by Lyn Cote
Scully watched the hubbub. Spanish flowed from everyone in that fast string that blended all their words together. He remembered something he’d heard in the cantina in San Antonio de Bexar—an Anglo had joked that Tejanos never seemed to be in a hurry until they opened their mouths. Obviously the man had never seen a vaquero in action.
Then the señorita turned and motioned toward him. “Señor Scully has come to improve his Spanish, so we must all help him by only letting him speak español.” The señorita slanted a taunting look at him and then repeated this in Spanish, grinning as if telling a joke on him.
Scully slid from his saddle, not amused.
Ramirez approached the señorita. “Does Señor Quinn believe that our doña is still in danger?” The people around the señorita looked worried.
“Yes, he does,” Scully said.
“Stop,” the señorita ordered him. “I do not want to discuss this here and now.”
Ignoring her, he looked around. The eyes turned to his were all worried. His jaw hardened. He’d come for one reason—to protect the señorita. And he couldn’t be bothered trying to speak only Spanish now. This was too pressing for games. “Ramirez, will you tell the people that—”
“I am the doña here,” Alandra objected, radiating displeasure. “I can and will tell my people what I want them to know.”
Scully grimaced and touched his hat brim to show a measure of courtesy. But there was more at stake here than who was in charge. “Yes, miss, this is your rancho. But I need everyone to know that they should keep their eyes open in case they see anything unusual or anything that doesn’t look right.”
The señorita stared at him for a moment and then repeated his words in Spanish. The worry on the faces still turned to him deepened.
“Have any of them seen any strangers anywhere nearby?” Scully continued, hooking his thumbs into his belt.
The lady translated this and was answered with blank stares.
No help here. Scully frowned. “Miss Alandra and Ramirez, we need to talk. And then I want to take a ride around your land to see if I can find anything out of the ordinary, any sign that anyone has been trespassing. Anything that looks suspicious.”
The señorita spoke to her people. Then, with a swish of her skirt, she led Scully and Ramirez through the door into the interior courtyard of the house. Soon they were seated at a black wrought-iron table beside an interior spring and its stone fountain. Nearby, a rounded clay fireplace sat in the midst of the courtyard, radiating warmth.
Scully had been here before but never sat amidst the green palms around the stone fountain. This restful and gracious setting didn’t jibe with a violent kidnapping and its unknown motives.
Ramirez was older than Scully, shorter and more compact. A good foreman, Scully knew, he had been trained by Ash and Quinn to take over here when the señorita came of age and took control of her inheritance, Ramirez was a man he knew he could work with.
“What does Señor Quinn say about this bad business?” Ramirez asked as he accepted a cup of coffee from the housekeeper.
Scully sipped his own strong black coffee, letting the señorita explain in rapid Spanish why he had come with her. Quinn was right. He could understand Spanish.
Then Ramirez turned to him. “So am I to go on running the ranch, but you come to protect our doña?”
Scully nodded, edging forward. “I need you to pick out men to take turns guarding her window at night.”
“I had already planned that,” Ramirez replied.
“You had?” The señorita sounded surprised.
Scully ignored her comment. “I want at least one man with me to ride around the rancho and see if I find anything suspicious.”
“What do you mean?” Alandra demanded. “I thought you came to protect me.”
“I did. But part of my protecting you is finding possible evidence of anything that is out of the ordinary hereabouts. I know your land, and Quinn taught me how to track. I will leave a plan of where I’m going so a man can be sent to bring me back at the first sign of danger. If you stay here in your casa and the yard, your vaqueros can defend you. Every man must be armed and ready for anything, Ramirez.”
The señorita didn’t look happy but she said no more. Scully repeated his request for someone to go with him.
Ramirez considered this. “My son. Emilio is young but a good shot.”
Carson Quinn’s friend. What he’d seen of the young Ramirez had been favorable. He’d come with them today.
“Good.” Scully rose. “We’ll need some supplies for a couple days.” He turned to Alandra. “Do you have a map of the rancho?”
“Sí, in my office.” She rose too.
“Let’s go see it, then.” His tone left no room for argument.
Alandra fumed at his high-handed ways. But she couldn’t deny the fear that still nagged at her stomach. She wavered a bit as she got up.
“Are you all right?” he asked, touching her sleeve.
She tugged free. “I am fine.” And she did not want to make a scene in front of Ramirez, who stood waiting for her to dismiss him. She lifted her chin said, “That will be all, Ramirez. Gracias. Please do as Señor Scully has asked.”
Ramirez bowed and left her.
She led Scully to her office on the far side of the courtyard. She spread out the map of her nearly seven thousand acres on her desk. It took him only a few moments to point out where he would be going. Then he moved to the door. “I can count on you not to stray far from the house, then?”
Coming home had moved her, made her more serious; she murmured in reply, “Por supesto.” Of course.
He stood there eyeing her, then nodded. “I’ll be back within two days or less. Stay safe,” he said, and left.
So brief. So Anglo. On the ride here, he had spoken less than ten words to her. Did it hurt his tongue to speak?
When she heard him close the front doors behind him, she wandered out into the courtyard to the nearest wall. She pressed her forehead against the cool rough adobe, something she had done even as a child. Her brother had always told her that their parents’ love had built these walls and that she could feel it if she pressed her hands against it.
This hacienda, this land were all that survived of the parents she had no memory of and the late brother she had adored and who had adored her. Home again. She had been gone less than a week, but the exhausting, frightening time away felt so much longer, a century at least.
When her housekeeper and maids had rushed out to embrace her, joy beyond words had bubbled up within like a spring of fresh sweet water. Now the sound of the fountain’s water and the greenery of the courtyard soothed her. En casa.
Then her peace was shattered—the memory of rough hands on her skin, dragging her out her window, touching her…. Stop! I am not afraid. She sucked in air. That was still a lie, but she had to fight the paralyzing dread with her every thought.
Alandra walked through the hacienda then, room by room, until she came to her bedroom. This was where it had happened, where her peace had been torn apart. She forced herself into the room, lay down upon her high bed and stared at the ceiling.
Fiery then icy waves of panic washed over her again and again. She clenched her whole body to end the trembling that made the bed beneath her creak. She did not win completely. But she did not give in and bolt.
Dios mío, why have you let this evil come upon me?
Quinn’s voice answered her: Wait on the Lord, and keep his way, and he shall exalt thee to inherit the land: when the wicked are cut off, thou shalt see it.
But I have such miedo, Father. Take this fear from me.
Three
Hours after Scully had left, Alandra was just finishing her evening meal. Her housekeeper Maria was keeping her company when the shout came, “Forasteros!”
Strangers? Who could be coming? She rose and went outside to see.
The dusty black carriage with two outriders was unfamiliar. and heading straight for Aland
ra. The arrival of a carriage was infrequent enough to stop everyone at Rancho Sandoval in the midst of what they were doing. All her people were coming out of their jacales, the barn, and the hacienda. And after the kidnapping, this strange carriage approaching and heading straight for Alandra unnerved her.
She clasped her hands in front of her, afraid they might shake and give her away. Maybe it was merely strangers passing through, stopping for water or directions. With her casa behind her and her people gathered around, Alandra stood her ground, holding herself straight and strong.
The carriage halted just feet from her. A man dressed as a servant of a wealthy family, sitting beside the driver, jumped down, opened the door, and dropped the carriage steps. A young Spanish-looking, well-dressed gentleman who looked to be in his mid-twenties stepped down and then held out his hand for a young lady. When she had alighted, an older gentleman appeared and descended.
All three stared at her. The young gentleman sported a neat mustache on a face that looked permanently peeved. The older gentleman resembled the younger, but was not as slim or tall. The lady was dressed all in black and wore a mourning veil that concealed her face. A widow perhaps.
“Welcome to Rancho Sandoval,” Alandra said, her voice fainter than she wished. And her body rippled with a silent warning through every nerve. “What brings you to mi casa?”
“Are you Alandra Maria Ynez Sandoval?”
The older gentleman had spoken, and his question disconcerted her. How did he know her full name? She studied them again. Though they looked a bit travel worn, their clothing and carriage spoke of affluence. But that was never a guarantee of character, Tía Dorritt had taught her. “I am.” She stared straight into his eyes. “Have you a message for me?” Sometimes private individuals carried messages north from Mexico City. “Who are you?”
The older gentleman moved forward, his arms open wide. “I am your uncle Benito Ignacio Sandoval, the brother of your father.” He tried to embrace her.
Alandra stepped back, pushing him away with both hands. His words repeated themselves in her mind. My father’s brother? She took another step back. Memories of her brother and what he had told her about their parents’ forbidden love flooded her with aversion. “Why have you come?”
“Cousin,” the younger gentleman scolded, stepping forward, “We are in the wilderness, but where are your manners?”
“And where is your proof that you are who you say you are?” she snapped, taking an instant dislike to him. And another step back. “I do not know you.” I do not care to know you.
The younger man halted and looked to her left. She followed his gaze to see that Ramirez, with rifle in hand, had come to stand beside her. Following Ramirez’s gaze, she looked around. All her vaqueros, each armed, had surrounded the carriage. And they looked dangerous. She said a silent gracias.
The young gentleman flushed. “This is not the way to welcome guests to your home.”
“You are strangers and in the wilderness,” she said, copying his phrasing, “and this is the way we welcome strangers. Now if you are family, you must be able to convince me of that.” And convince me why I should welcome a visit from you.
“Must we do that out here in the wind?” the lady asked, speaking for the first time. Her voice was quiet and controlled.
Alandra considered the request. The sun was very low, the wind brisk, and it was February. Sitting down was an appealing notion. She glanced at Ramirez. “You will come into the courtyard with me and bring three vaqueros with you.”
Then she turned to the strangers. “You may come into the courtyard, but your men must stay out here with the carriage. And my vaqueros will make sure of that.”
Alandra did not wait for a reply, but turned and strode into the courtyard just inside her front doors. Ramirez barked a few terse commands and followed her. That they had only the two drivers and two outriders gave her something more to think about. If they had come all the way from Mexico City, how had they traveled through Mescalero and Comanche territory with only four men? Had they left more men somewhere nearby?
The three strangers entered and looked around the courtyard, which many had called lovely, an oasis of palms and lush pink and red azaleas, as well as aloe and yucca plants, in the arid country south of San Antonio. A clay fireplace warmed the courtyard. And Alandra did not want to take the strangers into her casa.
She motioned to her housekeeper to bring refreshments, and sat on one of the black wrought-iron chairs around a matching table, facing the front door. Ramirez stood behind her, and the vaqueros stationed themselves around the courtyard, their rifles resting in their arms.
“Please be seated,” Alandra invited. Her tone was neutral and she faced them squarely. Their claim of family was questionable. But what did it matter if they were her relatives or not? They had no power over her. And she was protected, though she wished that Scully were there, a sentiment she wanted to ignore. She didn’t like feeling as if she needed his protection.
The three moved toward the chairs near hers, glancing repeatedly at the armed guards. “Before I sit,” the young man said, “allow me to introduce myself. I am your cousin Fernando Juan Adolfo Sandoval, the son of Benito.” He gestured toward the other man and then the lady. “And this is a cousin from my mother’s side, a recent widow, Señora Isabella Maria Pilar Esteban. She has come to act as your chaperone.”
Wondering why she needed a chaperone in her own home, Alandra nodded her greeting and motioned again for them to be seated. The housekeeper and two maids brought in pitchers of water, basins, and white linen towels for the guests to wash their hands. After that was accomplished, the servants returned with fresh coffee, warm tortillas, and green chilies.
All through this, Alandra watched the three. The lady swept back her veil, and Alandra saw that she was young to already be widowed. Meanwhile, Alandra did not appreciate how the eyes of all three roamed over her home, not in simple appreciation, but with the look of a buyer appraising a purchase.
She spoke up, looking toward the one who said he was her uncle, “Señor, please explain our relationship and why you have come all this way.” Then she lifted her coffee cup and watched him over its rim.
The older gentleman did not look happy at her giving him an order, but once again his eyes moved from rifle to rifle. “As I said, I am Benito Sandoval, your father’s brother.”
She gave him the shadow of a mocking smile. “Then why would you expect a warm welcome from me? If you are indeed my uncle, you must be aware that my father’s family broke their connection when he married my mother.”
“Blood ties cannot be broken, and the dispute over your mother’s mixed blood is all in the past. That took place when we were all still under the Spanish crown, not independent Mexicans.”
Alandra did not know why the change in government in Mexico City should have anything to do with the fact that her grandparents had disowned their son because he—a Mexican of pureblood Spanish blood and called a Creole—had married a mestiza. In Mexico, the social classes followed bloodlines, the more pure Spanish blood a person had, the higher their status. She herself was a mestiza because of her mother’s mixed blood. But to call her that to her face was considered an insult. So this man’s explanation of why she was acceptable now made no sense, but she let this pass and sipped her hot sweet coffee. They would be gone soon enough.
Since there were no inns between San Antonio, the town Anglos called simply Bexar north of her and Laredo far south on the Rio Grande, she had entertained travelers on their way between Mexico to San Antonio before. She did not have to like these people to shelter them for a night in her home. “So what has brought you this far north?” she asked.
After pressing the white linen napkin to his lips in a fastidious way, the older man replied, “We have business to conduct in San Antonio de Bexar.”
“Bexar is only a day’s ride north,” she said. Indeed, considering the lateness of their arrival, she would be expected to entertai
n them at least one night.
Her cousin Fernando nodded in an overly gracious manner and smiled. “When we mentioned Rancho Sandoval on the way here, we were told that it was one of the finest haciendas in all of Texas. And I see that we were not misled.”
Alandra copied the man’s nod. “My parents loved this place.” She looked around and smiled.
“We heard that they had passed away—” Benito paused to cross himself. “—and that your brother was prospering on this land. But that he died young.”
Alandra was feeling her fatigue now. This stilted polite talk with people she wished would disappear was as tiring as riding hard. She should not have sat down until she reached her room for the night. “I am afraid that I have passed an exhausting few days, and I am too tired to entertain you as I would like.” She would make an attempt to hurry them on. “Perhaps you should proceed to San Antonio and then stop for a visit on your way home?”
The widow shuddered. “Oh, please, señorita, I must rest from the journey. How can you be so cold as to send your family away in the chill evening?”
“We could not reach the city before dark,” her cousin Fernando said stiffly.
Alandra sighed. “I take it that you will stay the night, then?”
“That is most gracious of you, cousin,” her uncle Benito said sardonically.
Her lips pressed together, Alandra waved her hand and her maids came out. “Please see that the guest rooms are ready. We will be retiring soon.”
The housekeeper and maids hurried to the guest wing of the house. Her uncle went to the door where his servant waited and asked him to bring in their luggage. The sight of a trunk and several valises dismayed Alandra. But she said nothing. It was obvious that her relatives wore a great deal of their wealth on their backs, so she should not have been surprised at the amount they needed to take with them on a journey.
When her housekeeper returned, Alandra rose to escort her guests to their rooms in the wing on the opposite side of the courtyard. There, she ordered two vaqueros to stand guard at the doors of the two rooms. This visibly stung both men. But she was not going to let three strangers roam over her house, filled with silver and gold ornaments and costly tapestries.
