The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West
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Red blossomed on Señora Moreau’s cheeks as she drew the little girl away from Dante and set her on her lap. “No, Abilene. Señor Vega is only staying a short while.”
“Ah, Mama.” Philippe plopped a cherry in his mouth. “Can’t we keep him?”
“I saved your life, señor. In return I need protection. Only until the grapes are harvested in a few months.” With the children finally abed, Señora Moreau had invited Dante out onto the veranda. She gripped the railing and stared over the shadowy fields where grapevines reached for the dark sky like multiclawed monsters.
Dante slipped beside her. “A few months, señora? I don’t—”
“We’ve been attacked four times so far,” she interrupted, desperation creeping into her voice. “Equipment stolen, grapes destroyed. I’m starting to fear for our lives.”
Lantern light flickered across her back, sparkling over a loose tendril of hair, but her face was lost to him in the shadows. She smelled of sunshine and sweet cherries, and it took everything in him not to lower his nose to her silky hair for a deeper whiff.
“Who is attacking you?” he asked. “And for what purpose?”
She released a heavy sigh. “I have my suspicions, but I don’t know for sure. Let’s just say there are many men in town who don’t believe a woman should be running a vineyard and who would love to possess it themselves.”
Dante would agree with that. American women were spoiled, selfish, fickle, and manipulative. Despite her beauty, this particular woman before him was no exception. She had saved him for her own selfish purpose and was now manipulating him into doing her bidding. That she hailed from money was obvious by her manners and speech. That she stared down her haughty nose at others was evident. But that she stubbornly forced herself into a man’s world would be her undoing.
“Why not sell the place and go back to wherever you came from?”
She spun to face him, indignant. “Because this vineyard is my husband’s dream. For François’s sake, I will not give up now.”
Pig-headed woman! Dante huffed and glanced into the shadows.
“After the harvest, you are free to go, Señor Pirate, with no further obligation to me and the children. It is a good bargain. Your life for three months of work. During which time you’ll have a roof over your head and food in your belly.”
“Listen, señora. I know nothing about grapes or wine or farming. I am a sailor, a privateer.”
“You don’t need to know anything about a vineyard. I simply need your protection. Fighting is something you are skilled at I presume?” Her voice was sarcastic.
He cocked his head with a frown “You can hire fighters.”
“In case you haven’t noticed.” Her luscious lips grew tight. “I have no money. Nor will I have any until last year’s wine is ready to sell and this year’s harvest comes in.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I appreciate you saving me, I do. But I am not the marrying kind, señora. I have a ship to redeem. And when it is back in my possession, I intend to sail away and never return to this waste of a town again.”
“Back to pirating?” she quipped.
“You call it pirating. I call it fighting for land stolen from my country.”
“From your country? You aren’t Mexican. Your accent and speech betray you.”
“My father is Mexican, señora. And California was ours until the arrogance of America trampled my people.” He tightened his grip on the railing as thoughts of his father filled his mind, igniting his ire.
“California was won in war. And if that wasn’t enough, my country paid Mexico for the land as well.”
Dante’s blood simmered at the American’s lies. He faced her.
“Fifteen million for the disputed territory,” she added. A flicker of fear crossed her eyes when they met his. She backed away. “Or perhaps your government did not inform its people of that fact.”
She bumped into the post.
He approached her. “All Americans lie.”
Her chest rose and fell, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “All people lie, Señor Pirate. But I speak the truth.”
Whether she spoke the truth or not, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to drag her into the bedroom and take what was his right as a husband. Instead, he allowed his anger to grow. Jerking back, he leapt down the steps and stormed into the night.
Five hours later and well into his cups, Dante sat in a saloon that smelled of sweat and spirits. He’d seen several of his crew, including his friend and first mate, Berilo Diaz, who informed him the men were happy to enjoy their time ashore until Dante could redeem the ship. An endeavor he was well on his way to achieve. He’d already won ten dollars at faro and was about to win more from a group of goose-brained miners when whispered threats from a nearby table pricked his ears. As a captain, he’d honed his listening skills for any mention of mutiny or rebellion. This time he heard only snippets over the clamor of fiddle and laughter and cursing that filled the room: fire, rifles, run off, and the word that sent icicles down his spine, Moreau.
The men finished their drinks and rose from the table, scraping back chairs and grabbing guns as they made for the door, grins of anticipation on their faces. Six of them, from Dante’s count. Six armed men attacking Señora Moreau’s vineyard. She and the children wouldn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 3
Caroline woke with a start, perspiration covering her body. A breeze stirred the gauze curtains of her open window, casting ghoulish shadows etched in moonlight onto her ceiling. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside her window, the distant howl of a coyote—all jerked her from her semiconscious state. Ever since that foul pirate, Dante Vega, had stormed off in a rage, her nerves had refused to unwind. She knew he didn’t want to be here. She could tell he hated Americans. But she’d seen something in his eyes during dinner and later with the children—a deep yearning, some kindness, even. Or perhaps she was only deluding herself. A man like him felt no obligation to repay her for saving his life. A man like him thought only of himself. And Caroline’s impetuousness had once again caused her to make a huge mistake.
A horse let out a frightened whinny. Gunshots cracked the air! Caroline leapt from bed, her heart spinning in her chest. Tossing a robe over her shoulders, she darted to the gun rack in the main parlor and grabbed two of the loaded ones as another gunshot thundered across the valley.
Philippe ran into the room, rubbing his eyes. “Mama, what is it?”
“Philippe, take Abilene and go to your hiding place. Stay there until I tell you.” She didn’t have time to ensure he obeyed as laughter and the pounding of horse hooves drew her outside. She crept onto the veranda, peering across the vineyard, rifle raised and ready. Torches—at least seven—bobbed up and down in the distance, heading her way.
Sisquoc, her foreman, appeared out of the shadows, fear in his eyes and a gun in his hands. She was surprised the aged Chumash stayed on with her in the face of so much danger. “They try to set barn on fire, señora. I shoot and scare them, but they keep coming.”
“Did you wake the others?”
“Yes. And they got guns. Two guard barn, and here is Diego and Manuel.” He gestured toward two men, one who positioned himself behind the watering trough and the other behind an old wagon.
All four of her workers. One Chumash and three Mexican. None of whom could hit a beached whale from two feet away. If the vigilantes succeeded in setting the barn on fire, she’d lose her horse, her milk cow, chickens, hay, and most of her farm equipment. And possibly even her wine stored in the cellar beneath. “Get the animals out of the barn, Sisquoc. I’ll hold them off.”
He cast her a worried look but ran off to do her bidding. She forced her trembling legs to descend the stairs, one by one, and walk onto the path to intercept the attackers. Cocking her rifle, she raised it to shoulder height, waiting until they materialized out of the shadows and she could hear their voices bragging about their impending victory.
The men laughed—course belly laughs as if she’d told a joke. Still, they came, their torchlight twisting their features into maniacal threads of light and dark. “Now looky here. If it ain’t the mistress of the vineyard herself. Hello there, pretty!” They stopped some twenty feet before her, each one of them eyeing her up and down and licking his lips as if she were one of their trollops from the saloon.
Blood pounded in Caroline’s ears. Her knees began to wobble. But she must remain strong. For her children. “You will leave my vineyard at once, or I swear I’ll shoot!”
Again they laughed. A cow lowed, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Sisquoc leading the animals from the barn.
“Don’t matter ’bout your animals, señora; we will still burn it down. And your grapes, too.”
“But not before I shoot one of you dead,” she replied, anger crowding out her fear. “You go back and tell your boss that he’s never going to get my land.”
“Mama!” Abilene’s voice spun her around. A man dragged her precious girl out of the house with one hand while Philippe squirmed in the other. Caroline’s breath abandoned her. Gasping, she pointed the rifle at the man, even as several of the men behind her cocked their guns in response. Philippe kicked the villain in the shin. He howled and bent over to rub his leg. “You ill-bred mocoso!” he shouted, while her brave son attempted to tug his sister from the man’s grip. With a heavy hand, the man knocked the boy aside and sent him sprawling onto the dirt.
Terror gripped Caroline. No, Lord, not my children. Please protect my children. She gripped the rifle tighter as it swayed over the man’s frame. Her finger hovered over the trigger, desperate to shoot, longing to save her children. But she feared to hit Abilene.
“Put down your gun, señora, and tell your men to do the same, or ol’ Pedro will have to hurt los niños.”
Pinned within the man’s harsh grip, Abilene’s teary eyes reached out to Caroline. Blood rushed to her head. She grew faint. With one hand raised, she slowly lowered her rifle and called for her men to do the same.
The ominous crack of a gun thundered across the valley. The man holding Abilene let out an ear-piercing howl. Releasing the girl, he stumbled backward and gripped his shoulder. Caroline dove and scooped Abilene in her arms before searching for Philippe in the shadows. Shouts and curses rumbled behind her. More shots split the night sky. Grabbing both children, she spun around, intending to take them into the house when another shot struck one of the vigilantes. He slid from his horse to the ground with a thud. Two of the others began shooting into the darkness, while the rest scattered for cover. Gun smoke bit Caroline’s nose and throat.
She scanned the darkness but could see none of her men. Could they be the ones shooting? Another shot exploded. Ducking, she hurried the children into the house and ordered them to crouch behind the table. Outside a thwack and a grunt sounded. She peered around the open door to see a man strike one of the vigilantes across the jaw with the butt of his rifle then shove the other one down with his boot. A third one already lay prostrate in the dirt. She couldn’t make out her rescuer’s face in the darkness. But moonlight gleamed off the knife in his hand. Caroline’s breath stopped. He tossed the blade with precision. It met its mark, and another villain dropped to his knees before falling face-first to the ground.
A barrage of shots peppered the area. Grabbing a pistol and rifle from the dirt, the man darted behind the water trough and returned fire. A groan of agony rose in the distance. Movement to her right caught Caroline’s gaze. The man who had held her children was starting to rise. Dashing into the kitchen, she grabbed a frying pan, and before she could consider the wisdom of her action, she rushed toward the man and slammed it over his head. The thunk of iron on a skull sent bile into her throat, but the man once again returned to the dirt. She glanced toward her rescuer, lit by a shaft of moonlight. It was Dante Vega, the pirate!
And he was smiling at her.
More shots sent her racing back into the house. But after she ensured her children were safe, curiosity kept her peering out the door. An eerie silence invaded the vile scene, made all the more spooky by smoke spiraling from torches abandoned to the dirt. A cold sweat snaked down Caroline’s back. Crouched behind the water trough, the pirate remained so still, she feared he was dead. But then one of the villains fired, giving him a target, and he shot back. A howl spoke well for his aim.
“We can do this all night, amigos!” he yelled. “I’ve already shot five of you. Come on out, and let’s finish this!”
Silence again. One of the men left his hiding place among the vines and sped toward the house. Gripping her throat, Caroline thought to warn Dante. But he’d already seen him. With precise aim, he followed him with the barrel of his pistol and fired. The man stumbled forward like a broken wheel on a wagon before tumbling to the dirt.
Cursing floated on the wind, soon joined by the sound of a horse galloping away.
Dante rose to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck as casually as if he’d just been working in the fields. Slowly, one by one Caroline’s farm workers, including Sisquoc, came out from hiding, rifles in hand.
“You, you.” Dante pointed at two of the closest men. “Go check the perimeter. Make sure no one else is coming.”
Sisquoc quickly translated into Spanish, and the men sped off.
“And you two.” Dante gestured toward the remaining men. “Tie up these injured men, set them on their horses, and send them on their way.”
Sisquoc translated again, and Dante gripped the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you, friend. Can you make sure the man who galloped away has indeed left?”
The old Chumash Indian nodded and without hesitation obeyed Dante’s orders. On shaky legs, Caroline went to fetch her children. Abilene flew into her arms, but Philippe darted past her and out the door before she could stop him.
“Golly, Señor Vega!” The boy glanced at the injured men who were being hoisted up by the workers. “Did you knock out all of these men by yourself?”
Dante glanced toward Caroline. “I had a little help from your mother.” The look in his eyes nearly stole her remaining breath. It was more than admiration. It was a knowing look, an intimate look that bespoke a long acquaintance. Or perhaps the moonlight played tricks on her. Abilene’s sobs drew her attention, and she tightened her embrace on the little girl. “It’s all right now, ma chère, we are safe.”
“Because Señor Vega shot all the bandidos, Mama!” Philippe exclaimed. “Parbleu! Did you see?”
“Yes, Philippe. And we are very grateful to you, señor.”
Kneeling by the trough, Dante scooped water and splashed it over his head then stood, raking back his dark hair. “I don’t think they’ll bother you for a while, Señora Moreau.” He ascended the steps and stood beside her. The sting of gunpowder and danger hovered around him.
Abilene, still hiccupping with sobs, lifted her head from Caroline’s shoulder and reached out for the man. Without hesitation, he took her in his arms. “You are safe, little one.” Though Caroline had said the same thing just moments before, there was something assuring in his deep voice, a soothing confidence that caused Abilene to immediately stop crying, heave a deep sigh, stick her thumb in her mouth, and settle onto his shoulder.
If Caroline hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she never would have believed it possible that her shy, frightened little girl would allow anyone to hold her, especially a stranger. A pirate! Yet, as she watched him wrap his thick arms around Abilene and whisper assurances into her ear, Caroline suddenly longed to trade places with her daughter. Ever since François had died, she’d lived in a constant state of fear and uncertainty. How lovely it would be to feel protected and safe. If only for a moment.
Caroline woke before dawn with visions of Dante—the pirate—holding Abilene affectionately in his arms. For some r
eason, it caused an odd sensation within her—not at all an unpleasant one. After stirring the coals in the stove and putting on some water, she drew a cloak about her and made her way through the morning fog to François’s grave beneath a large oak in the middle of the vineyard he had loved so much. Though François had adored his children, he’d rarely showed affection—to them or to her. He was a dreamer, a man with a thousand ideas buzzing through his head—so many, he rarely allowed real life to intrude. A brilliant, innovative man who would have made the best wine this side of the Mississippi just as he said he would.
If he hadn’t died.
Fog enshrouded the scene with a ghostly white and sent a chill down her spine.
“Dear Lord, thank You for sending Señor Vega to save us last night. Thank You for all You provide. But please, please help us. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how—”
A twig cracked. Gasping, Caroline spun around. Señor Vega materialized out of the mist, his dark eyes smiling at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She faced forward, embarrassed that he’d heard her praying.
“I saw you leave the house and worried.”
“I’m quite all right, as you can see, Señor Pirate.” She snapped her gaze to his. “I thought you’d gone back to town.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I slept in the barn just in case those men returned.”
The sentiment sent her emotions whirling. “When you stormed off last night after supper, I assumed you were gone for good.”
“Do you want me gone for good?” His eyes held a playful glint, yet his tone was serious.
“I’ve already told you what I want, señor.” She returned her gaze to the grave.
“What was he like?” Dante knew he shouldn’t ask, but he could not reconcile the man he remembered from the ship with a man who would have won the heart of such a woman. A woman who had stood her ground, rifle in hand, against seven well-armed men. He’d never seen the likes of it. Especially not from a proper lady who’d obviously benefited from an education only wealth could provide. When he’d heard the shots and seen her in such danger, a foreign sense of terror had screeched through him. He couldn’t remember ever being so angry or so afraid—even on his crew’s most dauntless raids.