Bride of the Baja

by Jane Toombs

  The horsemen galloped into the Mendoza courtyard, where their neighing horses milled around the carriage. Alitha ran from her room onto the gallery and looked down from the railing just as the door to the carriage swung open and a man stepped out.

  She gasped when she saw his black hair and short black beard. Jordan Quinn, captain of the Kerry Dancer! She couldn't be mistaken, she knew, though she had seen him but once before.

  The men who quickly surrounded Jordan looked about uncertainly until Esteban strode from the house. Taking Jordan by the arm, he led him beneath the gallery. A few moments later the two men reappeared at the top of the stairs, turning away from Alitha without seeing her and entering one of the salas. The other men stayed below in the courtyard.

  Where was Margarita, Alitha wondered as she made her way cautiously along the gallery until she was beside the sala's curtained entrance. Had Jordan been a prisoner of the pirates? She leaned forward, listening

  "… should speak in English," she heard Esteban telling Jordan. 'This house has a thousand ears." There was a long pause. Alitha held her breath.

  "You wished to speak to me alone." Esteban's voice was like ice. "Now we are alone. Where is Margarita?"

  "Your sister is dead." Alitha could read no emotion in Captain Quinn's voice. "Despite all I could do, she killed herself aboard Bouchard's ship."

  To Alitha the silence seemed to stretch interminably.

  "You have killed my only sister," Esteban said at last, "a woman I loved with all my heart. Not only is she dead, her suicide denies her a Christian burial. She is doomed to burn in hell for all eternity. I will never see Margarita again in this life or in the life beyond the grave."

  "I did all I could," Jordan insisted.

  Alitha heard a sliding sound as of a drawer opening.

  "I must challenge you to a duel to the death," Esteban said.

  How melodramatic he sounded, Alitha thought, yet she knew he meant every word.

  "I won't fight a duel with you," Jordan told him. "If you must kill me, kill me, but I won't fight you. I know you loved Margarita, but by God, I loved her too and I mean to avenge her death."

  "You may have loved her in your way," Esteban admitted. "However, I have no choice; honor demands I kill you. If you refuse to meet me on the field of honor, then I must kill you here."

  Alitha heard the click of a pistol being cocked. She pushed aside the curtains to see Esteban standing behind his desk, a pistol in his hand, with Jordan facing him from five feet away. The two men stared at her in surprise.

  She ran to Jordan and flung herself in front of him. "No," she cried to Esteban, "don't kill him. You mustn't."

  "Stand aside," Esteban told her. "This is between Capitan Quinn and myself. It does not concern you."

  "There's no reason for you to kill him. If you do, his blood will be on your hands for the rest of your life."

  "You told me you did not know Capitan Quinn," Esteban said, "and yet you plead for his life. Did you lie to me?"

  "No, no, he means nothing to me." She took a step toward Esteban. "I'm trying to stop you because I love you. Don't you know that by now? All I ask is that you spare him. For me. Not for his sake, for mine."

  "You ask a great deal, my Alitha," Esteban said.

  She put her hand on his arm and gazed entreatingly into his eyes. "I've never asked you for anything before," she said, "and if you spare him I never will again."

  Esteban lowered the pistol and turned to Jordan. "If I ever see you again," he told him. "No power on earth will be able to save you."

  Jordan wheeled about without a word. From the doorway he glanced at Alitha. His eyes met and held hers for an instant, but she could not read his look.

  When he heard Jordan's retreating footsteps on the gallery, Esteban returned the pistol to the desk drawer, He took Alitha in his arms, and she felt all the passion of the anger raging in him as he kissed her, his mouth hard on hers, his tongue seeking and finding a its way between her lips.

  As she surrendered herself to his kiss, she could think of nothing except Esteban, his arms gripping her and holding her to him, his body against hers from her thighs to her breasts. When his lips left hers and she felt his hands come up along her sides, she broke away and walked to the window, trying to quell the wild beating of her heart.

  "Is something the matter, my Alitha?" he asked.

  She looked from the window at a row of orange trees. Their blooms were gone, replaced by small green oranges. In time the fruit would ripen and become sweet, but now it was still hard and bitter.

  "I know about Ines Gutierrez, Alitha said without looking at him.

  "Who told you of Ines?"

  "Maria. She said you intend to marry her when Ines is old enough."

  "Ines Guierrez has never been a secret." She could picture Esteban's shrug. "She does not concern us, my Alitha. Ines is only a child."

  "A child, yes, but one you've agreed to marry." Alitha swung about, her eyes flashing. "You do intend to marry her, don't you?" she asked.

  Esteban gazed into her eye and she saw his mouth tighten. As I said, she does not concern us."

  "In Boston," Alitha told him, "it's not customary for a man who's engaged to be married to ask another woman to accompany him on a journey."

  "Your Boston is a strange city with strange customs. Someday I plan to visit this New England of yours to find out for myself if all the tales I hear of it can possibly be true."

  "In Boston—" she began.

  "Damn Boston." His anger silenced her.

  Alitha stared at him, for an instant half-expecting him to stride to her, sweep her into his arms and bear her away with him. She was alarmed, but even as she stepped back, she longed to feel his arms around her. A muscle twitched in Esteban's jaw, and then he seemed to make an effort to control his rage.

  "To me," he said more quietly, "this matter is so simple. I do not see why you wish to make it so complicated. I love you with all my heart. You say you love me—"

  "I do love you, Esteban," she protested.

  "So, you love me. I must go to Mexico. We have a chance to be with one another there for many months, to love one another, to be as one. Life is short, my Alitha, shorter here in California than in your New England. I have lived the greater part of my life already. Who knows what the future holds for me or for you? Only today I discovered that my sister, my beloved Margarita, was dead. She was so young. My mother and father are dead, as is my brother. We Mendozas live life to the full, and we suffer for it. We die young."

  "Í couldn't bear it if anything happened to you, Esteban." Alitha crossed the room and put her hand on his sleeve, her fingers caressing his flesh through the cloth. He enfolded her in his arms, holding her gently, his cheek to hers, and as he talked, she felt his breath stirring her hair.

  "We have been given one of the rarest gifts God in heaven has the power to bestow," he said, "and you talk of hurling it aside because of some puritan custom in this Boston of yours. If you truly love me, Alitha, you will ride with me to Mexico, where I will be your champion, your protector, your lover. I will garland you with roses. I will kill any man who dares to lift his eyes to gaze on you with desire. What more could any woman want from a man?"

  She was tempted to say, "Nothing," but she could not because there was more a woman could want. She wanted more. She held Esteban at arm's length. "And still you can say you intend to marry Ines Gutierrez."

  He swung away from her and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "Ines Gutierrez, Ines Gutierrez. I never want to hear her name from your lips again. Never." He turned suddenly, grasping her arms even as she tried to draw back. "A few minutes ago," he said, "when you were pleading for the life of Capitan Quinn, you said you had never asked me for anything before and would never ask me for anything again. Already you are breaking your pledge."

  "That's not true!" she cried.

  She tore herself from his grasp and ran along the gallery to her room, where she threw her
self on her bed, tears welling in her eyes. Hearing footsteps on the gallery, she looked to the doorway, half-expecting to find Esteban there. Her door, though, remained closed. Through the open window se heard his steps descending to the stairs to the courtyard. Alitha pounded the pillow with her fist, hating him. Then she drew in her breath and clasped the pillow to her, wondering how she could feel such hate for the man she loved.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A week later Alitha was tossing restlessly on her bed when she heard the strumming of a guitar and a man's voice singing. The music was slow, funereal, almost a dirge. She put on her slippers, drew a shawl around her shoulders and went onto the balcony. The music seemed to come from a nearby orchard. She had never heard such a sad song. All the cruelty and misery of the world seemed to be echoed by the singer's voice.

  She crossed the bedroom to the gallery and made her way down to the courtyard. The rancho was quiet—it must have been long after midnight—and the fog high overhead hid the moon and stars. In a few hours the servants would be stirring, and by three-thirty the casa would be abustle, for Esteban planned to leave for Mexico before dawn.

  Alitha hadn't been able to sleep well ever since she had realized that Esteban did not intend to marry her even if she went with him. She had tried to ignore him as, during the past week, he had directed the preparations for his journey to the south. Each time she saw him he greeted her courteously, his manner dignified and correct. His eyes, though, told her he was still waiting for her to tell him she had changed her mind and would go with him. When she did not speak, he shook his head sadly, his wan smile fading to a poignant took of reproach and regret.

  Luckily, she thought, he didn't know how she longed for him, how constantly she thought of him in the endless hours of nights when sleep wouldn't come, how she dreamed of him when she finally dozed off in the hours before dawn. Dreams she blushed to recall. Her body might be weak, she told herself, but her will was strong. She vowed she would not go with Esteban no matter what he did or said.

  Leaving the courtyard, she walked slowly across the wet grass toward the sound of the guitar. When she reached the orchard, the singing stopped and the night was quiet. She drew her shawl closer about her to ward off the damp cold.

  There would have been a fandango tonight, Maria had told her, if the household hadn't been in mourning for Margarita. Many times in the days since the simple stone memorial was built beneath the orange trees, Alitha had happened on servants brushing tears from their eyes. How they all must have loved Margarita, she thought.

  The music began again, and the man's voice was raised not in a dirge or lament but in a plaintive ballad, a love song. Alitha walked ahead and saw a dark figure standing alone among the trees.

  "Mi amor mi amor," he sang, his voice pure and clear.

  The singer paused as he saw Alitha approach and then went on with his song, singing now to her. She had thought she recognized the voice as Esteban's and now she was certain. She stood listening, enraptured yet at the same time sad, enveloped by feelings of loss and the fleeting brevity of life. All too soon the song, like life, was over.

  "That was beautiful," she told him.

  "My love," Esteban said. "Alitha, you are my love, my only love."

  Placing the guitar on the ground, he came to her, his hand reaching for hers, and as their fingers touched, she felt a shock as though a spark of electricity had passed between them.

  She gasped. What was she doing here? What had become of her firm resolve of the last week? She knew that if she did not flee now, she wouldn't be able to leave him, that Esteban would take her in his arms and, no matter how much she might try, she could never resist him. With a muffled cry, she turned and ran back to the house.

  "Alitha," he called after her, but she didn't stop running until she was in her room.

  Sleep wouldn't come. When the first sounds of the awakening house reached her, she rose from her bed, dressed and sat beside the window overlooking the courtyard. The early morning air was heavy with fog, and though lanterns had been hung around the court, the enshrouding mist made men and horses look like phantoms in the night.

  Alitha watched as Maria clasped Don Esteban to her, kissed him on both cheeks and then stood to one side with her arms folded as the riders completed the final adjustments to their equipment. Besides Esteban, there were five vaqueros and seven extra horses laden with provisions.

  Esteban was actually leaving, she realized. All along she had hoped against hope that some miracle would keep him with her. Her future, Alitha thought gloomily, was as befogged as the day promised to be. She rose from her chair, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides.

  For a fleeting moment she thought of Thomas. In her mind she had long since placed him in a niche apart, almost as though she had erected a shrine to his memory. She could think of Thomas with affection, even with tenderness, but he was no longer real to her. It was almost as though he were dead. Biting her lip, she realized that, to her, he was. By falling in love with Esteban, she had killed him.

  As for Jordan Quinn, she had not seen him since the night his life was spared by Esteban. When she had visited the mission to say good-bye to Chia, Padre Luis had told her that El Capitan Quinn was still in Santa Barbara waiting for a ship bound for the States.

  Going to Chia's hut, she had found that the Indian boy had fled, returning to his people, she supposed. Chia had left without a word or sign of farewell. Whether his sudden departure stemmed from fear of the padre or whether the men of his tribe avoided leavetakings, Alitha did not know. Her hand touched the charm stone she wore around her neck--she would never forget Chia.

  Esteban mounted his stallion to lead the vaqueros from the rancho. He appeared to have forgotten that Alitha existed, for he, like Chia, had not sought to bid her farewell. She held her head high even though she was close to tears as Esteban raised his hand. The other horsemen mounted and followed him from the courtyard.

  As they passed through the gateway, she saw Esteban, his erect figure dark against the first light of the dawn. She would never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel his arms around her, never thrill to his lips on hers.

  With a cry that was almost a moan, she ran from her room, along the gallery and down the steps.

  "Alitha," Maria said, starting toward her.

  Alitha brushed past the other woman and ran through the gate to the road. The men, their horses at a walk, were a short distance ahead.

  "Esteban, Esteban," she called, running after them. Unheeding, the men rode on.

  She stumbled and almost fell, recovered her balance and ran on, calling Esteban's name. Hearing her at last, Esteban wheeled his horse around. Alitha stopped, gasping for breath as he rode back and drew up beside her.

  "Esteban," she said, looking up at him, "I couldn't let you go without saying good-bye."

  He reached down and grasped her beneath the arms, lifted her and placed her in the saddle in front of him. The passion of his kiss took her breath away and she clung desperately to him. How could she have thought of letting him go without her? She loved him, he loved her. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

  "Ride with me, my love," he said. "Tell me you will."

  "Oh, yes, Esteban, I will, I will."

  His arm still around her, he rode to the waiting men. "Return and bring the senorita's belongings," he told one of them.

  As they waited for the vaquero to return, Alitha heard a voice calling her name. Looking back, she saw Maria hurrying toward her. Alitha slid from Esteban's arms to the ground.

  "You will go with him?" Maria asked.

  Alitha drew in her breath. "Yes," she said, "I must."

  "Wrong though it is, I understand." Maria embraced her. "Vaya con dios," she said, her voice choked by sobs.

  "And you, too, go with God," Alitha said.

  "See that no harm befalls him. Esteban is so rash, so headstrong, as all the Mendoza men are."

  "I'll do my best, Maria," Alitha promise
d.

  When Esteban brought her a horse outfitted with a sidesaddle, Alitha mounted and rode with him and the vaqueros from the rancho. Pausing beneath the twin oaks, she looked back at the house for the last time and saw, outlined in black against the light from the lanterns, the figure of a solitary woman waving to them.

  The sky was brightening as they rode into Santa Barbara, though because of the mist Alitha could see only a hundred feet ahead. The mission loomed beside them, the tops of its twin white towers lost in the fog. Alitha heard the crow of a cock, and somewhere a dog barked.

  They left the village and were passing through a grove of trees when Alitha came suddenly alert. Had she heard her name? A whisper that was a hint of sound rather than the sound itself? She shook her head, impatient with her daydreaming.

  "Alitha."

  This time there could be no mistake. Pulling her horse from the line of men, she rode a short distance to her right. A figure stepped from behind the trunk of a tree, a man made so indistinct by the fog that he seemed a part of the tree itself. Her horse skittered in alarm but she patted his neck, soothing him, and urged him forward.

  "Many thanks, Senorita Bradford, for saving me."

  Jordan Quinn, captain of the Kerry Dancer. As she started to speak, he raised his hand to his cap in a salute and disappeared into the fog again. Alitha stared after him. She had seen Jordan Quinn three times—in Valparaiso, at the rancho with Esteban and now here in the mist. Were they fated always to pass like ships in the night, she wondered, never meeting? She sighed, slapping the bay with her quirt and rejoining the vaqueros.

  "We will follow El Camino Real," Esteban told her later in the day when he rode beside her. "The missions of the Franciscans extend along the King's Highway like pearls strung on the shoreline of the Pacific. We will go from mission to mission, to San Buenaventura, to San Juan Capistrano, to San Diego and on south to Baja California. There, in Loreto, my friend Coronel Morales commands the presidio, the military outpost." The journey to Mexico City, he told her, would take more than three months, the exact time depending on the weather, the availability of food and water and the degree of revolutionary turmoil they found when they reached the port of San Blas on the western Mexico coast.