“It might’ve had something to do with that.”
“You going to accept Jackson Crow’s offer?” he asked her.
“I…don’t know. Maybe. You?”
“This morning, I would’ve given him a definite no. Now…I’m not sure. Either way, I want to find out what there is to see at the morgue tomorrow.”
She felt a tightening inside. Yes. The morgue.
They were both silent for a minute. Then he began to speak, his tone relaxed.
“The Alamo’s a shrine,” he said softly. “Of course, it’s different than it was at the time of the battle. The chapel and this area—including the long barracks—was just a small part of the original Alamo,” Logan explained. “The walls extended for a quarter of a mile. In fact, that was one of the problems for the defenders once Santa Anna’s men breeched the walls—the place was too big to protect easily. The men who fought here fought hard, and they fought knowing they were likely to die.” He glanced at her. “Courage is being afraid—and going ahead, anyway.”
Kelsey nodded in agreement.
“Santa Anna had his men raise a red flag in a nearby church tower, and that bloodred flag indicated there’d be no quarter given. But, of course, the Alamo was part of a bigger story, and like most history, it depends on who is doing the telling. The Spanish had been in control. They’d signed a treaty ceding Florida to the U.S. and creating a boundary between the United States and Spanish America. But before that, men called impresarios, Stephen Austin among them, had been luring Americans into Texas with land grants that required no down payment. Then the Mexicans fought the Spanish for independence and won. Santa Anna become president, or more accurately, dictator. Texians or Anglo-Americans, and Tejanos, Mexican-Texans, had been living under the Constitution of 1824 until Santa Anna rescinded it and pretty much pissed them all off.”
“Which led to what happened here,” she said, absorbed in what he was telling her.
“Right. But a lot of movies about the Alamo forgot to depict the Tejanos who were part of the effort—and part of the effort to create an independent Texas. Some of the early books and movies about the Alamo were downright racist. The good old Anglo-Americans were the heroes, while the Tejanos who fought just as hard were ignored. I’m glad to say we’re moving past that.” He smiled slightly. “But it’s also true that regardless of background, these men weren’t on some idealistic mission for freedom and honor. They were like most of us—looking for a way to make a better life for themselves.”
“And there would’ve been no Texas without both groups,” Kelsey remarked.
His smile deepened. “Santa Anna miscalculated. He thought that his ‘no quarter given’ policy would scare off the revolutionaries. Instead, ‘Remember the Alamo!’ became a battle cry. Soon after, the massacre at Goliad occurred. Santa Anna had everyone there executed, and the war became one of revenge as well as Texan independence. Of course, if they’d lost, the whole thing would’ve been described as the Mexicans putting down an uprising by a group of rebels.”
“But Texas did gain its independence and then became part of the United States,” Kelsey said. “I appreciate what you’ve told me. I’m really interested in history.”
“Me, too. I just want it to be history and not fiction.”
“You’re a Ranger and obviously Native American,” she said. “What’s your history?”
“Very typical of Texas—a real mix. My father’s a quarter Apache and three-fourths Anglo. My mother’s half Norwegian and half Comanche. They’re both all-Texan. And all-American. And they’re alive and well and living happily in Montana now.”
“Didn’t the Texas Rangers spend a lot of years battling the Comanches?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But they also learned from them.” He eased back a little as he spoke, leaning against the bench as he watched the young people around him seek to learn about the past. “A Comanche warrior could ride at breakneck speed—while clinging to the side of his horse with his shield, bow and quiver. He could fire off twelve arrows while a Ranger was trying to reload his rifle. To fight the Comanche, the Rangers had to learn how to do the same—or something equivalent and their fights led to some real renovations in weapons.” He turned to face her. “I like to think I’ve learned from all my ancestors, including the Vikings,” he added with a grin.
“Why not?” she said, shrugging comically.
“O’Brien. Are you Irish?” he asked.
“Like you, I’m mostly all-American mutt, but yes, my dad’s family immigrated from Ireland.”
“And you come from the Sunshine State. Do you miss it?”
“No,” she said. “Okay, a little. But I’m at the Longhorn, as you know, and Sandy’s an old friend. I have a cousin here, too. Sean Cameron. But he’s—”
He straightened. “Sean Cameron is your cousin?” he asked.
“Well, a Sean Cameron is my cousin.”
“He works for a company called Magic on Demand?”
“Yes. You know him?”
He nodded, staring at her.
“How?”
“He’s been a consultant for us a few times. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, but one Halloween we had a murder in a haunted house, and he was brought in. He helped the crime-scene people dig through the fake gore and get down to the real evidence.” Logan was quiet for a minute.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Did you always want to be a Texas Ranger?” she asked, changing the subject.
He nodded. “My dad was a Ranger,” he said. “What about you?”
“I always wanted to be a Marshal,” she told him. “I knew it from when I was in high school.”
He slouched down on the bench, thoughtful as he studied the tourists coming and going. “Most people would say you don’t look the part,” he said.
“What am I supposed to look like?”
“John Wayne, maybe.”
She laughed. “Didn’t he play a Texas Ranger once? He was definitely here at the Alamo in one of his movies.”
He turned to her, but as he did, he saw someone behind her and frowned.
She turned around, as well, and saw a man. He was the only person in their vicinity and he was dressed in costume, a big wide-brimmed hat, buckskins and boots. She assumed he had to be a member of the little group who’d just reenacted the scene between the men at the Alamo. He obviously knew Logan Raintree and wanted to speak to him, while Raintree looked as if he wanted the man to disappear.
What was his problem? Logan Raintree was being downright rude, and in her opinion, there was no excuse for that kind of behavior.
“Hello.” She smiled, hoping to compensate for her companion’s lack of courtesy.
She was startled when Raintree stood abruptly and even the costumed stranger took a step back.
“Who are you talking to?” Raintree asked suspiciously.
Kelsey stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. She stood, too, and said pointedly, “The gentleman you’re ignoring.” She turned back to look at the man in costume, but he was gone.
When she turned toward Logan Raintree again, his expression had hardened, and he seemed to have withdrawn from her.
“You saw a man?” he demanded.
“Of course I saw him,” she said. “He wanted to talk to you, and you acted like he was a martian or something.”
As she frowned at him, both of them standing near the chapel of the Alamo, she heard an intense whirring sound.
Birds.
Black birds…crows. Settling down, all around them.
“I’ll see you at the morgue tomorrow,” Logan Raintree said, and he began to walk away, his footsteps moving through the sudden sea of birds, scattering them in all directions.
Chapter Four
A murder could be easier to solve than the case of a missing person, Kelsey reflected. When a body was discovered, there was a chance to collect evidence and—usually—a trail to follow. When a person had simply disappeared, you had to assume someone must have seen something, but finding that someone was often next to impossible.
The files they’d been given contained all the known information about Vanessa Johnston, who was last seen purchasing gas at a station near the county line.
She’d spoken briefly with a young cashier when she had gone in to buy coffee, saying she was excited about going to San Antonio, and then she’d gotten back into her Honda and driven off. Neither she nor the car had been seen since.
Her cell phone records indicated that she’d made no calls. Nor had she used her charge card again.
“A car has to show up somewhere,” Kelsey murmured aloud to herself.
There was a tap on her door. She was in bed—having moved into Room 207—and she rose up, leaning against her pillow.
“Kelsey?” Sandy called.
“Come on in,” Kelsey said.
She hadn’t had a chance to speak with Sandy since she’d gotten back; the inn was now full, and there’d been a number of bartenders and waitresses in the busy downstairs area, along with the singer who was reprising old tunes with a piano player. The saloon had been bustling. She’d been glad, since she wasn’t ready to share anything about her day. Yet.
When she’d returned, however, Corey Simmons had been waiting for her, hoping to buy her a drink. She’d declined. Sandy had packed up his belongings, brought them to Kelsey’s room, then packed up Kelsey’s stuff. He wanted to thank her, he’d said rather sheepishly, for moving into Room 207.
“Hey, just wanted to make sure you’re okay in here,” Sandy told her, stepping inside. Sandy was wearing an apron, since she’d pitched in with the serving downstairs.
Kelsey smiled. “I’m fine, absolutely fine. Nothing’s going to happen to me in this room,” she assured Sandy.
