Page 5 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
“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 Two
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 The map he carried was hopelessly inaccurate or outdated or a hoax to begin with, and was worse than useless.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 into Mexico and 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 of Mexico hadn’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 in California, 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 into Mexico, or he might have circled back toward the border. Removing his hat, he mopped the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. 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 thinggrandein this village was the church. That’s how it was in most of Mexico, at least the Mexico that 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 asgrande.Maybe.
Turning his horse, he traveled back the way he had come, searching sagging storefronts until he spotted a sun-flaked sign announcing theCasa Grande.On the other side of the street was 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, Senor. 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 theCasa 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 lips, 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!”
