Return of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “You are being kind to me . . . after what I did to you in the garden.” Her voice sounded weak even to her own ears.

  “Let’s just say the slap was long overdue.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. The sofa cushion shifted as Gabriel rose. A door opened and someone came in, probably Catalina. She opened her eyes to confirm this.

  “I have the headache powders, señor.” Catalina looked from him to her mistress, as if not knowing what to do next.

  “I’ll prepare the drink. I think your mistress might like to lie down on the sofa and will need a light blanket. Then you should probably prepare her bed. She may prefer it.”

  “Sí, señor. I’ll go fetch a blanket from the sleeping chamber.”

  Gabriel mixed the powder with the rest of the tea and added a dollop of honey. When he sat next to her and held out the glass, she sipped from the rim. Puckering her lips, she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “This concoction will only make my headache worse.”

  “No, it won’t. You must hold your nose and drink it down. I know it’s still bitter, but the honey should help.”

  “It does not, Gabriel.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  He held it to her lips, and she glared at him over the rim. His brown eyes were still beautiful, the lashes thick and long. “If you won’t drink it willingly, I swear I’ll hold you and pour it down your throat. If it spills, ah well, I’ll have to take off your dress and mop up the parts of you that are damp.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  He would. She held her nose and drank the foul liquid in one gulp. When she breathed again and the full force of the taste hit her, she shuddered and wiped her mouth with her hand.

  “There now, that wasn’t so bad.” He smiled at her, the dimple showing on the left side of his mouth, the one she’d once traced with her finger. As if old habits were ingrained, she raised her hand and did it now. His expression changed immediately. Something deep and hungry stared out at her, something bursting with longing. But in an instant, it was gone.

  “I’ll leave you now to rest. When you awaken, eat something more substantial. Nothing spicy.”

  Her headache had not yet abated, but she hoped it would soon. As she repositioned herself on the couch, Gabriel leaned over and placed a pillow under her head. “Sleep well tonight. I’ll check on you first thing in the morning.” He covered her with the light blanket her maid brought.

  Experiencing a warmth and tenderness she had thought long gone, she smiled. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

  “You’re welcome, querida. Until tomorrow.”

  He strode to the door and closed it quietly behind him.

  What game was he playing?

  He scolded, baited, ignored, and then he treated her as if the past six years hadn’t existed, stealing kisses and gazing at her with heat and longing. If he meant to confuse her, he’d succeeded. But she knew one thing. She could not afford to be wooed by foolish sentiment. She would allow no man to trample her heart ever again.

  Chapter 7

  Gabriel hurried to his room. The ball would go on for many hours, the wine flowed freely, and the ballroom was packed, so his absence wouldn’t be noticed.

  He changed quickly into the black shirt and trousers he favored and dug out his black boots and hat. The Pecos Saloon, a new watering hole in an alley two blocks off the plaza, was his destination tonight. In these clothes he’d blend with the Americans who frequented the place.

  His gun belt, slung over the back of a chair, beckoned. He’d leave it here tonight and take his knife instead.

  Lowering the brim of his hat, he slouched through the hallway and down the stairs, slipping into the kitchens. Stacks of plates teetered on wooden counters, waiting to be washed in deep copper tubs. A dozen waiters with laden trays rushed in and out through a swinging half door, adding to the piles.

  Slipping into another room, he hurried past aproned women cleaning corn and chopping tomatoes in preparation for the next day’s meals, while slabs of meat turned on a spit in a brick fireplace. The hotel prided itself on its food, and its staff would work most of the night cleaning up after the ball and preparing for tomorrow.

  Stepping out the back door, he stopped to get his bearings, the smell of beef following him. The alley was narrow, and empty wooden barrels lined the sides. Two cats meowing at his feet were his only company.

  “Sorry, compadres. You’ll have to wait for the kitchen staff to get your scraps.” He stooped to scratch their ears.

  Gabriel sneaked to the end of the alley and paused in the shadows. A group of American soldiers hurried down the street, their raucous laughter piercing the silence of the starlit summer night. The army had been present since January, when Kearny and Stockton came up from the south and retook Los Angeles in a series of skirmishes.

  For a few months at the end of 1846, the town had been in control of Jose Antonio Flores, a trained Mexican soldier, and his band of guerrillas, who had ousted Colonel Gillespie and his eighty dragoons. The insurrection had been short-lived, and an uneasy peace now reigned.

  A peace dangerous for the native Californios.

  He’d considered riding, but his destination was nearby, and the hard-packed dirt of the street made walking easy. If necessary, he could easily fade into doorways. The ill-fated Mexican resistance movement was still fresh in many minds, and he didn’t want to end up in a confrontation. Not when he didn’t have a gun.

  The saloon was new, but it was already busy. A woman wearing a provocative gown sang and pranced on a makeshift stage while a throng of admirers threw coins at her feet. Gamblers, intent on their cards, hunched around tables, and men lounged against the bar, conversing or ogling the chanteuse.

  Gabriel sauntered in and edged his way around the smoke-filled room to the far corner of the bar. Sean Mitchell was known to frequent the place. Mitchell had once spied for the Americans, like Lance Grainger, but he also seemed to know everyone else’s business. Sorina had introduced them a few weeks earlier while preparing for the wedding.

  Ordering a whiskey, he put down his money and backed up against the hard edge of the bar. Three men next to him were in a deep discussion about land, and Gabriel turned slightly to listen to their conversation, hoping he might recognize at least one voice.

  “They say all the good land is tied up in these ranchos,” said a tall man with a hooked nose.

  “Sure, but can they prove their ownership? I heard they mark their boundaries with rocks and trees.” The second man drank deeply.

  “Rocks can move. Trees can disappear,” said a third man.

  They all laughed and ordered another round.

  Gabriel suppressed a shudder. They were right. He knew many of his father’s friends paid little attention to paperwork. Many were illiterate and had inherited their holdings. Thank God his father had his property surveyed with multiple witnesses and had promptly locked away his deeds.

  A movement behind him caught him off guard. A gun barrel pressed into the small of his back. Gabriel stiffened until a voice in his ear said, “Fancy finding you here, laddie. Shouldn’t ye be back at the ball?”

  He relaxed and let out his breath. Turning slowly, he saw no gun, only Mitchell’s index finger. He allowed a slow smile to spread on his face. “You are bold, señor.”

  “Not as bold as you are comin’ into this hellhole. They don’t take too kindly to the local population here.” He took a step back and seemed to study Gabriel’s attire. “Not that you look much like a hidalgo tonight. What’re you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you, Mitchell.”

  “Well now, glad I’m here to oblige. I almost went to bed early.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

/>   Gabriel ordered, and they took their whiskeys to an empty table away from the stage.

  “What can I do for you?” Mitchell dropped his brogue and spoke in a cultivated accent. Gabriel wondered, as he had at their first meeting, how the man came to be a spy in the American Army.

  “I’m trying to find out about a man named Drake Logan.”

  “Logan, is it? I don’t know the man personally, but I’ve heard a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “For starters, he’s got more balls than sense, but he’s canny. He’s trained in the law and claims to have influential friends.”

  Gabriel filed away the information and swirled the contents of his glass. The whiskey was the color of molasses and had heat and bite to it. It tasted like it had been distilled yesterday.

  “Where do I find him?” he asked Mitchell.

  “I don’t know where he lives, but he has an office in the new bank building by the livery stable.” Mitchell frowned into his drink. “Why do you want him?”

  Gabriel chose his words carefully. “Let’s just say he is bothering a friend of mine, and I’d like to know why.”

  “Then I’ll tell you this . . . be very careful around him. One of his buddies is a gunslinger, a man who shoots at the first sign of provocation. His other buddy is a banker who has more money than sense and is known to fill a few pockets when he wants something overlooked.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Gabriel tilted his head and studied his companion over the rim of his glass. Nobody would call Mitchell handsome, but his face was not one a lady would run from either. It was all hard planes and angles, and there was an edge to his personality that warned he was not someone to cross. When his voice lapsed into the Irish brogue, his eyes flashed, giving him an impish look. In that persona, he oozed charm, drawing people to him like flies to a plate of sweets. Sorina said he had a way with horses, too.

  A man of many talents.

  Mitchell stared back and pursed his lips, apparently unaffected by Gabriel’s perusal. He stretched his legs out to the side of the table and leaned back in the wooden chair, grinning.

  “Is there more?” asked Gabriel.

  “No, I’m just a wee bit surprised is all.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Grainger said you were a bit of a popinjay, a pampered sort who likes his comforts and takes the easy way out of a situation, but when I poked you in the back, I didn’t feel anything but muscle. And this business of wanting to tackle a dangerous man . . . it doesn’t add up.” He squinted and leaned closer. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Gabriel grinned and raised one eyebrow. “Grainger is right. I am what the English would call a fop, the wayward son of a ranchero, trying to win back society’s favor after a long, painful, unwarranted absence.” He paused, wondering if Mitchell knew his story. He was relatively sure Grainger did. “If anyone asks.”

  Mitchell’s lip curled. “Then that’s who you are . . . if anyone asks.”

  “Salud.” Gabriel raised the glass and drained it.

  Mitchell made a face and set his glass on the table. “They call this whiskey? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this was made in a still out back. Now if you ever get your hands on a good Irish Bushmills, that’s whiskey. It’s been around for centuries.”

  Gabriel smiled. “Good to know.”

  “Unfortunately, this swill is all we’ve got.”

  The singer finished, and the small crowd standing in front of her clapped and whistled and shouted raucous comments. She squealed when a burly cowboy picked her up and carried her through the throng toward the back door. If this place was like most of the saloons he’d been in, there were cribs in the back where ladies of the night plied their wares. As they passed by, Gabriel focused on his boots, not wanting to make eye contact. A trilling laugh told him the woman was willing. Too many men and too few women sometimes made for ugly situations.

  Mitchell glanced at the woman, then sat back and studied his drink. He raised his eyes to Gabriel’s face and leaned forward. “Grainger told me you had some trouble a few years back—something to do with a woman. That true?”

  He never discussed his months of incarceration. He’d expected mistrust and speculation when he returned because details of his exoneration were not discussed. Mitchell might be worth an exception. Making a quick decision, he moved his chair closer to his companion, placed his hands on the table, and lowered his voice, looking directly into Mitchell’s eyes. “An enemy made a false accusation, produced a so-called witness, and I was jailed. He’s dead now, and I have been exonerated.”

  “Now why would someone do that, laddie? Sounds like an evil bastard, not that I should be sayin’ bad words about the dead.”

  Gabriel never understood Santoro’s motives. Theories filled his head, but the bastard was not here to confirm them. “I honestly don’t know. He was an only son with much older sisters. They coddled him, gave him anything he wanted. He grew up not understanding the word no and schemed to get what he wanted when someone outside the family denied him.”

  Gabriel picked up his glass and finished his drink. “My best guess? He wanted to see how much he could get away with. He was cruel to animals, servants, anyone who couldn’t talk back. I think he targeted me because I was one of a handful of people who stumbled on his true character.

  “He also hated me for another reason. When my niece was barely a woman, he asked for her hand in marriage. I convinced my father—her guardian—to say no and to send her away. It was one of the few times he listened to me. If he hadn’t, I would have kidnapped Sorina myself to keep her safe from Santoro.”

  Mitchell’s eyes widened. “Did you say Santoro? Antoine Santoro?”

  “Yes. The man Lance Grainger killed.”

  Mitchell shook his head and spat on the floor. “He fancied himself leader of a pocket of resistance during the war, and I knew of his depravity from Grainger. I never realized you were the one he tried to frame for his crimes. Let’s hope he’s dwelling in a hot place.”

  Mitchell threw back his head, downing the rest of his drink. He scraped back the chair and sauntered over to the bar, returning with a full bottle. “Fill your glass, laddie. The night is young, and the man you’ve been askin’ about just walked in.” He inclined his head toward two men who stood just inside the entrance, searching the bar. The one Isabella had called Logan strode over to the group that had been talking earlier.

  Gabriel pulled the brim of his hat lower and leaned back in his chair, grateful they were in a dark corner. The hotel had oil lamps on tables and sconces on its walls, a modern look that had not yet reached businesses in the alleys. Logan clapped the hook-nosed man on the back and bent his head in conversation.

  “Who’s the short man he’s talking to?”

  “The banker. Willard Smith.”

  They spoke too softly to be overheard, but the hook-nosed man’s volume rose from time to time as he punctuated his outbursts with well-known curse words. Finally the group parted, with Logan growling as he walked away, “The woman will sell. It’s only a matter of time. She lives alone. Unprotected. She won’t have a choice when I get through with her.”

  “I can’t wait much longer,” said Smith. “Cantrell says our equipment arrives by ship within the month.”

  “You’ll have your land. I’ve drawn up the paperwork. It will all be nice and legal if the courts require verified ownerships.”

  “It better be. Or my money stays in my pocket.”

  For a second, Logan seemed to peer directly into the corner where Gabriel and Mitchell sat. Gabriel knew he couldn’t see them in the dim light, but the fear on the man’s face was unsettling.

  Like a rabbit facing a circle of coyotes.

  Desperate men resorted to desperate acts. If the u
nprotected woman they’d been discussing was Isabella, then Gabriel would have to take his own action, and do it soon. Unfortunately, Isabella wouldn’t appreciate his interference. She was a woman who enjoyed her independence, who prided herself on her ability to take care of her own affairs. Don Tomas had taught her well.

  If the war had not changed everything, she would have survived very nicely, better than most. But things would never be the same now the conquerors were in charge. While there were many fine people and institutions associated with the new regime, there were an equal number of rogues pouring into California to make their fortunes.

  Isabella needed him.

  This time he wouldn’t fail her.

  Chapter 8

  Isabella awakened from a restless sleep, the dream still with her. A man walked ahead of her on the beach, his back straight and his stride long and sure. She watched him, wondering where he was going, knowing only that she must go with him.

  When he stopped, she stopped, too, her heart full and her eyes ready to spill tears. And then he disappeared, leaving her to crumple onto the sand. Alone.

  Dreams of abandonment often plagued her. This one was so vivid she could barely breathe, even now, when she was wide awake.

  She lay rigid under the feather-filled coverlet, not wanting to leave this protective cocoon of warmth. Her chest was still tight from the dream’s intensity, and the bed was her only refuge. Like most dreams, it would be forgotten by tomorrow. A strange feeling of loneliness washed over her as she thought about its meaning.

  Did she have the dream because of her mother, who died in childbirth? She had no memory of her but treasured a miniature Papa had given her in honor of her first communion. Mama had been a beautiful woman, and Isabella was honored when someone said she resembled her.

  No, the figure in her dream had definitely been a man. Was the man Tomas, her late husband, whose patience and consideration had eventually eased her fears and helped her adjust to the life her family had chosen for her? Or was the man Gabriel, who abandoned her, ripping her heart out, leaving a deep chasm filled with numbing ice. That ice had frozen all feeling during the weeks leading up to her arranged marriage to a man nearly three times her age.