“Barbara—she’s older than me by two years—very much like you. You’d like her. And Diana. Younger by five years. I suppose she’s a bit like Franny, if Franny bothered to wear a dress and stay in the house most of the time.”
“Do you miss them?”
His throat clogged. “Yes. But I was too proud to ever write. And then it was too late.”
“It’s never too late,” she said, her hand coming to lie on his belly, fingers cradled in her palm, as if to say, Yes, this is where my hand should rest through the night. Right here.
“I don’t know what I would write,” he admitted. “Or how to apologize.”
“I might help. If you’d like.”
Might. Hope flared like a struck match in his chest, sharp and crackling. Later, he’d ask her if she’d meant her offer—after he’d brought in this outlaw.
“Thank you,” he said. “Did your parents ever speak of the Rancho?”
“I always thought that neither of them had ever seen the Rancho Alvarado,” she said softly. “Oh, the aunties would go on about it, but I don’t ever remember my parents mentioning it by name. Which of course makes a terrible kind of sense now.”
He reached for her hand on his belly, gave it a squeeze. She sighed in response, her breath stirring the hair near his ear.
They lay there in silence for several moments.
“I never understood my parents’ obsession with the past,” she said eventually. There was a force behind her words, as if she’d had to steel her nerve to push them out. “They seemed to almost fear Americans. But our neighbors are Americans—we’re Americans. It was puzzling.”
Was it perhaps an acceptance of his apology? A hint that she might be making space on the shelf of her heart for him?
“But,” she went on, “after my mother told me her story—on the eve of our wedding, of all times—it made complete sense.”
All of him sank. No, she wasn’t making space—she was rearranging the people already on that shelf.
Only their breathing reached into the silence for the next several moments.
“Tell me more?” Her question was solemn, tipping close to imploring.
He was too weary to puzzle out her moods, so he did as she asked. “Then came Los Angeles. Noisy, dusty, crowded Los Angeles. We were in a fine house, in a fine neighborhood—but the grounds were landscaped, not wild with chaparral. We had horses, but they were only for pulling the carriage. And there was no more disappearing to daydream—only studying and more studying. I got good at sneaking away from my tutor, just to have some space to breathe.”
“Franny’s very good at that as well. Sneaking away, that is.” He smiled at the dryness of her tone. “She’s also quite truculent about washing up and changing for supper. And sitting quietly at the table.”
Heat invaded his face. “I, uh, don’t like it myself. Reminds me too much of those suppers with my father.”
“So,” she said, “that’s why you refused to change for supper. You could have simply said so, instead of snapping.”
“Could have,” he said gruffly. “I will, next time.”
“Do you truly hate sitting at the table like that?”
“Yes. I like it in the kitchen, with you, sharing a plate. It feels… homey.” That last made his chest ache.
“I suppose we can do that instead,” she allowed, and his ache eased. “But when the children come, we’ll have to sit at the table properly, so they won’t be heathens. Now, go on with your telling.”
“I already told you why I left. And that’s the end of it.”
“What about the Circle T?”
“You said childhood. I became a man there. It’s late—you need your rest.”
She laughed softly. “Very well. We’ll save that for another night.”
“And you?” he asked. “What was your childhood like?”
“Mmm. I suppose it was much like you described on the Rancho Alvarado. We ran free until we began school—then of course we had to be perfect ladies and gentlemen. No one must ever have cause to look down on us.” A little sigh. “I never liked school much. All that sitting and listening. My hands were meant to be at work.”
He ran a hand down her arm. “Mine too.”
“Being the eldest,” she went on, “I was always expected to be the example. All my siblings were meant to fall in line behind me. I suppose that’s why I became so bossy.”
“Don’t sigh like that,” he ordered. “You enjoy it. And you’re good at it. Look at how well you run our house.”
“I—” It was small, strained. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
“Of course I did. I always notice what you do.”
She yawned widely and pressed more of herself against him, clearly settling in to sleep. “What of your mother? You never mention her.”
“She died when I was six. I’m ashamed to say I have clearer memories of the rancho than her. I don’t think she was happy with my father—she was always so quiet and sad.” All he could remember of her was the scent of lemon verbena, swishing skirts, and a downturned mouth and eyes.
His wife simply breathed for a moment, and then her fingers moved against his belly—the tiniest motion of sympathy, of comfort. “I am sorry.”
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “So am I.”
He lay awake for a long time after, holding her tight as her breaths went long and slow. He’d given her his apology for his sins to her in words—he’d give it to her in deed as well, once he caught this outlaw.
And after—after he’d spend the rest of his life ensuring she was never sad or quiet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Catarina woke to the familiar ceiling of her childhood room. Her husband’s arms were wrapped around her—that part was unfamiliar, at least for this particular room.
He’d told her more of himself in that hour in the dark than he had in the two weeks of their marriage.
He missed his sisters. He could hardly remember his mother. He’d been alone since the age of fifteen. All of that was so foreign to her—yet hearing it from him made him familiar to her. She knew him now—at least, some of him.
She slipped as gently as she could from his arms, but the moment her skin left his, his eyes snapped open. So blue they were, as if God had carved out little pieces of clear sky and set them there.
“What time is it?” he rumbled.
She snatched her watch from the nightstand, the metal cold in her palm. “A quarter to four.”
He reached for her hand as he scrubbed his face with the other, his palm warm from sleep and callused as ever. Calluses earned making a life for them.
“Go back to sleep,” she urged. “You had hardly any rest.”
“Neither did you.” His hand fell from his face and her heart wrenched at the weariness creasing his expression. “I have to go feed, then I’ll be back to help search.”
She nodded and they dressed in silence.
Before they left the room, he pressed a kiss against her forehead, his mustache ticklish there.
“Change into fresh clothes when you go home,” she said. “Bring these back here and I’ll wash them.”
He nodded and brushed his lips across her brow again.
At the back door he gave her fingers one last squeeze and was gone.
She turned back to her mother’s kitchen and started breakfast. Chorizo on the griddle, eggs cracked next to them, tortillas puffing up in the tortilla pan, and coffee, burbling in the pot, the scent almost as strong as that of the darkly red chorizo, which spit forth grease as it browned.
Her father appeared first, all of him limp with fatigue. She told him Jace would return later while he ate the breakfast she offered him. Then he too was gone to feed his stock.
Franny came next, asking for a tray for their mother and Isabel, hurriedly shoveling in her own breakfast as Catarina prepared the tray.
“Is Isabel awake?” Catarina asked.
A nod from her sister. “But she won’
t talk. At least not to me. There’s…” Franny gestured to her neck. “It’s all red and purple there. Maybe she can’t.”
The man who’d done that was out in those mountains somewhere. They’d search for him again today—Felipe, her father, her husband…
She shook off her chills and handed the tray to Franny. “Bring it back when they’re finished.”
Her father returned then—James Harper and his sons following behind.
“Good morning,” she said.
The Harper men only returned her salutation with heavy nods. No doubt this all brought up memories of the eldest Harper son—also a sheriff, also shot. He had died from his wounds.
“Has anyone heard about Sheriff Obregon this morning?” She didn’t want to ask, not when they looked so bleak, but she had to know.
“He’s alive,” Mr. Harper said. “It’s a miracle.”
“Thanks be to God for that,” she said.
“Amen,” the men said as one.
“I need to go speak with the Señora,” her father said. “I’ll return soon.”
“Would you gentleman like some breakfast? Some coffee?” Her lips pulled into a smile with no effort. Her instinct to be hospitable, drummed into her from an early age, seemed to have survived even this.
“Coffee, please,” they chorused.
She handed them all mugs, as they thanked her in low voices.
“Has anyone informed the sheriff’s office?” she asked.
“Mr. Larsen went over to Pine Ridge this morning to wire them,” Mr. Harper said. “He’ll send a message to your brother as well.”
“That’s very kind of him.” Having Juan return would be a great comfort, if only to have her entire family intact and secure in this terrible time.
“By the time the sheriff’s office sends someone, this outlaw will be long gone.” He shook his head.
She knew the reason for the weariness behind the motion. The men of Cabrillo had had to track down Sheriff Harper’s killer on their own. But they’d caught him—and they would catch this man as well.
Let no one else be harmed when they do.
Her father came back, gave Mr. Harper one short nod, then they were all out the door.
She sighed as she took in the kitchen. So much to be done, and she didn’t want to do a bit of it. And Franny wasn’t back with the tray. She’d have to go fetch it herself, along with the dishes. Once those were done, she’d sit with Isabel for a spell, so that her mother might have some rest. And then…
She tapped her fingers against the scarred counter, finding that particular gouge. She’d worn it smooth over time, it being her favorite spot to worry at. And yet, the rub of her fingers across that familiar bit of wood didn’t bring the ease it had before. She wanted her kitchen suddenly, her smooth new counters all her own, and…
Jace. She wanted him here, to hold and talk with. Last night hadn’t nearly been enough.
If Jace came across this outlaw, alone, unawares—he might die.
She rapped her knuckles hard against the counter. None of that now. She had chores to do.
She went for the stairs, but as her foot hit the first step, a hand shot out to grab her wrist, dragging her into the little cupboard under the stairs. The figure snapped the cupboard door shut, then spun to face her, blocking the door.
Franny was more wild-eyed than usual, her breath sawing in the same rhythm as Catarina’s startled pulse.
“What are you doing?” Catarina demanded. “You frightened me half to death!”
“Shh.” Franny put a finger to her lips. “I know what happened to Isabel.”
“But how?” she whispered back. “You said she wasn’t speaking.”
“She spoke to Mama. And Mama spoke to Papa.”
“I don’t hear you in there anywhere.” She sent Franny a repressive glare. “You were listening at the door, weren’t you?”
“Do you want to hear what happened or not?”
“Yes, please,” she replied a touch too quickly. She adjusted her aching legs, trying to find a less painful position. There was space in here when they were little, but it was a tight fit for two grown women.
Franny glanced from side to side, though there wasn’t enough room for the two of them, much less a hidden intruder. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper.
“Well, she and Joaquin were driving into town in the buggy—”
“I know,” she said impatiently.
Her sister clamped her mouth shut in annoyance. “Kindly let me go on without any interruptions.” Franny waited a beat, likely to annoy Catarina. “Well, they were going into town in the buggy,” she said defiantly. “The Carey boys and their friend from the valley came out from that stand of pines trees halfway to town, ambushing them. You know the trees I mean?” Catarina nodded. “The Careys were drunk, as usual. They said they were going to teach Joaquin a lesson, that no Mexican could wear a badge and use the law on honest Americans.”
That was familiar. She remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the rose arbor.
Billy’s hard hands against her as she tried to break free of them.
“But the friend,” Franny was saying, “he wasn’t drunk at all. He said he was going to teach Joaquin a better lesson. A permanent one. Isabel said he had the devil in his eyes.”
Her husband was searching for that devil now.
“And then, quick as you please, the friend shot Carlos right between the eyes. Isabel said he smiled the whole time.” Her sister paused. “Poor Carlos. Such a fine horse. But at least he didn’t suffer much.”
What about Joaquin and Isabel?
Franny continued, “The Carey boys pulled their guns, and so did Joaquin. He shot both of them dead just like that. Isabel went for the rifle to help him. While she was grabbing it, the last one shot Joaquin in the stomach and rode straight for her. She fired, but she missed.”
Puzzlement pulled at her brows. “But they said the last one was wounded, that he left a trail of blood?”
Franny shook her head solemnly. “That happened… later.”
Neither had seen the bloody aftermath, but they’d both been by that stretch of road countless times. It was as familiar as their own home. Catarina would dread riding by it now.
But not as much as Isabel would.
Franny took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “When he got to Isabel, he grabbed her around the neck and took the rifle from her. She fought, but he dragged her to the bushes…” She trailed off.
Catarina’s legs screamed for her to move, to let the blood flow, but she didn’t dare to breathe, much less move.
“He choked her until she was almost dead.” Franny’s voice faded, smaller than a whisper. “But her hand, it found the rifle. Somehow, it had landed close to her.” She stopped again, but Catarina was grateful for the chance for her mind to catch up to the horrors her ears were hearing. “She fired, but she only hit his shoulder. Then he struck her with his pistol until—well, she didn’t remember anymore after that.”
Franny’s lip quivered violently, so Catarina enfolded her in her arms, letting her sister cry into her shoulder, where Franny couldn’t be embarrassed by her seeing.
After a time, Franny pulled away, her eyes swollen and her breath coming in hiccups. Catarina reached into her pocket and pulled out Jace’s handkerchief. She stared at the embroidery. She’d meant to wash it for him today. Instead, she handed it to Franny to mop at her eyes.
“Well, now you know,” she said shakily.
“Yes,” Catarina replied. “I do.” It might be cowardly, but she wished she didn’t. A man capable of all that—what might he do to escape capture?
Franny shoved the square of fabric back at her before her imaginings could turn chilling. “I’m going to go help in the search.”
“Felipe won’t like that,” Catarina warned.
Franny pushed the door open, light flooding into the tiny space.
“I can handle Felipe.”
For a wi
ld moment, Catarina thought to follow her sister, a sharp need to know that Jace was safe pressing against her heart.
But her place was here—she had to trust in Providence to keep him safe and whole.
The Señor was the last person Jace wanted to be riding with. But the man had insisted, and Jace wouldn’t gainsay his father-in-law.
The silence between them was heavy, almost abrasive. Moreno couldn’t be enjoying this silence, jagged as it was, any more than Jace was.
They were riding for the high country, having throughly searched the area near the attack yesterday. The rocky heights beckoned in the distance, but for now they were surrounded by low sagebrush, the smell a deep green that seemed to fill his head.
There. That stand of chamissal—the branches were bent unnaturally. Perhaps the outlaw had been that way. They’d already searched there, but one more look wouldn’t hurt. He nudged Spot over—
“Did you like the cattle I sent you?”
The Señor didn’t once glance his way as he turned Spot back. “You know damn well I didn’t,” he gritted out.
Moreno kept scanning the horizon. “And yet you haven’t complained.”
“You promised one hundred head. That’s what I got.” He let the pause stretch. “I understand,” he said in a confidential tone, “why you’d want to hurt me. A Bannister who married your daughter under false pretenses? Yes, hurting me makes sense.” He nodded, then raised a finger. “But, I don’t understand why you would want to hurt your daughter.”
The other man’s mustache twitched. “Catarina understands.”
“Did you ask her if she did? Because I don’t think she does.”
“A proper child never questions her father,” the other man intoned.
“Even when he’s a father such as mine?” The Señor didn’t answer. “Or only when you’re the father in question?” He ought not needle the older man, but he hadn’t wanted to ride with him, hadn’t seen any sign of this outlaw, and Moreno was never going to give him a proper herd.
“You put your name on the marriage license,” Moreno accused. “If you hadn’t wanted anyone to know your true name, you wouldn’t have done that.”
Summer Chaparral Page 27