Diablo’s Angel
Rancheros Trilogy Book 3
Donna Fletcher
Contents
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
Chapter 31
About the Author
Also by Donna Fletcher
Also by Donna Fletcher
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without permission of the author.
This is a book of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Diablo’s Angel
All rights reserved.
Copyright © February 2020
by Donna Fletcher
Cover art
Kim Killion
Visit Donna’s Web site
www.donnafletcher.com
http://www.facebook.com/donna.fletcher.author
Chapter 1
Los Angeles 1810
Crista found her return home difficult. She had been a mere child, barely five years old, when she had been sent away. The memory of that time was still vivid in her mind. She hadn’t wanted to go. Hadn’t wanted to leave her family. Her tiny heart had felt like it shattered into hundreds of pieces the pain had been so bad. She had cried and begged when her mother had handed her over to the woman on the large ship that would take her to Spain.
I be good, Madre. I be good. Please! Please!
But her heartfelt pleas and copious tears had made no difference, nor did her little, outstretched arms desperately trying to reach for her mother.
The woman, Anita, had treated her well while onboard the ship, but Crista had spent most of the voyage ill and crying, her little heart continuing to ache for her family. Anita had seen her safely to the convent where she would spend her days until summoned home. But it hadn’t turned out that way. Not that her madre and padre knew the truth, but then few did, and none would learn the truth from her.
She sat silently in the wagon that had been sent to collect her. She had been informed that her brother Esteban had been unable to meet her at the dock due to a problem at the hacienda. He had sent a sizeable group of vaqueros to escort her home. She should have been disappointed but she wasn’t. She had learned long ago not to expect much from her family, if she could call them that. Not once in the thirteen years she had spent in Spain had her father or mother come to see her. It had taken many tears and endless nightmares to realize that she had been left on her own for the nuns to raise.
Thank God, fate had intervened.
Ernesto, the grey-haired man who drove the wagon, had attempted to converse with her, but after having been met with silence he had stopped trying, and Crista was relieved.
She didn’t want to be here in a land that was now foreign to her. She would have much preferred to remain where she had been, but that hadn’t been possible.
The beauty of the area did not fail to capture Crista’s attention. She had remembered it as a land luscious and ripe with an abundance of fruit trees, colorful, fragrant flowers, and various blooming trees. Though she had been young when she left, she recalled the many different orchards her family had owned and cultivated. She couldn’t help but think of the times her brother Esteban had carried her on his shoulder so that she could pick the sweet oranges off the trees. Or when they would pluck the grapes off the vines and eat them. She had loved her brother with all her heart and had been heartbroken and frightened when he had been abducted by a band of bad men, as her mother had called them. She had been overjoyed when she had received a letter letting her know that Esteban had returned home and that he was to wed a lovely woman named Rosa. By now, he was probably wed to her.
That letter had also brought news of her summons home and while she was happy her brother was home safe and all was well with him, she was not. Far too much had changed.
She didn’t belong here. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go home.
“Another hour and you will be home, senorita.”
Ernesto had been nothing but pleasant to her since he had introduced himself and she should not be so rude as to ignore him.
“Were you at the hacienda when I was young? Forgive me, but I don’t remember you,” she said pleasantly.
“No, senorita. I come there a couple of years after you left.”
“Are you happy there?”
Ernesto grinned wide. “Si, mucho happy. Your padre and madre are very good people.”
“What about Esteban, my brother. How is he now that he’s home?” Crista asked curious. She had adored her big brother but now after all these years apart she barely knew or remembered him.
His smile faltered some. “Don Esteban returned home a far different man, but there is goodness in him still.” His smile grew once again. “His wife Rosa helps bring that goodness out in him. She is a very good woman and soon they will have their first child.”
“What wonderful news. I am happy for my brother and his wife,” Crista said, an image of her taking her brother’s handsome face in her small hands and planting a kiss on his cheek— something she had done often—came to mind and reminded her of the love she once had for him. He would make a good father.
“Everyone has looked forward to your return home. You have been missed,” Ernesto said.
Crista smiled and nodded. Wanting to avoid further discussion about her family, she asked, “Do you have family, Ernesto?”
His face beamed with pride. “Si, I have two fine sons, three daughters, and six grandchildren with two more on the way.”
Crista smiled and laughed as Ernesto told her stories about his family and she found herself feeling a little like she was home.
One of the vaqueros suddenly approached the wagon. “Men in the distance.”
Ernesto nodded and after the vaquero rode off, he looked to Crista. “You run and hide if need be.”
“Has this anything to do with the trouble at the hacienda that kept my brother from meeting me and bringing me home?”
“I was told not to worry you,” Ernesto said, though looked as if he wanted to say more.
“I would worry more if you do not tell me,” Crista said, concern already sparking in her dark eyes.
“There is an infamous outlaw known as Diablo, a good name for him since he is the devil himself, that has been attacking various haciendas.”
Crista grew alarmed.
Ernesto soothed her worry before she could ask. “The Cesare hacienda has not been attacked, but neighboring hacienda’s have suffered attacks and deaths.”
Crista couldn’t recall the families at the nearby haciendas, but she felt for their loss. “Has anything
been done to stop this Diablo?”
“Many have tried, but none have succeeded. No one knows his true identity. He wears a black shroud that conceals his face. Some even fear he walks among us.” Ernesto shuddered. “The devil has many disguises.”
Crista shivered at the thought.
“Why attack the haciendas?” Crista asked. “He must know his reign of terror cannot last, that he will eventually be caught. People I spoke with on the ship told me how Los Angeles is growing, more people settling in the area, haciendas and orchards multiplying rapidly. Surely, his outlaw days are limited.”
“He knows no other way but his life as an outlaw. And believe me when I tell you there are places he can hide and never be found.” Ernesto shook his head. “I do not mean to worry you. Your brother has sent enough men to protect you.”
“I’m sure he has, but I can run fast if necessary,” Crista said.
“Good. You have courage like your brother.”
Crista looked in the distance and saw that three riders approached them. Her fear eased some since there were more than a dozen vaqueros protecting her.
That was until the three men were nearly on top of them and at least two dozen more riders seemed to come from out of nowhere, pistols and rifles drawn.
Everything happened as if in a blink of an eye.
Ernesto raised his pistol and took aim at a rider heading straight for him. He fired and missed and the man kept coming, his pistol aimed at Ernesto.
Instinct had Crista pushing Ernesto out of the way of the pistol and the bullet grazed her arm as it passed between them. Blood seeped through the rip in her tan duster, but she had no time to worry about it
The next thing she knew she was being dragged off the seat of the wagon. She watched helplessly as a man smashed the butt of his pistol at Ernesto’s head and he slumped over and fell off the wagon seat to land on the hard ground.
She was dumped across a saddle, watching the ground pass beneath her as the rider took off. She didn’t know what happened to the vaqueros who had been sent to protect her. She prayed for Ernesto, for the men and for herself, having no idea what awaited her.
Crista sat hugging herself, not from any chill, but from fear. It was dusk by the time her captors had stopped and dumped her off the horse. There were five of them. The other men who had attacked had yet to join them and with it now being dark, she didn’t think they would.
She watched the men with cautious eyes after the one pushed her toward the campfire they had set. They all were of varying height and size, some lanky and a couple thick in the middle. There didn’t seem to be anyone in charge. They sat fanned out around the fire, passing a jug amongst themselves, laughing and nodding toward her.
She was desperate for something to drink and even a small bite to eat, but nothing was offered to her. Her arm stung, though thankfully the bleeding had stopped. She didn’t think the wound was serious, but if it wasn’t cleaned soon, it could turn serious. Unfortunately, she had more pressing problems than her wound.
It was obvious what the men intended and the more they drank, the more they laughed, and the more they leered at her. It was when they began to argue over who would have her first that fear shivered her cold. By no means would she be strong enough to stop them all.
She stood barely five feet four inches and was slim and curvy and while no weakling, she wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could defend herself against these men. She did have a knife tucked in her boot, but it wouldn’t take long for them to disarm her. She might be able to wound one or two, if lucky, but what then? She would suffer the consequences.
What then were her choices?
Did she face death with bravery? Or did she attempt to survive until she was rescued?
The men argued and after a few moments, sticks were gathered and broken to make different sizes. They would pick to see who would take her first.
There was no question now. She would fight, no matter the consequences.
“She’s mine,” a deep, commanding voice called out from the darkness.
The men swerved around, their eyes turning wide, searching the blackness that surrounded the camp.
One brave man yanked his knife out of the sheath on his belt. “Our attack. Our loot.”
“Do you want to rethink that, Diego?” the deep voice cautioned.
“We did the work. We risked our lives,” Diego yelled at the darkness.
“Without authority,” the voice roared.
The other men backed away from Diego, as if surrendering to the man in the darkness.
“Send her to me,” the voice ordered sharply.
Diego hesitated and a sharp crack was heard as a whip flew out of the darkness and coiled around his neck. The knife tumbled from Diego’s hand as he fell to his knees, his hands rushing to his neck desperately pulling at the whip as he struggled to breathe.
Crista watched in fear and awe as a man stepped out of the darkness. A black shroud covered a portion of him, hanging an inch or more above his ankles and revealing black, scuffed, worn boots. The shroud didn’t cover his arms. He wore a black shirt beneath, black long sleeves evidence of that. The hood, attached to the shroud, hung down over his face and from what she could see the material was light in weight and weave allowing him to see through it, but making it difficult for anyone to see his features. A dark leather belt was secured around his slim waist and kept the shroud in place, and a coiled whip hung from it. He was taller, his shoulders broader than any man there, and he stood with an air of authority and power that would put fear into anyone.
“Never hesitate when I command,” the voice warned and yanked the whip hard and Diego fell to the ground, choking.
Crista watched mesmerized as the black figure turned his head to the other men as Diego writhed, fighting for breath and fighting to free himself of the whip.
“You all will suffer his fate and more if you fail to obey me,” the deep voice threatened with an anger that sent a tremble through Crista and shudders through the men.”
“Si, Diablo, si,” the men rang out quickly.
Crista’s tremble worsened upon hearing the name. Her fearful thought of who he might be after having seen the black shroud now confirmed.
The devil himself, Ernesto had warned.
What fate awaited her with the devil?
Everyone jumped when with a quick snap and twirl of the whip, it uncoiled from Diego’s neck, leaving the man heaving for air.
Diablo coiled the leather whip and hung it on his belt at his waist. He stretched his arm out and snapped his hand at Crista. “Come to me.”
Crista limbs had weakened from fear and she worried she wouldn’t have enough strength to stand.
“Don’t make me say it again,” he warned.
Crista hurried to her feet, faltering a bit, her limbs as weak as she feared they would be. She struggled with each step she took to him. When she got near, he reached out and grabbed her arm.
She winced loudly, his hand having closed tightly around her wound, sending a sharp pain running through her arm.
He released her quickly, his hands going to her shoulders to turn her as his head dipped slightly toward her wound.
“Who caused her harm?” he demanded with a fury that had the men backing away again, though not before pointing to Diego.
Diego’s hands went up as he pleaded, “It was an accident. I shot at the man driving the wagon she was in, but she pushed him out of the way and the bullet caught her arm. A graze. No more than a graze.”
Crista was stunned by Diablo’s quick movements, barely seeing him draw his knife, bend over Diego, and slash his cheek.
“No more than a graze,” Diablo said, anger still heavy in his deep voice.
Crista doubted that, since blood was pouring out between Diego’s fingers he held pressed to his cheek.
Diablo was back beside her once again, the knife’s blade cleaned before returned to its sheath.
Diablo took hold of her other arm
. “You’re mine now.”
With that said, he propelled Crista into the darkness.
Chapter 2
Crista sat silent on the horse in the arms of Diablo, her fear escalating. The devil had saved her from a horrible fate, but what fate awaited her in the arms of the devil.
He hadn’t said a word since leaving the camp. He had placed her on a horse, mounted behind her, his arms going around her to take the reins, and locking her against him. He was solid beneath the light-weight shroud and he sat tall and straight in the saddle, a posture seen more in aristocrats when they rode. Diablo, however, was a man in command not only of others but himself as well.
She wondered where he was taking her, having been away from home far too many years and having left entirely too young, she wasn’t familiar with her surroundings. She didn’t even know how far she was from home, that had never truly been a home to her. She did have family, whether she thought of them as so or not, and they had wanted her to return home, which meant they would do what was necessary to see her rescued. At least she hoped they would.
“My family would gladly pay you for my safe return,” she said, hoping to learn if ransom was his intention.
“I’m sure they would.”
His response didn’t help her with trying to find out his intentions. Did he plan to ransom her? If not what else would he want with her? Various possibilities flitted through her mind, one after the other, causing fear to grow.
Diablo's Angel (Ranchero Trilogy Book 3) Page 1
