Midnight Rider (2 page)

“Yes, Uncle?”

“In the meantime, you're going to have to trust me to guide you. You'll have to do exactly as I say.”

“Of course, Uncle Fletcher.” How could she not? She owed him everything. Her education, the beautiful clothes he had bought her, the chance for a new life out west—the very food that had filled her stomach for the past four years. With her parents gone, if it hadn't been for her uncle, she would have ended up in an orphanage—or worse.

“Try to understand, my dear. A man like myself meets a lot of different people. Some of them are business acquaintances, like Royston Wardell and William Bannister, people who do me a great many favors. Others are neighbors, like the Hollingworths, or people I value for their social connections, like Mrs. Winston and her husband, George.” A couple she had met earlier in the evening. “Then there are influential Californios like the Montoyas … and those like Don Ramon.”

“Don Ramon? Wh-What about him?”

“My acquaintance with the don is of an entirely different nature … more an obligation of sorts. The de la Guerra family has lived in California since the earliest days of Spanish influence. There was a time they were wealthy and powerful, when they knew every important political persona for a thousand miles around. Which means socially Don Ramon cannot be ignored.”

“I see.”

“Unfortunately, the fact is, the man no longer commands that sort of power. These days, he has very limited finances, and even less land. He supports his mother and an aging aunt, to say nothing of the laborers he refuses to turn away. What I am trying to say is that the man is hardly your social equal. I hoped that you would see that and behave accordingly.”

“I didn't realize.…” But she was thinking that except for her fancy clothes and the education her uncle had bought and paid for, it was far more likely that she was not the social equal of the don.

“I'm sure you didn't.” His tone grew more firm. “Fortunately, now you do. From now on, Caralee, I expect you to use that expensive education I've been providing for the last four years. I expect you to play the part of the sophisticated lady you have become, but mostly I expect you to socialize with the people I pick and choose.”

He came up from his chair and leaned toward her over his desk. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-Yes, Uncle Fletcher.”

Some of the tension drained from his heavily muscled shoulders. “I don't mean to be harsh, my dear. But after all, I am your legal guardian. It's my duty to decide what is best for you.”

Perhaps it was. It was certainly her obligation to do as he wished. “I'm sorry, Uncle Fletcher. I guess I just didn't understand. I promise it won't happen again.”

“Good girl. I knew I could rely upon your good judgment. You are, after all, our beloved Lucy's daughter.”

Carly smiled. It was obvious her uncle and her mother had once been very close. It made things easier just knowing that.

As he walked beside her toward the sounds of the
fandango,
the strum of guitar, the smell of roasting meats, the vaqueros rowdy laughter and that of her uncle's friends, she vowed she would do whatever it took to please him, vowed she would forget the handsome Spanish don.

But when she saw his tall figure leaning with casual grace against the rough adobe wall of the hacienda, when she caught the flash of silver and found his dark eyes studying her so intensely, she realized forgetting him wouldn't be an easy thing to do.

*   *   *

Ramon de la Guerra took a drink of his sangria, savoring the taste of the rich red wine blended with the sweet-tart flavor of oranges and limes. Across the patio, Fletcher Austin introduced his niece to yet another group of Anglos, some of them neighbors, most of them friends who had traveled from Yerba Buena—San Francisco, it was now called.

There was no denying Austin's niece was a lovely girl, ivory-skinned and fiery-haired, with an oval face delicately boned and a small cleft on her chin—kissed by angels, he'd heard it called. She was petite but not frail, with ripe full breasts and an incredibly tiny waist.

For a moment after they had met, he'd thought she might be different than he had imagined, that she might exude a warmth and charm her uncle did not have. All too soon she had proved to be nothing but the pampered sophisticate he had expected, acting instead of feeling, cool and aloof and full of pretense.

After her return from the house, he had asked her to dance, but she had refused him, her manner carefully distant and pointedly removed. A few moments later, she had danced again with Vincent Bannister. Why not? he thought. Bannister had far more money, and money was always what a woman like that was looking for.

Ramon had known a number of such women. They came to Madrid during the season, traveling on their husbands' money, looking for excitement in a strange foreign land, easy prey for a man like him … or perhaps it was the other way around.

In the moonlight, Ramon caught a glimpse of flame-bright hair, saw the flash of emerald eyes the color of her gown, and thought of another such woman. Lillian Schofield. Lily, with big blue eyes and pale blond hair. Lily—the woman he had almost come to love.

He looked again at Fletcher Austin's niece. This one was younger than Lily, but in time she would turn out the same … if she wasn't that way already. Still, it might be interesting to bed her. She was certainly a temptation, and the small measure of revenge against her uncle would make the taking all the sweeter.

Ah, but Austin was a powerful man, and in times like these it was far too dangerous. And there were others he must consider.

He watched the girl talking to Royston Wardell, another of her uncle's wealthy friends. She smiled up at him through her long dark-auburn lashes then laughed softly at something Wardell said. Yes, she was more than tempting. Perhaps he would wait and see.…

“
Buenas noches,
Don Ramon.”

He glanced up to see Isabel Montoya standing right beside him. It surprised him that he had not heard her approach.

“Good evening, Senorita Montoya. I hope you are enjoying the festivities.”

Full red lips turned down in a pretty pout. “With
mi novio
away on business, I do not find it so much fun. It is sometimes difficult to entertain oneself, no?”

He smiled. “
Si,
senorita. It is always painful when a loved one is away.”

Isabel smiled softly. She was black haired and dark eyed, young but flawlessly beautiful. “I wondered … I thought … perhaps … since you were also alone this eve we might entertain each other.”

He frowned. “I do not think your betrothed would approve of such a notion. Besides, you are hardly alone. Your father and mother, your sister and brother are also here, as well as your
duena,
Louisa.”

Big dark eyes ran over his face. Beneath her white lace mantilla, she looked even younger than her sixteen years. “Surely you are not afraid of my father … or even Don Carlos.” Her fingers moved along his lapel, brushing lightly, her eyes running over his face, unmistakable in their invitation. “I have heard it said that when it comes to the ladies, you—”

He caught her wrist, stilling her words. “You are forgetting, senorita, Don Carlos Ramirez—your betrothed—is my friend. I will do nothing to impose upon that friendship.” He turned her around and gave her a gentle shove in the opposite direction. “And in the future, senorita, should I hear of such behavior as I have seen this night, you may be certain that I will inform your father. Perhaps a willow switch will entertain you well enough.”

She spun to face him, her slender spine stiff and her dark eyes flashing fire. He stopped her before she could speak.

“One more word,
niña,
and I will do it now.”

“You—you are
not
a gentleman.”

“And you,
chica,
are hardly behaving like a lady. Go now, and next time think before you speak.”

Tears gathered in her pretty dark eyes. She turned and raced away.

Ramon watched her go, thinking perhaps he should have proceeded with a little more restraint. “Women,” he muttered into the darkness. He pondered Isabel's behavior and wondered if her father's friendship with a growing number of Anglos was the reason she had dared to behave so boldly.

He saw her brother, Alfredo, approaching and hoped that nothing else would go wrong. But it was not Alfredo's words that broke the silence; it was the sound of pounding hooves, thrumming hard against the earth. A rider burst through the high back gate of the sprawling hacienda, shouting and waving his dusty brown felt hat in the air.

“What is it?” Alfredo asked, starting in that direction. “What do you think has happened?”

“I do not know,” Ramon said. Hurriedly, they walked toward the stable, where the man had jerked his horse to a sliding halt; and Fletcher Austin, William Bannister, and Royston Wardell fell in beside them.

“What's happened?” Austin called to the mounted man, who turned and rode toward them on his weary, lathered black horse.

“The Spanish Dragon,” he said, sounding as short of breath as the horse, “that bastard El Dragón hit the Overland where it crosses the Hollingworth spread. Robbed a shipment of gold coming back this way from the San Francisco mint.”

Hollingworth stepped out of the darkness beside the barn. A man in his fifties, tall and lean and weathered by his years of hard work, he recognized the rider as one of his own men.

“Christ a-mighty, Red—most a' that gold was ours. Coin I needed for payroll.”

“He struck early, boss. He ain't done that before. It was just after the stage left the Beaver Creek stop, soon as it got dark. They say he come down like greased lightning. Took the gold and was halfway to the hills before they knew what hit 'em.”

“Damn! The blackguard has a way a' catchin' a fella unawares. I had a bad feelin' about comin' here tonight.”

The man named Red rubbed the stubble of a day's growth of beard. “He's a crafty one, all right.”

“Did he shoot anybody?” Fletcher Austin broke in.

“No, him and his vi-queros just took the gold and run.”

“How many of them were there?” Austin asked.

“'Bout a dozen. That's what the guard said. He's lookin' for some help to go after 'em. I figured most of the men were here.”

“Get your horse, Charley,” Austin said to Hollingworth. “I'll round up the rest of my men.”

“I will come, too,” Ramon offered, as did Alfredo Montoya.

“What's the use?” Hollingworth argued. “By now the bastard's clean away. Halfway back to whatever rock he crawled out from under.”

“This time, we'll find him.” Austin jerked open the heavy barn door. “We won't stop till we run the whoreson to ground.”

The other men mumbled their agreement; there was quite an array of them by now. The women were standing outside the barn door, uncertain exactly what had occurred, when the men emerged leading their saddled horses. Ramon led his palomino toward them, then waited for Alfredo to join him. He turned at the sound of a woman's voice.

“What's happened, Uncle Fletcher?” Caralee McConnell caught her uncle's arm, her pretty face lined with worry, one hand clutching the cashmere shawl she had draped around her bare shoulders.

“Get back to the house, honey. This is men's business. You just see to the ladies, and the men'll take care a' the rest.”

Ramon could see she wanted to press him for more information, started to, then backed off. “I'm certain Uncle Fletcher knows what's best,” she said to the women. “Why don't we ladies retire to the house for a sherry? I'm sure the strain of the evening is beginning to wear on us all.” With an uncertain glance at Ramon, she turned and started walking away.

The strain of the evening,
he thought. He wondered how long pampered little Caralee McConnell could stand the strain of the life many of his people were forced to endure each day—all because of the treachery and greed of men like Fletcher Austin.

“Mount up, men,” Austin commanded. “It's time we were away.”

Ramon swung up on his palomino stallion, slid his boots into his silver-studded
tapaderos,
and followed Austin and his men at a brutal pace off toward the Hollingworth ranch.

*   *   *

They had no luck finding the outlaw, which set Uncle Fletcher on edge for nearly two weeks. In the evenings he paced the floor in front of the huge rock fireplace at the far end of the
sala.
Carly tried to talk to him, to comfort him in some way, but he had a formidable temper, she discovered, and he usually sent her away.

By the beginning of the third week, he was once more the man he had been. They talked during supper, though never about El Dragón. Instead Uncle Fletcher explained with pride his accomplishments on the ranch, the increases he had made in cattle and horses, and the plans he had for the future.

“Politics—that's where my destiny lies. This state needs men to look out for its best interest. Men who can see justice done. I intend to be one of those men, Caralee.”

“I'm sure you'd make some fine contributions, Uncle Fletcher.”

They were seated at the long oak table in the dining room, enjoying a supper of roasted meats; fresh baked tortillas;
pastel de toma,
a pie of onion, garlic, chicken, corn, tomatoes, and peppers in a corn flour crust; and
mostaza,
the Spanish name for mustard greens cooked in oil and garlic. The unusual food was delicious, as Carly had already discovered, though it had taken a while for her stomach to accept the hot, spicy flavors.

Uncle Fletcher spooned up a second serving, sending a spiral of steam up from his plate. “Perhaps an appointment to the Land's Commission would be the place to start,” he said. “Bannister has influence there. Perhaps—” He broke off with that and smiled. Beneath the flickering candles in the wrought-iron chandelier, red highlights glinted in his thick, graying hair. “Young Vincent would make quite a catch. And he certainly seems taken with you.”