When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  With a sense of triumph, he heard her cries of pleasure as she moved beneath him, and he felt himself drawn deeper into her, sheathed by her warmth, the moist, tingling flesh enfolding him gently, caressing his manhood, holding him inside of her. They were one, and never again would she be apart from him, even when they were separated physically, she would be his. He knew her now as a lover. They had shared the intimacy that made a man and a woman one. She was his—and he belonged to her, if she ever chose to claim him.

  He could bear no more as he took her, and never had a woman pleased him as much as she. He plunged deep inside her, the tightness that closed around him heightening his pleasure as he felt the throbbing of her womanly flesh around him. Holding her buttocks he pulled her closer and closer, until the flatness of his belly pressed against hers, their hips locked together as his rhythm increased, her slender thighs wrapped around his hips and reminding him of the way he first had seen her, riding her horse with such gracefulness of movement, and he filled her womb with his seed as he climaxed, exploding inside her, hoping he would leave something of himself deep within, where it would be nurtured, and flower, for he would have her, and only her, bear his children.

  * * *

  She was asleep when he left the warmth of her bed and dressed. He stood staring down at her, wishing he could remain by her side forever, but once again he had to walk away…then he smiled, for he would carry the memory of her lovemaking with him this time. He pulled the quilt over her bare shoulders, his hand lingering against the softness of her breast, then he pressed a tender kiss against her lips and was gone.

  Shivering slightly as she felt a cold draft touch her shoulders, Leigh opened drowsy eyes, then closed them as she snuggled deeper beneath the quilt, falling into a contented sleep. Her hand closed more tightly around the rough leather pouch that held the only memories of a Comanche brave once known as Sun Dagger. Now he was only a memory to the people who had once called him theirs. The barbaric charms had always protected him from harm, but now they belonged to another, as did his heart.

  Part Three

  Territory of New Mexico—Spring 1865

  For winter’s rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; The time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

  Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Eighteen

  The hills,

  Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.

  William Cullen Bryant

  The conquistadores had christened it despoblado. They had seen only the emptiness, the desolateness of a land stretching from desert to mountain, never the beauty of a solitary, snowcapped peak rising toward the heavens, or a slender-leafed yucca blooming in the stillness.

  They had not found a land rich in treasures of gold and silver. The wondrous stories of Quivira, The Seven Cities of Gold, and El Dorado had proven false—fabulous legends that would remain forever elusive.

  But there were other treasures to be found—and far more precious—if one knew where to look.

  The glint of silver as a mountain stream tumbled through the red rocks of a steep-walled canyon. The emerald green of meadow grasses unfurling tender shoots in spring. The reflection of the sun on a white-winged dove rising into the deep sapphire blue sky. A field of wildflowers, with the gold of sunflowers and poppies burning brightest.

  The fiery sun, momentarily impaled on a jagged peak, fell into the cool shadows waiting beyond the western horizon. Thunder rumbled across the distance as storm-swept clouds climbed high, their towering heights rimmed with sungold. For a suspended moment in time, the sun-dried bricks of the ancient ruins glowed golden, as if The People still lived; the winds echoing through the stones sounding like forgotten voices; the paintings on the rock walls unfaded as a child is born, a maiden continues to dance for rain, a man plants corn, and, finally, a human sacrifice is offered to appease the gods. And the sacred beasts, the feathered bird figure and the bear striking with lightning, the creatures that soared between earthbound man and the spirits above, are captured forever in the darkness of a cave painted with the stars and the clouds.

  There was magic between earth and sun.

  It was timeless.

  Day into night into day. And a new moon would begin its journey across the starlit heavens; a harbinger of birth, life, and death—the circle never-ending.

  Nineteen

  I arise from dreams of thee

  In the first sweet sleep of night,

  When the winds are breathing low,

  And the stars are shining bright.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Royal Rivers. The first light of dawn bathed the adobe walls of the rancho with a rosy blush that faded to primrose as the sun began its climb above the high, snow-covered peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Magically, as if caught in the spell of an enchantress, the walls turned golden beneath a noonday sun, then were burnished into bronze as the westering sun descended toward the Rio Grande and the Jemez Mountains, until Royal Rivers glowed crimson as the fiery sun fell into the desert sands beyond.

  The icy mountain streams, more priceless than a river of silver flowing past the door, created a fertile valley where sheep and cattle grazed the grasslands and the corn grew tall, sheltered from the storm-driven winds by the dense forests of evergreens climbing high toward the timberline.

  It was a peaceful valley, golden beneath the sun.

  Nathaniel Reynolds Braedon had wisely chosen to build his home of adobe, the bricks, earth-harvested, sun-dried, and smoothed with mud plaster, keeping the inhabitants comfortable under a blazing summer sun and snug during a winter’s howling blizzard. The architecture of the ranch house bore a distinct Spanish influence. A covered gallery stretched along the front of the rambling, one-storied, flat-roofed structure built around a central courtyard, and a low-walled plaza enclosed the immediate grounds, which had been cultivated with gardens and orchards and possessed a deep well of sweet water. On the back acreage, still within the safety of the walls, were a stable block and corrals, and a number of outbuildings, including a smokehouse, tannery, chandlery, smithy, barns, workshops, and living quarters for the house servants, ranch hands, and vaqueros. The remaining outbuildings, paddocks, and corrals were grouped close by.

  Nathaniel Braedon had seen the practicality rather than the beauty of the plan when building his home; for Royal Rivers was almost a fort with its self-contained settlement behind heavily shuttered windows and thick walls. And the bell tower of the chapel served more to warn the occupants of an Indian attack than to call them to worship. Fortunately, the bell seldom sounded an alarm, ringing with a pure and peaceful clarity each morning, every noon, and again in the evening when the workers came in from the fields.

  Despite its fortified appearance, the atmosphere of Royal Rivers was welcoming. Drying in the sun, ristras of bright red chile peppers and ears of colorful corn hung from the carved posts outside the kitchens, and the aroma of bread baking in the beehive ovens in the yard blended with the spicy steam drifting from the big pots of puchero, the hearty stew simmering for hours on the hearth. Generously ladled into deep pottery dishes and served with tortillas de maíz beaten to a thin roundness and baked on a hot griddle, no one, from the master to the lowliest hand, ever went hungry at Royal Rivers. Nathaniel Braedon, the patrón, had a strict rule. Anyone who worked hard could expect to eat well, whether he be a High Plains drifter helping in a roundup, and who might have ridden on by morning, a Mexican pastor, a shepherd spending most of his time in the hills watching his flock, or an Indian, planting and harvesting the green fields—all were treated fairly. If they had families they lived in safety on the rancho, the women working in the main house cleaning and cooking, grinding the corn into meal, weaving baskets or carefully shaping clay, coil upon coil, into pottery. Their children were taught to read and write
in a one-room schoolhouse and, later, useful trades, as well as the traditions of their forefathers.

  Past the heavy oaken doors of the entrance, the main house was light and airy with its whitewashed adobe walls and tall, deep-silled, and arch-crowned windows. The floors were of random-planked pine and brick and covered with jergas, the coarse woolen cloth woven at the rancho. The ceilings were formed of pine logs, the rough-hewn vigas creating a warm, secure atmosphere. On an evening chilled by cool mountain air, firelight from the raised hearth in the great hall would reflect on the silver plate and fine china set out on the long banqueting table lit by many-branched silver candelabras. Nathaniel Braedon’s family and guests were served their meals in royal splendor, with fine crystal filled with the finest European wines and the best wine from El Paso, or Kentucky sipping bourbon and the local whiskey, Taos Lightning, so named by the American traders who’d first sampled the fiery brew. And any one evening, gracing a plate of English bone china, one might dine on the elegant cuisine of stuffed game hen and rice seasoned with wild herbs, or crown roast of lamb with a blancmange to follow, or more hearty fare of panfried beefsteak and corn dumplings. One might even find a spicy dish of enchiladas, frijoles colorado, or chorizo picante, hot sausage with red chile sauce, Nathaniel Braedon having many Spanish friends who were honored when served their native dishes in his home.

  A banco built into the thick adobe wall, and piled with woven pillows and blankets, allowed for extra seating and convivial conversation. Colorful calico cloth covered the lower portion of the walls, serving as wainscoting to protect the whitewash from rubbing off. Heavy chests and straight-backed, leather-seated chairs of New Mexico yellow pine, the soft wood carved with flower-and-leaf and geometric designs, blended well with the groupings of finer and more fashionable furnishings—a mahogany pianoforte from Baltimore, a rosewood étagère from New York, a marble-topped serving board from Boston, a cherry buffet from Missouri, a curly maple sugar chest and walnut cellarette from Tennessee, a couple of mulberry ladder-back armchairs from Louisiana, a tall clock that faithfully struck each hour, its face proudly inscribed with the name of its Philadelphia maker, and all freighted at great expense across the plains by enterprising Yankee traders.

  Long passageways with inviting pine benches, and lit by tin wall sconces when night fell, opened onto the courtyard and led to the adjoining wings that housed the kitchens, a study for the master of Royal Rivers, a morning room for the mistress, a family parlor, and the bedchambers, guest rooms, and storerooms that abounded. There were always guests arriving from great distances to spend several days or a week or more enjoying Nathaniel Braedon’s hospitality, or lost travelers straying into the valley and finding shelter against a sudden dust storm or early snowfall, or perhaps seeking protection from the Comanche or Apache marauders on the trail.

  No one was denied sanctuary.

  This was the Royal Rivers that Leigh Braedon, formerly Leigh Alexandra Travers of Travers Hill, Virginia, had first seen. It was also a place she had come to call home, and had come to love with the same fierce passion she had the mellow-bricked, green-shuttered home she’d been born in.

  Leigh awakened each morning in the shadow of the mountains, her sleep no longer disturbed by a wolf’s lonely howl echoing down from a high canyon, her heart beating wildly when she stood at the darkened window, staring out at the engulfing blackness of the night sky, the stars shimmering as tears fell, the loneliness of the memories of loved ones who were no more still haunting her dreams. And during those long wakeful hours before dawn, Leigh found herself wondering about the fate of the husband she barely knew and if she would ever have the chance to come to know him, to offer her love to him.

  And those were the most unsettling moments, when Leigh was most vulnerable, when her self-doubts, heightened by the uncertainties of her relationship with Neil, overwhelmed the romantic daydreams of living happily ever after. Theirs was no ordinary marriage. And although they had shared a bed and become man and wife in more than name only, that had been only one night, and over a year ago. What would happen when Neil returned? Would he still want her? Leigh had worried night after night when lying alone in his bed. They both knew why they had married—and it had not been for love of one another.

  At least, Neil had not taken her to wife out of love, and she would never reveal her love to him, not now that she knew about Señora Alvarado. Diosa Marina, the beautiful Spanish woman who had been Neil’s mistress, and who had made it very plain during their first encounter at the rancho that she was the woman Neil Braedon loved, and had when he’d been married to his first wife. And nothing had changed, Señora Alvarado had warned her—except the lovely señora was now widowed.

  Leigh sat down on the brick sill of the deep window embrasure and stared out dejectedly, not seeing the sun on the mountains as dawn broke, the light no more than a glimmer as it slowly spread across the green slopes covered in wildflowers. The pale light touched her as she sat deep in thought, her arms resting on her drawn-up knees, her bare feet tucked beneath the warmth of her nightdress.

  Diosa Marina Alvarado. The Widow Alvarado. A black widow, Althea had with unusual acerbity, albeit accuracy, pronounced with a delicate shiver of repulsion after meeting her for the first time. She and her brother, Luis Angel Cristobal de la Cruz Martinez y Sandovares de Jaramijos—or lil’ Louie Angel, as Guy called him—were frequent visitors to Alfonso Jacobs’s ranch, Royal Rivers’ nearest neighbor. Alfonso and Mercedes Jacobs were their aunt and uncle, and also Neil Braedon’s former in-laws. Señora Alvarado, who was a very wealthy woman with many profitable sources of income, including a partnership with Nathaniel Braedon in a freight business, had a home in Santa Fe, and also enjoyed visiting the family rancho, which she shared with her brother, and was conveniently close for visits to Royal Rivers.

  Diosa, Leigh thought uneasily. The raven-haired, sloe-eyed beauty, whose curving smile had been one of contempt, the assessing glance from her jaded eyes scornful, seemed to derive malicious pleasure in her taunts. Since that first meeting, Leigh had looked over her shoulder often, half expecting a stiletto of fine-tempered Toledo steel to strike deep between her shoulder blades, for the lovely Castilian-accented Diosa had made no secret of her dislike. Leigh wound a long chestnut curl around her fingers, wondering how she could fight Diosa. Especially when Diosa knew Neil better than she did, and was so arrogantly assured of his continuing affections. Before she had met the woman, Leigh had been so certain, if given the chance, she could win Neil’s love. She hadn’t had the memory of a beloved first wife to fight, to conquer, as had Camilla, Neil’s stepmother. Camilla had apparently failed in her efforts to win Nathaniel’s love, and had gracefully accepted her defeat, and all of the wealth generously offered her by a husband who could not give of his heart, for there were no affectionate and tender glances exchanged between them, only the courteous civilities expected of a married couple by polite society. Leigh knew she could never live as Camilla did. She could never live with Neil without his love—nor would she share him with another woman.

  But was Diosa the love of Neil’s life? Was Diosa the woman who possessed Neil’s heart? Was that why he hadn’t wanted to marry her in Virginia? Had he hoped to return to Royal Rivers and ask his widowed mistress to become his wife? Had Adam, out of a tragically misguided belief that his sacrifice would save them, give them a future, actually ruined their chances for happiness?

  Suspicious as she had come to be of Diosa’s motives, she’d had to believe her when the Spanish woman had confided to her that Neil had never been happily married to Serena. Leigh remembered only too clearly Adam’s words spoken the day she had married Neil, and how, later, they had gladdened her heart when she had lain with him, but now they only caused her pain, for they confirmed Diosa’s claim and the hurtful words she’d spoken to her in the courtyard.

  “You know the truth, don’t you?” Diosa challenged her, her dark eyes searching for any sign of vulnerability. “Neil was unhappily marrie
d to a woman who was in love with another man, a man Serena had secretly wed against her father’s wishes, and whom she still believed herself married to despite an annulment. And poor, foolish Serena was a true daughter of the Church, and even when forced to wed Neil, she held true to the sanctity of those first vows. And Neil? Such a pity. He found himself married, but with no wife to warm his bed,” Diosa told her with calculated bluntness, her black eyes glowing warmly as she spoke Neil’s name possessively, her lips softening into a sweet curve, her slender hands with their long, thin fingers suddenly stilled from their usual restlessness as she caressed the golden bracelet enclosing her wrist, and perhaps a gift from a lover. “Neil is a very virile man, not one to become celibate just because his wife chooses to live the life of one martyred. El Dorado. The golden man. He burns like molten gold touching the flame, sí, or perhaps you are like Serena and have not shared his bed? It would not surprise me, for you do not have the fire that Neil desires. You mask your eyes, your thoughts. There is too much innocence in your eyes. Although wed to him, you are cold, as if untouched, just like Serena. What was he to do, married to a woman who could give him no love?” Diosa asked almost conversationally.

  Then Diosa smiled that slow, secretive smile of hers, her glance self-pitying as she spoke of her own arranged marriage to a very distinguished and fine man, but a man nearly thirty years older than she, and a man who was an invalid. Neil had been alone, she had been alone, and they had sought solace with one another, their passion becoming an all-consuming love. And they had been content to meet secretly, knowing that it was enough to be together, if only for a short time.