Fletcher sighed and leaned back against the tufted leather sofa. “I’m sorry, my dear. I know this whole ordeal has been grueling. I’m just glad you got away before that bastard… took liberties with your person.”
She tried to keep from blushing, fought desperately not to recall Ramon’s hands cupping her breasts, her nipples straining against her blouse as they pressed against his palm, the feel of his hands on her thighs. She tried to blot out the memory of hiskisses, the sweep of his tongue inside her mouth. “So am I,” she said softly.
Her uncle stared at her but said nothing more. Instead he turned to the sheriff. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I’d hoped by the time you arrived, my niece would remember something more.”
“I’m sure it’s been hard on her. It’s got to be a painful thing to remember.” He stood up from his chair and swung his gaze in her direction. “I’m sorry you had to go over all this again, miss, but I assure you it was necessary. If you think of something else, just have your uncle send word.” He lifted his brown felt hat off the back of his chair and twirled it in a lean-fingered hand. “I promise you one thing—sooner or later we’ll find him. When we do, he’s gonna swing from the highest tree.” Carly paled, but the sheriff only smiled. “Good day, Miss McConnell.”
“G-good day, Sheriff Layton.” She forced herself to smile. “Thank you for coming.”
The lanky sheriff simply nodded. Her uncle walked him out of the house, and Carly made her way along the hallway to her room. With a sigh, she closed the door, then crossed the room and sank onto the rose satin counterpane on her bed. In a way it was good to be home. Her uncle’s house was luxurious in comparison to the small adobe cabin she had occupied in the stronghold. But Ramon had once lived there, and everything about the place, the handmade bent-willow furniture, the colorful woven blankets, even the scent of his cigars that lingered throughout the cozy rooms reminded her of him, and she discovered that she missed being there.
The truth was she missed him. She couldn’t afford to dwell on the fact. It would do her no good and the sooner she forgot those weeks—and him—the better off she would be. It bothered her, what Ramon had said about her uncle. Had he really stolen Rancho del Robles? She was determined to find out, but fornow she meant to forget Ramon, forget what happened in the mountains, and get on with her life.
Carly sighed. She wished her uncle would forget it as well, that he would end his battery of questions and let her put the matter behind her.
Somehow she didn’t believe he would.
***
“Well, Jeremy, what do you think?” They walked in front of the sprawling tile-roofed adobe, the sheriff leading his tall sorrel horse, Fletcher walking beside him.
“Hard to say, Mr. Austin. Could be she’s still frightened. Maybe he threatened her, told her if she ever told anyone where they were, he’d come back and kill her. Maybe she’s tellin’ the truth and she doesn’t know a damned thing that can help. You said yourself, she was new to this country. She doesn’t know her way around. She was frightened, afraid they would kill her. It makes sense she wouldn’t know how to go back to where they took her. Besides, from what she’s said, they were headed someplace else.”
Fletcher nodded. The sheriff was voicing his thoughts exactly. He’d have to give Caralee the benefit of the doubt. “What about that other? She says the bastard didn’t touch her. You think that could be true?”
The sheriff lifted his sweat-stained hat and scratched his thinning blond hair. “A woman like that… so pretty and all… it’s damned hard to believe. For her sake, I hope it’s the truth.”
Fletcher said nothing. That was one subject he intended to pursue. He had too much riding on that girl to take any chances. He had brought her west for a purpose. He wanted her married to a man who could help his political ambitions, and he knew exactly who that man was. The time to strike was at hand—he couldn’t afford to find out she was carrying some outlaw’s bastard.
Fletcher left the sheriff and turned back toward the house. He’d give her a chance to settle in, forget the ordeal she had been through. He’d give her some time, but he wouldn’t wait long. If there was any chance Caralee was with child, he meant to do something about it.
He had to know the truth.
He wasn’t about to let her ruin his plans.
***
The week finally passed and slid into the week after that. Carly’s strong sense of will had kicked in after just a few days and she’d been able to keep thoughts of Ramon and her days in the stronghold at a manageable distance. But she couldn’t still the doubts he had stirred about her uncle.
The night before, when the house had grown quiet and Uncle Fletcher and the servants were asleep, she’d slipped into his study and gone through his desk. She’d found the deed to del Robles in the small tin box in the bottom drawer. The land was sold to him by a man named Thomas Garrison. Carly had no idea who he was, but apparently the de la Guerras had already sold the land to Garrison before her uncle bought it. At the time of the sale, Ramon would have still been in Spain.
A sigh of relief whispered through her. Ramon had been wrong about her uncle. Perhaps when she saw him again, she could convince him. The unconscious thought stirred an odd rush of heat and an image of dark-fringed eyes, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and smooth dark skin. As she hurried down the hall back to her room, it took a will of iron to force the image away.
Carly slept fitfully that night, fighting hot dreams of Ramon, cursing herself for thinking of him at all. Whatever his beliefs, the man was still an outlaw, and even if he might desire her, hewanted nothing from her but a quick tumble in his bed. Fanciful thoughts of Ramon would do her no good.
Carly awoke feeling tired and out of sorts. Only the crisp fall morning with its colorful autumn leaves and dewy grasses saved her from a dismal mood. She strode from her room dressed for riding as she had done these past two days, surprisingly determined to continue with her lessons—considering the way she had suffered before.
But now she was learning to ride sidesaddle. One of her uncle’s vaqueros, a pleasant older man named Jose Gonzales, had volunteered to teach her. She didn’t mention the lessons Pedro Sanchez had begun, so he was more than pleased by what he called her “natural ability.” And her learning to ride like a lady was obviously pleasing her uncle.
She was on her way down the hall, her sapphire blue velvet riding habit rustling as she moved, when he stepped into her path, stilling her movements.
“I’d like a word with you, my dear, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Uncle Fletcher.” Curious at his mood, she followed him into his study, and he sat down behind his wide oak desk. Carly seated herself in one of the carved wooden chairs in front of it. “What is it, Uncle?”
He shifted in his seat, looking a little uncomfortable. “There is something we have to discuss, my dear. Unfortunately, it is not a pleasant topic, particularly for a young woman of your tender years. But in this you must trust me. You must tell me the truth.”
A shiver of unease ran through her. “Of course, Uncle Fletcher.”