Midnight Rider (20 page)

He didn't try to stop her, just scowled as she stalked out of the room.

Fletcher waited till she closed the door, then moved to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He didn't usually imbibe this early, but his headstrong niece had driven him to it. His mouth curled up in a grudging half smile. Part of him admired her. She had fortitude, beauty and brains. She reminded him of his dear sister, Lucy, the only woman he had ever really respected. If he could find a woman with half his niece's spirit, he would marry her tomorrow.

Which didn't mean he intended to let her have her way.

Lifting the fine crystal snifter cradled in his hand, he took a sip of brandy, enjoying the trickle of warmth into his stomach. A little of his tension eased. Caralee was a handful, more than he had ever expected. He had seen it from the start, though she'd done her best to appear meek and mild. She needed a man to take her in hand, a man who could handle her, and it was going to be a man of Fletcher's choosing.

He took another drink. Vincent might look a little like a milksop, but Fletcher had seen him with his mistress. The boy wasn't afraid to raise a hand to her when the need arose. He wasn't one bit bashful about putting the woman in her place. And his appetite for bed sport would insure Caralee gave him sons.

At this late date, their offspring might well be the only heirs Fletcher Austin ever had.

He took another sip of his drink. At least the girl wasn't pregnant. He was fairly sure of that. He was also certain she would marry Vincent Bannister.

Fletcher smiled. He always got what he wanted. This time would be no different. He knew exactly the way to insure that his niece and the son of his wealthy friend Bannister were married by the end of next week.

*   *   *

Teresa Apolonia de la Guerra loved her nephew Ramon as if he were her own son. She had no children of her own, for she had never married. Her
novio,
Esteban, had been killed in Spain's war with Napoleon, a young man only twenty. But she had never forgotten him. Only the closeness she shared with her brother Diego, his wife Anna Marie, and their two sons, Andreas and Ramon, had kept away the loneliness through the years.

Now Diego was gone. Andreas had joined him and soon would be sleeping in his rightful place beside his father in the plot up on the hill. She glanced across at Ramon, who stood staring out the window, off toward the horizon in the west.

Lifting her dark brown bombazine skirts, she silently crossed the room and rested her thin, veined hand on a muscled forearm. “What is it, Ramon? Lately you have not been yourself. I know that you still grieve for your brother, but somehow I do not think that this is what is wrong.”

He turned to face her, banished the darkness from his eyes, but not before she had seen it. He was so handsome, more beautiful than any man she had ever seen … except perhaps for Esteban.

Ramon gently smiled. “I am sorry, Tia. It is nothing to trouble yourself about. Only that I am worried about the people in the stronghold. Without Andreas, El Dragón will not avoid capture for long.”

Her hold on his arm grew tighter. “Even if your brother still lived, sooner or later, you both would be caught. You tried to tell him that in the beginning. You told him his efforts were futile. That there must be another way to regain what is ours. In your heart you still believe that is the truth.”

He covered her age-spotted hand with his own strong brown one. “
Si,
that is so. But that still does not solve the problem of feeding our people.”

“They are strong, Ramon. They will survive, even without your help. You cannot take care of them all.”

“If I had been here when Father needed me … if I hadn't been in Spain—”

“It was not your fault. Your father believed the courts would uphold his title. He thought he could take care of the problem himself. By the time you knew what had happened it was already too late.”

He knew all of that, but still he felt guilty. If he had been here, maybe he could have done something to save their land. Perhaps his father would not have grown ill and died of a broken heart.

“What are your plans?” Tia Teresa asked.

Ramon shook his head. “I do not know.” He gazed back out the window, staring off toward the west as he had done so many times before. He had said he was worried about his people. Teresa knew that was the truth, but she believed there was something else.

“Will you go to Senor Austin's
fandango
on Saturday?” One of the del Robles vaqueros had brought the invitation that afternoon.

“I am not certain.” His eyes swung toward hers. They looked troubled again. “Unless you and Mother wish to go.”

“You know we are in mourning.”

“We are all of us in mourning, but the Anglos do not know that and we cannot let them know. Besides, the music and laughter would be good for you both.”

Something told her to say yes—for Ramon's sake—to make an exception to the old ways, to custom and what was proper. He wanted to go. She did not know why, but she could see it in his face. Still, she thought that he would not indulge in this desire.

“Perhaps that is a good idea,” she said, watching him closely. “There are few of us de la Guerras left, only the three of us and your cousins. With Maria and poor dear Angel so far away, we should do what is best for ourselves. Perhaps it would be nice to go for a while, to sit and listen to the music.”

He smiled but it was tinged with a darkness she could not read. “
Bien.
If that is your wish, we will go.”

Teresa patted his hand. “I will speak to your mother. I believe she will see things as I do.” Not in the beginning. Anna was a stickler for propriety, and she grieved deeply for her son. Still, she loved Ramon. She would do anything for him.

Teresa meant to discover what it was at Rancho del Robles that constantly drew her nephew's attention and creased his forehead with what looked very much like pain.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

They were having a
fandango.
A party was the last thing Carly wanted, but Vincent Bannister and his father had arrived three days ago and apparently her uncle intended to entertain them in style.

With an inward groan of resignation, she turned to her little Spanish maid. “Are you finished yet, Candelaria?” Sitting in front of the mirror above her carved oak dresser, Carly fidgeted while the girl put up her hair. Candelaria had gotten reasonably good at it, considering her role as lady's maid was fairly new.

“
Si,
senorita. Just a moment more and your beautiful curls will all be in place.” She was a pretty girl, a little moon-faced, a tendency toward pudginess in her later years, but fair-skinned and brown-haired with big brown eyes and long thick black lashes.

Carly liked the girl. She was always pleasant and cheerful. In the beginning, Carly had been so lonely she had confided in Candelaria. Now she was embarrassed to think of the things she had told her. She had spoken of her mother and father and the life of poverty she had led in the mine patch.

Her uncle would die if he knew.

Carly sighed. She guessed it really didn't matter. In a way, she and Candelaria were friends. Her uncle would hardly approve, but it wasn't her nature to place herself on a level above someone else.

Obviously, not a single solitary drop of royal blood ran through her veins.

Carly frowned at the thought and her stomach tightened with nerves. The de la Guerra family had been invited. She wondered if Ramon would come.

“You look very beautiful, Senorita McConnell.” Candelaria stepped back to survey her handiwork, the upswept auburn curls that seemed to shimmer in the lamplight and set off the topaz gown. It was daringly low, exposing a good deal of her breasts, and her shoulders were bare as well. The skirt was cut full, slightly belled, the tiny waist V-ed in the front. Dark brown velvet trimmed the skirt, along with heavy golden lace.

“Your uncle will be waiting,” Candelaria gently urged. “You do not wish to make him angry.”

No, she didn't wish it, but she didn't want to spend another evening with Vincent, either.

Resignedly she stood up from her chair. Her uncle had pushed them together at every opportunity. In truth, in the beginning, she had actually tried to imagine herself as Vincent's wife. It would please Uncle Fletcher so much. She couldn't expect him to take care of her forever. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

It didn't take long to discover the terrible fate being married to Vincent would be.

“I can't wait for you to come to the city,” he'd said as they strolled beneath the great live oaks behind the house late one evening. “San Francisco is incredibly exciting.” He sighed dramatically. “Of course it's nothing like Philadelphia.” The city he had come from. “You can't find nearly the same caliber of people, or the level of sophistication, but at least you can get a decent meal. You don't have to eat those godawful tortillas and beans one has to put up with out here.”

“Actually, I've grown rather fond of the food,” Carly said a bit defensively. She'd tried to steer him to other topics, but he always returned to his dislike of the country, his prejudice against the Spanish landowners, or his favorite subject—himself. His interest seemed fixed on who was who among San Francisco's elite, who had the most money, and discussions of his father's business concerns.

“One of these days, the Bannisters will own San Francisco,” he boasted. “The woman I marry will live like a queen.” He turned her to face him, tilted her chin with his hand. “You could be that woman, Caralee. You'd be the envy of every woman in the city … and I'd be the envy of every man.”

Then he leaned over and kissed her. Carly squeezed her eyes closed, hoping she would feel some of the scorching heat Ramon had made her feel. But she might as well have been kissing the eggplant she'd picked that morning in the garden.

It was the hand he moved up to her breast that ended the contact. She wasn't about to let him take liberties. The truth was she felt nothing for Vincent Bannister. It was only too clear that she never would.

Now, standing alone beneath the eaves of the house watching her uncle and his guests, Carly resigned herself to another evening of his unwanted company. With a silent vow to persevere, she took a deep breath and began walking toward the group of well-dressed people standing at the edge of the big wooden dance floor her uncle had ordered built for the
fandango.

Two men played guitar and another drew his bow across a violin, evoking a bittersweet Spanish tune. Colorful paper lanterns hung from strings tied between the overhanging oak trees, and tables laden with steaming platters of food sat off to one side. A bullock turned over a spit near the edge of the gathering, its savory smell drifting through the cool evening air. A group of her uncle's vaqueros stood around it, laughing and smoking and enjoying the rhythm of the music.

Most of the guests held cups of sangria, a brew made of rich red wine, wild berries, oranges, and limes. Some of the men drank the fine imported whiskey her uncle brought in from San Francisco.

“Caralee!” Uncle Fletcher waved her toward him. “It's time you joined us. Young Vincent has been chomping at the bit.”

William Bannister laughed and so did a few of the others. Vincent's face turned a little bit red.

Her uncle just grinned. “She's a sight for sore eyes, isn't she, my boy? Had that dress specially made for her. Came all the way 'round the horn from New York City.” He clapped the sandy-haired man on the back, and Vincent smiled good-naturedly.

At least he had that going for him. It seemed Vincent was fairly even-tempered. “She certainly looks lovely, Mr. Austin. Your niece is a beautiful woman.” His gaze flicked over to Carly. “And since that is the case, I'm hoping she'll agree to dance with me.”

“Of course she will.” Her uncle gave her a look that brooked no argument, and Carly forced herself to smile.

“Of course. I'd be delighted.” He had that going for him, too. Vincent was a very good dancer. She let him lead her onto the dance floor and they began to move to the soft strains of a waltz. She'd been hoping for a polka or perhaps a mazurka, something lively, so they wouldn't have to talk.

“I meant what I said. You look lovely tonight, Caralee.” Vincent smiled, his hazel eyes warm on her face. “Even in San Francisco, you'd be the belle of the ball.”

“Thank you, Vincent, that's very flattering.” But then so was everything he said. They continued to dance. Carly was enjoying the music but couldn't manage to concentrate on Vincent's uninteresting conversation. Though she tried to will them not to, her eyes kept searching the crowd for Ramon. She recognized Sam Hollingworth and his wife, Amanda, their closest neighbors to the north; George Winston; and Royston Wardell. The Montoyas were there, and several other Californio families, but she saw no sign of the tall, dark-eyed Spaniard.

It's better this way, she told herself. Still her chest felt heavy with disappointment.

“Are you listening, Caralee?” Vincent was speaking as he led her off the dance floor. “I said I need to see you in private. There's something I want to show you.”

Carly stiffened slightly against the arm he rested at her waist. Oh God, what if he proposed? “You h-have something to show me?”

“That's what I said. Meet me out in the barn in twenty minutes.”

“The barn? I don't think that's a good idea, Vincent. What if someone saw us?”

“Come on, Caralee. I bet you weren't such a coward when you were tramping through the woods with the Spanish Dragon.”

Carly stiffened even more. She didn't like the look that flickered in Vincent's eyes. But when she looked again, he was merely smiling. Perhaps she had only imagined it. “Why in the world does it have to be the barn? Isn't there someplace else we could go?”