Midnight Rider (6 page)

Sanchez unfurled his bedroll and they rested Andreas upon it. Ramon tore open his brother's linen shirt with clumsy fingers and removed the red-stained rag Pedro had stuffed into the wound to staunch the flow of blood.

“Madre de Dios…”
Ramon's heart squeezed inside his chest. He clenched his jaw against the sight of his brother's torn flesh, at the shattered rib protruding through the smooth, dark skin and the frothy blood bubbling out of the hole with each of his brother's ragged breaths.

“I am … sorry, Ramon,” Andreas said.

“Do not try to speak,” Ramon whispered, a hard lump rising in his throat. He blinked back a sudden well of tears. “You must try to save your strength.”

A wheezing sound rattled past his brother's bloodless lips.

Ramon smoothed back the younger man's damp black hair. “
Por Dios,
Andreas,” he whispered, “why could you not have listened?”

Andreas opened his eyes. When he saw his brother's face, saw the wetness trickling down his cheeks, his own eyes moistened with tears. “Do not … torture yourself … Ramon. The raid … was my idea. The fault was … mine … not yours.” He coughed raggedly, the motion jolting him, knifing him with so much pain that perspiration broke out on his forehead. Ramon tried to steady him, but his hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't hold on.

“Rest easy, little brother.”

Andreas moved his head. “Tell … our mother … that I love her.”

Ramon's throat went so tight for a moment he could not speak. He reached out and gripped his brother's hand, holding on as hard as he could, wishing it was he who lay on the bedroll, he who suffered such unbearable pain.

“And also … Tia Teresa,” Andreas whispered.

“I will tell them.” Ramon could barely force out the words. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening the front of his shirt. He wasn't prepared for this. Mother of God, he hadn't suspected his brother was wounded so badly.

“As I also love … you … Ramon.”

Ramon's dark head dropped forward. He repeated the same words to his brother, words he had never spoken to another living soul.

Andreas coughed again, riddling his body with pain, and Ramon felt it as if the agony were his own. Amazingly, when his brother rested quietly once more, a corner of his mouth curved up, etching the grooves in his cheeks.

“You said … one day … a woman would be the death of me. In a way … I guess it was … the truth.” Then his eyes slid closed, a last soft breath whispered past, and Andreas de la Guerra was gone.

“No. Nooo!” Ramon threw back his head and cried out into the darkness. It echoed into the stillness of the night, a terrible shriek of pain, an agony so deep it seemed it would tear him in two. The sound was primitive, savage, like the keen of a wounded wolf.

Wordlessly, Pedro Sanchez eased away from him, his eyes as wet as Ramon's. “
Vaya con Dios,
my friend,” he whispered to Andreas, his deep voice rough and strained. Making the sign of the cross, he moved off toward the horses. He returned a few minutes later with a blanket, which he gently laid over Andreas's still form. Neither man spoke. There was nothing left to say.

Still it wasn't until several hours later, his heart so heavy he could not speak, that Ramon finally released his brother's lifeless hand.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Torn between exhaustion and fear, Carly huddled beneath the branches of a tall, thick-trunked oak tree, her hands bound in front of her, her feet tied at the ankles. For the rest of that night and all through the day, they had driven the horses relentlessly, Carly now riding in front of the stout vaquero the don had called Enriquez, her body aching with every bone-jarring step his bay horse took.

They separated from the others at the bottom of a steep-walled canyon, five men and the stolen horses heading north, she and the others riding on toward a destination she could not begin to guess. When they finally stopped just as darkness began to fall, her gag had been removed and a young vaquero named Ruiz had brought her something to eat, but the plate of roast rabbit sat untouched, cold and congealing in the evening chill. A few feet away, the man called Enriquez stretched out on his bedroll, his wide sombrero pulled down to cover his broad face.

Like the others in the camp, he slept only fitfully, awakening at the slightest sound, alert for whatever danger might follow. Carly hadn't slept at all. Instead, her tired eyes searched the darkness, looking for the man who had taken her, awaiting his return, terrified of what he meant to do.

She shivered to think what that might be: torture, rape, murder. She had heard the stories about him. She knew the kind of man he was.

She closed her eyes against the ghastly vision and finally drifted into an exhausted sleep. She awoke with a start to the crunch of pebbles underfoot in the silent graying dawn, and the knowledge that someone stood in front of her. Heart pounding madly, she jerked fully awake, her frightened gaze darting to a pair of tall, black boots. Her vision slid up long, lean legs encased in tight black breeches; narrow hips; a waist that veed to a wide, solid chest; and broad, straight, powerful shoulders. She forced her eyes upward, and stared into the face of the handsome Spanish don, Ramon de la Guerra.

Relief swept over her, so fierce it almost made her dizzy. The Spaniard had found her. Instead of being murdered she was safe!

“Don Ramon—thank God!” She pushed to her feet in front of him, staggering a little, righting herself with an effort. “I-I was so frightened. I thought … thank God you've come.”

“Senorita McConnell,” he said without the slightest hint of warmth, “how good of you to join us.” The lines of his face looked stark, and grimmer than she had ever seen them. His sensuous lips were flattened into a thin, harsh line. Cold brown eyes bored into her, fathomless and unreadable, so dark they looked almost black.

An icy dread swept through her. One look in those chilling dark eyes and she knew she had never been farther from safety in her life.

“You … you're not … you're not…”

“Don Ramon Martinez y Barranca de la Guerra,” he said with a slight, mocking bow. “At your service, senorita.” The flash of his straight white teeth looked almost feral. “Or perhaps you prefer El Dragón.”

Carly swayed on her feet, fear knifing through her, so sharp it felt like a blade. She might have fallen if his long, dark hand hadn't reached out to steady her, his fingers biting like talons into the flesh of her upper arm. Carly wrenched herself free.

For a moment she couldn't speak, just stared at him as if she was seeing him for the very first time. With shaking hands, her wrists still bound, she drew her pale blue robe more closely around her. Fear warred with fury. She raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye.

“El Dragón…” she repeated, her voice ringing with contempt. “Such a charming imposter … I never would have guessed.” She hoisted her chin a notch. “I actually believed you were a true Spanish noble, a man to be admired. The truth is you're nothing but a thief and a murderer.”

His lips twisted harshly. “And you, senorita, are the woman responsible for the suffering and death of my men.”

Carly stiffened. The edge of fear flickered its warning. It was foolish to bait him and yet she could not resist. He had made a fool of her, made a fool of them all.

“
You
are the one responsible, Don Ramon. You and your stealing, your raiding, and murder. I did nothing but warn my uncle's men. I only tried to stop you—and I would do it again!”

Black rage swept his features, turning his dark eyes to onyx and making him look like the vicious man he was. Around him the men did not stir, just glared at her with the same stark hatred she saw in the eyes of the don. The blow came swift and hard, a brutal slap that stung her cheek and sent her spinning into the dirt. He looked enormous towering above her, his body rigid with fury, his hands balled into fists.

She closed her eyes, preparing herself for the beating to come, steeling herself for the pain that was certain to follow. Instead when she opened her eyes, she saw him turn away. An older man stepped forward, reached down and cut the rope that still circled her ankles.

He spoke rapid, angry Spanish to the don, words she tried to understand but couldn't with her stomach churning and her head spinning as it was.

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. “I am Sanchez,” he said, gentleness taking the edge from his voice. He was lean and hard, like the rest of the men, but age and a life spent out of doors had weathered his features, furrowing deep, craggy canyons in his face. “You must try to understand, senorita. Don Ramon is not an unkind man.”

“He's a monster.” A shaky hand came up to the harsh red mark on her cheek.

“He is merely a man—one who for the moment does not think clearly. He is too caught up in his grief.”

“Grief? I don't understand what you mean.” For an instant she thought he might not tell her, the way his shrewd old eyes continued to study her face.

He sighed and suddenly he looked even older. “In the raid last night Don Ramon's younger brother, Andreas, was killed. The don loved him very much. He would have given his own life to protect him. That was something he was not allowed to do.”

Carly saw the pain that was etched in the old man's face. “Dear God.” For an instant her heart went out to him, went out to them both. Then she caught herself and reined in her concern. “His brother was an outlaw. They both are. What did the don expect? Shooting was probably too good for him.”

“He was a man trying to save his home, his way of life. Perhaps one day you will understand.”

Carly shivered in the damp morning air. She would never understand men like these. Men who robbed and killed. Men without scruples or mercy.

“In time he will return to himself,” the old vaquero said. “In the meantime, you must do nothing to anger him.”

Carly looked over the old man's shoulder to see Don Ramon speaking to one of his men. He was a bandit, a murderer—and he blamed her for the death of his brother. An icy chill slid down her spine. It was followed by a pang of regret, a feeling of loss for the handsome Spanish don she had been so attracted to, a man who had never existed.

She stared at the tall, virile Spaniard, trying to fit the hard man he was into the charming man he had seemed, trying to imagine the kind of man he was inside. She had no idea what he meant to do, what cruelties he might have in store for her, but in that moment it didn't matter—Carly was determined to survive them.

He had made a fool of her once. He would not do it again.

Besides, if she could hold on long enough, her uncle would have time to find her. She didn't doubt that he would come. Fletcher Austin was every bit as hard-edged and determined as the man who called himself El Dragón.

That thought gave her a shot of strength and a tighter grip on her fear. Gathering her pale blue robe together against the cold, she backed into the shadows, and sank down in her place beneath the tree. She had faced hardship and cruelty before. Losing her sister and her father had been hard, working in the mine patch from dawn till dusk beside her mother had been hard, watching her mother die a slow, agonizing death had been even harder, but she had survived it, and she would survive this, too.

As the minutes wore on, her courage grew. By the time they were ready to leave, it wasn't Caralee McConnell, late of Mrs. Stuart's Fashionable School for Young Ladies, who awaited her captor's torment. It was Carly McConnell, Pennsylvania coal miner's daughter. A woman whose strength of will quite possibly equaled that of the don.

*   *   *

“This thing you have done—taking the woman—it can only come to grief.” Pedro Sanchez stood in front of Ramon, his flat-brimmed hat clutched in a weathered, age-spotted hand.

“What's done is done. It is too late to change things.”

“You should not have let her see your face.”

Ramon ignored the censure as well as the worry in his old friend's voice. “Get the men mounted and ready. The girl can ride with Enriquez. We have wasted enough time already.”

“Her uncle will follow. He will see this as a personal affront. He will not stop until he finds her.”

Ramon glanced back at the girl. She was standing once more, stiff-backed and defiant, challenge burning in the depths of her big leaf-green eyes. He thought of Andreas and rage seared through him, followed by an agonizing wave of grief. He had numbed himself to it as much as he could. His men needed him, the people in the stronghold needed him, and he must not let Andreas's death be in vain.

But the pain was still there, hovering just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest word, the merest thought to set it free. It crouched in wait like a predatory beast, ready to devour him at any moment.

He stared at the girl and his mind flashed on his brother's dying words: “You said one day a woman would be the death of me.…” The pain rose up, blinding in its intensity, cutting like a scythe through the numbness.

“On second thought,” he said, “the woman will walk. We will see if there is more to the
gringa
than her haughty eastern manners and condescending ways.” He started toward his horse, Viento Prieto, Dark Wind, but Sanchez caught his arm.

“You cannot mean that, Ramon. It is miles to Llano Mirada.”

Ramon pulled free of the old vaquero's hold and kept on walking. “Enriquez!” Across the camp, the stout vaquero looked up. “Bring the girl to me.”

“I beg you, Ramon, do not do something that can only bring you more regret.”

“Stay out of this, Pedro.” He reached the big black stallion and swung up into the saddle. Behind him, Esteban Enriquez arrived with the girl. She was wearing a soft blue robe over her white cotton nightgown, her fiery auburn hair trailing in a long, thick braid down her back. Her feet were bare, he saw, her small feet blue with the cold.