by Linda Ladd
Starting violently, she screamed, short and clipped, then whirled and found Stone Kincaid standing close behind her. He took a step backward, holding both hands out in front of him as if to placate her fear. Windsor's gaze riveted on the smoking cheroot he held idly between his fingers. He seemed to realize the cigar had frightened her, because he immediately flicked it out into the grass. Trembling, Windsor watched the lighted end curve in a wide red arc to the ground.
"Forgive me, sweetheart. I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you heard me coming." Stone's voice had taken on the low, soothing tone he had adopted since they had been living in the mountains.
Nerves still quivering, emotions shredded, Windsor backed away from him. She was afraid he might try to touch her. To her relief, he didn't make any threatening movements in her direction. Instead, he sat down on the wooden steps, a few feet away from her.
Still shaken, Windsor inched farther into the darkest corner where the lamplight coming from the window fell not upon her but illuminated Stone's position. Squatting down, she leaned her back against the wall, hugging her arms tightly around her waist.
"Do you feel any better today, Windsor?" he asked a moment later. "Papa Gilberto told me that your arm is healing well. He said that in a few more weeks, we'll be able to travel."
Alarm filled her. She did not want to go anywhere. Clan wouldn't be able to find her here in an isolated hacienda high in the Sierra Madre. Margarita and her sisters had often assured her that only a few of their neighbors, those requiring medical attention, ventured up the steep, rocky road that led to their casa.
Stone turned sideways and stretched out his long legs. He still wore his black pants and tall leather boots, but since they had come to the hacienda, he had taken to wearing the loose white shirts called camisas, as Papa Gilberto did. Both of his revolvers lay in their holsters, tied down atop his muscular thighs. He never took off his guns. His beard had grown heavy, a black, thick shadow on his chin and jaw. At the moment, his eyes were searching the shadows where she hid.
"Did I ever tell you that my sister, Carlisle, is down here in Mexico visiting a friend of hers?"
"No."
"A friend of my brother's is escorting her. His name is Chase Lancaster, and he's got a ranch down around Monterrey somewhere, a place called the Hacienda de los Toros. Well, I found out a moment ago that Papa Gilberto and the girls know him, too. In fact, he said that both Chase and Carlisle visited them a couple of months ago. Apparently they got caught up in some kind of trouble with the querrilleros before the revolution was put down." He paused momentarily. "I'm a bit worried about Carlisle, because Papa Gilberto said she was sick with malaria the last time he saw her."
"I am sorry she was ill." Stone had never spoken to her about his family before, and Windsor wondered how it would feel to be like Carlisle and have a brother who worried about her. Hung-pin had been almost like a brother, and Clan had killed him with his whip, as he had done to Nina. She screwed her eyes shut, unable to think about Nina.
"Papa Gilberto said Chase's ranch isn't far from here. I know we'd be welcome there, especially if Carly's staying there, too. Even if she's not, I could probably find out if she's well again."
"I will stay here and wait for you," she told him, alarmed at the prospect of venturing out of her safe haven.
There was a lengthy pause, then Stone spoke, very low. "You can't stay here forever, Windsor. I want to marry you and take you home to Chicago with me. I can protect you there, I swear it."
Hot tears welled, burning like flames behind Windsor's eyelids. How could he contemplate such a thing? He must suspect the terrible things Clan had done to her. She couldn't bear the thought of a man ever touching her again, not even Stone.
"When I leave here, I will return to the Temple of the Blue Mountain."
Stone's sigh was heavy, defeated. "If you're sure that's what you want, then I'll take you there."
No other words passed between them, the distant rushing of the river and the chirping of insects the only sounds in the quiet night.
Stone sat on the low bed called a catre, which Papa Gilberto had provided for him soon after their arrival at the hacienda. He had moved it into Windsor's room during the first days when she had still been unconscious. He hadn't slept much in the beginning but had kept a constant vigil at her bedside, terrified she was going to die. Now, weeks later, her body was finally beginning to heal, thank God, but her mind was still gouged by deep emotional wounds that he feared would never leave her.
He studied her as she lay sleeping in her bed across the room. She lay in peaceful repose at the moment, but he knew her nightmares would begin soon. Every night was the same. Still, during those first moments just after she had lunged awake, terrified and trembling with fright, she would let him hold her. He took advantage of those precious opportunities because it was the only time she could bear having his hands on her.
Grimacing, he shut his eyes, his gut churning with anger. She had been so strong before, so self-assured and in control of her life. Clan had taken all that away from her. He had broken her spirit as well as her body.
Stone's jaw clamped, and his fingers curled so tight inside his fists that his fingernails bit painfully into his palms. Clan had perfected the art of destroying people. How many more would he torture and kill before he was stopped? Stone's mind conjured up Sun-On-Wings' young face, and he forced the image from his thoughts, praying the boy wouldn't suffer.
Consciously relaxing his grip, Stone shifted to a more comfortable position. He had to concentrate on making Windsor well again. She needed him now. He was pleased she was slumbering so peacefully. Maybe she'd even make it through the night this time. While she lay so quietly, he ought to try to get a few hours of sleep himself. Physically, he was bone tired. But it was even worse to watch her and want her, to relive the times he had held her in his arms and kissed her, had made love to her. He felt so damn powerless. All he could do was wait and watch, and hope that someday she'd get over all she'd been through.
Strangely enough, his own bad dreams had ceased. He rarely even thought much about what Clan had done to him at Andersonville. The uncontrollable thirst for vengeance he'd nursed for so long seemed unimportant.
Though he hated Emerson Clan more than before, he was tired of thinking about him, tired of chasing him for years on end. Most of all, he hated himself for bringing Clan's evil into the lives of the people he loved. John Morris and Edward Hunt had been victims of his feud with Clan. They both had died at Andersonville. Then when Clan had been enticed to Chicago, Gray had been shot, Tyler terrorized. A maid had been hurt and another servant killed.
And now because of Stone's obsessed pursuit of Clan, Windsor's lovely sapphire eyes were empty, her youthful innocence and idealism extinguished, as surely as if he'd reached inside her and pinched out the flame of her spirit.
Stone's cheek worked spasmodically, and he fought to control his roiling anxieties. He loved Windsor. He didn't know all that she had been forced to endure while under Clan's control, but he could guess. He didn't want to hear about it, and he didn't want to think about it. He only wished he could wipe away all her memories of her suffering. But he couldn't.
Windsor had to be the one to find the strength to survive. All he could do was help her, gently, without pressuring her. If he tried too hard, he'd end up losing her completely. Despite what he'd told her a few nights ago when they'd sat on the back veranda, he didn't want her to return to her life in China. If she went back, she might decide to stay there, to become a monk like the Old One she held in such esteem. But how could he stop her?
All he could do was bide his time, be patient and understanding. Time was needed to cleanse her mind of the torment plaguing her, lots of time. Maybe if he could persuade her to go to Chicago with him, Gray and Tyler could help him get through to her.
Despair overrode his hope, and Stone bent his head to stare at the jade stones encircling his wrist. He stroked one of them out of h
abit, wishing it would relax him the way Windsor had once believed it would. Regardless of how either of them felt physically, they had to move on as soon as they safely could. He wanted Windsor out of the mountains, out of Mexico, and as far away from Clan as they could get. Perhaps taking her home to visit her mother would help. She and Amelia had developed a closer relationship during the weeks they had spent together in San Francisco.
Stone came out of his thoughts and to his feet when Windsor suddenly bolted upright in her bed. Before her strangled cry had faded, he was with her, catching her flailing arms as she beat ineffectually against his chest.
"It's all right, baby. It's me. You're having a dream again. I've got you now. You're safe."
He had said the same words the night before, and the night before that, and her reaction was no different this time. She stopped fighting once she realized it was him and not Clan; then she wept harshly against his shirtfront. But she did not pull away from him. She stayed in his arms, and that's where he wanted her. When morning came, he knew she would sink back into the deep well of misery and distrust in which she took refuge. But until then, he would hold her close and dry her tears, and enjoy the soft warmth of her body pressed tightly against his own. Time would heal her, inside and out, he told himself firmly. He had to keep believing that.
"There is no mistake, Papa Gilberto?"
"No, my child. You will have your baby in the winter."
Windsor looked away from his kind dark eyes. She had suspected that she was with child, but she hadn't wanted to believe it. She sat with the old man on the bank of the stream and stared down into the clear water at a small fish lying motionless on the bottom. Slowly, she moved her gaze downstream to where Stone stood.
Shirtless, the muscles of his back rippling, he lifted the ax over his head. The sun caught the steel blade, making it glitter like silver for an instant before he brought it down to thud against a log. He bent and threw the split pieces into a basket, saying something to the five little girls who sat on the ground watching him.
"Will you tell Senor Kincaid about your child?"
Windsor felt her face burn with color. "I am not sure he is the father."
"Sí. But you are not sure he is not, no?"
"I want him to be. It was awful when—" She stopped, her throat growing tight. She sought to control herself.
Papa Gilberto propped his elbows on his bent knees. "Your child is a part of you. He is not at fault for what others have done to you. Newborn babies are innocent of the world and what went before. They cannot be blamed for the good or evil possessed within their father."
Windsor looked at him. "I would not blame a baby for what happened to me. Nina did not hate Carlos because of his father. She died to protect him."
"Then you must give Senor Kincaid the same opportunity. He will want to know if he is to be a father. He cares very much for you. I have seen the way he treats you. He will be good to your child."
"I do not know what I will do," she murmured. "I do not think I would make Stone Kincaid a good wife."
Papa Gilberto smiled kindly and patted her hand. "You must let your heart listen to the words he speaks to you. Then you will know what to do."
Windsor watched him get up and move off toward the hacienda, but she was very afraid. The idea of having Emerson Clan's seed growing inside her filled her with revulsion. She did not want to have his child, she thought, and then a new terror enveloped her. If he found out, would he come after her? Would he threaten to hunt her down the same way he had done to Nina after she had given birth to his son? She put her hand over her mouth, fighting her growing panic. They had to leave! Now, today! Stone had to take her somewhere far away where Clan could never find out that she might be carrying his baby.
24
Despite the broiling sun of late June, the tree-dappled patio of the Hacienda de los Toros was cool and shady. Dona Maria Jimenez y Morelos sat in a white wicker chair drawn close beside a double-tiered fountain, the high-arcing jets tinkling in a merry cascade into a octagon pool built of blue mosaic tiles. Soft pillows handcrafted with yellow-and-black Aztec designs made her straight-backed chair comfortable against her spine, and her dark head, crowned regally with graying braids, was bent tenaciously to her task.
Little heeding the hot weather, her brow furrowed into deep lines of concentration, Dona Maria drew a silver needle through the fine oyster-colored linen stretched inside her embroidery hoop. She pulled the ivory thread tight, then reinserted it, each stitch done with practiced precision. She paused, smiling as she examined the tiny lace-edged collar of the baby's gown.
Finally, after months of waiting and hoping, her two brand-new grandsons were on their way home from America. At last she would see their darling little faces and hold them in her arms as she had longed to do since last April, when her older son, Chaso, had written to her with the announcement of their births.
Even more wonderful, Chaso had reconciled with his beautiful gringa wife, Carlita. When Dona Maria's coppery-haired daughter-in-law had sailed away from Veracruz several weeks before Christmas, Maria had feared she would never see Carlita again. But Chaso had followed her to the norteamericano city called Chicago, and they had managed to work out all the problems plaguing their stormy marriage. By the sounds of her son's letters, they were very happy together now, just as Dona Maria had always known they could be.
The swift, silvery flash of her needle commenced once more, and Dona Maria's soft sigh was vastly contented. All the hours spent upon her knees before the altar of the Holy Virgin had not been in vain. She felt truly blessed.
Even her younger son, Tomas, was now behaving himself. She glanced at where he sat at a glass-topped table on the veranda. He was supposed to be studying from his law books, but instead, he was mending a leather lariat, his young face rapt. Dona Maria did not reprimand him.
At least he had finally outgrown his infatuation with Carlita, his own brother's wife! Nothing good could have resulted from that, and she was acutely relieved that he had finally come to terms with Chaso and Carlita's marriage, especially now that the couple had had their twins. And ever since Dona Maria had brought Tomas north to the Hacienda de los Toros, he seemed much more content.
Nearly a month ago, they had arrived at Chaso's sprawling rancho. During the past weeks, Tomas had spent nearly all his waking hours in the bullring, practicing with his scarlet cape. In time she hoped he would realize that wedding little Marta Moreno was in his best interest, as both their families had agreed. Indeed, everything seemed to be working out for the best, and perhaps now she could attain the peace of mind that had eluded her earlier in the year when both her sons were so unhappy.
Now she could stop worrying and spend her days sewing infant sacques and knitting tiny booties. Whoever could have thought Carlita would give Chaso two healthy baby boys, requiring a second layette? Twins, christened with fine Spanish names. She was so eager to see little Esteban and Enrico that her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird just from thinking about it!
"Perdón, senora, but visitors have come." Surprised by the announcement of guests, Dona Maria looked up at her maid, then her heart soared. "Is it Chaso and Carlita, Rosita?" she asked breathlessly.
"No, senora. They are both norteamericanos, a man and a woman. The senor says that Papa Gilberto has sent them to us."
Dona Maria was disappointed but also intrigued. She rarely received visitors when she was here at her son's house. "Papa Gilberto? Indeed? Well, vamos, then; bring them to me. I would like word of my dear old friend. I do hope Papa and his niñas are well."
"Who has come, Mama?" Tomas asked, joining her as she creased her grandson's shirt into careful folds, then carefully laid the garment in the large hinged sewing basket on the floor beside her.
"We shall soon see, mi hijo. I only know they have come from Papa Gilberto's," she answered, smoothing her hands over her lustrous skirt of black silk as two people entered the patio from the front salon. As Rosita led the
strangers across the narrow flagstone path, Dona Maria studied them with interest.
The gringo was quite big, every bit as tall as Chaso, who was several inches over six feet. But this man was as dark as her own son was fair, with jet-black hair that hung long against the back of his neck, and a thick black beard clipped close to the lean contours of his jaw. He was dressed like the vaqueros, the cowboys who tended the cattle and bullrings. His long, muscular legs were encased in dark pants and tall black boots set with jingling spurs, and he wore a travel-stained, olive-and-tan striped serape slung over his shoulders.
The dusty blanket-coat of the campesinos did not conceal his heavy, ivory-handled Colt pistols. The black leather holsters decorated with fancy silver designs were strapped to his thighs. He carried his weapons as an experienced gunman would. He was a handsome man, she decided, but in a tough, dangerous way. She was suddenly glad that Tomas stood beside her, even though the stranger led his female companion gently. Why, he was holding her arm as if she were made of porcelain and he feared he might damage her, she thought, then was astonished at her uncharacteristic flight of whimsy.
Her interest truly piqued, she next studied the gringa he escorted with such extraordinary care. She was a little thing, not much taller than Dona Maria's own five-foot height. The girl kept her eyes planted on the paving stones as they walked, so Dona Maria could not see her face clearly. She wore a full skirt of bright scarlet cotton and a white blouse with a drawstring neck that exposed her slender collarbones. Her head was bare of rebozo or hat, her hair a shiny pale gold color and shorn to lay in loose curls close to her scalp—certainly a fashion Dona Maria found most scandalizing! Never before had she seen such a coiffure upon a woman, not even among the poorest campesinos.
"Bienvenida," Dona Maria greeted them as they stopped in front of her. She was careful not to stare at the gringa's peculiar haircut, though she felt the urge. "I am Dona Maria, Don Chaso's mother. And this is my son, Don Tomas. Rosita said that Papa Gilberto sent you here."