Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “If you stay, hold line.” The first mate threw a line to Grainger who wrapped it around a cleat and held on, feeling the fierce tug of the wind trying to pull the line out of his hands. Sailors scurried up the mast and along the spreaders at various levels, wrestling the sails downward and tying them off. The deck pitched and rolled beneath his feet. Sorina was safe in the cabin.

  A shout made him raise his eyes. A man was stranded on the broken spreader. Lying flat, his foot was tangled in a rope. Grainger tied off the line, and without a second thought, scrambled up the rungs of the mast.

  “Hold on.”

  The man raised his head in response, his hands gripping a torn sail that was partially attached to the spreader above. Grainger knew he did not understand his words, but might be acknowledging his presence. Inching his way on hands and knees across the narrow piece of wood, he reached the man. Gripping the same piece of dangling sail with one hand, he stretched as far as he could reach with the other and pulled the rope free of man’s ankle. In single file, they crawled backward to the mast, and down.

  On deck again, the grateful sailor grabbed Grainger’s face and kissed both cheeks in the Russian manner. Then he took off running toward the foredeck where one of the foresails was hanging precariously over the side, having broken free in the fierce wind. Exhilarated by working in an environment he’d been trained for, Grainger followed. He could be of use. Language would not be a barrier. He knew a smattering of Russian. All hands were needed until the storm blew over.

  Hours later, tired to the bone, he dragged himself down to the cabin. Sorina was asleep. He climbed into the bunk above and fell into a deep slumber.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sorina awoke to a peaceful sea. Water lapped gently at the side and rocked the ship, like a giant hand, rocking a cradle. It was dark in the cabin and her stomach was growling from lack of food. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light and made out the shape of Grainger’s body in the bunk above. When had he returned? He had not awakened her.

  The storm must have passed. She peered out the porthole. A crescent moon and a handful of stars mixed with wispy clouds. It must be early in the morning, but she had no timepiece.

  She got up and reached into the trunk for the comb she’d been using. Her dress was hopelessly wrinkled, but her shawl was warm and a straw bonnet would cover the worst tangles. Thank God her hair was shorter now. Without a proper brush, waist-length hair would have been impossible.

  Donning her outdoor apparel, she opened the door and found the passage to the main saloon. No one was about at this hour, but peering into the galley she startled a boy peeling potatoes for tomorrow’s meal. Her growling stomach reminded her they had missed dinner, as had everyone else. She’d remained in the cabin while the ship pitched and rolled in an angry sea. Cold tea and a few biscuits were brought to the door. She’d left the remains for Grainger, not knowing when he would return, or what he was doing. He was still on deck when she finally fell asleep.

  She gestured to the boy that she was hungry and thirsty, and after pretending to lift a glass to her lips and rubbing her stomach, he seemed to understand. He tore off a large chunk of bread and cheese and poured her a glass of cold tea. Grateful, Sorina took her meal into the saloon and sat at a table, eating like a proper lady—albeit one that had no silverware or napkin.

  What I’d give for a dish of beans laced with cumin and peppers, and a glass of claret.

  The boy came out and stood at the end of the table, as if waiting for instructions. He was thin and wiry, perhaps twelve or thirteen, based on the sprinkling of spots on his chin. His hair was blond, tied back with a piece of twine, and his shirt had wide sleeves, as did the legs of his pants. Sorina wiped her mouth with her gloved hand and smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

  “Dobre nochi,” he said, bowing from the waist. He scurried back to the galley and disappeared.

  Sorina looked around at the padded settees against the walls with built-in shelves holding books, charts, and a looking glass. Religious pictures depicting what appeared to be saints were tacked to the walls. Brass lamps hung from the ceilings. Two were lit and the candles had not yet burned down. When she finished her meal, Sorina perused the books, trying to find one in English or Spanish. She gave up, and sat on the settee, finding it comfortable, and like most padded furniture in the ship, it was covered with soft fur. An old news sheet tucked back into a corner appeared to be wrapped around a hard object. Curious, she carefully unwrapped the paper and found it to be written in Spanish. It had protected a painted vase during the storm.

  She laid the object aside, and smoothed the wrinkled paper. Dated July 15, 1846, she saw it was from Monterey. She scanned the print and gasped. It told of a band of renegades who had raised a flag in a place called Sonoma on June 16, declaring California to be a free and independent state, but it was quickly retaken by the Americans. Warships with platoons of Marines were off the coast and the American army was on the march toward San Diego.

  The siege had begun.

  Chapter 29

  Wisps of dawn spread across the sky, lighting it with colors of pink and purple. Sorina watched as the shoreline came into view. She had remained on deck, seated cross-legged between two hatches, hoping to glimpse the cliffs below her home as the sky brightened. The kitchens would be alive with activity in the early hours. Fires would be tended and baking started in the outdoor beehive ovens. She could taste the pan dulce and the savory cinnamon-flavored chocolate, and smell the fresh loaves of bread.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” Grainger crouched in front of her, his hair rumpled from sleep, looking as good as one of the delicacies she’d been dreaming about.

  “I slept so long in the afternoon and evening, I woke up when it was still dark,” she said. “I was hoping to see the shoreline of Rancho de Los Lagos.”

  Grainger glanced over his shoulder, then back. “I’m afraid it is long past. Are you homesick?”

  Heartsick was a better word. She shook her head. Santoro was still there. Home was not a safe place for her. And Lance Grainger was here.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. The ship needs repairs. We have a broken spreader and we lost one of the sails overboard in the sea. I remained on deck to help as long as I was needed. We’re on a tack that will take us into San Pedro.”

  “San Pedro? What about Santa Barbara?” She was wide awake and alert. San Pedro was too close to home. Santoro might have watchers in port. When he couldn’t find them in San Diego, he surely would have realized they’d taken a ship.

  “Abel Stearns has a large warehouse in San Pedro and can provide what the ship needs. I’m sorry, my dear. If there is another ship in port, we can try to book passage north. But first, we must go into La Reina de Los Angeles to find a preacher.”

  “But I have not given you my answer.”

  He ignored her comment.

  “The rain is past and the wind is calmer, but we’re still making good time. We need to pack up and be ready to go as soon as we anchor.”

  Sorina glared. “Did you not hear what I said?” He was stubborn, this man of hers.

  “There can be only one answer, Sorina. You and I both know what it is. Change into your traveling costume and I shall see what food I can find for us.”

  “Why is this so important? Why must you always be talking about honor?”

  He stood and paced in front of her, stopping to run his hands through his hair, his expression hard. “My father was a womanizer. Worse, he was a duelist. While dueling has started to lose favor, it is still done. On one occasion he faced a man who’d been a friend. A friend! During his last duel his gun had misfired and he did not want to take a chance. So instead of turning at the count of three, he turned at the count of two and fired. He shot his friend in the back. The man’s second took aim and killed him.”

  Sorina
stared at his pinched face and held her breath. His father must have been branded a coward and Grainger must have suffered his entire life because of it.

  He straightened his shoulders and reached over to pat her cheek. “You will marry me, Sorina. It is a matter of honor.”

  You are so sure of yourself, aren’t you, Señor Lobo?

  She left her perch and made her way to the cabin, changing into the traveling dress. Shoving her personal belongings into the trunk, she fastened the lid. Looking around, she found the nightgown wadded up at the foot of her bunk. She held it to her chest and willed herself not to cry.

  How can I not give in, especially after his story? How will I ever be able to leave him?

  She raised the lid and stuffed it in a corner. Securing the straps of the trunk, she sat in the chair and waited for Grainger to return.

  It didn’t take long.

  He escorted her to the saloon where she’d spent half the night. This morning an array of dishes steamed on the sideboard and ship’s officers came in and out, tipping their hats, filling plates and eating hastily. Most could not speak English and the first mate was not around.

  “Are you ready to depart?”

  Sorina nodded. “Wait, I forgot to tell you something.”

  “You’ve decided?”

  “No, something else. Last night there was a news sheet wrapped around a vase. It was more than a week old, but it was from Monterey. The siege has begun. The war is underway.”

  “Finally! I wonder if the Captain has heard? I must find the first mate to take me to him and translate for me. Will you be all right here or should I take you back to the cabin?” Excitement almost oozed from his pores.

  “Go, I’ll be fine. I’ll have another cup of tea.”

  He practically danced from the room. Her decision to let him go was even more important now. This man clearly was a warrior. Land and cattle held no appeal for him, and yet that was the life he’d have if he married her. Someone must look after her father’s holdings and his people. Her grandfather would most likely disinherit her—perhaps even shun her—but no one could take away her father’s legacy.

  I will do it myself, with Isabella’s guidance.

  Her thoughts strayed to Santoro. The Mexican Army was corrupt and in disarray and everyone expected the Americans to win the war. What would become of Santoro? Surely, he would no longer be a threat to her. If he was indeed foolish enough to resist with his little band of ranch hands, he’d be caught and imprisoned. Maybe even hanged.

  She shuddered and put down her tea. The other rancheros were not in danger, were they? Would her grandfather be safe? She must ask Grainger. He knew the answers to such questions.

  The sound of chain slipping along wood met her ears. They must be anchoring. Sorina rose and left the saloon, venturing out to watch the activity. Men scurried about, running up lines to lower the sails from the spreaders, fore and aft. The brigantine’s anchor caught and the stern swung slowly around on the tide.

  She watched a longboat lowered from the side. The men climbed in and rowed a short distance, getting out of the boat while still in the water. Large rocks, green with slime, impeded their progress as they hauled the boat up onto the shore. A long, low building with a red tile roof was perched on the cliff above the harbor. A few smaller buildings could be seen in the distance. These were storage houses used by owners of the various ranchos.

  Sorina had been here many times with her grandfather and once with Isabella. The buildings held hides ready for trade. When the transactions were completed, the hides would be thrown from the cliffs to the beach below, gathered by the seamen and loaded into the longboats for transport to the ship. The largest building belonged to Arcadia’s husband, Abel Stearns. That’s where the contingent from the ship was headed.

  Before entering the passageway to their cabin, she walked around the deck. No other ships were anchored. That meant Grainger would have to make arrangements to visit the pueblo, about ten miles away, to find someone to marry them. She bit her lip and grasped the rail firmly, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach.

  Most of her waking hours had been spent marshaling her arguments and reliving the events that led to this day. She remembered the night she met Grainger in her aunt’s garden. She’d been a naive girl then, dazzled by the handsome man in uniform, who literally swept her into his arms and introduced her to a part of her nature she hadn’t know about, a passionate side that wanted to experience more than polite smiles in the presence of a chaperone.

  And later, seeing him again in the guise of a vaquero, she’d been intrigued and excited, especially when she surmised he was a spy. Had her eagerness to engage him in her escape been more? Had it been a response to a primal need that was new to her, a need she could now put a name to?

  She knew without a doubt she would never love another. Grainger was more than the man who had awakened her. He was her hero, her protector, a man who could have turned her over to her grandfather’s friends at any time. Instead, he helped her escape Santoro, comforted her when she was frightened, and encouraged her to believe in herself. In the short time they’d been together, she’d learned to respect his instincts and to trust his judgment. And while they had worked through many disagreements, this last one was hers to decide.

  Out of honor, the concept that meant the most to him, she would let him go.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sorina entered the room and scanned it for anything she’d missed. They’d spent so little time here, but the time had been tumultuous. Her initial admiration had changed. She loved Lance Grainger with all her heart, but she also loved him enough to put his needs before her own.

  When had she grown up? Was it the night he’d given in and given her a taste of passion? Or was it when they’d been on the run and he’d protected and cared for her, putting his life at risk? Was that not the essence of love? And yet he had said nothing, not one word.

  Am I someone who needs pretty words?

  She raised her chin and squared her shoulders.

  “Are you ready? I’m told one can hire a carreta to take us to the pueblo. We can come back for the trunk.” He seemed anxious, like a man who would rather be in command of a ship like the one they were on, not a passenger. “I see the trunk is packed. Good.”

  He turned and walked away, expecting her to follow. “The other longboat has been lowered,” he said. “Sorina? Are you coming? They’re waiting for us.”

  She stood still, her fingers clutching the fabric of her traveling dress, swallowing hard to move the lump in her throat that threatened to choke her.

  “Sorina?” He’d come back and his voice was quieter. He searched her face with his eyes.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Why? We’ve discussed this.”

  “No, you’ve discussed this.”

  “But . . .”

  The lie was on the tip of her tongue, the lie that would break her heart and change her life.

  “I don’t want to marry you. You’ve been a convenience, a way to learn about the delights of a marriage bed, a way to escape marriage to Santoro. I don’t love you or any man. Take me to Santa Barbara and ride out of my life.”

  He stepped back as if struck, his mouth set in a straight line, but his eyes were hurt, sad. She wanted to cut out her own tongue in penance for the lie. “I’m not saying this wasn’t an interesting adventure. I shall remember it my entire life. And I am grateful, Grainger, both for your escort and your, ah, services in the bed.” She smiled and turned her back. She couldn’t bear to see his face.

  “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

  She took a deep breath and faced him. “Goodbye? Perhaps you can find a ship that will take you all the way to Monterey so you can join the Americans. I’m sure the captain will see me safely to my destination. In his ey
es, I am a married lady and my husband has urgent business and must leave me in his hands. I’m sure you can think of a good excuse.”

  He crossed his arms and glared. “I’m going to fetch a priest. Be here when I get back.”

  He left, his footsteps reverberating in her ears. Unable to control her sobs, she sat on the bunk, where she’d experienced passion and tenderness, and let the tears flow. God, how she loved him. And by the look on his face, he surely must love her, too. He was a stubborn man, but he would see reason. He would go and she would let him because it was right.

  Sniffing into her handkerchief, she put on the bonnet and ventured out to the deck. She could see his rigid back in the center of the boat. He was determined to find someone to marry them. She would have to remain strong when he returned. The first boat was returning now, but only a few men were aboard. It was too far away to see clearly, but the colorful uniforms of the Russian officers were not visible. The officers must still be on land.

  She turned away and strolled to the opposite side, not wanting to be seen when the crewmen climbed back aboard. A lone woman was unusual on a ship and considered bad luck by some, although the Russians had not seemed to mind. She picked up a piece of a broken spar lying on the deck. Footsteps pounded the deck just behind her. She hunched into her cape and hoped the seamen would pass by. She couldn’t even manage a smile at this point.

  The footsteps stopped. A hand shot out and covered her mouth.

  Grainger isn’t kidnapping me, is he?

  A voice in her ear, low and menacing, made her cringe in fear.

  “Hello, my dear fiancée. I believe this is our wedding day. My heart was in shreds over your untimely departure. But you know what the poets say . . . absence makes the heart grow fonder, and mine is healing nicely now that I have found you.”