When the Splendor Falls (71 page)

Leigh continued to stand alone for a moment staring after her very proper sister before she followed Althea into the kitchens, wondering what their mother would have thought of Althea teaching school. It couldn’t have been more scandalous had she started taking in sewing, Leigh thought, unable to imagine Althea doing anything that wasn’t quite proper.

Gil was pacing back and forth impatiently when Leigh reached the stables, but upon seeing her slender figure hurrying across the grounds, a wide grin split his frown in two until it disappeared. He was quick to take the blame when she offered her apologies for her tardiness, explaining that he’d arrived far too early—conveniently forgetting his pacing as the chapel bell had sounded its long-drawn-out notes.

Gil seemed all leg, which he managed to find all too often as he tripped over his own feet in his hurry not to miss anything going on around him.

“Lupe packed us a lunch, and some burros to eat on our way up to the high slopes,” he said, chuckling as he remembered Leigh looking around for the burros the first time he’d told her that, knowing she had no idea he was talking about rolled sandwiches made from tortillas and stuffed with meat filling. But she’d gotten even with him by putting an onion beneath his pillow one night, he thought with appreciation, although at the time he’d been highly indignant.

Gil’s admiring gaze never left Leigh as she walked toward the corral, where he’d left her mount tied to the railing. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and yet she could ride better than anyone he’d ever met—except Neil—he corrected himself, and as he remembered his older brother, the light in his blue-gray eyes faded and he ran a nervous hand through his rust-colored hair, confused by the feelings of jealousy he felt toward the brother he’d always adored until his brother’s wife had come to Royal Rivers.

Kicking the toe of his boot through the dust in frustration, he pulled his hat down low over his eyes, hunching his thin shoulders in dejection as he whistled softly, his horse, Jicama, trotting over before the last notes had left Gil’s pursed lips. Gil rubbed the dark bay gelding’s reddish-brown muzzle. Jicama had been named after an unsightly, tuberous root that, despite its ugliness, tasted crisp and sweet as an apple on the inside.

His Jicama was like that. His dark brown coat blended oddly with the reddish-brown hair on his flanks and face, and his body was stocky, his gait stiff-legged, but he was smart and loyal, and he could climb like a mountain goat, cut any cow out of the herd, and no cougar’s cry in the night had ever scared him, Gil thought, scratching the gelding’s ears, and receiving a warm snort of affection against his shoulder in response.

No, he wasn’t a Thoroughbred, but he was just as good, Gil thought proudly as he glanced over at Leigh’s mount, feeling no envy as he admired the stallion.

Capitaine
.

He could still remember when Neil had returned from Virginia early that fall over five years ago, the colt trailing behind Thunder Dancer like a pet puppy, a herd of quarter horses, roped together, following close behind the two packhorses.

Over the past five years he’d watched the colt mature into a stallion that was king of the herd. No one challenged him, and no one rode him except for Neil—and then, he’d only broken him to saddle, never riding him again. If anyone thought that odd, especially their father, they had little reason to complain, because Capitaine sired the healthiest, strongest foals to stretch their wobbly legs right after birth at Royal Rivers.

Capitaine
—with his well-proportioned frame, deep chest, short back, and long, flat legs, his haunches firmly muscled, his head small, his forehead wide with intelligence—was a champion born and bred. Not a horse to be given away. He was a Thoroughbred. His bloodlines were too pure for him to be anything other than a highly prized racing horse, or a hunter for wealthy gentlemen of leisure, the rich turf of the green fields of Virginia or South Carolina flying up beneath his hooves, never the red dust of New Mexico. So how, and why, he’d ended up at Royal Rivers was still a mystery to Gil, for he was not of the quarter horse stock his brother had gone in search of in Virginia.

And Neil had never offered an explanation of why he’d bought the colt.

Gil stared at the stallion, following Leigh’s hand as she caressed its long satiny neck. He still found it hard to believe what had happened that day, remembering his disbelief when Leigh, and only her second day at Royal Rivers, had suddenly broken into a run across the grounds, her flying feet carrying her to the pasture where a number of horses grazed. He’d heard an unfamiliar whistle, and not realizing where it’d come from, he’d panicked when he’d seen the big stallion suddenly gallop across the pasture, sending the mares of his harem scattering as he raced toward the fence, jumping it with an easy grace that mocked their efforts to keep him corralled.

Gil had felt his heart miss a beat when he’d seen the stallion check his stride, then change direction toward where Leigh stood, too frightened to move. But he’d been wrong. She stood unafraid. He’d called out a warning to her, his expression horrified as he imagined her being trampled to death beneath the stallion’s pounding hooves, but she hadn’t heard him and continued to stand there, even raising her arms to the wild stallion, as if to embrace the beast. He’d thought she’d gone mad, and he’d wondered how they would ever explain what had happened to Neil. If anything had happened to Leigh, they would have had to shoot the horse.

But it all made sense now, like a puzzle that had been solved.

Neil had never said anything about the colt, except that it was from Travers Hill, a stud farm close to Royal Bay. But the name had meant little to him, Gil remembered, until he’d met Leigh, the former Leigh Travers of Travers Hill. Now he understood. Now, he remembered the way Neil had stroked the colt, a gentleness of expression that Gil had never seen before crossing his hardened face as he spoke soothingly to the high-spirited colt. Neil had sat for hours, watching the colt, loving the colt. And yet there had been a strange sadness about Neil when he gazed at the colt, named Capitaine by its previous owners, Gil remembered thinking at the time.

Gil knew now that Travers Hill, that summer five years ago, was when Neil had met Leigh, and when he’d fallen in love with her. And he could understand that, for no man could meet Leigh without falling in love with her. For some reason, however, they had not wed, but he knew Neil, and he knew his brother had the patience to wait once he’d made up his mind he wanted something—and Neil never failed to get what he wanted. He shouldn’t be surprised Neil had taken Leigh for his wife—even if he’d had to wait five years.

“Capitaine,” Leigh breathed, pressing her cheek against his muzzle as she always did when greeting her beloved colt. Although, only in her eyes was he still a colt. “Didn’t think I’d forgotten you?” she asked softly as she held out the apple, his strong, high-crowned teeth closing over the treat without touching her palm except for the velvety softness of his lips.

Gently, she tugged on his sorrel forelock. “You never forgot me, did you, my love?” she murmured, still savoring the joy of their reunion, when Capitaine had come racing across the field to her whistle—and for a moment, nothing had changed, and the long years between had disappeared and been forgotten.

Although some might claim that horses have little memory, and even less loyalty—either to their own kind or to their human masters—Leigh knew they were mistaken. Capitaine had known her. And he had known his dam. Leigh had led Damascena to stand just outside the corral. The mare had nervously surveyed the field, where the strange mares and their foals were grazing peacefully. She’d neighed softly, inquiringly, but for a long moment there had been no responding neigh to welcome her. Then one of the older mares with a dun-colored coat, and a jealous disposition, had moved slowly closer at the sight of a mare unknown to the herd. Without warning, she’d charged the fence, baring her teeth to bite, her ears flattened angrily. Suddenly Capitaine had appeared and chased the disgruntled mare back into the herd, nipping her neck and flank warningly. Then he’d pranced back up to the fence, his long tail arched high, his nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for the scent that had disturbed one of his mares. It was an unfamiliar scent, and yet…one, two, three steps closer, he came, then he stopped, his beautiful brown eyes watching curiously.

Leigh had smiled when they’d touched muzzles, the bold stallion standing docile as the mare gently nudged him, receiving no punishing bite for taking such a liberty. Then Capitaine had raced away, showing his independence as he’d circled the corral with flying hooves. A minute later, though, he’d returned, walking back to stand beside his dam in companionable silence.

“Ready, Leigh?” Gil called to her, dust flying up beneath Jicama’s hooves as he rode the dark bay toward the gates, a packhorse loaded down with supplies tied to a lead behind.

Gil glanced back, hearing the thundering of hooves behind him as Leigh easily caught up to Jicama. Although at first he’d been doubtful when she’d asked to ride Capitaine, he knew now there had never been any danger. And even had his father wished otherwise, which he hadn’t, she was Neil’s wife and had a right to his property—and Capitaine belonged to Neil.

Usually Leigh rode the mare when she went out riding around the
rancho
, and she had come to know the lands surrounding Royal Rivers as well as anyone, but when they journeyed further afield, she rode the stallion, who was far less skittish than his dam. Although Virginia-born, he was New Mexico–bred, and could climb sure-footed from any loose-banked arroyo or cross any rocky creek bed almost as well as Jicama.

They raced across the grasslands sloping away from Royal Rivers, their horses splashing through the wide stream that meandered across the fertile plain and brought life to the valley. Their destination was the northwestern end of the valley, where a canyon cut through the low foothills, climbing to a pass through the mountains.

They followed a narrow trail through the densely forested slopes of evergreens. The dark green foliage of the tall fir and spruce trees, the lower branches sweeping the ground and dusting the trail before them, blended with the paler green of delicate-leafed aspens. Stopping to share a handful of
pinnon
nuts, sweet and nutty to the taste, they startled a mule deer higher on the trail. Midmorning they rested and watered their horses by a crystalline stream. The water, icy from the melting snowpack, tumbled down from the high mountain peaks in foaming white water as it cascaded around large, smooth boulders. Sitting on the soft bank, the sunshine filtering down through shadowy branches rising high above her head, Leigh stretched out lazily, the warmth soaking into her body chilled from the coolness that lingered early in the mornings. Staring over the bank, Leigh watched the brown trout swimming in the sun-dappled waters of the deep pool formed by a natural dam, while noisy blue jays and squirrels scolded from the safety of their treetop nests.

The sweet fragrance of fir and the pungency of pine resin scented the glade, the lace-edged moss hanging from the branches creating a veil that floated around the forest clearing, shrouding it in timeless mystery; as if it had always existed, and always would.

Leaving the cool evergreen forest, the canyon veered sharply, descending down steeply toward a silvery ribbon wending through the canyon floor. The wild mountain stream was hidden behind groves of cottonwoods until it fell in a torrent of rushing water, a fine diamond-sprinkled spray rising mistily from the base of the sheer cliff. On either side, green fields of wildflowers grew in glorious profusion; primroses, sunflowers, blue lupine, asters, and countless other blooms dazzling the eye with color.

Leigh followed Gil, who followed the stream’s course along the canyon floor, the terrain changing dramatically as they neared the desert floor, where the exotic blooms of the honey mesquite and the tall, slender yucca, Spanish bayonet, according to Gil, drew the eye, and thickets of prickly pear cactus kept them from straying from the trail.

An isolated butte rose forlornly in the distance, past the silvery gray sage of the plain, and, far beyond, a faint, jagged tracing of dark blue mountain range could be seen staining the pale turquoise of the sky. They crossed the stream, now no more than a dry creek bed and followed the trail across the canyon, past a sleepy adobe village that seemed lost as it barely clung to existence on the steep hillside, terraced green fields of corn and chile, and orchards of cherry and apple the only evidence of life. Gil told her, as they passed by, about the Comanche raiders who’d stormed out of the mountain passes, swooping down on the peaceful Indian settlements like wolves after sheep, and later attacking the Spanish, who hadn’t fared much better even though they’d had the weapons to fight back, the same way his father had defending Riovado, then Royal Rivers. But the Comanche were like a pack of hungry wolves trailing a herd, patiently waiting for one careless mistake, a tired old buck to falter in his step, or a yearling to fall behind, and they would show no mercy, savagely attacking the helpless.

The sun was still climbing high toward noon when they reached the stand of ponderosa pine, and the highland camp of the
pastor
, one of the shepherd’s dogs, a black-and-white collie, growling and barking a warning and circling closer as they rode toward the herd of sheep grazing on the summer grass covering the wide plateau.

As they rode into camp, Leigh realized why Gil had seemed to have little trouble in finding the
pastor
, for an almost overpowering odor, like damp, dirty woolens, assailed her senses, and the continual braying of the herd sounded like air caught in a broken-down pipe organ.

“Damn, Pedro, you’d think we were a couple of coyotes sneaking around your herd the way your dogs were eyeing us,” Gil complained with a wide grin of greeting for the herder who was approaching. “And what’s gotten into ol’ Soldado? He knows me. I might expect not being recognized by the other two, they’re younger, but this old guy should remember.”