Love a Dark Rider

by Shirlee Busbee

  He turned on his heel and began to stride from the room. At the doorway, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder at her as she half lay, half stood by the bed, the tears drying on her face. She looked so young and defenseless, so tempting and desirable. Something clenched painfully in his heart and he said levelly, "This doesn't change anything. We'll still be married on Wednesday—if I have to tie you up and carry you spitting and clawing before Padre Quintero."

  Sara sank down onto the sapphire quilt, cocooned in the deafening silence of the room after Yancy had left. For a long time she stared intently at the silver dagger on the bed, almost willing it to somehow reveal the secrets held in its lethal beauty.

  Could she have been wrong? Could her heart be wrong? Had Yancy killed Margaret?

  She thought about it for hours, just sitting there staring dully at the dagger but not really seeing it anymore, her mind on those events that had taken place so many years ago. Almost as if it had happened yesterday, she could recall everything she had seen and heard that first night at Magnolia Grove. The house had been filled with any number of people who had good reason to wish Margaret dead—the Shelldrakes, Hyrum, even Bartholomew! Someone could argue that Sam had as good a reason as anyone for killing Margaret. Yancy, she concluded slowly, was not the only person who would have liked to kill Margaret—just the most obvious!

  Sara sighed dejectedly. All of this useless speculation, she admitted glumly, trying to guess who had been

  Margaret's killer, was wasting time. She was avoiding the only question that mattered, the agonizing question that she had to answer once and for all: did she believe that Yancy had killed Margaret?

  Sara couldn't honestly answer that question. She loved him. She did not want to believe that he could be a cold-blooded murderer. But he could be, she confessed miserably. He could have murdered Margaret. He was obsessed by Casa Paloma—hadn't he boldly kidnapped her, and wasn't he determined to marry her and get a child to inherit Casa Paloma? Didn't those actions indicate that he was a man capable of letting nothing, not even murder, stand in the way of what he wanted?

  Sara's mouth twisted. There were only two things that she knew for certain: she loved Yancy Cantrell and she had neer been fearful of him, had never felt that her life was in danger from him Whether he had killed Margaret or not had nothing to do with them, she thought fiercely.

  Bleakly aware that she was being weak and unfair to both of them by simply burying her head and hoping that the problem would go away, but incapable of doing anything else, she rose from the bed and reluctantly picked up the dagger. Walking into Yancy's room, she laid it on the top of a massive, heavily carved bureau and quickly left his quarters.

  The shady, covered walkways were deserted—it was siesta time—^and, glad that no one was about, especially Yancy, Sara rushed into her own room, slamming the door shut behind her. Eyes closed in relief that she had reached the solace of her own room, she rested back against the door's wooden bulk. Safe.

  *'Sara Where did you come from? You startled me, child!" exclaimed Ann loudly, not ten feet away from her.

  Suppressing a heartfelt groan, praying fervently that

  she had been mistaken, Sara opened her eyes. Her ears had not deceived her—Ann Shelidrake was in her room!

  Garbed in a gown of pale blue silk, her blond ringlets tied neatly at her neck with a white bow, Ann was standing at the end of Sara's bed. She looked, Sara thought idly, almost guilty. As if she had been caught doing something she shouldn't be doing.

  Sara frowned slightly. "What are you doing in my room?" she asked quietly. "Were you looking for me?"

  Drifting regally toward her, Ann quickly recovered her composure and said lightly, "Why, yes, I was, my dear." She smiled at Sara. "I had hoped to find you alone—we must talk about this ridiculous notion of your marrying Yancy on Wednesday. It simply cannot happen! I forbid it!"

  "You forbid it?" Sara repeated dumbly. "How can you? And why?"

  Ann laughed harshly. "Well, I can't actually forbid it, but, my dearest child, think! You cannot want to marry him! He is a murderer!"

  "Is he?" Sara asked tightly. "No one has ever proved that."

  Ann's face hardened. "Don't tell me he has so besotted you that you believe him innocent?*'

  Ann's question cut to the bone, but Sara could not bring herself to share the uncertainties in her own mind with the other woman. Her voice cool, she said, "I don't think that this is any of your business."

  "Listen to me, you little fool!" Ann snapped. "Marry Yancy Cantrell and you will regret it for the rest of your days."

  "That may be," Sara agreed equitably, "but isn't that my decision to make?"

  "Oh! I don't know why I bother! There is just no talking to you!" Ann said impatiently. "You're determined to ruin your life!"

  Sara smiled bleakly, and stepping away from the door, she said quietly, "That may be. We'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't come mto my room uninvited again."

  ''WellV Ann said indignantly. "Haven't we turned into a haughty madam! And the ring is not even on your finger yet!"

  "Ann, let it be. I'm marrying Yancy on Wednesday and there is nothing you or anyone else can say or do that will change my mind. Now, please, leave me alone."

  "We'll just see whether you marry Yancy on Wednesday! You just wait!"

  Ann swept furiously from the room, the door banging shut behind her flying silken skirts.

  Rubbing a hand wearily across her forehead, Sara wandered over to a high-backed chair and sat down in it, wondering how she had endured Ann's tempers and tantrums all these years.

  It was odd, but the exchange with Ann had clarified certain things in her mind. She was going to marry Yancy on Wednesday, and her decision had nothing to do with his threats to go ahead with the wedding regardless of whether or not she consented. She loved him and she wanted to marry him and she realized that she had indeed spoken the truth to Ann—there was nothing that anyone could say or do that would shake her from that firm resolve!

  The day before the wedding was like the lull before the storm. Sara had nothing to do with the actual arrangements; Yancy, Maria and the others were taking care of all the little details. Sara was aware of the excited bustle that seemed to permeate the very hacienda, but it didn't touch her. Bartholomew and the other servants from Magnolia Grove had obviously been pressed into

  last-minute service for the great day. Her lovely wedding dress hung in all its finished glory in the front of the wardrobe, and Maria and Tansy had been quarreling amiably over which one of them should have the pleasure of dressing her and arranging her hair the morning of the actual ceremony.

  Sara hadn't seen Yancy since their confrontation over the dagger—he seemed to be avoiding her and she didn't know whether she was glad or disturbed by his actions. The few times she'd seen Ann, the older woman had simply given her a cool greeting and then managed to pretend that Sara wasn't even in the same room with her.

  Time seemed suspended to Sara the day before she would marry Yancy, the minutes and hours moving in slow, inexorable motion. By late afternoon, when the worst of the heat had dissipated, she was thoroughly bored and sick of her own company and decided that a walk to the stable to see Locuela would be a pleasant diversion. Donning a wide-brimmed, woven straw hat, she begged some dried apples from Dolores in the kitchen and strolled off.

  Since their misadventure together, Sara had grown very fond of the little chestnut mare and had been inordinately pleased when Yancy had told her some days ago that she could consider Locuela her own personal mount. She had made several of these excursions to give LxKuela some special treat, and the mare had quickly learned that Sara's presence indicated a tasty morsel was in the offing. Locuela, having caught her scent, was whickering to her even before she entered the shadowy coolness of the stable. Grinning, Sara walked over to the mare's stall and presented the dried apples. She spent several enjoyab
le minutes with Locuela, scratching her neck and crooning silly nonsense to the mare as the treats were daintily consumed.

  Eventually, giving Lxx^uela one last pat on the shoulder, she turned away, intending to return to the hacienda. She had taken only two steps toward the wide double doors of the stable when Hyrum suddenly appeared before her. They had not spoken privately since his arrival; as a matter of fact, Sara had not seen him since that day. Yancy had only indicated rather sourly that, in view of Hyrum's service to his father, he would give him a chance to prove his worth at del Sol.

  Smiling pleasantly at him, Sara said warmly, "Hyrum! How good to see you! I hope that you are settling in well and that you're finding the rancho to your liking."

  Hyrum ignored her friendly greeting. "Are you really going to marry him tomorrow?"

  Sara stiffened. "Why, yes, I am," she replied in a much cooler tone of voice.

  "How can you, after what he did?" Hyrum demanded hotly. "How can you bring yourself to marry a blackhearted murderer?"

  Sara sighed. She really was getting tired of everyone trying to convince her not to marry Yancy, and she was getting even more tired of hearing him called a murderer! Fixing Hyrum with a stem glance, she asked softly, "Are you so certain that he killed Margaret? You had as much of a motive as he did."

  An uneasy expression crossed his face. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Only that I overheard a conversation between you and Margaret and I know that she threatened to get Sam to fire you and hire a new overseer. She was going to tell Sam that you were pestering her with unwanted attentions."

  Hyrum looked thunderstruck. "You know about that?"

  Sara nodded. "And it gave you a very good motive."

  "But I didn't kill her!" he said passionately. "I despised her, but I wouldn't have harmed her! Besides," he

  added sullenly, "it was Yancy who swore he'd kill her before he'd let her have Casa Paloma."

  "That's true," Sara said agreeably, "but do you have any proof that he actually did it?"

  "Everyone knows he did it! EveryoneV Seeing that Sara was not overly impressed by his argument, he added spitefully, "And everyone knows that he's marrying you for only one thing—to get his greedy hands on Casa Paloma!" When Sara made no reply, but only stood there regarding him sadly, Hyrum suddenly grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. "Sara, come to your senses before it's too late! Don't throw your life away!" he cried. "Marry him tomorrow and you'll regret it for the rest of your life!"

  Gently disengaging herself from his embrace, she stepped away and said with quiet dignity, "I appreciate your concem. And because I know you have only my best interests at heart, I will pretend that you did not just vilify the man I am going to marry—a man, I might add, who has given you shelter and who is willing to let you prove yourself. Why don't you give him the same chance?"

  Hyrum stared at her as if she had gone mad. "What has he done to you? Why are you acting this way? What happened to your plans for Casa Paloma?"

  Sara had no answers for him and she turned away, realizing unhappily that she could not, would not, explain herself to him. Hyrum's hand on her arm jerked her back in his direction. His even features flushed an unbecoming shade of red, his pale blue eyes narrowed and hard, he said contemptuously, "And I thought you were different! You're just like Margaret—as long as there is a fortune involved, you'd sell yourself to the devil himself!"

  "I think," Sara gritted out tightly, "that you've said just about enough! You, more than anyone else, have

  no right to judge me—or Yancy! Now, let me go before you make me say something we will both regret."

  With a disgusted gesture, Hyrum released her arm. "Think about this, Sara," he said harshly. "You can order me to stop telling you things you don't want to hear, you can even run away from me—but if you marry Yancy Cantrell, after tomorrow you'll never be able to run away from himV

  Thoroughly ruffled by the unpleasant exchange with Hyrum, Sara fairly bolted from the stables. She had made up her mind to marry Yancy, but she couldn't deny that being met by such violent opposition to that decision was not a trifle unnerving, especially in view of her own uncertainties. She was determined not to let herself start questioning the wisdom of what she was doing, but, by heavens, it certainly wasn't easy!

  She was still slightly flustered and a little out of breath by the time she reached the patio, and she was hoping to find a cool, shadowy comer in which to sit, alone, and recover some of her composure before she had to face anyone else.

  Tom Shelldrake, his bad arm resting in its usual sling, was sitting near the fountain, idly watching the bright-colored flashes of the goldfish when Sara entered the patio, and she almost groaned out loud. There were several reasons for her not to like Tom, but she did. He was so patently grateful for the help that Sam had given him ^er the war, and while he could sometimes be as arrogant and overbearing as Ann, he was, like Sam, a basically good man—despite his deplorable affair with Sam's wife. In the beginning Sara had wondered how Tom had aUowed himself to enter into an adulterous liaison with his best friend's wife, and she had long ago decided that he had probably been more a victim of Margaret's manipulations than a philandering male. He and Sam both had been flawed in some respects.

  especially where Margaret was concerned, but Sara had never forgotten Tom's kind manner to her that first night at Magnolia Grove, and he had been exceedingly comforting to her in the terrible days following Sam's death. Putting a gracious smile on her lips, she walked up to him.

  "They're very pretty, aren't they?" she said by way of greeting.

  Tom glanced up and smiled. "Indeed they are, but not nearly as lovely as you, my dear!"

  Sara laughed and sat down beside him. "You're very gallant, kind sir!"

  "Ah, Sara, it is good to hear you laugh—^you haven't had much laughter in your life, have you?"

  Sara smiled gently, noting Tom's worn features. "Oh, don't worry about me! I've had my fair share!"

  Maria appeared just then, bearing a large silver tray with a pitcher of sangria, some glasses and a pottery bowl of crisp-fried bumelos sprinkled with cane syrup. Seeing Sara, she exclaimed, "Oh, I did not know that you were joining the senor! Would you like me to bring you a bowl of bunueloSy too?"

  Sara shook her head. "No, no, that won't be necessary, but since there are already extra glasses, I shall enjoy some sangria."

  After Maria had poured them each a glass of sangria and had departed, Tom and Sara sat there in companionable silence, sipping their sangria and watching the fish swim. It was a very tranquil setting, and sitting beside Tom on the broad rim of the fountain, Sara felt some of the tension caused by her bitter exchange with Hyrum slowly dissipate.

  The heat of the day was waning, but the drowsy buzz of the multitude of insects could still be heard, and Sara decided that this was one of her favorite times of the day. Soon the purple, cooling shadows of dusk would

  fall, followed by the star-studded black cloak of night, but this brief interval between daylight and dusk always seemed so restful to Sara. She took another sip of Sangria and let out a sigh of contentment.

  Tom glanced at her. "A sigh? A happy one or sad?"

  Sara smiled. "Neither—merely contented."

  "Are you, my dear?" Tom asked with quiet intensity, his weary brown eyes fixed intently on her face. "You have no reservations about the step you are taking tomorrow?"

  Sara grimaced. "Certainly I have reservations—didn't you before you married Ann? Doesn't everyone on the eve of such a momentous undertaking question themselves about the rightness of it? Wonder if they are making a mistake?"

  "In your case, I would think that you would wonder a great deal more than others!"

  Sara met his troubled gaze squarely. "Because of the murder? Is that what you're referring to? Margaret's murder?"

  It was Tom's turn to grimace. "I know that it is none of my business," he said slowly, "and I do not mean to intrude, but surely, my dear, you must have some deep
reservations about the wisdom of marrying a man accused of murder."

  Sara stared off into the distance, wishing that he had not broached the painful subject of Margaret's death; she was becoming downright irritated at the way everyone just assumed that Yancy was guilty. But there was such gentle sincerity in Tom's voice, such concern, that Sara's defenses were instantly breached, and in a low voice she admitted, "There are times that I wonder if I am a fool, and others ..." Her voice trailed off and she took a quick sip of her sangria. Fixing her clear emerald gaze on him, she asked abruptly, "Do you think he killed Margaret?"

  Shelldrake looked uncomfortable. "Sara, I..." He sighed heavily and then said honestly, "Yes, I'm afraid that I do—his violent temper was, is, known by everyone, that and the fact that he absolutely despised Margaret. He had a compelling reason for murdering her, and it was common knowledge that he had threatened to kill her numerous times. There was no one else it could have been but Yancy!"

  Sara's gaze never wavered and she said softly, "But that's not true. Margaret was, with the exception of Sam, universally hated. There are any number of people who could have had as good a reason as Yancy's to kill her." Gently, she added, "Even you.'*

  "What the devil do you mean by that?" Tom demanded sharply, a faint flush of anger staining his cheeks.

  Sara's mouth twisted wryly. She would have given a great deal not to be dragging up all the old, painful wounds—particularly, she did not want to hurt or offend a man she liked very much—but she had no choice. Taking a deep breath, she said bluntly, "Only that I overheard a conversation between Margaret and Ann the night before Margaret was killed, and I know about the affair you had with Margaret. .. and the fact that the child she carried might have been your baby! According to your wife, you were worried that knowledge of the affair might come out and that it would ruin your chances for the judgeship. Some might say that both you and Ann had a good reason to want Margaret dead. I'm not accusing you or Ann of murdering Margaret, but don't you see," Sara said passionately, "if suspicion could fall, even for a moment, on someone like you, then you must admit that there were all sorts of people besides Yancy who hated Margaret enough to have killed her. Even Bartholomew had a motive; Hyrum had a reason, and it can also be argued that Sam, if he'd found out about her affair with you, could have wanted her dead.