Midnight Rider (44 page)

In one night her whole life had changed. Ramon was gravely injured and her uncle was dead. The sheriff still prowled the hills for Pedro Sanchez and the rest of the men.

They all still searched for El Dragón.

She bent her head, laced her fingers together, and said a quiet prayer for her uncle. When she finished, she said one for Ramon and the rest of his men. A shuffling noise intruded, then voices sounded in the hall.

Cleve Sanders paused beside three of his men. “At least we got the filthy bastard who done it.”

Carly stiffened on the sofa. “What—what did you say?”

“Sorry, Miss McConnell, I didn't know you were in there.”

“That's all right. What were you saying?”

“I was just telling the boys we got the man who murdered your uncle. Riley Wilkins killed the Spanish Dragon.”

Were they talking about Ramon? Had something happened at Las Almas after she had left there? Carly's heart constricted. Dear God, it couldn't be true! “Wh-what happened?”

“We were following them up a trail north of the river. The outlaws split up and we lost them in the hills, but the leader circled back. He climbed up in the rocks and ambushed your uncle.”

“How did you know it was El Dragón?” she asked carefully.

“I seen him that day we took Llano Mirada. We were with Sheriff Layton when they carted him off to jail.”

“And that was the same man who killed Uncle Fletcher?”

“That's right. Riley Wilkins shot him deader'n a slaughtered steer.”

Carly said nothing more. Just got shakily up from her seat in front of the empty hearth and made her way unsteadily down the hallway toward her room. She wished she could go to Ramon, tell him her uncle was dead and so was his cousin, but now was not the time. She couldn't take the chance of leading them to Ramon. If they discovered he was wounded, they would know he'd been with the men at the jail that night.

She would have to send Jose to find out how he was. She was certain now that she could trust him. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps she'd be able to go to him herself. Now that her uncle was dead, people wouldn't be surprised when she returned to the care of her husband.

Numb clear to her bones, more frightened and alone than she had felt since her mother died, Carly went inside and slowly closed the door to her room.

*   *   *

Ramon tossed restlessly in the deep feather mattress. He had slept off and on, weakened by loss of blood, his condition growing worse in the hours since his return to Las Almas. By mid-afternoon of the following day, a fever raged through his bloodstream and he passed in and out of consciousness, only dimly aware of his surroundings.

Jose brought word of his condition to Carly, who wrung her hands and fought back tears, who paced and fretted, but knew she dared not leave the rancho. Not with Sheriff Jeremy Layton waiting for her in a chair in her uncle's study.

He came to his feet when she walked in, frowned at the slight limp she tried to conceal, then gave her a polite nod of his head.

“Real sorry to hear about your uncle, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Layton.”

“I know this isn't a very good time, but there's a couple of questions I need to ask.”

She sat down in the chair next to him, straightening her full black bombazine skirts around her. “Of course. I'll be happy to help any way that I can.” Adjusting the prim white lace on her cuffs, she tried not to look as nervous as she felt. “What is it you wish to know?”

The sheriff returned to his seat. “I'm gonna be real straight with you, ma'am. Your uncle had a mighty strong suspicion your husband was involved, some way or other, with the outlaw who killed him. He figured maybe the don was passing information, possibly even rode on some of his raids. I thought maybe that had something to do with the reason you left him and came back here.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“What I'm saying is if the don was involved in something you didn't approve of, maybe that was the reason you wanted the marriage annulled.”

So he knew about the proceedings her uncle had started. Then again Jeremy Layton seemed to know just about everything.

Carly forced her eyes to his face. “Actually, I had already decided to go back to my husband before my uncle was killed. The truth is I never should have left him in the first place.”

“I know it ain't exactly my business, but it would surely set my mind to rest if you would tell me why you did.”

She fumbled through her mind, groping for an answer he would believe—one that didn't involve Angel de la Guerra. “I—I, to be honest, Sheriff Layton, I was jealous. I discovered my husband had been keeping a mistress—before we were married, of course. My feelings were hurt, I suppose. Now, well, we've straightened the whole matter out. The woman no longer plays a part in my husband's life, and he has convinced me I'm the only woman he needs.” She straightened in her chair. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sheriff, but my husband does not now, nor ever has had anything to do with the outlaw El Dragón.”

The sheriff unwound his long lanky frame and stood up. “Well, then, I guess that puts this matter to an end … long as there ain't no more trouble.”

“What about the others? Won't you and the vigilantes be going after them?”

He shook his blond head. “I figure they're miles from here by now. Without their leader, I don't think they'll be back.” He smiled. “Glad to hear you and the don have worked things out. The truth is, I've always kinda liked him.”

“I'll give him your best,” she said, also standing up.

Jeremy Layton plucked his wide-brimmed felt hat from the back of the chair. “Guess … the way things turned out … we'll never know the fellow's real name.”

“You mean the Spanish Dragon?”

He nodded. “Nobody round here seems to know him. Leastwise if they do, they ain't sayin'. Then again, maybe it's better that way.” He gave her a probing look Carly didn't dare respond to, then twirled his hat in his hands as he headed for the door. “I suppose now that Fletcher's gone, you and the don will be livin' here at del Robles.”

Carly's head came up. She stopped and stood stock still. “What did you say?”

“Seems only logical. Place is yours now.”

“Rancho del Robles is mine?”

He nodded. “Sure is, ma'am. That was something Fletcher Austin made no bones about. He said anything ever happened to him, del Robles belonged to you. He told me more than once that you were his only kin.”

“Yes … I suppose I am. Things happened so quickly, I hadn't even thought about it.”

“I'm sure he took care of it nice and legal. Might be something in his desk. You get a chance, you go through his papers. 'Course one of them fancy lawyer friends of his up in San Francisco will probably be handlin' the details. Whatever the case, I'd bet my last gold eagle, the place belongs to you.”

Carly just stared at him, hardly able to absorb the words. “Thank you, Sheriff Layton. I'll make a point to do as you suggest.”

Rancho del Robles was very likely hers. Good heavens, she could hardly believe it. And yet she wanted to—more with each second that passed.

*   *   *

They buried Fletcher Austin late that afternoon. He would have liked the pomp of a big funeral service. He would have liked his wealthy friends from San Francisco to have been in attendance. There wasn't time for them to get there, and as far as Carly was concerned, dead was dead. Her worry now was for the living.

While the cooper who worked at del Robles built a sturdy oak coffin, her uncle's body was washed and made ready, and he was dressed in his finest black broadcloth suit. Carly, Rita Salazar, Cleve Sanders, and the dozens of people who worked on the rancho stood at the top of a hill beneath an ancient oak overlooking the hacienda. It was a glorious spot to face eternity. She knew at least she had pleased him in the choice of his final place of rest.

It was all the lovely valley owed him. More than what he should have had, she admitted—after the ugly truth she had discovered just that morning.

Still, he was her uncle. As ruthless a man as he was, she had cared about him. She cried as she stood at the grave and Riley Wilkins solemnly read verses from the Bible. If only things could have been different. When the service was ended, everyone walked back to the house, where a huge assortment of food had been set out: chicken en mole and fresh cooked tortillas, platters of steamed corn, fried potatoes, and stewed meats. A bullock roasted on a spit over the coals. There was wine and sangria to drink and homemade custards and chocolate rolled in tortillas.

As soon as she had received everyone's condolences, Carly slipped off to her room to change into her riding clothes. She had waited long enough. She was going to Las Almas, she told the others, returning to her husband. She needed him, now that her uncle was gone. And she loved him.

All of which was the truth.

She didn't let them know how worried she was about him, that with every step her little mare took in his direction, her heart ached for Ramon.

*   *   *

Ramon stirred on the bed and his eyes popped open. His shoulder throbbed and the skin around the wound burned like a fiery brand. But his head no longer pounded and his skin felt cool to the touch, no longer hot and clammy. In the night he had thrashed off the sheet and his naked body sprawled with familiar abandon on the clean white muslin sheet.

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.”