Midnight Rider (9 page)

Throughout the night, she tossed and turned, and in her sleep she began to speak, rousing Ramon from his thoughts as he sat beside her in the chair. At first the words were incoherent, just fever-induced, disjointed ramblings, then little by little the words began to form sentences.

“Pa? Is that you, Pa? I love you, Pa.” She fisted the sheets in her small hands and tears began to slide down her cheeks. “Don't go, Ma, please don't leave me.”

He smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. “You are not alone,
nina,
” he replied in the English she had slipped into. “Rest easy.”

“I ain't gonna do it,” she suddenly said. “I ain't gonna leave her. She's sick. She's dyin'. I don't care if n I catch it, I ain't gonna go.”

Ramon leaned forward, listening to her words, a frown of uncertainty creasing his brow. Just then Pedro walked in.

“You have been awake all night, Ramon. I will sit with the girl while you get some sleep.”

“She has been talking, Pedro. I have spoken English to her on several occasions, but it sounded nothing like this. Her words were always refined, cultured. The way she speaks now sounds more like the illiterate
gringos
who come off the ships, headed for the gold fields. Something is not right here.”

Pedro came closer. “What do you think it means?”

“I do not know, but I intend to find out.” He shifted closer, listened to her talking again, then turned once more to his friend. “I want you to find Alberto. His cousin, Candelaria, works in the
hacienda
at Rancho del Robles. She has helped us before. Ask him to see what she can discover about our guest.”

Pedro nodded. “In the meantime, I will send Florentia in to watch—”

“I am staying here.”

“But you need your rest. You must—”

“
Por favor,
Pedro, do as I ask. Tell Alberto we need to know as quickly as we can.”

Sanchez merely nodded. Arguing would do no good; Ramon intended to stay. “I will do as you wish.”

Four days passed. Long, sleepless days for Ramon de la Guerra, but Carly's condition only worsened. Her breathing turned ragged, shallow, the way his brother had sounded near the end. It made the knife of remorse twist harder inside him.

The Indian woman came the second day. Trah-ush-nah, Blue Jay, was her name. The Californios called her Lena, her mission name. She was thin and dark skinned, with long straight black hair and bangs cut over her forehead, the style worn by most of the local Indians, but her features were softer, more refined. She was young, a woman in her twenties, a shaman by family tradition.

She ignored him as she worked. Using a mortar and pestle, she ground dried lemon balm leaves into powder, stirred them into a broth over the fire, then spooned them into the girl. She made a tea from birch bark, and forced her patient to drink it every few hours. She rubbed Carly's chest with an ointment made of lard, pulverized redmaid seeds, and roasted kernels of buttercup, and waved a fan made of eagle feathers over her pale face. Ramon didn't care what she did, as long as the girl got better.

By the fourth day, he had almost given up hope. The Indian woman had returned to the village, telling him she had done all she could. If Carly's condition didn't improve by the morrow, the priest was next to be called.

It was two in the morning, yet a lamp still burned on the small roughhewn table beside the old iron bed. Ramon could not sleep. He had barely been able to eat. The thought of another death on his conscience made his stomach roll with nausea. That it was a woman, that she was so young, that he was the man responsible made a hot ache rise in his throat.

Madre de Dios,
he had never meant for this to happen! If only he hadn't been so caught up in his grief. If only he had been able to think, been able to block the pain.

If only he had left her at Rancho del Robles.

His heart unbearably heavy, weary clear to his bones, Ramon sat forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. Lacing his long, dark fingers together, he lowered his forehead against his hands and softly began to pray.

*   *   *

Someone was calling her. Carly could barely hear the quietly spoken words but they were sweet and plaintive, the sound incredibly beautiful. The voice was deep, husky, melodious. It called to the Virgin Mary, it called to Saint John, it called to the heavenly angels. Please, the soft voice said, let the little one live.

She wet her dry lips and stirred, drawn to the beauty of the voice, the sensual rhythm of the words. The language was Spanish, she realized vaguely, the deep sensuous vibrations rolling through her in soft caressing waves. It moved something inside her, made her want to open her eyes, to see where the silvery, lyrical phrases came from.

She listened to the rich male cadence, demanding one moment, pleading the next, its masculine timbre a balm to her weary soul. She wanted to see the face behind such a voice, to see if it could be nearly as achingly beautiful.

Rousing herself, she opened her eyes to see a black-haired man praying softly beside the bed. His face was all that she had envisioned: perfect winged black brows, slim straight nose, high carved cheekbones, a strong jaw, and sensuous lips. Double rows of thick black lashes swept the skin beneath his tightly closed eyes. His head hung forward, his hair falling over his brow, and there were tears on his cheeks.

“Don't cry,” she said in his same soft language. “You're … too beautiful … to cry.”

His head snapped up. For a moment he said nothing. Then the Spanish rolled out, so rapid she didn't catch the words, but his wide bright smile made her smile at him in return.

“Chica,”
he said softly. “At last you have returned to us.”

She studied him for long moments more, mesmerized by the warmth and strength in his face. “I'm … so tired,” she whispered, wetting her lips as she gazed up at him. “And I'm hungry. Could I please have something to eat?”

He stood up from his chair, tall and lean and broad-shouldered. “
Si,
of course you can. I will see to it myself.” He felt her forehead, breathed a sigh of relief, then reached over and squeezed her hand. “Do not move. I promise I will only be gone for a moment.”

Smiling, she snuggled down into the covers. She was glad the man was there to watch over her. When she woke up again, he was certain to have something good to fill her empty stomach.

*   *   *

By the time Ramon returned with a bowl of warm broth, Caralee McConnell was once more asleep. But the fever had broken. His prayers had been answered. He felt sure the girl would live.

Relief made him suddenly weary. He set the tray of food down on the dresser, settled himself in the chair and allowed himself to sleep for a while, until Pedro knocked on the door. Dawn grayed the windows. The chill of night still hovered in the room. He got up from the chair and stretched his aching muscles, then knelt to freshen the low-burning fire.

“Her fever has broken,” he said as his friend walked in. “I think she is going to be fine.”

Pedro crossed himself. “Thank the Blessed Virgin.”

“I already did,” Ramon said with a grin, the first he had allowed himself in over a week.

Pedro just sighed. “I bring news, Ramon.”

“From Alberto?”

“
Si.
I am afraid you are not going to like it.”

Ramon frowned. “I have not liked much of anything lately. You may as well tell me what it is.”

“The girl … Senorita McConnell, she is not the woman you believed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alberto's cousin, Candelaria, she worked as the senorita's personal maid. She says the girl was warned by her uncle never to speak of her background, but she was so lonely, I suppose she needed a friend. She trusted Candelaria and told her the truth.”

“The truth?” Ramon said.

“Si.”

“And just what is this truth?”

“The girl was not wealthy as we believed. Her father was a poor, ignorant miner. He died of a lung disease when the senorita was only just ten. The girl and her mother took in laundry to earn money for food. Four years ago her mother died of the cholera. Senor Austin is her mother's brother, her only living relative. He sent her money, then arranged for a boarding school so she could finish her education and learn the proper refinements. Candelaria says the senorita wishes to repay him for all he has done. She obeys him, even when she disagrees. It was he who refused to let her dance with you. He warned her not to encourage you in any way. Candelaria said the girl felt very badly about the way she treated you the day you gave her the rose. Candelaria says it is not in the senorita's nature to be unkind to others.”

Ramon felt a deep, hollow sinking in the pit of his stomach. He had made mistakes in his life more than once, but none any worse than this.

“I have wronged her badly.”

“
Si,
that is true, but at least now you know the truth.”

Ramon began to pace at the foot of the bed. “I will make it up to her. I will find a way—I swear it.”

Behind them the woman stirred. Ramon reached her side just as she opened her eyes.

“You!” she shrieked, her drowsiness instantly gone, the color draining from her pretty face. “What—what are you doing in my bedroom?”

Pedro wisely remained silent and backed out the door.

Ramon smiled softly. “I am afraid this is my bedroom,
chica,
not yours.”

She blanched as the truth came crashing in. A tremor moved over her small frame and her eyes flashed a moment of fear.

Inwardly, Ramon cursed. “Do not be frightened,
nina.
I will not hurt you. I give you my word.”

“Your word?” She drew herself up against the headboard, the effort making her weak body tremble. “What value is there in the word of a man like you?”

“More than you might think,” he said softly, “but I do not blame you for having your doubts. In the meantime, I do not wish you to tax yourself. Your illness has been long and difficult. You need time to get well and grow strong. Rest easy, little one. I will have Florentia bring you something to eat.”

The Spaniard left the room and Carly stared after him in amazement. Shaking with apprehension and the weakness left by her illness, she tried to recall the scene that had just transpired with the don, but already the images seemed fuzzy and out of focus. His kindness couldn't have occurred. There was nothing kind about him. Perhaps she had imagined it.

She glanced around the small cozy room, at the bright-colored quilt on the old iron bed, at the hand-sewn carpet on the hard-packed earthen floor. There was a crude oak dresser against one wall, much like the table beside the bed, and a chipped blue porcelain bowl and pitcher sitting atop it.

Carly fought down the uncomfortable thudding of her heart and the knot in her stomach, and tried to piece together what little she knew. She was in the don's bedchamber in his small adobe house in the mountains. A place called Llano Mirada. She had been abducted from her home by El Dragón, a man who blamed her for his brother's death. Carly shivered to think of it. Dear God, what would he do?

Her hold grew tighter on the quilt. How many days had she been there? He said her illness had been long. As weak as she felt, she'd been sick for more than a day or two. She glanced at the white cotton nightgown she wore, bigger than her own, spotlessly clean and smelling of strong lye soap. Whose was it? Why had it been given to her? Who had cared for her—and why had the ruthless don bothered with her care at all?

The room felt suddenly cold and Carly pulled the quilt up to her chin. Whatever his reasons, sooner or later, she was certain to find out. Carly closed her eyes, almost wishing she hadn't awakened.

*   *   *

Ramon left the house feeling a lightness in his chest, though he knew it would not last long. With the girl out of danger, it was time to return to his hacienda. Already he had waited longer than he should have. He couldn't afford to arouse suspicion, stir doubts he might be involved with El Dragón.

And there were his mother and aunt to see to. A message had been sent of Andreas's death. The women would be grieving just as he was. They would need his support, and in truth it would comfort him to have theirs. It would ease their minds to know Padre Xavier had said the mass, and in time, once it was safe and the danger of discovery was past, he would see his brother's body removed to the family plot that had given Rancho Las Almas its name—Ranch of Souls. The place where generations of de la Guerras had been laid to rest, the only reason the small five-hundred-acre parcel of land remained in the de la Guerra name when the rest of their land had been taken.

Stolen, he corrected. By the
gringo
—Fletcher Austin and his band of thieves.

“You are on your way home?” Pedro asked, walking to where Ramon stood in the shade of the lean-to saddling a tall rawboned sorrel horse. Viento, the stallion ridden by El Dragón, remained at Llano Mirada. He would know only one rider now.

Ramon forced down a moment of pain. Smoothing the thick woolen blanket over the horse's back, he lifted the heavy vaquero's saddle into place atop it. “It is time I returned to Las Almas. I will come back as soon as it is safe.”

“Florentia and I will see to the girl.”

“I know you will. I am sure you will see she is back on her feet by the time I return.” A corner of his mouth curved up. “I find myself looking forward to the challenge.”

“What will you do with her, Ramon? You cannot let her go. She knows who you are and where this place is.”

Footsteps sounded inside the barn, drawing the men's attention. “Perhaps you can sell her.” Francisco Villegas walked toward him, a hard-faced vaquero who had joined them only a few months back. “They say the price for a pretty
gringa
runs high across the border in Nogales.”