Every muscle in Carson’s body tensed. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the man, not exactly, he assured himself. But he didn’t want anything to interfere with his trip to Guanajuato. He had promised Aurelia…
“Going to meet your sugar?”
Carson’s mind switched instantly from meeting Aurelia to whipping this sonofabitch. With the ease of a cat about to spring, he straightened his back, “My plans are just that, mine.”
“Involve that feisty little daughter of Mazón’s though, don’t they, your plans?”
Carson eyed his adversary, searching for a weak spot, all the while cautioning himself to stay cool, not to think about Aurelia, not to think about what the man was saying, not to remember all that Aurelia had told him.
All she had cried over.
All she had lost to this bastard.
“What’s your connection to her, anyhow?” Quiroz questioned.
Carson studied the man. His jaws were solid, like steel traps. His arms were barrels filled with muscles, honed to the strength of cables by his long years handling a double-jack. His swing would be nearly as wide, his reach almost as far as Santos’s. Carson strove to recall every detail of the one time he had tangled with his friend.
The one fight in his entire life he had lost.
And they had been friends.
“Bet you can’t wait to get hold of them tit—”
“You asked my connection, Quiroz. I’ll tell you. She’s a lady whose honor I am prepared to defend with my life.” On the last word he struck, hard and low, aiming for the gut.
Quiroz emitted a huff, merely a gust of air. “Fool” was all he said before he returned the slug.
Carson sidestepped that one and found himself on the other side of the office chair, which he slung into the path of the oncoming madman.
It caused him to stumble, but contrary to Carson’s hopes, Quiroz was quick on his feet, light for a man his size. And his reach was as long as Carson had feared. His first blow struck Carson just below the chin.
Only the fact that Carson saw it coming saved a broken jaw, for he averted his head, deflecting the blow, causing it to plow into the side of his neck before the force of it carried him backwards into a table stacked with ledgers.
Quickly, he sidestepped, regained his position, and struck again, hammering now at the big man’s body, knowing he would cause no harm, figuring only to slow him down, to use up time.
Time surely would be on his side. Surely he had more wind than this big bag of lard.
Quiroz landed a devastating blow to Carson’s left temple, toppling him. He scrambled to find his footing, rethought his last statement. A big bag of muscle, he corrected. Definitely muscle, not lard.
He had trained his mind long ago, and now it came in handy. If he thought about the fight, he would be lost before he began. No man in his right mind could keep his composure fighting an opponent so overmatched.
So he wouldn’t think about it. He would hit and hit and hit.
And hit. Jarrett pummeled his opponent, and Quiroz battered him back. That was the hell of it. If he was doing any damage, he couldn’t tell by the way the man kept coming on.
Then he landed a powerful punch to Quiroz’s right eye, staggering him backward. The man fell across the table, losing his footing.
Carson closed in, steering clear of the man’s flailing legs—they were as big as mesquite trunks, he thought. Grappling with the downed man, he bashed him in the head, in the chest, aiming for his heart, hoping to keep him down.
But the man was as agile as he was powerful. After absorbing no more than a handful of punches, he tore loose from Carson’s hold and slung him against the far desk, then bounded after him.
Gaining his footing once more, Carson feinted right, veered left, and Quiroz’s punch landed with a thud on the oak desktop, smashing it to splinters.
That was the last blow the man missed. After that, Carson decided he had best hope for a pleasant funeral. That was about all he could see in the cards.
Then without warning, Quiroz turned him loose, dropping him to the floor, and stepped back.
Through a haze of sweat and blood, Carson could tell someone else had entered the room.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“He had it coming.”
“Get out. Cool off. I don’t want to see you around here until Monday morning. Do you understand?”
Seconds passed in silence. At length he heard a grunt, followed by heavy footsteps stomping out the door.
Carson shook off the hand that grabbed his shirt. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his other arm, then peered into the face of Enrique Villasur.
Enrique offered his hand. Carson considered it, refused it, and stumbled to his feet under his own steam.
“Lucky I happened by.”
“Happened by?” Carson growled. His sarcasm was not lost on Enrique, he could tell at once.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s Sunday morning. Mass. Or do you only attend when Aurelia is around so you can impress her?”
Enrique wanted to hit him. Carson watched the man consider it. Likely he looked an easy target at the moment. He started to suggest to Enrique that if he was ever going to hit him, this was his chance.
He held his tongue.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Enrique replied.
“I never pretended to attend Mass.”
“Not that. What are you doing in the mine on Sunday morning? How did you get in?”
“The door was unlocked,” he said. “Like I was expected.” Once the statement left his mouth, Carson became convinced of its validity. “I was expected. And what’s more, Quiroz knows about Aurelia. He knows she was in town. He knows that…” Pausing, he reconsidered telling Enrique any more than he needed to know. “He knows I am on my way to Guanajuato and that she is there.”
Enrique frowned, obviously studying the situation. “Someone let it slip.”
Carson glowered through the bloody sweat that blurred his vision. “Who, damnit?”
Enrique paused but a moment before he replied, “The servants. I warned Don Domingo he could not trust them.”
“There isn’t a servant in that house stupid enough to gossip about Aurelia, especially not since Don Domingo threatened to fire anyone who spoke of her return, and Santos promised to throw them out of town.”
Enrique shrugged. “That seamstress.”
Carson considered the dressmaker. It would be easy enough to check out.
“Pia or Zita?” Enrique suggested.
“Not on your life.”
“Looks like it was your life, Jarrett.”
“Not quite.”
Enrique perused him.
“Don’t go getting your hopes up; he won’t get me next time, either.”
Enrique smiled. “Perhaps I will happen by again, señor, should you find yourself in another such difficulty.”
“If I find myself in another such difficulty, Villasur, I’ll come looking for you.”
“Me?”
“You. It couldn’t have been you who let the cat out of the bag?”
“The what?”
“You know damned well what I mean.”
Enrique clenched his fists. Carson wanted to taunt him into striking him, but he didn’t have the strength. Possibly he wouldn’t have the strength to fight the citified dandy, either, he mused.
“May I suggest that it was yourself who let the word out?” Enrique said. “Her name may have slipped unaware from your lips.”
Carson stared at him, disbelieving the man’s stupidity. His anger rose, nonetheless. “Listen close and get this straight: Aurelia’s name has never slipped unaware from my lips, and it never will.”
“I thought…”
“Take my advice, Villasur: Start thinking. Where Aurelia is concerned, you had best think long and hard before you let anything slip from your lips, whether carelessly or with purpose. Now, get out of here, before I
catch my breath and give you the whipping I should have given Quiroz.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Let’s skip the parade,” Aurelia suggested when Santos drew her to a halt at a corner where the Cathedral of San Diego met the Teatro Juárez. The streets and even the Jardín de la Unión were so crowded she wondered how anyone would be able to see the parade.
“What’s the matter, Relie? You getting uptown like Tía? Can’t associate with the peóns?”
“You know better than that. And Tía isn’t uptown, either. Tío Luís is the snob in the family.”
Santos laughed. “Tío is definitely a snob. But the parade will be fun.”
“If we are able to see it for all these people,” she countered. “Besides, Carson may have arrived.”
Santos relented. “I don’t like crowds myself,” he admitted, after he found a livery and hired a hack to take them to the Reinaldo residence.
Tía Guadalupe met them in the foyer. Her voice betrayed her agitation. “You have a guest, Santos. Some Norteamericano. Disreputable sort of hombre; looks like he belongs in the stables.”
Santos frowned at his aunt’s remarks. “Jarrett?”
“That sounds like the name. I had Lupe show him to the side patio.” She glanced around the opulent foyer, a look of concern creasing her usually placid forehead. “You don’t think he would steal—”
“Tía! Carson Jarrett is—”
Santos interrupted Aurelia with a hand to her shoulder. “Jarrett is my compadre, Tía. He came to Mexico for my wedding.”
Aurelia would not be stilled. “Mamá welcomed him to our home. He has been our guest for several weeks.” Tearing away from Santos’s hold, she rushed toward the side patio. Behind her she heard Tía call, “Stop, Relie. That man isn’t the sort you should—”
“Tía,” Santos interrupted, “Carson Jarrett is my best friend. If he is not welcome here and at every event we are to attend with you, then we will all leave.”
“Bella!” Tía Guadalupe hissed behind Aurelia. “What has gotten into my sister, raising her children in such a manner?”
All thoughts of Tía Guadalupe fled when Aurelia reached the patio. She stopped short at the sight of him—at the beloved sight of him.
“You came.” Tears formed in her eyes. Tears of happiness. In his eyes she saw the reflection of her own desperate longing. She started across the patio.
A bell sounded in the distance, followed by Tía Guadalupe’s voice. “Dinnertime, children. I will set another place.”
Santos came up behind her. “Jarrett! You old leather pounder! You made it!” He shook hands with Carson, while his eyes teased Aurelia. “Didn’t I tell you he would come?”
How she reached him, she wasn’t sure, her legs trembled so badly. Suddenly, however, her hands touched his, gripped his, and she wished they were far away from brothers and uptown aunts.
Carson lifted her fingers to his lips while his eyes studied her unabashedly.
“She’s got you staked out for the charriada, compadre.”
Aurelia heard the welcome in her brother’s voice, noticed the smile on Santos’s face. Resigned, yet genuine.
“How’s that?” Carson still stared at Aurelia, taking in her black riding skirt and cropped jacket, her crisp white shirt, adorned with a silver and onyx brooch at the properly high collar.
Her hair was swept into a coil at her nape, and on her head a flat-brimmed black hat tipped at ever-so-slight an angle. Proper, elegant.
He felt her pulse beat against his hand, faster with his prolonged perusal. Lordy, how he had missed her. His eyes fastened on her belly—taut, flat. For how long?
She blushed at his scrutiny. “Where did you get those clothes?” She scanned his denim trousers and leather vest, the bandanna around his neck. “All you need is a star for everyone to recognize you as a Texas Ranger.”
Carson’s eyes strayed to Santos, then returned to her. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Our birddog here managed to get hold of the train robber’s belongings before you left Catorce.”
Aurelia beamed at Santos, suddenly loving him more than ever. “He isn’t half bad…sometimes.”
When Carson winked at her, his swollen eye twitched. Suddenly, she noticed the bruises on his jaw, the gash above his right eye. “What happened?” She tried to lift her hands to stroke his face, but he held them tightly in his.
He shrugged in answer, grinning that wry grin she had missed so dreadfully.
Santos frowned. “Quiroz?”
Carson nodded.
“Did you find answers?”
“Only more questions.”
Then it was over. A second dinner bell sounded and Tía Guadalupe called them to the table, admonishing them to take their places. Santos introduced his guest to their hosts.
They dined in the elegance of the Reinaldo comedor, on roast quail and fresh fruit prepared by Tía Guadalupe’s Madrid-trained chef.
“Wonder if he attended the same school as Enrique?” Santos mused over dessert.
Aurelia was delighted, but Tío Luís clearly did not appreciate Santos’s flippancy regarding his protégé. “Enrique is possessed of a magnificent financial mind.”
In the silence that ensued, Tía Guadalupe excused the table. “We ladies need time to change for the corrida. We are to sit in the governor’s box again,” she explained to Carson as they rose from the table. “Aurelia will be honored by the torero.”
When Santos scraped back his chair, Carson glanced across at Aurelia, an amused expression on his face. The seating arrangement had put them on the same side of the table yet separated by Santos, so until now they could not even look at each other without being obvious about it.
“It’s nothing,” she told him. Her eyes savored his nearness. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling at his hungry perusal.
Santos suddenly threw a brotherly arm about her shoulder, drawing her around to stand between himself and Carson. Her body—her clothing leastways—touched Carson’s.
Although propriety demanded he step away from such contact, he did not. He didn’t reach for her hand, either, but she saw him grip his fingers into fists.
“Nothing to it,” Tío Luís echoed Aurelia’s assessment of the honor the torero intended to bestow on her at the corrida. “A token extended to a guest of the governor, nothing more. Enrique will be honored, though.”
Carson’s eyebrows lifted a notch and a frown flitted across his brow. Under his breath, he spoke to Santos. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Sí.”
Although Aurelia intended to remain below while her aunt changed clothes, she found herself being hustled to her room, where she remained only long enough to re-pin loose strands of hair, dab her shiny nose with cornstarch, and spray a spritz of rosewater over herself. Carrying her hat in her hand, she hurried back downstairs, telling herself that even if Carson hadn’t arrived she would not have changed costumes. Nothing could be more appropriate for a corrida than what she had on, no matter whose box they were seated in.
If she had entertained doubts about her attire, they would have fled the moment she stepped inside the shadowy drawing room and watched Carson’s eyes roam her body. His eyes caressed her face, then dropped to her waist, lingering over her stomach, reminding her of the way he had stared at her earlier.
Her cheeks flushed, and although she intended to cross the room sedately, chin held high, showing him what a mature, sophisticated lady she could be, her feet simply would not comply.
She practically flew to him, her boots stumbling across the Persian carpet. In spite of Santos, who stood with his elbow propped carelessly on the mantel, his eyes taking in her every movement, she threw her arms around Carson and felt his come around her. She buried her face in his chest, holding on for dear life, as though to prevent his leaving her ever again.
She didn’t say a word. She at least had control over her mouth.
And she knew she couldn’t kiss him. So she kept her face pinned to his chest, inhaling his wonderfully familiar scent, feeling his heart throb against her.
His arm rose to her shoulder and he gently drew her back, staring into her upturned face, devouring her with his eyes. Searching for something, questioning.
“Hey, don’t mind me,” Santos said at last. “I’m only her brother.”
Carson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He turned Aurelia against his side, his arm draped across her shoulders. She reached to hold his hand, rubbing the calluses on his palm with her thumb.
“How did you bring him around?” he asked her.
“She didn’t bring me around,” Santos responded. “I’m still not convinced this thing is good for either one of you, but she persuaded me to mind my own business—for the time being.”
Carson laughed. “Fair enough.”
His voice was husky and she snuggled to his side, too content with his presence to need conversation, too aroused by the want of him to trust her voice.
Finally, Santos bounced to attention, clapped his hands together, rubbing them a bit self-consciously, then cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll run along. Need to…ah…freshen up, as the ladies say, before the corrida.”
“By the way,” Carson’s voice stopped him at the door. “Pia sends her love.”
Santos turned in the doorway, grinning at them. “Seeing you two together makes me miss her all the more.” He left then, drawing the elaborately carved doors closed behind him.
Aurelia’s heart beat faster at the prospect of being alone with Carson at last. She felt his hand slip to her back, splay against her jacket.
But his eyes held questions.
“Are you all right?” he managed.
“Now that you have come, I am. I missed you so.”
“Me, too,” he murmured. But instead of kissing her as she expected, he questioned again, “You are sure you…ah?…”
“Carson, you are one to ask. Of course, I’m all right.” Her fingers trembled against the bruises on his face. “You are the one who had a fight. Was it bad? Did he—?”
“Come back to the drawing room, Santos,” Tío Luís’s voice boomed outside the door.
Startled, Aurelia froze in place, but Carson reacted. Pushing her to the settee, he stepped backwards, propping an elbow in the same spot where Santos had previously leaned. He stared intently at the gold-leaf carvings on the mantel.
Silver Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Two Page 22
