“But have you no deeds, no papers showing your property lines?” Brendan exclaimed incredulously.
Don Luís turned his head until his aristocratic profile was outlined in the half-light from the coach window. “A man’s word is law. His life can be worth no more than that. What need have I, or others, for a scrap of paper telling me what I already know and believe? Who is there to question our rights?”
“You be a trusting soul,” Brendan murmured in disbelief. “Seems to me you’re asking for a load of trouble and misunderstanding with that attitude, and especially with people being what they are.”
Don Luís looked intently at Brendan. “And what are they, Señor O’Flynn?” he asked.
“Why, they’re people like you and me, Don Luís,” Brendan replied with a touch of malice. “And we know what we are…don’t we? You’ll be asking me to leave the carriage first, and I, of course, will politely decline by offering you the honor of being first. Neither of us is willing to turn his back on the other, eh, Don Luís?” Brendan mocked.
Don Luís nodded his head in perfect understanding. “I’m pleased that we know one another so well, for now there will be no mistakes or misunderstandings which could result in tragic consequences.”
Jamie hunched down closer in her corner of the coach and eyed the Spaniard suspiciously from under the brim of her bonnet. The odd exchange of words was creating an uncomfortable atmosphere.
Don Luís studied the O’Flynns thoughtfully while rubbing his chin as if deciding upon his next words carefully. “Our ranchos are interconnected, in a manner of speaking. It is true that they are few and far between, but many of us are related and there is always someone visiting from another part of the country. We like it this way for we know what the others are about, and know we can count on them for any assistance. One might be led into believing that Don Andres’s land stretches as far as the ocean and even as far east as the Sierra Nevada, in that he knows what is happening that far away and even beyond. You understand?”
“No,” Brendan muttered abruptly, “I’m a man for simpler words, Don Luís.”
Don Luís smiled in derision. “To put it simply, Señor O’Flynn, no matter where a man might run, he would still be, in effect, on Don Andres’s land…or on mine perhaps, or on a cousin’s or an uncle’s. It would make little difference, for there would be no escape.”
Brendan laughed. “I stand warned, although you needn’t have worried yourself, Don Luís. Mara and I aren’t about to be leaving without our pockets full of money for a job well done,” Brendan reassured him with a smile, but his eyes had narrowed as he took in the low-lying hills that hugged the mouth of the valley and seemed like a barrier to uninvited visitors. Just as easily the narrow passage, guarded by one or two armed men, could keep a reluctant guest cooling his heels on the rancho. Brendan realized their position with a feeling of growing unease.
Don Luís knocked on the roof of the coach, halting it abruptly. With a slight inclination of his head he left the coach. A moment later he rode past, mounted on the sturdy chestnut he’d ridden for most of the journey.
“Haughty bastard,” Brendan murmured beneath his breath as he watched the dust fly up beneath the hooves of Don Luís’s mount.
Mara smiled. “I’m surprised he deemed it necessary to pay us a visit at all, unless he thought we might be hatching devious plots in the seclusion and boredom of this coach ride.”
“Givin’ us a warnin’, to be sure,” Brendan agreed. “Well, he’s met his match in the O’Flynns.”
Mara stared at the stiff back of Don Luís as he rode ahead of the coach, and wondered if Brendan might be wrong in underestimating the Spaniard. How different he seemed now as he urged his horse into a gallop, his body moving with the steady stride of the horse as if he’d been born in the saddle. He looked different as well. Gone was the European style of clothing, the long-tailed frock coat and tight-fitting tweed trousers, the tall silk hat and casually tied silk scarf. He wore a short green jacket embroidered in gold, a blue silk vest, and a red satin sash tied about his waist. His trousers were of black cloth that molded his thigh down to the knee, then flared out over his calves, the opened edges decorated with gold braid and revealing white drawers beneath. Deer-skin shoes, richly decorated, and a wide-brimmed sombrero with a gilt band completed his costume.
But it was his saddle that caught and held Mara’s attention. It was huge in comparison to the smaller and flatter English saddles she was accustomed to. It sat on an apron of leather, stamped and embroidered in bright greens and reds, and had a high wooden horn and long, wooden stirrups. It looked unbelievably heavy.
As the don’s colorful figure disappeared, Mara continued to stare out the window of the coach. She sighed, whether in relief at finally reaching their destination or in apprehension of what lay ahead, she did not know.
She was relieved, at least, to see that Brendan had recovered some of his former high spirits. He had strained at the reins like a mettlesome horse resenting the hard bit in his mouth when they had briefly seen San Francisco. Driving through the streets, Brendan had caught the frantic, feverish atmosphere of the gold-spirited city. To hear the wild laughter and raised voices mingling with the tawdriness of music and song as it drifted to the street from garishly painted wood buildings was a spark igniting the fire in Brendan’s blood. His dark eyes had glazed over as he’d stared longingly at the gambling houses they had passed, oblivious to the mud thrown up by the wheels of the coach as it lurched through the debris-clogged avenues of San Francisco that were little more than quagmires. What couldn’t be carried or made use of by the transient townspeople was no longer desired or valued, and was dumped in the streets. Iron cookstoves, crates and barrels full of spoiled goods crowded the streets in makeshift bridges across the mud, or ended up in stacks that continued to grow, unchecked.
The streets were crowded with people as well as discarded rubbish. The flannel-shirted figures Mara would find so familiar in future months were just part of the crowd of people that surged and loitered in the streets. Every so often the brightly colored satin jackets of Oriental foreigners would flash before her eyes, then disappear just as abruptly behind the ordinary frock coat of another adventurer hoping to strike it rich in California.
Don Luís, unable to hide his condemnatory expression as he stared at the city around him, hadn’t paused to enjoy the sights and sounds, but had urged their party with all possible speed to a steamer docked at Clark’s Point that would carry them inland. The steamer had been crowded with overeager, excitable prospectors making their way to the high country of the gold mines. After standing on deck and watching the islands of the bay slide past and catching a last glimpse of the Pacific through the Golden Gate, the narrow passageway between ocean and bay, Mara had gladly stayed in her cabin, too tired with fatigue and disappointment to do more than peck at her dinner as she found herself, yet again, on another ship. But Brendan had enjoyed the journey, having an opportunity to mix with other hopefuls and some more experienced miners who were still optimistic about making their fortune in gold.
It took them a day to sail from the Straits of Carquinez inland past the sleepy town of Benicia through Suisun Bay, and up the Sacramento River to Sacramento City—the last place to enjoy the comforts of civilization before heading into the gold country and the isolated splendor of the Sierra Nevada.
Sacramento City was a surprisingly well-developed town with two-story wood and brick buildings and tree-lined streets. Their steamer docked among ships, brigs, schooners, and other floating craft that were anchored, some two deep, before the mile-long levee along Front Street. They breakfasted at the City Hotel, with its projecting veranda and balcony, and interior decor of bright colors that clashed with the equally colorful garb of its patrons. Even at this early hour in the morning there was drinking and gambling going on, and out in the street, wagons loaded with supplies continuously rolled past as they loaded and unloaded goods from the ships docked at the levee. Mara h
ad watched in fascination as mule trains, heavily laden with equipment, the picks and shovels, pots and pans, and other paraphernalia balanced precariously on the backs of the shaggy beasts, slowly left town for the northern mines. Dressed in the red woolen shirts, wide-brimmed felt hats, black, knee-length coats, high boots, and baggy trousers that seemed to be the unofficial uniform of the gold seeker, the miners headed up to the mining camps of Marysville and Hangtown. They were seeking virgin land that hadn’t been claimed yet, going high up into the steep canyons of the Yuba and Feather rivers that had cut their way down through the High Sierra, carrying with them gold-rich soil.
But Mara and her party headed in the opposite direction. They had been met in Sacramento City by several vaqueros from the Rancho Villareale who had been waiting for over a fortnight on the estimated arrival of Don Luís, and after hiring a coach, they had been ferried across the river to continue their journey. They traveled back toward the west across the flat lands of the Great Valley and the coastal range with its rolling hills and valleys covered with wooded slopes and high meadows of golden-yellow flowers. Their progress was slow and arduous, for the road was hardly more than a rock strewn track that they followed into the hills. Don Luís, overhearing one of Brendan’s withering denunciations of California civilization as his head hit the ceiling of the coach for the third time, callously had retorted that Californians needed no roads since they preferred to ride horseback and only the old and infirm permitted themselves to travel in carriages. And Brendan’s good humor hadn’t been restored when they had been forced to spend the night at an abandoned adobe, eating a dinner of strange food cooked over an open fire, after which the Californians, including Don Luís, had rolled themselves up in the full, tightly woven wool capes they wore and settled down for a night’s sleep. At Jamie’s insistence they had slept in the coach, settling themselves uncomfortably for a long night, but resting easier than they would have in the weathered adobe with its dirt floor and unseen crawling inhabitants.
It had been a long night, Mara thought as she yawned. She was jolted out of her recollections as the coach hit a deep hole and the top of Paddy’s head bumped her chin.
“Ow!” Paddy cried out as he was rudely awakened. His brown eyes gazed up in reproach at her, but Mara was looking out the window. The coach moved between heavy wooden gates that were standing open, and entered a large courtyard surrounded by high, tile-capped adobe walls.
They had entered what was apparently a stable yard. Mara could see Don Luís’s horse being unsaddled while its rider stood patiently awaiting the arrival of the coach. Next to the stables a blacksmith’s forge stood before the opened doors of the workshop, but his hammer was still as he watched their arrival. Several women dressed in colorful skirts and embroidered white blouses, their black hair hanging in thick braids down their backs, stood staring silently by the edge of a fountain.
“Welcome to Rancho Villareale, Doña Amaya,” Don Luís spoke softly, a gleam in his dark eyes as he indicated his surroundings with triumph.
Mara gathered her skirts together and allowed Don Luís to take her hand as he helped her climb down from the coach. Before she could reach out to help Paddy down, he jumped, landing on his hands and knees in the dust.
“Paddy,” Mara sighed in exasperation as she helped him to his feet and dusted off his trousers. She straightened the peaked, flat-crowned hat to a more secure angle on his curls, frowning in mock severity when he laughed up at her and set the cap back farther on his head.
Brendan, having helped Jamie from the coach, now stood staring around him with an absurd expression. He watched a large rooster, less than a foot away, strut arrogantly past him. A mangy-looking dog charged a group of feeding chickens, scattering them in ruffled confusion as they set up a squabbling protest that rivaled the dog’s frenzied barking.
“Jaysus,” Brendan complained, “but I never thought to be findin’ meself in a barnyard and wearin’ me best shoes.”
Mara hid a reluctant smile behind her gloved hand as he adroitly, with mincing steps, sidestepped the rooster. In an affected manner, Brendan straightened his cuffs, gave a derisive sniff, and eyed his surroundings questioningly.
“Come,” Don Luís urged them, a contemptuous look on his face as he watched Brendan’s posturings. He did not realize that Brendan was playing the fool, the actor in him unable to resist an audience. “It is time I introduced you to your new family, Amaya.”
Mara felt a hand on her elbow and glanced around to see Brendan walking beside her. His dark eyes twinkled irrepressibly down at her as he squeezed her elbow reassuringly.
“Your finest performance, little darlin’, is about to begin, and little do they know they’re about to witness a show grand enough for a king’s pleasure,” Brendan predicted, his eyes sparkling at the challenge that lay ahead. “A pity that they’re to be an unappreciative public.”
“’Tis a pity you’re not laying odds on the outcome,” Mara commented with a smile.
Brendan’s eyebrow lifted in question. “And who’s to be sayin’ I haven’t? I’m an Irishman, aren’t I?”
They followed Don Luís through the iron-grilled gate set in the corner of the adobe wall and entered another courtyard. Mara stopped in surprise as she stared at the transformation that had been made in the inner court.
She could feel a change in temperature as she stepped into the coolness of the shadowed courtyard. It was surrounded on four sides by an opened corridor with a low, tile roof supported by rough-hewn posts. In the center of the tiled patio was a double-tiered fountain, its bubbling cascade of water creating a lulling effect as it flowed into the blue-tiled fountain. Gazing around her, Mara felt her senses being assaulted by the bright colors of the flowers and shrubs that filled the courtyard. Planters of fuchsia with their exotic pink and red blossoms and red-leaved creeper with magenta flowers hung from the eaves of the projecting overhang of the gallery. Trellises of deep lavender clematis blended with climbing yellow roses, star-shaped flowers of jasmine, and the carmine and cerise of sweet pea. The bluish purple flowers of a gnarled wisteria drooped from along the roof while below, colorful pottery held hyacinths, pansies, violas, and irises of every possible hue.
It was a fragrant, secluded oasis of color and beauty, protected by the thick adobe walls of the hacienda. As Mara walked along the patio, hurrying to catch up to Don Luís, she noticed the fruit trees. The perfumed orange blossoms engulfed her in fragrance as she hungrily eyed the ripening oranges and pale greens of lemons and limes.
“Don Luís, mi amigo. ¿Cómo está usted?” a voice inquired from the shadowed gallery across the courtyard.
“Estoy muy bien, mi amigo, Don Andres,” Don Luís replied with a wide grin as he waited for the other man to approach him.
Don Andres stopped abruptly as he caught sight of the group standing silently in the shadows of the leafy branches of an overhanging tree.
“¿Quiên es la señorita?” he asked of the still-smiling Don Luís.
“Es Amaya,” Don Luís informed him, smug satisfaction in his voice.
At the name Amaya, and the stunned look on Don Andres’s face, Mara came to the conclusion that her intended husband was little pleased to see her on the Rancho Villareale.
Don Andres quickly masked any dismay he might have shown and, smiling a welcome, moved past Don Luís and came to a halt in front of Mara.
Mara returned his stare curiously, drawing strength from his barely concealed uncertainty. A half-smile curved her lips. Tilting her head, she said softly, “Don Andres, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Don Andres’s eyes flickered with a look Mara had come to expect in men’s eyes. He said hesitantly, “Amaya?”
Mara’s smile widened as she began to master the role of Amaya. “And may I introduce my cousin, Brendan O’Sullivan, and his son, Padraic, and our companion of many years, Jamie.” Mara made the introductions easily as she took in Don Andres’s appearance.
He was slightly over
medium height, slender and dark, very handsome in a romantic way, with sleepy, dark eyes and a drooping mustache. He moved with the easy grace of a dancer in his short, gold-embroidered blue jacket and open-necked shirt. His dark breeches were flared and trimmed in gold braid. He could not be more than thirty, yet there was a gentle authority about him that was evident in his controlled movements.
“Mara, I’m thirsty,” Paddy interrupted, his voice sounding muffled as he hid his face in Mara’s skirts.
Mara unconsciously rubbed her fingers soothingly along the back of Paddy’s neck as she felt his small body lean tiredly against her. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble—” she began uncertainly, yet with a smile calculated to charm and get results.
“Of course not, Doña Amaya. Anything at all I can do for you I will do. You are my honored guests, so please do not hesitate to ask,” Don Andres cordially invited, his look taking in all three O’Flynns. “Some refreshment will be brought to your rooms immediately. It is unfortunate that Don Luís did not see fit to send one of my vaqueros ahead to warn us of your arrival. Then we would have had every convenience prepared for you,” Don Andres remarked coldly as he stared at an unperturbed-looking Don Luís.
“And ruin the surprise of your fiancée’s arrival at Rancho Villareale?” Don Luís replied mockingly. “I have waited for over a year to see the joyous expression on your face when I presented my niece, Amaya, to you.”
A thinly veiled hostility between the two men was gradually revealing itself as the two Californians stared into each other’s dark eyes. Imperiously Don Andres clapped his hands. “Cesarea! She will show you to your rooms and see to your needs.”
“I would like to have my nephew, Padraic, sleeping near to me. And of course Jamie will be seeing to his needs, as well as helping me,” Mara explained, then added sadly as she smoothed Paddy’s ruffled curls, “Poor Brendan, he’s a widower and his darling boy is like a son to me, and even calls me Mara.” She laughed huskily. “Amaya was far too much for him to handle. He’s quite a dear, and I’m very fond of him. So, if this can be arranged?”
Laurie McBain Page 7