Return of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  Or was he?

  Sometimes the users can be used. I needed a piece of information to get back to Slade.

  Anger dissipated and was replaced by cold dread as she remembered a snippet of an earlier conversation. On the day of their return, when she asked him where he’d been in the wee hours of the morning, he’d said he’d been hatching a plot. Her jealous fury had so blinded her to everything else she had dismissed it. Was Mitchell part of the plot? Had Gabriel deliberately lied to her when he’d said he would discuss it with her first?

  He would if it meant keeping me safe.

  Chaotic thoughts swirled around in her head as her horse climbed slowly until they reached the foothills. The tall trees of the forest lay beyond.

  A noise startled her.

  A deer crossed her path, followed by a fawn, then disappeared over the crest of the hill.

  Expelling her breath, she urged her horse to plod on, enjoying the peace as the sun rose high in the sky.

  When she approached the pines that covered the hills at higher elevations, she stopped and breathed in the pungent scent. What am I doing? Gabriel was out for a morning ride, just like she was. The knots in her stomach didn’t loosen, so she plodded on, and instead of following the river, she took an old trail that led to the top of the falls. No need to announce her presence. She wanted to see what Gabriel was doing.

  Tonta! Is it wise to spy on one’s husband?

  Pushing on, the horse continued to climb steadily. The trees were thicker here, and she could hear the waterfall in the distance. In August the stream cascading over the rim of the cliff was smaller and the pond below was shallow enough for bathing. She’d come here with Sorina and their duennas several times, and they’d frolicked like water nymphs.

  Not today.

  She stopped to listen. The sounds of the forest were all around her. A crow cawed in the distance. Leaves rustled as wisps of breeze blew over them. An animal scurried away into the underbrush. Tomas had warned her of mountain lions and black bears, but she’d never seen even one on any of her rides.

  Plodding onward, she reached a place where the path ended. The stream, given the name Oso because an early explorer had spotted a bear nearby, had its source even higher.

  Isabella dismounted and walked her horse the rest of the way, tying it to a tree.

  Creeping over to the edge of the precipice, she dropped to her knees and crawled to a place where she could see below. A lone man stood ankle-deep at the edge of the pond, examining something in his hand. Even from above she knew it was Gabriel.

  Reaching back, he flung the contents into the water.

  What was he up to?

  She decided not to call out, but to wait.

  And watch.

  Mitchell was not about. She wasn’t sure if his visit had anything to do with this odd ritual. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder, then bent forward as if searching for something in the water.

  Even though the rock she knelt on partially hid her from view, Gabriel tensed and made a small waving motion with his hand, as if he sensed her presence.

  He sloshed out of the water and picked up a large, flat pan. Bending down next to the stream, he took more stones out of his pocket and set them in the pan.

  Then he crouched near the edge of the pool, dipping the pan in the water, shaking it. An odd process. Isabella had no idea what he was doing.

  This was silly. She should just go down there and ask him.

  Rising, she suddenly stilled. Another man walked out of the trees, his gun glinting in the sunlight.

  Making herself as small as possible, she tried to blend with the rock. Gabriel turned, set down the pan, and put his hands in the air.

  Slade!

  Her breath caught, and her heart pounded in her ears.

  Her first instinct was to run down the hill. Instead she remained still and tried to make out what Slade was saying. When he cocked his pistol, she stifled a scream.

  Crawling to the edge of the rock, she wondered if she could shoot Slade without hitting Gabriel.

  Shoot. At a person? Dios, what is happening?

  If she could distract Slade, maybe Gabriel could overcome him.

  Creeping away from the ledge, she retrieved the gun from her saddlebag and quietly made her way down to the pond, staying behind the trees, swallowing the panic that made her want to close her eyes and curl up in a ball. When she reached their level, she stayed hidden and strained to hear Slade’s words.

  The muzzle of Slade’s pistol was pointed at Gabriel’s chest. “Hand over the map. I want to make sure this is the right spot.”

  “Please don’t hurt me, señor. You know I am delicate. I may faint at any moment.”

  Gabriel was in his spoiled hidalgo mode. Isabella dared not laugh. But she wanted to. It would ease the weight in her chest.

  “You popinjay. Give it to me. Now!”

  “Please, señor. I will give you what you ask. It’s in my saddlebag. Look . . .” He pointed to the water. “You don’t need the map. I found what I think you’re searching for. The water shimmers with gold specks in the light.”

  Slade lowered his gun and peered into the water. “Where? I don’t see nuthin’ here.”

  Gabriel lowered one hand. “See?”

  He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to Slade. “I gathered these this morning. Gold.”

  Slade grasped the tiny rocks and shoved them into his own pocket. “Well now, that’s right generous of you.”

  “There’s more in the water. There.” He pointed again. “So many I couldn’t gather them all.”

  “And more from where they came from,” said Slade. “Up there.”

  Isabella peered toward a commotion in the trees near the pond. Logan and a man she didn’t know emerged. Logan’s gun pointed at Sean Mitchell. “Look who we found lurking in the shadows.”

  Mitchell’s hands were bound in front of him. Isabella tried to breathe normally, but her panic was escalating. She wasn’t equipped to handle a situation like this. She’d been taught to shoot straight . . . at targets. She could never shoot an animal or a person.

  The blood.

  “I brought the paperwork, Vega,” Logan said. “It’s nice and tidy. All you have to do is sign on the line. Or make your X if you can’t write.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Slade smirked. “I will kill you both and throw your asses in the forest for the buzzards. Then we’ll deal with your grieving widow, or maybe her heirs if she’s stubborn.” Slade kept his gun pointed at Gabriel.

  “Now, now. No need for violence.” Drake Logan moved to Slade’s side.

  “These boys need to be taught a lesson.” Slade cocked the pistol and pointed it first at Mitchell, then Gabriel. “Are you ready to sign, Vega?”

  Gabriel took a few steps back, stepping into the shallow water. “You don’t want to shoot us, señor. Such a messy prospect. Your boots would be spattered. Snakeskin, aren’t they? And such nice spurs. Oh dear, one is missing a rowel.”

  “Shut your mouth. You talk too much.”

  “Now where could you have lost it? Ah.” He slowly reached into his pocket. “Here is the one I found near my wife’s burned warehouse. I believe it matches.”

  Gabriel withdrew the rowel and dangled it in front of Slade.

  He shifted his gaze and seemed to search the trees until his eyes collided with Isabella’s. He smiled and focused back on his captors. “I’ll sign, but tell me, gentlemen. How did you find out about the gold in this river?”

  Slade looked at Logan, who spoke. “Gent owed money to a friend of ours. He told him about a discovery made by an old Mexican near a river, on land once owned by the mission. This river goes right past the mission, and in the old days the mission owned
this land.”

  Isabella, listening intently, was astounded. They’d confused the rivers and the missions. Most gringos knew nothing about the old Franciscan missions, seeing them only as dilapidated structures once surrounded by vast tracts of land. The story of the gold discovery had originated from Mission San Fernando, not Mission San Juan Capistrano. Should she set them straight? Would they go away then? She started to rise, but Gabriel’s grim expression and slight shake of his head told her to remain hidden. He knew the story. Why was he not enlightening them?

  “When you want something, do you make a habit of shooting women and burning their property, or is my wife a special case?”

  “Most of you Mexicans are happy to sign over your properties to get your debts paid or for a fat loan so you can indulge your vices,” said Logan.

  “This one time, when we needed something from a woman, the bitch held out,” added Slade.

  Gabriel flexed his hands and squeezed them into balls. “Did you call my wife a bitch?”

  “Damn right I did. Even if she is a pretty piece. Maybe I’ll let her keep the house in exchange for a little action.” His gun waved in the air as he talked.

  Slade didn’t see it coming, but Isabella did.

  Gabriel’s fist slammed into Slade’s face and the gun flew out of his hand as he fell to the ground. As Slade groped for the pistol, Logan moved behind and shoved his piece into Gabriel’s back. “Put your hands back up.”

  Slade wobbled to his feet, picked up his gun, and pointed it at Gabriel’s heart. He pulled the trigger just as Mitchell lunged, deflecting his shot. Slade righted himself, shouted at Logan to control Mitchell, and pointed his piece at Gabriel again.

  Isabella shuddered as blood dripped from Gabriel’s shoulder. Logan stepped away, his hands over his ears, his face pale. His cohort ran off, leaving Mitchell on the ground where he’d fallen.

  “You know what, Vega? I think I’d rather deal with your bride,” said Slade. “That was the first shot. The first of many. I want to hear you scream with every shot while you plead for your miserable life.”

  “Shoot him, querida. I know you can do it. Shoot him.”

  Isabella lifted the pistol and froze. Slade didn’t even turn around. He sneered and pointed at Gabriel’s knee. “That’s the oldest trick in the world.”

  Slade cocked the gun again.

  Mother of God, I can’t let him die.

  She rested her gun on her free arm to steady it, hoping the dizziness closing in didn’t overcome her.

  And pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 28

  Nausea roiled in her stomach as the world spun. Leaning over, she retched and collapsed. Buried visions exploded into her brain—a meadow littered with bodies, pools of blood as dark as vats of red wine staining the ground, a single trickle of blood trickling from her mother’s mouth as her lifeless eyes stared into Isabella’s.

  Isabella screamed as a bloody arm reach around her, pulling her close. But she wasn’t five years old, and this was not the Indian raid that had killed her mother and their outriders. It was Gabriel, bleeding but alive—warm, compassionate, loving Gabriel who held her and murmured soothing sounds in her ear.

  “You did it, querida. You did what you had to do. God, I’m so lucky to have you in my life. You saved me, you know that? Go ahead and cry. Close your eyes so you don’t see the blood and let it all out.”

  It was easy to do as he asked. Deep shudders wracked her as she sobbed in his arms. She didn’t know if she cried for her mother or for Gabriel. She must have shut out the horror of the afternoon her mother died, immediately banishing it from her memory. She’d sealed it deep within her and had always believed her mother had died in childbirth, trying to give her father an heir. That was what she’d been told.

  Hooves pounded in the distance. Isabella stiffened, and Gabriel gave her a quick kiss.

  “Stay here, querida.”

  Captain Sutherland and two other soldiers rode into view. They jumped down from their horses and took charge of Logan and his man. Christopher freed Mitchell while Gabriel staggered over to them. She stayed on the ground behind the bush, wiping her face with her skirt. Mitchell was in conversation with Sutherland, pointing at Logan, who sat with his head in his hands. Slade was on the ground. Isabella’s shot had hit his thigh.

  Sutherland signaled to the other two men. He spotted Isabella, and his expression seemed to soften, as if looking for a sign from her. She smiled and nodded to him as she took deep breaths. Her bones felt like they were packed with stones. She wasn’t sure she could stand on her own.

  Slade and Logan, tied to their horses, were led away by the soldiers. Mitchell went with them, after Gabriel assured him he and Isabella could manage. Logan’s assistant had disappeared into the woods.

  Gabriel came back and helped Isabella to her feet. His shirt was stained, but someone—Mitchell, probably—had wrapped his shoulder so it would stop bleeding. Odd. Seeing blood didn’t even faze her now.

  “Can you ride?”

  “I think so.”

  “Come. Let’s go home.”

  Home.

  The trip back was easier. Isabella fought to stay upright but was so weary she almost fell asleep in the saddle several times. Gabriel rode his own horse behind her. His pain must be unbearable, but he stayed with her, making sure she was safe.

  When they reached the barn, she was relieved to see that Juan was still there, and she sent a stable lad to the house to get old Tía Lucia, their healer, while Juan helped Gabriel off his mount.

  “You’ve been shot, señor. Did the bullet pass through?”

  “I don’t know. If it’s there, find someone to dig it out for me.”

  “Tía Lucia has the skill. Lean on me, and I’ll take you to her.”

  His features white with pain, Gabriel stumbled toward the house with Juan and Isabella on either side of him. Isabella ordered water to be boiled over the kitchen fire because her years of treating the ailments of her servants had taught her the value of cleanliness. Less chance of putrefaction when wounds were cleaned.

  She’d never treated a bloody wound before. Tía Lucia always took care of those.

  Gabriel lowered himself to the floor while Juan bent over him. Isabella looked away out of habit, took a deep breath, and turned to watch the procedure. The shirt and vest were quickly removed, revealing a wound at the upper edge of his arm near his shoulder.

  Tía Lucia knelt next to him and poked and probed around the wound while Gabriel gasped, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “You are lucky, señor,” Tía said. The bullet missed the bone and is gone.”

  A hot, wet cloth and a brandy bottle were handed to Tía. She cleaned the wound then poured brandy in it. Gabriel winced, baring his teeth.

  He gazed at Isabella with a wry grin. “I’m afraid I’m not being very manly, my dear. This damn wound hurts like the devil.”

  She smiled and found her tongue. “What? Tomas’s best French brandy isn’t soothing? I shall have to try some and see for myself.”

  “You do that, querida, and when you’re mellow, you can comfort me in my bed.”

  They really shouldn’t be having this conversation in the kitchen in front of a half-dozen retainers. Two of the younger kitchen maids tittered while Marta, the cook, seemed scandalized.

  Tía Lucia finished bandaging the arm and shoulder. She looked at Isabella. “Señora, shall I have someone take him to his room?”

  “Yes. He needs to rest now.”

  Gabriel smirked. “Will you come with me and wipe my brow as I fall asleep? You don’t want me to wake up in a fever, do you?”

  Isabella struggled for a smart retort, but she was suddenly weary to the bone and needed rest herself. She patted his cheek as Juan helped him rise. “I’ll
look in on you later. I promise.”

  Truth was, she needed to change out of these smelly clothes and lie in a tub of hot water. Then she needed a few answers from the stubborn, secretive man she called husband.

  Isabella mostly remained abed the next day. She checked Gabriel from time to time, making him laugh when she could and discussing plans for the ranch. When he grew warm with fever, she put slices of raw onions on his forehead until he wrinkled his nose in disgust and swatted them off. Tía Lucia suggested cold damp cloths instead, which seemed to make him rest better. But his sleep was not peaceful.

  Isabella fed him soup and red wine made from grapes grown on her property, and since he was feverish, he agreed to remain abed. To be thorough, she asked Christopher Sutherland to send the military doctor. The man examined Gabriel’s wound, pronounced it healing, and told him to rest.

  Stars were out when Isabella rose from her bed on the sixth night. She put on her high-necked, serviceable robe and slipped out the veranda door. Gabriel’s oil lamp was lit, and he was sitting up in bed reading. They hadn’t yet discussed the day he’d been wounded, and she had many questions.

  Not wanting to startle him, she rapped softly and slipped into the room.

  He set down the book and patted the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “I should be asking you that question.” She sat down and checked his arm. The dressing the doctor had put on it was unstained. His forehead was cool to the touch. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

  “If I’m going to do that, you need to be more comfortable.” He plumped the pillows alongside his own, and she crawled up on the bed next to him, careful not to touch his damaged arm. “There, isn’t that better?”