We heard the men talking and laughing before they came into view, walking their horses along the edge of the orchard. When they saw us, they pulled up to a stop. Javier blinked in surprise when he saw us. “You women came this far?” he said. I thought it odd that he referred to his little sisters as women. “Where is your guard?”
“Forgive us, hermano,” Francesca said quickly. “We didn’t think Señorita Ruiz would want to come this far today, so we didn’t think we required one.”
“But then one thing led to another,” I put in, “and I wanted to see more. Forgive me, Don Ventura. It was my urging that led us here.”
His eyes hovered over me as his horse stepped nervously left and right. “I thought when you said you wished to see more of the rancho, you meant the outbuildings.”
“That’s hardly a tour, is it?” I asked, smiling to try and hide my irritation—thinking we didn’t need any babysitter, not out here in this gorgeous, open country—and reached up to pick an orange. It was small but heavy with juice. “It’s even more beautiful out here.” I lifted the orange to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. I smiled and lifted it up at him, wanting to dispel the odd tension in the air. A good piece of fruit—
But when I noted them all staring at me, I felt the heat of a blush at my cheeks again. “I-I’m sorry. Was I not supposed to pick one?” I asked, feeling terribly guilty.
“No, no,” Javier said, his fine, dark-fringed eyes searching mine, as if still trying to figure me out. “Come. We shall give you a ride back to the villa. There is no way you will make it back on foot before the meal.”
I swallowed my protest as Rafael and Patricio took the arms of Estrella and Francesca, neatly swinging them up and to the rear of each horse, behind the rider’s saddle. Javier edged toward me and reached down for me. “Come now, Señorita,” he said, reaching down, offering his arm.
I stared up at him. He really meant to just swoop me up behind him? I was bigger, heavier than his sisters.
“Put your boot in this stirrup,” he said with some agitation, “and take my hand. I will see to you.” Javier didn’t seem to doubt his strength or ability to handle my weight. I took hold of his hand, placed my boot in the stirrup, Javier pulled and swung, and I landed abruptly on the rump of his mare. The horse danced a little, threatening to unseat me, but he shifted his hold, grabbing my left arm and pulling it around him until we settled. “Good?” he grunted.
“Good,” I said, willing as much confidence into my tone as possible, even though I was terrified. I didn’t like being on top of the horse, my legs on one side. It felt unstable.
“Shift farther over,” he said in irritation, as if I should know this. “And lean against me.” I did as he instructed, hoping he couldn’t feel my pounding heart. His hand covered mine, which rested below his sternum. My body was partially pressed against his broad back. “Better?”
“Better,” I croaked. But I was uncomfortably aware of the raw physicality of him again as we set off. His wide, strong muscles, tensing and easing. The smell of orange and leather and lye soap from his clothes.
“Have you never ridden with a man, Señorita Ruiz?” he said over his shoulder in puzzlement.
“No,” I answered without thinking. “I prefer my own horse.”
“And with a proper side-saddle, I imagine. When you arrived bareback yesterday with John, you appeared…uncomfortable.”
It was only then that I realized I was entering dangerous conversation territory. But if he tested me on it… “Actually,” I gambled, “I prefer to ride astride. Not that I’ve ever been much of a horsewoman. I’m more of a…wagon girl.” As in station wagons. Or SUVs.
“Yet you managed to steal my own mount,” he said.
“Borrowed. I borrowed her,” I corrected softly.
I felt the rumble of a laugh in his belly, but he uttered no sound. I smiled in spite of myself. Had I nearly made Javier de la Ventura laugh out loud? The man always seemed to be unnecessarily stern around his family. It was only with his friends that I had heard laughter from him.
“So what do you make of Rancho Ventura?” he asked over his shoulder. “Does she compare to others you’ve seen?”
“She is finer than any that I have seen,” I said, hoping to continue to win favor from him.
“Truly? To what other ranchos would you compare her?”
“I…I would have a hard time naming any. With my head injury and all.”
He paused. “But you remember seeing other ranchos?”
“Perhaps.” I tried to pull away from him a bit, sensing the trap he was laying for me.
But he held on to my hand with his own. “Hold tight, Señorita Ruiz. I don’t wish for you to fall while you are in my care.”
“He’s never dropped a girl yet,” said Patricio, pulling up alongside us, Francesca behind him. “But you may be the first girl to drop him.” He grinned mischievously, and I was thankful to him for the interruption.
“Patricio, by the saints,” Javier said, his belly stiffening beneath my hand, “if you weren’t the best agent out of Monterey, I’d chase you from my land myself or else show you what it means to be dropped with a punch.”
The man grinned, but I noted he moved his horse a few steps out of reach.
“How is it that a woman as fine as you, Señorita Ruiz, has learned to strike a man the way you did my friend?” asked Rafael as he came up on our other side. I was alternately upset by this line of questioning and pleased that Javier de la Ventura was not too prideful to admit where his bruised cheek had been earned.
“My abuela wished me to learn the ways of defense,” I said. “She taught me that a small woman could still be mighty and wished me to learn every aspect of what that meant, whether in physical or mental power.”
He lifted one brow in surprise and appreciation. “A wise woman, your abuela,” he said. “But do you not have brothers or uncles to defend you?”
“No,” I said, feeling a horrifying ball form in my throat. There was no way I could start crying. “It was just me and my abuela,” I managed, swallowing hard. “And she died recently.”
He bowed his head, and I felt Javier’s hand tighten over mine, which made the ball in my throat swell even more. “Forgive me, miss,” Rafael said, “for bringing up painful memories of the dear and departed.”
I forced a bright smile and took a deep breath, trying to chase away the tears. “Memories of her hurt, because I miss her so. But it is good to remember her.”
“So your amnesia clearly does not preclude you from memories of her?” Javier asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“No, it does not,” I said, taking a chance. About this, her, I could not bring myself to lie. I looked past him to the sea, visible from here in the distance. “She would have enjoyed hearing me tell of the rancho and my time here. She appreciated hard workers and a family’s business.”
“Just the sort of woman this country needs,” Rafael said. “Women civilize a land. Bring balance and order.”
“At times, too much balance and order,” Javier murmured before me.
“For those who chafe against the bit,” Francesca said, speaking up for the first time. “Give in to what is yours, brother,” she added, “rather than fighting against it.”
“Truly, Javier,” Patricio said, in front of her. “Men would die to win such a land, with such promise, from you.”
“And someone might do so,” added Rafael, “if you keep gambling. Somewhere, someone, at some point, will take from you something precious, and you will recognize what you should never have—”
“Enough!” Javier said, abruptly pulling up on his reins and turning his mare to face the others. “Who are you—any of you—to lecture me? Have I not returned here and assumed the mantle my father laid across my shoulders?”
I felt the gathering tension in his chest. Javier didn’t like that I was hearing any of this.
This has to do with those dudes chasing him yesterda
y.
Patricio edged his mount forward. “We shall leave it, but you must promise that you will not gamble with the men of the Guadiana, when they pass by these shores again. They are far more dangerous, Javier, and—”
“Enough!” Javier cried again. “I am the grown lord of this rancho, not a child for you all to chastise! You weary me.” He wheeled his mount around and took off at a gallop, with me bouncing around on her rump as if he’d completely forgotten that I was there.
But he hadn’t forgotten. Because he held on to my forearm with an iron grip. And between that and how hard I held on to him with both arms now, willing myself to become one with him, trying to bounce back onto the center of the horse’s back rather than off of it, I somehow managed miraculously to keep my seat. But it wasn’t long until I felt my strength waning, the adrenaline wearing away. “Javier,” I gasped, hating the soft, frightened whine in my voice. But one more big bounce would send me to the ground. I knew it. People broke their necks falling from horses… “Javier!” I cried louder.
He seemed to remember me more fully then and pulled up on the crest of a hill. We’d ridden closer to the sea and were at the edge of a bluff that overlooked an eroded arroyo which, come winter, obviously flooded with aggressive torrents that washed away at the clay like a mad sculptor. He pulled his leg over the saddle, jumped down, and strode away, leaving me stranded there, gaping after him. His mare circled around and then turned the other way, obviously as confused as I. Oh brother, I thought, getting irritated with him. So much for chivalry. I looked down, took a breath, and slipped off the mare’s rump to land heavily on the soft soil. Then I walked after him.
He stood about twenty paces away, hands on hips, staring out to sea like some freakishly good-looking historical romance cover model, now present in 3-D. I came up beside him and stood there, silent. Waiting. The guy obviously had something he needed to get off his chest.
“I wished to captain my own ship,” he said, angrily rubbing his forehead between thumb and finger as if to massage away a pain. “Not to be stuck on this land. To sail as John does, up and down these shores. And beyond. Far beyond. I was in Mexico, training to read maps, studying the weather and nautical engineering, when my brother died. I had no choice but to return.”
I took a deep breath. His tone—filled with embarrassment and sorrow—told me he regretted his rash reaction to his friends and sisters. But his words resonated with me. Had I not suffered a similar change of fate? My prospects of becoming a meteorologist in 1840 Alta California were distinctly narrow…
We stood there a moment, in silence. “Sometimes,” I dared, “life takes us into waters we did not chart. Could this…could this not just be a chapter of your life, rather than the whole book?”
His chin lifted a little, and his dark eyes slid toward me, hungry with hope. Encouraging me. “Might you not still captain your own ship at some point?” I went on. “When Mateo and Francesca are a little older?”
I saw my mistake when confusion overtook hope in the lines of his face. Francesca would never be heir to this ranch. This place and time was patriarchal all the way. But I didn’t correct myself. Maybe he’d chalk it up to me thinking she might marry someone who could run it. Yeah, that’s it…
But then his brows lifted a little in surprise, wonder. As if he’d never thought about it that way. As if he’d thought that, in returning to the rancho, his fate was sealed. That it was all on his shoulders, forever. And who was I to say? Maybe it was. Maybe if a guy was called back to the ranch, he’d never escape the daily grind again. But good grief, he’d landed on a piece of property that—as his friend had noted—others would kill for. The guy had to give up the “woe is me, my treasured life plan got wrecked” act and man up.
You need not speak every thought that comes into your head, Grillita, Abuela whispered to me in memory. I swear it was only that, jumping into my head just then, that kept me from saying more. Maybe it was because I wasn’t a sister to anyone, because I’d never been one to coddle others. Still, I just thought my thoughts for once, rather than saying them aloud, choosing to honor my abuela in this manner.
Then I noticed Javier had turned slightly toward me and gazed at me in a different way than before. With appreciation, not tolerance or disdain or suspicion. With some odd sense of wonder. It was just that idea I’d planted, I told myself. I’ve given him hope.
But I had to admit, when Javier de la Ventura looked at me like that…holy hot tamale…I had a hard time looking away.
CHAPTER 8
Doña Elena looked on with some satisfaction as we rode up to the villa, just as the others entered through the doors. Her dark eyes shifted back and forth between Javier and me, as if her diabolical plan for us to fall madly in love was already coming together. Listen, lady, I just showed up for lunch, and then I’ll be back to planning my way outta here…
But when Javier dismounted and turned to help me down, I was struck by how he took his time, from the moment he placed his long, strong fingers at my waist, lifted me up and away from the horse, and then gently, slowly lifted me to the ground. It was not at all the polite, straight-to-it manner that Captain John had used to help me yesterday. No, this was a long, slow, sultry sort of move that made my heart do a weird flip. He was staring down at me, still holding my hips. I dared not look up into his face. “Gracias, Don Ventura,” I said, thinking, Okay, you can let go now…
“Javier,” he said to me, his voice low and gravelly, still holding me. “Please, Zara. Call me Javier. You did already today and I found I…liked it.”
Got it. Javier. Javvy. Whatever. Just ¡Libérame! Your mom is standing right there, watching all of this go down!
“Gracias, Javier,” I said quickly and turned, tearing away from his hands…those hot, wide, sprawling, possessive hands. He paused and then followed after me, as if embarrassed to be caught in that odd sort of reverie.
“Doña Elena,” I greeted the grand lady as I passed. I could feel the glee radiating from her, as if she had orchestrated our chance meeting and the whole ride back.
I entered the villa and blinked in the sudden relative darkness. But I welcomed the cool shadows and gratefully turned toward a servant holding a copper bowl, standing beside another with a clean towel, and swiftly washed and dried my face and hands. At the end of the hall the Ventura sisters awaited me, and each took an arm as we walked to the dining room, both speaking at once.
“Was he awful?”
“He gets in such a state…”
“I’m sorry you got caught up in it. He hasn’t been the same since—”
“Since Papá and Dante died, he’s been like that. At one moment jovial, at another in a tempest.”
“He was fine,” I interjected. “He is well. We spoke, and he seemed to calm down. I think, I think he just needed a moment to pull himself together.”
Both girls turned to face me. “Pull himself together,” Francesca repeated quizzically.
I got it then. That was a totally modern phrase. “¿Comprenden?” I rushed on, as if they should understand the phrase. “Pull himself together,” I repeated, more forcefully this time. “As a seamstress might do with portions of fabric. Or a maid making a bed.”
Estrella paused and then nodded, as if it made sense to her. “Pull himself together,” she murmured to herself. And as they turned to lead me back into the dining hall, I wondered if I’d introduced a phrase into the language of the people a good hundred or so years before it was meant to be there.
We sat down around the table, women first, and then the men.
But Javier never joined us.
In fact, I didn’t see him the rest of the day. His friends did their best to fill in the awkward gap; Patricio regaled me with stories of his life as an agent dealing with more than two hundred ships that sailed past these shores, especially the neat, square-rigged Ayacucho with an Englishman for a captain and crew from the Sandwich Islands. According to Patricio, they could read the winds in seconds and n
ever dropped more than a single anchor in port, and with all sails aloft, the Ayacucho was as agile as a Polynesian catamaran. He seemed more than a little impressed with them and went on to speak of how they narrowly avoided coming aground near Point Conception during a fierce southeaster. I soon learned that such storms apparently chased all ships at sea from November to April.
Through it all, Doña Elena ate and drank and smiled more than I’d ever seen her smile, looking down the table at me like a doting aunt, even with her son conspicuously absent. It unnerved me, but Javier’s empty seat unnerved me more. What’s up with that? I thought. After the meal, we retired for a siesta, and I pretty much ran to my room, closing the door behind me with relief.
But then the hair prickled on the back of my neck. I wasn’t alone.
I turned.
But it was only him—Javier, leaning against the far wall. He was staring at me, his arms crossed, his wide-brimmed hat tossed on the foot of my bed.
“Ja-Javier,” I said, my heart pounding. “What are you doing in here?”
“What are you doing here at all?” was all he said in return. He didn’t make any moves on me. Just stood there, staring, as if trying to make sense of me. “Who are you, Zara? You are…different. Unlike any woman I’ve ever met before.”
I stared at him, my mouth growing dry. I’m Zara Ruiz. Granddaughter of a poor restaurant owner. Daughter to a prison inmate and runaway mother. Almost–high school graduate. Almost–college attender. Sudden time-traveler.
None of that, of course, came out of my mouth.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me the truth.”
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