Ramon closed his eyes, trying not to see the image of his cousin’s naked body, his slim dark fingers roaming over his wife’s bare breast. If another man had touched her, by now hewould be dead. But Angel was family. He was a de la Guerra. He had been duped just as Ramon had been.
He reined the stallion away, the saddle horse trailing behind. At the top of the hill, he paused, watching to be certain Caralee made it safely to the rancho. She was crying, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps in her own way, she had loved him after all.
Her horse picked its way down into the valley, Caralee sitting straight in the saddle, her chin held high and her shoulders squared. He wondered what she was thinking, wondered if she regretted what she had done. He wondered if she wished she were returning to Las Almas as much as he wished he were taking her home.
He watched her for several more moments, ignoring the dull ache in his chest, his desire to turn back time until the days before their journey to Monterey. If only he could do things over, perhaps she could have come to love him enough that she never would have strayed.
He watched till her small figure dropped over the rise, then sat back in his saddle and wheeled the stallion away. Several yards up the canyon, he paused, listening to the fading sound of her little mare’s footfalls on the rocky trail as she rode farther away.
When the hoofbeats had thinned to silence and the only sound left was the wind soughing softly through the trees, he steeled himself against his aching loss and resigned himself to accepting what must be.
The past was over and done. Like his brother Andreas, Caralee was dead to him, no longer a part of his life. Yesterday he had spoken to Padre Renaldo, the old man he had ridden so far to see. The priest had told him the documents he needed were probably in a vault at the mission in Santa Barbara. Once he hadretrieved them, there was a chance he could finally win back his family’s land.
For the first time since the deaths of his father and brother, Ramon did not care.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
“Isn’t that my niece riding into the rancho?” Fletcher Austin stood at a window in thesala,looking out toward the valley of high brown grasses and covering of oaks. He spoke to Rita Salazar, a woman who had come to the rancho looking for work just before Caralee’s wedding.
“Si,Senor Fletcher. That is her, I think.” Rita was part Spanish, part Miwok Indian. Fletcher had liked her ripe figure, long glossy black hair, and full lips. He had hired her to work in the kitchen, but he wasn’t displeased when she’d wound up warming his bed.
Absently patting Rita’s round behind, he studied Caralee’s small figure as she rode closer, concern for her warring with an unexpected feeling of warmth. He didn’t know why Caralee had come. Perhaps it was merely for a visit, as he had meant to visit her to be sure she was all right. Then again, maybe she had learned her lesson and wanted to come home.
Strangely he hoped so. He’d discovered that he missed her once she was gone.
Still, even if she did return, he wouldn’t give up the woman. His niece was no longer an innocent. Ramon de la Guerra had a wicked reputation. By now his niece had been well schooled in the art of pleasuring a man, just as Rita had learned to pleasure him. He hadn’t been with a woman in years, had steeled himself against the need for any sort of softness in his life. But his niece’s feminine presence had begun to make him yearn for a woman’s gentle touch. He was grateful Rita had come along when she did.
He motioned the buxom woman toward the kitchen with a brisk nod of his head then walked from the window and pulled open the heavy front door.
“Caralee, my dear. It’s good to see you.” He smiled. “I was beginning to worry. A few more days without word, and I’d have been forced to travel to Las Almas myself, to be sure that you were all right.”
She looked tired, he saw, as one of the vaqueros hurried forward to help her dismount, her eyes bleak and puffed as if she had been crying.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Fletcher. I should have sent a letter. I meant to, but I never knew exactly what to say.”
He studied her pale face and the lines of fatigue around her eyes. Perhaps Vincent had been right after all. Perhaps she had been miserable with the don and finally realized the mistake she had made in marrying him.
“I hope things have worked out as you planned,” he said, never meaning anything less.
She walked toward him, came up to where he stood on the porch. “Not exactly. In fact not even close. The truth is you were right, Uncle Fletcher. I should have married Vincent. I should have done exactly as you said.”
She looked so forlorn, he found himself reaching out to her, gathering her small frame into his arms. “There, there, my dear. It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it can.” She started to cry then, soft little mews that turned into deep wracking sobs and made his throat go tight.
“It’s all right, Caralee. You’re home now, back with your family where you belong.”
Her head came up from his shoulder. “You mean I can stay? You’ll forgive me for the things I’ve done?”
“There is nothing to forgive, and of course you can stay.” He brushed damp burnished hair back from her cheeks. “We all make mistakes. Not all of us are brave enough to admit them.”
Caralee simply nodded. For a moment more she clung to him, then she sniffed back her tears and turned away.
“Better?” he asked, handing her his handkerchief.
She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “Much. Thank you, Uncle Fletcher.”
He took the sachel the vaquero had removed from behind her saddle, escorted her into the house and down the hall to her old room. “Are you hungry? Shall I have Candelaria bring you something to eat?”