Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (22 page)

Your daughter is very lovely, Señor Hildalgo,” Porfiro observed. “She will make a very good marriage, no?”

“That is not what you are here to talk about. Are you prepared to follow Señora and Señor Farrell when they leave?”

“Si. By morning I will have my men just beyond the walls of the courtyard.”

“Not too close. We don’t want them to know you’re behind them. I think it will be much easier to let them lead you to the mine.”

“You are sure about the gold and the jewel? People have searched for the Lost Spanish Treasure for hundreds of years without finding it.”

“I’m sure that both the gold and the ruby are at least two hundred years old. The setting for the jewel is Spanish, and the design is Old World. Yes. I believe we have found it.”

Señor Hildalgo leaned back in his desk chair and gave a deep, satisfied sigh. He had considered sending for Porfiro a long time before. Already a wealthy man, he had visions of building an empire here where the territory of New Mexico and old Mexico joined. Soon more Americans would come, and if he owned the land, he would be as well-to-do as the father of the man his daughter would marry. He cut a sharp eye toward the Mexican bandit.

“You know, of course,” the banker said, “if you get any idea of taking this all yourself, you’ll lose all claim to your family’s land.”

“Si. I understand. We will split the treasure. You will buy all the land and I will return a portion of my treasure to you for the land that once belonged to my family.”

“Fine. We are agreed.”

There was a moment of silence before the two men returned to the courtyard.

On the couch Lawrence Small kept very still. He
didn’t think that Tucker and Raven had any idea that the banker was about to try to cheat them. Of the three, Lawrence much preferred taking his chances on the big American and his wife to Señor Hildalgo. But what to do?

The newspaperman lay there contemplating the situation until he decided that he had to warn them. Perhaps if they appreciated his actions, they’d take him along. That was exactly what he wanted. To go on a treasure hunt himself.

He could see the story now, splashed across the New York City streets. Son of wealthy publisher finds long-lost Spanish treasure.

Once he was certain that his host had left the room, Lawrence stole quietly into the hall and up the stairs. Outside the Farrells’ room, he knocked. Lightly at first, then more firmly.

“Mr. Farrell, open the door. It’s very important that I speak with you.”

Nothing.

He moved to the next door and tried the knob. The door opened easily to reveal an empty room, maid’s quarters, he’d guess. Slipping inside, Lawrence closed the door behind him. Odd, the door between the rooms was locked. Next he tried the balcony, stepping out into the shadows. He moved silently down to the Farrells’ room. That door opened easily.

Empty.

There were no sleeping forms in the beds, no portmanteaus or cases. No clothing left behind.

They were gone.

For a moment Lawrence was puzzled. Then he understood. It had been an elaborate hoax. Tucker Farrell had obviously drugged him with the wine to prevent his interference. Señor Hildalgo and a Mexican called Porfiro were planning to follow them the next day when they’d
announced they were going to look at land. Obviously the Farrells had drummed up the injured ankle and the early retirement so that they could leave during the fiesta.

“Rats!”

Lawrence considered his situation. Maybe if he hurried, he could still catch up with the pair, warn them, and ask them to take him along.

But first he made up the bed to look as if someone were sleeping there. With a little finagling, he discovered the door to the balcony could be latched from the inside, then closed, leaving the room locked.

He’d found out before they came that they’d left their supplies at the livery stable. It made sense that they would reclaim them. Now all he had to do follow them, rent a horse, and find someone who could tell him which way they’d gone.

Borrowing a buggy wasn’t theft, if he let the horse go at the edge of the small town. Lawrence watched the horse return the same way he’d come, then walked the rest of the way to the livery stable.

“Hello?”

The stable was dark. Nobody answered.

“I said, hello inside. I need to rent a conveyance.”

A curse followed, then a thump, and the door opened. “Who be you?”

“I’m Lawrence Small. I’m a newspaperman and I’d like some information.”

The door slammed. “Come back when I’m open.”

“No, please, I’m willing to pay. I need a mount.”

“Only got one sorry horse. He’s an ornery old cuss, belonged to a priest till he had to sell him to pay for food for his flock of sinners.”

Half an hour later, Lawrence was riding a bony horse and heading out of town, in the same direction he’d been told that an American and his lady friend had gone earlier.
It had cost Lawrence a large portion of his funds, but he was certain that the proprietor of the stable wouldn’t tell anyone else what he’d learned.

Now if he could just get the horse to cooperate.

Suddenly the stubborn animal began a determined trot off the main trail in another direction.

Lawrence yelled and pulled on the reins. But the horse kept going, and Lawrence, holding on for dear life, went along.

So much for fame and fortune. He’d been tricked. He would be lucky to save his life.

As the trail narrowed and began to climb toward the mountains, Yank began to fight Tucker’s control. The night, already cloudy, darkened even more. Black racing clouds fled across the sky in pursuit of the moon, shrouding it momentarily, then releasing it as a moaning wind hurled itself down the canyon.

In the face of danger, Tucker urged Yank forward. They needed to make as much progress as possible before they were missed. Even then, those in pursuit would know the direction they’d taken and be on their trail. He wished he had a better idea of where the treasure was, if there was a treasure. He wished there were another way other than returning to Luce’s cabin.

Tucker had only the markings he’d transferred to the tin plate and Raven’s mother’s carrying bag—that and Luce’s cryptic message, “Follow the water.”

He wished Raven would talk to him.

But she was totally uncommunicative, almost as if she’d turned her back on him. Yank slung his head. Tucker swore. He’d hoped to find a place where they could leave the trail and find another way into the hills. But in the dark, that was a foolish wish. In the end he kept moving
up in the same direction he’d traveled that first night. As they climbed higher the trail narrowed, the cliffs became steeper, and the moon disappeared over the summit of the sacred mountains, throwing the trail into complete darkness.

Suddenly Yank came to a determined stop. Tucker couldn’t force him to go any farther. “What in the west side of hell is wrong with you, horse?”

“This is the spot where we go down,” Raven said.

Of course. Tucker was so tired that he hadn’t realized how far they’d come. Yes, they did need to go down, but he couldn’t force himself to urge the horse forward.

It was Onawa who started the descent. Yank whipped his tail and followed. Finally they reached the bottom and stopped to allow the horses to drink from the Rio Grande.

Tucker felt a curious sense of déjà vu. He’d done this before. The last time, they’d found Luce beneath the ledge, hidden in the rocks. Tonight the ghosts of both Luce and the murdered Mexicans seemed to dance down the canyon. Tucker shivered and studied the cliffs. He didn’t think that Swift Hand’s or Porfiro’s men were watching, but something, or someone, was.

“I don’t think we’d better risk climbing up the other side in the darkness,” he said.

Raven waited.

“We’ll take cover for the rest of the night in the place where we found Luce.”

As if she understood, Onawa moved down the canyon.

“I think,” Tucker went on, “we have a good enough start that we can take a brief rest. Then if we leave at first light we can get back to the cabin before anybody learns we are missing.”

“All right.” Raven slid from her horse and hobbled her nearby. She then moved toward a patch of grass down-river
and, with a knife she’d taken from her pack, cut huge hunks of the tender vegetation to feed the horses.

In the meantime Tucker removed their bedrolls and unfolded them side by side beneath the overhang. He filled his canteen, noting that Raven hadn’t opened hers at all. By the time Raven returned, he’d made a cold camp and was waiting for her to bed down.

She didn’t argue with his arrangements, rather it was as if she no longer cared. Moments later she was covered with her blanket and her breathing signaled that she’d already fallen into a light sleep.

Tucker felt a great disappointment. He didn’t know what he’d expected, certainly not a request for a good night kiss as she’d made before. Not a gesture of remorse for her drawing away. Not the passionate woman he’d rejected back in her room. But he’d hoped for some sign that she remembered and that she, too, felt regret.

There was none.

For a long time, Tucker sat in the darkness, his head resting on his saddle, his hand on the holster beside him. Then, finally, as faint streaks of light swirled the sky, he slept.

Beyond his reach Raven lay, restless in that last sleep which brings the phantoms, the unknown messengers of the dark. She felt her body itching as if she’d stepped in a bed of fire ants. But it was more than that. There was an urgency, almost a fear. She had to hurry.

There was someplace she had to go, and she was being held back. There was no one there, but she couldn’t move. Struggle as she might, she could not rise from her bed. Beyond the faint haze of darkness she could see them, the phantoms, writhing, beckoning.

“Please,” she whispered urgently, under her breath. “Let me go. I must go.”

Yes, you must go. But not alone. You must complete the
ritual. Follow the stream to the top. Together you will find the cave in the mountain. Heed my words and look for the sign. Beware the bronze dagger
.

Raven came suddenly awake. She’d hoped for a reassuring dream, for another meeting between the raven and the cougar, for a message that told her where to go. But this suggestion of a cave was not reassuring. There were phantom figures beyond her hiding place. They weren’t Mexican bandits and certainly not part of Swift Hand’s band.

The figures in her dream had been bearded, their chests covered with gold and silver, their heads protected with odd helmets that caught the moonlight. She’d never seen people dressed like that. Were they gods?

Raven’s heart was beating wildly. She sat up, afraid, alone.

Alone? She could see Tucker lying next to her, but she couldn’t reach him. He was restless, moving about in his sleep. And then it came, suddenly and powerfully, the chanting, the low, distant drumbeats that announced a vision. But this time it was different.

Suddenly she could see through Tucker’s eyes, feel the intensity of his thoughts and understand his fear.

He was not here. He was in a different place, a different time. There was a battle raging about him. Indians, crying, screaming in fear. Children afraid—alone. And there were soldiers, wearing blue uniforms, riding toward the camp. Pistols were drawn, rifles firing.

“No, stop,” someone cried.

“We are only women and children,” another called out.

“We have come here in peace,” an old man pleaded.

But still the soldiers came, relentlessly, stabbing, shooting, mutilating. Like waves of locusts devouring everything in their wake, they came.

And people died.

Then she saw him, Tucker, bearing down on a child, sword drawn, eyes wide with horror. At the last moment, he picked up the little girl, and holding her beneath his arm, he rode away. And Raven became that child, felt her terror, felt her fear. Wildly Tucker urged the big black horse whose name she now knew to be Yank through the camp, across the shallow river, and into the hills beyond.

She could feel the big man’s heart beating, his fear, the saliva dried in his mouth and how he could barely swallow. Finally, when they were far away from the battle, he let the child down, looking at her with great sad eyes.

“I can no longer do this,” he said. “I renounce all of this and the life I have lived. From now on, I travel alone.”

The little girl looked up at the golden man who had saved her. Wise beyond her years, she knew that he was as empty as she.

“You must not go back to the camp now, little one. Wait here. Someone will find you.” And he rode away, leaving the child behind.

The little girl looked around, then started back the way they’d come. Raven, now flying above and watching her, whispered, “No, don’t go.”

But she went, putting one foot before the other until she was so tired that she could barely walk. Finally she topped the rise and looked down at the scene before her. The tepees had been burned. The smoke was thick, but she could see the bodies strewn across the camp like thistle blown by the wind. There was a smell of blood and fire, but there was no sound, only a great silence.

The little girl looked at the devastation and began to cry.

Overhead, Raven flew low across the site of the massacre, searching for one to care for the child. Then she
heard a single shot. As she dipped her wings and reversed her course, she saw the child fall, mortally wounded. The soldier would never know that his heroism had all been for nothing. Twice she flew over the camp, then soared across the horizon until she saw him, the fleeing man on the black horse. She accompanied him as he rode for most of the day, then stopped by a stream and bathed the splatters of blood from his body. He made a fire and burned the blue uniform. When the last coal had died away, he put on civilian clothes, mounted his horse once more and started south.

From above the site, high on a ledge, a mountain lion leapt down and started toward the rider. Now all four, the cougar, the raven, and the dreamers, were one.

Tucker jerked and opened his eyes, finding the dark-eyed woman watching him. The eyes in his dream, the symbol of the future, the spirit child of his vision. She’d come to him again in the flesh.