His grin faded. He swung his right leg up and over the saddle, landing with both feet on the ground. He commanded to no one in particular, “Bring me the fastest horse. I will show it takes no special horse to beat a mere gringa!” To Kit, he snarled, “What shall be your stake? You do have money to wager, do you not? Galen Esmond does not waste his time for nothing.”
At that, a ripple of laughter went through Doc Frazier’s vaqueros. Riguero called gloatingly, “She is a Coltrane, hombre, and her family has more money than you will ever see.”
Galen Esmond’s insolent gaze did not waver as he coolly said, “So be it, rica gringa. Name your wager.”
“All the money you have taken from my amigos,” Kit replied.
Galen pulled a cheroot from his shirt pocket. He bit off the end, spat, and lit it, his narrowed black eyes fixed on her. He had already given away much of his winnings in payment of old debts, but it made no difference—he was confident a gringa could not beat him. Finally he shrugged, his lips curving in a taunting grin beneath his bushy black mustache. “So shall it be, señorita. Only make sure,” he added with a wink, “that you have the money, for I can think of other ways you can pay me.”
His men laughed raucously. Kit seared them with a look of contempt, then mounted her horse. Galen’s friends quickly chose the fastest and strongest horse, and led it to him. He swung up into the saddle and followed Kit to the starting line. Riguero stood to one side, holding his gun up in the air. “You both know the rules. To where Carlos stands—” he said.
“No!” Galen interrupted harshly. “We circle him and come back here. The gringa thinks she is such a great rider—let her prove it!”
There were a few cries of protests. “That would be nearly two miles,” Riguero pointed out.
“Does the gringa object?”
Kit said that she did not, adding saucily, “Let him feel he tried very hard to win!”
Everyone laughed at that—except Galen and his men. “Let us begin,” Galen snarled. “I wish to join the rest of my amigos at the cantina to celebrate such a rich morning.”
Riguero asked Kit anxiously, “Are you ready, señorita?”
She laughed. “Oh, yes, Riguero. Quite ready.”
“Uno…dos…” And then he fired the gun.
The horses charged forward side by side, and a cheer exploded from Galen’s men as his horse bolted ahead. He pulled away by inches, then half his length, then a full length. Kit had raced the course many times. She knew her horse, knew when to let her out. She held back, fighting against Belle’s thundering plea to let her go, let out the reins, let her overtake the pompous, arrogant hombre.
Carlos loomed ahead, and even from a quarter mile away Kit could see the disappointment on his pudgy face. Galen was nearly two lengths ahead of her now. Would Belle be able to catch him when Kit finally let her go? Did she dare restrain much longer? Her hat had blown away and her hair flew wildly about her face. It was harder to hold back than to give Belle her head, but she gripped the reins and gritted her teeth. When she reached Carlos and swept around him, Galen had already passed and was now three lengths ahead.
“Mi Dios! Mi Dios!” Carlos screamed out at her, waving his sombrero at her as he jumped up and down. “Go! Go! Go!”
It was all Kit could do to hold Belle back. She was like a bridled demon. In every other race she had always been allowed to charge freely. Now she was confused and angry. Her eyes were wild in the wind whipping in her face and her hooves cut into the ground with frustrated frenzy.
Galen stretched his lead to five lengths. He dared in his confidence to turn and look back at Kit, and laughed out loud at the large margin between them.
They were nearing what would be the three-quarter mark. Kit could hear Galen’s men shouting triumphantly in the distance. She dug her knees in tight to Belle’s side and leaned forward. Her heart pounded furiously as she dropped the reins, dug her fingers into her horse’s mane, and cried, “Now, Belle! Now!”
Belle surged ahead, closing the gap by one length, then two, then three. Galen looked around with disbelieving eyes. He saw instantly what was happening, and drew blood as he kicked his spurs brutally into his horse. He whipped the reins across its rump in a frenzy, screaming and cursing in Spanish as he realized that he was losing his grip on victory.
Another length closed, and then they were side by side. Riguero stood just ahead, waving his sombrero, his men jumping up and down, cheering Kit and Belle onward.
Belle made a final charge, as though to twist the knife of defeat deeper into the man who had dared to challenge her…and crossed the finish line two full lengths ahead of Galen Esmond.
Kit reined in and trotted back to where the vaqueros were waiting, their happy roar almost deafening. She dismounted to join them in revelry, reminding them to let it be a lesson never, ever, to bet their hard-earned wages again.
Galen Esmond was momentarily forgotten in the excitement. It was only when Carlos rode up to them yelling angrily that they looked around to see Galen and his men riding away, a cloud of dust behind them as they disappeared over a ridge in the distance.
“Bandidos!” Carlos was screaming in rage. “Bandoleros! They have no honor!”
“What are you talking about?” Riguero cried. His face grew livid with anger as he realized what was happening. “They have run away without paying their debt?”
Carlos threw a small burlap bag to the ground and said furiously, “They say this is all that is left of their winnings.”
A grumble went through the men, and someone cried in frustration, “We cannot take this! Any of it! The señorita won it. It is hers.”
Kit quickly shook her head. “I’m not keeping any of it. Divide it among those of you who lost your money. Let’s just be grateful we were able to get this much back.”
Riguero gave her a grateful smile. “You are very kind to us, señorita. Then he added regretfully, “But you race so hard for nothing for yourself.”
“No!” Carlos told them. “The hombre, he say the señorita deserves a prize of her own, so he leave for her…” All eyes turned in the direction he pointed.
Tied to a bush stood the regal Hispano.
“He say to tell you,” Carlos said with a sneer, “that he is a man of honor…and always pays his debts.”
Kit’s mouth dropped open, and her heart skipped a beat. Galen Esmond had paid his debt all right, and she was now the proud owner of her very own horse!
Chapter Six
Kurt Tanner squinted against the sun. It was the middle of January and the weather should have been cold, but wasn’t. Winters in Spain could be as unpredictable as a woman. Hours ago, he had taken off his leather coat, rolling and tying it on his horse’s rump. Now he yanked off his neckerchief to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. He had been riding hard, having heard that the man he was looking for had been seen in a cantina in Valencia—nearly two weeks ago. He’d left his vaqueros to take care of things on his ranch, riding out alone in the hope that the trail was not too cold for him to follow.
He reached for his canteen and took a long drink of lukewarm water, momentarily closing his eyes against the heat and dust. God knew he thrived on the ruggedness of the country, but there were times when he had to admit that he missed the pleasures he enjoyed when he visited Madrid.
As in November.
Kurt kept his eyes closed, picturing her in his mind—those lovely lavender eyes fringed with thick, almost golden lashes; her wild, fiery hair flying about her face as she danced so passionately. She could dance the tango, all right. A smile touched his lips. He had an idea that that was not all she could do well.
He’d known who she was—Kit Coltrane, the daughter of one of the American emissaries, Colt Coltrane. After the ball, he’d made other inquiries, wanting to know more about the lovely young lady. It had been like opening a wonderful gift wrapped in black velvet, finding within an ivory treasure—a woman with more life and fire in her eyes than any he’d ever know
n before. Many times, he reflected without conceit, he had stared down at a woman in his arms, her eyes hot with desire. But no woman emanated the smoldering passion he’d felt in Kit Coltrane.
Kurt opened his eyes. The lovely vision was gone, in its place the knowledge of what he had learned from his men about the spirited señorita. It was said that her mother, Señora Jade Coltrane, blood relative to the Czar of Russia, thought her daughter wild. She was infuriated because Kit rode with vaqueros like a man. Kurt chuckled to himself. From what his men hold told him, the fiery beauty could not only ride as well as any vaquero around, but could rope and brand. And, it was rumored, she knew how to use a gun…and use it well.
A frown creased his forehead as he touched the scar beneath his eye. To him, it was not the mark of a wound, but a brand—a brand to remind him forever that women were never to be trusted, never to be loved. They were good for one thing, and one thing only—the pleasures of the flesh. If a man wanted children, a son to carry on his name, then he should take a wife and breed, but never, goddammit, love the woman.
In the distance, Kurt could see the pens where young men studied and practiced tauromaquia—the art of bullfighting, in the hopes of one day becoming a great matador. Usually he enjoyed the action, but today he was not interested. He had allowed his mind to drift back to another time, another place—and his first insight into the treachery of which women were capable.
He had grown up in Springfield, Illinois, a pleasant enough place…until violent race riots exploded in the summer of 1908. Kurt had never been a man of prejudice. His closest boyhood friend was a black man named Guthrie Hadden. The two had hunted and fished together, sharing dreams of one day setting out to explore the world. But dreams have a way of fading into the realities of life, and Kurt had gone off to college to study to be a lawyer like his father. Guthrie’s family was poor so he had gone to work in a local store, sweeping and cleaning. Toiling nights as well as days, he’d saved enough money to manage the down payment on a tiny farm just outside town. He married and had a baby. By the time Kurt came back to open his own law office, his parents had died. He was alone—except for his old friend Guthrie and Guthrie’s wife, Janie…and a comely young lady named Edwina Chandler, whom he planned to marry.
Edwina was pretty—and spoiled, the daughter of one of the richest men in Springfield. She was destined to be a society queen like her mother, and her fiancé’s choice of a best friend was not to her liking. It was a bone of contention between them.
Then came the hot August night Kurt would remember until his grave—the night he was scarred on his face—and on his soul.
Guthrie had gone into town to get some medicine for his sick baby. A group of drunks started picking on him, breaking the precious bottle of expensive medicine he’d just bought with hard-earned money.
Guthrie lost his temper and fought back. He landed a blow to the chin of a redneck who fell backward and hit his head on a rock. The drunk didn’t get up. Though the man eventually woke up with only a terrible headache and a vague memory of what had taken place, his friends decided instantly that he was dead, and, that the Negro who had killed him must be lynched.
Guthrie had run away. He tried to find Kurt, the one person he could depend on to help him. He went first to his office, then to the rooming house where he lived, not knowing that Kurt had stopped in a saloon for a drink. Finally, in blind desperation, Guthrie went to Miss Edwina, hoping that there he would find Kurt. He had no idea that to Miss Edwina he was just a Negro, and by her standards, worthless. It made no difference that he was the lifelong friend of the man she was engaged to. She had told him that Kurt wasn’t there but that she would try to find him, directing Guthrie to hide in the cellar. Only she never called Kurt; she called the sheriff instead. One of the crazy-drunk rednecks looking for him was there, and overheard the conversation. The sheriff could not hold back the angry, blood-crazed mob that quickly formed. They dragged Guthrie, terrified and pleading for his life, out of Miss Edwina’s cellar.
That was when someone finally went into the saloon and told Kurt what was happening. He ran to the hanging tree at the courthouse square…and was nearly beaten to death for daring to interfere. He woke up with Edwina leaning over him, sobbing as she stared down at his bloodied, battered face. Nearby, swinging from a rope tied to a tree limb, was the body of his friend.
“Oh, why did you have to interfere?” Edwina had cried. “Why didn’t you just stay out of it? I told them where to find him, and he got what he deserved, and—”
They told him later that he’d tried to strangle Edwina. He might have killed her if they hadn’t pulled him off her, but he didn’t remember any of it in his mindless fury. The next morning he had awakened with a blinding headache…and the realization that he didn’t want to spend another day in a town so full of prejudice and hatred that such a nightmare could have happened. He went to the bank and took out what money he had, giving it to Janie Hadden. She was in such shock that it would be days before she realized that a small fortune had been bestowed upon her.
Then Kurt left town, never to return.
He had drifted for over a year, not caring where he went, what he did. He earned enough money to eat by doing odd jobs, construction work, railroad work, finally learning to herd cattle as he worked his way southwest. Then he met Francisco Madero.
He had been living well. He enjoyed his success, and he enjoyed women, keeping his guard up, however, against falling in love.
The he received the invitation from King Alfonso for a gala weekend at the royal palace in Madrid. The festivities were being held in honor of visiting royalty from Denmark. Kurt accepted the invitation. It was a fateful decision, for that was when the seductive Princess Nedjelja came into his life, to mesmerize him with her deep indigo eyes and with her passion to melt away his resolve never to fall in love. She was sunshine and light, happiness and mirth. She brought him more joy than he’d ever believed possible, despite her many, and ever-changing, moods. She could be childlike and playful one moment, petulant and willful the next. She was capricious, headstrong, and spoiled. He had never met anyone like her, and it did not bother him at all that she was so experienced in lovemaking, boldly teaching him how to please her in ways that other women of her class might be too inhibited to enjoy. She hypnotized him completely, rendering him helpless to her charms.
She took him to the top of the mountain of ecstasy…then threw him mercilessly down to the pits of heartache and despair.
She had told him that she was going into Valencia to shop. He had planned to spend the time working on his ledgers, but later decided that it was too nice a day to waste indoors. So he rode over to where he was building what his beloved fondly called their Palace of Love. Nothing was happening at the moment, because they were waiting for special pink marble to be shipped from Italy before starting the construction of the outer walls. Kurt was puzzled to see two horses tethered outside a storage shed—one of those horses being the golden palomino he had given his princess.
His raging brain battled with his heart, pleading for reason. He had forced himself to move slowly, to dismount a good distance away and walk. But when he was perhaps still a hundred yards from the shed, he heard the unmistakable moans of pleasure that Nedjelja could never suppress.
Instant fury consumed him. He kicked open the door, reeling at the sight of the two naked bodies, tangled together on the floor. They stared up at him in frozen surprise. Everything that happened after that seemed but the shadows of a nightmare—glimpses of horror. Mercifully he was not quite able to recall every lurid detail. He had grabbed the man, a migrant worker from nearby vineyards, and beaten him senseless. He probably would have killed him had Nedjelja not grabbed a nearby shovel and hit him soundly over the head. Later, when he had awakened, the man was gone. Nedjelja had remained behind, not to beg forgiveness, but to tell him what a fool he was. Did he really think that he was man enough to satisfy her? She had laughed in his face. No man lived who could gi
ve her all she wanted. That very morning, before she had left on her fictional shopping trip, Kurt had made love to her twice, yet it was not enough.
Even with the throbbing pain and the blood oozing from her blow, he had managed to counter with a jeer of his own—did she really think that he believed her to be a true princess? He had known all along that she was not of royal blood. She was actually a member of the middle class—social climbing by using a phony royal title to gain acceptance. Kurt had known this because he made it his business to know everything about everyone he dealt with, but he’d loved her just the same.
She had paled beneath his verbal assault, toppled from her pedestal. Kurt silently admitted however, that she was victor, for she had torn down the wall he had built around himself…and made him fall in love with her.
Enough reminiscing, Kurt chided himself now, looking once more toward the pens. Maybe the man he was looking for was hanging around down there. He cantered over in that direction.
Kurt saw her even before he reached the wooden corral. She was sitting on a top rung, and her reddish-gold hair streamed down her back, gleaming in the midmorning sun. She was wearing tight denim pants, a fringed suede jacket, boots, and leather gloves.
Completely absorbed watching the young man swinging his cape before a hot-eyed bull, Kit Coltrane did not notice Kurt Tanner, even when he hoisted himself up to sit beside her on the railing.
The young matador performed well, earning the applause and cheers of the spectators as the picadors drove the bull from the ring.
“So, the lady goes from dancing to bullfighting.”
Startled, Kit jerked about. She felt a sudden flush of surprised pleasure, but managed to calmly say, “If you knew anything about bullfighting, Señor Tanner, you would know that it’s a form of dance in itself.” The shadow of a smile touched her lips. “At the end of a series of veronicas, when the matador holds the cloth of his cape to his waist and twirls as the bull passes, the cape stands up like the skirt of a pirouetting dancer. It’s called a robolera, and if he’s good at it, the matador has the grace of a prima ballerina.”
Love and Honor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 7 Page 6
