Treasure of the Sun

by Christina Dodd

  “Poor thing, she was all alone.”

  “Her parents had gone?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded vigorously.

  “I would think they’d remain to point out the error of her ways,” he said in disgust. “However, that doesn’t mean Julio is the culprit. It just means he’s off on another drunken spree.”

  “I saw a man up on the mountain. . . .” Rubbing her eyes as if to wipe away tears for the loss of her friend Julio, she added,” A man with that reddish blond hair. He was riding ahead, but as I sought to catch him he disappeared.”

  “This trail is narrow and steep, Vietta,” he pointed out. “Where could he have gone?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know the area. Julio does.”

  Grieved, but not at all convinced, he sighed. “Which way do the tracks go from here?”

  “Up.” She pointed towards the top of the mountain.

  “Is my horse gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.” He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his hands. “Then he has the map. He knows where he’s going.” The darkness comforted his eyes; his elbows supported his head. The pain eased, and he could think. Cautiously, he raised his head and squinted up at Vietta—Vietta, that pale flower of Spanish culture. “What are you doing here?”

  She ducked her head and pleated the material of her skirt to avoid looking into his eyes. “There were rumors flying around Monterey.”

  “What kind of rumors?” He was sorry for his sharpness when he saw the way she flushed. He put his hand over hers and gentled his voice. “Vietta, this is important. What do the rumors say?”

  “That you have gone after the treasure of the padres and misfortune will follow you.” She twisted her hands in her lap, then earnestly apologized, “I’m sorry, Damian, but I had to come. I was so worried.”

  He was struck by an odd kind of vertigo. Her colors reflected an exact opposite of Katherine—she seemed the exact opposite of Katherine. Her long, black hair was braided down her back. Her dark eyelashes and heavy brows ornamented her hazel eyes, making Katherine’s sandy lashes and sea-green eyes seem almost tame. Her perfect, white complexion had tiny wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. It contrasted with Katherine’s, with the faint gold and small dusting of freckles that enchanted him. Her riding habit and hat were a stylish red, not blue; the decorative braid on her jacket was silver, not gold.

  His gaze settled on her throat. Her throat was bare, not wrapped in a scarf to hide a scar.

  Nervously, Vietta touched her neck with her fingers. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He rubbed his eyes. “No, I’m just confused by this thum p I received. How long was I out?”

  “I’ve been here only a few moments,” she answered. “I don’t know with any certainty.”

  Crawling up on his hands and knees, he dropped his head and kept it down as he stood up on wobbly feet. He grabbed for a branch; she grabbed for him. “It’s all right. I’m dizzy, but it’s getting better.” Squinting up at the sun, he estimated the time. “They haven’t been gone long. You’ll be safe here. I’ll take your horse—I can use your horse?”

  “Do you think I’d let you go on your own?” she asked in a shocked little voice. “You’ll need help. You’ll need a backup. And I can shoot, remember? You and Julio taught me how.”

  He wavered, then strengthened with resolve. “No, I can’t let you. You came all this way on a rumor. It would be a poor way to repay your kindness, to subject you to such violence.”

  “There are more than one of these villains who kidnapped your Katherine. How do you propose to unman all of them? You need me.” She put her hand on his arm.

  He looked down at her hand. “How do you know that? How do you know there was more than one man?”

  She gestured. “Look about you. There are the marks of many horses in the dirt. Besides, Damian,” she fluttered her lashes, “it would take more than one man to overpower you. You can’t save Katherine without me.”

  “Katherine wouldn’t want me to put you in danger.”

  “Katherine may be in pain; she may be dying. Or worse. At the fiesta, that Smith man would look at her and cold shivers ran up my spine.” She shivered in emphasis now. “Even now, he might be ripping her clothes.”

  He made an odd noise, one he didn’t anticipate and couldn’t contain.

  Sympathy shone from Vietta’s pallid face. “Damian, we must save her.”

  “Come on, then.”

  The cry of a hunting owl roused Katherine from her uneasy slumber again. According to the old wives’ tale, the owl boded ill with its call, prophesied death with its hoot, but Katherine didn’t believe that. She just believed she would wring that bird’s neck if it didn’t stop waking her.

  Every time she woke, she shivered on the cold ground and wished she dared ask for a cover. Her riding habit was velvet, yet she seemed bare against the elements. Every time she woke, she stared at Smith, at the huge log of a man who cuddled close to the fire. Every time she woke, she remembered his insulting invitation to join him. He’d laughed when she refused him, sure she would change her mind, sure she would suffer if she didn’t.

  Unwillingly, she cursed Damian for failing to rescue her.

  It was stupid to assume he could rescue her when he might be still unconscious. When he might be dead, for all she knew. When she couldn’t rescue herself. The vaqueros had hobbled her to a tree like a dog, laughing when she tried to push their hands away from her ankles. They wrapped her feet together, then attached the long length of rope around the trunk. They hadn’t tied her hands, insultingly sure of the strength of their knots. She’d found, to her distress, they had been correct. She tugged at the rough hemp that bound her feet until her fingers bled, but she couldn’t free herself.

  The vaqueros had taunted her, too, with their own invitations to sleep among them. Lawrence told them to shut up. They’d howled at that, clutching their sides in blatant disrespect until a fog crept down the mountain and settled over the tiny camp. That cut their merriment like a knife.

  At the first murmur of “el padre,” Mr. Smith ordered quiet, but all his commands couldn’t rebuff the damp blanket that muffled sound and brought an odd white light to the night.

  Now, all because of that damned owl, she lay awake and huddled in a little ball. And she thought. She couldn’t turn it off. The seeds of doubt had always been there; Smith had watered them carefully, and they’d sprouted into huge, strangling vines of suspicion.

  Just before Damian had been hit, she had thought he’d been about to confide his tender feelings for her. Over the past few days, the realization had been growing on her that Damian had no real reason to marry her unless he had these tender feelings. Perhaps he even felt affection, although she’d felt like a fraud when she’d bragged about that to Mr. Smith. Furthermore, it had been dawning on her that she might in some way reciprocate those tender feelings. Even the affection.

  Even if there were no tender feelings or affection, even though they’d fought and she’d been afraid, she’d thought that she was secure in Damian’s regard.

  Now Mr. Smith insinuated that she was in love with Damian, and Damian respected her not at all. Of course, she wasn’t in love with Damian. Mr. Smith had been digging at her when he’d said that. But the other sounded so reasonable.

  Where was Damian? Was he hurt badly, or had he taken this chance to get rid of her? Had he romanced her, married her to save his land, and found the sacrifice too much?

  After her years with the Chamberlain family, she had sworn she’d never be used again by anyone. Yet she had never probed into Damian’s real feelings for her as an American. She’d been afraid to. A coward. Did he secretly despise her? Even if he came for her now, would he cast her aside after her usefulness to him was done? Or would he keep her as a responsibility? Would keeping her as his wife be the debt he felt he must pay for her assistance?

  Had she made a mistake?

  Every tim
e she awoke, she wandered the same tortuous path. Every time she awoke, she thought she’d never get to sleep. But when next she struggled to open her eyes, the light of the early sun had seeped into the fog and turned the white to gray. Katherine stared dully at the embers of the fire, then glanced around.

  The blankets were gone.

  So were the vaqueros.

  She sat up with a bound, forgetting her tethered ankles.

  They were gone. Not a trace remained.

  Mr. Smith was gone, too. Only Lawrence still slumbered by the fire, his nose stuck into the air and a gurgling snore emitting from his open lips.

  Where was everybody? She jerked at her bonds, as she had a hundred times, but now she experienced a new urgency. With only Lawrence there, she could escape. She had a chance. If only she could saw through the ropes.

  With what?

  She crawled around the base of the tree, looking for a rough stick, a sharp stone, a knife someone had dropped. She gave a triumphant laugh when she saw a two-foot-long, sturdy branch lying atop a pile of scrub. Stealthily she reached for it. It lay just beyond her grasp. She pulled at the rope. Closer. She stretched. Her fingertips touched it, but she couldn’t clasp it. She pulled and stretched, but she couldn’t quite get it.

  She stopped, panting, glanced around—and there they were. She’d looked for escape, instead she’d found two feet. Two immense feet. Sitting back on her heels, she stared up toward the tombstone face she knew was hidden in the fog. There was no dignity in her position. There was no escape, no excuse for her flouting of his custody. She knew Mr. Smith well enough to know her tiny attempt would be cause for revenge; she had, perhaps, been set up.

  “Well, Miz Kathy,” he asked in hearty goodwill. “Where you going?”

  “Around,” she said acidly.

  “I been around, too.” He hitched up his pants, ran his palms down over his crotch.

  Pretending she didn’t see or understand, she asked, “What happened to your vaqueros?”

  He snorted. “They ran away, the gutless sneaks.”

  “Smart boys,” she approved. She scooted back just a little, and the feet moved forward.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Didn’t you hear the owl call last night? That’s a sign of death.”

  “Yes. So’s sleeping on the ground without a blanket, but you did it.” He nudged at her anger. “You coulda slept with me. I’d have kept you warm.”

  Valiantly she plunged on, hoping to frighten the man, using the only weapon she possessed. In a low, falsely soothing tone, she warned, “This fog’s a bad omen, too. It came on so suddenly. It’s so ominous. They say that’s part of the curse.”

  “Ooh.” He wiggled his fingers like ten worms. “That scares me. I bet pretty soon you’re going to tell me about the girl with the green ribbon around her neck.”

  “I—” Confused, her tone returned to normal. “The green ribbon?”

  “Yes, she never took it off. Her husband asked her why, so when she lay dying, she told him to untie it.” His deep voice resonated with fear, suspicion, desperation. “And . . . her head fell off!” He shouted it; she jumped; he roared with laughter. “You are such a chump,” he marveled. “Fell for the oldest one in the book.”

  She put her finger to her lower lip and pushed against it to still its trembling. Angry that he’d frightened her, angrier that she’d let him, she said, “You have a lot in common with those vaqueros.”

  “Yes? What?”

  Scooting back a little more, she accused, “Only a gutless sneak would tie a woman to a tree.”

  One of those huge shoes stepped down firmly on the edge of her skirt. She tried to back up, but with her feet tied and the restraint of her clothing, her struggle was futile. His legs came down right on top of her thighs, crushing them into the dirt.

  A huge hand grabbed her chin, jerking it up. She whimpered at the pain in her throat. He growled, “You’re just as uppity as you ever were, girl, but there’s no one to save you today.”

  “Lawrence,” she called with a quaver. “Lawrence!”

  “You calling Larry? Larry? Larry the wino?” His fingers inched down towards her throat, stroked it. “Shit, he drank enough last night to keep him out for days.”

  “Where did he find so much wine?” she asked, her tone an accusation.

  “Golly, I don’t know.”

  His feigned virtue made her grind her teeth, and she snapped, “Procurer!”

  “Honey, that’s the least of the names I been called.” He pressed on her windpipe enough to cut off her air and bring her hands beating against him in a panic. “I been called ‘thief’ and ‘coward’ and ‘murderer.’ They’re all true. Imagine that, all true.”

  He released her. She breathed in big gulps of air, air made putrid by his rotting teeth smiling too close to her face. Her fist shot out, but he grabbed her before she made contact with his Adam’s apple. He’d caught on to her defense, and she was slowed by cold, exhaustion, and breathlessness.

  “Still want to call your cousin?” he teased.

  Her mind raced, but there was nothing. No flash of brilliance, no last-minute escape. That big, bony face came at hers with its lips puckered and all she could think of was revulsion and death. Left-handed, she hit at his eye, but her strength and aim was pitiful. She was afraid, and the shriek started at her toes. It came up, but when it hit her throat, pinched by his grip, she could only whisper, “Don Damian!”

  “He’s not here.” He pushed her over on her back, and she fell in a flurry of raised skirts and cramped limbs. “He’s never gonna be here, so you might as well do like all women do. You might as well lie back and enjoy it.”

  7 June, in the year of our Lord, 1777

  A cave is the ideal place to hide the gold. A cave is what God has given us. Tucked into the mountain and almost impossible to detect, it shines with an inner light that betrays God’s pleasure in our undertaking. Inside, it looks like a huge crack in the interior of the rock, and I think perhaps that is its definition. It extends up and out of sight, then down into the depths. A rock dropped down into the chasm in the middle of the cavern falls for a long time before a small sound of impact reveals the bottom. Stone shelves jut out at intervals; the floor of the cave can be no more than a huge shelf itself.

  It is a gift from God. A gift!

  Yet the women are frightened of this place, refusing to enter.

  Fray Lucio, also, turns his face from me and refuses my commands.

  He believes I have fallen from the grace of God. Somewhere on this wretched journey, I have lost their confidence. My orders and my pleas fall on deaf ears.

  Tonight I have determined to do what I have been resisting. I will spend the night in the cave and I will pray to God, as Fray Pedro de Jesus tells me I must.

  I will listen for the answer.

  —from the diary of Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista

  Chapter 20

  He fell on her with all the weight and subtlety of an oak log. The breath whooshed out of her; her leg twisted painfully beneath her. His hands groped for her thigh, bared by her skirt. His palms were clammy as he grabbed her knees and tried to separate them; he cursed on a sour breath when he realized her ankles were still tied.

  “The map,” she croaked. “The treasure.”

  “You don’t think I really brought you along because you said you’d seen the map?” He laughed, snorting in his amusement. “How gullible do you think I am? I can find that treasure using the clues these greasers are afraid to chase. I brought you along for the entertainment value. So entertain me.”

  He knocked her fists away from his face, striking one wrist hard enough to numb it. She tried to scream, rampaging against his ugly domination. Her flailing hand caught one ear and yanked, and he toppled off to the side. Roaring, he came up; her grip slipped. Blood dripped off his face and he slapped her, openhanded. Her head rang; she tasted salt. He ripped at her jacket, tearing the braid, catching her watch chain. He c
lawed at the buttons when they wouldn’t snap off, cursing in language she’d never heard before.

  Some detached portion of her mind thanked the seamstress who’d sewed for the rough outdoor life. That same portion noted she couldn’t win this fight. She had experience with defeat. She’d lost time and again to her cousins, but she’d never lost with such a great penalty at the finish.

  She hit Mr. Smith again. She ripped his face with her fingernails again. She called again. “Lawrence!”

  Her scarf dangled, and Mr. Smith caught the end. She caught a glimpse of blackened teeth when he grinned, then he jerked it tight. The pain of her scar was nothing compared to the lack of breath. She closed her eyes, fighting for strength, for the thin stream of air he allowed in. Through the explosions of light behind her eyes, she could hear him saying in a conversational tone, “Do you remember that I said I was a murderer? Well, Miz Kathy, this is how I did it. I choked her. She turned funny colors, just like you. She tried to talk, just like you, but I just did this.” He tightened his grip.

  Agony exploded in her throat. She writhed until her cognizance slipped.

  The pressure relented, and she sucked in the damp air without being aware.

  That flat voice droned, “Makes you a little more amenable to some fun. It worked with her, too.”

  She couldn’t bring herself alive. She couldn’t make her hands work, or her feet, or her eyes. All she could do was breathe. Her consciousness drifted when his hand fumbled with her shirt, and she breathed some more. Her eyes opened, then closed against the sight of him. She tried to turn away, and the pressure at her neck increased.

  “Don’t want too much piss and vinegar outta you. Don’t like women who move much.”

  She went limp.

  “Hey, now, don’t overdo it.”

  He throttled her. She struggled.

  “That’s better,” he soothed. “I like to see—”

  She heard a whack right by her ear, a scream she didn’t think was hers. The clamp on her throat released; his knee smacked her hip. He scrambled away, dragging his legs over her chest. She thrust at him, but her hands met the air and fell to the ground, useless. She tried to make sense of the sounds that filled the clearing, but she couldn’t do that, either.