by Linda Ladd
In the cloudy mists of memory, he saw her the way she'd looked the first time they'd met. High in the air, hanging precariously to a damn rose trellis, her blue skirts hitched up. The image was crystal clear, one he'd never forget, so evocative of Carlisle—willful, fiery-tempered, but with a smile so sweet, it tied a man's stomach in knots.
The ache in his gut had started the moment he'd found her missing, and it would continue until he knew she was safe. Praying Esteban had had better luck with his search, Chase urged his horse toward the hacienda.
If Carlisle wasn't found soon, if she wasn't lost somewhere on the estate, he would have to face the worst. She'd been upset with him last night when he had told her he was leaving. He had seen the hurt in her face. Perhaps she had convinced someone to take her to Mexico City in defiance of his orders. But if she hadn't been taken by someone else, either willingly or by force, she could be lying injured somewhere—a thought that made him recoil the minute it came into his head. She was all right. He'd find her soon. His gloved hands tightened around the reins.
Ahead of him, the red tiles of the hacienda's roof were gilded golden-red by the rising sun, the color of Carlisle's hair, he thought painfully. Again longing swept over him, and he knew, against his will, against all propriety, that she meant more to him than anything. He'd realized that over the past few weeks when they had gotten along so well together. One reason for his intended trip to the capital had been to nullify his betrothal to Dona Marta. Then, after he had returned to the Hacienda de los Toros and Carlisle, he'd planned to tell her how he felt about her, and write Gray seeking permission to conduct a formal courtship. And Carlisle would have agreed; he'd seen her feelings for him in her eyes. He loved her, desperately loved her.
Grim-faced, he galloped under the entry arch and down the cobbled road to the house.
As he reached the pillared arcade and swung from the saddle, Conchita appeared at the front door. Chase looked behind her, hoping to see Carlisle, but Conchita stood alone, her expression uncharacteristically somber.
"Has Esteban returned?" he asked her as one of his servants led his stallion away.
"No, Don Chaso. I am sorry, but Esteban and his men have not returned from Monterrey. But every house in La Mesilla has been searched. No one see her, but many still sleep from the aguardiente."
Chase frowned, massaging his forehead as he en-tered the salon. He poured himself a generous shot of tequila and tossed it down, then refilled the glass.
"Perdón, Don Chaso, por favor."
Nerves on edge, Chase spun around and saw Carlisle's maid in the doorway. Beside Rosita stood her younger sister, Renate.
"Sí, Rosita? Have you heard something?"
Rosita nodded, nudging the child forward, but the little girl resisted and hid her face in Rosita's long white apron.
"She is very frightened, senor, but she saw the senorita last night. She thinks Dona Carlita is muy bonita and often follows her. But she is afraid to tell me what happened, so I brought her to you."
Hope flared in Chase's heart, and he went to the child, going down on one knee and taking her hands in his.
"Renate, niña, surely you are not afraid of me? At Christmastide, did I not help you break the piñata in the plaza? Por favor, you must tell me about Dona Carlita. It is muy importante."
Renate wouldn't look at him, her arm tightening around the doll she held crooked in her elbow. She finally answered, her voice so low that Chase could barely hear her.
"Un hombre took her." Renate raised her big black eyes, shining with tears. "He did this to her." She withdrew her hand from Chase's and pressed it hard over her own mouth.
Fear streaked through Chase, but he tried not to show it to the child.
"What hombre, niña? Do you know his name? Was he a vaquero here at the hacienda?"
Solemnly, Renate shook her head.
"Where did you see them?"
"Behind the church where they tied their horses."
"There was more than one?"
The child bobbed her head again.
"Did you see which way they went?"
Renate nodded, then pointed her finger toward the south windows.
"The road to Monterrey?" Chase asked, his tone growing more urgent.
"Sí, Don Chaso, they rode away very fast."
"Gracias, Renate, you're a good little girl," he said. "You have helped me very much. Go with Rosita now, and she will give you breakfast."
"Senor? Will la gringa come back?" Renate asked, her eyes frightened.
"Do not worry, niña. I will find her and bring her home, I promise."
Despite his encouraging words, Chase was gripped by cold-blooded horror. The kidnappers had to be the gavilla de ladrones. The armed bandits who infested the surrounding mountains were filthy cutthroats and renegades who killed, pillaged, and raped. And Carlisle, innocent, alluring, beautiful Carlisle, was in their hands. Dios, but he had to find her before they melted into the high sierra. He had to ride to Monterrey and find Esteban! If he had to, he'd track the bastards to the end of the earth!
Striding quickly into the hall, he meant to cross the patio and call for his horse, but the thunder of riders in the drive made him detour to the front door. Esteban leapt to the ground before his horse came to a complete halt, leaving his men to stop the animal's prancing.
"Chaso! A letter for you was nailed to the cathedral door!"
Chase grabbed the folded parchment, jerking loose the seal. He skimmed it quickly, then read it again.
"Por Dios, compadre! Tell me what it says!"
Chase looked at Esteban. "Carlisle's been taken by a band of guerrilleros. Goddamn it, they've taken her to San Miguel."
"Dios," Esteban muttered, his dark face flushing with anger.
Chase paced restlessly across the arcade, staring down at the letter again. "They say they control the entire valley. If we try an assault, they'll kill her."
Esteban crossed himself. "Sweet Mother of God, why? What do they want with Carlita?"
"They don't want her. They want me. They say they'll exchange her for me."
"No, amigo, you cannot trust them. They will kill you."
''Maybe not. They could want me to coerce Benito to their own purposes."
"You cannot take such a risk!"
"Carlisle is innocent in this, I won't let her suffer on my account."
"Hijos de puta madres!" Esteban cursed furiously. "They have chosen San Miguel only to torment us!"
Grisly visions of San Miguel rushed through Chase's mind. His flesh crawled at the thought of Carlisle in that nightmarish place among hard, brutal men.
"There's no way we can storm the mission without endangering her, even if I could get enough nacionales soldiers here in time to scale the walls. I have to go alone, amigo.”
"Not alone, compadre. I am ready. What must we do?"
Chase put his hand on his friend's shoulder, grateful for his loyalty. "Gracias, Esteban. I think I know a way we can get Carlisle out alive. I wish I could do it alone so I wouldn't have to involve you, but I can't."
"You think of the mine shaft, no? The one we found the day of the massacre?"
"Sí. Even if it's still flooded, I think we can use it. The rebels will never expect us to come in through the mountain. If we can find the shaft again and get inside San Miguel without raising an alarm, we can take Carlisle out the same way."
"Dios, it's a risky thing you consider," Esteban said, smiling grimly, "but then, we have cheated death many times before, mi amigo. And we will do it again."
"Sí, but we must make careful plans and move quickly. There is little time to lose."
After nearly a week of traveling by horseback over rough terrain, Carlisle knew that her romantic notions of being a soldadera, a camp follower, were wearing thin. In New Orleans, she had never considered how the rebels would journey from place to place, nor had she realized just how hazardous and frightening the mountains of Mexico were. Ever since they had skirted Mont
errey and begun their arduous climb into the tierra fria—the cold country—she'd been hungry and nearly frozen all the time, with every muscle sore from riding astride a hard leather saddle. She clutched the saddle horn tightly as her horse stumbled on the rocky, narrow trail, then struggled to regain its precarious footing.
Far below, hidden by the night, she could hear a creek rushing at the bottom of the steep-sloped gorge. Arantxa called the canyons they'd been climbing for days barrancas, and Carlisle wished they could stop and rest. She was exhausted. Javier pushed them too hard. They traveled all day, every day, then far into the night, the lead man lighting their way with a flaming ocote torch. They rode single file, Javier just ahead of Carlisle, and Arantxa behind.
The other men followed, all heavily armed, bandoleras across their chests. Most of them were bearded and unkempt, and she'd been dismayed and frightened when she'd seen the guns and knives tied to their belts. They looked more like bandits than the Holy Crusaders she'd dreamed of. And she hated the way they looked at her, as if they wanted to attack her. They probably would have if Javier hadn't made it clear she was his woman.
That first night when she'd been so angry with Chase, Carlisle had been happy to see Arantxa and Javier. But now that they were so far away from the Hacienda de los Toros and Chase, she regretted not having left a note of explanation for him. Chase would be worried about her, and so would Esteban and Conchita.
Shivering in the cutting predawn chill, she wrapped the warm red shawl Javier had given her around her shoulders and up over her head. Now she wore the thin peasant pants and tunic of white cotton like all the others, but the rebozo did not keep her warm, and she struggled to pull the striped serape that she used as a bedroll closer around her. Her feet felt like ice and so did her hands, and she again wished Javier would let them stop. They had been riding since dawn.
Ahead of her, Javier was a dark silhouette against the red glow of the torch. She thought of their talks in New Orleans and aboard the Mayan when he'd spoken of the revolution and his bitter hatred for the Juaristas. But somehow, his heroics no longer fired her imagination. She'd met too many Juaristas who'd borne their own hardships during the war.
Twisting in the saddle, she saw that Arantxa looked exhausted, too. Carlisle faced forward again and stared at Javier's back as her horse plodded onward. Arantxa was not her usual ebullient self, but very quiet and withdrawn. They had barely talked to each other at all, not about anything, and when Carlisle had asked her what was troubling her,
Arantxa had refused to say. But there was something wrong. Carlisle could sense it. Arantxa was the best friend she'd ever had; she couldn't hide her moods from Carlisle. Perhaps Arantxa, too, didn't find the role of female guerrillero so exciting.
If Carlisle were at the hacienda now, she would have been asleep in the soft, comfortable feather bed. What was Chase doing? Had he found her missing and begun a search? What would he think? Would he come after her?
He'd been so nice to her, so thoughtful. But just when she thought he might care about her, he had decided to leave her. Of course, it didn't matter now. When she'd left with Javier, she'd become Chase's enemy, though the idea no longer pleased her. She'd grown to care about him, she finally admitted to herself with a sinking heart. What was she going to do?
Javier reined back and waited for her. "Do not despair, querida," he said with a smile. "We are making good time."
Reaching over, he covered her hand where it lay on the saddle horn. Carlisle noted, rather forlornly, that she felt nothing. Yet Chase's slightest glance made her breathless. What had happened to her? When had she stopped loving Javier? He'd been as kind as ever, and it wasn't his fault she'd become disenchanted with the idea of being a guerrillero.
"Carlita, I missed you more than I could bear." He spoke very low so his men wouldn't hear. "You're going to make a fine soldadera, and when I march down the Paseo in Mexico City, victorious in our revolución, you will be by my side." In the smoky torchlight, his dark eyes shone with fanatical belief in his cause, but Carlisle could no longer share his zeal.
"I'm so tired, Javier. When can we stop? I don't think I can go much farther."
"I am sorry, querida. We will stop now, if you are so weary. I do not want you to be unhappy."
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it tenderly, and urged his mount forward once again. Immediately, he ordered the group to stop, then led the column off the trail into a copse of tall pine trees.
As Carlisle and Arantxa dismounted, the men began calling back and forth to one another, but they spoke rapidly and in a dialect Carlisle could not understand very well. Much of the time she had no idea what was being said by those around her, and she found it unsettling—as was traveling in the dark for hours on end to an unknown destination. As the days passed, she had begun to feel that she'd lost control of her life, that she wasn't free to choose her own destiny, which she thought she'd be once she joined the rebels. And where were the poor peasants she had expected to help find a better life? The guerrilleros were tough, hardened men. She couldn't imagine them being downtrodden or helpless.
Wearily, she unsaddled her horse, then flexed her back and shoulders, which were stiff from riding so long. Some of the men were building a fire and preparing coffee and rice, but Carlisle was too tired to eat. She pulled the thick wool blanket around her and lay down on cold, hard ground, every muscle in her body protesting when she tried to relax. She closed her eyes, so exhausted now that she couldn't even worry about scorpions or snakes crawling on her, as she had during the first few nights she had slept in the open air.
A few minutes later, when a whisper intruded on her dulled brain, she struggled out of a half doze.
"Carlita? Are you still awake? I want to talk to you while Javier's with his lieutenants."
Arantxa knelt beside her, peering anxiously down at her. Carlisle pushed herself up on one elbow as her friend arranged her bedroll and lay down beside her.
"I'm glad you're with us, amiga," Arantxa whispered. "It's been lonely for me since we left the ship. I need to talk to you about Papa. He's in prison in Mexico City, and I'm so scared for him!"
Arantxa's words brought Carlisle completely awake. She turned on her side, facing Arantxa. "Your father's in jail? Why? And why haven't you told me before now?"
Arantxa shot a guilty glance at Javier, where he knelt at the fire among his men. "Javier told me not to. He said he didn't want you to worry about it. Don't tell him I told you, or he'll be mad at me."
"What did your father do?"
"They arrested him in our house in Mexico City and accused him of treason. But it's not true! He's only fighting for what he believes in, like us!" A low, hoarse sob escaped her, and Carlisle put her arms around Arantxa. But inwardly, she was struck by the realization that she, too, could be accused of treason. For some reason, that danger had never occurred to her, and she felt frightened.
"I'm so scared for him, Carlita," Arantxa murmured against Carlisle's shoulder. "I can't bear to think of Papa being in prison."
"How do you know he was arrested, Arantxa? Were you in Mexico City with him?"
"No," Arantxa murmured, raising her tearstained face. "We heard of it when the
Mayan set anchor at Veracruz. Our friends there said we'd be arrested, too, if we went on to Mexico City. We didn't even get to see him! Oh, Carlita, Papa cannot live in such a terrible place. Javier says we will get him out, but he won't tell me how he plans to do it. I'm not sure we can!"
"What about your mother? Is she safe?"
"Sí, but she was forced to flee the country. They say she has gone to Cuba, where my uncles can protect her. Oh, Carlita, what will become of my family?"
Carlisle patted her back, but she had no reassuring answers for her distraught friend. "Perhaps Javier can negotiate his release in some way," she suggested, for lack of anything better to say. "Come, lie down and try to sleep. Tomorrow things will look better."
Arantxa lay close beside her for w
armth, and minutes later, slept. Despite her own physical fatigue, Carlisle could not go back to sleep. Fear still gripped her, and she realized she should never have left Chase and the Hacienda de los Toros. She had been happy there, safe and well-taken-care-of. There, she hadn't had to suffer the awful long rides, stinging insects, and leering, uncouth men. Why had she left? Now she could never go back. Tears threatened, and her last thought before she slept was about Chase, her heart heavy with the fear that she would never see him again.
"Get up, Carlita, it's nearly dawn. We will reach our stronghold today."
To Carlisle, it seemed she had just closed her eyes when Javier shook her. She struggled up, shivering with cold, feeling dull from lack of sleep. She drew her blanket around her, gratefully taking the cup of coffee and plate of rice Arantxa brought to her.
Hungry, she ate her breakfast quickly, as unappetizing as the food was. Then she climbed into the saddle again, longing for a hot bath and a hairbrush, but more than anything, wanting to stop the endless riding up and down barren mountain canyons.
They set out again, single file, and in time Carlisle saw the morning star and was glad when the eastern sky grew pale. The mountain scenery lightened from ebony to gray, and they proceeded along in the misty silence, with only the creak of leather and the jingle of harnesses and spurs.
They rode all day, only stopping briefly to stretch their legs or eat a meal of cold tortillas and water. When Carlisle had begun to give up hope of ever reaching their destination, the trail wound around a treacherous bend and a vast valley stretched out before them, high, barren mountain peaks rimming the edges like a crown. They began to descend at once, slowly, down a steep path that snaked its way to the valley floor. Halfway there, Carlisle picked out a square bell tower rising on the distant slope.
"Where are we, Arantxa?" Carlisle turned and asked her friend.