Midnight Rider (43 page)

“
Si.
For you,
querida,
I can do anything.”

Leaning heavily against her, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and together they limped over to the horses. She helped him shove a boot into his stirrup. Ramon swayed forward and Carly heaved him up in the saddle. After tying her mare's reins so they wouldn't trail on the ground, she let the little horse roam free, knowing it would follow, then led the black stallion to a rock and climbed up behind Ramon. Wrapping her arms around him, she turned the stallion toward Las Almas and they set off in that direction, the mare jogging along a few feet away, Carly praying she could handle the fiery black horse.

A hundred times, she thought they wouldn't make it. Or that even if they did, that it would be too late. The rough ground they crossed had his wound bleeding badly again, leaving him barely conscious from loss of blood, groaning with pain at each agonizing jolt of the horse's hooves. Several times, he slipped into blackness and only the hold she kept tightly around him kept him from falling off the horse.

All the while she kept praying, calling on God and the Blessed Virgin to help them get back home.

The night seemed endless. Darkness stretched like a curtain in front of them, the tiny sliver of moon all that lighted their way. The screech of an owl erupted from the shadows, followed by the howl of a wolf, and later the low-pitched growl of a bear somewhere ahead of them in the darkness.

Carly shivered to think what might happen if one of the prowling beasts attacked, or even frightened the stallion enough that she would lose her tenuous grip on the saddle. And the trail itself was a problem. They had taken a lesser-used path that was heavily overgrown and sometimes disappeared completely.

Just when she was certain she had somehow lost their way and would never get home, she crested the rise above the rancho and spotted the small adobe hacienda in the valley below.

“Thank God,” she whispered, never meaning it more. Relief slid through her while renewed hope lifted her spirits. Nudging the big stallion forward, she headed down into the valley, and a worried Mariano rushed out to meet them. Two Hawks appeared, little Bajito yapping at his heels, followed by Tia and Mother de la Guerra.

“Santa Maria,”
Tia Teresa whispered, hurrying toward them on her long, spindly legs.

“Ramon's been shot, Tia. I'm afraid he's injured very badly.” Even as Carly said the words, the ache returned to her throat. On the trail, she'd been able to keep her fears under control—there wasn't time for hysterics. Now that his family was there, it was all she could do not to crumble into a fit of tears.

Mariano and Two Hawks carried Ramon into the house.

“Don Ramon is strong,” the boy said. “He will be all right, senora … now that you are home.” He gave her an encouraging smile, then went out to rub down the lathered horses, grain them, and put them away. Tia helped Carly limp into the bedroom, then Carly and Ramon's mother began to strip off his bloody clothes while Tia Teresa went outside to help Blue Blanket boil water to cleanse the wound.

“It is not so bad as you think.” Ramon's soft voice drifted up from the middle of the bed. “I have survived far worse.” Now that he was home, some of his strength had returned. Though his face looked pale beneath his dark skin, his features drawn and tight, he smiled at Carly with warmth, and she reached out to clasp his hand.

“I am not going to die,” he said, “though perhaps I should pretend to such a thing. I am not above doing so, if I thought it would bring you back home.”

Her heart wrenched, tilted inside her. “I am home, Ramon. I'm never going to leave you again.”

Tia and his mother exchanged silent glances, turned and slipped quietly out of the room.

Ramon squeezed her hand. “You cannot stay here, Cara, not tonight. Your uncle must not guess your involvement in this—nor mine. If he does, everything we have worked for will be lost.”

Her eyes dimmed at his words. “But—but I can't just leave you—you're wounded! I have to stay here and take care of you.”

He smiled at her with tenderness. “You know that I am right.”

“My uncle won't be back until tomorrow. Surely I can stay until then.”

Ramon watched her with such longing it made her heart turn over. “Do you think I wish for you to go? What I want is for you to stay here. If there was any way I could survive it, I would drag you into this bed and pull you beneath me. I would show you in a hundred different ways exactly how much I love you. Instead I must send you away.”

Carly clutched his hand. “Let me stay.”

“It is too dangerous for you to remain. The women will see to my wounds—you must not worry about that. I told you before, I have suffered far worse … and I have much to live for.” He pressed a gentle kiss into the palm of her hand. “Two Hawks will bring fresh horses. Mariano will ride with you back to the ranch. When it is safe for you to return, I will be waiting.”

The ache in her throat returned. Her eyes glazed with tears and a tight knot formed in her chest. She glanced at Ramon and even as he watched her, his eyes drifted closed, the loss of blood and fatigue dragging him once more into unconsciousness.

He might die tonight and she would not be with him.

He might die and she would never see him again.

He might live and her absence from del Robles would alert her uncle and surely get him hanged.

Her heart thudding dully, Carly bent over him and pressed a soft kiss on his lips, then she turned to see Tia and Mother de la Guerra standing in the doorway.

“We will care for him well,” Tia promised, her own rheumy eyes clouded with tears.

“Si,”
said his mother, “but the best medicine for my son is that his wife will soon be home.”

Carly blinked back a fresh round of wetness. “I don't want to go, but I must. I have to keep him safe.”

The older woman nodded.

“I'll be back just as soon as I can.” She hugged them as she made her way past, and they helped her outside. Standing in the yard, Two Hawks and Mariano waited with fresh horses. The stout vaquero lifted her up on a tall bay gelding, swung into the saddle of his own bay horse, and tied Sunflower's reins to his saddle horn.

They rode in silence back toward del Robles, neither of them voicing their worry for Ramon, or that Fletcher Austin might have already returned to the rancho and discovered her gone. What would she tell him if he had? What lie could she make him believe?

At the top of the hill overlooking the rancho, she traded horses, letting Mariano help her up on Sunflower's weary back, then she rode off down the hill to the stable, careful to skirt the bunkhouse and praying no one would see her.

Inside the barn, she slipped tiredly down from the mare, wincing at the pain in her twisted ankle. In the thin light streaming in through the window, she began to unsaddle her horse.

“I will do it, senora.”

Carly jumped at the sound of the voice. “Jose! Dear God, you nearly frightened me to death.”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to.” The tall vaquero stepped up beside her and began to loosen the cinch. “Go inside the house,” he said, turning to face her, “and do not worry—I will tell no one that you were gone.”

Carly nervously wet her lips. “Thank you, Jose.” He merely nodded as she slipped outside into the shadows of the barn and made her way quietly back to the house. Candelaria was waiting in Carly's bedroom when she arrived and quickly began helping her out of her clothes.

So many people to keep silent, and yet she believed they would.

“Hurry, senora. Senor Austin will be home any minute.”

“He said he wouldn't be back until tomorrow,” Carly corrected, thinking of her uncle's parting words.

“He will be here and soon. One of the men rode on ahead. He said your uncle was wounded in the fighting in San Juan.”

“What!”

“That is what he said. I am afraid I know nothing more.”

“Does the man know I was gone?”

“No. I told him you were sleeping, that I would tell you Senor Austin had been injured and that they were bringing him home.”

“Thank you, Candelaria.”

The girl only shrugged. “We are friends … and you are Don Ramon's wife.”

Carly said nothing else, just slipped into her night rail and pink satin wrapper then went into her uncle's bedroom to see that it was prepared.

“Wake Rita,” she told Candelaria. “Have her boil some water and gather whatever supplies we'll need to tend my uncle's wounds.”

“
Si,
senora.”

But surely he wasn't hurt badly, she thought, trying to imagine her seemingly invincible uncle any other way but issuing orders and bellowing commands. It was Ramon who was critically injured. It was her husband who needed her—and she wasn't there.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

She would have been pacing if her ankle hadn't throbbed. Instead she sat before the window in her bedroom, her leg propped up on a pillow, worrying about Ramon and concerned for her uncle when the thunder of hoofbeats rent the air.

Tightening the sash of her pale pink wrapper, she limped to the door to meet the group of mounted men who pounded into the yard, raising a cloud of dust.

Near the front of the group, slumped over and tied onto his horse, the sight of her uncle's bloody figure sent a shaft of terror slicing through her.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered through lips that went suddenly dry. She gripped the door frame at Cleve Sanders's approach.

“It's real bad, Miss McConnell.”

Numbly she nodded. “Hurry, bring him inside so we can tend him.” Sanders and three other men eased him down from the horse then carried his blood-soaked body up the back stairs and into the house. His breeches were ragged and dirty from the fall he had taken from his horse, his shirt stained crimson from the massive wound in his stomach. Another bloody hole seeped fluid from his chest.

“Take him into the bedroom.” Carly bit hard on her lip, fighting back the strangled sounds of fear that threatened to erupt from her throat. Suddenly all the heated words they'd said, all the disagreements, all her uncle's machinations meant nothing. Uncle Fletcher was dying. He was hurting and he was frightened. In his own way he had been good to her. He was family. Her mother's only brother. And she was all he had.

“Caralee?” He said her name so softly she almost didn't hear him. She moved closer as the men laid him down on the deep feather mattress and began to pull off his boots.

“I'm right here, Uncle Fletcher.” She forced a smile and brushed the tears from her cheeks, then reached over and caught his hand. She sat down in the chair beside him, her legs no longer steady. On the opposite side of the bed, Cleve Sanders helped Rita strip away his torn and bloody shirt and begin to wash his wounds, but all of them knew the effort was futile.

A low sound of pain struggled up from his throat. He dragged in a breath and slowly released it. “Didn't mean for it to end like … this.” He stared up at her, his cheeks sunken with pain, his skin as waxen as a candle. “Wanted … to be sure you'd be … taken care of. Your mother … would have wanted that.”

Her throat ached. She felt as if she might strangle. “You did your best, Uncle Fletcher.”

“Hoped … you and Vincent…”

“I know. Don't try to talk. You have to save your strength.” Dear God, he was dying! Somehow she couldn't make herself believe it.

“No … time for that.” His weak hold on her hand tightened faintly. “Want you to know … in my own way I … loved you. Never said that to anyone. Not … my way. Never told your mother either. Always … regretted that.”

She swallowed past the ache. “I love you, too, Uncle Fletcher. In the years after Mama died, I was so lonely. I came here and you took that loneliness away.”

He grimaced as a ripple of pain speared through him. “Wanted you to be happy … have the things your mother never had.” He started coughing and a trickle of blood seeped out from between his thin blue lips.

Carly pressed a clean white handkerchief against his mouth to blot the red liquid away, her hands shaking, tears flooding her cheeks. “I am happy, Uncle. And I have everything I want—I promise you that.”

He gazed at her with a measure of his old wily shrewdness. “You're talking about … the Spaniard. You're still … in love with him. Saw it almost from the start.”

“I know how you feel about him, Uncle Fletcher, but—”

“He'll take care of you … never doubted that. Good man to have as a friend … bad man for an enemy.”

Carly said nothing, just gripped her uncle's white-knuckled hand. “I wish this hadn't happened. I'd give anything if—”

“Just the way life is, honey. Lots of things … I wish I hadn't done. Things I wish I could … change.”

A sob welled up, but only a soft sound escaped.

“Where's Rita?” he asked.

“I am here, Senor Fletcher.” She hurried forward, her face ashen, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Fletcher sucked in a wheezing breath of air. “I'll miss you, woman. Never said that before, either.”

Rita began to speak to him in Spanish, intoning him not to leave her, but already he was slipping away. Carly could almost feel his life-force dimming in front of her eyes.

“Caralee?” he whispered.

“Yes, Uncle Fletcher?”

“Be happy,” he said on a final breath of air and then he was gone.

Rita bent over him, sobbing unashamedly against his thick chest, but Carly slipped quietly out of the room. Walking numbly, hardly aware of the pain in her ankle, she moved past the low-burning lamps in the hall and made her way into the darkened living room. Sitting down in front of the embers that had burned to ashes in the huge rock hearth, she leaned wearily against the back of the horsehair sofa.