Once A Wolf (43 page)

Cole's incessant contempt, and near-death at Sim Kavanagh's hands, he'd succeeded in his

quest. And he'd done it his way.

Victory should be sweet. This was more than a personal triumph; it was for Kenneth and Father.

It'd make Cole eat his words about Weylin's shortcomings; one man had succeeded where all

Cole's hired pistoleros failed.

But Weylin felt little satisfaction at seeing Randall prisoner. He'd relearned what it was to run as

a wolf; he could guess what it would be like to die in chains and captivity. For a man like

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Randall, death would be preferable. All El Lobo had to do was make a rush at him, and he'd

have his quick death.

He hardened his heart. "I asked you about my brother's fiancée."

Randall's shoulders dropped. "She is well," he said, without a trace of mockery.

"Where is she?"

"Free to seek her own destiny."

"Give me a straight answer, you bastard."

"Or you'll shoot me?"

"No. That's just what you want me to do, so you won't have to choke your life out at the end of

a rope."

"A pleasant thought," Randall said. "If it will set your mind at ease, the lady is very near a town

where she will find any assistance she requires. I have let her go."

He wasn't lying. Weylin felt truth as if it were something solid in the air between them. "Maybe

that's the one decent thing you've done in your life."

"It may be. I assume you are delivering me to your brother?"

"It's the law you have to face, Randall. That'll be enough."

In the dim moonlight Randall's face betrayed the first hint of consternation. "Surely you wish to

share your conquest with your kin, to personally complete your family's revenge."

It was as if Randall wanted to face Cole again, though he knew he'd get less mercy from him

than from a judge and jury. There was only one reason he'd want to be taken to his worst

enemy.

He thought he'd get a chance to bring Cole down before he died.

"We'll get our vengeance," Weylin said. "The law will see to that." He gestured with the rifle.

"It's thirty miles to town, and you're going to be walking all the way."

"Naturally." Randall gazed across the plain. "We wouldn't want to keep the hangman waiting."

It was by far the grandest casa Felícita had ever seen, finer than any other in Las Vegas. It was

also one of the few houses made of wood rather than adobe, two stories high and neatly

painted white and blue.

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The house belonged to Cole MacLean. It stood alone on its own square of land, just on the edge

of town. No one, least of all Cole MacLean, had noticed her following him to the house and

watching from a safe distance. She'd seen him go inside and had waited for many hours, trying

to decide what to do. At last night had come, and she'd spent it in the shelter of a cluster of

bushes, her horse tied up beside her.

Darkness was fading with the first light of dawn. She brushed the dirt from her skirt, ignoring

the rumble in her stomach, and fed the horse a bit of the grain she had in her saddlebags.

"I am sorry, my friend, that I couldn't remove your saddle," she told it softly. "I know nothing of

horses. It would be better to let you go, so that you can find someone to properly care for you."

And I have delayed too long in what I must do.

There was a big stable right here at the house. If a strange horse were to wander in among the

others, the people here would take it in.

Cautiously she led the horse as close to the stable as she dared. She gave it a push on its broad

rump; maybe it smelled other horses, for it pricked up its ears and started for the stable at a

fast walk. Felícita waited until she saw the horse disappear into a stall. Then she looked for a

way to get closer to the house.

As the sun rose, people arrived to begin various tasks. A boy groomed the horses, an old man

weeded the garden of flowers by the door, and a girl—about her own age, Felícita guessed—

was hanging clothes out to dry on a line in the back of the house. She was not much better

dressed than Felícita, and might have come from the same village.

If such a girl worked for Cole MacLean, maybe she could pretend to be a servant as well. She

brushed off her clothing once more and moved quietly to the back of the house, trying to pass

the girl hanging clothes.

"Eh, tu!" the girl said in Spanish. "Who are you?"

Felícita bowed her head and tried to think. "I have come… I am here because—"

"Oh, you must be the new girl to work in the kitchen." The girl rubbed her nose with the back of

her arm. "Sebastiana will be very glad to see you. She's in a temper."

Felícita smiled timidly. "I am not too late?"

"You will be if you don't hurry up!" She flapped her skirt toward Felícita. "It's not so bad

working here. señor MacLean is only at the house a few times a year. He is now, so keep out of

his way."

Felícita nodded and hurried to the terraza at the back of the house. At once she could smell

cooking, and heard a querulous voice arguing with someone. She opened the door into a short

hallway and followed her nose to the kitchen.

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It matched the house in every way, with a huge iron stove, a great table and every sort of pot

and pan imaginable. A stout woman, her arms coated with flour, turned from her work to stare

at Felícita.

"Are you the new girl?" she said. "It's about time." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Don't

just stand there. Come in, come in! I hope you are better than the last one, who ran off with a

man just before dinner!" She looked Felícita up and down. "Is that all you have to wear? No

importa. I will do the serving myself. Rapido, rapido! señor MacLean has important guests for

the noon meal. Cut up that chicken, and then…"

Felícita listened to the cook's instructions and did her best to follow them. She'd cooked

enough for her uncle to understand what was required of her. She also knew how lucky she

was, to find a place so quickly in MacLean's household. But that was only the beginning of her

task.

She had to get closer to MacLean. If she remained in the kitchen, not even allowed to serve,

she'd be just as far away from him as she'd been on the street.

"Ay, Dios!" the cook cried, throwing up her hands. "That fool Maria never even bought the

eggs!" Her gaze flashed to Felícita, who was cutting up an onion. "You, girl—" She went to a

shelf on the wall and brought down a basket, and a handful of coins from a jar. "Go at once to

the store and buy a dozen eggs. And don't think you can run off with the money! señor

MacLean knows everything, and he'll find you and beat you." She pressed the coins and basket

into Felícita's hands. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go!"

Felícita hurried out of the house and across the yard. She paused to glance in at the stable,

where her horse was being brushed by the stableboy. He grinned at her and waved. Ducking

her head, she set off for the general store she'd seen yesterday on the main street of Las Vegas.

She had to wait for a man buying a sack of flour to be finished before the storekeeper sold her

the eggs. She cradled the basket carefully and was turning from the counter when she heard

the first customer exclaim as he stood by the window.

"Will you look at that," he said. "Ain't that the woman who pulled a gun on Beck yesterday?"

Felícita nearly dropped the basket. She took a firmer grip on it and went to the door.

Lady Rowena, looking just as she had yesterday, rode down the center of the street. She

glanced neither right nor left at the gawking spectators; her chin was high, and in spite of her

ragged dress and her horse's heavy Spanish saddle she managed to ride like an elegant

gentlewoman.

Tomás was not with her.

Felícita became aware of the emotions among the watching people: curiosity, excitement,

anticipation. Everyone was expecting something to happen. Rowena's feelings were impossible

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to sense apart from all the rest. But if she had come back to town, "alone…

A man stepped out into the street, and Felícita recognized him as the one called Deputy

Vasquez. He blocked Rowena's way and spoke to her, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She

answered in a soft, flat voice. After a moment the deputy took her horse's reins and began to

lead her away.

Felícita knew where Vasquez was taking the lady. She ran back to MacLean's house as fast as

she could without dropping the basket of eggs.

The kitchen was deserted when she reached it. She left the eggs on the counter and peeked

through the door leading into another hall. No one was there. She slipped into the hall,

followed it deeper into the house and around several corners, and found the room where Cole

MacLean was talking with another man.

All she needed now was a place to hide.

Rowena had told herself she was prepared to face Cole again.

She'd reached the outskirts of Las Vegas by late morning, having covered the roughly thirty

miles from Trujillo during the dark of night, alternately leading one horse and riding the other.

She could not have said how she knew the way without benefit of maps or directions; she didn't

bother to question. She found it best if she didn't think at all.

Her half-formed plan could not have proceeded more smoothly. Tomás had never returned

when he'd left her just outside the village of Trujillo; he'd Changed and run away, and for all she

knew he was still running. After his blustering talk about keeping her from Cole, he'd obviously

changed his mind as well as his shape.

No… he'd come to his senses, and realized she was right. He conceded the logic in her argument

by leaving her to make her own choice. In so doing, he gave up his precious revenge, all the

complications she'd added to his heedless life…

And her.

She should be relieved. This was the way it had to be. She told herself that every mile of the

ride: How it has to be, how it has to be, how it has to be, each word falling with the rhythm of

the horses' hooves.

Too much to expect Tomás to bid her a decent farewell, or admit that he felt any personal

regret in granting her the victory. Too much to expect anything, except that he honor her

decision. He'd made the greatest sacrifice he was capable of, simply by relinquishing his

vengeance.

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That much she had done to change him, and it was remarkable enough. He was safe, now. And

so was she. Tomás knew what she intended to tell Cole; he'd be worse than a fool to contradict

her by failing to leave the area.

It only remained to find Cole, throw herself on his mercy, and convince him that the story she

told was true.

"You are stronger than you know," Tomás had said. Now she'd prove him right.

She ignored the constant ache in her heart as she rode into Las Vegas. She heard the whispered

exclamations and felt the stares as people recognized her from yesterday's violent scene.

Instinctively she drew herself up, as if she were attired in a fashionable habit and riding

sidesaddle like the lady she'd once been.

Her first test was when the deputy sheriff came out to meet her. She half expected him to

arrest her. Instead, he answered her request by offering to take her to Cole.

She'd never been to the MacLean house in Las Vegas; had her life continued along its

anticipated course, she likely never would have. It was modest by her previously high

standards, though the locals doubtless thought it imposing.

But she found that her hands were shaking as a stableboy helped her dismount in the yard and

the deputy took her arm with a murmur of apology. She wasn't fooled by his nervous solicitude.

The poor man probably didn't know whether to treat her like a criminal, or as a stolen valuable

being returned to its owner.

No matter what she felt from now on, she must remember to behave exactly like the latter.

The deputy took her through a side door into the house. Rowena caught glimpses of people

who might have been servants, but none of them lingered to watch her humiliation.

Cole was standing by the window in a parlor decorated to a man's taste, filled with furnishings

that must have been expensive to bring so far west. Rowena tore her thoughts away from such

trivialities and forced herself to look at her fiancé.

There was no change in him. He was still impeccably dressed, dignified, charismatic. He was

everything she'd so come to admire and respect in New York, the opposite of Tomás Alejandro