by Lee Savino
She looked so beautiful and cold, as if her feelings were very far away and she was intent on keeping them there. Sebastian noted Juan’s worried glances directed at his mistress, but he let the matter drop.
As they rode on, the lush meadows of the valley turned into farmland. Many of the fields were bordered by what Sebastian first thought were natural streams, but came to realize were a system of manmade waterways.
“Do you like our acequias, Señor Chivington?” Juan asked when he noticed the British lord admiring them.
“Yes, jolly good. What are they?”
“Water trenches, dug by men,” Juan explained. “The first founders built them. Señora De La Vega’s father and husband helped with the layout and design. They channel the water running off the mountain to the land.”
“Fascinating.”
“For all our love of the Madonna, we Spaniards are quite civilized,” Francesca said with a biting smile.
“Quite,” Sebastian said, and she looked annoyed that he didn’t rise to the bait. “How close are we to your home?”
“Not far now,” Francesca said and spurred her horse forward.
At the sight of his lady riding hard, slender body working over the horse and long black hair tumbling down her back without any semblance of propriety, Sebastian couldn’t help kick his mount faster to follow. He chased her up one hill and down the other. Juan and Cage and the others might laugh at him, but it was worth it to catch the color rising in her cheeks as she realized she was the object of his hunt.
She rode well, but his own noble steed was of good breeding stock, and caught hers, pulling neck and neck.
The lord and lady shared a glance, her cheeks flushed and dark eyes dancing, distracting him to the point where he accidentally guided his horse to a bush and had to take a jump. As his horse leaped through the air, Francesca looked back with a sharp, satisfied curve to her lips. His heart leaped. It was the first time he’d seen her smile. He pantomimed surprise, waving his arms a little, and she turned away to hide her laugh. With his stallion well in hand, he rode closer to her, and she let him sprint beside her horse.
“There.” She pointed to the large, sprawling hacienda, built in Spanish style, surrounded by a few outbuildings, courtyards, fruit trees and gardens. The architecture looked a bit drafty for a Colorado climate, but lovely. Sebastian and Francesca slowed their horses as they filed through the orchard, enjoying the fragrant, flower filled world.
They hadn’t reached the first garden before a dirty-faced boy came running up. “Señora, we are glad you are here. There is trouble in the fields. A broken fence allowed the cattle to get into hay fields and trample all over the crops. We are trying to get all the cows out now.”
“Ay dios mio,” Francesca muttered. “I do not need this.”
Juan and the others arrived, and the boy explained again, this time in rapid Spanish.
“I will go,” Francesca said. “Juan, will you take our guests to Ana, and tell her I will be back as soon as I can?”
Juan gave his horse to the boy, and without another word, Francesca wheeled her mount to follow the lad.
“I’ll go with you,” Sebastian said, signaling his men to continue to the house. His stallion raced to catch his black-clad lady, and the three rode hard in silence on the roads between the fields.
“That’s the broken fence.” The young farm hand pointed and Francesca led the way, following another acequia that ran between the fields. As they approached the scene of the disaster, Sebastian saw the heart breaking sight: a well planted field, with rows and rows of tiny green plants broken by large swathes of cattle tracks. The animals roamed around, with a few riders trying to corral them.
Sebastian watched the young widow snap into action, calling orders to her vaqueros, directing their efforts to drive the cattle as she rode carefully between her crops. By dusk, the cows were banished and the fence repaired. About a third of the field was destroyed. Juan arrived; he and Francesca dismounted to walk along the rows, checking to see what could be salvaged or replanted.
“Hard turn, old boy,” Sebastian said to Juan as the two of them rode to check all the fences.
The vaquero grunted, but after a half hour working side by side, he opened up to the fair-haired English lord.
“This land is very fertile, but we’ve had a few bad years. Señor De La Vega, Francesca’s father, died with a few debts. Señor Montoya and my lady have been trying to catch up ever since. It is a hard life, señor.”
“I can see that.” Sebastian followed Francesca’s straight-backed form as she rode around the field’s perimeter. Hours of travel and work, and she hadn’t once stopped to rest.
“Señor De La Vega…she didn’t take her husband’s name?”
Juan shrugged. “It is not the way, though her children would’ve had her husband’s name.”
“Not a fertile marriage, then?”
“Cyro Montoya was old. He was closer to her father’s age than hers. But he was good to her. His death will bring trouble. It takes a strong hand to lead a ranch to profit.”
“The señora seems strong.”
“Yes. But she will need all the help she can get.”
Francesca met them at the fence. “Any other weak places?”
“Not that I can tell,” Juan said.
“If I may,” Sebastian said. “I examined the fence the cattle broke through. My thought is that it had been tampered with. Why would a cow press against the fence at just the right point?”
“They sometimes do, when searching for food or shade.” Juan frowned.
“Yes, but that particular spot had neither.”
“What are you saying, Englishman?” Francesca’s dark eyes swept up and down Sebastian’s face.
“Only that, if it were my ranch, I’d suspect foul play.”
Juan gasped, but Francesca only gave a sharp nod. “My lord Chivington, it is late. Perhaps you are ready to go back to the ranch?” I don’t need you meddling, her arched eyebrow said.
“I can stay as long as needed.” Sebastian made his gaze like a gauntlet thrown. You won’t get rid of me that easily.
Juan looked from one stone face to the other, then cleared his throat. “My lady, I will check the rest of the fences and set a schedule to repair any broken ones. You can escort señor Chivington back and get him settled as our guest.”
Francesca’s lips tightened, and for a moment, Sebastian wondered if she’d curse both him and her man. Despite his best efforts, she still didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
Of course, he had bared her bottom and birched her within an hour of meeting her. He expected it would take a while before she enthusiastically invited him to tea.
“Come,” Francesca said, wheeling her horse around without another word.
Again Sebastian found himself chasing his dark lady over the fields.
“Rough afternoon,” he said when he caught up. “Those crops looked healthy. It’s a damned shame.”
“It never should’ve happened,” Francesca said. “The vaqueros should be more vigilant. If my husband was alive—” she broke off.
“Juan says you’ve had some trouble,” he said.
Francesca cursed under her breath. Sebastian thought of how much fun it would be to train her to be respectful, and had to hide his smile.
“Juan needs to hold his tongue,” she bit out. “But yes. The ranch has been in trouble for a while. Cyro’s death did not help.”
Sebastian started to ask another question, but she kicked her mount to ride faster.
They arrived at the hacienda in a cloud of dust. A round-faced woman was straining to pull a white goat out of a garden bed, but as they rode up to the gate, she gave up and ran to greet them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Señora, you have returned. We were so worried.”
“I am fine, Ana.” Francesca dismounted before Sebastian could come around and help her. “You have met our guests?”
“Yes, they are settled in t
he barracks.” There was a long, low outbuilding that Sebastian guessed was the barracks.
“This is Lord Chivington.” Francesca nodded to him. “He is to have the General’s room.”
Ana blinked. “That is our finest room, my lord. Welcome.” She curtsied. “If you will leave your horse for the boy and follow me.”
“Please,” Sebastian said. “I can take care of my stallion. And the barracks will be quite sufficient for me.”
“It is not too much trouble,” Francesca said. “You are our guest. I have not forgotten hospitality, not even with everything that has happened.” She turned to Ana. “A short meal, only, Ana, please. Our guests must be tired.” She spun on her heel and marched away.
“Señora De La Vega,” Sebastian called. “Thank you.”
The dark haired mistress threw up a hand to acknowledge his gratitude, but didn’t slow or turn around.
Ana’s eyes widened. “My lord, please forgive her rudeness, the señora is very busy…”
“No need to apologize, madame. I can tell she is under a lot of strain. I mean to be of service, if I can.”
“I am sure she will appreciate that.”
Watching the beautiful widow stride across the field to a low outbuilding, Sebastian wasn’t so sure.
Damned fool. Francesca wasn’t sure who she despised more: the foppish Englishman who’d followed her from the saloon and stuck to her side, or herself. His very presence made her grit her teeth, even as her body remained aware of where he was at all times. She both hated his attention, and wanted it.
She was used to receiving male interest, even being an object of desire. She was beautiful as her mother had been. As healer and daughter of one of San Luis’ founders, her position afforded her respect, so men of the village looked and did not touch.
Until this Englishman. He had no qualms laying his hands all over her, taking liberties. The way he’d tied her to the fallen log and taken control…
Her breath left in a huff. She could not sit and think on this foolishness. She had a ranch to save.
She felt different. The birching had opened her up, left her thinking strange thoughts about a British poppycock, as if, through pain, the lord had touched her soft core. She’d even cried in front of him. She hadn’t cried in a long, long time.
The conflict raged in her and she took it out on the cornmeal she was grinding for Ana to cook with tomorrow.
After a few minutes, her shoulders ached from the force she used on the pestle.
The sun hung low in the sky, signaling an end to this long and weary day. The guests were fed and quartered; they were in the stables now, currying their horses. Francesca heard their voices floating over the field. Laughter rang out; Lord James Sebastian Chivington must be telling a joke.
Francesca ground the meal faster.
Juan rode up and she stopped, grateful for the break.
“How are the rest of the fences?”
“Fine, señora.” He hesitated. “After you left, Diego rode by.”
Francesca wiped the sweat off her forehead. “What did he want?”
“He’d heard what had happened, and offered to help. He says his vaqueros are yours to command.”
“I’m sure,” she muttered. “What did you tell him?”
“I thanked him. And said I’d pose the offer to you.”
“And we will decline, of course.”
“Señora…”
“No, Juan. We cannot let him impose.” I cannot afford to owe him.
“Why not? He is family.”
Francesca’s brow creased as she struggled to put her feelings into words, to give them rationale. “If he is so close, then why did he not help Cyro? What was between them, that my father died and Diego was content to watch us struggle?”
Juan sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“Señor Diego Montoya…he asked for your hand in marriage. Before you were married to Cyro.”
Francesca stilled. “What?”
“Your father declined for you.”
“Why didn’t my father tell me?”
“You were young and beautiful, but also as you are now.” He waved a hand and she could fill in the blank—reckless, hot headed. “He was afraid you would run away with Diego. Or that he’d seduce you. That is why your father married you off so quickly. He saw fruit in a marriage with the older Montoya, not the younger. Señora, he only wanted what was best for you.”
Francesca tried to think back to the time before she was married, when Diego spent more time around her father’s ranch. A handsome, dark eyed man in his twenties, his presence always made her heart beat faster.
“Why did Father choose Cyro for me?” She’d been only sixteen, deep into the study of her mother’s healing arts, and surprised when her father showed up on the step of the apothecary to tell her she would be wed in a few days.
“I believe he thought Cyro was more steady. He was friends with Cyro and respected him greatly. Cyro’s military career and ideas about farming made him great company to your father. They would ride in the fields all day and sit and tell stories and smoke all night.
“Who knows, perhaps Señor De La Vega thought you would end up marrying both Montoyas—the elder and then the younger. Time passed and Diego has grown into a fine man. Cyro was much older than you and Diego. After his passing, it makes sense that you two become close.”
Something about the conversation made her skin crawl. Perhaps it was knowing that her father and husband had sat around and discussed this without her. Why hadn’t her father included her in the conversations about her own future?
“I cannot think about this now. Cyro is gone, we must continue to save the ranch.”
“Aye, señora. Do you think you will hear more about the payments, now that this Red Charlie is gone?”
“I am sure we will. He is but one of the Royal Mountain Gang.” She sighed, feeling tired to her bones. “They have not pestered me for money, as they plagued Cyro, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“You may have challenged them by shooting their comrade. They may come after you now.”
“Let them come,” she growled. “I look forward to meeting them head on, with my gun.”
Shaking his head, Juan said no more on the subject and took his leave.
Francesca waved him away, but once he was out of sight, her body sagged over the pestle. A murdered husband, a gang asking for payments, an encroaching brother-in-law, and a farm barely making enough to pay worthless vaqueros. And now four more mouths to feed in the form of unwanted guests. If it weren’t for Juan, his wife and family, and Ana, she’d set the whole place on fire and run away to live in the woods.
Late that night, Sebastian was at his window, smoking, when he saw a dark form moving through the garden. The household was dark and quiet, the matron Ana in her bed at one end of the house, and, he assumed, Francesca in hers. But when the figure reached the gate, he recognized the long, dark fall of unbound hair.
Snuffing out his cigaro, he climbed out of the low window and followed, tiptoeing to keep from waking Ana’s white goat, tied to a ring in the wall, far from the garden beds. Francesca made for one of the small outbuildings. He kept his distance, creeping from shadow to shadow. As he passed the barracks, he heard Cage’s snores through the open window.
He followed his quarry to a little stone building set halfway between the hacienda and the woods. The door stood open and Francesca was inside, lighting a candle. His foot hit the door and caused it to creak; the young woman whirled.
“It’s all right.” He raised his hands. “It’s only me.”
The light molded to her face, showing her pulse beating fast in her throat.
“A bit late for you to wander about. What are you doing?” he asked.
Anger replaced her fear in a flash.
“This is my home,” she snapped.
“And that makes it wise for a young woman to be out and about at night?�
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She took a few steps out of the light, grabbing jars off shelves and bringing them to a large, worn table. “I have work to do.”
He looked about the small space, the shelves filled with jars, mortars and pestles of all shapes and sizes, the candles in the fireplace giving off a fragrant scent.
“Don’t touch anything,” she said.
“What is this place?” Sebastian had to duck his head to get around the hanging bundles of herbs.
“An apothecary. It was my mother’s and now it is mine.” She opened jars and measured out the contents, her movements swift and sure. He found a stool and pulled it up to the table to watch her work.
For a few minutes she pretended to ignore him, but he sensed her interest under all her rude behavior. She didn’t kick him out, though she did say, “No one comes here without my permission.”
“Really? A good place for a lover’s tryst then.”
To his surprise, Francesca blushed, the color pretty on her smooth, caramel skin. “I’ve never been here with a man. My mother always banned my father from coming here.” She gave him a pointed look.
He nodded politely. “Do you ever stop working?”
“There is much to be done. The people of the village need me.”
“Can I help?”
“You don’t think you’ve helped enough?”
He shrugged.
She sighed. “Grind this.” She handed him the stone mortar and pestle. It was his turn to pretend to focus on work, though he couldn’t help watching her out of the corner of his eye as she went about the apothecary with graceful, swaying movements. The room grew stuffy with incense, and Francesca opened a window and removed her smock to reveal a plain dress that wrapped around her waist and had loose sleeves. In bare feet and casual attire, her simple beauty was almost indecent, it was so alluring.
Sebastian had to admit, he approved. If he was a poet, he’d pen lines about this moment: the moonlight, the night air, the dark and lovely lady. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the heady herbal smell.
When he finished grinding the herbs to powder, she came to take the bowl. He pulled it back so she’d look at him.