When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  “Neil?” she whispered.

  “Him?” Courtney spat. “What of him? Neil Braedon will be dead.”

  “No!” she screamed, jerking out of his arms with surprising strength, the malevolence of her expression causing Courtney to take a startled step backward, suddenly reminded of one of those hideous golden masks she collected.

  “No,” she said, the softness of her voice sending a warning shiver up his spine. “He will never die. No one can take him from me, or keep me from him. You can’t, Alfonso can’t, Serena couldn’t, nor could that old man, my beloved husband, whose touch left me feeling as if I were in the grave, and I will deal with this blue-eyed inglesa soon enough, the same way I did the others.”

  “The others? You mean your husband and Serena?” Courtney asked, somehow managing to find his voice.

  “Yes,” Diosa said, her answer sounding like the hissing of a snake, her black eyes watching Courtney with the same cold, reptilian intensity. “Serena thought she could take him from me. But she did not understand. Neil was mine. He loved me. But suddenly she decided she wanted him, and she told me he was never going to see me again. He was going to go back to her, to try and make their marriage work. I laughed in her face. Then he came to me, and he told me it was over. He said Serena wanted to live as man and wife, and he had agreed. They were married and they had lost too much time already. He wasn’t going to see me any longer. Leave me for her? Never! Luis had told me that her husband still lived somewhere in Spain. He had been sending the money to the man for years, because Tío Alfonso was gone so much he wanted to make certain the money always was sent so the man would not be tempted to write. But Tío Alfonso lied. He told Serena that her husband was dead. That was why she wanted Neil, but Neil was mine. I hated her. It was all her fault. I sent her a note telling her that her husband still lived and was waiting for her. I had her meet me in the canyon. Cañon del Malhadado. The gods were pleased that day, for I sacrificed her to them and left her there in the canyon. Poor Neil. His wife was now dead. And, later, my poor, sick husband died. A little belladonna in his chocolate,” she said, laughing softly, “and I was a widow.”

  “You whore!” a voice roared from behind them.

  Courtney spun around in shock to find himself staring at Alfonso, standing like a maddened bull in the opened doorway.

  “It was you all along. You who ruined my plans. All this time I thought it was Neil Braedon who caused Serena’s death. If it hadn’t been for you, she and Neil would still be married today,” he said, moving steadily closer to where they stood before the dresser. “And I would have Royal Rivers within my grasp. My plan would have worked except for you and your meddling.”

  Diosa eyed her uncle with dislike. “You old fool,” she said, throwing back her head as she glared at him with narrowed, calculating eyes. “It would never have worked. Neil was mine. And he was from the time he married Serena. We were lovers. Serena was nothing. Neil was always mine. He has come back to me. And I, Diosa, will have Royal Rivers, not you,” she challenged him, her voice low and strangely deep-toned as it vibrated with malice. “You and your stupid plans. You do not understand. The gods have controlled you from the beginning.”

  Her taunts snapped what little self-control a wrathful Alfonso had left after hearing her confession and realizing she had duped him for years, and with a mad bellow he grabbed hold of Diosa, his big hands finding her throat and tightening murderously around the slender stem, which he easily could have snapped, and would have, if Courtney hadn’t attacked him from behind. His hard-hitting fists caused Alfonso to break off his attack and to release his strangling grip on Diosa’s neck, and convulsed with rage, he turned to face this new assault, looking forward to sending Courtney Boyce to his maker, if perhaps sooner than originally planned.

  Courtney saw the grim smile of satisfaction on Alfonso’s face before he saw the flash of gunpowder or heard the accompanying explosion. He felt the fiery pain in his chest and glanced down; the last thing he saw before the black void of death enfolded him was the blood staining his shirtfront.

  Alfonso stared down at the crumpled form, his back to Diosa for just a second, but it had been a fatal mistake, for he had underestimated his enemy this time. Diosa, struggling to draw breath into her burning lungs, her world shattering around her, raised her hand and drove the sharp blade of the sacrificial dagger deep into Alfonso’s broad back.

  Alfonso slowly turned around, the expression on his face one of disbelief, not pain, as he died at Diosa’s feet, the madness in her black eyes the one thing he hadn’t planned on.

  “Madre de Dios,” Luis Angel said from the doorway, feeling faint. He had heard the gunshot and come running from his room down the hall, and had stumbled upon this nightmarish scene. Forcing the stiffness back into his weak-kneed legs, he took a step away from the door and walked into the room, drawing on some inner courage he hadn’t realized he possessed.

  Her black hair streaming over her shoulders like a shroud, Diosa was slumped down next to the dresser, her eyes glazed, a thin trail of blood-flecked saliva dribbling from the corner of her slack mouth. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and Luis’s eyes rested on her throat, the pale skin mottled with ugly dark purplish-red bruises.

  Carefully, he stepped over the sprawled bodies of Courtney Boyce and Alfonso Jacobs, standing for a heartrending moment staring down at his sister, his eyes full of love as he saw the pitiful creature she had become. He glanced at the dressing table, shaking his head as he saw the finely tooled leather box and knew what it held. He had warned her, but she would never listen to him, kissing him on the cheek and telling him she was singing with the gods. Always, from the time she was a little girl, she had wanted to be a goddess. She always had been, he thought sadly, remembering the beautiful sister who had always cared for him, her little Luis.

  “Diosa,” he murmured, lifting her limp body in his arms and carrying her to the bed, where he placed her gently against the softness of the feather comforter, her ravings from the madness that had ended in murder chilling his blood.

  He suddenly stilled as he listened to her disjointed ramblings, her eyes rolling wildly with tortuous visions only she could see. God help us, he thought, shocked as he heard her admission of guilt, knowing that one day, to ease his own conscience, he would have to tell Neil Braedon the truth about Serena—and this—but for now, he had to get Diosa away. He would never allow anyone to take her away to some madhouse—or, perhaps even to hang as she gloated about the murders of her husband and Serena, and now Tío Alfonso.

  Luis sat down on the edge of the bed and began to think, his mind working quickly as he saw what had to be done.

  What would it matter? Luis decided. What harm could it cause if he cleaned up this mess, then moved the bodies to Tío Alfonso’s study, locking the door, then climbing out the window? Fortunately, Tía Mercedes was away visiting a sister in Albuquerque, and was not expected back for a couple of weeks. None of the servants would dare enter the room—even Tía Mercedes would not have had she been here. No one entered Tío Alfonso’s study uninvited, and even then one did not care to, for it was only when Tío Alfonso was angry that one was invited inside. And before he and Diosa left, as if returning to Santa Fe, and then back to Mexico on business, as was often their practice, he would leave instructions for the servants, from the patrón, as if he and Courtney had planned to leave on a business trip—which, unfortunately, had been interrupted by tragedy.

  And when someone finally would open that door, they would believe what they saw; that Alfonso Jacobs and Courtney Boyce had become embroiled in a violent argument and had killed each other.

  By that time, he would have Diosa safely in Mexico, where they had many cousins. No one would ever find them, and he would be able to watch over Diosa. Yes, Luis Angel thought, it was a very simple plan. And it would work, because he had planned it very carefully. Tío Alfonso had always taught him to plan very carefully.

  Twenty-five

 
; And on her lover’s arm she leant,

  And round her waist she felt it fold,

  And far across the hills they went

  In that new world which is the old.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  It was the night of the barbacoa.

  Pungent smoke, heavy with the aromas of cooking meats and spicy sauces of garlic and onion, floated through the air along with the melodic strains of fiddle, guitar, and mandola as gaily dressed musicians played a slow, lovely waltz or a fast-stepping jarabe.

  Earlier in the day, a trench had been dug and filled with mesquite wood, which had burned down to the white-hot coals now lining the bottom and sides for the pit roasting and spit barbecuing of cabrito and borrego—suckling goat and lamb—along with venison, wild turkey, and whole sides of beef, which had been broiling slowly since late afternoon. Large frying pans of fresh mountain trout, stuffed with mint and wrapped in bacon, were sizzling over the coals as they cooked, while Lupe oversaw the basting of the meats with olive oil, garlic, and wild herbs, or tomato sauces fiery with hot peppers.

  Great terra-cotta pots of beans, rice, and vegetables had been placed in the glowing ashes, the contents bubbling and steaming whenever the lids were lifted. Long tables had been set up and filled with warm breads and stacks of tortillas, sopaipillas, fried dough served with honey, salads, and sweet confections. Another table held the refreshments; bowls of fruit punch, pitchers of lemonade, bottles of wine and whiskey, and steaming urns of coffee.

  The yard of the rancho was crowded with people. The diverse groups, friends and business acquaintances of Nathaniel, ranch hands, house servants, and vaqueros, and their families, the herders, shearers, bull whackers, and wagon masters, clustered around various fire pits and seldom strayed far from their own gatherings—even though it was a night where social status had been temporarily forgotten as Royal Rivers celebrated a successful spring season of lambing and shearing.

  Guy Travers was sitting alone on a hard wooden bench brought from the house along with other chairs and tables, and arranged near the adobe wall separating the garden and orchard from the rancho yard where the fires in the great barbecue pits now glowed softly in the falling dusk. His plate balanced carefully on his knee as he ate, Guy listened to the sounds of music, cheerful voices, and laughter swirling around him, his foot tapping in time to the tune.

  Guy reached out quickly for his wine goblet, his throat on fire from a chile pepper he’d accidentally speared, and heard the glass thud onto the ground as he knocked it over. Bending down, his hand groped in the darkness beneath the bench. Fortunately, the goblet had not broken. Guy sighed with frustrated relief, smiling as he felt one of his hounds give a quick lick to his hand, grateful no doubt for the wine just lapped up from his shoe, Guy thought, feeling a wetness seeping into his sock. Sitting back up, Guy suddenly stilled.

  He sat unmoving for what seemed an eternity, staring with a wide green eye at the glory of the first sunset he had seen since being blinded in battle. Guy was afraid to blink, even to close his eye in thankfulness for the miracle that had happened. He had been so afraid it wouldn’t. Gradually, his sight had been improving, but a haze had lingered over his vision, keeping it blurred and colorless until this moment. His hand closed so tightly around the stem of the goblet that he snapped it, unaware of the blood trickling through his clenched fingers. His lips trembling, he hastily wiped the hot wetness from his eye, the brilliant scarlet and gold of the sunset blurring momentarily, and as he continued to stare at the glorious light he was saddened to see the colors fade as night fell, for he had been in darkness far too long to welcome it now.

  Almost shaking with anticipation, Guy slowly glanced around. He grinned with pleasure at the first thing he saw; a tall and thin, familiar figure in calico and startling white apron, the fire making her skin even more coppery than it was. Jolie. She was standing in front of a short, plump Mexican woman, shaking a big wooden spoon at her as they argued, the Mexican woman raising a turkey leg in defense. As he continued to watch, Guy saw a dapper figure carrying a couple of loaded supper plates approaching, and he frowned. Stephen? He hadn’t recognized him at first, for he was dressed in a suit of dark gray and his hair was snowy white, but his step was just as brisk. The last time Guy had seen him, Stephen’s hair had been grizzled, but when he saw the man pause, wisely changing direction to avoid passing where Jolie stood, hands on hips now as she prepared to do battle, he knew it was Stephen. And in a minute, he had reached the bench, coming to stand by Guy’s shoulder in companionable silence for a moment.

  “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it, Stephen. Quite a sunset,” Guy said, glancing up at the proud face he’d known his whole life.

  “Yes, Mister Guy, it sure is. Nice an’ warm an’ I’ve never seen such a red sky,” Stephen replied, thinking Guy had asked a question, never even realizing Guy had addressed him personally or how he’d known anyone was there since no word had been spoken between them until now. “What happened to Miss Lys Helene? She was sittin’ here when I left. An’ I saw Miss Leigh an’ Miss Althea here a minute ago. You doin’ all right, Mister Guy?” he asked, carefully handing him his plate of food.

  “Yes, thank you, Stephen, I’m doing just fine.”

  Guy’s eye roved the crowd of people, searching for three women; two he knew he’d recognize, the other woman he’d never seen before, but knew he would know when he saw her for the first time.

  Immediately, his glance came to rest on two women standing side by side as they talked.

  Althea. So lovely, and still as elegant and poised and perfect as ever, he thought with brotherly affection, although she was far more animated than he remembered. Althea had always been refined, possessing a politely detached quality that had held people at a distance, but now she seemed far more approachable, human even, as she stood there laughing at some remark, her classical features touched with warmth in the firelight.

  Guy’s gaze moved to the young woman in blue standing next to her.

  Leigh. He frowned. How long had it been since he’d seen her? Two years? Almost three? He hadn’t been back to Travers Hill for over a year before he’d returned a blind man. The last time he’d seen her was when she’d ridden down to the river road with him to see him off after his last furlough home. She’d been sitting astride her mare, her long chestnut hair in a casual braid over her shoulder, and she’d looked like the little sister he would always remember as she waved to him until he disappeared around the curve of the river. Although she had always been a beauty, he wasn’t prepared to see the beautiful, vibrant woman standing across the yard.

  Leigh, he thought proudly, was truly a woman now, and not that little tomboyish girl who’d always tagged along with him on his cross-country rides. And as he remembered the long days and nights at Travers Hill, and Leigh’s strength of will, her courage and compassion, he wondered anew at the woman she had become—a woman born of gentle blood, who had found a nobleness of spirit during the darkest time of her life, when there had been no one to turn to except herself.

  As he watched her, she bent down to pat one of his hounds as it crawled up to her with no show of dignity whatsoever and begged for food. He smiled as she palmed a piece of fried dough from her plate and handed it to the grinning hound. A thin, dark-haired girl who’d been standing quietly with them held up a doll to her, and Leigh kissed the cold porcelain cheek, which seemed to please the child. Guy was shocked. Noelle. The sad-faced child was his niece. She must be a foot taller than when he’d last swung her in his arms and she’d squealed for him to swing her faster. Now she stood as wooden as the doll she clutched, he thought, having worried about her quietness for some time, but he was even more concerned now, watching her for a moment longer as Althea put a comforting arm around her daughter’s hunched shoulders.

  Guy heard a voice and knew instantly the motherly figure weaving through the crowd was Camilla, and she looked just the way he had always imagined she would, and he was glad. He laughed softl
y as he caught sight of two little white-haired ladies sitting with heads close together as they whispered, trading bloodcurdling secrets most likely, for he knew without a doubt they were the Misses Simone and Clarice.

  Guy’s gaze continued to search the crowd. There were so many people; some held his attention for a second or two, until he glanced away, certain he’d not seen anyone familiar. But suddenly he did see someone he knew.

  Guy stared in disbelief, wondering what Michael Stanfield was doing at Royal Rivers. No one had told him the man was here. How strange. Surely the man would have heard of his presence and renewed their acquaintance; after all, they were both Virginians, and they’d been in the same regiment, Guy thought, certain it was Stanfield as he caught sight of the violet-blue trousers.

  And as he watched Stanfield take out a corncob pipe and tobacco pouch, the truth flashed brightly in his brain as Stanfield struck the match on the heel of his boot. Sebastian. He was the very same man Leigh had introduced to him—the man calling himself Michael Sebastian. But his real name was Michael Sebastian Stanfield. And when Guy had known him he had been a captain in the cavalry. And before that, he’d met him at the occasional social function, but Stanfield hadn’t ridden to hounds much or frequented the race meets, so they’d never been overly friendly. In fact, Stanfield had been out of Virginia quite a lot during the years before the war. Guy believed he’d been an architect. But it was indeed the same man. Guy was puzzled, something bothering him as he tried to remember what it was about Stanfield he’d forgotten. But why on earth had the man not said anything when they met? Surely he remembered him, Guy thought, offended by the slight. Leigh had been right, and the man she knew as Michael Sebastian had lied. But why?