She stood beside his stirrup, she realized, having no idea when she had walked forward, yet clinging to his saddle for support. For the first time she noticed the rope was gone from around her wrists; the binding, too, had been cut and stripped away. The horse moved forward and so did Carly, one careful step at a time. The last footfall lifted her onto a wide plateau that looked out over the mountains.Llano Mirada,flat plain with a view.
She took two more shaky steps and stumbled. The don jerked the horse to a stop, but already her vision was spinning. She felt a hand at her waist, then the ground rushed up and she tumbled into darkness.
Ramon was off his horse in a heartbeat, but it was Pedro Sanchez who lifted the girl up in his arms.
“Stand away from her, Ramon,” his friend said in a voice he hadn’t heard since he was a boy. Guilt washed through him, leaving him shaken and confused, and suddenly filled with remorse. He had never been purposely cruel. He was a hardman, yes, but only because he’d had to be. He looked at the woman, saw her fiery auburn hair trailing over Sanchez’s arm, saw her high full breasts rising with each of her too-rapid breaths, and a knot of regret rose painfully inside him.
Backing away, he let the older man pass, Sanchez cradling the girl as if she were a child.
But she wasn’t a child, he reminded himself. She was Fletcher Austin’s niece. She was rich and spoiled, and as thirsty for power and wealth as her uncle. She was the woman who had gotten his brother killed.
He watched them and his chest felt tight. She was also courageous and proud, and she had earned a respect from him he had given to no other woman.
It did not change what she was. It did not change the way he felt. And yet…
Sanchez carried her into the small adobe house he and Andreas had built with their own hands, and Florentia, his housekeeper, closed the door behind them. Across the compound, the vaqueros greeted their loved ones, their families and friends in the camp. Ignacio and Santiago, the two men wounded in the raid, were helped down from their horses and led inside another small house where their women could tend them.
Ruiz Domingo, his youngest vaquero, led the pack horse that carried his brother’s remains. Word had already been sent. Padre Xavier would arrive in the morning. Standing in the shade of the porch, Miranda Aguilar spoke briefly to Ruiz, then started in Ramon’s direction. She was tall and graceful, her features dark and alluring. She was part Miwok Indian, part Castilian Spanish, with a smooth complexion and shiny long black hair.
“Ramon,” she said, reaching out to him, her pretty dark eyes filled with tears. Her husband had ridden with Murieta, had died robbing a group of travelers ten months after Joaquin’s lastencounter with the law. “Dios mio,I am so sorry.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she leaned her head against his chest.
She would go with him, he knew, take him into her soft woman’s body and try to ease some of his pain. He also knew that he would not let her.
“We are all of us sorry,querida.” He eased himself away. “Please… go now with the others.”
“But I want to be with you. Do not send me away, Ramon.”
He moved even farther from her. “I said for you to go. That is exactly what I mean.”
She stood there for only a moment, head held high, long black hair streaming down to nearly her waist, then she turned and walked away. He knew she would not disobey him. Not like the Americana, thegringa.Still, it was that one he thought of as he made his way quietly into the forest, away from the others to a place where he could pray.
CHAPTERFIVE
Torn between anger and pity, Pedro Sanchez watched the man who was like his own son. Ramon de la Guerra stood at the foot of his brother’s grave beneath a huge live oak, holding his hat in his hands, his eyes closed, his head bent forward. It was nearly nightfall. Padre Xavier had finished the brief mass for Andreas early that morning. Since then, Ramon had returned three times to the grave.
He left there now, walking back toward the compound, though he had yet to go into his house, not even last night to sleep. Sighing into the silence, Pedro thought of leaving, of letting him continue to grieve, but his anger would not let him—that and an instinct that told him perhaps Ramon needed something besides his brother’s death upon which to dwell.
He clamped his jaw. Pedro knew exactly what that something should be.
Crossing the distance between them, he walked up beside his friend. “I would speak to you, Ramon. There is something I must say.”
Ramon’s dark head came up. “What is it, Pedro?”
“It is about the girl.”
“I do not wish to discuss the girl.”
“No? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is better if you see your handiwork for yourself.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “What are you talking about?”
“Come with me.”
Wordlessly, Pedro led the way toward the house, Ramon close at his heels. They entered the small adobe building to the aroma of red peppers simmering in a heavy iron kettle suspended over the fire in the hearth, and the sound ofmasabeing slapped into the flat, round shape of tortillas.
Florentia, a short stout, black-haired woman in her fifties, turned at the noise of the door closing sharply behind them. “La comidawill soon be ready, Don Ramon,” she called out. “It is time you had something to eat.”
Ramon said nothing, just followed in Sanchez’s wake to the door leading into the single small bedroom. The old vaquero pushed open the door and Ramon walked in.