Rocky Mountain Ride (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 7) (6 page)

“This is Lord Chivington.” Francesca nodded to him. “He is to have the General’s room.”

Ana blinked. “That is our finest room, my lord. Welcome.” She curtsied. “If you will leave your horse for the boy and follow me.”

“Please,” Sebastian said. “I can take care of my stallion. And the barracks will be quite sufficient for me.”

“It is not too much trouble,” Francesca said. “You are our guest. I have not forgotten hospitality, not even with everything that has happened.” She turned to Ana. “A short meal, only, Ana, please. Our guests must be tired.” She spun on her heel and marched away.

“Señora De La Vega,” Sebastian called. “Thank you.”

The dark haired mistress threw up a hand to acknowledge his gratitude, but didn’t slow or turn around.

Ana’s eyes widened. “My lord, please forgive her rudeness, the señora is very busy…”

“No need to apologize, madame. I can tell she is under a lot of strain. I mean to be of service, if I can.”

“I am sure she will appreciate that.”

Watching the beautiful widow stride across the field to a low outbuilding, Sebastian wasn’t so sure.

*

Damned fool.
Francesca wasn’t sure who she despised more: the foppish Englishman who’d followed her from the saloon and stuck to her side, or herself. His very presence made her grit her teeth, even as her body remained aware of where he was at all times. She both hated his attention, and wanted it.

She was used to receiving male interest, even being an object of desire. She was beautiful as her mother had been. As healer and daughter of one of San Luis’ founders, her position afforded her respect, so men of the village looked and did not touch.

Until this Englishman. He had no qualms laying his hands all over her, taking liberties. The way he’d tied her to the fallen log and taken control…

Her breath left in a huff. She could not sit and think on this foolishness. She had a ranch to save.

She felt different. The birching had opened her up, left her thinking strange thoughts about a British poppycock, as if, through pain, the lord had touched her soft core. She’d even cried in front of him. She hadn’t cried in a long, long time.

The conflict raged in her and she took it out on the cornmeal she was grinding for Ana to cook with tomorrow.

After a few minutes, her shoulders ached from the force she used on the pestle.

The sun hung low in the sky, signaling an end to this long and weary day. The guests were fed and quartered; they were in the stables now, currying their horses. Francesca heard their voices floating over the field. Laughter rang out; Lord James Sebastian Chivington must be telling a joke.

Francesca ground the meal faster.

Juan rode up and she stopped, grateful for the break.

“How are the rest of the fences?”

“Fine, señora.” He hesitated. “After you left, Diego rode by.”

Francesca wiped the sweat off her forehead. “What did he want?”

“He’d heard what had happened, and offered to help. He says his vaqueros are yours to command.”

“I’m sure,” she muttered. “What did you tell him?”

“I thanked him. And said I’d pose the offer to you.”

“And we will decline, of course.”

“Señora…”

“No, Juan. We cannot let him impose.”
I cannot afford to owe him.

“Why not? He is family.”

Francesca’s brow creased as she struggled to put her feelings into words, to give them rationale. “If he is so close, then why did he not help Cyro? What was between them, that my father died and Diego was content to watch us struggle?”

Juan sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

“Señor Diego Montoya…he asked for your hand in marriage. Before you were married to Cyro.”

Francesca stilled. “What?”

“Your father declined for you.”

“Why didn’t my father tell me?”

“You were young and beautiful, but also as you are now.” He waved a hand and she could fill in the blank—reckless, hot headed. “He was afraid you would run away with Diego. Or that he’d seduce you. That is why your father married you off so quickly. He saw fruit in a marriage with the older Montoya, not the younger. Señora, he only wanted what was best for you.”

Francesca tried to think back to the time before she was married, when Diego spent more time around her father’s ranch. A handsome, dark eyed man in his twenties, his presence always made her heart beat faster.

“Why did Father choose Cyro for me?” She’d been only sixteen, deep into the study of her mother’s healing arts, and surprised when her father showed up on the step of the apothecary to tell her she would be wed in a few days.

“I believe he thought Cyro was more steady. He was friends with Cyro and respected him greatly. Cyro’s military career and ideas about farming made him great company to your father. They would ride in the fields all day and sit and tell stories and smoke all night.

“Who knows, perhaps Señor De La Vega thought you would end up marrying both Montoyas—the elder and then the younger. Time passed and Diego has grown into a fine man. Cyro was much older than you and Diego. After his passing, it makes sense that you two become close.”

Something about the conversation made her skin crawl. Perhaps it was knowing that her father and husband had sat around and discussed this without her. Why hadn’t her father included her in the conversations about her own future?

“I cannot think about this now. Cyro is gone, we must continue to save the ranch.”

“Aye, señora. Do you think you will hear more about the payments, now that this Red Charlie is gone?”

“I am sure we will. He is but one of the Royal Mountain Gang.” She sighed, feeling tired to her bones. “They have not pestered me for money, as they plagued Cyro, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“You may have challenged them by shooting their comrade. They may come after you now.”

“Let them come,” she growled. “I look forward to meeting them head on, with my gun.”

Shaking his head, Juan said no more on the subject and took his leave.

Francesca waved him away, but once he was out of sight, her body sagged over the pestle. A murdered husband, a gang asking for payments, an encroaching brother-in-law, and a farm barely making enough to pay worthless vaqueros. And now four more mouths to feed in the form of unwanted guests. If it weren’t for Juan, his wife and family, and Ana, she’d set the whole place on fire and run away to live in the woods.

*

Late that night, Sebastian was at his window, smoking, when he saw a dark form moving through the garden. The household was dark and quiet, the matron Ana in her bed at one end of the house, and, he assumed, Francesca in hers. But when the figure reached the gate, he recognized the long, dark fall of unbound hair.

Snuffing out his cigaro, he climbed out of the low window and followed, tiptoeing to keep from waking Ana’s white goat, tied to a ring in the wall, far from the garden beds. Francesca made for one of the small outbuildings. He kept his distance, creeping from shadow to shadow. As he passed the barracks, he heard Cage’s snores through the open window.

He followed his quarry to a little stone building set halfway between the hacienda and the woods. The door stood open and Francesca was inside, lighting a candle. His foot hit the door and caused it to creak; the young woman whirled.

“It’s all right.” He raised his hands. “It’s only me.”

The light molded to her face, showing her pulse beating fast in her throat.

“A bit late for you to wander about. What are you doing?” he asked.

Anger replaced her fear in a flash.

“This is my home,” she snapped.

“And that makes it wise for a young woman to be out and about at night?”

She took a few steps out of the light, grabbing jars off shelves and bringing them to a large, worn table. “I have work to do.”

He looked about the small space, the shelves filled with jars, mortars and pestles of all shapes and sizes, the candles in the fireplace giving off a fragrant scent.

“Don’t touch anything,” she said.

“What is this place?” Sebastian had to duck his head to get around the hanging bundles of herbs.

“An apothecary. It was my mother’s and now it is mine.” She opened jars and measured out the contents, her movements swift and sure. He found a stool and pulled it up to the table to watch her work.

For a few minutes she pretended to ignore him, but he sensed her interest under all her rude behavior. She didn’t kick him out, though she did say, “No one comes here without my permission.”

“Really? A good place for a lover’s tryst then.”

To his surprise, Francesca blushed, the color pretty on her smooth, caramel skin. “I’ve never been here with a man. My mother always banned my father from coming here.” She gave him a pointed look.

He nodded politely. “Do you ever stop working?”

“There is much to be done. The people of the village need me.”

“Can I help?”

“You don’t think you’ve helped enough?”

He shrugged.

She sighed. “Grind this.” She handed him the stone mortar and pestle. It was his turn to pretend to focus on work, though he couldn’t help watching her out of the corner of his eye as she went about the apothecary with graceful, swaying movements. The room grew stuffy with incense, and Francesca opened a window and removed her smock to reveal a plain dress that wrapped around her waist and had loose sleeves. In bare feet and casual attire, her simple beauty was almost indecent, it was so alluring.

Sebastian had to admit, he approved. If he was a poet, he’d pen lines about this moment: the moonlight, the night air, the dark and lovely lady. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the heady herbal smell.

When he finished grinding the herbs to powder, she came to take the bowl. He pulled it back so she’d look at him.

“It’s probably not safe for you to go about at night like this.”

“I do as I like. I have been coming here at night since I was a girl.” She tugged the bowl, and he let her take it.

“Your husband let you?”

“My father, and then my husband, yes. They would not meddle. Besides, most of the people of the town and the valley know me, and respect their healer. They learn quickly: no one is to enter this place without my permission.”

He raised a brow.

“You are the first man here in a long time.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I was never any good at following rules.”

“No, just dishing out punishment to others who break yours.” She mixed the ground herbs together, adding another powder with brisk, angry movements.

So she hadn’t forgotten the birching. “You tried to kick something that is very important to me,” he said.

A mocking smile curved her lips. She raised a hand to brush back a strand of hair, and her sleeve slipped down to her elbow. Sebastian watched it fall, mesmerized. “You men think you’re so tough, but you are really all babies.”

“Looking for the next place to nurse,” he said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the hook on her dress that had come undone and shifted, revealing the curve of her breast. If the fabric fell a little further…

Both of them flushed at the same time. Francesca clutched the neck of her dress, found the undone hook and refastened it. Sebastian turned away. He was bantering with her like she was a strumpet.

“Forgive me,” he said, facing the window. “I have been in the company of men far too long.”

“So have I,” she said.

He kept his back to her while she finished puttering around her work space. The night air cooled his thoughts.

What was he thinking, flirting with a widow?

“Lord Chivington? I am finished. I’m leaving.”

She’d cleaned the area and had blown out all but one candle. Instead of the smock, she’d pulled a shawl around her shoulders.

“I’ll escort you back to the hacienda.”

As they made their way over the field, Sebastian cast about for some neutral topic.

“It’s a lovely ranch, if I may say so.”

“Thank you. My father founded it. It was his life.”

“When you spoke of your husband’s death...you said “they”…do you know that your husband’s death was carried out by more than one man?”

She scrubbed a hand over her tired face. “I do not have proof, only suspicion. My father and husband worked hard to make this farm and keep it successful. After my father’s death, a man came and said his boss had a debt against the land. It seems my father had borrowed money from a man named Doyle without telling Cyro.”

“Doyle?” Sebastian recognized the name of a Colorado business owner, pimp and cheat, who had met his demise late summer last year.

“Yes,” Francesca said, not noticing Sebastian’s reaction. “And though the loan was small, it had grown year by year, and my father hadn’t covered all the payments. They had papers to prove the debt and the land was used as collateral. So Cyro took over the payments, but a few bad years in a row and he fell behind. He hid it from me, but I could tell it strained him. I begged him to let that portion of the land go, but Cyro did not think we could make the ranch work without it.”