Free Emmy's Equal by Marcia Gruver Page B

the safety of the winsome young escort who vowed his life to protect her.
    Tension crackled in the air. Papa sat so stiffly on the seat Emmy feared his spine would snap. Mama mopped beads of sweat from her top lip with one hand and worried a tear in the brown leather seat with the other. Beside her, Aunt Bertha’s jaw worked in circles, emitting the sound of grinding teeth.
    “Watch them, ladies,” Papa said. “If they so much as flinch, I’ll lay the whip to the horse’s back.” Even as he issued the command, his head swiveled around three times to look for himself.
    All eyes were fixed on the huddle of swarthy men in the distance. Emmy felt fixed in place, as if fear had melded the joints and sinews of her body into stone.
    A sudden shout echoed across the plain. Papa’s head jerked around and Emmy’s legs tensed. She didn’t understand the strangely beautiful words, but the tone translated into anger. Papa reached for the whip, and a whispered prayer sprang from Aunt Bertha’s lips.
    Then Cuddy let out a peal of raucous laughter.
    Emmy’s gaze flitted to Papa, hoping the laughter meant they wouldn’t be scrambling for their lives. He released his breath in a rush and his rigid body slumped with relief. Warmth flooded Emmy’s chest, leaving her legs limp and her arms useless sticks in her lap.
    “It’s all right, sugar. Everything’s going to be fine,” Aunt Bertha said, though her hand trembled as she patted Emmy’s leg.
    Papa called, “Whoa,” to the team when the horsemen turned their mounts and headed toward them with Diego in the lead. Behind him rode a squat, older man even browner than Diego, with a long, heavy mustache. He rode alongside a slightly younger version of himself in similar clothes. Two men, closer in age to Diego, followed, with Cuddy bringing up the rear.
    One of the straggling riders appeared to be the object of a joke. He suffered much teasing from the rest, especially Cuddy. They were all laughing or smiling, except the old man. As he reached the wagon, ridges in his forehead resembled a washboard, and his mustache sagged. Flashing eyes, so dark they appeared black, crinkled into sunburst patterns at the corners.
    All of them wore big, peculiar hats sporting wide brims and tall crowns. Cuddy’s companion took his off and swiped at him. “Laugh hearty, foolish
gringo.
I know what I saw.” Catching sight of Emmy, he clutched the hat to his chest. “But what is this I see?”
    He bowed from atop his horse, first at Papa, though he had to force his dark eyes to switch, then at Mama and Aunt Bert. “
Buenos días,
señores
.
Señoras.”
    Bowing lower, his gaze swung to Emmy. “Good afternoon, señorita.”
    They dismounted as Papa climbed down and held out his hand. “Willem Dane at your service. This is my good wife, Magdalena, her companion, Bertha Bloom, and my daughter, Emily,” he said, pointing at each of them in turn. “Happy to make your acquaintances.”
    Diego, his accent thicker in the company of the men, made introductions all around. Señor Boteo, elder brother to Narcisso, the man who resembled him, father to Francisco, and uncle to Rico, proved to be the link connecting the family. With the old fellow still scowling and the others still snickering, it took no time for the yarn to surface.
    “Please to pardon these simpering pups, Señor Dane. They seek to make sport of my son”—he regarded Cuddy over his shoulder, one expressive brow climbing toward his hatband—“when they would do well to sober and heed his warning.”
    Grinning, Cuddy gripped Francisco’s shoulder. “Sober? I doubt you were any too sober when you chased that old bloodsucker off your goat.”
    The old man made the sign of the cross. “It is unwise to jest about it, son. The stories of
el chupa sangre
are quite real. He has wandered this land for generations, feeding on our livestock, and in rare cases, our people.”
    Papa stepped closer, his brows meeting in the middle. “Señor