Treasure of the Sun
Read Treasure of the Sun Online
Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
Chapter 1
Frozen in battle, the bull and the man eyed each other.
"Toro, toro." Borne on the wind, the sound of the man's voice wafted to Katherine, as sweet as if he called a lover, deep, low and coaxing.
Against the twelve-hundred pounds of belligerence, Damian de la Sola stood armed with a red cape: velvet, with fine embroidery and a shredded hem. The whipcord strength of his shoulders strained against the seams of his smudged white shirt. He stood, one tanned hand on his hip, as if the bull were insignificant, not worthy of his consideration. Katherine noted the hand, dark, capable. She noted the hip, and heat brought a flush to her cheek.
He was well formed-beautifully formed.
He cracked the cape held tightly in the other hand.
She jumped; the lack of reality wrapped her round. The drama in the corral possessed her. She stood as silent and as intense as any who sat in the stands. The sun of
The cape cracked again. The bull exploded from standstill to a full gallop. He flew at Damian, who barely moved to let the animal by. The bull passed beneath his arm with inches to spare. As if she stood inside the corral, Katherine felt the brush of death on the sensitive skin of her arm. She felt the pounding of the earth beneath her feet.
The combatants froze, evaluating each other with new appreciation.
Katherine loosened the top button of her dress. Despite the mild March temperature, sweat trickled down her back and tickled her forehead; dust devils swirled, but not a creature moved. She didn't understand what made her so warm.
It couldn't be anxiety. She was Katherine Chamberlain Maxwell of Boston, and she was a sensible woman. She understood that when a man chose such a hazardous pursuit, the consequences were his own responsibility. So it couldn't be anxiety that made her clutch the wooden rail so tightly splinters dug into her palm.
In the stands, the senoras' fans drifted to and fro as they tried to cool their faces and their excitement. The rustle of their fans blended with the snap of the cape, but Damian paid them no heed; nor did Katherine. She focused all her attention on the beast and the warrior.
She had seen this bull before, many times. He was a prize stud. The warm, rich brown of his coat reminded Katherine of cocoa, of the thick sweet mud of springtime between her toes. His nose looked velvety. His eyelashes made a pretty fringed arc on his face.
She had seen Damian before, many times. The beauty of his pure, classical bone structure reminded her of a Greek god. His high forehead was swept clear by the wind that caressed him. Below the ridge of his brow, his eyes were set deep, lending him a scholarly thoughtfulness. His nose was long and noble. Well-defined cheekbones revealed sensitivity; his square jaw revealed determination. His was the face of civilization, of poetry, of philosophy.
But it was an illusion. It was all an illusion.
The bull was a competitor, a fighter by instinct and a gladiator by chance.
The man was a conqueror, intent on proving his superiority in primitive conflict.
The crowd sighed, and Katherine heard a first hushed call. "Ole, torero. Ole!" It sounded like encouragement of the brutal sport, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the corral to frown her disapproval. Staring fixedly at Damian, she saw him stomp his foot. She heard the small sound of provocation, saw the little puff of dust it raised and how it spooked the beast. "Ole! Show us your colours, my son!"
That did make her glance aside. Damian's father held a fist to the sky, proud as the devil, proud of his son.
"Stupid," she said, disgusted with Don Lucian, with the bullfight, with the whole barbaric display. Her comment was whisked away on the wind.
As if Don Lucian's encouragement released them from restraint, everyone erupted in the blast of cheering. The women came to their feet, the men surged forward, and from every throat roared, "Ole. Ole, torero!"
The bull responded with arrogance. His ears pointed skyward. His head swayed to the rhythm of the cheers as he studied Damian and the tattered cape. Walking in a circle, the bull acknowledged the crowd, then came to a stop facing his opponent. His eyes fixed on the gold metal gleaming around Damian’s neck. His head lowered.
The razor-sharp horns reached for Damian, for his stomach, his chest, but Damian never retreated. With flicks of the cape, he lured the beast in. He evaded him by a hairbreadth. The bull made a swift running turn and raced back.
Damian stood there, prepared, disdainful. His passes were precise. He stayed tuned to the moods of the beast, not hearing the screams of the crowd, moving the cape with the sweeping sensuous dance of the bull.
The game was horrible and graceful and free. Katherine could see the beauty, but more than that, she could smell danger. Watching Damian's straight back, his small, confident smile as he turned his head, she wanted to leap into the corral and stop the nonsense.
The bull leaped and whirled, coming straight at Damian and not at the distraction he waved. Damian laughed, tossed the cape aside, and waited.
Katherine wanted to cover her face with her hands, but she couldn't move. All was silent; no fans fluttered. Damian reached over with his hands. Slowly, yet in a blur of speed, he grasped the horns. The bull lifted his head. Damian tucked and somersaulted over the broad back. Landing on his feet beside the astonished animal, he raised his hands high and bowed.
The air exploded into pandemonium. Women screamed, men bellowed. Four vaqueros vaulted over the fence and dashed toward the bull. Confused by the disappearance of his prime target, he charged at them zealously. The cowboys darted around, working in teams until the beast entered the gate and dashed down the chute to the pasture.
An auxiliary part of Katherine's mind sighed with relief. She just couldn't loosen the grip of apprehension from her body. Her breath still caught, her fingers still clutched; all her concentration riveted on Damian. She looked, feeding eagerly on the beauty that underlay his brown skin, the hint of black beard on his chin, the moustache that defined his upper lip.
Then he swung that face on her.
He observed her attention, her admiration, her surprise. Echoing the moment when the bull had rushed at him and he'd tossed the cape away, he laughed, softly at first, with personal satisfaction. Then flinging his head back, he laughed out loud.
She wanted to glance around, see if any of the Californios noticed. She couldn't. She couldn't tear her eyes from the exultant man.
Like the brightness of the sun and the endless wind, his pleasure made her uncomfortable. He measured her. Measured her responsiveness, measured the life that returned to her in a rush.
It had been almost a year since she'd been aware: of her body, her surroundings, her self. A numbness had protected her from: the vicissitudes she couldn't face. Now life rushed into her mind, and it hurt. It hurt like blood rushing into frozen limbs.
Someone jolted her, and she jerked from Damian's spell. She glared at the boy who had smacked her from behind, but he climbed through the fence. All about, humanity moved and cheered. Men leaped the rails, women stood on the benches. Children danced, heedless of the dust that rose at their feet.
Everyone called Damian's name.
She looked for Damian, but men surrounded him in the coral, clapping and whistling, making clear their approbation of his magnificent feat. Then he rose on their shoulders, teetering as all hands sought to carry him. He laughed again, but it was a pleased and public laugh. They carried him around the ring, and without a glance, he passed the spot where she stood.
An odd mood possessed her, as if she'd stepped into a timeless world for a moment. Now she'd returned, and she was out of place.
That wasn’t unusual, though. She was always out of place.
The tingling in her hand demanded her attention. It still clutched the rough wood railing with all its strength, and it required a moment of willpower to loosen her grip. The palm and the pads of her fingers shone white. One by one, she straightened her fingers, and a thousand needles pricked at her from beneath her skin. Blood oozed around one large splinter at the base of her thumb.
"What did you think of that, Dona Katherina?"
She lifted her gaze from her hand and stared at Damian's father. She had no time to dissemble, to gather her composure and be the steady, reliable pragmatist she knew herself to be.
When her voice projected normally, she was pleased. "Quite unusual. Is that the way all bullfights proceed?"
Don Lucian de la Sola smiled. "Never. Never have I seen a torero who fought with such courage." Taking her cramped hand in his, he massaged it and watched as the cheering crowd passed Damian a boda bag filled with wine. "Of course, he is my son."
"The guests seem to agree that he fought bravely." Katherine smiled at the elderly gentleman who had guided her through this foreign society and taught her its ways.
"The bull is very dangerous, even more than you can imagine.”
"I found I could imagine quite a lot," she said with exasperation.
"A woman's fantasy." He chuckled and patted her hand. "I should have known. You're a sensitive woman."
"I am?" Astonished by such a misreading of her character, she covered her annoyance. "The word is sensible."
"Of course. Of course. I thought you were concerned about the fate of my son."
"Yes, I was concerned. He's been my employer for almost a year," she said primly.
"Quite so." His fingers pressed on the splinter and when she started, he looked at her palm. He squinted and patted his coat. "I don't have my reading glasses with me." He carried her palm as far away from his face as he could and focused. "Tsk, tsk. You mustn't let this fester."
"I'll take it out," she assured him. "I have a medical kit in my room.”
"And where did you get that?"
She smiled at his astonishment. "I brought it from
Boston
. I had no idea what I'd find here in the wilds of
He snorted in disparagement. "Is it as wild as you suspected?" She looked out over the seething corral. "In some ways." "That's not what you were supposed to say," he reproved mock seriousness. "You were supposed to reassure me that Rancho Donoso is the equal of your
Boston
, and that you love it here."
A smile broke across her face at his droll reproof. "I do love it and
Boston
, it's better. It's and bright and new. When the
United States
annexes this land, it will be the best country they've ever acquired."
"Don't tell Damian that," he commanded.
“Why? Doesn't he want the
United States
to annex
Mexico
has done it no good."
“Damian would have agreed with you once." With old-world courtesy, he tucked her good hand into his arm and strolled with her toward the hacienda.
The previous four days of fiesta had furthered Katherine's acquaintance with the Californios. Seeking the cool of the shade trees, everyone would assemble on the grass eventually. Only the few who sought to escape the stifling crowd at the already clustered on the benches. The others would back, demanding refreshment.