Tears of Gold (12 page)

“So it would seem, mavournin,” Brendan agreed, “although your cousin Raoul isn’t feeling near the same,” he added with an amused smile curling his lip as the young Californian galloped toward them at a breakneck pace, only to pull up on his reins as he reached them, his horse’s hind legs sliding beneath as he came to an abrupt halt. A cloud of dust settled over them as Raoul quickly turned his mount and fell in beside them.

Brendan glared impotently at Raoul, who was oblivious to having caused them any discomfort with his thoughtless exhibition of his equestrian skills. All of his attention was centered on Mara as he rode along beside her, his gaze lingering on her face and long column of neck.

“You ride better than I would have thought for a European, but perhaps it is the Californian blood in your veins that gives you such skills,” he complimented her.

“Thank you, Raoul”—Mara politely accepted his compliment despite Brendan’s rude guffaw—“but I think Doña Feliciana would disagree with you about my abilities.”

“Ah, well, she is just jealous of you, Amaya.” Raoul dismissed Doña Feliciana with a careless shrug of his shoulders. “She is spoiled, and it does not help that Andres is her guardian.”

“Oh, and why should she be jealous?” Mara asked quietly, showing little curiosity.

“You do not know? Feliciana fancies herself in love with Don Andres. She has always had the grand passion for him and hoped to be his bride one day,” Raoul explained unsympathetically. Then, laughing cruelly, he added, “At least she did until mi padre appeared with you on his arm.”

“And what of Don Andres?” Brendan asked.

“He will do the honorable thing, the proper thing, and what his madre wishes,” Raoul told them with a sneer of contempt. “He still follows the old ways. However, I think he will not mind so much now that he has seen you. I think it will be his pleasure to wed you, Amaya,” Raoul added with a suggestive look that slid over Mara’s tight-fitting bodice.

So, Mara thought, that is why there is that thinly veiled hostility in Feliciana’s manner. She was in love with Don Andres. She fears that Amaya will be the next Villareale bride, and not herself. Mara wondered about Don Andres’s feelings toward the lovely young Feliciana, and whether he had given her reason to believe her love might be returned. As far as Mara had seen, he had never given any indication of more than brotherly affection for her. Perhaps it was just a schoolgirl crush and would fade with time.

Mara followed the carelessly scattered group of riders into a hollow formed of low-lying hills where a stream meandered gently through the willow-shaded valley floor. In the distance the slowly moving carreta with its rickety railing and large, solid-wood wheels was making its bumpy way into the valley behind two oxen yoked to the long pole that stretched out in front of the cart.

Don Andres, astride the golden palomino with the ivory mane and long, flowing tail that he often rode, organized the group as they dismounted and found places to rest beneath the drooping branches of the willows. Mara found herself seated beneath a bank of wild irises, the creams, deep reddish purples, and lavender blues creating a perfect backdrop for her beauty as she lounged in the cool shadows of the sweeping willow limbs.

Farther along the bank and closer to the stream, Paddy was peering intently into the clear depths of the water, his small face eager as he searched for frogs and hopped along the slippery banks with several other young children. Mara caught the sound of his laughter and realized that for children there was a universal language that had no barriers as they innocently played together.

Mara gratefully accepted a glass of the cool stream water from Don Andres, who had poured her some from a jug freshly filled from farther upstream.

“The ride was not too much for you, Doña Amaya?” he inquired solicitously as he stared down in unconscious fascination at the entrancing picture she presented.

“I enjoyed it, Don Andres,” Mara reassured him with a provocative smile curving her lips. “Your rancho is certainly more than I had imagined, and very lovely.”

“Gracias, but it cannot compare with your beauty. I—” Andres began, only to stop as Feliciana came strolling up to them.

“Andres,” Doña Feliciana interrupted, her lips pouted as she put her hand possessively on his arm. “Had not you better see to the fires and your other guests?” she reminded him.

“Doña Feliciana is right, of course, if you will excuse me?” he apologized regretfully as Doña Feliciana led him away.

“This isn’t so bad,” Brendan remarked lazily as he dropped down beside Mara, a glass full of wine held carefully in his hand. “I could come to enjoy this life of leisure. To be sure, it fits just fine my ideas of what a gentleman’s life should be,” he said on a deep sigh as he stretched out on the fresh green grass.

And Brendan was right, it was a gentleman’s life. One could come to enjoy it very much, Mara mused dreamily. The afternoon passed languidly. Sides of beef were roasted on iron spits over live-oak coals, the aromas mingling with the sounds of fiddles and laughing voices. As the afternoon shadows lengthened and appetites were appeased, the never-tiring Californians sought entertainment in a small-scale rodeo.

Demonstrating amazing feats of horsemanship before an appreciative audience, the rancheros and vaqueros showed off their prowess. Using the
reatas
hanging from their saddles, they effortlessly roped any stray steer that wandered near, or played at a mock bullfight with a rogue bull who angrily charged his tormentors. Too often he barely missed the shining flank of one of the horses as the rider’s red sash flapped enticingly before the enraged bull.

Doña Ysidora sat contentedly beneath the shade of a tree with her ever-present embroidery near at hand and only glanced up occasionally to see that all went smoothly. She had ridden her mount as agilely as any young girl of sixteen, never showing a sign of fatigue as she kept pace with the younger members of the party. Even the soft, feminine hands of Doña Jacinta had shown strength and skill as she had demonstrated her own proficiency in the saddle, her small, green silk slippers with ribbons tied over the instep peeking out beneath the fine embroidered muslin of her skirt as she spurred her horse relentlessly on.

Raoul sauntered unsteadily over to Mara, pausing before he reached her to take a deep swallow of wine from a highly polished steer horn. Its bottom had a stopper of wood, and it was decorated with bands of silver. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Raoul came to stand before Mara.

“You liked my riding, sí? I am the best, I think,” the wine emboldened him to say. “I can pick a golden coin from the dust, while riding at a full gallop. Never have I missed.”

“You’re quite an accomplished fellow,” Brendan remarked snidely, unimpressed with the young Californian’s revelations. “Now, if only you could be pickin’ up gold nuggets from horseback…” he murmured thoughtfully, a devilish twinkle in his eye.

“You do not believe me?” Raoul asked in offended amazement. “I have even, single-handedly, lassoed a grizzly bear. This you can believe. It is the truth. ¿Sí, Jeremiah?” he demanded of the American who had quietly walked up beside him.

“If you say so, Raoul,” Jeremiah replied indifferently.

Raoul smiled triumphantly at the O’Flynns, missing the American’s patronizing look as he swayed on his feet and took another long drink of the dark red wine, some of it trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Your madre desires your presence at her side, Raoul,” Jeremiah delivered his message, a pitying look in his blue eyes as he watched Raoul straighten his shoulders. “She wishes you to meet someone.”

“Bah! She always wants me by her side,” Raoul complained. “You tell them of my bravery, eh, Jeremiah, for you have nothing of your own to talk of,” Raoul said insultingly and staggered through the milling group of people toward Doña Jacinta and the plump girl standing nervously beside her.

A dull flush spread across Jeremiah Davies’s boyish face as he stared after the weaving figure of the Californian. “The fool,” he muttered scornfully.

He returned his attention to the O’Flynns, the determined glint in his narrowed blue eyes fading as he assumed his accustomed expression of humble servility.

“You are enjoying the rodeo and merienda?” he asked politely. “If I might join you, Doña Amaya, Señor O’Sullivan?”

“Certainly. Be our guest,” Brendan invited him, an expansive grin on his face. “You must get tired of hearing Spanish all the time,” he prodded the American, his eyes innocent as he smiled encouragingly.

“It is part of the job,” Jeremiah replied with a slight shrug. “You know, there are now probably more people in California speaking English than Spanish,” he commented with a smirk curving his small mouth upward. “Someday Spanish may even become a forgotten language here.”

“You seem to find that rather amusing,” Brendan said as he heard the American’s low chuckle. “Won’t you be findin’ yourself out of a job then?”

Jeremiah Davies smiled slyly as if at some private joke. “Our fortunes may be bound together, but we shall not suffer the same fates,” he remarked enigmatically.

“Ah, you be seein’ yourself with a big fortune, now? Have you come into an inheritance, perhaps, or are you hoping to strike it rich with a gold mine?” Brendan asked softly, his interest caught by the momentary gleam of avarice that shone in the deceptively mild blue eyes of the American.

“A gold mine?” he repeated Brendan’s query disdainfully. “Why should I search for a gold mine when I have one right under my nose? It just needs the right tools to mine it, that’s all.”

Brendan’s dark eyes glowed with excitement at the American’s words. “There’s gold on Don Andres’s land?” he asked in amazement.

Jeremiah Davies snorted in amused disgust. “You’re just like the rest of them. All those people coming to strike it rich, digging the gold out of the earth, spending it overnight. Fools!” he spat contemptuously. “Can’t you see that it’s the land itself that is worth their toil? Blinded by shiny gold they can’t see the value of the dirt they discard. But I have, Mr. O’Sullivan, I’ve seen it.”

The light died out of Brendan’s eyes at his denial and strange explanation, and losing interest, Brendan turned his thoughts and gaze elsewhere.

“You’d do better to go back to England, Doña Amaya,” Jeremiah Davies suddenly recommended.

At Mara’s look of surprise he held up a pudgy hand in supplication and shook his head. “I only meant it as a word of friendly advice, that’s all. You’re more European than Spanish. You don’t fit in here, and besides,” he added ambiguously, a slight smile curving his lips, “Don Andres might not be quite the matrimonial prize you were led to believe. In fact, if I were you, I’d be looking around for a rich American husband.”

“You seem fond of speaking in riddles, Mr. Davies,” Mara replied coldly. “I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the patience to decipher them.”

Jeremiah Davies shook his head regretfully. Then, getting to his feet, he gazed for a moment at the laughing Californians spread out in front of him. Their clothing was a kaleidoscope of color—white muslin skirts embroidered in threads of red, green, blue, and purple; rich Chinese shawls and delicate lace scarves; bright silks and velvets embroidered in gold and silver braid. Above their heads was a canopy of brilliant blue sky.

“Look at them. They are little more than children. They laugh and play, and act as though they’ve not a care in the world. They will not worry about tomorrow until it comes,” Jeremiah said derisively. “They live in a fool’s paradise. It cannot last forever. Already the change is coming, but they will not accept it. And you wish to cast your fate with
them?
” he asked doubtfully, a smug smile of contempt on his face as he casually walked away.

Mara watched in disgust as he ingratiated himself with a silver-haired Californian, pleasantly exchanging greetings with the old man as he helped him to fill a plate and find a suitable seat.

“The little worm,” Brendan commented. “Although I must admit we’re losing a good actor by not having him on the stage, not that I’d relish playin’ opposite him,” Brendan said in mock concern. “Why, he’d probably step all over me lines and steal the scene as well.”

“He’s more of a viper, so I’d watch my step around him,” Mara warned Brendan seriously.

“Don’t be worrying, Brendan can be handlin’ the likes of him,” he reassured her. “Besides, I don’t see that we’ll be havin’ much to do with him, anyway. I don’t usually hobnob with servants, my dear,” Brendan added with a look of snobbish disdain at the American.

An hour later, as the women began to clear up the remains of the picnic, Mara looked around for Paddy, hoping he hadn’t strayed too far off. She walked along the edge of the stream, following its gurgling flow into the cool shadows of the trees hugging the soft banks. Mara glanced around, stopping now and again to listen for the sound of children’s voices.

“Paddy! Paddy!” she called out. She kept walking farther from the camp, deeper into a spinney overlooking a clear pool of still water and hidden from view by the bend of the stream.

Mara stopped for a minute, listening to the peaceful silence. As she was about to return to the camp, she heard voices from the far side of an outcropping of large boulders. As she stood there, hesitating, she found herself beginning to listen.

“I do not think I care to be involved in this for much longer,” one of the voices stated firmly. “Now that he has returned, he will be suspicious.”

“Still scared like a little boy of your padre, Raoul?” jeered a voice Mara recognized as Jeremiah Davies’s. “Haven’t you enjoyed having a little money of your own for a change, rather than depending on his occasional generosity?”

“Sí, I want money,” Raoul declared fervently, but there was a note of doubt in his voice. “But I don’t care to get it this way. Stealing cattle from Don Andres is not right, not…honorable.”

Mara heard the American laugh. “And is what Don Andres did to your padre honorable and just? It’s only right that you should be receiving something from the rich Don Andres. He owes it to you,” Jeremiah Davies said smoothly, playing on Raoul’s uncertainty and resentment.