Veiled Joy

by Reece, Colleen L.

  “Before the bandidos found us, we discovered much gold,” he told them in a whisper. His dark eyes and white teeth gleamed. “No one knows where it is but us. We were on our way to Virginia City to get more supplies. A man gets hungry when looking for treasure!”

  Joy disciplined a smile. Not for anything would she laugh at this earnest boy who combined early manhood and a frank childlike zest for life.

  “We see your little house, but Señor Brit says not to stop for we are in one big hurry. A little way down the hill—bang, bang goes rifles. I see Señor Brit stagger, but he cried, ‘Carlos, go on!’ I obey. Bang, bang comes again. I stagger, too, and fall from my horse—”

  “Your horse!” Angus protested. “Lad, ye had no horse.”

  “Horses we have. Two.” He held up two fingers. “The bandidos take Shamrock and King, our faithful horses. I know nothing until I hear someone say, ‘Come out, you wretch.’ It is the so beautiful señorita.” He bowed from the waist.

  “But how did Mr. O’Donnell get back to the cabin?” Joy burst out.

  “Ah, he is brave. He would crawl through cholla cactus and its long thorns to help me, and I, Carlos Montoya, would do the same.”

  Quick tears sprang to the girl’s eyes at the loyalty and love in the simple words and at the thought of the badly wounded older man somehow dragging himself back to their doorstep. If he had not managed it, both travelers would undoubtedly have bled to death before being found. What a rare and unusual friendship they shared!

  Voluble Carlos never tired of talking about his comrade. He acted out with wide gestures how they first met, the slipping saddle, the rescue. He modestly related the incident on the mountain and shrugged when he said, “Dios, the good God, He made my rope go zing over Shamrock’s head.”

  Even discounting the hero worship that made Carlos exaggerate, Angus and Joy grasped the worth of their other patient. Her heart rejoiced when she discovered he was a Christian—and she wondered why it should matter so much. The tenderness she felt frightened her. Never before had she experienced such feelings, a tugging at her heart. Rich blushes mantled her face, and she thought how Angus had told her that when the right laddie came, she would know it. Could Brit O’Donnell be that man? She fled from her thoughts, yet reveled in each new facet of the young man’s sterling character as portrayed by Carlos.

  Yet the strange happiness blended with regret. Many times Brit cried out the name Dolores. Carlos frankly told them his sister probably cared for Brit as much as was in her fickle nature to love any man, but, “That one blows with the wind which is Papa’s smile,” he announced. “She will marry the man Papa says. That is why Señor Brit came for riches, to win Dolores.”

  Joy cried out, “Won’t she marry him if he doesn’t find silver or gold?” She found the idea repulsive, yet appealing.

  “Quien sabe. Who knows?” He shrugged in the way they had learned expressed far more than even his most dramatic words. “Papa wants to get back his other haciendas, and without money and power, he cannot do this. There are many who come to call on Dolores but few who are wealthy enough for Papa—or her.”

  ❧

  A week after the arrival of their guests, Carlos strutted around proclaiming himself as good as new except for stiffness in his left shoulder and a little soreness. The second week he restlessly sought diversions. Brit had begun to mend and needed less care. He had ordered Carlos to stop hovering and leave him in peace from his loving ministrations that threatened to spoil him for life.

  Carlos just grinned but availed himself of his new freedom by promptly getting himself into trouble.

  It started innocently enough. Joy needed notions and a few things poor Angus couldn’t pick out for her at the store. One afternoon while he puttered around the place getting everything in top condition so he could resume mining soon, Joy said she would walk down to Virginia City.

  “I will escort you,” Carlos gallantly told her and watched her tuck the gray veil over hair and face. “Why do you cover your beauty? My sister Dolores wears a veil but not such a thick one. It covers but does not hide, as your does.”

  “Dolores doesn’t live in a mining camp, lad,” Angus dryly put in.

  “Si.” He assumed a wise look and opened the door for Joy. But once away from the house his boyish grin spread and he told her, “Curious I am to see this place. We kept away from such villages on our way here.” He ran ahead in sheer high spirits.

  “You know, Carlos, I never had a brother, but if I could choose one, he would be just like you,” she impulsively told him.

  “Gracias. How old are you, señorita?”

  She hesitated. If she told him sixteen, which could be true, his regard for her might change from brotherly to a new feeling she didn’t share. “Angus says I might be seventeen or eighteen,” she said carefully.

  “Might be! Does your papa not know?” He spun in the narrow path and faced her.

  “No one knows. He found me in the desert after a sandstorm.” She quickly filled in the few details known about the odd happening.

  “Then you are not Señor McFarlane’s daughter.”

  “Never say that!” She indignantly placed hands on her hips. “Daddy Angus says that as long as our Lord permits, I will be his lass.”

  He dropped back to walk beside her when the path widened. “Do you never wonder who you really are?”

  “I am a child of God,” she said gently. “That is most important.”

  “Si, señorita.” As if sensing her reluctance to speak more he changed the subject. “You belong in a garden, not in this desolate land.” He waved to the clutter of buildings and shacks below. “Ah, but you would like the Montoya hacienda. Oh one day, perhaps, you and your papa will honor us by coming to Monterey.”

  “What’s it like?” Joy asked. They spent the rest of their walk talking about the blue Pacific, the bright flowers, and how glad Carlos was that Señor Brit had come.

  With the inquisitiveness of a child, Carlos poked into everything in the mercantile but backed off when Joy walked toward the ladies’ department. “I will wait for you outside,” he told her and sauntered out into the street.

  Five minutes later, a roar like a wounded bull sent Joy, the storekeeper, and everyone within hearing distance to the spot where the slim Spanish youth, still in his peon clothes but wearing the hauteur of royalty, faced a bewhiskered, dark-garbed trio standing beside their horses.

  “What’s going on out here?” a saloonkeeper bellowed.

  Carlos drew himself up in outrage. “Señor, these men, these bandidos, they stole horses and shot Señor Brit O’Donnell and I, Carlos—”

  Woman’s intuition warned Joy her friend must not disclose his Castilian heritage. Peons were tolerated but Spanish aristocracy signaled wealth in the eyes of the greedy. “Carlos,” she called breathlessly before he could add his last name. “What is it?” She ran to this side.

  “Those are the horses stolen from us.” He pointed to the bay and black geldings that flanked a white mare.

  “Say, what is this?” the biggest of the men blustered. “We bought those horses fair and square.”

  A weak and ineffectual looking sheriff pushed through the gathering crowd. “What’s carryin’ on here?” He eyed Carlos with obvious disfavor.

  “They stole my horse and my friend’s. Señor Brit lies wounded even now.”

  “That’s right,” a voice boomed and the doctor stepped forward. “What are you doing here, you young rascal?”

  “I am Señorita McFarlane’s escort.” Carlos shot back proudly.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the big man said. “Nervy little rooster, accusin’ us of bein’ horse thieves!” He loomed over Carlos. “Run home to your mama, little chicken.”

  “I do not move without our horses.” Carlos planted his feet a little apart and crossed his arms.

  “Why, I oughta—”

  “Hold it right there!” The doctor stepped between the boy and the bully looking miner. “Do you have a
bill of sale for the horses?”

  “Naw. Bought them off a feller just goin’ through. He needed a grubstake. Right, boys?”

  His two cohorts nodded and spat tobacco juice into the dust of the street, barely missing Carlos’s boots.

  “Do you have proof the horses are yours, Carlos?”

  Quicker than a bolt of lightning, Carlos gave a clear, high whistle then called, “Shamrock! King!”

  The bay then the black whinnied, reared, jerked their reins from the slack grip of the two who had been holding them, and leaped toward Carlos. With loud whinnies, they nuzzled him and pawed at the ground with their forefeet.

  “ ’Pears to me they know the boy,” the storekeeper observed in the grim silence that followed.

  “Aw, any horse might do that,” the burly man protested.

  “But any horse isn’t either of these horses, señor.” Carlos’s eyes glittered with deadly intent. “Black King has a single spot of white on his back beneath the saddle. Shamrock wears a scar under his mane on the left side, from the horn of a bull that once caught him.”

  “Well, sheriff?” The doctor forced the issue on the hesitant law officer, whose pasty face reflected his loyalties. The sheriff slowly came forward and motioned for King’s saddle to be uncinched. It slid to the ground, revealing the white spot.

  “Now the bay,” the doctor reminded the wooden sheriff. With a resentful glance, the man parted Shamrock’s mane and fingered the scar Carlos had said would be there.

  Suddenly, the temper of the crowd changed. It began as a low protest, then swelled into rage. Horse thieves were as popular in Virginia City as Rocky Mountain spotted fever—and even less welcome.

  “String ’em up!” someone howled.

  “Dirty thieves,” another called.

  Horror filled Joy. She tugged on Carlos’s arm. “Stop them! They’ll lynch these men. You must not have their deaths on your soul.”

  Carlos just looked at her from fathomless eyes, caught up in the mob’s thirst for revenge.

  “Brit would not let this terrible thing happen,” Joy cried, clutching Carlos’s arm until her fingers bit into the flesh.

  Slowly, the anger left the rigid boy’s face and body. He turned to the group of furious men. “I have proved who owns the horses. I cannot prove these men are the ones who tried to kill us.” He swallowed convulsively and his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I did not see who shot me or my friend. Perhaps he did.”

  With a sudden grabbing at the slipping shreds of his authority, the sheriff stepped into the situation getting out of control. “You fellers better hightail it out of town right now. The peon’s willing to let you go, I figger, since he got what’s his and ain’t sure his friend can prove attempted murder.”

  “Si.” Carlos’s mouth turned down at the word peon, but he responded to Joy’s warning pinch and said no more.

  Angrily, the leader of the trio mounted the white mare and spurred her down the street with his henchmen running behind.

  The relief that overwhelmed Joy unbuckled her knees. Only her hold on Carlos kept her from falling.

  “Señorita, we should go home.” He patted her hand.

  She nodded speechlessly. The crowd dispersed, but the doctor and storekeeper lingered long enough to warn, “Young fellar, look out for those three. Chances are, they’ll get out of here while the going is good. On the other hand, they’re just mean enough to lay for you.”

  Joy shuddered, and Carlos had to almost lift her to Shamrock’s back. The bay curiously turned his head and looked at her then patiently stood while Carlos resaddled King and mounted. They rode out of town with Joy nervously glancing over her shoulder, but no one pursued them.

  Carlos stayed strangely quiet for about half the way home then he reined in and turned his liquid gaze toward the girl. “Señorita, it would only worry your papa and Señor Brit to know everything that happened, si?”

  Joy had been thinking the same thing. “We can’t lie, and they’ll know we got the horses back.”

  “Ah, leave it to me. I, Carlos Montoya, will tell the story.”

  She giggled in spite of her upset condition. “There’s no doubt about that!” Yet even she couldn’t know how skillfully Carlos would blend truth and omission. When they reached the shack, he slid from King’s saddle, helped Joy down, and tied both horses to the corner post of the house. Then he burst inside with a wide smile.

  “Señor Brit, Señor Angus, the horses. In town we see them. I whistle and call. They come to me, the good Shamrock and King. At first, some men think they are not mine, but I show them the white spot on King’s back, the scar Shamrock wears. The men believe me and here we are!”

  Angus looked skeptical and Brit raised one eyebrow, but the fact of the horses’ being there without harm to Carlos and Joy verified the story. Yet every time Joy remembered that mob crying, “String ’em up!” she thanked God those three men still had their lives, even though they stole horses, shot at innocent people, and lied. What an awful thing if they had gone into eternity unforgiven and bearing their sins.

  eight

  Closer and closer the bonds of cramped living and shared food drew the McFarlanes and their visitors. A few days after the recovery of King and Shamrock, Brit suggested that Carlos lead Angus to the strike they had made. Irish blue eyes had measured the Scotsman and his daughter and found them trustworthy. In turn Angus confessed he had also found what might be a rich lode, but he didn’t have the money to develop and mine it.

  “I never thought I’d take a partner except my lass,” he said simply and held out his hand. A poignant light turned his gray eyes to molten silver. “Laddie, if ye are willing, so am I.”

  “I am.” Brit shook heartily.

  “And I.” Carlos laid one hand on the clasped fingers. “Se̴ñorita?”

  “It’s an answer to prayer,” she softly said and crowned the three hands with one of her own. “We have needed someone to help us. God surely sent you.”

  “I’d just as soon He hadn’t been for letting me get shot in the process,” Brit said wryly and touched his still-tender scalp that would always bear a scar.

  Carlos, the irrepressible, had the last word. “Señor Brit will always know now where to part his black hair.”

  Joy choked at Brit’s scowl that gave way to mirth and Angus’s rare laugh completely chased off the solemnity of the moment.

  By packing Jenny and riding the geldings, Carlos and Angus could make good time to the strikes. The only problem was the propriety of leaving Joyous and Brit alone. Virginia City tongues wagged at the slightest hint of scandal and all eyes turned toward “the redhead that sings like an angel and look kinda like one, too.”

  Betsy Mills solved the problem. When Joy mentioned that Angus and Carlos wanted to do some prospecting, the good woman up and told Joy she’d be happy to come stay at the shack.

  “The reverend’s been itching to get out and see some of the folks in the other towns around,” she said bluntly. “But he doesn’t aim to leave me here for the spell he’d be gone. It will be a favor to me, and we can ’nvite folks right up there for midweek prayer meeting.” Two days later she arrived, perched on the nag’s back and beaming with Christian charity.

  “Now, Mr. O’Donnell, we’ll do some changing around,” she announced. “You can have Joy’s nest, and she and I’ll move into her. . .the room you’ve been using.”

  A flush spread over his face and his eyes gladdened. “I’ve been for telling her that’s how it should be, but she hasn’t been for listening.”

  Joy just smiled and followed Betsy’s orders. A niggling little thought disturbed her tranquility. Of late, she had spent hours talking with Brit while Angus and Carlos busied themselves elsewhere. Would Mrs. Betsy’s coming change all that? She hoped not. Brit O’Donnell had opened up a new world to the desert-raised girl. She had sat for hours listening to his stories about Ireland, coming across on the miserable ship Promised Land, the struggles in the city, and at last, the
welcome purchase of the farm in Maine. Her breath caught at the descriptions that flowed from Brit’s crossing the United States.

  “I’ve only been here in the southwest and California,” she said shyly. When he asked where she was born, she told again the miraculous story of Angus’s finding her in the desert and how all these years they had never uncovered anything about where she came from.

  They talked of other things: of God and His Son and of Brit’s introduction to the Montoyas.

  “I’ve never seen a woman like Dolores,” Brit said and a pang Joy couldn’t interpret crossed his features. His eyes in their smudgy thick lashes darkened with thought. “She’s exquisite. White skin, and hair and eyes blacker than midnight at sea on a stormy night.” The poetry of the Irish ran through his description until Joyous could almost see the proud girl.

  “Does she love our Lord?” Joy hadn’t meant to ask. The words seemed to come without her help.

  He side stepped the question. “Her family is very religious, but in a different way because of their heritage.” He laughed ruefully. “And she’s been spoiled, raised in the hacienda. She’s young, though. The years and a good husband should change her into a real woman.” He sounded more hopeful than convinced.

  Now Joy sighed. Surely there would be no more such confidences. She hadn’t reckoned with Mrs. Betsy, however. Every afternoon the minister’s wife said she just had to have a “wee nap”—she imitated Angus—and that the two should walk so Brit could regain his strength. Joy suspected her of matchmaking and told her outright that the tall Irishman planned to marry Carlos’s sister once they struck it rich.

  A disbelieving eyebrow shot up. “Oh? Then why isn’t she here with him? Monterey’s a far piece from Virginia City, I’m thinking.”

  Joy managed to leave the room before she gave away too much interest in the conversation.