Autumn Sage

by Genevieve Turner

  “Am I not allowed to pay social calls?”

  She passed a plate to him. He picked up one of the tortas and examined it the way a butterfly collector might inspect an inferior specimen before he set it back uneaten.

  “You are clearly very devoted to your duty,” she answered, “and your notion of justice.”

  “You mean to say that I am driven?” She nodded in response. “Indeed I am, but the same could be said of you. You graduated at the top of your class and scored high marks on each one of your certifying exams. You teach at a secondary school in the valley rather than a small rural school close to home.”

  She flicked a glance over at her cousins before turning back to whisper accusingly, “You’ve been interrogating my relatives about me.”

  “No, I asked my mother what your cousins had said about you when she visited.” His words were as mild as cream. “They’re very proud of your achievements, you know.”

  Irritation itched beneath her skin, that he should have investigated her before she’d come. He wanted to pry all these details from her, yet gave nothing away of himself.

  “I suppose your mother has an infallible memory as well,” she said tartly.

  He glanced at his mother, his expression going fond as he did. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t take after my mother.”

  Which meant he took after his drunken father? But that wasn’t correct either. The marshal was no drunkard.

  “When will the trial begin?” Best to drive the conversation to the business between them, leave behind this personal nonsense.

  “In two days.” He was all business again himself. “You’ll need fortitude to go through with this. You mustn’t wilt the first time you see McCade staring you down across that courtroom.”

  Then came a pitiless stare that no doubt was meant to wilt her.

  “I can assure you, Marshal, I do not wilt.” Anger prickled on her tongue. “Did I wilt when I shot that outlaw?”

  His mouth pursed as he assessed her, making her stomach swoop. “No, you didn’t.” He leaned toward her, dropped his voice. “I still regret I wasn’t there to spare you from his second assault. I think often of it.”

  He’d been thinking of her all this time—as she’d been thinking of him. The unexpected weight of that made her drop her gaze.

  She traced a finger down the bow of the cup handle, cold and smooth. “You shouldn’t worry about it. I survived.”

  She kept her eyes on her cup, bringing her fingertip in an arc back to the top.

  “I promised,” he said softly.

  “You promised I would remain unharmed.” Her finger slid slowly along the cold ceramic. “And here I am. Unharmed.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” Soft. Almost… fervent. He was close enough that his warm breath brushed against her cheek.

  Her heart seized as currents danced across her skin. He shouldn’t be so near—but she didn’t want him to pull away.

  “You…” She paused, tried again. “You mustn’t even think of it.”

  His hand slid across his thigh, came close to her own. “I can think of nothing else. If you had been harmed—”

  At his sharp inhale, she raised her eyes to his.

  They soaked for a moment in that silence filled with his regret and her disquiet, her body remembering all the places he’d touched. Her waist had known his arm, her back, his chest. And her hand, his lips.

  A teacup clattered in a saucer, reminding her of exactly where they were and who was watching.

  He said a little too loudly, “Are you planning on any sightseeing?”

  She swallowed down her agitation, trying not to glance at their mothers, praying they hadn’t seen.

  “No,” she said just as loudly. “I’m afraid there won’t be any time, with the trial.”

  “You don’t have to attend every day, you know.” This in his more usual tones.

  “But I do. After all, that is what I’m here for.” To correct the wrong done to herself, Joaquin, her family—the entire town, really. All of them waiting at home, waiting for her to deal justice to McCade.

  “Yes.” He looked down at his hands. “That is what you are here for.” He clenched them into fists, once, twice, the joints blanching with the force of it. A slow exhale, and then he was setting aside his untouched plate as he rose.

  “Mother,” he called, “perhaps we should take our leave? I’m sure that the Señora and Señorita are quite fatigued from their journey.”

  “But you only just arrived,” protested Don Enrique.

  Señora Vasquez sighed, but rose to obey her son.

  “Please don’t leave on my account,” Isabel urged. “I feel quite all right.” As agitated as their exchange had made her, she didn’t want him to leave. Beneath the eddies of anxiety there was a deep, swift current of calm that hadn’t been there before his appearance.

  “Yes, please stay,” her mother said. “It’s so rare to find someone to talk with about the old days.”

  The marshal remained standing, forcing her face nearly parallel with the ceiling so she could look up at him. “We really should let you rest,” he said. “Señora, Señoritas, Don Enrique.” He nodded to each in turn, offered a black-clad arm to his mother. “Shall we, Mama?”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Don Enrique,” Señora Vasquez said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Señora Moreno, Señorita Isabel. I certainly hope we have a chance to visit again before you leave Los Angeles.” She moved to take her son’s arm, and he protectively tucked hers within his own. “Señorita Moreno, I hope to see more of you as well.” She slanted a glance up at her son’s impassive face. “We both do.”

  As they took their leave, Isabel was left to ponder exactly what Señora Vasquez could mean by that.

  “She seemed very nice,” his mother said as they drove back home.

  Sebastian went as still as he could, knowing exactly who she was referring to. “Nice?”

  “Well, perhaps not nice,” she amended. “Interesting. Or I should say: You found her interesting.”

  He knew where she was going with this, but he had no idea how to stop her. And why should he want to stop her? Isabel was of old Spanish blood, he was of old Spanish blood—what could be more natural and correct than for the two of them to court?

  He wished he could drop the reins and fix his cuffs. One was a hair higher than the other, and he could feel the hives breaking out beneath.

  “She’s a witness in this trial, Mama.”

  But that hadn’t stopped him from complimenting her on her eyes—twice!—and talking amusedly of books with her. Damn it all, he had been flirting. He would have shaken his head at his foolishness if his mother weren’t watching.

  He’d been close enough to Señorita Moreno to catch her scent. At first he’d thought it some kind of citrus, sweetly tart, yet as he’d inched closer, it had turned dense and dark in a way citrus never could. For some reason, it put him in mind of a pomegranate—a perfectly lovely shade of rose on the outside, but when it split open, one found the lush, juicy red hidden within.

  “Oh, yes, of course I know that.” His mother’s tone was unconvincingly bland. “But she’s still interesting.”

  His hands tightened on the reins, the leather biting deep.

  Interesting. His mother was correct in that. Interesting. Intelligent. Señorita Moreno wasn’t the least intimidated by him. And the way her finger had slid along the handle of her tea cup…

  He summoned his control once more. Señorita Moreno might be interesting—both to him and his mother—but he couldn’t permit interesting to expand further into something like affection.

  The contagion he’d inherited from his father meant he could never marry—and would never pass it on to his children.

  But he couldn’t say that to his mother. She thought him wholly reformed, a complete man again. He couldn’t shatter her illusion.

  “She is interesting,” he allowed. “She’s also returning home in a few days
.”

  “They don’t have mail service in the mountains? How extraordinary.”

  Amusement tickled him. When her persistence was so charming, it was hard to be annoyed.

  “I will protect her while she’s here,” he said, pulling the team into a right turn, “and when she leaves, that will be the end of it. Find a lady closer to home, Mama.”

  Preferably one who wasn’t likely to stumble onto the truth of him. When Señorita Moreno had mentioned St Ignatius, a cold horror had crept along his skin. He’d done his best to mask his reaction.

  After all, many people practiced the saint’s spiritual exercises. It wasn’t anything remarkable.

  He darted a glance over to his mother. Her expression was resigned, as if she knew her machinations were for naught but she still had to try.

  Lord, he wished he could be a better son to her, to give her the daughter-in-law and grandchildren she deserved. But his state now—alone, contained, controlled—was the best he could achieve.

  Better was not in the cards for him.

  “Oh, Sebastian,” she said with a sigh. “I’m running out of ladies here.”

  “You’ll simply have to keep looking then,” he said lightly. And put Isabel Moreno out of your mind.

  Which was exactly what he himself had been desperately trying to do. He shuddered to think what his dreams tonight would be like after seeing her today.

  His other cuff began to irritate him, a burning prickling setting up under the skin of his wrist.

  “I only want you to be happy,” his mother said. She looked up at him and the naked pleading on her face opened a fissure in his chest. “Are you happy?”

  I cannot allow myself such a thing.

  He turned the question to her. “Are you happy?”

  They never spoke of the old days. Of life under his father’s rule. Of Sebastian’s madness after his death.

  Did she think of them as constantly as he did? He doubted it—her air of charm, of happiness, would not have been possible if she did.

  She’d earned the right to forget those years, to forge contentment from her life.

  “My happiness would be complete,” she answered, “if you were happy.”

  “I am content.” He couldn’t lie, not even to soothe her.

  His mother’s steady gaze made him itch with exposure. “You might be happy with Señorita Moreno,” she said. “If you tried. You must admit, you paid her considered attention. Which she repaid.”

  Again, the lies wouldn’t come. “I am a most… particular kind of man. Few ladies would be happy to accommodate such things for a lifetime.”

  Señorita Moreno struck him as having her own brand of particulars. The two of them might be drawn to one another, but he didn’t think they would make each other happy. She struck him as too exacting, too prickly to be satisfied with mere happiness. And he could not offer her more of himself than he already had.

  “You still deserve happiness,” his mother insisted.

  Her words fell harder than any of his father’s blows ever had, his bones aching with a thousand remembered hurts.

  He tightened his hands on the reins and let her comment slip past him.

  “Oh, Sebastian,” she sighed at his continuing silence.

  But the despondency in her voice wasn’t enough to crack his reserve, to change his mind about Señorita Moreno and her interesting character.

  His mother might believe he deserved happiness—but he knew better.

  Chapter Ten

  The prosecutor was not inspiring confidence in Isabel.

  A wisp of a man, with his pink scalp peeping through the patches in his colorless hair, tufts of which waved in the breeze coming from the open window—no, Mr. Halstead did not cut a confident figure. As he’d searched through his papers—for well over five minutes now; she’d timed it—his bleary eyes watered as if he were about to have a sneezing fit.

  She couldn’t imagine this man convincing a jury of anything.

  “Found it,” he muttered to his briefcase, pulling a paper from the mess.

  Marshal Spencer watched with his usual lack of affect. He’d brought the prosecutor here, introduced them, then gone to sit in the corner and watch.

  He didn’t appear annoyed at the time it took for the man to hunt down that paper. He left all the annoyance to her.

  “The marshal’s report,” the prosecutor explained, with a nod toward the man himself. “Have you read this, Miss Moreno?”

  She’d only been the one to give him the story written in it. “Of course.”

  “Good, good. This report covers most of the questions I’ll have for you in the courtroom.” He shoved the paper back into the case. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  There was an air of dismissal about him—he clearly wanted her to say no, and then he’d wish her a good day.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be preparing me for the trial?”

  His bleary eyes sharpened. “Didn’t you tell the marshal the truth?”

  “Of course.” If she had lied, why would she ever admit it? Why wouldn’t she simply go on lying?

  This was the man meant to prosecute the case? Yes, definitely uninspiring.

  Mr. Halstead’s smile was relieved. “Then you’re prepared.”

  “What of the cross examination?”

  His smile fell. “I can’t predict what the other lawyer might ask. Just be honest and you should be fine.”

  There was more to testifying than that—she’d no experience with a courtroom and even she knew that. This prosecutor was expecting her to fail—he was even preparing her to do so!

  She caught Marshal Spencer’s movement from the corner of her eye—a slight flick of his hand, no more. But enough to tell her that the lawyer’s words had agitated him.

  “I am always honest, Mr. Halstead.” She let her tone imply that he might not be.

  He was unmoved. “Excellent.” He snapped his briefcase shut. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  By the time the maid escorted Mr. Halstead to the front door, Isabel was in a towering rage, pacing the length of the parlor.

  “That couldn’t possibly be the correct way to prepare a witness for a trial,” she fumed.

  Marshal Spencer reached for a book on the table next to him, thumbing through it. “I’m not a lawyer,” he said mildly.

  She slowed her steps, her anger beginning to burn out. There was no point in this display of temper. It certainly wasn’t helping her to prepare.

  How was she to prepare?

  She’d told Joaquin that she had the truth on her side, but it seemed a poor shield in the face of the lawyer’s clear disinterest. If this was the man who was supposed to be helping her…

  Victory would be much more difficult than she’d thought.

  She sank to the sofa and contemplated her hands. She mustn’t admit defeat before she’d taken the field. These lawyers would be crafty and cunning, but her intellect was second to none. And she spoke the truth. She had to believe that counted for something.

  She took up a newspaper, intending to occupy her mind with something other than her situation. She flipped to the social calendar first—a concert at a park, a lecture at the library from a famed naturalist, a meeting of the local Shakespearean society discussing Julius Caesar. She’d have been delighted to attend any one of those events.

  After the trial. She’d find time for one of them after the trial, after she was victorious.

  She came to the end of the social calendar and sighed. A meeting of the Ladies’ Temperance Union. It would be a large meeting of ladies—certainly more than three women gathered in the family parlor—all impassioned, all devoted to halting the scourge of liquor.

  It would have been wondrous.

  She lowered the paper, no longer interested in tormenting herself with events she couldn’t attend, and looked over at the marshal.

  He was still engrossed in his book, in the exact same position as when she
’d taken up the newspaper.

  “Is that interesting?” she asked.

  “Not particularly,” he responded. “It’s a novel, and you know how I feel about those.”

  She almost smiled. Perhaps she didn’t need to regret being stuck in the house—she could needle him instead. “Shall I read to you from the paper?”

  “If you like.” He didn’t put down the book.

  She looked over the front page of the Herald. “Here’s an interesting piece on Judge Bannister.” Spoken as if she had no particular interest at all in the man. “Much better than the last one he was quoted in—that was the ‘greaser menace’ story, which you must have seen.”

  A flicker of his jaw was his only response.

  “In this article,” she went on, keeping her tone indifferent, “he speaks very convincingly of the need to keep the city water supply under municipal control. ‘Water must not be made scarce—it is required for the growth of the city and it must be provided cheaply for those too poor to pay the exorbitant rates Mr. McCade would charge.’ I must agree with him there.”

  He dropped the book. “I don’t want to hear that story.”

  Oh ho ho, a hint of irritation there. She set aside the Herald, picked up the Star. And swallowed hard at the first story. “Well, there’s this one,” she said stiffly. “It tells of how Joaquin and I—my lover, they don’t use anything so genteel as fiancé—planned to rob and murder Mr. McCade.” She didn’t want to go on—the joke had lost its allure—but she kept reading out of sheer perversity. “Apparently the entire town was in on the scheme. I am an adventuress, a Jezebel, no better than the rest of my race—”

  He pulled the newspaper from her hands, the newsprint grittier than sandpaper as it slipped from her grip. “I don’t want to hear that either.”

  His expression was his usual impassive one as he loomed over her—but his eyes burned.

  “How long have the papers been running such stories?” she demanded.

  “Since I arrived back with McCade. The Star has always been partial to Edwin McCade’s politics and agendas.” He let the paper drop to the floor.

  “So all of Los Angeles has been reading such lies about me?” She’d thought the truth would save her—but the papers were spinning their own version of the truth. And serving it to the entire city.