Chapter Twenty-two #3
For a moment he said nothing, just enjoyed the fact he was going to live, the sight of a sky outside the window brightening from yellow to blue, and the quiet breathing of the woman who slept in a chair beside his bed.
He knew she had come, had sensed the very instant she had walked into the room, yet he hadn’t really seen her. His skin had been so hot he was sure it would burst like a cooked potato. His eyes wouldn’t open and he didn’t have the strength to lift his head.
Then he’d felt something cool against his forehead, heard his wife’s sweet voice soothing his troubled sleep. She wasn’t going to leave him, he’d thought vaguely. Caralee was here to stay.
He’d rested easier after that. The fire in his body burned itself out, allowing him to sleep, and even as he did, his strength had begun to return.
As quietly as he could, careful not to wake her, he pulled himself into a sitting position, propped his back against the headboard and reached for the water glass on the table beside the bed.
He rinsed his mouth and drank the rest, then ran a hand through his tousled black hair.
He glanced in his wife’s direction, noticed her blouse had come unbuttoned, and caught a glimpse of rounded pale flesh.
His body stirred. He pulled the sheet up over his growing arousal.
Yes, he was definitely feeling better.
Still, he didn’t want to disturb her. She needed her rest, and he liked just sitting here beside her.
He smiled at the way her dark copper hair gleamed in the early morning sunlight, itched to pull the pins that held it in a coil at the nape of her neck then stroke his fingers through it.
He wondered how long she would make him suffer before she declared him well enough for a return to his bed.
He grinned at that. Not nearly as long as she would like, he vowed.
She stirred on the chair beside him and her eyes slowly opened. Bright leaf green orbs fixed on his face. “Ramon?”
“Buenos dias, querida.”
“Ramon!” She was off the chair in an instant, stopped just short of hurling herself into his arms. Instead she frantically reached out to touch his forehead, testing the heat with her palm. “Your fever’s broken!”
“Si, mi amor. I am well on my way to recovery.” He looked at his wife’s ruby lips and his shaft stirred again beneath the sheets. He grinned wickedly. “Already I am almost back to normal.”
Carly eyed him from head to foot, noticing the wavy black hair curling over his forehead and the muscles rippling across his bare chest when he moved. “How can a man who’s been injured as badly as you possibly look as good as you do?”
He laughed at that then winced at the pain that speared through his shoulder. “I am glad you think so, since already I am planning your seduction.”
Carly grinned. “My, you are feeling better.” The soft smile faded as she took his hand and sat down beside him on the bed. “I’ve been so worried. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
“It was better that you waited. Everything is all right at Rancho del Robles?”
Carly shook her head. “There’s so much I have to tell you.”
“Tell me you will be staying at Las Almas. That is all I wish to hear.”
Her grip on his hand grew tighter. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to this? Maybe you should rest for a while. I don’t want you to tire yourself out.”
“Tell me, chica. I wish to hear what you have to say.”
“My uncle’s dead. He died in the fighting outside San Juan Bautista. Angel was killed as well.”
“Angel is dead?”
She nodded. “They still believe he was you. It’s over, Ramon. The sheriff says they aren’t going after the others, so unless there’s more trouble, all of this is ended.”
His head fell back against the pillow, relief flooding through him, yet suddenly he felt fatigued.
“You were right about my uncle,” Carly said softly.
“The day of his funeral, the sheriff came. He suggested I go through my uncle’s papers.
I found a ring of keys in his desk to a set of locked drawers.
In one of them, I found a file containing a record of his bank drafts as far back as 1851.
There was one in particular, made out to a man named Henry Cheevers.
The amount was two thousand dollars. I might have thought nothing of it, except for the month it was written—April of 1853—and the fact that Uncle Fletcher took title to Rancho del Robles less than thirty days later.
In another file, I discovered Henry Cheevers was on the U.S. Board of Land Commissions.”
He quietly absorbed the words, but a slight tension had settled around him.
“I think my uncle bribed Henry Cheevers to deny your family’s claim to Rancho del Robles.
Instead, the land was sold to Thomas Garrison for almost nothing.
There was a draft to Garrison as well, then a separate one for the purchase of the rancho.
Even with the bribes, Uncle Fletcher bought the land for a tenth of its worth.
” A mist of tears glazed her eyes. “My uncle stole your land, Ramon, exactly like you said.”