Midnight Rider (11 page)

Still, he could not help admiring the perfection of her features, the fine auburn brows, upturned nose, big, leaf-green eyes, and full ruby lips. Looking at her sweet, ripe beauty, it seemed impossible he could ever have treated her badly.

“Don Ramon!” Sanchez walked toward them smiling, breaking into his thoughts. “And Senorita McConnell.” He glanced down at her small, sandaled feet. “I am glad the shoes fit.”

“They're perfect. Thank you, Senor Sanchez.”

He nodded, then turned away. “It is good to have you back, Ramon.”

“I cannot stay long. Only a few days. I thought perhaps while I was here, I would show the senorita around.”

“
Bueno.
The fresh air will do her good. And I am sure she is eager to be out of the house.”

Ramon nodded. “We will join you for supper a little bit later.” Turning away from Sanchez, he smiled at Carly and extended his arm. As he expected, she ignored it and simply started walking.

The encampment itself wasn't large, mostly makeshift houses among the pines at the top of the knoll. Some of the single men lived in tents. The two Yocuts Indians who rode with them had built small willow-branch huts in a clearing at one end of the camp. There was a central corral, and a couple of lean-tos. A fast-moving stream ran along the edge of the encampment, providing water and plenty of mountain trout.

“How many people live here?” Carly surveyed the women washing clothes in the stream and the children playing ball in the center of the compound. She was surprised to find the place so pleasant, with patches of grass here and there, the simple adobe houses well tended.

“About thirty-five,” the don said, smiling down at a child who waddled toward him, a little girl no more than three years old. Laughing he lifted the baby up in his hard-muscled arms, kissed her chubby cheek, then handed her over to the woman hurrying toward them.

“
Gracias,
Don Ramon. My Celia is forever toddling away.” The woman was no more than twenty-five, with pleasant features and soft brown eyes. She looked at Carly and gave her a tentative smile.

“Maria, this is Senorita McConnell,” the don said. “She will be our guest for a while.”

The baby reached toward Carly, trailed her chubby fingers through her thick dark copper hair. She found herself smiling in return. “Carly,” she said to the woman. “My name is Carly.”

“I am pleased to meet you.” Smiling at the don, holding her baby close against her, she quietly walked away.

“I didn't realize outlaws lived with their families,” Carly said, trying not to be touched by the Spaniard's easy manner with the child.

“Most of them are displaced
rancheros,
men who have lost their lands to the
gringos.
The vaqueros and others who worked for them also lost their homes. They were replaced by cheaper labor, Indian workers bought and sold by the Americanos. They are treated almost like slaves.”

“That can't be true. Slavery isn't allowed in California.”

“No? Indian wages are ten dollars a month, most of which goes back to the
haciendado
for room and board. If an Indian is found to be vagrant, he is auctioned to the highest bidder. The money he brings goes to the government. As I see it, my pretty
gringa,
that comes very close to slavery.”

Carly said nothing to that. She had seen the Indians working around her uncle's rancho, but she had never realized how little he paid them. It bothered her to think what the don said might be true.

The sound of iron ringing against iron drew her attention toward a large wooden shed built on one side of the compound. Hand swaths, broad-bladed hoes, hammers, saws, axes, braces, bits, and planes lined one wall. Two huge horse collars hung from the ceiling, along with several saddles and other items of tack.

Walking to the rear of the shed, the don introduced her to Santiago Gutierrez, a man she remembered from the raid. Today he was working as a blacksmith, bent over a big iron anvil, his hammer ringing as he repaired a broken wagon tongue.

He glanced up, eyeing her as warily as she eyed him. “You are feeling better, I see. That is good.”

Carly hid her surprise. Concern was the last thing she had expected. “I—I'm much better, thank you.” He hardly looked like an outlaw, just a hard-working man with sweat on his brow, his muscles straining to his task. The don asked after his wife, Tomasina, and their two children. Santiago told him they were well.

Noticing the heavy bandage around his thigh and remembering the wound he'd received in the raid, she started to ask him how his leg was healing, but caught herself just in time. The man was a criminal. He'd been injured stealing her uncle's horses, for heaven's sake. It was hardly fitting that she be concerned for his health!

The don asked the question for her. “Your wound … how is it mending?”

Gutierrez lifted a glowing red piece of iron out of the fire and dunked it in a nearby tub of water, sending up a shot of steam. “Tomasina removed the lead ball. The wound is healing very well.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

The blacksmith smiled and began to hammer on the still-hot iron while the don led Carly away.

“For an outlaw, he seems surprisingly pleasant,” she said.

The Spaniard laughed softly and shook his head. “He is only a man. One who is fighting for what has been taken from him. To our way of thinking, none of us are outlaws.”

She could certainly argue with that, but she didn't. “I'm surprised he doesn't hate me. I thought that was the way all of your men felt.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders and glanced away. “Maybe they did … for a while. They loved Andreas just as I did.” It was there again, that shadowy moment of pain. Then as quickly it was gone.

“Then why—”

“Perhaps they feel that if I can accept what you did, then they must endeavor to do so.”

Carly's chin came up. “If
you
can accept what
I
did! I am the one who cannot accept what you did!” Grabbing her bright yellow skirt in one hand, Carly stalked out of the shed. She didn't go back to the house; she had been cooped up too long already. Instead she made her way down to the creek and wandered along the bank. She shouldn't make him angry. The rational part of her knew that. She was his prisoner, completely at his mercy. And yet she refused to cower. She hadn't before. She would not do it now.

He caught up with her in a quiet place where the water eddied and swirled. She sat there alone, feeling forlorn and wishing she was back at Rancho del Robles, wishing she could cry but determined that she wouldn't. Staring out over the frothy, rippling stream, she felt his presence even before she saw him.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “That is not what I meant to say. The truth is the men have come to respect you. If you wish it, they will accept you among them.”

His voice was so soft, so masculine and beautiful. It reminded her of something … someone.… She tried to recall, but the memory slid away. Carly straightened and lifted her eyes to his face.

“I wish to go home, Don Ramon. I realize the problem that poses, yet I beseech you to find a way.”

The Spaniard said nothing. There was no way he could let her leave and both of them knew it. But how long could he force her to stay? And what would he do with her once he grew tired of his unwanted
guest?

They started back to the house, Carly fighting to control the worry that bubbled up inside her, making her stomach feel queasy. Stay calm, she told herself. At least for the present you are safe. In the meantime, her uncle would be searching, and perhaps she could find some means of escape.

With that thought in mind, she surveyed the compound, noting the men, women, and children absorbed in their everyday tasks, but also the wagons and horses, and anything she might find for a weapon. She would continue to do so, to learn this place and what might be useful.

Lost in such thoughts, when they rounded the corner, she was surprised to see a beautiful black-haired woman standing on the porch. She was tall and slender, with small, pointed breasts, a narrow waist, and trim hips. The woman was elegant, not the least bit boyish, exotic, and as beautiful as any woman Carly had ever seen.

She was also angry, her black eyes snapping, her chest rising and falling with each hostile breath.

“
Buenas tardes,
Miranda,” the don said pleasantly, but his features had grown taut, and it was obvious he was not pleased that she was there.

“Will you not introduce me to the woman you have brought into our camp?” she said waspishly. “The woman who killed your brother.”

The don's dark eyes blazed to life. His posture grew rigid, his muscles tense, anger seeping from every pore. Carly knew that look only too well. She was glad this time she was not the object of his wrath.

“I have told you, Miranda, the woman is not responsible. For as long as I say, she is our guest. That is the way you will treat her.”

For as long as I say.
The words sent a ripple of fear down Carly's spine. Just how long was that? The words, combined with the hatred oozing from the black-haired woman, made Carly feel slightly sick.

“I am Miranda,” the woman said with dark menace, her fiery eyes flashing a warning. “I am Don Ramon's woman. I have come here so that you will know. So that between us there will be no misunderstanding.”

Standing at his side, Carly's own temper stirred. “And you, senorita—I hope
you
will not misunderstand. I have no interest in your El Dragón. As far as I am concerned he is nothing but a ruthless outlaw. If it pleases you to sleep with him, that is your misfortune. All I wish to do is return to my home.”

Ramon felt the smaller woman's anger almost as hot as his own, and a corner of his mouth tugged upward in grudging respect. Ignoring them both, she swept past him into the house. He couldn't help recalling her humble beginnings and found himself admiring how well she had learned to disguise them. She was as regal as any noblewoman he had ever met, as haughty and proud as any woman of pure Spanish blood.

That thought made him uneasy. She was a
gringa.
Nothing could change that. Just as it could not change Miranda's part Indian heritage. Fortunately, he felt little more than affection for Miranda. It was all he would allow himself to feel for the saucy American girl.

*   *   *

Carly sat beside the don through supper. Florentia and Pedro Sanchez sat on the opposite side of the stout oak table. As he had been earlier, the Spaniard was charming and attentive, and that fact made her nervous and withdrawn. She didn't know what he was after. She only knew she hadn't forgotten the hard man he could be.

Pleading a headache, she withdrew from the table and retired to her room, but she had trouble sleeping. What were his motives? Why was he being kind when before he had been so cruel? Was he sorry for what he had done? He had never really said so, only that he'd made a mistake. Perhaps he was trying to make amends, but she couldn't seem to make herself believe it.

And even if he was, it didn't change things. She was still his prisoner, he still the master of her fate.

Lying on the mattress, staring up at the rugged hand-hewn beams above her head, she recalled the furious look he had scorched his mistress with, the woman who called herself Miranda. She was beautiful, dark-skinned and exotic. Obviously seduction wasn't the don's objective. He already had a woman to warm his bed.

In a strange way, the notion disturbed her. That even now he was probably with Miranda, kissing her, making passionate love to her. Carly knew little of such things, yet until now the notion had seemed romantic. She had hoped one day to be married, perhaps to a man as handsome as the don. One who could be just as charming.

But wasn't nearly so ruthless.

Eventually, she fell asleep, but when she did, she dreamed. Dressed all in black, the Spaniard thundered toward her astride his fierce black horse. He swept her up in his arms, flung her over his saddle, and rode away with her into the forest. Pulling the stallion to a halt, he carried her fighting and screaming to a grassy knoll beside a stream and there he began to kiss her.

Carly quit struggling. The heat of his mouth made her body go limp, made her insides grow buttery and liquid. His lips felt warm, and softer than she had expected; the arms that crushed her against him were hard as granite and utterly implacable, but he did not hurt her.

His hands swept downward, skimming lightly over her body. There was fiery possession in his touch. He wanted something from her, something more than the liberties he had taken already. His kiss demanded it, yet she wasn't sure what it was.

Part of her wanted to struggle, to free herself from his hold. The other part …

Carly awoke with a start, her body burning with a strange, damp, all-pervading heat. She was trembling all over, her nipples hard and tender where they pressed against the sheet.

Climbing out of bed on limbs that were painfully unsteady, she poured water into the porcelain basin, dampened a cloth, and washed her face. With a sigh, she returned to bed, but again had trouble sleeping. When she finally did doze off, it seemed only minutes till the graying of dawn began to lighten the sky outside the simple muslin curtains at the window. It would soon be morning. She wondered if the don would come.

Or if he would stay with his woman.

*   *   *

Miranda Aguilar raked her nails along Ramon's hard-muscled thigh. Lying beside her on the bed, he stirred with the first light of dawn and rolled onto his back. She smiled at the long, hard ridge jutting up from its nest of thick black curls, heavy and seductive against his lean flat belly.

Last night they hadn't made love. Ramon had been too angry. She shouldn't have gone to the woman. He had warned her against it, but she didn't care. She didn't care what it took—as long as the woman stayed away.