You fired her for telling you Elizabeth was gone, remember?” Doyle eyed him cautiously. “You’re losing control, Gray. It’s not like you.”

Grayson turned in a slow circle, surveying the suite again, deep in thought.

Doyle prodded, “So, what’s the plan? The press will be merciless when they find out she left you. It’ll make front page headlines all over the country, which, I might add, won’t do your image any good. We need to come up with a plausible story to head this off.”

Grayson was preoccupied with his own thoughts and didn’t respond.

“Face it, Gray. Even though it was obvious you two weren’t exactly lovebirds, there’ll still be a lot of talk. People found her quite endearing. The rumors will run out of control. If my first reaction was that she left you, public opinion will run the same way.”

Grayson remained silent. I know damn good and well Elizabeth left me. The idea that she had walked out on him for Valderas filled him with a black, boiling rage. The hit to his pride was more than he could stand. His head pounded, and he wished Doyle would shut up. He knew full well how devastating the humiliation and damage to his political image would be when Elizabeth’s sudden and unexplained absence went public—

Even as the solution materialized, he was rifling through the desk drawers for the two letters Elizabeth had received, and he wasn’t surprised to find the drawers empty. He made a cursory search of the room with the same result. He gambled that the letters held enough sentimental value that she had taken them with her, which worked perfectly with the plan that was taking shape in his mind.

Doyle watched him for a few seconds, then said, “You’re searching, which obviously means you’re concocting something. Talk to me. What is it?”

Grayson didn’t answer right away. He was still thinking, scheming. Madeline’s letter was inconsequential. However, the other held potential ruin. It wouldn’t do to have a letter from a priest confirming her marriage to Valderas. Legal or not, a secret marriage would get tongues wagging, her sympathizers questioning, and give his political rivals ammunition to use against him.

“Elizabeth didn’t leave me on her own.” Grayson swung his gaze to Doyle. “She was abducted.”

Doyle stared at him. “What? By whom? When? And more importantly, why?”

“This is a clue.” Grayson brandished Elizabeth’s parting note in his fist.

“A piece of paper?”

“Elizabeth wrote a message to me. Somehow, she got it past her kidnapper. I was looking for more evidence.”

“How could she have possibly been kidnapped in this hotel? This is a busy, well supervised, public establishment.”

“I don’t know how she was kidnapped.” Grayson grasped at ideas, falling upon any and all possibilities that sprang into his head. “She could have been abducted on her way to or from church on Sunday.” He remembered the tunnels. “Her abductor must have been watching her.”

“He? Just one?”

Grayson barked, “He. She. They. It doesn’t matter. Whoever it was would have been watching her to find the opportune moment, and my absence worked right into their plan. They could have been observing her movements from a hidden location…say the tunnels. For all we know, her captors might have masqueraded as hotel staff just long enough to accomplish their mission. Call the concierge. We need the police.”

Doyle continued to shake his head skeptically. “Let’s think this through a little further before coming to any rash conclusions.”

Liking this more and more, Grayson nodded to himself with no thought to Doyle’s cautioning advice. Making it up as it came to him, he went on with enthusiastic abandon. “I know who kidnapped her, or at least, who arranged it. It’s doubtful that he came here himself. I suspect he sent someone to do it for him.”

“This is completely bizarre. Who would kidnap her?”

“Domingo Valderas.”

“And he is…who?” Doyle waved his hand in a beckoning circle in his need for more information.

“A former comanchero. She met him one night in Nuevo Laredo at a party. Not long after that, he made advances toward her. He became obsessed with being with her. I faced him down inside her house the first night I arrived and sent him away. It was a nasty ordeal. She still hasn’t fully recovered. Hell, you’ve been around her. It’s no wonder she’s been so irritable since we left Laredo. She’s been hiding her fear that he’d follow her here. Now that I look back, I’m sure that’s why she secluded herself in her room once we checked into the hotel. Only recently has she felt safe enough to start leading a normal life again.”

“All right, just for the sake of argument, I’ll go along with the possibility of the over-zealous admirer scenario, but Gray, she wasn’t irritable and she wasn’t scared. She simply didn’t—and I believe doesn’t—like you.”

Grayson was shaking his head before Doyle finished his sentence. “You weren’t around her in private. I’ve been worried that I’d have to commit her to a sanatorium for her own good until her nerves settled. I regret now that I didn’t have a doctor attending her. She’s so delicate and frail. I should have realized the depth of her terror much sooner.”

“Elizabeth is sophisticated and refined, and I’ll grant you she’s head-strong and independent, but delicate and frail are not descriptors that come readily to mind when I think of her.”

Grayson leveled an impatient gaze on him.

Doyle scoffed, holding his ground. “You aren’t really serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Grayson handed him the wrinkled note. “Read it yourself.”

Doyle took the paper and smoothed it out. “‘Like Edmond Dantès, my mind is filled with a single thought—my happiness destroyed for no apparent reason. I, too, know what it’s like to be wrongly imprisoned in my own Château d’If’.” He looked at Grayson. “If this is some sort of clue, it’s a damn flimsy one. Besides, it doesn’t make sense. It’s more of a philosophical observation about her life.” He arched an eyebrow, reconsidering. “Or a parting goodbye shot at you. Where did you find this?”

Grayson assumed an air of grave concern and nodded toward the bed. “There, sticking out of that book.”

Doyle walked to the bed, picked up the book, and flipped through the pages. “The Count of Monte Cristo?” He gave Grayson a curious glance.

“It was her favorite book and the only gift she ever accepted from me. She left it here.” It struck a nerve that she’d left behind what he considered a treasured keepsake. After all, he had given it to her. It was beyond his belief that she’d have left it behind by choice.

“Gray, the note?”

Doyle’s voice brought him back from his musings. “Since I knew she was reading that book when we left Laredo, she would have counted on me to make the connection between her abduction and the plight of the protagonist.”

“I know the story. Edmond Dantès was wrongly imprisoned by a magistrate who threw him into a prison where innocent people were forgotten by the outside world.”

Nodding, Grayson retrieved the note from Doyle. “I’m certain she managed to leave this note to tell me she’s been taken away from her only happiness, which was here, with me.” He smiled. “Newsworthy enough for you? Heiress abducted by known criminal. I’m sure there’ll be a ransom demand soon” —I’ll make one myself— “unless Valderas plans to take her to Mexico where he can sell her. I’ve heard there’s a lucrative white slave market there.” Thinking on his feet had always been easy for him, and he was using that talent for all it was worth now.

“Nope, sorry.” Doyle shook his head. “You nearly had me for a minute, but this is bordering on preposterous lunacy. White slave market? Drop it and face reality. She simply put the note in the book to make her point that she’s finished with you. She’s probably just gone back to her missionary at that church across the border.”

“What missionary—?” Grayson caught himself. “No, she didn’t.” He shrugged him off. “I’m positive she was kidnapped. You just write it up and get it in the papers. I’ll contact the authorities. Valderas already has a three or four day head start on us.”

“Hold on, Gray, the words head start suggest travel.” Doyle cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Why, to rescue her, of course. What else would we do?” Grayson grinned slyly. “Think of the headlines. Distraught Fiancé on Trail of Kidnapper. I’ll be a national hero.” Grayson’s face went slack, and his eyes took on a vacuous gleam in a momentary lack of presence as he pictured himself an errant knight right out of Le Morte d’Arthur. Blinking, he came back to himself and focused on Doyle’s face. “Hell, man, you’re the publicity expert. Just get me in the newspapers. That’s what I’m paying you for. We’ll use this to my benefit. Public empathy will be immeasurable.”

“I’m still not convinced. I need facts before I can go public with this.”

“Facts? Since when were you concerned with the truth?”

Doyle scowled. “I didn’t say the truth, I said facts. Without facts, there’s no place for a story to develop. There has to be a perfect balance of plausible viability underlying the story so it keeps the reader involved coupled with enough creative leeway for the writer to spin a good yarn. People want to read the sensational, not the mundane. The general reading public buys newspapers because they need to believe the world around them is exciting since their lives are ordinary and uninteresting.”

Grayson thought it over. “What sort of facts are you looking for?”

“Well, for one, can you prove this Valderas character was harassing her?”

“Absolutely. I can produce half a dozen eye witnesses, if it comes to that.”

“Reliable witnesses? Believable?”

Money will buy any lies I need. “Of course.”

Doyle considered this for several seconds then spoke slowly. “All right…but this had better not be some wild fabrication to get even with her for jilting you. I’m not above salting the story with tantalizing tidbits to make it more salable, but I do have a limit on how far I’ll go. I’ve worked too hard to build a credible reputation, and I won’t jeopardize that. Not for you or anyone else.”

“I will do anything to get my darling Elizabeth out of the hands of that notorious outlaw.” Grayson assumed a distressed demeanor. “My fiancée must be rescued. I will not rest until Valderas hangs.”

Doyle looked him over, nodding with his own plans seeming to take shape in his mind. “Then don’t change out of your hunting clothes. The story will carry more impact when readers see photographs of you arriving at the hotel and receiving word of Elizabeth’s disappearance. It will show that you aren’t thinking of yourself. Only her. It also gives you a more western, local appeal than in your usual expensive, tailored suit and tie.” He checked the time. “If I write fast, I can get the story in today’s edition.”

The Comanchero’s Bride – Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten  

The next afternoon, the annunciator buzzed and the concierge’s voice alerted Elizabeth of the desk clerk’s imminent arrival with a delivery. At the clerk’s knock, she opened the door, and was pleasantly surprised to receive a letter from Madeline. She gave the door a half-hearted push closed in her eagerness to open the letter.

October 11, 1880 – Dear Elizabeth, I hope this letter finds you recovering from your horrible ordeal. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened. It is still dangerous here and now both sides of the river are volatile. Soldiers from Ft. McIntosh were brought in to maintain what order they can. It isn’t safe to be out, especially at night, and few people are allowed to cross the river either way. Just last week, Dad was the first from town to go to Laredo Nuevo, and even then, he went with an armed escort and a white flag. Dad sends his love and wants you to know that Felipe and Sophia will have a new house soon. We both hope you will visit us even if you decide not to return here to live. I miss you so terribly much. Please write and let me know how you are. I am enclosing a letter from Father Bartolo. It just arrived, and I promised to send it on right away. Your dearest cousin, Madeline

Strolling into the main room, Elizabeth broke the wax seal on Father Bartolo’s letter, removed the folded paper, and began reading.

My dear Isabel, I do not know how long will be the time from the writing of this letter to when you will read it, but I write on behalf of one who loves you. Your husband, Domingo.

Elizabeth tripped over her feet, stunned, her heart pounding hard. It wasn’t possible. Mingo was dead. She began again.

…on behalf of one who loves you. Your husband, Domingo. I know you believe Domingo was killed while avenging the death of his little cousin, Camila, but that is not the truth. In killing the men who took the poor child’s life, he was gravely wounded. The danger was so great right after the attack on the town and following Camila’s death that I could not get a message to you and, when I could, it was too late. You had already departed. Please find comfort that Domingo remains safely hidden at the church, very slowly regaining his strength. But it was not always so. For two weeks, I did not think it possible that he would live. He lost much blood and could not fully awaken. He raved and  ranted. How he held on… Well, only God knows, but it seemed that in his constant calling for you, he kept death away. When he emerged from his delirium, he wanted very desperately to have you with him, and he cursed the sisters when they said the law would not allow you to cross the river.

While that may seem a lie to you now, there was not only truth in it at the time, but I had instructed the sisters to avoid telling him that you had left Laredo until he was strong enough not to succumb to what I believed would have given death all that was necessary to claim his life—hopelessness. It was only early this morning that he learned you had gone to Denver in your belief that he was dead. Great was his fury that you had been deceived. Deep was his anger at his helplessness to stop you. Even now as I write, he is so weak, he can barely lift his head, but he is determined to come to you. No amount of pleading or reasoning will change his mind.

Elizabeth stared at the letter. Her hands trembled. Bone-chilling shivers seized her then she flushed hot from head to toe. Stinging tears burned her eyes; guilt tugged at her heart. Mingo was alive, and she’d left him—abandoned him—when she’d promised never to leave his side. A lone tear splashed on the paper as she continued reading.

During the days Domingo lay near death, I learned that bandidos were hired to burn the Santino’s home and stampede the cattle to conceal their real purpose. Isabel, the man who took you from Laredo hired these men to murder Domingo. This same man is also responsible for the dear innocent child’s death.

She grabbed the back of a chair, staggered by the horror of his words. Grayson… His deceit was too awful for her mind to comprehend. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Believing that you were just across the river and his determination to be with you is all that kept him in this world. In his fever, he called your name, fighting us madly in his delirium to reach you. Now he is desperate to save you from the treachery of the man who stole you away. I fear he will kill anyone who stands in his way. It was of no use to remind him that he cannot step foot on American soil without fear of arrest. Nothing will stop him. I have prayed for God to grant Domingo temperance in his anger, because it is deadly revenge your husband seeks as much as his desire to be reunited with you. You must find enough strength within yourself to carry you both through the trials that lay ahead. Isabel, remember these words and let them nourish your soul. Love beareth all things, believeth all things, and hopeth all things. I will pray and light a candle for your safe passage home. Vaya con Dios, Father Enrique Bartolo — October 10, 1880, Nuevo Laredo, Mexico

The letter and envelopes slipped from her trembling fingers and fluttered to the floor. She went to her knees, doubled-over and hugging herself, her body racked with deep sobs of grief and relief. In the space of a few seconds, her heart was rendered into pieces then mended all at once. Mingo, Mingo, please forgive me. I’m so sorry I left you. I’m so sorry. Now she understood why she’d felt her own life draining from her. Mingo had drawn upon her strength and love to keep him alive, and when she’d heard him call her name in the church, it must have been the moment when he’d learned of Grayson’s deceit.

“So, the bastard’s alive after all. It appears I paid good money for naught.”