Spanish Serenade (37 page)

She shifted her shoulders. “As you please.”

He bent his head to brush her hair with his lips, and his gaze was pensive. “But that's the question, isn't it? When will I be allowed to please myself?”

She thought she knew what he meant, but could not be sure. It took courage to seek the answer. “Why do you say that?”

“Manifold exasperations and my own too obvious human nature.”

“That isn't a reason,” she said in acerbic reproof. The exchange, she found, had calmed her as it redirected her thoughts and emotions. She wondered if he had intended it.

“It is,” he said, then added as if it was of only slight interest, “and another might be because I discovered on this momentous morning that Don Esteban is on the trail behind us.”

She stiffened against him as dismay flooded through her. “You mean he's following us?”

“As fast as he can ride.”

“Why? Why would he do it?”

“To bring us grief, no doubt, and because he has a soul lashed by pride. And possibly because we have something, still, that he wants.”

“But — what could that be?”

“What else, my dove,” he asked in quiet tones, “except you?”

18

DON ESTEBAN HAD LEFT Pilar behind in Spain because he thought her discredited, lost to decency and any society that mattered. The situation had not changed for her that she could see. That being so, why would he pursue her now? No, Refugio was wrong. Or if he was not wrong, he had either been attempting to distract her with his suggestion or was trying to conceal something. She did not like to think it could be the last; she did not want to distrust him. Still, he was a bandit, a man used to living by his wits, taking any advantage offered, avoiding the law and most rules of polite conduct. He had a code of his own, yes, but it seemed more flexible than not. There was no way to decide, then, if it was something Refugio had done that was causing her stepfather to follow them in this way.

Of course, if she was right that Don Esteban had twice tried to have Refugio killed, her stepfather's purpose in coming after them might be to finish the task. Perhaps he had lost faith in whoever he had entrusted with the job, or again, might only have lost contact. Regardless, would he really sacrifice his comfort and endanger his own life for the satisfaction of defeating an enemy? Was the hate that drove him that virulent?

The fact that he was back there behind them somewhere cast a dark dreariness over Pilar's spirits. She had begun to hope, and his presence was proof that it had been a useless exercise. It had seemed to her that the vast distances in leagues and time that separated them from Spain, when added to the scant numbers of people in this unending wilderness, must give the band and herself some kind of protection. It seemed possible that the Tejas country could become a sanctuary where they might all start anew. As the long days had fallen away behind her, she had put aside thoughts of riches and revenge and occupied her mind with dreams. They had not been grandiose or even particularly unusual, those dreams, but giving them up was painful.

The question of why Don Esteban was continuing to hound them remained with her, nagging at her mind. There had been little time to discuss it with the others, however, for they had been traveling at speed since the moment Refugio had broken the news to them. It was not just the pursuit by Don Esteban that gave impetus to their progress, but the intelligence that he was not alone. He had joined the Indian traders, those who had been recommended to them in Natchitoches. Since the traders were keeping to the El Camino Real rather than following the more usual northern trade routes, it seemed probable Don Esteban had enlisted these men in his cause. The traders, according to Refugio, numbered a half-dozen men, all well armed. The band would fight this force if it proved necessary, but they preferred to at least choose their own ground.

It was at a rest stop late in the afternoon that Pilar was finally able to ask some of the questions that troubled her. Vicente was wiping down his horse with a handful of dried grass when she came up behind him. She spoke quietly, without the preamble of polite chitchat.

“Tell me the truth, did you really leave the casket of gold behind at Don Esteban's house?”

Refugio's brother straightened from brushing his mount's withers. “I told you so, didn't I? Why would I lie?”

“Gain,” she said simply.

“I have no interest in such things.”

“Oh, please! Few are immune to the appeal of gold.”

“I know that, but still I did not take it.”

“Was there anyone else who could have?”

Uneasiness rippled over his features, which had so much the look of Refugio's, though without the chiseled firmness of maturity. “There might have been.”

“Enrique? Baltasar? Charro?”

“Any of them, I suppose.”

“Did you see anything that would make you think they did?”

He shook his head in slow consideration. “Nothing. But what makes you think it's just the gold the don's after? It might be me.”

She did not speak for a moment as she considered whether what she would say might be wounding. “Surely you were only a pawn?”

“Probably. Still, Don Esteban hates being tested at anything, hates it intensely. I wondered many times if he was sane.”

“Because of the branding?”

He touched the scar on his cheek as if soothing the memory of long-vanished pain. “Also because of the threats he used to make, to castrate me and send the — the results to Refugio; to sell me into North Africa, where I would be put to use in a harem serving peculiar tastes; to feed me a slow poison for the pleasure of watching my death.”

“Dear God,” she whispered. Her distress was not just for the nature of the threats, or even Vicente's endurance of the fear that must have accompanied them. It was also for the knowledge that Refugio, during the voyage on board the
Celestina
, must have guessed what Don Esteban was capable of doing, and had been forced to live with his dread until the moment he had found Vicente in New Orleans. It accounted for much.

Finally, she said, “To have injured you would have been to lessen your value as a hostage for Refugio's good behavior.”

“Yes, so long as he was capable of thinking that clearly.”

“You truly think he's mad, then?”

“I think it's possible that his reasons for following us, for doing anything, may not be rational.”

It was an explanation that removed a great many doubts. Pilar did not quite accept it, and yet there was in it a certain undeniable comfort.

The others had accepted the news of Don Esteban's pursuit according to their natures. Baltasar and Enrique swore, one with resignation, the other with disgust. Charro wanted to go back and set up an ambuscade along the trail to get rid of the threat for good, a plan Refugio refused as too risky. Isabel was inclined to cry, while Doña Luisa developed a hunted look and was the first upon her horse when the order was given to mount.

Weathered by sun and wind, callused in places that did not bear examination, they put the leagues behind them. They faced with stolid purpose the knowledge of the long way that still lay ahead. Whether by determination or sheer, dogged persistence, they kept ahead of Don Esteban's party. What that meant was difficult to say; even if they outdistanced him now, they must still confront him when they reached San Antonio de Bexar. At least the likelihood of being surprised somewhere on the spreading plains became more remote.

They were riding single file one morning along a narrow track through a dense, pale green ocean of rough shrubs Charro called mesquite. The Tejas-country native had gone on ahead to scout the way out of the thicket, and to make sure that there were no wandering herds of cattle ahead to dispute their passage along the trail. The drumming sound of hoofbeats, coming fast, was the signal for his return. When he came into view around the bend in the track, they saw that he had lost his hat, his face was red with exertion, and there were red trickles of blood on his hands and on one cheek. As he pulled up before them in a swirl of dust, the others drew up also, bracing themselves for more trouble.

“Don't tell me,” Enrique drawled, “that you met another bull, and this one makes the other look like an infant?”

“Not longhorns,” Charro gasped, dipping his chin as he tried to catch his breath. “Apache!”

Refugio, who had been bringing up the rear, trotted his horse forward. His voice incisive, he asked, “How many?”

“I'm not sure. All I saw was their sign. No prints of women and children. It's a war party. Twenty braves, maybe more.”

“You think they know we're behind them?” Baltasar asked, his large brow furrowed.

“Not behind them, but beside them. They're riding parallel to us. It's their way.”

There was silence, until Doña Luisa spoke in shrill disbelief. “You mean they are keeping up with us? Watching us?”

“Exactly.” Charro's blue eyes were shadowed and his voice grim.

“We'll all be killed!” the noblewoman cried.

Enrique placed his hand on her arms, which were clasped about his waist, as if to reassure her. Doña Luisa rested her forehead against his back a brief moment before straightening with a furtive look around her to see if anyone had noticed.

Pilar watched Refugio; they all did in one way or another. Don Esteban was behind them and an Apache war party was shadowing them. There were wild cattle to contend with and endless leagues of country where there would be no help forthcoming if anyone should fall ill or be injured. In the midst of these many dangers, someone must decide what they were going to do. That someone, they knew instinctively, was the bandit leader.

Refugio eased his position in his saddle, then squared his shoulders. Turning to Charro, he asked, “When are the Apaches likely to attack?”

“Could be any second. Or at dawn tomorrow. Or midday next week. Or even not at all. It depends on what the war chief decides, and if the warriors with him are inclined to follow his suggestions.”

“It's that arbitrary?”

“Leaders among the Apache, including war chiefs, rise to their places because of proven ability and sound judgment. If either of these things seem doubtful, no one follows. They are finished.”

The two men stared at each other for long moments. There was between them a subtle undercurrent, a suggestion of significance in the exchange of information that was not apparent on the surface. Charro seemed to have gained stature since entering his home territory, and with it an extra measure of assurance. It seemed that new confidence might incline him to challenge Refugio's leadership, though not, perhaps, at the present moment.

Refugio looked away from the others, his gaze unseeing as he surveyed the finely cut foliage of the mesquite surrounding them. At last he said, “I see no option except to ride on. The Apaches know this terrain better than we do. They outnumber us three to one, or more. If we mount an attack in this kind of country, they would most likely vanish into the scrub at the first sign the fight was going against them, then reappear when we least expect it. If we tarry too long, Don Esteban will be treading on our heels, and while the possibility of leading him into an Apache trap is enticing, I doubt he would take the bait.”

“You think he knows we are close ahead of him?” Doña Luisa asked.

Refugio gave her a brief glance. “We have been making little effort to cover our tracks, since there is only one route. It even seems possible the don is aware of the Apaches on our trail, since he is traveling with men familiar with the countryside and the Indians. It could be he's hoping the Apaches will finish us.”

Doña Luisa shuddered, falling silent.

“That leaves advancing then,” Charro said. “Do we simply wait for the Apaches to attack?”

“Unless you have an idea to suggest that's worth the hazard to eight lives, including three women.”

“But Refugio,” Isabel said urgently as she nudged her horse forward, “if you are allowing the women to keep you from acting, you know you must not.”

He turned his head to look at her, and there was a hint of softness in his gaze. “How can it be prevented?”

Isabel shook her head. “I don't know, unless you stop feeling and only think.”

“I'm tired of doing that. It may be I will leave it to Charro.” He turned to the other man. “Well?”