Midnight Rider (8 page)

She made it more than halfway up the hill before she tripped and her legs gave way beneath her. She sprawled in the dry parched dirt beneath a thorny manzanita, several sharp barbs digging into the flesh on her leg. One of the vaqueros rode up beside her, dismounted, and carefully helped her back on her feet. He spoke softly in Spanish, words of encouragement, she thought, but with her head still spinning, she couldn't be sure.

Pedro Sanchez rode past, halting his horse beside that of the don.

“Enough, Ramon! You will let the girl go.”

“No.”

“You must listen to me,
hijo.
I have known you since you were a boy. Always, I have been as proud of you as if you were my own son. Do not do this thing.”

“Stand away, amigo.”

“I know that you are hurting. I know that it is your grief that blinds you—I beg of you to stop this terrible thing.”

“I said stand away.”

For a moment the old man didn't move. “Hear me now, Ramon de la Guerra. If you do this, it will be your gravest mistake, and for the first time since I have known you, you will make me feel ashamed.”

The don worked a muscle in his jaw. His gaze went from Sanchez to Carly and a harsh smile curved his lips. “We will ask the girl. If it is her wish to ride, she must only say so and it will be done.” He raked her with those hard brown eyes, the challenge clear in the cruel set of his jaw. “Is it your wish to ride with me, Senorita McConnell?” He was mocking her, baiting her, daring her to defy him. “If it is, you must only just ask and I will see your wish is granted.”

Fresh tears threatened, burning at the back of her eyes.
Dear God, don't let him see.
She stared hard at him, hating him for what he was doing, wishing she could wipe that vicious smile from his handsome face.

Wishing she could give in to defeat and say the words he wanted to hear, but knowing she could not, she glanced to the top of the trail. It didn't look all that far.

“
Si,
Senorita,” he taunted, as if he read her mind, “Llano Mirada is just there.” He pointed to the rise. “Not far for one so determined. What is it to be?”

“
Por Dios,
Ramon—”

Carly met his gaze squarely. With the last of her will, she straightened her shoulders. “You are in my way, senor. Lead on or remove the rope and ride off the trail so that I may pass in front of you.”

Something flickered in his bold, dark eyes. He glanced to the old vaquero, who sadly shook his head. For a moment he made no move, then he nudged the big horse forward. They started up the trail at a little slower pace. When he felt a tug on the rope as she stumbled, the don eased back even more. The stallion began to prance, eager to reach his home, but the Spaniard held him firmly in check, insuring a slackness in the line, allowing her to set the pace.

Why? she wondered, when he wanted so badly to break her, to see her grovel at his feet. If she didn't know better, she would think he wanted her to make it. It was impossible, of course, and yet …

Carly wet her lips. The rope twisted and swung in front of her. The pale blue robe seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. She wore only her white cotton night rail beneath it, grimy now, the small pink bow torn and dangling at the base of her throat. With a show of defiance that marked her desperation, she stripped off the robe and continued up the hill. Sweat broke out on her forehead, trickled into the place between her breasts. Her breathing grew labored, her lungs on fire with each tortured breath. The blisters on her feet seared into her skin, and the top of the rise seemed to move farther away with each of her shaky steps. Still she drove herself on.

The others rode quietly behind her, none of them speaking, watching her with eyes full of pity. It didn't matter. All that mattered was reaching the top of the hill.

“It is not far now,” said the don, and there was something different in his voice, a gentleness she hadn't heard since the day he had given her the rose. “Only a few more paces.”

She stood beside his stirrup, she realized, having no idea when she had walked forward, yet clinging to his saddle for support. For the first time she noticed the rope was gone from around her wrists; the binding, too, had been cut and stripped away. The horse moved forward and so did Carly, one careful step at a time. The last footfall lifted her onto a wide plateau that looked out over the mountains.
Llano Mirada,
flat plain with a view.

She took two more shaky steps and stumbled. The don jerked the horse to a stop, but already her vision was spinning. She felt a hand at her waist, then the ground rushed up and she tumbled into darkness.

Ramon was off his horse in a heartbeat, but it was Pedro Sanchez who lifted the girl up in his arms.

“Stand away from her, Ramon,” his friend said in a voice he hadn't heard since he was a boy. Guilt washed through him, leaving him shaken and confused, and suddenly filled with remorse. He had never been purposely cruel. He was a hard man, yes, but only because he'd had to be. He looked at the woman, saw her fiery auburn hair trailing over Sanchez's arm, saw her high full breasts rising with each of her too-rapid breaths, and a knot of regret rose painfully inside him.

Backing away, he let the older man pass, Sanchez cradling the girl as if she were a child.

But she wasn't a child, he reminded himself. She was Fletcher Austin's niece. She was rich and spoiled, and as thirsty for power and wealth as her uncle. She was the woman who had gotten his brother killed.

He watched them and his chest felt tight. She was also courageous and proud, and she had earned a respect from him he had given to no other woman.

It did not change what she was. It did not change the way he felt. And yet …

Sanchez carried her into the small adobe house he and Andreas had built with their own hands, and Florentia, his housekeeper, closed the door behind them. Across the compound, the vaqueros greeted their loved ones, their families and friends in the camp. Ignacio and Santiago, the two men wounded in the raid, were helped down from their horses and led inside another small house where their women could tend them.

Ruiz Domingo, his youngest vaquero, led the pack horse that carried his brother's remains. Word had already been sent. Padre Xavier would arrive in the morning. Standing in the shade of the porch, Miranda Aguilar spoke briefly to Ruiz, then started in Ramon's direction. She was tall and graceful, her features dark and alluring. She was part Miwok Indian, part Castilian Spanish, with a smooth complexion and shiny long black hair.

“Ramon,” she said, reaching out to him, her pretty dark eyes filled with tears. Her husband had ridden with Murieta, had died robbing a group of travelers ten months after Joaquin's last encounter with the law. “
Dios mio,
I am so sorry.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she leaned her head against his chest.

She would go with him, he knew, take him into her soft woman's body and try to ease some of his pain. He also knew that he would not let her.

“We are all of us sorry,
querida.
” He eased himself away. “Please … go now with the others.”

“But I want to be with you. Do not send me away, Ramon.”

He moved even farther from her. “I said for you to go. That is exactly what I mean.”

She stood there for only a moment, head held high, long black hair streaming down to nearly her waist, then she turned and walked away. He knew she would not disobey him. Not like the Americana, the
gringa.
Still, it was that one he thought of as he made his way quietly into the forest, away from the others to a place where he could pray.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Torn between anger and pity, Pedro Sanchez watched the man who was like his own son. Ramon de la Guerra stood at the foot of his brother's grave beneath a huge live oak, holding his hat in his hands, his eyes closed, his head bent forward. It was nearly nightfall. Padre Xavier had finished the brief mass for Andreas early that morning. Since then, Ramon had returned three times to the grave.

He left there now, walking back toward the compound, though he had yet to go into his house, not even last night to sleep. Sighing into the silence, Pedro thought of leaving, of letting him continue to grieve, but his anger would not let him—that and an instinct that told him perhaps Ramon needed something besides his brother's death upon which to dwell.

He clamped his jaw. Pedro knew exactly what that something should be.

Crossing the distance between them, he walked up beside his friend. “I would speak to you, Ramon. There is something I must say.”

Ramon's dark head came up. “What is it, Pedro?”

“It is about the girl.”

“I do not wish to discuss the girl.”

“No? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is better if you see your handiwork for yourself.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “What are you talking about?”

“Come with me.”

Wordlessly, Pedro led the way toward the house, Ramon close at his heels. They entered the small adobe building to the aroma of red peppers simmering in a heavy iron kettle suspended over the fire in the hearth, and the sound of
masa
being slapped into the flat, round shape of tortillas.

Florentia, a short stout, black-haired woman in her fifties, turned at the noise of the door closing sharply behind them. “
La comida
will soon be ready, Don Ramon,” she called out. “It is time you had something to eat.”

Ramon said nothing, just followed in Sanchez's wake to the door leading into the single small bedroom. The old vaquero pushed open the door and Ramon walked in.

Pedro turned to face him. “You have blamed the girl for Andreas's death. And you have blamed yourself. The girl did nothing any one of us would not have done in the same situation. You did only what it was your brother wished. You could not have stopped either one of those things from happening.”

Ramon said nothing, just stared at the small figure huddled in the bed.

“It is time you forgave the girl. Perhaps even more important—it is time you forgave yourself.”

She lay unconscious, her pale face bathed in sweat, the covers kicked off and her nightgown tangled up around her bare knees. The gown was clean, he saw, one Florentia must have provided, borrowed from Miranda or one of the Indian girls. The dirt was gone from her legs and feet, but not the long deep scratches. He could still see the bruise on her cheek. Occasionally, her eyelids flickered, as if the dreams she suffered were even more unpleasant than the journey that had brought her to such a state.

Ramon's mouth went dry. The air seemed to burn in his lungs. His face felt bloodless and nearly as pale as the girl's.

“If it is penance you seek, my friend,” Pedro said softly, “this is the crime for which you must pay.”

Ramon leaned forward, gripping the scrollwork at the foot of the old iron bed. Huddled in the center, the girl looked like an innocent child, her small hands fisted beneath her chin, her legs drawn up, her flame dark hair tousled and unkempt around her shoulders.

Ramon's chest tightened, the ache more painful with each escaping breath. “
Madre de Dios
—what have I done?”

Sanchez's tension eased as he walked up beside him. “What matters is that you care. That you are thinking clearly again. Florentia and I will see to the girl. When she is better, you can—”

“I will see to the girl. This is my fault. All of it.
Por Dios,
I cannot believe I am responsible for something like this.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, my friend. Even you. A wise man learns from them.”

Ramon just shook his head. “I told myself it was her fault, that she was to blame for what happened to Andreas. From the start, I knew it was not the truth, that I was the one to blame. It was wrong, what I did. Unforgivably wrong.” Stripping off the black leather vest he wore, he tossed it over a chair, then sat down at the side of the bed. He leaned over and touched her forehead, which burned beneath his hand.

“Her fever is high,” he said.

“
Si.
Florentia has tried to bring it down, but so far nothing has worked.”

“Get me some water and several more clean cloths. Tell Miranda to fetch the Indian woman from the village. Tell her to take Ruiz with her and get back here as soon as she can.”

Pedro smiled gently. “I will see to it,
patron.
”

Ramon looked up at the word, rarely used between the two friends. Something flickered in the old vaquero's eyes, respect, or perhaps approval.

“
Gracias,
my friend,” Ramon said softly. There was a shift in the air between them, a moment that said without words what each man felt for the other. Then Sanchez nodded, backed from the room, and quietly closed the door.

Ramon sat with the girl all that night, bathing her forehead, opening her gown and bathing her shoulders, bathing her legs and feet. He would have liked to remove her clothes, to care for her more completely, but he refused to submit her to any further indignities. He knew how proud she was. How much her pride would suffer if she thought he had seen her naked.

If he hadn't felt so bad, he might have smiled. Even without breaching her modesty, he knew what a beautiful body she had. It was outlined clearly beneath her thin cotton bedclothes: the tiny waist, graceful legs, and high lush breasts. Her bottom was round and womanly, her neck pale and slender, her feet and hands small and well formed.

He took in her tumbled hair, a cinnamon brown, once alive with fiery highlights. He frowned. Like its owner, it lacked the luster it once had. Washing it would return the fire. As soon as she was better, he vowed, he would remedy that himself.

Sponging her face, he rested the cloth for a moment against her dry lips. Caralee was her name, he recalled. Carly, she had said. A pretty name, saucy and determined just as she was. As he vowed that she would be again.