Chapter Four #3
She awoke before dawn, to the nicker of horses and the slap of leather as the men saddled up and prepared to break camp.
The young vaquero named Ruiz brought her breakfast: warmed-up tortillas, some leftover meat, and a tin cup of steaming hot coffee that tasted better than any she could ever remember drinking.
She still wasn’t hungry, though she forced herself to eat, and felt even more tired than she had the night before, every bone aching, every muscle sore.
Her feet were blistered, scraped, and cut; her arms and legs were scratched, her lips dry and chaffed.
She heard the old vaquero pleading her case to the don, but just as before he blindly turned away.
At least she was still alive. There had been no rape, as she had feared, and except for the don, so far no one had been cruel to her. By now her uncle and his men would be hard in pursuit and she was certain he would find her.
“It is time to leave, senorita.” The words broke into her thoughts as the Spaniard strode up beside her. His features looked stark, barren. Faint purple smudges appeared beneath his cold dark eyes. He was ruthless, callous, unfeeling.
She felt a shot of loathing. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”
A grim smile curved his lips. “We travel far into the mountains. To Llano Mirada, a place that is sometimes my home.”
“My uncle will find you wherever you go. He won’t rest until he hunts you down like the animal you are.”
“Better men have tried. All of them have failed. Your uncle will be no different.”
“What do you want of me? What do you intend to do?”
His dark eyes raked her, bold, sensuous, unforgiving. “That remains to be seen, senorita.” He dropped the braided leather loop around her wrists and drew it snug, then led her to his horse and gracefully swung into the saddle. “In the meantime, we must leave.”
Anger seethed through her. And bitterness and hatred. Ignoring her ragged state of dress, her tumbled hair, and the over-sized moccasins on her feet, she flashed him a cool, cultivated smile, as haughty as she could muster. “I’m ready when you are, Senor El Dragón.”
The don’s face went taut and a muscle ticked in his cheek. Carly felt a jolt of satisfaction. He had meant to humble her, to see her whine and beg. He had been certain he could break her.
But each time she looked at his tall broad-shouldered figure sitting astride his night-black horse, each time she noticed the arrogant tilt of his head, she thought of the other handsome man.
The one she had dreamed about, the man who had given her the rose.
Ruthlessly, she forced herself to remember the dark-skinned fantasy man whose smile had charmed her and made butterflies swirl in her stomach.
The man who had been laughing at her all the while, playing her for a fool.
The stallion tossed its head and started up the trail, and Carly set out behind it. Ignoring her aching muscles, cuts, scrapes, and bruises, she fixed her eyes on the Spaniard’s broad back and forced one moccasined foot in front of the other. Sanchez followed, along with the rest of the men.
By noon the sun was a fiery ball above their heads, beating down with relentless determination.
The woven leather rope chafed her wrists and the blue embroidered robe weighed her down with every step.
She stumbled and would have fallen if the don had not slowed.
The trail was a long steep incline, sapping her strength along with her will.
Her legs felt wobbly and her mouth was dry.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on.
As if he read her thoughts, he stopped the horse, unfastened his canteen, walked back and handed it to her. She held it to her lips, savoring each long cooling drink, but it was all she could do to keep her hands from shaking.
“Llano Mirada is just there,” he said, accepting the canteen and pointing toward the top of a steep ravine. “That is where we are going.”
She followed his line of vision but saw nothing that looked the least bit like a camp. Just oaks and pines and manzanita, and a long rocky canyon leading up to a sheer granite cliff.
“The climb is a difficult one.” His lips twisted cruelly. “If you ask me very nicely, perhaps I will give you a ride.”
The canyon walls towered above her. Beneath her nightgown, her legs shook with fatigue. How could she possibly make such a difficult climb? She was dangerously close to tears, close to the point of breaking. “Go to hell.”
He frowned at her, then glanced back at the steep, rock-strewn canyon with its seemingly non-existent path. For a moment he seemed uncertain. “Your pride will be your undoing, senorita.”
Carly bristled. “And what of yours, Don Ramon?” Desperation drove her to taunt him. She needed her anger to carry her through. “Was it your grand Spanish pride that managed to get your brother killed? Or was it merely your greed?”
Fury blazed in his dark eyes, as hot as the tip of a flame, yet at the same time so cold she felt chilled. He turned his face away, leaving only his stark, elegant profile. Then he set his spurs to the sides of his horse and started up the grade.
They walked for a while. The trail appeared out of nowhere.
It was impossible to see, she realized, and behind her the men used branches and leaves to disguise the way they had come.
Her tired body sagged with defeat. Her uncle would never find the trail, and even if he did, guards were posted at intervals all along the rocky canyon wall.
Carly stumbled, hot tears burning, springing to life in her eyes.
Dear God, why hadn’t she asked the don for help?
Why hadn’t she cast aside her pride and let him be the victor he was so determined to be?
What did it matter? But somehow she knew that it did.
Her pride was all she had left, all that was keeping her from turning into the frightened little girl she was inside.
She couldn’t afford to abandon it. She brushed the tears away.
She made it more than halfway up the hill before she tripped and her legs gave way beneath her.
She sprawled in the dry parched dirt beneath a thorny manzanita, several sharp barbs digging into the flesh on her leg.
One of the vaqueros rode up beside her, dismounted, and carefully helped her back on her feet.
He spoke softly in Spanish, words of encouragement, she thought, but with her head still spinning, she couldn’t be sure.
Pedro Sanchez rode past, halting his horse beside that of the don.
“Enough, Ramon! You will let the girl go.”
“No.”
“You must listen to me, hijo. I have known you since you were a boy. Always, I have been as proud of you as if you were my own son. Do not do this thing.”
“Stand away, amigo.”
“I know that you are hurting. I know that it is your grief that blinds you—I beg of you to stop this terrible thing.”
“I said stand away.”
For a moment the old man didn’t move. “Hear me now, Ramon de la Guerra. If you do this, it will be your gravest mistake, and for the first time since I have known you, you will make me feel ashamed.”
The don worked a muscle in his jaw. His gaze went from Sanchez to Carly and a harsh smile curved his lips.
“We will ask the girl. If it is her wish to ride, she must only say so and it will be done.” He raked her with those hard brown eyes, the challenge clear in the cruel set of his jaw.
“Is it your wish to ride with me, Senorita McConnell?” He was mocking her, baiting her, daring her to defy him.
“If it is, you must only just ask and I will see your wish is granted.”
Fresh tears threatened, burning at the back of her eyes. Dear God, don’t let him see. She stared hard at him, hating him for what he was doing, wishing she could wipe that vicious smile from his handsome face.
Wishing she could give in to defeat and say the words he wanted to hear, but knowing she could not, she glanced to the top of the trail. It didn’t look all that far.
“Si, Senorita,” he taunted, as if he read her mind, “Llano Mirada is just there.” He pointed to the rise. “Not far for one so determined. What is it to be?”
“Por Dios, Ramon—”
Carly met his gaze squarely. With the last of her will, she straightened her shoulders. “You are in my way, senor. Lead on or remove the rope and ride off the trail so that I may pass in front of you.”
Something flickered in his bold, dark eyes.
He glanced to the old vaquero, who sadly shook his head.
For a moment he made no move, then he nudged the big horse forward.
They started up the trail at a little slower pace.
When he felt a tug on the rope as she stumbled, the don eased back even more.
The stallion began to prance, eager to reach his home, but the Spaniard held him firmly in check, insuring a slackness in the line, allowing her to set the pace.