Return of the Fox
Page 1
Table of Contents
RETURN OF THE FOX
Acknowledgments and Notes
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
RETURN OF THE FOX
Mission Belles Book 2
PAMELA GIBSON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
RETURN OF THE FOX
Copyright©2020
PAMELA GIBSON
Cover Design by Laura Bemis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-64716-078-4
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
For Mary Nieblas Brown
who keeps history alive
for those of us descended from
Jesus Nieblas and Maria de los Angeles de la Cruz
who walked to California from Sinaloa, Mexico,
in the 1860s.
Acknowledgments and Notes
On July 7, 1846, Commodore John D. Sloat issued a proclamation upon conquering California, “I do not come… as an enemy to California; on the contrary, I come as their best friend.” With that pronouncement most government institutions were pretty much left intact until the discovery of gold changed everything.
The Los Angeles in my story is a city in transition, although the transition described actually took place a few years later. Because this is fiction, I’ve speeded up the process. There was a fleabag hotel called the Bella Union, but the hotel in my story is entirely fictional and more like the opulent Pico House, built a few years later.
I have tried to depict life on the ranchos and the challenges faced with the coming of the new order, as accurately as possible and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the late historian Phil Brigandi who read this manuscript with meticulous care, and more than a few blushes. Thank you also to my early readers, Faith Freewoman and Mark Gibson, and to my amazing editors Tamara Hughes, and Debby Gilbert.
Finally, thank you to my fans of this sub-genre who patiently waited for Gabriel and Isabella’s book.
Prologue
Rancho de Los Arboles, July 1847
Isabella Fuentes lifted a corner of the drapes and peeked outside. Muttering a word no lady should know, she fought for control, willing her heart to slow to a normal pace.
Had she not told Drake Logan the ranch was not for sale twice before?
Insufferable pig. Who did he think she was? A weak, cowering female, afraid of her own shadow because a man did not speak for her? An illiterate widow befuddled by the day-to-day operation of her forty-thousand-acre ranch?
Two hundred people lived and worked on her property. She’d made it her business to know most of them by name. Like most of the hidalgos of Alta California, she paid them a small wage in addition to providing food and shelter. In return they tended her crops, cared for her cattle, and made products to be traded with the ships that anchored off San Pedro.
She ran her ranch as capably as any man. She’d thought she’d made that quite clear.
She flung open the door, not waiting for the knock.
“Mr. Logan. You’re back.”
“Señora Fuentes.” Drake Logan doffed his hat, revealing greasy strands of fair hair that fell to the sides of his face. “I’ve brought good news. May we come in?”
She tightened her hands, then stepped back from the door. Good manners were bred into her. She’d hear what he had to say and send him on his way.
“This is my associate, Morgan Slade. I don’t believe you’ve met.”
The young man’s arrogant sneer seemed out of place on his cherubic face. Isabella suppressed a shudder and nodded, as he looked her up and down like she was a slab of meat in the marketplace.
“Please be seated.” She dropped into a chair across from the one Logan chose. The other man wandered around the sitting room, picking up odd pieces she had on display—a silver vase, an ornate clock from France, a teacup from China.
He acts like he is taking inventory.
The first time Logan made her an offer, he attempted to speak to her in Spanish. She’d shocked him by answering in English. Showing off, she’d even used a few French phrases.
Tomas Fuentes, her late husband, had been a well-educated man, enlightened for his time, who believed his wife should know everything he knew. When he’d discovered she had a flair for languages, he taught her enough to speak to the traders, whether they spoke English, French, or Russian.
Forcing herself now to focus on Logan, she waited while he reached inside a leather satchel and drew out a sheaf of papers.
“I’m happy to say I’ve been able to convince my colleagues to increase their offer.” He pointed to a line on a sheet of paper he held out to her. “Here is the number. I’m sure you’ll want to reconsider.”
Nearly choking with fury, Isabella rose from her chair. “I told you before, nothing will convince me to sell this ranch. This is my home, my livelihood. These are my people. Please leave and do not return.”
“See here, lady,” Slade spouted. “Laws are going to change. All this will be taken away from you when the treaty is signed.”
She gritted her teeth. “Not if I still draw breath.”
“Stubborn women have been known to disappear,” he sneered.
Her eyes widened at the thinly veiled threat.
Dios. This man was not someone she wanted to ever meet on a deserted trail.
Logan, the lawyer, glared at his associate. “Slade is speaking nonsense. He does that
when he is disappointed. But he is correct. Many changes will be coming to Alta California.”
Isabella slowed her breathing to gain control of her temper. She taxed her brain to recall what she’d learned about the Americans. “Your Commodore Sloat said language and institutions would remain in place.”
“He ain’t no politician.” The remark was made by Slade as he fingered an ornate wooden box. “And he ain’t here.”
Isabella stomped to the door, opening it wide. “I believe our business is concluded.”
Logan frowned as he rose and picked up his satchel. “I’ve left the revised paperwork for you. Read it carefully. Discuss it with one of your brothers. I know they do not live nearby, but you can send word. I’m sure we can reach a mutually satisfactory agreement, once you have male guidance.”
He put on his hat and sauntered out the door, Slade following.
“In your dreams, bastardo,” Isabella snarled under her breath as she slammed the door for good measure.
Rushing to the window, she watched them leave. The two men—deep in conversation—mounted their horses. Instead of riding away, they headed toward the barn and the trail beyond that led into the hills. Her hills.
What are they up to?
She’d been stern. Rude even.
She didn’t have to be reminded that the end of the war between Mexico and the United States would bring change. Gabriel talked about this all the time. He believed the Americans would protect the property rights of Mexican citizens.
Speaking of insufferable pigs.
The day Gabriel de la Vega breezed into his father’s sitting room like he’d never been away, she’d nearly choked on her tea. She’d been a guest in the Vega’s home, helping her best friend, Sorina, settle into a normal life after a harrowing abduction.
Before her arranged marriage to Tomas Fuentes, Gabriel had been the most important man in Isabella’s life. But that had been years ago—before he broke her heart.
She was stronger now and secure in her role as patrona of a great rancho.
Her land was not for sale. Not now. Not ever.
If those men want what is mine, they will have to kill me to get it.
She shuddered as the thought burrowed into her subconscious, hoping it was not a portent of the future.
Chapter 1
Union Hotel, Pueblo of Los Angeles, August 1847
Gabriel de la Vega hated weddings, especially Alta California ones.
Ceremonies saturated with Latin incantations and choking incense exhausted participants and well-wishers.
Pubescent girls who knew nothing of marriage knelt next to cocky grooms who were likely to gamble away their new wives’ dowries within a year.
And the feasting, dancing, and gaming at celebratory fiestas lasted for days, taking guests away from their responsibilities.
He declined most of the invitations, citing a previous engagement or a more pressing obligation.
But he couldn’t refuse this one.
The bride was his niece.
“Make haste. I am ready to depart.” The gruff voice outside his door belonged to his father, who was anxious to get to the ceremony. The wedding would take place in El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora de la Reina de Los Angeles, instead of Mission San Juan Capistrano, their home parish.Too many bad memories lingered there for Sorina.
All that was in the past. Sorina Braithwaite, his dead sister’s only child, had found the man of her heart and would marry him today.
“Order the carriage. I’ll join you momentarily,” he replied.
If I ever get this damned neckcloth tied correctly.
He peered into the looking glass and struggled with the knot. The next knock on his door was soft, and the door opened gently.
Sorina leaned against the frame, her radiant face warming his heart.
“Come closer and let me gawk at you, niece.”
She was stunning, from her dainty embroidered shoes to the top of her mantilla-draped hair. Her gown was a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder concoction of aqua silk with a fitted bodice forming a vee at her tiny waist. Her glossy black hair was parted in the middle and piled on top of her head in the style favored by the young English queen, and a white lace mantilla, held in place by an intricately carved tortoiseshell comb, floated down her back.
Gabriel reached over and brushed the comb with his fingertips, tracing the design. He’d purchased it years ago for Isabella Fuentes, the matron of honor. She must have loaned it to Sorina for the ceremony.
A period in my life best forgotten.
Dismissing the unexpected memory, he focused on the bride-to-be’s glowing smile. “You are breathtaking, my dear. Your parents would be so proud. I’m sorry they didn’t live to see you married.”
“On days like today I miss them terribly.” She held his gaze. “I won’t be sad, Uncle Gabriel. Are you not the one who has always told me to let go of the past and concentrate on the future?”
“Guilty as charged.” He tweaked her nose and squinted into the mirror. “Did you come to admire my attire, or do you have another reason for being here?”
“Grandfather sent me to make sure you aren’t dawdling.”
He finished tying his black silk neckcloth. “It was this knot. I’m not accustomed to such accoutrements. There. Did I get it right?” He stood back.
Sorina straightened a fold of the tie and tilted her head to one side. “You’ll be the handsomest man at the wedding . . . except for Lance, of course.”
“Are you sure?” He struck a pose, lifting the tail of his long coat with one hand as if to curtsy and planting his other hand behind his head.
She laughed and gave him a quick hug. “Let’s be off before Grandfather has apoplexy. You know he insists on being punctual, and I don’t want Lance to think I’ve changed my mind.”
After all they had been through, Lance would never be parted from her again . . . even for a day. Gabriel was sure of it.
A French barouche waited to take Sorina and his aunt, Consuelo, the short distance to the plaza. He and Father would ride alongside. The wedding party was staying at the Union Hotel, where the reception and ball would be held. Tomorrow’s festivities—of which there were many—would be at Rancho Los Feliz, close enough for guests housed in the pueblo or at nearby ranchos to attend.
Gabriel groaned when he thought about his duties as best man. Lance and Sorina insisted on an American wedding with all of its attendants and amenities. After standing up with Lance, he would be required to make speeches, oversee the food at the lavish reception, and dance at the grand ball in the evening.
Tomorrow he would start the horse race, and do the same for the rodeo. He’d given up bull riding, but Sorina reminded him he’d once roped a calf in record time. Surely he had not lost his skill, she’d coaxed. She wanted to show off her favorite uncle, to remind people he was back in the good graces of his family.
He’d still declined, claiming it was much too strenuous.
A lie, but some are necessary.
Since returning, he’d adopted the persona of a bored, indolent, wealthy son, finding it advantageous to fade into obscurity. Those who were overlooked often learned a great deal, and after studying law with an American during his exile, he considered his act to be a necessity in a place like the pueblo of Los Angeles. Chaos ruled, and change was bearing down on them. Scoundrels entered the territory every day, and the rancheros had much to lose without hidden champions in their midst.
Being monotonous also made him less visible. While the American military had absolved him of the alleged crimes that sent him into exile, some in Mexican society still avoided him, shielding their daughters from his view. The sanctimonious Antoine Santoro—the real criminal—still had the ability to reach from the grave to sully Gabriel’s reputation.
Only time, impeccable behavior, and association with unimpeachable persons would remove all doubt.
At least my enemy is dead.
Today was not a day to dwell on the past.
He mounted his horse and adjusted his coat and neckcloth. Unlike his father, Gabriel chose to wear the clothes of an American gentleman. The groom was an American, and since Lance Grainger was no longer in the United States Navy, he would be wearing a long coat with tails, a waistcoat, and long trousers. Father chose to dress as the successful Mexican ranchero he was, wearing black embroidered pants and short coat while riding atop a hand-tooled leather saddle with silver trappings. His full head of gray hair was concealed under a short-brimmed hat worn over a tight-fitting kerchief.
He looks like a robust Don Quixote without the armor. All he lacks is a sword.
Gabriel studied his surroundings as they made their way down the dusty street. The morning was a fine one, but it would be hot by afternoon. The streets were full of people returning to the pueblo. The war between Mexico and the United States was nearing an end. Hostilities in California had ended months ago, and he felt certain diplomats would be sent to Mexico City soon to draft a treaty.
The church loomed ahead. Carretas lined the street, having deposited their occupants at the church steps. It would be a crush . . . he had no doubt. The Vega family was well known, and Sorina was a favorite.
Gabriel patted his pocket, making sure he had the ring Lance gave him for safekeeping. Sorina had wanted to wear her mother’s ring, but her fiancé insisted she must have one of her own, a beautiful circle of gold with the initials L and S carved into the band.
The barouche carrying the bride and her aunt halted in front of the church. Both Gabriel and his father dismounted, handing their reins to Pablo. Pablo was Father’s majordomo, the man who ran the everyday operations at Rancho de Los Lagos. He’d been with the family for as long as Gabriel could remember.