Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  Having an important birthday gave her the freedom to live in the moment. And right now her life was tied to this man who had aspirations of his own. Why not enjoy their time together? It might be her only chance to explore her own sensuality.

  If she could convince his conscience to be still.

  Yes, this was a bit of a tangle. But she would take it slow and pretend nothing unusual happened in the night and see where it took them. He wanted her. He wouldn’t hold out forever.

  “Sorina, wake up. We are nearly ashore.”

  She poked her head out of the shelter and blinked into the gray morning light. “Where are we, exactly?”

  “On the Rio San Luis Rey, heading toward the former mission. There used to be a dock there. If it’s gone, we go wading this morning.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He smiled wickedly, making color stain her cheeks. She expected a reference to the night that passed. But thankfully, he was all business this morning. “Fold up three of the blankets and lay them across the saddle.”

  “What about the dress?”

  “Good question.” His brow furrowed as he stared off into space. Sorina hated to leave it, but if she had to, she would. “Roll it up as tightly as you can, your shoes inside, and wrap the bundle in your shawl. We might need you to be a lady again.”

  “Am I still to act the servant?”

  The slow smile was back, but only for a moment. “Yes. Braid your hair so we can stuff it under a hat.”

  She nodded as he grasped the tiller and guided them into the current of the river. Another bump knocked her on her side. “What is happening?”

  “We bumped into a rock. Nothing to worry about.”

  Sorina tucked her head back into the cabin and felt around for the sash that tied her shirt at the waist. A hairpin pricked her finger. Drat. At least she should be able to find the rest when she shook out the blankets. Laying her hand on the piece of rope she used as a sash, she fastened it around her waist and gathered up the blankets, hauling them outside.

  She seated herself on the port side of the boat and folded the first blanket as best she could, laying it neatly across the saddle. After doing the same with the other two, she pinned her braids to the top of her head, then crawled back inside to roll up her dress. The petticoat, corset and other undergarments would be discarded, but the soft fabric of the silk dress made a small enough package. She tied the ends of the paisley shawl into a bundle, stuffed her dress, brooch, and shoes inside, and awaited her orders.

  It took more than an hour to get to the old mission docks. The land along the riverbanks was dry, and only a few trees dotted the landscape. Mustard was already blooming in the fields, creating a carpet of yellow as far as the eye could see. Lobo had adjusted the sail, but the boat now moved at the speed of the old tortoise Sorina once had as a pet.

  A cow mooed somewhere off to the right, and a donkey brayed further upstream. Sorina glanced nervously around, her eyes landing on Grainger who was seated at the tiller as the boat moved inch by inch upstream with the light breeze and the tide flooding inland from the sea.

  “There it is.” He stood, still holding the tiller, as he made a slight adjustment in the angle of the sail. As they slid next to the dock, he let the sail luff, grabbed the rungs of an old ladder and held tight until the boat came to a complete stop. “Hand me the painter,” he said, pointing to a rope attached to the bow of the boat.

  Sorina slid forward, picked it up and handed the line to Grainger. He slipped the rope around a post and brought it back to the stern where he tied it again. He climbed the three rungs to the dock, taking another rope with him to secure the back of the boat snugly.

  “Wait here, while I see if anyone is about.”

  “You’re going to leave me here alone?”

  “I promise not to be gone long.” His eyes narrowed and his lips turned down in a frown, giving him a fierce appearance. Then he grinned. “You still have your knife, don’t you?”

  “Si, señor.”

  “And if I recall correctly, you know how to use it.”

  “I do, señor.”

  “Then you’ll be just fine.”

  He bounded off toward a distant building with a long corridor of arches. A church with one tower stood at the end.

  Madre de Dios. Where had her courage gone? Her uncle had taught her how to throw a knife and hit a target at a distance of thirty feet. He also had taught her how to free herself if she was ever bound. Women who planned to depend only on themselves were wise to remember such lessons.

  She sat in the boat with her bundle and waited for Grainger. He wasn’t long.

  “It’s totally deserted. Several rooms seem in good repair. We can camp here overnight while I find a horse to take us to San Diego.” He reached down and took the bundle from her hands, setting it on the dock. “Climb up and I’ll steady you when you reach the top.”

  The boat wobbled as Sorina stood. She curled her fingers around the worn wooden ladder, wincing as she hoisted herself up, holding tight to the rough wood. Gritting her teeth, she put her foot on the first step, then the next until strong hands grasped her arms and lifted her the rest of the way up.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Grainger spoke softly, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, as though memorizing each contour. The heat of the previous night roared back into life. She looked up into his face, expecting him to close his eyes and lower his lips to hers. Instead he dropped her arms and climbed back down into the boat, lifting the saddle onto the dock, and clambering back up.

  “Let’s examine our new temporary home.” He hoisted the saddle onto his shoulder and strode off. Sorina stared after his back, watching the muscles of his taut buttocks, her hands itching to touch him there.

  Madre de Dios. When did I turn into such a wanton?

  As distracting as it was to be alone traveling with such a man, she must not forget that they were two fugitives who were being hunted like animals in the forest. Knowing her grandfather, a reward was probably offered, making this journey twice as dangerous. Search parties would have formed, fanning out in every direction. If war was already declared, the authorities would not be involved. Their priorities would be elsewhere.

  Santoro was another matter. The pompous fool would be out for blood and would not stop until he found them.

  Sorina shuddered and hurried to catch up with Grainger, her eyes darting from side to side, suddenly aware of every chirping bird and every rustling bush. When she reached the mission corridor, she plopped down on a wooden bench. Grainger was no longer in sight. He had disappeared inside one of the rooms, but she wasn’t sure which one.

  A low rumble in her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten since early last night. A memory assailed her—beef roasting over an open pit and pots of beans, smelling of herbs, cooking in the Avila’s courtyard in preparation for her betrothal barbecue. Swallowing hard, she got up and debated whether it was safe to call out Grainger’s name. Where was he?

  She stood and opened the nearest door. Something flew around in the room. Slamming the door shut, she stifled a screech. It was probably a bat.

  Moving to the next door, she was more cautious. A sickening smell of mold and incense nearly gagged her. The third room had a window. She peered in. Narrow wooden bed frames of crisscrossed ropes lined the walls. Would they be sturdy enough to hold the weight of a person? At least they wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.

  Footsteps announced the missing Grainger.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Scouting. This is an amazing place. Or it was. It’s probably been auctioned off like some of the other missions.”

  “What did you find, señor?”

  “For starters, I found a storehouse with a few sacks of grain and other odds and ends. I r
eckon this was a place where hides and tallow were traded for foreign goods, just like San Juan Capistrano.” Grainger grabbed her hand. “Come. It’s time to eat. I still have two dried tortillas in my saddlebag. A feast. We’ll eat in the church.”

  He towed her along the corridor, the fingers of his callused hand entwining with hers. He stopped abruptly and pushed her behind a thick stone column. His fingers to his lips, he stood very still.

  A whistle came from the direction of the river. Sorina’s throat closed as she held herself still, afraid to breathe. Grainger peered around the edge of the square column, his hat in his hand. The whistle came again, followed by the bleating of sheep. A lone man—a former neophyte of the mission by the looks of him—came into sight. He whistled again as he drove a small flock of a dozen sheep forward, toward the far end of the mission.

  Grainger leaned down and whispered in Sorina’s ear. “Our lucky day. There’s a corral there. If the sheep are left untended, we’ll dine on mutton tonight.”

  Sorina pursed her lips in distaste. Her mind wanted nothing to do with killing. But her stomach shouted, “yes, yes.”

  How her life had changed in one day.

  Chapter 20

  While Sorina went off to nap, Grainger scanned the open areas around them. Nothing stirred but the branches of an old pepper tree. He was sure to see dust on the horizon if horsemen approached.

  To make sure, he climbed to the top of the church bell tower. Cold stone walls enclosed him like a tomb and the rotted wooden steps made the climb treacherous.

  The view was worth it.

  Clear in every direction, he could see all the way to the foothills on the east, and to the ocean on the west. If a search party had been anywhere near, he would have spotted them. Scanning south, he spotted what he was looking for. All missions had been built near Indian villages. The village for San Luis Rey lay southwest. They’d missed it when they came up river because it was hidden behind a stand of trees.

  Shading his eyes with his palm, he surveyed the mission grounds one more time. Satisfied they were alone, for now, he descended carefully and stopped to look at the church. Built in the shape of a Latin cross, the high-ceilinged building still had rows of wooden pews facing a carved wooden altar. Paintings of saints lined the walls, dark in their crude wooden frames.

  Birds flew in and out of the high inset windows, making nests in niches in the wall behind the altar that once held statuary. Anything of value was long gone, the booty of vandals. But Grainger hoped he might find a few candles and maybe a bottle of sacramental wine or brandy, overlooked by looters.

  Exiting the building, he began a methodical search of the premises. He’d left Sorina in one of the rooms off the central courtyard, rolled up in one of the blankets, taking a siesta. She needed her sleep. Traveling was best done at night.

  They were safe for now. Search parties would have gone east, first, expecting them to take shelter in the forested hills. Vega would have headed north to question his servants, if in fact he suspected that Sorina was a party to her own disappearance. Once the usual routes were exhausted, both Vega and Santoro would come south.

  That gives us a little more time to make it to San Diego.

  Grainger hoped he’d be able to intercept the American army, but it took time to move columns of men and animals across mountains and deserts. If the Americans had not reached San Diego, he and Sorina would have to try to find a passenger ship heading north. Plenty of foreign ships traded in San Diego on their way up the coast.

  Tiny creatures scurried into corners as Grainger entered a large room that appeared to be an old granary. Like in all the buildings, the smell of mold was strong. Passing into the connecting room, he found a cow skull, the remnants of a cake of lye soap, and large shallow pits with poles at each corner. This must have been where cowhides were tanned. Vats, where rendered fat was probably stored prior to being turned into candles, lined one wall.

  He pushed on a wooden door leading into another adjoining room, but it was stuck. Kicking it with his foot, the door flew open. A crude loom occupied the center of the room and a pile of woven cloth lay on a nearby bench. In the corner was a wooden stool with dried reeds next to it. Half-finished straw hats were strewn around it. He picked up a wide-brimmed sombrero and pictured it on Sorina’s head. Would it fit low enough over her head to help her pass for a boy?

  Might work.

  But there was another part of her anatomy that would not pass inspection and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  He’d decided they would keep the cover they’d discussed for now. But to carry it off, he needed a shave. Once they came south, their pursuers would be looking for a woman and a bearded man. Sorina could shave him with her knife, now that they were on better terms.

  He stopped and thought back to last night, when against his better judgment he allowed himself to begin a very frustrating lesson in lust. He hoped Sorina wasn’t angry that he’d stopped. He didn’t want to scare her by doing too much her first time.

  First time?

  It couldn’t be repeated. Too dangerous while they were on the run. Too distracting.

  And totally dishonorable.

  He shifted his thoughts to the task at hand. Those blankets were wool, but they were new and did not smell. Maybe he could trade them and the boat for a horse.

  Completing his tour of the grounds, he walked back to the old sacristy where he found a few used candles in a cupboard. After stopping at the well to fill his water bag, he ambled back to the room where cooking had been done in the past. He’d chance a fire so they could roast chunks of rabbit. A lamb would be too messy. The rabbit hutch, also full thanks to the same enterprising vaquero who had herded the sheep into the pen this morning, was an easier source of a good meal.

  He plucked a rabbit out of the cage, dispatched it, and prepared it for their dinner.

  Time to wake up the sleeping princess.

  She’d curled up on one of the bedframes. The crisscrossed ropes, while uncomfortable, at least kept her off the floor. Beds of this type usually had a straw-filled mattress on top, but Sorina only had the horse blanket they’d brought from the boat. Her face stuck out of the blanket at one end, like a papoose strapped to its mother’s back. She was on her side, her head resting on her palms. One unruly braid hung almost to the floor.

  Grainger squatted beside her and tugged on the braid. Her eyes flew open.

  “Is it time to move on?” She struggled to sit up. Grainger stood and lifted her to a sitting position so she could unravel herself from the blanket.

  “Not yet.”

  She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

  “I have a present for you.” He reached beside him and held out the hat. She grabbed it and plopped it on top of her head.

  “How do I look?”

  Beautiful, especially with heavy-lidded eyes and a pouty smile, like you’ve just come from the bed of a lover.

  She was beautiful, even in his oversized shirt, which had slipped off one shoulder. He wanted to lean down and kiss the exposed skin.

  Instead he smiled into her questioning eyes. “You look like a girl who is trying to look like a boy. We will have to find pins for those braids and a scarf to tie over your hair, like the mestizos wear.”

  And we’ll have to rip up a blanket to get a strip of cloth so you can bind those beautiful breasts, outlined under the shirt.

  “Perhaps I should cut them off.” She stood and reached under her sash for her knife.

  “What?” For a moment, he forgot he had not spoken out loud.

  “I can cut them off and have short hair, like a boy.”

  “Your braids.” Grainger grabbed her hand. “No need. We can pin them up. I have something else for you to do with that knife while we still have good light.”

  She put the kni
fe on top of her blanket mattress and Letting go of her braid, she looked wary. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need a shave.”

  “A shave?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I have no razor or brush or strop.”

  “The knife will have to do.”

  She grinned. “As you wish, señor.”

  “But first, let’s eat.”

  They ate in silence and when they finished, Grainger led the way outside, stopping to pick up a hollowed-out rock that could hold water for rinsing the knife and the broken piece of foul-smelling lye soap.

  He stopped near the well, filled the bowl, and sat on a tree stump. Sorina stood in front of him and pursed her lips. Reaching out, she stroked his beard as if judging its length and texture in proximity to the length of her knife.

  “Hmm. It can be done, but it will not look like the work of a barber.”

  “I know. Do the best you can.”

  “You trust me, señor?” She was teasing him now, a corner of her mouth curved as she pretended to slice the knife in front of his throat.

  “With my life.”

  “Your life? Hmm. I thought you were wiser than that.” She bit down on her lower lip and lowered her eyes, as if considering whether to add to her statement. Coming to a decision, she laughed, grabbed a handful of beard and sawed through it. Dropping the hairs on the ground, she moved to his sides, and did the same, until he had about a half inch of hair left around his face.

  “Now I must take great care, señor.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  She laughed again, a high tinkling sound that had first attracted him to her at that ball long ago. Few people laughed with their entire face—but Sorina did. As the corners of her mouth stretched up into a smile, showing even teeth, her eyes seem to fill with sunlight as the corners crinkled with mirth.