Chapter Seventeen
“Isn’t that my niece riding into the rancho?” Fletcher Austin stood at a window in the sala, 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?”
“I’m not hungry.” She dragged in a shaky breath, fighting hard not to cry again.
“Don’t look so down-hearted,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“We’ll make this all work out, you’ll see.
If there’s one thing your uncle is a master at it’s turning a situation to his advantage.
” He tipped her chin. “You’re still a beautiful woman—never forget that.
The right man will appreciate what he’s got. ”
Caralee forced a smile. “Thank you, Uncle Fletcher. I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused.”
“Let’s not worry about that now. Why don’t you rest for a while? Your things are just as you left them. You still have plenty of clothes and if there is anything else you need—”
“No. I have everything I need in my valise.”
He nodded and handed it over. “You can nap for a while, then bathe and change. Later if you want, you can tell me what this is about.”
She dabbed a last tear from her cheek. “I’d rather just forget it, if you don’t mind. What matters is that the marriage is over. If there is a way to make that official, then that’s what I want to do.”
He smiled. “Never you fear, my child. Just leave everything to me. In the meantime, try not to worry and try to get some rest.”
He waited till she stepped inside her room and closed the door, his mind beginning to whirl with possibilities.
He assessed a few, discarded several others, then looked over those remaining.
Fletcher smiled to himself. As usual, things had a way of working out.
Caralee was home and the odds were good that sooner or later, Vincent Bannister would forgive her.
A marriage between them might still work.
Vincent would be in his debt and so would his father. Once he was allied with a family as powerful as the Bannisters, there was no end to what he might achieve. He hoped Caralee wasn’t carrying the Spaniard’s babe, but even if she was, if they acted quick enough, that could be handled, too.
Which reminded him that he also had some questions for his niece regarding the Spanish Dragon and Ramon de la Guerra’s possible involvement in the outlaw’s criminal activities. Fletcher walked into his study and closed the door, went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
Time was all he needed, and time was on his side, now that Caralee was home. Fletcher smiled with satisfaction, lifted the glass, and tossed back his drink.
* * *
Ramon buried himself in his work. From dawn till dusk he labored, working till exhaustion overtook him, even then he wasn’t able to sleep. A stillness lay over the rancho, a quiet despair that seeped from him into the men he worked with and hung like a pallor over his mother and aunt.
He’d told no one what had happened, merely said he and Caralee had decided to end the marriage. His mother had railed at him, told him such a thing could not occur. She had begged him to tell her what had happened between them until he finally lost his temper and shouted at her not to interfere.
His aunt had used more tact, speaking of Caralee whenever he was around, talking about his wife with such affection he had finally stormed out of the house.
He meant to travel to Santa Barbara to search for the documents that might help him regain Rancho del Robles, but in the end sent Mariano in his stead.
He was afraid his cousin might be there, that Angel might have returned to his family’s small hacienda, and Ramon did not trust himself to be so lenient with his cousin again.
For the last two weeks he had been living at the stronghold.
Oddly, he was glad that Miranda was not there, that Pedro had taken her to visit her late husband’s family in the great central valley.
Ramon wasn’t ready for a woman. Any woman.
Just the thought of making love reminded him of Angel and Caralee, and the bile rose up in his throat.
It had taken some time, but he had finally brought his feelings under control.
As he had done in the past, he let his anger bury the pain.
He nurtured it as he would a living thing, then fed on it to keep the heartache away.
In the daytime he forced himself to remember the moment he had found them together in his room, to suffer again the hot, painful ache that had lanced through his heart like a blade.
He thought of her with Villegas, tried to tell himself perhaps she had wanted him, too, that if he hadn’t come when he did, she would have enjoyed the man’s rough treatment.
It was only at night that he could not make himself believe. Remember me the way you thought of me before … pretend Monterey never happened. Remember the things we did, the pleasures we shared, remember the good times, not the bad.
And in his dreams he did. He remembered how beautiful she looked on their wedding night, remembered the way she had begged him to be gentle.
He remembered her courage as she battled her way through the mountains, determined to fight him and in the long run, gaining his respect.
He remembered how hard she had worked to better herself, how far she had come from a life of poverty and grief in the mine patch to a woman of grace and beauty who could move in society’s most prominent circles.
He remembered the long hours she had worked beside Lena tending the sick in the village, how much she had come to care for Two Hawks, how sad she had been at the loss of his sister.
He thought of the day they had watched the horses mate, the overwhelming need he had felt for her … the same hot need she had seemed to feel for him. In the hours of the night in the hazy outline of his dreams, he asked himself how she could have betrayed him.
Perhaps if she had understood the depth of his feelings for her …
Then he would awaken, and he would have to face the truth. She was an Anglo. Just like Lily. Just like her uncle. Just as ruthless, just as cruel.