Midnight Rider

 

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Epilogue

Author's Note

About the Author

Copyright

 

In memory of my uncle, Joaquin Sanchez, one of the great American cowboys, his father, Pete, and the dozens of men who were the last of the vaqueros.

A special thanks to my husband for his help on this and all of my books. I love you, honey. You are the wind beneath my wings.

 

What say the bells of San Juan

to the men who pass beneath them?

No more than the wind says to the leaves

or the current to the pebbles

in the bottom of the stream

The chapel that houses the bells has crumbled,

the bells gone green with lichen

Yet their echo can still be heard, the sound of time

passing through the ages.

Spanish poem

Anonymous

C
HAPTER
O
NE

C
ALIFORNIA
, 1855

Silver conchos.
Caralee McConnell fixed her eyes on the row of shiny ornaments glinting in the torch light, the bright circles like badges of valor, arrowing down the Spaniard's long, lean leg.

Above his waist, a matching short black
charro
jacket embroidered in silver thread stretched across his broad shoulders, and at the bottom of his snug-fitting
calzonevas,
a flash of red satin flared over polished black boots, fashioned of the finest Cordovan leather.

Carly watched the tall Spanish don as he stood in the shadows at the edge of the patio engrossed in conversation with her uncle, Fletcher Austin, and several other men. Even from the darkness beneath the massive carved oak eaves of the big adobe house, she could see the man's handsome profile, the sharp planes and valleys of his face, defined by the contrast of light and dark shadows.

Carly knew who he was, of course. Oopesh, one of the Indian serving women, had told her. And Candelaria, her little maid, seemed to swoon whenever someone mentioned his name. Don Ramon de la Guerra owned a small parcel of land adjoining Rancho del Robles, her uncle's hacienda, Carly's new home. Still, she had never met a real Spanish don and after all, the man
was
her neighbor.

She straightened the dark green satin ribbon around her throat and smoothed the front of her low-cut emerald silk gown, the skirt cut full and fashioned in the latest style. The dress was a present from her uncle, the color chosen, he said, to complement the green of her eyes and the rich auburn highlights in her hair.

It was the most beautiful dress Carly had ever owned, its rows of lace flounces showing off her tiny waist to its best advantage, although, she thought a little self-consciously, a bit too much of her high, full breasts. Still, it gave her the confidence she needed, helped her to forget that she was nothing but a Pennsylvania miner's daughter.

Carly started walking toward the men.

A man named Hollingworth was speaking, a
haciendado
from a few miles north. “I don't know about the rest of you,” he said, “but I've stood for his insolence long enough. The man is an outlaw. No better than Murieta, Three-fingered Jack Garcia, or any other worthless bandit who roamed these hills. The bastard ought to be hanged.”

“He will be,” she heard her uncle promise. “Of that you may rest assured.” Fletcher Austin stood taller than the others but shorter than the don. He was dressed in an expensive dark brown tailcoat with a wide velvet collar and an immaculate white lawn shirt with ruffles down the front.

“What do you think, Don Ramon?” The question came from Royston Wardell, the San Francisco banker who was her uncle's financier. Beside him stood a wealthy entrepreneur named William Bannister and his thirty-year-old son, Vincent. “You're an educated man, a man of culture and refinement. Surely you don't approve of this bandit's behavior, even if he is—” Wardell broke off, his neck turning red above his starched white collar.

Carly paused midstride to hear the don's reply, knowing they spoke of the outlaw, El Dragón. She had heard his name whispered among the servants. Her uncle, however, was far more condemning of the man.

“Even if he is what, Senor Wardell?” the don asked politely, but there was an edge to his words. “A man of my people? Perhaps even a man of Spanish blood?” He shook his head, firelight reflecting on his ebony hair, which was wavy and worn just slightly too long. “That he is a Californio does not make him any less guilty … though perhaps he feels his cause is just.”

“Just?” her uncle repeated. “Is it
just
to steal what another man's hard work has earned? To ravish the innocent and murder the unwary? The man is a villain—nothing but a killer and a thief. He has raided del Robles three times already. The next time he tries it, I swear I'll see him dead.”

Carly would have liked to have heard the don's reply, but her uncle had spied her approach.

“Ah, Caralee, my dear.” Smiling, he ended the conversation, but not before she noticed the hard look that passed between her uncle and the don. “I wondered where you had slipped off to.”

Taking a place beside him, she accepted the thick arm he offered. “I'm sorry, Uncle Fletcher. I'm afraid I'm not quite used to such late evenings. And I suppose I'm still a little tired from my journey.” She tried not to look at the Spaniard, at the shiny silver conchos winking in the firelight, at the long, lean legs and narrow hips, at the shoulders nearly as wide as the ax handle the vaqueros were using to stir the flames beneath the bullock they were roasting.

“I quite understand, my dear. Five months aboard a clipper 'round the Horn—I remember only too well what a grueling voyage it is.” He was a man in his early fifties, graying, but with few other signs of growing old. His jaw remained firm, his stomach taut. He was as solid as the earth beneath him, as imposing as one of the towering oaks for which his ranch was named. “Perhaps we should have waited, had the fiesta a little bit later, but I was eager for you to meet some of my friends.”

Carly smiled. She had discovered she was eager to meet them, too, especially the tall, handsome don. “I'm fine now. I just needed a moment's rest.”

She said nothing more, waiting for him to introduce her to the only man among the others she still did not know. He hesitated longer than he should have, then he flushed and muttered something beneath his breath.

“Excuse me, my dear. For a moment I had forgotten that you hadn't met our guest. Don Ramon de la Guerra, may I present my niece, Caralee McConnell?”

“Carly,” she corrected with a smile, extending a white-gloved hand. Her uncle frowned, but the smile she received from the don was blinding, a gleaming flash of white against his swarthy skin, a smile so full of masculine appeal Carly's heart started thudding against her ribs.

“I am honored, Senorita McConnell.” He raised her hand and brushed his mouth against her fingers, but his dark eyes remained on her face. A slow-burning warmth spread up her arm and seeped into her body. Carly had to work to make her voice come out even.

“
El gusto es mio,
Senor de la Guerra.” The pleasure is mine, she said. She had been studying Spanish for the past four years, ever since her mother died and her mother's brother had become her legal guardian. Uncle Fletcher had arranged for her to attend Mrs. Stuart's Fashionable School for Young Ladies in New York City. She had prayed one day he would send for her, ask her to come West and join him, and on her eighteenth birthday he finally did.

The don arched a fine black brow at the correct pronunciation of her words. “I am impressed, senorita.
Se habla Español?
”

“
Muy poquito,
senor—not nearly as well as I would like.” She frowned, suddenly puzzled. “But I don't understand why your inflection sounds so different from mine.”

He smiled. “That is because I was born in Spain.” She could have sworn he stood a little taller. “What you hear is a slight Castilian influence. Though I was raised in Alta California, I returned to Spain for much of my schooling and attended university in Madrid.”

“I see.” Carly hoped
he
couldn't see that she had spent most of her life in Pennsylvania, living in a shanty near the edge of the mine patch, raised in coal dust and squalor, her father working fourteen hours a day till a methane explosion finally killed him, her mother scrubbing floors just to keep food on the table.

Determined he would not guess, she infused her voice with all the sophistication she had learned at Mrs. Stuart's school. “Europe,” she drawled. “How terribly exciting. Perhaps one day, we'll have a chance to discuss it.”

Something flickered in the don's dark eyes, a cool look of scrutiny or perhaps disappointment, then it was gone. “It would be my pleasure, senorita.”

Her uncle cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us.” She felt the pressure of his hand on her arm. “I'd like a word with my niece, and there are other guests she needs to meet.”

“Of course,” said sandy-haired Vincent Bannister, smiling at her warmly. “Perhaps Miss McConnell will save me a dance later on.”

“Of course she will,” her uncle said.

Carly just nodded. Her eyes were locked with the deep brown orbs of the don.

“
Hasta luego,
senorita.” He bowed just slightly and flashed one of his devastating smiles. “Until we meet again.”

Her uncle's expression turned grim and his hold on her arm grew tighter. “Gentlemen…” Wordlessly he led her toward the majestic adobe house, through the heavy oak door leading into the
sala,
down the hall and into his study. He firmly closed the door.

At the stern expression on his face, Carly grew suddenly nervous. She began to chew her bottom lip, wondering how she might have upset him. “What is it, Uncle Fletcher? I hope I haven't done something wrong.”

“Not exactly, my dear.” He indicated she should have a seat in one of the carved wooden chairs in front of his huge oak desk, its thick wood darkened with age and wear. Fletcher moved behind it and sat down in a brass-studded black leather chair. Leaning forward, he opened a heavy cut-crystal humidor and pulled out a long black cigar.

“You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Uncle.” She didn't. She actually enjoyed the stout aroma. It reminded her of her father and the men he had worked with in the mine, and a sudden pang of loneliness slid through her. Carefully smoothing her lace-trimmed skirts, she glanced at her uncle, wondering at his change in manner, trying to imagine how she might have displeased him.

He sighed into the silence. “You're new out here, Caralee. You've been here only three weeks. You haven't had a chance to learn the way of things, to get used to the way things work out here. In time, of course, you will, but in the meantime…”