Prologue
Spring, 1857
Shots. Even a child of nine recognized that sound. Suddenly it was no longer a fine spring day, the wildflowers no longer held her interest. The overgrown puppy at the child’s feet even ceased its romping. For a moment an ominous silence reigned, as if even the birds waited for a repetition of the sound that too often signaled death in the new Territory of New Mexico.
Standing still, the little girl tried to think. Was it Indians? Was it bandidos? There seemed to be so many things to fear. Should she stay? Should she run? Should she hide? The only thing Antonie had been told was where to hide if she was at home and there was an attack. No one had told her what to do if she was picking wildflowers out of sight of her home.
Another shot cut through the still air and her legs began to move. At first it was a slow advance, but then her small legs began to move faster. She had to know. The puppy clumsily tried to keep up with her as she raced toward home.
* * *
Juan Ramirez was sickened by what he saw. He was a man of violence, but he prided himself on confining it to those he considered deserving or who could fight back. The men who rode with him knew he held firm to his rules. These poor settlers had nothing worth stealing, had been struggling as hard as any of his own people. This violence had gained them nothing, and that infuriated him. It had also wasted time, another serious crime in his eyes. He stared down at the instigator he had just shot and wondered idly if that would be enough of a lesson for his three men, or if he should shoot them, too. At the sound of someone running toward them, he stiffened and turned, his gun ready as were those of his men.
The little girl who raced toward them seemed blind to their presence. He tried to stop her from getting inside the cabin, but she neatly eluded his grasp. Cursing, he followed the child and stood in the doorway to watch her. She stood and looked around at the destruction, clearly not understanding it.
Setting down her flowers, Antonie moved toward her mother’s body wondering why she was nearly naked. With an odd dignity that struck to the core the man watching her, she straightened her mother’s clothing and shut the woman’s wide, staring eyes. All she could think of was that death meant burying. She had to dig two big holes and put her parents in them. That was what they had done with her brother and sister when they had died.
“Why are you still here?” she asked the man who blocked the door. “They’re dead. You can’t kill them anymore. Move.”
Not sure why, Juan moved. He stood scratching his beard as he watched her go to the barn. His men grew restless as they wondered aloud why they were not leaving. Juan continued to watch as the child returned dragging a shovel that was too big and too heavy for her to use.
He compared her to a china doll he had stolen once. Her long untidy curls were the color of cornsilk, her skin like cream, and her stature delicate even for a child he estimated to be about nine. It was her eyes that really fascinated him, however. They were like amethysts, huge pools of purple in her small face, topped by delicate brows and encircled by lush lashes that were several shades darker than her hair. He had no idea what he would do with her, but he knew he could not leave her behind.
“Niña, my men will do the burying.” He took the shovel from her and handed it to one of the three who had helped in the killing. “You are too little, eh?”
It was a hasty burial. There was a very good chance that men were already on their trail. The border was not far, but Juan did not wish to be caught in a race for it. He left the child putting her wildflowers on her mother’s grave and returned to the cabin to throw her few things into a saddlebag. When he went back outside he found her returning to the cabin.
“Juan,” ventured Manuel, his right-hand man, “what can you do with a little girl? This is madness.”
Looking at the child who watched them, plainly not understanding Spanish, he replied, “Yes, it is, but she is my prize.” He grinned at Manuel. “I will be a father but without the trouble of a wife. Is that madness?” He asked her in English, “Your name?”
“Antonie Neumann.” She studied the tall, slim, dark man. “Why did you kill my mama and papa?”
“I did not do this thing, niña.” He gestured to the body of the man he had shot. “This man did, so I killed him. I am a bandido, sí, but I do not trouble those with nothing worth stealing.” He watched her nod at the sense of that. “You come with us now, chica,” he said as he set her in the saddle.
“Sage. My dog.” She clung to Juan’s saddle horn and looked down at the puppy who whined at the horse’s hooves.
“Manuel will bring the dog.” He chuckled over Manuel’s curses as he mounted behind the little girl. “You will belong to Juan now.”