Midnight Rider (34 page)

His aunt had used more tact, speaking of Caralee whenever he was around, talking about his wife with such affection he had finally stormed out of the house. He meant to travel to Santa Barbara to search for the documents that might help him regain Rancho del Robles, but in the end sent Mariano in his stead. He was afraid his cousin might be there, that Angel might have returned to his family's small hacienda, and Ramon did not trust himself to be so lenient with his cousin again.

For the last two weeks he had been living at the stronghold. Oddly, he was glad that Miranda was not there, that Pedro had taken her to visit her late husband's family in the great central valley. Ramon wasn't ready for a woman. Any woman. Just the thought of making love reminded him of Angel and Caralee, and the bile rose up in his throat.

It had taken some time, but he had finally brought his feelings under control. As he had done in the past, he let his anger bury the pain. He nurtured it as he would a living thing, then fed on it to keep the heartache away. In the daytime he forced himself to remember the moment he had found them together in his room, to suffer again the hot, painful ache that had lanced through his heart like a blade. He thought of her with Villegas, tried to tell himself perhaps she had wanted him, too, that if he hadn't come when he did, she would have enjoyed the man's rough treatment.

It was only at night that he could not make himself believe.
Remember me the way you thought of me before … pretend Monterey never happened. Remember the things we did, the pleasures we shared, remember the good times, not the bad.

And in his dreams he did. He remembered how beautiful she looked on their wedding night, remembered the way she had begged him to be gentle. He remembered her courage as she battled her way through the mountains, determined to fight him and in the long run, gaining his respect. He remembered how hard she had worked to better herself, how far she had come from a life of poverty and grief in the mine patch to a woman of grace and beauty who could move in society's most prominent circles.

He remembered the long hours she had worked beside Lena tending the sick in the village, how much she had come to care for Two Hawks, how sad she had been at the loss of his sister.

He thought of the day they had watched the horses mate, the overwhelming need he had felt for her … the same hot need she had seemed to feel for him. In the hours of the night in the hazy outline of his dreams, he asked himself how she could have betrayed him.

Perhaps if she had understood the depth of his feelings for her …

Then he would awaken, and he would have to face the truth. She was an Anglo. Just like Lily. Just like her uncle. Just as ruthless, just as cruel.

But day or night, he still hungered for her, even thought of forcing her return to his bed. She was his wife, he reasoned. She belonged to him—he could do with her as he wished. But even if he took her, salved his anger on her ripe little body, it was he who would suffer, he who would remember the way she had betrayed him every time he held her in his arms.

Instead he banished her from his mind as best he could and fixed his thoughts on the problems he faced in the stronghold. The money from the horses would soon run out. It was fall and the
gringos
would be selling their cattle and horses. The stages would be laden with gold; it was time once more for El Dragón.

For the first time since he had begun to raid with his brother, Ramon looked forward to the chance to rain his fury on the Anglos who had caused him so much pain.

*   *   *

“We need to talk, Caralee.”

“I'm sorry, Uncle.… what did you say?” She was standing at the rear of the house, looking out the window toward the mountains to the southeast. Out toward Rancho Las Almas.

“I said we need to talk.”

She smiled absently. “Of course, whatever you say.”

He led her down the hall to his study, then firmly closed the door.

Carly turned to face him. “What is it, Uncle Fletcher?”

“To put it simply, my dear—it's that bastard, El Dragón. He hit the San Felipe stage, took two thousand dollars in payroll money headed for the New Idria mine.”

Carly wet her lips. For the past three weeks, she'd felt nothing. Allowed herself to feel nothing. Now her heart started to pound and a ringing began in her ears.

“D-did they catch him?”

“No. The whoreson got away. They've formed a vigilante party. I'm taking some of the men. We'll be joining them later this afternoon.” His eyes searched her face. “I was hoping there might be something you could tell us that would help.”

Her fingers curled into the skirt of her fashionable plum silk day dress. “If I knew anything at all, I would tell you. Surely you know that.”

“I wish I could believe it, Caralee.” He came forward and took her hands, which had suddenly gone cold. “I know your loyalties must be torn. After all, Don Ramon—”

“Don Ramon? What—what does Ramon have to do with this?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Her head came up, but inside she was shaking. “Ramon has nothing at all to do with the Spanish Dragon. He's very well respected. You know that as well as I do.”

“The man is out for vengeance, Caralee. He believes I stole his lands. I wouldn't be surprised if he ordered your abduction just to get back at me.”

Dear God.
It was far too close to the truth. “Did you?” she asked. “Did you steal his lands?”

“Don't be absurd. I bought them from a man named Thomas Garrison.”

The name she had seen on the deed. “Where did Garrison get them?”

Her uncle cleared his throat. “Why he … he bought them when they came up for sale. Diego de la Guerra couldn't prove his claim. The Lands Commission confiscated the property and ordered it sold. It was all very legal, I assure you.”

She sagged down into a chair, weakened by a towering sense of relief. “I'm sorry, Uncle Fletcher. This whole thing just has me so upset.”

“I understand, my dear. I shouldn't have pressed you. I only hoped … ah, well, perhaps this time we'll be successful. We've hired the same Indian scouts we used to track those two renegades back to their village in the high country. They're the best I've ever seen.”

The blood slowly drained from her face. “You—you don't mean you were with the militia when … when they went into the Yocuts's village?”

“The guard needed their ranks reinforced. This country has to be protected—of course I went along.”

She slowly came to her feet, then gripped the back of the chair next to hers to keep her legs from shaking. “You helped them wipe out an entire Indian village? You killed innocent women and children?”

“There was no other choice, my dear. They had to be dealt with—they're murderers, the lot of them.”

“Tell me it isn't the truth. Tell me you wouldn't be a party to something as awful as that.”

Her uncle's jaw went taut. His hands reached out to grip her shoulders. “You don't understand this country, Caralee. It's kill or be killed. The strongest over the weakest. Those Indians had to be stopped and so does this bandit, El Dragón. Only when we find him, death won't come as easy as it did for those poor, dumb savages.”

Carly jerked free of his hold, her body shaking all over. “Ramon de la Guerra isn't in any way connected with the Spanish Dragon. Now if you'll excuse me…” She brushed past him, her full skirts rustling against his pant legs as she walked out the door and closed it loudly behind her. She was trembling as she entered her bedroom and leaned against the wall, squeezing her eyes closed at the thought of her uncle killing Lena and the others in the village.

She didn't come out of her room when her uncle rode off to join the vigilantes, didn't come out for supper, just picked at the tray of food Candelaria brought her to eat.

Late the next morning after a night of restless sleep, she drew on a rust-colored riding habit and her button-up ankle-high boots, and headed out the door. She needed to get away from the house, away from thoughts of her uncle, and uncertainties about what might happen to Ramon.

Heading to the barn, she asked the tall, lean vaquero named Jose to saddle her a horse. She hadn't ridden since her return to the rancho, now she couldn't imagine how she had spent so much time indoors.

“I have readied Chimara for you,” the lanky Californio said, leading a small sorrel gelding from the stable.

“Thank you, Jose.” The tall vaquero lifted her easily into the sidesaddle. She positioned her knee in its proper place and her foot in the stirrup. Only then did she notice the saddle wasn't the old battered one she had ridden before, but the one Vincent had given her the night of the
fandango.

“I'm sorry, Jose, but this isn't my saddle. This one belongs to Senor Bannister.”

“No, senora. Your uncle told us the day of your return that from now on this was the saddle you should use. He said he had it made especially for you. That it came all the way from San Francisco.”

Her uncle had bought it, not Vincent. How like him. He had used it to try to manipulate her, and yet it was his thoughtfulness that had moved him to buy it in the first place. She would never understand him, never condone the things he did, yet in his own way she cared for him. He was good to her and he was family, all that she had left. Despite the horror of what had happened in the village, despite all her doubts and uncertainties, the affection she felt for him remained.

“Thank you for telling me, Jose.”

“The saddle, it is beautiful, no?”

“Yes, very beautiful.” She ran her hands lovingly over the exquisite hand-carved leather, and a hard lump rose in her throat. How could he be so kind in some ways and so cruel in others?

Taking the reins in her leather-gloved hands, she nudged the sorrel forward. As soon as the barn was out of sight, she leaned over the animal's neck and urged the horse into a gallop, desperate for the feel of the wind on her cheeks. She didn't know exactly where she was going, only that she had to get away. She had to find a ray of light in the darkness that mired her spirit and threatened to bury her in grief.

Perhaps that was the reason she rode toward the shallow pool at the base of the creek running off of the mountain. She had been happy there. She had basked in the warmth of her husband's touch, felt safe and secure and alive as she never had before. Perhaps a little of that brightness remained and would somehow reach her, help to lift the darkness from her aching heart.

Carly fervently hoped so. For the past three weeks she had grieved for Ramon even as she tried to forget him. Her insides felt as crushed as the dry fall leaves beneath her horse's feet, her spirit lost and drifting. After the words she'd had with her uncle, the pain of losing Ramon she had kept so carefully controlled had once again torn free, and now it threatened to overwhelm her.

She found the stream, though she hadn't been sure she could, dismounted from the horse, and followed it to the pool, then tied the animal beneath a nearby sycamore tree. A soft breeze sifted through the branches, but the day was warm for this time of year and she found herself perspiring. Or perhaps it wasn't the warmth, but thoughts of Ramon and the way he had taken her, there in the soft, green grasses.

Her heart ached to think of him. Perhaps she shouldn't have come.

She knelt beside the pool, ran her fingers through the water, then opened the buttons at her throat and let the cooling liquid trickle slowly between her breasts. She looked at the shimmering surface of the pond, remembered the day had been cooler so they had not gone into the water.

It wasn't cool now and suddenly she needed the cleansing water to wash away the sadness that seemed to surround her. She unbuttoned the rust-colored riding habit, sat down and pulled off her boots. She rolled down her stockings and slipped them off, then began to work the laces on her corset.

A gentle rustling snapped her head up. She was dressed in only the corset, her thin pantalettes, and chemise when she spotted her husband sitting on a rock at the edge of the pool. He was chewing a long stem of straw, watching her with eyes that were dark and unreadable, as handsome as the first time she had seen him.

“Buenas tardes … mi amor.”
Bitterness rang in his tone, dripped like venom from his words.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Same as you, I suppose. Looking for a respite from the heat.” He tossed the golden stem away, came up from the rock and started walking toward her, his movements lean and graceful, as purposeful as a mountain cat after its prey.

Unconsciously, she backed a step away. “This is del Robles land. You're trespassing.”

“Ah,
querida
 … surely you do not begrudge your husband a chance to visit a place he holds dear from his boyhood.” He kept on striding toward her, didn't stop till his tall hard body towered above her, forcing her to tilt her head back just to meet his gaze.

Carly wet her lips, which suddenly felt so dry she could barely speak. “I-I'm not dressed. The least you can do is turn around so that I may put on my clothes.”

A corner of his mouth curved up. “Why would I wish to do that?”

“Certainly not because you are a gentleman.”

He laughed at that, a bitter, sardonic sound. “No, certainly not because of that.”

Her heart was pounding, throbbing inside her breast. Still, she lifted her chin and met his dark look head on. “I think that you should leave.”

He laughed again, a little less harshly. “I had forgotten what a tiger you can be when you are angry.”

“And I had forgotten how infuriating you can be.” She reached for her riding habit, carefully folded and resting atop a rock. Ramon reached for it, too, pulled it from her slightly shaking hand.