Page 4 of The Promise of Jenny Jones

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 The map he carried was hopelessly inaccurate or outdated or a hoax to begin with, and was worse than useless.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, Senor. ”

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 thing grande in 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 as grande. Maybe.

Turning his horse, he traveled back the way he had come, searching sagging storefronts until he spotted a sun-flaked sign announcing the Casa 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, Senor!”

“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 the Casa 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, Senor ” 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!”

Damned if he didn’t find Chapula on the first try.

And it had a mark beside it, indicating a railroad.

Of course, that didn’t mean the railroad was functioning.

He’d learned that, too. The first thing the Mexicans did when they were pissed was to blow up the nearest railroad.

It didn’t seem to matter who they were pissed at—the government, the local patron, their dog—the way to express dissatisfaction was to blow up a railroad.

There was no way to be certain, but it appeared the tracks that passed through Chapula ran southwest to Verde Flores.

Immediately, Ty’s spirits rose. When he reached Verde Flores, he was only a day’s ride from the no-name village he’d come all this distance to find.

The first half of this lunatic journey would be ended.

Dropping the map beside the tub, he eased his head back against the rim and puffed on his cigar, scowling at the cracks in the ceiling.

In six years a hundred things could have happened to make this journey a total waste of time.

Marguarita might be dead. The child might be dead. Marguarita might have remarried. Or entered a nunnery. She might have moved or simply vanished. Maybe she had lied and there had never been a child. Maybe he was on a fool’s errand.

No maybe about that, he thought, swearing silently. This was a fool’s errand, and he was the fool who had agreed to undertake it.

Later that night, he received confirmation that Chapula was a three-day ride to the southwest. That, and one hell of a fight involving half of the village, improved his mood considerably. When he entered the stables at dawn and discovered his horse hadn’t been stolen, he felt almost cheerful.

He had a black eye and a cracked lip when he rode out of Mexla, but he was whistling between his teeth.

“I hate you!” Graciela stamped a tiny tasseled boot on the ground. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

Jenny frowned at the kid before she pulled the priest’s cassock off over her head and handed it to a grim-faced woman standing beside a better horse than any Jenny had ever ridden.

“Shut up, kid.”

“I want my mother!”

“I don’t want to start off by having to slap the hell out of you, so just shut up, you hear me?

” She thrust her face down near Graciela’s, so the kid could see the threat in her eyes.

“We need to be quiet until we get away from here. I know your mama told you to mind what I say, and I’m telling you to shut your mouth.

If I have to stuff a rag between your teeth, I’ll do it. ”

“I hate you!” At least she didn’t scream it this time.

Jenny reached for the clothing extended by the woman holding the reins of the horse. “This is a skirt!” she said, shaking out the top item. The woman didn’t say anything. She just handed Jenny a set of petticoats. “Well, damn.”

She needed to put tracks between herself and the cousins, and she was going to have to do it while carrying the kid in front of her and wearing skirts.

A cussword exploded between her lips. At least Marguarita had a good eye for size.

The skirt and blouse were a fair fit. The hat was laughable to begin with, and about as useful for keeping the sun off as a teacup would have been, but Marguarita hadn’t forgotten to include one.

And she’d had the sense to send boots that were serviceable instead of fashionable.

The finishing touches turned out to be lace gloves and a waist-length cape, both of which impressed Jenny as ridiculous.

The lace gloves would be rags after two hours of riding, and she’d broil under that cape twenty minutes after full dawn.

She pushed both items into the saddlebags and her fingers brushed a pouch of heavy coins and a packet of papers.

Good. Marguarita hadn’t forgotten the money.