When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  Courtney shook his head in amazement as he made his way a trifle unsteadily to the sideboard and poured himself another whiskey, and making certain he got the corn liquor this time.

  Alfonso stared down at the fire as if mesmerized by the flames.

  He’d planned this from the very beginning, perhaps not in quite this manner, but the death of Neil Braedon had become a major part of his goal since his daughter had died. He held that young man responsible for the defeat of his carefully laid plans, and he would forfeit his life for causing him so much trouble. No one crossed Alfonso Jacobs and lived. He had placed a lot of time and effort into bringing that marriage about, which had joined more than a man and a woman—it had brought two great ranches together. Everything had been ruined when Serena had died. He had lost his chance to claim Royal Rivers. With his daughter married to Neil, the land would have become part of his empire on the death of Nathaniel and his eldest son—which could easily have been arranged.

  Serena had been the only weak link in his chain. And she had disappointed him, nearly ruining all that he had planned by eloping with that Spaniard, when he had already planned her marriage to Neil. Fortunately, he had caught up with them and returned her to the ranch, and her lover back to Spain, where, under threat of losing his life, he had remained, never to contact his daughter again. The annulment had been granted. But because Alfonso didn’t trust anyone, just to make certain the man had no second thoughts, a handsome allowance had been sent to him each month so he could live comfortably, especially after he had taken another wife and had a growing family to feed.

  Alfonso smiled reflectively. People were tools to be used, the same way a carpenter used a hammer and saw to build a house. He had used Serena as part of his plan to build an empire. Just as he had used her mother before her, marrying the only daughter of a land-rich Spaniard, the land grant that Silver Springs Ranch now stood on becoming his for a tidy little sum—the man more than happy to sell out to his daughter’s husband. And through marriage again, this time his daughter’s, he’d planned to add to his empire. But Serena’s premature death had cheated him of that goal, and of an heir to inherit both Royal Rivers and Silver Springs. He’d had such hopes for that part of his plan. He had miscalculated slightly at first, never realizing his daughter was so devout, but, finally, by telling Serena her first husband was dead, he had convinced her to accept Neil as her husband, and to consummate their marriage. He should have realized Neil was more savage than a white man, and whatever had happened between them had caused Serena’s death. And he held Neil responsible. But now he had at hand another tool that would make it far easier for him to rid himself of Neil Braedon, and at the same time, cast suspicion from himself. For some might remember his attempt to hang his son-in-law after the questionable death of his daughter. And he had to admit he was ashamed of that moment when he had lost control. Never attack the enemy’s front. Always try to flank him. That way he was caught off guard, and this way no one could possibly suspect him of Neil’s murder.

  But Neil had to die. It was part of the plan. He was a threat to him, even more so than Nathaniel, for Neil knew the Indians, especially the Comanche, and he might cause difficulties for him in the future if he tried to interfere when the trouble started, and it would start, Alfonso vowed. There were others too, powerful men like Kit Carson and Lucien Maxwell, over at the Cimarron, who might cause him problems, but he would deal with them the same way he would deal with the Braedons.

  Courtney had already been in contact with the French in Mexico, who wouldn’t mind seeing a republic just north of their Rio Bravo del Norte, and one not on friendly terms with the United States, and a republic of ex-Confederate soldiers still full of fight, and with nothing to lose. And he would see to it that they would have plenty to fight for. During the last two years he’d been selling rebel arms and munitions to the Comancheros, a group of half-breed raiders who existed in a no-man’s-land between the Indian, Mexican, and white man’s worlds, trading with all three while belonging to none. The guns, and liquor they would be well supplied with, would end up in the hands of the Comanche and Apache. With the trouble they would cause raiding in Texas and throughout the territories, the federal troops would have their hands full just to stay alive and protect the towns and isolated settlements. And in the meantime, with the help of the French, and the gold bullion from a score of robberies of Confederate banks and army shipments he’d planned and carried out throughout the war, he would establish his own republic in what was now the Territory of New Mexico.

  That fool Jefferson Davis and his cabinet of fools had never had any hope of establishing another republic. They had their chance and they’d made a debacle of it, and all that had been left for them to do was turn tail and run. Of course they got caught, he thought contemptuously. They should have planned ahead, as he had. He had set his plan into motion over a period of years. It was a foolhardy venture for Davis to try and escape Richmond on a train loaded down with the gold from the Confederate treasury, what with Union troops closing in, and rebel looters and deserters lying in wait along their path to halt their flight and seize the gold. The only smart ones, the secretaries of war and state, John Breckenridge and Judah Benjamin, hadn’t been caught yet and dragged back to Richmond. But at least their flight, and the rebels he’d been hearing about who’d been traveling south toward the Rio Grande, had kept the Union busy tracking them down and worrying about what they were planning when they reached Mexico.

  He glanced over at Courtney Boyce, who had just finished his drink and was getting slowly to his feet, and thought that everything and everyone had their uses, and the South Carolinian’s usefulness was quickly coming to an end—and perhaps a very tragic one.

  “Well, if you don’t need me any longer,” Courtney said, little realizing what a poor choice of phrase he’d used, “I’m dead to the world.”

  “Certainly, Courtney,” Alfonso said, smiling benevolently. “You’ve done well. You truly deserve a long rest, and I want you to know that I’ll always be very appreciative of your assistance,” Alfonso promised, eyeing him thoughtfully.

  “That’s what I like to hear, along with the jingle of coins in my pocket,” Courtney agreed, slurring his words slightly.

  “Sleep well, Courtney.”

  But Courtney hadn’t sleep on his mind as he staggered down the darkened corridor of Alfonso’s mansion. And mansion it was, he thought in dismay as he managed to lose himself twice trying to find the south wing, where Diosa and the rest of the family had their rooms.

  Blinking several times to clear his blurred vision, Courtney finally found the door he’d been looking for—and for what had seemed hours—but then a man was always impatient to be embraced by the soft thighs of a loving woman, he thought with a leering grin.

  Since he knew he was welcomed, Courtney walked into Diosa’s room without bothering to knock. Stumbling slightly, he let loose the door, not bothering to see if it swung completely shut behind him, worrying more about staying on his own two feet than whether the door had shut properly or not.

  He’d always liked Diosa’s bedchamber at Silver Springs, better in fact than her bedchamber in her own house in Santa Fe, which was too barbaric for his tastes, with grotesque, squat terra-cotta figures, one he particularly disliked, a dancing monkey she called the wind god, Ehecatl, whose breath moved the sun. She had adorning the walls devilish feathered masks of beaten gold and jaguar pelts that always made him want to look over his shoulder whenever he was in the room. She had a fascination for unnatural things, he thought, repulsed, as he remembered the sacrificial knife she’d held caressingly in her palm most of the long journey back from Mexico.

  This bedchamber, however, had been furnished by Alfonso, as all of the rooms in his house had, and he had to admit that Alfonso had better taste than his niece. There were marble-topped commodes and silk-cushioned sofas in pale rose, delicate velvet-seated side chairs and a Grecian couch, a painted and gilt-trimmed bedstead and canopy, and
white muslin, draped from the vigas in the ceiling, gave the room a light, airy feeling. Sometimes he felt as if he couldn’t breathe when with Diosa, her perfume almost overpowering him when he lay with her, but it was part of the strange fascination of her, he thought, watching her now as she sat before the mirrored dressing table, brushing her long black hair, and looking like a pagan goddess.

  He could see her reflection in the glass. Her eyes were closed dreamily as she pulled the brush through the strands with slow, lazy strokes, until he swore he saw sparks in the blue-black tresses. In her other hand, she held her usual cigarrillo with the delicate gold pincers, but as he sniffed, he thought it smelled slightly different tonight than the usual tobacco she smoked. It had an eye-burning pungency to it, and the smoke, mingling with her perfume, made his head spin. He glanced at her cluttered dressing table, where crystal bottles and jars of toiletries were crowded together at one end with silk ribbons, gloves, and the gold-encrusted coffer she carried her valuables in, and he knew she had a fortune in jewelry. But even that was pushed aside for the finely tooled leather box she always carried with her, and now occupied the place of honor on her dressing table. It looked innocent enough, until it was opened to reveal its contents: strange-looking little dried button-like things, from some cactus, she’d said when showing it to him for the first time, her sloe-eyes heavy-lidded and glowing with hidden fire as she’d held out some for him to sample, along with a piece of mushroom she called “flesh of the gods,” and some bitter tasting powder, “seeds of the morning flower,” she’d claimed, and he’d wondered later if she’d meant “mourning.” And with good reason, for he’d never had such a nightmarish night in his life; in fact, he hadn’t remembered anything for three terrifying days afterward, and to this day he still had strange, haunting visions crawling through his brain when he least expected, but Diosa had only laughed, saying he was not one of the chosen ones who could speak with the gods, as she did when she prayed to them and was given the magic of wondrous colors and images.

  Swaggering as quietly as he could in his inebriated state, Courtney managed to reach Diosa’s side without her having heard him, so lost in her dreaming was she, in her talking to the gods, he thought, grinning with pleasure as he stared down at her pale shoulders, the silk of her dressing gown having slipped to reveal skin just as smooth and silky.

  Bending over, he pressed his lips to her warm flesh, his hand slipping over her shoulder to caress the bareness of breast. He heard her sigh with pleasure, then she raised her arm, the fur trimming the wide sleeve of her gown tickling his face slightly as she ran her fingers through his hair.

  “Querido, I knew you would come, that you would not be able to stay away. You have flown down from the sun for me,” she murmured huskily, her throat arched as she leaned back her head for his kiss. Their lips touched, and Courtney suddenly couldn’t control himself as her cloying scent drifted around him and her smoky breath filled his senses, and he tightened his hand around her breast, his mouth opening hungrily against hers as he slavered hot kisses against her lips.

  Suddenly Diosa’s eyes opened wide, blazing with fury. “You!” she screamed, pulling away from him, and looking more beautiful in her rage than he had ever seen her.

  “Me?” he asked, looking befuddled. “Of course it’s me. Who else did you expect to find in your bedchamber?” he demanded, his whiskey-soaked mind finally beginning to realize that he may not have been expected.

  But then…if he hadn’t been, who had?

  “How dare you!” she spat, pulling her dressing gown up around her shoulders as if offended by his touch, but it had been so rude an awakening that had shaken her, dreaming of Neil Braedon kissing her only to discover it was Courtney Boyce. Her god had turned into a toad before her very eyes. She pressed a shaking hand against her throbbing temple, easing the pain as the glare of reds and yellows filled her brain.

  “Well, aren’t we the high and mighty one all of a sudden. Never minded before,” he said, two blotches of angry color marring his cheeks. “You thought I was someone else, didn’t you? Didn’t you!” he yelled, reaching out and grabbing hold of her arms and shaking her until her head fell back on her slender neck.

  “Yes!”

  “Who?”

  She smiled, infuriating him as he saw the seductive light enter her black eyes, and suddenly he knew—and had since this afternoon, if he could have admitted it to himself.

  “You were dreaming of Neil Braedon, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, staring at him in disgust. “You are nothing compared to him. He is my love, and I am his. We were lovers. And we will be again, now that he has returned,” she taunted him. “He is a god, and you are the dirt beneath his feet,” she said, spitting on him.

  “You think so?” he asked doubtfully. Her venom had struck deep, sobering him just enough to loosen his tongue too much. “Have you forgotten he has a wife?”

  Diosa laughed. “What does that matter? It didn’t with his first wife. I had him then, and I will have him again.”

  “Are you certain? Seemed to me this afternoon that we interrupted them at a very ill-timed moment. It was obvious to anyone who wasn’t blind, or deceiving themselves, that they are lovers. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, or his hands, I saw him touching her when we entered the barn. Not that I blame the man, for Leigh Braedon,” he said, drawling the last name, “is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Neil Braedon must have felt that too, since he took the woman as his bride. He could have chosen another, Diosa, but he didn’t,” he reminded the sullen-faced Castilian. “He chose Leigh Travers for his bride. And now that I’ve seen the two of them together, I can see that they were meant for one another,” he added, cutting deep into Diosa’s heart with his carefully aimed words.

  “You know nothing. Neil is mine. He has always belonged to me. To Diosa! We will be lovers again. It is our destiny to be together. I have loved him from the beginning of time. We will always be together. He cannot escape me. He will come to me again. He was meant to be mine. No one will take him from me.”

  Courtney was driven beyond caution. Diosa was his. He’d never known a woman like her. Until Neil Braedon had returned, she had been his, and she was going to become his wife. Nothing could change that. Nothing. He wouldn’t lose her, he couldn’t, he thought in numbing disbelief. Then, suddenly, he saw everything clearly, and he smiled as he realized that he wouldn’t lose her—ever. How could he to a dead man?

  “Neil Braedon is a man, Diosa, not a god, and he will die. And nothing you can do will stop that from happening.”

  “What?” she said, suddenly sounding groggy. “What is this lie?” she asked, drawing the smoke from her cigarrillo deep into her lungs, then a moment later the bluish smoke was wreathed around their figures.

  “The truth, Diosa. It is the truth. Neil Braedon is a marked man.”

  “You lie!”

  “Go ask your Tío Alfonso. It is his plan. And even you know he never fails in getting what he wants. Neil Braedon was a Yankee raider called Captain Dagger during the war.”

  “Dagger?” she said, glancing back at her dresser, her hand fumbling to find the sacrificial dagger, her hand closing around the bird-figured hilt.

  “Yes, and he robbed and massacred innocent people during the war. There is a man, a Michael Stanfield, who is looking for him because Neil killed his brother. He will kill Neil. And if he doesn’t, then Alfonso will. Because Alfonso has had it planned from the beginning. Neil Braedon is a dead man,” Courtney told her, relishing the look of horror that spread across her face.

  “No,” she whispered. “He and I were meant to be together. He is El Dorado, the golden one. It is my destiny to be with him. I am Diosa Marina. I have been favored by the gods, as was the first Marina, Malinal, Cortés’s mistress. She was his lover, and she brought him an empire of gold. I am a goddess, it is what my name means. I was sent by the gods. It has been meant from the beginning of time. The golden one is of t
he legend. We have waited for so long for the fair-haired man to come from the East. And he has come, and he is bathed in golden light. And now, Esteban is here,” she said, her eyes wild. “The black-skinned Moor has come to lead us to Cibola, to the Seven Golden Cities. Esteban. I have seen him, spoken to him, and he has answered. He was sent to Royal Rivers, where he awaits my command. He will find the gold, and then he will die as a sacrifice to the gods. And I will become the woman of El Dorado.”

  Courtney saw his chance, for she suddenly seemed so lost and hopeless standing there, her black eyes unfocused as she tried to hold on to her dream. “Gold?” he asked, taking her unresistingly into his arms. “I can give you gold. So much we can travel around the world and never know we’ve spent a cent of it. Gold, Diosa, gold! It’s hidden away—”

  “Hidden?” Diosa asked curiously.

  “Yes, Alfonso didn’t want it here at Silver Springs, too dangerous, so he hid it where no one would think of looking for it,” Courtney said, remembering his disbelief when Alfonso and he had taken the first load to be hidden away. “It’s hidden in the ruins of some ancient pueblo.”

  Courtney saw again the ruins of the long-forgotten city, where the sandstone blocks fitting snugly together made the walls seem golden as they rose high above the desert, jagged where time had worn away the thickness and tumbled in a timbered roof, the doors and windows standing open to the wind and sky. He had seen the neatly laid out walls of plazas and the round chambers of the kivas with fire pits at the bottom, the ashes centuries cold, the circular benches emptied of worshippers. And in a ruin with a pine-beamed ceiling, they had hidden their stolen gold, piling the chests of gold bullion against the ancient walls where strange figures stared down at them, the Confederate seals unbroken and to remain so until they came back to claim their gold.

  “There truly is a city of gold, Diosa, and I, not anyone else can show it to you,” he boasted. “I will make you a queen. I’ll drape you from head to foot in gold and jewels. Forget your legends, Diosa. With the gold I have, I can take you to Europe, where we’ll be welcomed in all the fancy courts of Europe, kings and queens bowing down to us. You, Diosa, will become the legend,” he promised, and he spoke sincerely, for he would make her his queen.