“What’s done is done. It is too late to change things.”
“You should not have let her see your face.”
Ramon ignored the censure as well as the worry in his old friend’s voice. “Get the men mounted and ready. The girl can ride with Enriquez. We have wasted enough time already.”
“Her uncle will follow. He will see this as a personal affront. He will not stop until he finds her.”
Ramon glanced back at the girl. She was standing once more, stiff-backed and defiant, challenge burning in the depths of her big leaf-green eyes. He thought of Andreas and rage seared through him, followed by an agonizing wave of grief. He had numbed himself to it as much as he could. His men needed him, the people in the stronghold needed him, and he must not let Andreas’s death be in vain.
But the pain was still there, hovering just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest word, the merest thought to set it free. It crouched in wait like a predatory beast, ready to devour him at any moment.
He stared at the girl and his mind flashed on his brother’s dying words: “You said one day a woman would be the death of me.…” The pain rose up, blinding in its intensity, cutting like a scythe through the numbness.
“On second thought,” he said, “the woman will walk. We will see if there is more to thegringathan her haughty eastern manners and condescending ways.” He started toward his horse, Viento Prieto, Dark Wind, but Sanchez caught his arm.
“You cannot mean that, Ramon. It is miles to Llano Mirada.”
Ramon pulled free of the old vaquero’s hold and kept on walking. “Enriquez!” Across the camp, the stout vaquero looked up. “Bring the girl to me.”
“I beg you, Ramon, do not do something that can only bring you more regret.”
“Stay out of this, Pedro.” He reached the big black stallion and swung up into the saddle. Behind him, Esteban Enriquez arrived with the girl. She was wearing a soft blue robe over her white cotton nightgown, her fiery auburn hair trailing in a long, thick braid down her back. Her feet were bare, he saw, her small feet blue with the cold.
A ripple of guilt washed over him. She was so small. And as fearless as she seemed, he knew she must be frightened. Then he thought of Andreas, cold and blue beneath the blanket around his lifeless corpse, and the unwanted feeling slid away.
He untied his woven leatherreatafrom his saddle, formed a loop, and settled it around her small bound wrists. He tied the other end to his wide, flat saddle horn, all the while waiting for her to beg and plead, to cry and beseech him for mercy, knowing that it would not dissuade him. Still he wanted to hear it. He would enjoy each groveling moment only the least bit more if the speaker were her uncle.
He thought of Fletcher Austin, of Rancho del Robles, of his family’s stolen lands, and his brother’s brutal murder. He thought of Caralee McConnell, the eastern sophisticate who considered herself above them, who thought only of money and her own self-indulgence, and his anger grew more fierce, settling like a hot stone in his belly.
“There is quite some distance to travel, senorita,” he said, glancing down at her. “It is time we were on our way.” He tugged on the rope, expecting to see tears, but she only lifted her chin. Eyes like green fire scorched down his body, blatantly speaking her loathing.
He clamped down hard on his temper and nudged the stallion into a walk, ruthlessly dragging her forward. She swung into line ten feet behind the horse and started up the trail. They made their way through the small secluded valley then beganto climb higher into the hills. All the while, the rope remained slack, the girl easily keeping pace with the horse.
Four hours later, she was still walking, still glaring at his back with hot, hate-filled eyes. He could almost feel them boring into him.
Occasionally he turned, unable to resist the challenge, amazed at the fact that she had not begged him to stop, or even once complained. They paused only briefly, at a stream where they watered the horses and ate a handful ofcarne seca,spicy jerked beef. When the girl refused the portion Sanchez offered, Ramon dismounted and walked to where she stood at the end of her tether.
“You will do as Pedro says.” He handed her the jerky, a cold smile curving his lips. “I would not want it said we were inhospitable to a guest.”
She tossed the dried beef into the dust at his feet. “I’m not hungry. And even if I were, I wouldn’t eat with an animal like you.”
A hot jolt of anger speared through him. He caught her arms and dragged her up on her toes. “You will not waste food while you are among us. There are those who die each day for want of what you have discarded. But you would not know of such things, would you, senorita?”
She merely raised her chin. “Why would I?”
He flashed her a ruthless half smile. “Perhaps in time you will learn to appreciate the small things in life you take so much for granted. Perhaps you will even come to beg for them.”
“And maybe you will learn that I will never beg—especially not from you!”
His grip went tighter, then he let her go. Cursing beneath his breath, he returned to Viento, mounted and started forward, the long leatherreatatugging her into line behind him. Twice in the late afternoon, Sanchez rode up beside him, beseeching him tostop, to let the girl ride with one of the men, but each time he looked back and saw her, he heard the sharp clang of the bell, saw the lead ball explode in his brother’s chest, heard the soft words Andreas had spoken as he died clutching Ramon’s hand.
It was dark when they reached the place they meant to camp, the girl walking blindly, stumbling now and then, but always moving forward, by sheer will alone, it seemed to him. It angered him more than ever that she had decided to fight him, that she had not weakened as he had expected. Yet part of him was glad for it, glad to pit the rage he felt inside against someone besides himself.
She was trembling with exhaustion, he saw when he climbed down from his horse, swaying slightly though she fought to stand still. Her blue robe hung in dirty tatters, snagged on sharp rocks and thorny vines along the trail. Her hair had slipped loose from its binding. It tumbled in dark copper waves down her back and clung in damp curls to her slightly sunburned cheeks.
A knot of guilt twisted inside him. He had never been cruel to a woman. Never lifted a hand against one. But this was not just any woman. This one had murdered his brother. A bone-deep chill quelled the fires inside him. She would pay for what she had done. Her uncle would pay. He owed that much to his brother.
Then he noticed the blood on her feet.