Luis Martinez knew he should have told the others where he was going, but once he'd noted his padre's absence he'd known where the elderly man was going. He'd defied the man and went against his orders and that did not bode well for his mother. There was no doubt in his mind where De Rivera was headed and he knew he had to stop him before he reached the woman who'd always had a kind and gentle heart for all living things.
He'd ridden away from the arena with one thing in mind and nothing else mattered except saving his mother even if it meant killing the bastard who'd sired him.
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De Rivera Hacienda
Late-Afternoon
Evita looked down at the babe who slept solidly, tucked into her arms and wrapped in a soft blanket made by one of the ladies who worked in the field. She'd said more prayers lately than most people said in a lifetime and hoped God had listened to her, but as she looked out over the fields her eyes wandered to the area used for the De Rivera burial ground and thought of the woman who'd been laid to rest. She hoped Maria De Rivera was at peace and vowed to make sure her son was sheltered from his father's cruel ways.
Evita felt tears in her eyes as she looked toward the sky and thought about the three men De Rivera had brought to the arena that morning. She felt sorry for all three, but it was the dark skinned man who'd helped bring this baby into the world that made her weep with sorrow.
Nathan Jackson, whose heart was that of a healer, had been forced to watch as his friend was forced to work in the fields in spite of his obvious injuries and illness. Nathan, who'd been given a room in the house and plenty of food and comfort, could only watch as the young man slowly weakened in the sun. How much pain had she seen in the healer's eyes every time he took a bite of food or drank from a glass filled with fresh juice? If they survived, would Nathan be eaten up by the guilt and pain that had wrapped itself around his soul? Could he live with what he'd seen?
She looked toward the entrance to the hacienda as De Rivera rode his horse as if the hounds of hell were after him. She carried the baby into the nursery and gently placed him in his bed before arranging the netting over the hand crafter crib. She looked up as Juanita entered and smiled at the young woman whose heart belonged to Luis and wished she could offer her hope for the future.
"Stay with Santos, Juanita."
"Si, Evita," Juanita said, her voice filled with fear as she heard Don Garcia's angry voice from below.
"Evita! Come down here now!"
Evita moved toward the door and smiled when Juanita's hand touched her arm.
"Please…he is angry."
"It will be all right, Juanita. You just see to Santos and do not come downstairs for any reason," Evita warned and closed the door as she exited the room and heard the great door slam open as De Rivera's voice echoed through the house.
"EVITA!"
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Don Garcia De Rivera started up the staircase and spotted Evita Martinez watching him without a trace of fear on her face. He did not speak, but the sound of his cane hitting each step echoed through the silent house.
Don Garcia had nearly reached the second floor. The sound of the door opening behind him did not register until he heard heavy footsteps from below. He turned and spotted a dark figure shrouded in white light shining through the window and knew this man was the harbinger of death…his death.
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Evita knew Don Garcia meant to kill her, but there was no fear in her as she watched the man slowly advance up the steps. Years of being beaten down had left scars on her mind and body, but she'd never allowed them to make her bitter.
De Rivera's eyes were as dark as his soul and the sound his cane made on each step was like a clock ticking away the final seconds of her life. She thought of her son and prayed he would have the strength to help his half-brother become a man, one that could stand up to his father and have a heart of gold like his mother.
Evita heard Santos' cries and Juanita's soft singing and hoped the young woman would keep the boy in his room, safe from the horror his father was bringing with him. She began to pray and heard the sound of the door opening as De Rivera slowly made his way toward her. What she saw was an angel framed by golden light. An angel born of darkness, yet bathed in God's grace as he gestured for her to leave.
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Every step he took had been a lesson in pain, but Chris would not give up, not when the object of his anger was so close. He felt the warmth of the sun shining through the window and glanced up toward the second floor.
Chris watched Evita leave and fixed his eyes on the man standing near the top of the stairs and slowly walked across the floor that reflected the sunbeams as if it was showing him the light.
"Tonight you die, Bastardo!" Don Garcia warned and shook his cane at the battered blond.
Chris didn't say anything, he didn't need to, not when his intentions were already clear and no amount of words could convey what his eyes did. He lifted his foot onto the first step and a smile, deadly in its intensity, formed on his face as his right foot found the second step.
Larabee's unholy smile came easy as sweat stung one of the numerous cuts that marred his face and mingled with blood as it trickled down his face. He didn't think about what he must look like as he slowly advanced on the man he planned to send to hell.
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Don Garcia De Rivera had never been afraid of anything, yet there was something terrifying in the sound of the gringo's footsteps on the stairs. Each one echoed across the empty interior and sounded like a blacksmith's hammer striking an anvil. He knew to stay would mean certain death, but he had not lived this long by being foolish. He turned and hurried toward his room even as Larabee advanced toward him. He heard Santos crying and the soft sound of Evita's angelic voice as she sang softly to his son. She would die, but first he would take care of the bastardo who'd taken his first-born son from him.
He made his way toward his room and hurried to the cabinet where he kept a collection of guns handed down from his family. Some were over 100 years old, but the one he wanted was a new acquisition from his dead wife's father. He reached inside and grabbed the silver weapon and quickly made sure it was loaded before turning toward the door. His heart was beating too fast and he felt slightly light headed, but he would not let that stop him.
Death would come to his home today, but it would not come for him, it would come to claim Chris Larabee's black heart. Don Garcia De Rivera listened to the sound of footsteps echoing through his home and waited for the bastardo to arrive.
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Arena De Muerte
East of the De Rivera Hacienda
Mid-Afternoon
Josiah looked around at the people who had yet to leave the arena and wondered if they realized that the day's entertainment was over. Raphael had left soon after Buck, but he'd left several men behind to make sure there was no trouble. He glanced at his friend, exhausted, both emotionally and physically and wished there was time for him to rest. Unfortunately Nathan would not take the time to rest until he had done everything he could for the injured at the Arena De Muerte. Right now his biggest task was keeping Vin Tanner alive, and to most people that was an undertaking that was destined for failure, but these people did not know the quiet man with the healer's heart.
"Josiah, I need to…" Jackson started, but his bottom lip trembled and the words would not come.
"Take your time, Brother," Sanchez said and smiled as Ezra handed him the silver flask. He handed it to Jackson who took a quick drink before kneeling beside the Texan. "Tell me what you need."
"I need a doctor…a real one," the healer answered softly.
"You are a doctor, my friend, and I will wager everything in my boot that you could stand taller than most physicians at Johns Hopkins," Standish vowed. Josiah had wrapped the wound on his arm until Nathan had a chance to look at it, but there was still so much to do for Vin Tanner.
"Thanks, Ezra," Jackson said and took a deep breath before looking around. "Josiah, can you rig up some blankets in the back of that wagon?"
"I can…what else?" Sanchez asked.
"Anyone in need of help should follow us to the hacienda. Everyone else should just go home. Don Paulo's people should be told that he is dead," Jackson said and gently cleaned the minor cuts that covered Vin's face and arms. "I want to take him back to the hacienda…Jesus, what if…what if Don Garcia is still in control?"
"If he is, Buck will send someone to tell us," Sanchez assured him.
"Ezra, I should see to your arm," Jackson said.
"Mr. Sanchez does not have your soothing touch, but he quite capably cleaned the wound," Standish told him and placed a hand on Jackson's shoulder. "It will keep until you are rested, Nathan."
"Thanks, Ez," Jackson said and swallowed past the lump that threatened to choke him as he looked at the man who, along with Chris Larabee, had saved his life.
"Nathan, the wagon is ready," Sanchez said.
"Bring it closer. It's gonna be hell movin' 'im and I ain't 'bout ta make 'im suffer any more'n I have to," Jackson vowed. He waited until the wagon was pulled up alongside the injured man and turned to find two men who rode with Raphael watching him. "Josiah, we're gonna need help liftin' im."
"I can help," the gambler said and was relieved when the former slave nodded his acceptance. He moved to Tanner's right leg and was not all that surprised when several others moved to help without being asked.
"All right, we're gonna move 'im, but I want 'im kept as straight as possible. He took quite a beating and I ain't sure if there's anything busted up inside so we do this slow and careful," Jackson ordered. He moved to take the Texan's head, noting the way the long hair was soaked in sweat and matted to his forehead. Shaking himself, Jackson nodded that he was ready and hardened his heart when the move awakened the injured man.
Vin knew the instant he entered hell and screamed deep in his throat as hands were placed on his body and lifted him. There were voices, but the words were unintelligible in the wake of the horrific pain that seemed to spread through every part of his body. Tears slipped from eyes that opened wide in sheer panic, but there seemed to be no relief in sight. Someone seemed to be making weak sounds nearby, and he suddenly realized those cries were coming from his own throat.
"God, Vin, I'm sorry," Jackson said and could no longer fight the emotional waves that threatened to drown him. He knew they had to keep going, but that didn't make it any easier as Josiah and another man reached for the injured Texan and guided him into the wagon.
Vin gasped as his body was settled onto several blankets, but there was no relief from the rampant pain that flooded his body. He clenched his eyes and felt the moisture on his cheeks just before darkness won out and he descended into an oblivion that kept the misery at bay for now.
"Nathan, why don't you sit with Vin while I drive the wagon," Sanchez offered.
"God, Josiah, how am I gonna help them when it feels like I'm the cause of it all," Jackson said tiredly.
"You're not to blame, and someday you will realize that, My Friend. For now, rest, because you may not have faith in yourself, but we…your friends…do," Sanchez vowed, squeezing the healer's right shoulder before moving aside so Standish could climb in beside the former slave.
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Covas Home
South of the Rio Grande
Mid-Afternoon
Carmella Covas looked up as a sound reached her ears and watched as the young man's head moved from side to side. She reached out and touched her hand against his cheek as the eyelids slowly parted and the eyes latched onto her own.
"…where…Buck…"
"Your friends are fine, JD, they're safe, but they're worried about you. How do you feel?"
"…head hur…"
"Yes, I'm sure it does, but it will get better. I have something I'd like you to drink," Carmella said as her husband came into the room with a cup of warm broth.
JD frowned when he looked at the newcomer and tried to make sense of where he was and why he felt weaker than a day old calf. He thought Buck had been there…and Chris…no, Chris was…Chris was…God, he couldn't think clearly.
"Here, JD," Carmella said as her husband lifted the young man's head and she helped him drink from the cup. He didn't drink as much as she would have liked, but he soon drifted back to sleep, one she hoped would help heal his wounds, physical as well as emotional.
"Carmella, Love, you need to rest," Cristóbal said and helped her stand.
"What if he wakes and needs something?"
"Then we will tend to his needs, for now you need a siesta," Cristóbal told her and led her to the room they shared. "Do not worry, Carmella, you will hear him if he awakens. Your heart has always been in tune to those in need and it has yet to let anyone down."
"Oh, Cristóbal, you always know what I need."
"Yes, I do," he said and lay down beside her, loving the feel of this woman, a gift given by God, and entrusted to his love and devotion. He listened for the soft sigh that usually escaped just before she slept and smiled before allowing his own mind to drift off.
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De Rivera Hacienda
Mid-Afternoon
Chris Larabee was a man on a mission and nothing was going to stop him. He reached the top of the stairs and slowly walked along the corridor. There was only one man who would recognize the battered man and that was Buck Wilmington, who'd seen Chris through the wildness after the murder of his wife and son.
Chris staggered forward, using the upper railing as a crutch as he checked each room he passed. There was nothing left of the man who'd emerged once he'd become part of the seven men protecting the town of Four Corners. The man, whose body wore warrior's tattoos in bruises, cuts, and blood was intent on sending De Rivera to hell to burn in the fires of damnation where he belonged.
Chris was prepared to die, but not until he made Don Garcia pay for killing JD Dunne. He could almost hear Dunne's voice, pleading for his acceptance, and a thin smile, unholy in its lack of humor, formed on his face as he stopped in front of an open door.
"Die, Bastardo, die!" De Rivera screamed and brought the weapon up.
Chris reacted on impulse, his body moving even before he realized what his nemesis held. Instinct sent him lunging toward the Don, barreling into him like a human battering ram even as he felt a searing pain through his left side.
Don Garcia felt the air driven from his lungs as his son's killer hit him and the gun flew from his hands. A table shattered under the weight of the two men who were hell bent on killing each other no matter what the cost.
Chris felt his body slam into the wall, and something connected with the right side of his head as he slid to the floor, dazed and angered by his weakness. He felt blood in his right eye and shook his head in an effort to clear the fog that had suddenly engulfed his mind. He turned to see Garcia climbing unsteadily to his feet and knew the other man was far from finished.
Chris managed to get to his knees, shaking his head in an effort to rid himself of the dizziness and blood that ran down the right side of his face. He sank to the floor and lay there until an image of JD's head snapping back with the force of a bullet striking him renewed his need for revenge.
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Buck rode as if the hounds of hell were hot on his trail and anyone who knew him would have recognized a man on a mission. Buck knew Medina and Cordova rode with him, but it didn't matter because Buck was alone with his thoughts and could not drive the demons from his soul. Chris Larabee was more than a friend, he was a brother, a kindred spirit, and no one could hurt him and get away with it, not as long as there was breath in his body.
Images flashed across his mind, pictures that flowed showing the years of friendship he had with Chris. The few short years of love he'd had as a married man and shorter still as a father. The glow that radiated from an awestruck first time father as he gently stroked the silken cheek of his new son and then kissed the woman who held his heart. Then came the long days and nights after Sarah and Adam's murder, dealing with the man's anger at God, at everyone around him, at the world, and especially at himself.
Buck knew he would never reach the hacienda in time and silently cursed Don Garcia. His head was filled with the events of the last few weeks and he thought about the young man at the Covas home and prayed he was still with them. God help De Rivera if JD, Vin, or Chris died because of him, because Buck would unleash his own demons if that happened. He turned onto De Rivera land and headed his horse toward the front of the large house.
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Don Garcia looked around for anything he could use to finish the gringo off, but there was nothing within reach as Larabee climbed to his feet. He understood now that Larabee was possessed by demons that would not relinquish their hold on him until vengeance had been served.
There was nowhere for him to go now, but he slowly backed up until he felt the warmth of the sun on his back and exited onto the upper verandah. He glanced around, again searching for something, anything that would save his life as Larabee followed him out into the bright afternoon sunlight. There was no mistaking the smile Larabee wore. It was a sign of insanity, a sign of death, his death and De Rivera looked for some means of escape.
Chris felt nothing, but a primal rage as he stepped through the open glass doors and spotted De Rivera near the railing. The sneer he wore gave little doubt of his intent as the sunlight shone down on a body riddled with damage, yet untouched by the pain that would have floored a normal man. Right now, Chris Larabee was anything but normal as he continued to force one foot in front of the other.
Don Garcia spotted the tray of fruit on the table and smiled with relief when the sun glinted off a shiny blade. He lunged forward and grabbed the handle as Larabee turned in his direction. He raised the knife, aiming to finish this once and for all.
Chris' vision blurred and he blinked several times as the sun stabbed at his eyes, robbing him of sight for several deadly seconds. He heard movement on his right and turned just as the sun shone off a deadly weapon that arced toward his chest. He stepped sideways, and lunged at his foe, crying out when the blade was buried deep in his shoulder and he sank to his knees, but not before seeing Don Garcia De Rivera disappear over the edge of the railing.
Chris didn't have the strength to stand, but he used what little he had left to drag himself across the floor. He reached the railing and heard a commotion from below, but there was no way he could stand and look over. He lay on his side, panting in the sunlight as his left arm stretched out toward the familiar voice from below.
"Bu…Buck…" he whispered and closed his eyes.
TBC