Chapter Two #3
He seemed surprised at her words. It occurred to her that most fashionable ladies learned to ride very young. She flushed and hoped her small mistake would go unnoticed by the others among her uncle’s wealthy friends.
“It seems most of us here have an interest in horses,” William Bannister put in, handing over the winner’s share, a leather pouch filled with gold coins. “I still wish to purchase your stallion. I’ll pay double whatever reasonable price you name.”
The don just shook his head. “Rey is among the last of my father’s Andalusian horses. He must be saved for breeding.” Carly had read about such horses, the same animals brought to the New World with Cortez.
“We could work out stud services. I would be happy—”
“I am sorry, Senor Bannister, Rey del Sol is not for sale.”
Bannister sighed, but the don’s gaze had already swung back to Carly. “Perhaps—once Senorita McConnell possesses sufficient skills—Senor Austin might be interested in one of Rey’s colts. A beautiful palomino mare would make the perfect horse for a lady such as she.”
Fletcher stroked his beardless chin. “Perhaps you are right, Don Ramon. One of the stallion’s colts would be a fine asset to Rancho del Robles.”
As if to seal his promise, the don bent down and picked up a long-stemmed red rose, one of a half dozen the Californio women had tossed in his direction as he had crossed the finish.
“For you, senorita. In memory of this day … though its loveliness pales before such a beautiful woman.”
Carly accepted the rose, a warm glow coloring her cheeks. She started to smile, to thank him for such a gallant gesture, then she caught her uncle’s scowl. Dear God, she was doing it again, letting the handsome don charm her. Uncle Fletcher would be furious when they got home.
The smile of warmth never came, only a pasted-on version. “Thank you, Senor de la Guerra,” she said formally, using her most haughty voice. She passed the rose beneath her nose, inhaling the softly fragrant scent. “Your customs are utterly charming. I’m certain that I shall remember.”
Her uncle’s expression relaxed. He took her hand and rested it on the broadcloth sleeve of his burgundy tail coat. “Time to go, my dear.”
“Of course, Uncle.” She turned away from the don, no longer willing to meet his eyes, and they began walking back toward the others.
“Very well done, my dear. Gracious, ladylike, yet putting the man in his place. I’m proud of you.”
Carly felt suddenly ill. Is that what she had done? Put Don Ramon in his place? It wasn’t what she had intended. She glanced one last time at the don, caught his dark look in return, then the radiant smile he flashed Pilar Montoya.
She gasped as a thorn in the blood red rose pricked her finger.
* * *
Andreas de la Guerra walked with the group of vaqueros back toward their horses. The men had come from a dozen different haciendas to see Ramon ride against the gringo. They had not been disappointed, and the victory each man felt was as personal as his Californio honor.
Recalling the incredible race and the Anglo’s outrageous treachery, Andreas clenched his fist. His brother’s daring ride had saved the day, but that didn’t lessen his fury at what might have occurred.
Then again, what had he expected?
He had been fighting the gringos ever since his return to California, since he found his father lying on his death bed in the small hacienda, Rancho Las Almas, that was the original Rancho del Robles, abandoned when the bigger house was built.
He had been fighting them for six long months before his brother’s arrival from Spain, trying to reclaim what should have rightfully belonged to them.
Ramon had joined him, though at first he was reluctant, certain that violence was not the way. Guilt had won his assistance, guilt for his father’s death at the hands of the Anglos, for his mother’s misery while he had been living the good life in Spain.
Andreas knew his brother could not forgive himself for not coming home sooner, for failing his family in their time of need.
It wasn’t completely his fault. Diego de la Guerra had been certain he could handle the matter himself, could prove that the land was his, or fight the Anglos, if necessary, to keep it.
After his death, Andreas had thought the same.
It had felt good to be a man, no longer in the shadow of his brother.
He was determined to set things right, to find justice with or without Anglo law.
He had started fighting back in the guise of El Dragón, and to this day he continued.
“It is time we returned to the hills, amigo.” Pedro Sanchez, once his father’s segundo, second in command, on Rancho del Robles, rode up beside him. He was a man in his early sixties, skilled in the ways of the vaquero, wiry, hard, and tough as the leather sole of a boot.
“You go on.” Andreas grinned. “I have business in San Juan Bautista.”
“The same sort of business your brother wishes to have with the pretty young gringa?” he asked. Apparently Pedro had seen Ramon give her the rose.
“He told me she was nothing but trouble. I think she is not so much trouble for me as she is for him.”
“Senor Austin will not approve of his interest. He is not a man your brother should openly oppose.”
“Ramon knows that only too well. I do not think he meant to. He swore there would never be a de la Guerra Andalusian on del Robles land until we once more owned it.” He shrugged. “Ah, but whether he believes it or not, my brother is only human—and the woman, she is exquisite, no?”
“She is trouble, just as Ramon has said.”
“Perhaps I should save him. Perhaps if he rides with me to San Juan—”
“The widow, Pilar, can save him well enough. And there is always Miranda. She pines for him every moment he is away from the stronghold.”
“Si, I suppose you are right.” He took a last long look at the cluster of people milling like insects at the bottom of the hill. He thought he could just make out a small, auburn-haired woman beneath a pink-and-white-striped parasol.
He smiled. “On the other hand, what is life without a little trouble?”
Pedro laughed and the two men spurred their horses, riding on into the hills.
At the crossroads, Andreas turned south and Pedro rode higher.
Thoughts of the Americana with the pretty green eyes and pale skin, with the high, plump breasts and tiny ankles, drove Andreas on.
He hoped in San Juan he would find a woman with the same full breasts who would, for a coin or two or maybe a few words of flattery, welcome him into her bed.
He wondered if his brother would go to Pilar, or if he would be patient and wait for the beautiful Anglo girl.