Neither of us spoke as Brence headed the carriage down the street. Fifteen minutes passed, and then I noticed he was taking a road that led out of the city. A few minutes later San Francisco was behind us and we were riding along the coast, steep rocks on our left, waves crashing below.
“I assume you have plenty of time,” he said.
“I’ve plenty of time,” I replied. “I’ll need to be back at the boarding house in time for dinner.”
We drove along the coastal road for thirty minutes or so, then turned inland. The sky arched above us, clear and lovely, the air laced with a salty tang. Red-brown hillsides stretched into the distance on either side, stark and lovely. The horse cantered along briskly, his coat gleaming in the sunlight. I fervently wished I hadn’t agreed to come with Brence. It was agony to be so near to him and yet so far away.
I fought the emotions rising up inside. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t. I would hate myself forever if I allowed him to know how I really felt about him. I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Another quarter of an hour passed in silence. The land was gradually changing; an occasional tree appeared; flat, grassy slopes replaced the red-brown hills. There was no formal road, but the horse moved confidently, as though he had come this way many times before.
“What have you been doing since the fire?” I forced myself to ask.
“I’ve been busy. They needed help clearing the rubble away after the fire, setting up tents, hauling in lumber. I felt it was my duty to lend a hand.”
“I find that very admirable.”
“And you? What have you been doing?”
“Making plans. I—I plan to go to New Orleans and New York, then to London—maybe Paris, I’m not sure. I plan to live very quietly.”
“I see.”
He didn’t give a damn. I could tell that. Why had I come? I was utterly miserable as ten minutes stretched into twenty, twenty into forty and the terrible silence continued. It had been at least two hours since we left San Francisco. We had been driving over grassy plains for the past half hour or so. I noticed a lightly wooded area up ahead that looked vaguely familiar, but I was too upset to pay it much heed. Finally, I felt compelled to break the silence.
“I suppose you’re planning another hold up,” I said. “I imagine you have your black hood stashed away somewhere.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ll keep it as a memento. Black Hood has permanently retired, Mary Ellen.”
“Has he?”
“I had no intentions of becoming a bandit. I came to California from Germany after my diplomatic career was ruined. I wanted to make a new start, and California seemed like the best place for it. I had some money, and I became partners with Jake in a mining venture. You know the rest.”
I was silent, looking at the grassy stretch before us. Brence stopped the carriage. I felt a tremor inside as I realized where we were. He put down the reins and turned to me, a grave expression on his face.
“I became Black Hood because I had to. I believe in justice, Mary Ellen. The law wouldn’t provide it, not for me or for any of the others who had their mines stolen or their land sold out from under them.”
“So you took the law into your own hands.”
Brence got out of the carriage and came around to help me down. A gust of wind caused my skirt to flutter as I stepped to the ground. He didn’t let go of my hand, but held it firmly, as he led me across the grassy stretch.
Speaking in a deep voice as we walked, he explained, “I robbed only men like Nick Wayne, men who had acquired their wealth through treacherous means. I returned it to the people who had worked for it. I kept only what I felt I was entitled to keep.”
“You abducted me and held me for ransom. You took twenty thousand dollars from me. Does that come under the heading of justice, too? Because I had ruined your career? Because you wanted revenge?”
He didn’t answer at once. We reached the edge of the slope. The valley was as lovely as I remembered it, peaceful and serene, touched with magic. I saw the waving grass, silvery in the sunlight, the lofty trees, the sparkling ribbon of river, and near the foot of the low mountain the pale beige walls and red tile roof of the hacienda stood half in shadow. Seeing the gardens with their exotic plants, the fountain splashing in front of the drive again, I remembered the night we had spent together, and I had to fight to hold back the tears.
“I wanted revenge, yes,” he said. “And I blamed you for all that had happened to me. I thought I hated you, Mary Ellen.”
He took hold of my shoulders and turned me around so that I was facing him. “When I saw you again, I realized I didn’t hate you at all. I realized what I felt—what I’d felt all along—was the exact opposite.”
“Yet you took the money.”
“That was my last official act as Black Hood. I took the money, and I made the last payment on the land. The valley and the hacienda are mine now—and yours.”
“Brence—”
“I love you, Mary Ellen. I’ve loved you from the first day I laid eyes on you. You were wearing a dress very much like the one you’re wearing now, and your hair was blowing in the wind, as it is now. I’d like for this to be our new beginning.”
I didn’t say anything. I was afraid to speak.
“I’ve learned a great deal about myself, and I’d like to think I’ve finally become the man I was meant to be. Can you forgive me, Mary Ellen? Can we begin anew? Can you love me in return?”
“I’ve never stopped loving you,” I whispered.
Pulling me into his arms, he held me loosely for a moment and looked into my eyes. Then he smiled and kissed me with incredible tenderness, murmuring my name as his lips touched mine. This was the way it was meant to be. This was the destiny Inez had foretold for me so many years ago in the gypsy camp. As I put my arms around him, I knew at last that dreams can come true.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1977 by Jennifer Wilde
Cover design by Julianna Lee
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9820-8
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Dare to Love Page 53