She seemed to realize it, for as soon as she could, she controlled herself and stepped away. Her voice hoarse with grief, she said, “You always did what was necessary for my good, even if I didn’t want you to.”
Relieved, he stepped back. “Aren’t I always right?”
“Yes, and aren’t you a monster for pointing that out? But then—” her voice sharpened “—you’re the same monster to all your friends.”
“Are you calling me a busybody?” he asked, surprised by the notion.
“A dreadful busybody. I wonder, who does what is best for you?”
With the assurance of a strong and opinionated man, he replied, “I do.”
“Well, in the opinion of your friend Nacia, what is best for you is also what’s best for Doña Katherina. Perhaps you should think on that.”
“My friend Nacia could hardly tell what’s best for me or Doña Katherina in the space of one fiesta.”
“The same could be said about my friend Damian.”
Her rejoinder silenced him, and with astonishment, he wondered if she could be correct. Was he making hasty judgments about Nacia and Julio? Was he treading where no man should go? Most important, were Katherine’s good and his own identical? Tucking it all away to bring up and examine later, he said, “Arriba los corazones! Keep heart. You’re a good woman, Nacia. The best woman for Julio, and he’ll realize it soon.”
“You’re a good man.” She touched his cheek. “When next I see you, I expect to be dancing at your wedding. Remember, a woman like Katherine will never—”
A male voice spoke close to them.” A touching scene. A farewell kiss between lovers, perhaps?”
Nacia quickly stepped away from Damian, and what had been a friendly talk now appeared furtive.
“Julio,” Nacia faltered.
“The promise of another assignation, perhaps?”
“Julio, don’t be an idiot,” Damian ordered.
“An idiot?” Julio’s voice grew louder. “Yes, I am an idiot. Thinking any woman could honor her vows. Thinking years of friendship mean anything.”
Trying to hush him, Damian moved closer and observed, in the dim light, the swaying and disheveled figure of his friend. “We’ve been talking.”
“Talking! A pleasant euphemism, that. Perhaps the wronged husband should take himself away.” The darkened figure took a step forward. “Perhaps I should leave you two to your kissing.”
The thick smell of liquor in the air washed over Damian, and he almost groaned. The punch bowl had too obviously been Julio’s refuge this evening. Nevertheless, Damian had to try to defuse the situation, and he kept his tone low and reasonable. “No one has been kissing. Doña Maria Ygnacia would never—”
“Doña Maria Ygnacia? Just a moment ago, she was Nacia.”
The loud, slurred words sounded like an accusation, and Damian cursed the caution that had brought him to a halt so close to the dance floor. At least if they stood farther away, the heads wouldn’t be turning at the sound of a fight. “We are old friends, and your wife has never even allowed me to kiss the hem of her dress.”
“My wife,” he sneered. “My wife.”
“Please, Julio.” Nacia stepped forward to grasp Julio’s arm. “Please. Please don’t be angry. It was nothing.”
“Nothing?” Julio shook her off, his voice raising to a shout. “Nothing? Is that what you call infidelity? Nothing?” Like a pronouncement of an elder, he roared, “You’re a whore.”
Damian caught Julio’s fist as it lifted above Nacia. “Are you crazy, man? You don’t want to hit her.”
Julio paused and swayed, peering up at his captor. With the impaired faculties of a drunkard, he decided, “You’re right. I don’t want to hit her, but I want to kill you.” His other fist came up in a roundhouse that caught Damian unprepared and knocked him to the ground.
Nacia screamed and Damian cursed, more at the noise she made than in pain. Julio leaped at him, but he rolled away. Julio smacked a tree trunk with his head. It would have put another man under, but the liquor had numbed Julio. He came up shaking his head and shouting, “Idiota! I’m going to murder you.”
The music faltered as the dancers stopped, drawn by the peal of rage ringing out of the trees. Lanterns flickered their way, held by men running to the scene.
Damian tried to leap to his feet, but Julio met him halfway. They fell, pummeling each other, breaking their fists on each other’s faces. Men and women surrounded them as they rolled on the grass.
A punch to his stomach doubled Damian over. Julio pushed him down and yelled, “How dare you touch my Nacia? How dare—”
Fury burst in Damian. With a clip to the jaw, he knocked Julio off and seized him by the throat. Sitting on his ribs, Damian roared, “Only yesterday you knew I didn’t want your wife. Stop being so stupid.”
He felt a pounding on his shoulders and glanced up to see Nacia crying, “Stop, oh stop.”
In a flash, he saw the lanterns around, the staring faces, and knew he stared social disaster in the face. Nothing could save them now, but he prayed for a miracle. Released, Julio’s fist plowed a furrow in Damian’s ribs. The wind erupted from Damian in a rush. He heard the blood explode in his head. There was a sudden silence.
The tinkle of glass drew his attention, and he realized the explosion he heard was not in his head, but a gunshot.
Chapter 6
A gunshot? The candle Katherine held dipped and almost went out as she jumped off the veranda and skidded to a stop. She could see the dance floor across the yard, and a circle of lanterns in the trees. She could see the shattered lamp above the mariachis, see the guitarist shaking glass, wood, and wax out of his hair. She could see the people who stood looking past her, past the hacienda. She turned with a sensation of dread.
Lumped together on the lane, a large group of rough-looking men were mounted on horses, leading mules, and carrying rifles. They watched the dying festivities in a grim, satisfied silence. One of them spat on the ground. Then a horse neighed restlessly, but the stillness conveyed a threat that no words could express.
In the middle and in front of the gang, John Charles Frémont sat astride a cream-colored horse. His hat was cocked over one eye, a little smile lit his face. He posed with arrogance, looking down his nose at the assembled Californios.
Before the peril implied by the Americans, the Spanish men had no defense. They carried no guns to a dance. Their women and children were assembled with them.
In the trees, she saw Julio reach down and pull Damian to his feet. Damian stood alone as Julio put an arm around Maria Ygnacia.
One by one, the children sought the protection of their parents. Their wives moved to their sides, motioning the children behind. The men stepped in front of their families, offering the feeble defense of their bodies.
Then, on Fremont’s command gesture, the intruders rode away.
The Californios watched until the sounds had died. Before Katherine’s appalled gaze, they moved toward the hacienda. Señora Medina came by, leaning on her son’s arm. Alejandro led his pregnant wife, slow under the burden of his child. Rico had his children organized into a line, and he counted them as they entered the hacienda. His face bruised, Julio led Maria Ygnacia as if she were more precious than gold. Don Lucian came last, helping the stragglers carry their children. Passing her where she stood at the base of the porch steps, all of them mounted the steps with polite nods.
They said nothing, she realized, out of respect for her and the other Americans mixed in their number. What they wished to say about their contempt for Fremont’s band would be said in the privacy of their chambers.
Tears pricked at her eyes, and she restrained the impulse to apologize. The Californios would only point out that she wasn’t responsible for the actions of her countrymen. It would be true. Yet, in another sense, she carried the burden of that discourtesy on her shoulders.
As the last of the families moved into the house, the servants came out. In a giant sweeping
motion, they removed the food, cleaned the broken glass, picked up the dropped handkerchiefs. Dazed at the rapid dissolution of the fiesta, Katherine still stood, candle flickering in her hand.
As the servants tugged the extra chairs toward the storage shed, Damian strolled out of the trees. He tucked one hand in his waistband. He gazed around, shook his head, and began to extinguish the lanterns. He pulled the branches down so he could douse the candle with a pinch of his fingers. Around the circle he went, and lights went out one by one.
He stood out there, in the darkness.
Katherine stood in the light of the porch lamps. An ache filled her, an ache she didn’t understand. Walking through the grass to the edge of the porch, she leaned against the corner post and watched him return to his home. He didn’t seem to notice her as he checked the hacienda’s facade.
Disdaining the use of the stairs, he leaped the rail at the far corner, and extinguished the lamp. He walked to the steps and doused the lanterns that hung from the posts on either side. Only the candle above her head and the one in her hand still flickered. As his boots rang against the boards she was assailed with shyness. She turned away to compose herself, and turned back to find him watching.
Standing with uplifted face, she understood he’d always been aware of her.
Concern, pride, and anger warred in him; his puffed and bloody mouth expressed his rage.
Without real comprehension, she held out her hand, palm up. She didn’t understand her emotions; she didn’t understand his, but she felt the need to offer something, if only her friendship. Leaning over the rail, he ran his two fingers over her cheek, hesitated, caressed her lips. Giving her a rueful smile, he put out the candle over her head and went into the house.
She stood alone, holding the only light in the yard, her hand against her mouth.
“What are you doing?”
Mr. Smith jumped as if Katherine’s words were a warning shot.
“Nothing! I . . . wanted some clean paper to write . . . my wife back in Washington, D. C.”
She moved farther into the library and stared at the scattered documents on Damian’s desk. She saw the splintered wood of the locked drawer. “Mr. Smith, you’re getting a little confused. Two days ago you proposed to me.”
“I never!” His indignation was a palpable thing. “Your own conceit made you think I was proposing. I wouldn’t propose to a plain thing like you.”
“Yes, I can’t imagine your ‘wife’ would appreciate it,” she agreed, quite unmoved by his insult. “The other guests are leaving. Perhaps you should have asked for paper sooner.”
He spread his hands in an innocent gesture. “Shucks, the company was just so good, I forgot to ask. Then you and that don of yours were busy with leavetakings. I thought, ‘Why bother them?’ and came in here by myself.”
“Shucks,” she answered back, her voice laden with scorn. Taking a breath, she controlled herself. “It occurs to me you may have left the States because someone took exception when you went through his desk.”
“A man needs to find some peace and quiet where he can write his mother, doesn’t he?”
“Your mother?”
“I mean, my wife.”
“Mr. Smith. Far be it for me to make accusations without justification, but in light of your recent confessions, I find myself suspicious of your presence here.”
“Ma’am?”
With the precise pronunciation of a Boston lady, she spelled it out. “Perhaps you’re nothing but a common thief.”
Mr. Smith took one giant step and loomed over her. “Little lady, that’s a mighty big accusation. I don’t like the way you’re talking to me. Now I’m sure you want to apologize for that comment, and for hitting me the other day.”
Her gaze traveled a long, long way up to the man’s muddy eyes.
She was a lady. Hidden in the far reaches of her mind, she heard her mother’s soft voice chiding her, urging restraint.
But he was trying to intimidate her, and she responded as if he were her Uncle Rutherford. Politely, emphatically, she spoke the truth.” A man who displays bravery only when confronted with a lone woman is not a man to be admired. What were you doing in Don Damian’s desk?”
He snatched her wrist in his hand. “I don’t think that’s any of your business. I want an apology.”
“Or what? You’ll break my arm? You’ll beat me?” Sarcasm sharpened her voice, and she could hear the challenge. “Better men than you have tried.”
The pressure on her wrist increased; he bent it back. She glared, too angry to show pain as the bones ground together.
“Apologize,” he demanded.
The ache expanded and became agony. Mr. Smith seemed to grow before her eyes.
A hand reached from behind her and grabbed Smith’s elbow. She barely noticed it in her haze of pain, but Smith yelped and dropped her wrist.
“I believe you are making a mistake, Mr. Smith.”
Cradling her arm, Katherine knew it was Damian, yet his voice was so clipped and his English so precise she hardly recognized him.
“You will please leave now. Your horse, such as it is, is saddled and waiting for you.”
Smith’s hand dangled off the end of his arm as if he were disabled. If Katherine hadn’t been hurt, she would have wondered what Damian had done. Instead, she watched with fevered eyes as Smith leaped out the door.
That same hand that had disabled Smith now took her shoulder and turned her around. Damian clutched her and shook her. “You, my dearest Katherine, will do me the favor of not attacking like a bantam rooster after a fox.”
The blood in her veins froze in resentment. Who did he think he was? In a few short days, he’d stared at her as if he considered her his property, been angry with her, kissed her. She was in no condition to consider safety or propriety. “I am not,” she pronounced in her clear, crisp tones, “your dearest Katherine.”
“Perhaps not, but you are a lady.” He spoke English, but his accent strengthened. “I never expected to hear you speaking so, using such manners. What would your family say?”
Without realizing, he struck deep into her soul, and her self-possession shattered as it hadn’t with Mr. Smith.
“You mean, ‘what would your mother say?’ Or perhaps, ‘your mother didn’t teach you very well.’” The bitter lessons of her Aunt Narcissa echoed in her tone.
Katherine sagged against his desk, and offered a tentative excuse and a tentative smile. “My Aunt Narcissa would tell you it’s that streak of rebellious ingratitude that blemishes my character. No doubt she’s right. I have found that being used brings out the worst in me.”
He failed to respond with empathy or expression. “In the future, you will behave with a trifle more sense while under my roof.”
The smile was wiped from her lips. “Would you have me let him rifle your desk? The man is convinced he’ll receive your lands if—when!—the Americans welcome California into the fold. And what right have you to comment on my pugnacious tendencies, when your eyes are blacked and your lip’s split?” His face darkened as she called attention to his injuries. She waved a hand at the chaos of papers Smith had created. “Did you believe I did this?”
“American ways are beyond my understanding.”
At first, she could scarcely comprehend him. As the significance of his words found their mark, she found herself standing straighter, taller, with lifted chin and accusing eyes. “Do you believe I would search your private papers?” She walked behind the desk and jerked out the drawer with the broken lock. “Do you believe I would do this?”
“You misunderstand me. American ways are beyond my understanding, for should a California woman come upon a thief in my desk, she would run for help.” He watched her with compelling demand. “She wouldn’t attack the thief.”
“I am not yours to command, nor am I subject to your whims.”
“My whims?” His voice deepened, and she observed his eyebrows. They didn’t curve across his brow as
most eyebrows did, but slanted straight up. They added a devilish fillip to his countenance, and accentuated the impatience in his eyes. “You consider it a whim that I’m concerned about your well-being? That I wish you to avoid the broken bones and brutality that come with belittling a much larger opponent?”
Logic. How she hated its use in an argument. How like a man to interject it. “I think—” she drew a breath “—that you are concerning yourself with my well-being more than is allowed between employer and employee.”
“I’m responsible for you in a way that has nothing to do with employment.”
She ignored that. “This might be a good time to tell you my plans.”
“Your plans?”
“My plans to leave here.”
“Ah.”
All expression smoothed from his countenance, and he looked so bland she stumbled as she spoke. “I realize, I appreciate, your efforts on my behalf. I do not know if I would have survived this last year without the help and goodwill of your family, your servants, and you.”
“I?”
“Of course, you.” Irritation shuddered up in her, but she subdued it. “You were my savior, as I tried to explain to you just two nights ago on the balcony. But I also know you created the position of housekeeper for me, dislodging the qualified Leocadia from her work so I would have something to focus on until I was capable of functioning in society. That time has come.” She was, she realized, rambling on like a lawyer. She hated it, but she sprang from a family of lawyers. When she was nervous, the pomposity she detested in her uncle sprang forth from her own tongue. “I also know that this is your favorite house. Yet since my arrival you’ve avoided this hacienda. I believe that if I were gone, you would feel comfortable once more with your family.”
He turned away from her and picked up the statue created for him by the Indian artisans on his rancho. It was a female, naked except for her hair, which trailed down her back and. over her shoulders. Her hands worked busily to braid one side; her face was tender and thoughtful. “My rancho in the Central Valley has represented a freedom to me this past year. I needed a place to grieve for my friend. I’m sorry if you mistook my desire to be alone for the desire to be away from you.”
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