Midnight Rider (4 page)

“Raja will win,” he said, “you may count on it.”

“It may not be quite so easy,” she couldn't resist putting in. “I hear Californios are among the finest horsemen in the world.”

Vincent's expression turned smug. He arched a sandy eyebrow. “I would say that remains to be seen.”

The riders mounted their horses, both of which were extremely high spirited, dancing sideways and tossing their magnificent heads. Gradually, the men brought each of them under control, but it must have been like trying to hold back the wind. She noticed the don rode a different saddle today, smaller, lighter, with none of the fancy silver trim.

He was a great deal larger than Stan McCloskey, a handicap to be sure. She didn't realize she was staring, admiring the way he sat his horse, till the Spaniard's dark eyes locked with hers and he flashed her a bright white smile. Carly flushed as he touched the brim of his flat black hat in a mock salute, then loosened the braided cord around his throat, removed the hat, and sailed it to one of his men.

Though she felt a considerable amount of guilt, Carly sent up a small silent prayer that he would win.

She nearly leapt out of her seat when the starting gun fired.

“They're off!” cried her uncle.

The gray got the jump on the don's palomino, but the stallion took up a place close behind. They ran the first leg with the gray horse a full length ahead. Even from a distance, Carly could hear their pounding hooves, would have sworn her own heart pounded just as madly. The horses rounded a huge live oak that signaled the first turn and started the second leg of the course, which climbed a slightly rounded hill, a wide swath having been cleared through the dry brown grass of late summer.

There were more oaks scattered along the course, but most of the rocks had been cleared. By the time they reached the creek and leapt across it, landing with a splash on the opposite side, Rey del Sol had closed half a length, but the gray horse still held the lead position.

A light rain had fallen two days earlier; in places the ground was still damp. It sucked at the animals' hooves, taxing their muscles and draining their strength, but the more powerfully built palomino seemed not to notice. McCloskey bent over the gray, urging the animal on. The don leaned forward, too, but where the other rider surged with each of the Thoroughbred's motions, the Spaniard seemed more in tune, moving with the same fluid grace as the horse.

“They're so beautiful,” Carly said, thinking she had never seen another man ride with such perfection.

“They're coming to the flat at the back of the course,” Vincent said. “The gray has greater speed—this is where he'll move even farther ahead.”

But Carly wasn't so sure. The gray seemed to be tiring while the Andalusian had not yet reached its peak. They flew across the long flat section at the top of the hill and started down the incline on the opposite side, the gray still half a length ahead.

Three-quarters through the third leg of the course, Vincent was frowning. According to his theory, Raja should have been far out in front.

“I've got a thousand dollars riding on that horse of yours, William,” her uncle said. “He had better not come up short.”

Bannister was a tall man whose blond hair had only begun to gray. He dressed impeccably and moved with a sort of graceful precision.
Distinguished,
that was the word to describe William Bannister.

“I'm in a great deal deeper than that,” he said. “Don't worry, McCloskey will come through.”

As the horses rounded a large granite boulder that mapped the final turn, the crowd gasped in unison and Carly surged to her feet. The palomino had stumbled and nearly gone down, but he was back in his stride and running flat out. She could almost feel the animal's proud determination … or perhaps it was the don's.

Whatever it was, the pair seemed even more driven to win.

“My God,” Fletcher Austin said, “that stallion of de la Guerra's is incredible.”

“Yes,” said Bannister, and in that moment Carly felt certain even William Bannister wanted to see the gallant horse win. “I've never seen anything so magnificent.”

“The gray will be the victor,” Vincent said stubbornly, but the palomino was closing fast, his strides lengthened so far out at times his nose and feet were nearly touching.

The finish line loomed ahead. Everyone was standing, shouting and cheering, including Fletcher and Carly. “You can do it,” she whispered, “you can do it—I know you can!”

And they did, the magnificent palomino and its graceful rider pounding across the finish line just inches ahead of the gray. Carly was shouting with joy, laughing, her eyes suddenly stinging with tears. For a moment Vincent Bannister looked horrified, and Carly flushed with guilt.

She was afraid to look at her uncle—or worse yet William Bannister. When she did, she saw her uncle frowning, but Bannister was smiling.

“Incredible,” was all he said.

“Cost me a thousand,” her uncle said with a heavy sigh, “but it was damned near worth it.”

“Let's go down to the finish line,” Carly suggested, hoping the men would agree, and surprisingly they did. By the time they got there, Don Ramon was surrounded by dozens of joyous vaqueros, his smiling mother and aunt, the Montoyas, Herreras, Estradas, and several other Californio families.

He glanced up at their approach and the smile slid from his face.

“Congratulations, Don Ramon,” Bannister said. “Once more you have proven that you ride California's most magnificent horse.”

“You are very gracious, Senor Bannister. I did not expect it … coming from a man who tried to win by cheating.”

Bannister stilled and her uncle went tense. “What are you talking about?” William demanded.

“I am speaking of this.” He handed over a short-handled object with three sharp prongs on the end. The prongs held a slight trace of blood. “Your man, Senor McCloskey, used this on my horse as we rounded the final turn. Unfortunately for him, I was able to jerk it from his hand.”

The crowd parted as Bannister moved toward Rey del Sol. He saw the slight puncture marks beneath the animal's ribs, the blond hair covered with a small amount of blood. He turned, stiff and red-faced, to Ramon de la Guerra.

“I give you my word as a gentleman, I knew nothing about this. I hope one day to own Rey del Sol. I would never wish to see such a fine animal injured.”

The don said nothing.

“I am deeply sorry, Don Ramon,” William continued. “I promise you I will deal personally with McCloskey, and I sincerely hope that you will accept my humble apology.”

The Spaniard studied him for long, tense moments. “The injury is a small one. I am glad to learn you had no part in what happened. I accept your apology … and your two thousand dollars.”

A roar went up from the crowd. The don was smiling again, that incredible blinding white smile that turned Carly's stomach all hot and liquid. Especially when he was looking at her the way he was right now.

“Congratulations, Don Ramon,” she said to him softly. “Your ride was magnificent.”

A bold black brow arched up. He watched her with renewed interest, realizing she was pleased that he had won. “
Muchas gracias,
senorita. You are interested in horses?”

“I have read a good deal about them on the ship as I traveled from the East. I am only just learning to ride, but yes … I am greatly interested in horses.”

He seemed surprised at her words. It occurred to her that most fashionable ladies learned to ride very young. She flushed and hoped her small mistake would go unnoticed by the others among her uncle's wealthy friends.

“It seems most of us here have an interest in horses,” William Bannister put in, handing over the winner's share, a leather pouch filled with gold coins. “I still wish to purchase your stallion. I'll pay double whatever reasonable price you name.”

The don just shook his head. “Rey is among the last of my father's Andalusian horses. He must be saved for breeding.” Carly had read about such horses, the same animals brought to the New World with Cortez.

“We could work out stud services. I would be happy—”

“I am sorry, Senor Bannister, Rey del Sol is not for sale.”

Bannister sighed, but the don's gaze had already swung back to Carly. “Perhaps—once Senorita McConnell possesses sufficient skills—Senor Austin might be interested in one of Rey's colts. A beautiful palomino mare would make the perfect horse for a lady such as she.”

Fletcher stroked his beardless chin. “Perhaps you are right, Don Ramon. One of the stallion's colts would be a fine asset to Rancho del Robles.”

As if to seal his promise, the don bent down and picked up a long-stemmed red rose, one of a half dozen the Californio women had tossed in his direction as he had crossed the finish.

“For you, senorita. In memory of this day … though its loveliness pales before such a beautiful woman.”

Carly accepted the rose, a warm glow coloring her cheeks. She started to smile, to thank him for such a gallant gesture, then she caught her uncle's scowl. Dear God, she was doing it again, letting the handsome don charm her. Uncle Fletcher would be furious when they got home.

The smile of warmth never came, only a pasted-on version. “Thank you, Senor de la Guerra,” she said formally, using her most haughty voice. She passed the rose beneath her nose, inhaling the softly fragrant scent. “Your customs are utterly charming. I'm certain that I shall remember.”

Her uncle's expression relaxed. He took her hand and rested it on the broadcloth sleeve of his burgundy tail coat. “Time to go, my dear.”

“Of course, Uncle.” She turned away from the don, no longer willing to meet his eyes, and they began walking back toward the others.

“Very well done, my dear. Gracious, ladylike, yet putting the man in his place. I'm proud of you.”

Carly felt suddenly ill. Is that what she had done? Put Don Ramon in his place? It wasn't what she had intended. She glanced one last time at the don, caught his dark look in return, then the radiant smile he flashed Pilar Montoya.

She gasped as a thorn in the blood red rose pricked her finger.

*   *   *

Andreas de la Guerra walked with the group of vaqueros back toward their horses. The men had come from a dozen different haciendas to see Ramon ride against the
gringo.
They had not been disappointed, and the victory each man felt was as personal as his Californio honor.

Recalling the incredible race and the Anglo's outrageous treachery, Andreas clenched his fist. His brother's daring ride had saved the day, but that didn't lessen his fury at what might have occurred.

Then again, what had he expected?

He had been fighting the
gringos
ever since his return to California, since he found his father lying on his death bed in the small hacienda, Rancho Las Almas, that was the original Rancho del Robles, abandoned when the bigger house was built.

He had been fighting them for six long months before his brother's arrival from Spain, trying to reclaim what should have rightfully belonged to them.

Ramon had joined him, though at first he was reluctant, certain that violence was not the way. Guilt had won his assistance, guilt for his father's death at the hands of the Anglos, for his mother's misery while he had been living the good life in Spain.

Andreas knew his brother could not forgive himself for not coming home sooner, for failing his family in their time of need.

It wasn't completely his fault. Diego de la Guerra had been certain he could handle the matter himself, could prove that the land was his, or fight the Anglos, if necessary, to keep it. After his death, Andreas had thought the same. It had felt good to be a man, no longer in the shadow of his brother. He was determined to set things right, to find justice with or without Anglo law.

He had started fighting back in the guise of El Dragón, and to this day he continued.

“It is time we returned to the hills, amigo.” Pedro Sanchez, once his father's
segundo,
second in command, on Rancho del Robles, rode up beside him. He was a man in his early sixties, skilled in the ways of the vaquero, wiry, hard, and tough as the leather sole of a boot.

“You go on.” Andreas grinned. “I have business in San Juan Bautista.”

“The same sort of business your brother wishes to have with the pretty young
gringa?
” he asked. Apparently Pedro had seen Ramon give her the rose.

“He told me she was nothing but trouble. I think she is not so much trouble for me as she is for him.”

“Senor Austin will not approve of his interest. He is not a man your brother should openly oppose.”

“Ramon knows that only too well. I do not think he meant to. He swore there would never be a de la Guerra Andalusian on del Robles land until we once more owned it.” He shrugged. “Ah, but whether he believes it or not, my brother is only human—and the woman, she is exquisite, no?”

“She is trouble, just as Ramon has said.”

“Perhaps I should save him. Perhaps if he rides with me to San Juan—”

“The widow, Pilar, can save him well enough. And there is always Miranda. She pines for him every moment he is away from the stronghold.”

“
Si,
I suppose you are right.” He took a last long look at the cluster of people milling like insects at the bottom of the hill. He thought he could just make out a small, auburn-haired woman beneath a pink-and-white-striped parasol.

He smiled. “On the other hand, what is life without a little trouble?”

Pedro laughed and the two men spurred their horses, riding on into the hills. At the crossroads, Andreas turned south and Pedro rode higher. Thoughts of the Americana with the pretty green eyes and pale skin, with the high, plump breasts and tiny ankles, drove Andreas on. He hoped in San Juan he would find a woman with the same full breasts who would, for a coin or two or maybe a few words of flattery, welcome him into her bed.