Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “You? Cold? At least your ass is covered.”

  He pushed away, the container in his left hand. Swimming back to the breakers, he held tight as he caught a wave and surfed it in, careful to keep the container from touching bottom. When his knees scraped sand he stood up, shaking off water like a dog. He cocked his head toward a strange sound. A gasp? He dismissed it as a night bird nesting in a groove on the cliffs above. Nothing sinister.

  Reaching his pile of clothes, he dressed quickly, then slammed the container on a sharp jutting rock. It shattered like a piece of fine crystal.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  The packet was dry. He shoved it into his saddlebag and headed back the way he came. After reaching the corral, he lifted his saddle off the horse, removed the bridle and sent the horse back into the paddock with a soft slap on his rear.

  It would be morning soon, but he could still get some sleep. He hoisted his saddle to his shoulder and took it to the outer edge of the row of sleeping vaqueros. He pulled a serape over his head and lay down beside them. The watchman was still snoring and had allowed the campfire to go out. Only the glow and smell of burning embers remained.

  Grainger tugged his hat brim low and closed his eyes.

  No one had seen him.

  It had been a good night.

  ~ ~ ~

  Earlier that same night

  Sorina snuggled deeper into her blankets. The soft sand under her curled body was more comfortable to sleep on than the firmer sand near the shore and there was no problem with tides at this distance. Just south of the path, the area was littered with large rocks. Her favorite spot was a jagged semicircle of boulders where she often stretched out to gaze up at the stars long after the rest of the household had gone to bed.

  When she happened to encounter Pablo on her way out, he had shaken his brown, weathered finger at her, but he knew better than to forbid her to go.

  “There are many dangers, Señorita Sorina. You must not go to the beach at night. You must trust my judgment in this matter.”

  “What dangers are those, Pablo? Bandits? There are bandits near the mountains, perhaps. Pirates? There were certainly pirates in your youth. Or are you concerned about renegade Indians? We were out all day and did not see one. I appreciate your concern, but I am not a little girl anymore. I am a woman and I will do as I please.”

  Sorina smiled as she remembered the conversation. Pablo had lowered his head and walked away, promising to tell her grandfather if she continued to be obstinate. She knew he would not. He would scold and threaten, but he would never betray her.

  The night had cooled. She had planned to strip off her clothes and swim, but a ship offshore distracted her. No trade ship was expected, but some anchored offshore if weather and their schedules permitted. She closed her eyes and let the breeze caress her face. Her thoughts turned to the gringo with the violet eyes. Pablo said he was called Lobo. It was a fitting name—wolf. He seemed always alert, as though waiting.

  But for what?

  A light flashed in the distance. Sorina stilled. Peering through the darkness, her ears strained to hear sounds that shouldn’t be there . . . a horse’s nicker and the creak a saddle makes when a man dismounts. A sliver of dread slipped down her spine. Surely, no one would have business here tonight.

  Footsteps pounded on the sand beyond her rocks. A loud splash and a curse broke the silence. She crawled to her knees and gazed out at the ocean. Clouds parted and moonlight revealed a lone figure swimming out beyond the breakers.

  Madre de Dios. Was someone intent on ending his life?

  She’d heard of such things, but not here. People in despair with no hope sometimes did foolish, reckless things that put their souls in peril. As she stood to get a better view, the man swam out to a small boat and then returned, surfing the waves into the beach. She ducked down behind the largest rock, sneaking a peek around the edge, so close the rock bit into her arm.

  The man reached the shore and stood.

  Madre de Dios! She clapped a hand over her mouth, hoping he had not heard her gasp.

  He was tall and he was naked. Unable to remove her curious gaze and hoping her pounding heart couldn’t be heard above the surf, she watched in fascination as he moved forward then glanced back, pausing as if to measure the distance he’d come. She was close enough to see the outline of muscular arms and a well-formed back that tapered into a slim waist and hips. When he shook the water off, his man’s parts swung, as if alive. He looked right at her, but he could not see through deep shadows and shielding rocks, so she held her breath and forced herself to be still. He might notice a slight movement and come to investigate.

  The man picked his way carefully to the path leading up the cliff, but stopped beneath. It was too dark to see more. Her ears strained to hear sounds over the pounding surf. Was he clothing himself? A glass breaking, a muttering voice, and a horse’s hooves moving away told her it was safe to come out.

  The stillness of the night surrounded her. Only the special music of the sea made noise as she snuggled back into her blankets, breathless and acutely aware of her own body. Her cheeks burned and a tingling sensation settled between her legs. It was a feeling she had not experienced since the night of her encounter with the stranger in her aunt’s garden.

  She was sure now that the man called Lobo was the same man who had kissed her and ignited a fire in the hidden places of her body.

  But what was he doing here and why was he in disguise? It must have something to do with the political trouble.

  She thought back to what she’d heard after dinner.

  Grandfather’s guests had remained for port and cigars when she and her aunt excused themselves from the table. Tía Consuelo went straight to bed as was her custom. Sorina pretended to go to her room, but returned and took tea in the English tradition, sitting close to the dining room door so she could listen to the conversation.

  The men complained about the chaos created by the two opposing factions representing the Mexican government. It was an opportune time, said one, for the Russians or the Americans to swoop in and take over. Or even the English or French, said another. How could they protect their assets and their women if war came to their soil?

  The most strident voice was Santoro’s. Were they men or sheep? Fight, he said. All that was needed was money to buy the necessary weapons. Americans could be defeated with the right leader.

  Of course, he was the leader they needed.

  Arguments were voiced on both sides and Sorina stored every fact, every nuance for later evaluation.

  When she’d eavesdropped for an hour—and was sure Tía Consuelo was asleep—she’d gone to her room, taken off her dress, and donned a pair of Uncle Gabriel’s old breeches. Putting on a loose black shirt and serape, she’d made her way swiftly over to the cliff path.

  She’d climbed down the cliff face so often, she could do it without using handholds. The bulky blankets she carried posed no problem. When she got to the bottom she’d found her special place, the place where she did most of her thinking.

  It had been cool and quiet.

  Until I was distracted.

  With the peace of the night surrounding her again, she had time to mull over what she’d seen and to dream about the man who’d awakened her long ago. She would visualize his naked body—he’d stood not ten varas from her—and perhaps touch herself as she remembered his taste and his caresses.

  Soft lips, a gentle squeeze, the clean smell of soap. Yes, yes, oh yes. She shuddered and her eyes drifted shut.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning

  She was going to be late.

  Sorina folded her blankets in the fog-shrouded dawn and left the beach. With the sureness of a mountain goat, she sprinted up the cliff. If she hurried, she could sneak into the side
gate undetected.

  Grandfather’s hacienda was vast. Like his late friend Tomas Yorba, he employed hundreds of retainers, many of them skilled in making saddles, furniture, clothing . . . even cigars. No one would notice a single worker hurrying along a well-worn path. If seen, she would pretend she was heading toward the washing pond. Her male clothing and the bundle she carried would give credence to her story.

  Passing the tannery, she breathed in the smell of leather. Vega’s main item of trade was hides. Cattle roamed over a thousand hills, their lowing a constant reminder of the source of the rancho’s wealth.

  As she approached her destination, Sorina checked the area between the barns and the main house. No movement meant most of the hacienda’s early risers would be in the cocina, the kitchen area on the other side of the main building. Field hands were long gone, leaving before the sun rose to tend the distant grain fields, and most of the vaqueros were miles away sleeping in camps on the cattle range.

  And where might Lobo be?

  The nocturnal activity she’d witnessed was a mystery. Long after he’d departed, she’d snuggled into her cocoon of blankets, thinking about what she’d seen. The ship anchored offshore had definitely signaled him.

  Her thoughts strayed to his body—sleek and muscled—Neptune rising from the sea. And when he’d turned toward her a strange sensation, had settled in her stomach and traveled lower, like a slow burn on a candlewick. She’d squeezed her legs together to ease the unfamiliar ache. But the feeling remained until she willed herself to stop thinking about the man and focus, instead, on the meaning of what she’d seen.

  He’d been clutching something in his hand.

  Something from the ship.

  She gazed eastward, toward a series of paddocks and barns. He might be asleep in one of the outbuildings or in an outdoor sleeping area near the corral. Those assigned to securing the hacienda generally slept within view of the main buildings. The rest of the vaqueros camped on the distant perimeters of the rancho so they could keep cattle from straying out of the unfenced range onto neighboring lands.

  Those sleeping closest to the house occasionally surprised unwelcome visitors. Kidnappings for ransom were rare, but their occasional occurrence warranted precautions.

  Encountering only one young maid, who cast her eyes downward as she passed, Sorina reached her sleeping chamber, hurriedly removed her clothes and sandals, and shoved them under the bed. As she burrowed under the covers with the quilt over her head, her thoughts strayed to the handsome stranger yet again.

  You are up to something, Señor Yankee Lobo, and I am going to probe and prod until I find out what it is.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Sorina. Sorina. Wake up.” Tía Consuelo shook her shoulder, her strident voice inches from her ear.

  “Go away, Tía. Let me sleep.”

  “You must get up now. Your grandfather’s guests have finished their morning meal and are preparing to leave. You must wish them a good journey. It is your duty.”

  She rolled over. “Please take my place.” She was in the middle of a naughty dream. She and Lobo were lying naked next to one another on a soft bed of sand, listening to the pounding surf, touching each other’s faces, preparing for a kiss.

  Mmm. Your beard is scratchy.

  “Sorina!”

  Tuning out her great-aunt was not possible. The woman would continue to shake her until she got up. The dream faded, so she sat up and stared into the frowning countenance of her duenna. Tía Consuelo’s gray braids were folded neatly on top of her head and her skin, as fragile as parchment, was mapped with lines. But her brown eyes were wide with disapproval as she stepped back and held out arms in front of her, as if warding off an evil spirit, the loose sleeves of her black dress flapping like the wings of a crow.

  “You . . . you slept like that?”

  “It was too hot to sleep in my nightgown. Is something wrong?”

  “It is . . . escandaloso.” She crossed herself.

  “To sleep naked? It is not scandalous. It is comfortable. But I apologize if I have offended you, Tía.”

  Her great-aunt turned her back and sputtered on her way out. “Get up and go to the great doors at the front of the house. Your grandfather awaits you there.”

  Yawning with her hand over her mouth, Sorina muttered something compliant, threw back the covers, and took herself behind a screen where a bowl and pitcher of water had been placed on top of a dresser.

  The water splashed in her face was cold, and the soap smelled of lemons. Filling her nose with the scent, she completed her morning ablutions, twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head, and put on a morning gown she had purchased in Bond Street while in London. It was green muslin with a high neck and long sleeves and a border of white flowers trimming sleeves, bodice and hem.

  Pinching her cheeks, she decided she was presentable and walked sedately to the main doors of the house. Nobody was there. Her grandfather laughed with someone in the dining room and the smell of coffee was strong, reminding her she had not had time for her morning cup of chocolate.

  Turning toward the sound, she entered the room. “Good morning, Grandfather.”

  “Ah, the vision is so breathtaking, God must have lost one of His angels.”

  It was the toad.

  “Sorina, I expected you to be my hostess this morning.” Her grandfather proffered his cheek for a kiss, his voice holding a modicum of censure. “Most of the guests have departed.”

  “Yesterday was so tiring, I am afraid I overslept. Please forgive me.”

  “You haven’t greeted our neighbor.”

  She forced a smile and offered her hand. “Señor Santoro. A pleasure to see you.” He took it, squeezing her fingers, before wet lips touched her flesh, lingering a moment longer than necessary. She snatched her hand away and wiped it on her skirt behind her back, repressing the urge to shudder.

  “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” His eyes swept her from head to toe, lingering in the area of her chest. “A fetching gown. Is it new?”

  “I brought it back from England.”

  She backed away, poured herself a cup of coffee from the sideboard, and sat next to Grandfather. Her stomach roiled from having to be polite to the scurrilous Santoro. Why was he still here when the others had left? Did he not have things to do at his home?

  Perhaps he’s tired of the females he’s harassed at his own ranch and is searching for young girls here.

  Narrowing her eyes, she stared at the smug face across the table, refusing to be intimidated. Selecting a pan dulce from a plate in the center of the table, she dipped a corner of the sweetened bread into her coffee, and bit off a large chunk, chewing with deliberate care so she would not have to make conversation.

  “Antoine was telling me he is training his retainers to protect our properties if war is declared.”

  Grandfather’s tone was neutral. Sorina searched his face for a signal that he approved this idea, but did not see one. More likely he did not. Grandfather was smart, and though he seemed to admire Santoro, she was not sure he would like arming his workers against a far superior fighting force.

  “Señor Vega,” the toad whined. “Do not speak of such distressing subjects in the presence of delicate feminine ears. We do not want to upset your charming granddaughter. She may think she is in need of immediate protection and demand that you find her a husband.”

  He laughed.

  Sorina pursed her lips.

  Pompous ass.

  Stroking the small knife strapped to her thigh under her skirt, her fingers traced the outline of its hilt and sheath. Swallowing, she brought her hand back to the table and lifted her cup, her eyes never leaving Santoro’s face.

  “I assure you, my granddaughter is an educated woman who can speak intelligently on many
subjects, including those that may distress others of her sex.”

  Grandfather’s affectionate glance reached between the chairs to warm her. She nodded in thanks.

  The talk moved to the mundane—the Englishman who’d purchased the former Mission San Juan Capistrano promised to set aside a room for visiting priests. Juan Avila, who had the largest hacienda in the mission town, had made it known that visitors attending Mass would be welcome to spend the night at his home, should they wish to make their journey the day before. Sorina brought the conversation back to the war.

  “Is it true Americans will soon invade our soil?”

  Grandfather frowned. “A rumor only, my dear. Nothing to be distressed about.”

  Sorina scooted back from the table, made a proper English curtsy, and wished Santoro a safe trip. Leaving the room, she entered the interior garden and hurried back to her sleeping chamber.

  It was more than a rumor. Did it have anything to do with Lobo’s midnight swim?

  Americans did not seem much different than the English. Sorina had met many Americans and they seemed pleasant enough. Invading armies were another matter. She’d heard stories during her voyages about Indian wars far to the East. Some of the descriptions had made her sick to her stomach.

  She reached her chamber to find Maria, a young maid, sweeping the floor.

  “Oh, Señorita Sorina, you startled me,” she said. “I shall clean under your bed and then I will leave.”

  Sorina glanced at the place where she’d shoved last night’s clothes out of sight. A swipe with the broom would bring them out into the open. While she did not have to account for her whereabouts to any of the servants, the maid might comment to someone in the kitchen about the strange find. Talk of the bundle then might reach the ears of her duenna, Tía Consuelo.

  “Your name is Maria, is it not?” Sorina remained by the door.