Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  Pinpoints of light pierced the blackness as she struggled for breath. The last thing she heard was laughter as she slid to the deck.

  Chapter 30

  Sorina gagged as she was tossed into the back of the cart like a bag of flour and covered with freshly tanned cowhides. Not yet cured, they smelled of lye and rancid fat, not the leather they would become when they were loaded onto the trading ships.

  Heat filled the little space. A continuous jostling told her the cart was moving over a well-used track. Her eyes were covered and she was bound, hand and foot, like a calf roped for branding.

  It had been a shock to hear Santoro’s voice in her ear. The man must have had lookouts posted at every port. He must have bribed crewmen aboard the Dacha to allow her to be taken. Mordidas were common. It would have been easy.

  Santoro must still want me.

  With the siege underway, he must be desperate to get his hands on money. She did a quick calculation. Her birthday was only a few days away. Her father’s money and property would transfer to her then. But if she married, grandfather would turn it over to her husband.

  A lurch tossed her against the side of the cart. She cried out, but the sound was muffled by the dozens of hides on top of her. And who would come to her aid if her cries were audible? Santoro was known to travel with an entourage. His men carried guns. Only a fool would risk coming after her.

  Except Grainger.

  She swallowed and wished for a drink of water. At least they’d removed the gag. When she regained consciousness, she’d been in the long boat, her hands tied and Santoro’s hand clamped firmly around her mouth. She’d bit his hand and tried to scream. That’s when the bandanna, laced with sweat, was whipped off the vaquero across from her and was tied around her mouth.

  Sorina wanted to spit to remove the foul taste, but her mouth was too dry. Where were they taking her? Not all the way to Rancho de las Ranas. That was a day’s journey from San Pedro. Santoro’s mother was there, as were his unmarried sisters. No, he would have selected somewhere closer for the impromptu wedding ceremony.

  How popular I am. It seems everyone wants to marry me.

  The situation was so ludicrous she would have laughed if it had been less dangerous. Her thoughts turned to Grainger. What was he doing? Had he returned to the ship? Lance. Her beloved. He would worry when he couldn’t find her. Santoro was devious. He probably arranged for some story to be told. They’d say she left the ship on her own. Lance might believe that, given their last conversation.

  But he’ll still find me.

  The cart stopped and the sounds of muted conversations reached her ears. Someone laughed. Santoro? He found this amusing? Kidnapping a member of a prominent Mexican family was a criminal act, even in the wilds of Alta California.

  He would pay.

  And she would not marry him.

  Even though the banns had been read by now, he couldn’t force her to sign the marriage document and pledge herself to him before a priest. He could forge the document, but not if she lived to refute it. But what if she had an “accident” that caused her death after the ceremony? Her grandfather would fight Santoro with every resource he possessed, because Maria and Pablo both knew she couldn’t stand the thought of marrying the toad and would tell him she had played a role to get away. The man would be labeled a murderer and would become a social outcast, even if he avoided prosecution.

  And if Grainger got to him first?

  Santoro would die.

  The drayman whistled and snapped his whip and the cart moved forward again. Every rut in the road put a new bruise on her skin, but Sorina didn’t care. She would cheat Santoro at his own game. All of this effort was for naught. There would be no wedding.

  ~ ~ ~

  It took Grainger a few hours to find a clergyman willing to marry them. His name was Pastor Griffith and he was a Methodist from Kentucky. He’d arrived at the pueblo six months before, having come by wagon train from St. Joseph, Missouri. He said he’d married a few folks during the three months it took the wagons to get to California. His papers were in order and he was delighted to find a Lieutenant in the United States Navy who needed his services.

  Grainger told him he’d bring his bride that evening. They were in a hurry, what with the war underway. The stick-thin pastor tipped his wide-brimmed hat and smiled. He knew something about that, he said with a wink. He looked forward to meeting the little lady, yes indeed.

  The ship was anchored in the same place and two other ships had come in. One was French and the other British. Whose side were they on? He wouldn’t put it past either one to join the Mexicans, if there was something to be gained, like exclusive trading rights. With the government in disarray, California was ripe for the plucking.

  None of the longboats dragged up onto the sand looked like the one from the Russian ship. He’d have to pay someone to row him out.

  He sat on a rock and rehearsed his new speech. Sorina had said she didn’t love him, but hell, who married for love anyway? His parents certainly hadn’t, and yet they’d had a happy life until his mother succumbed giving birth. The child had also died, and his father dulled his senses with alcohol, and then lost his way. Grainger’s eyes glassed over. He couldn’t think about his father now. He had to put words together that would convince Sorina to marry him willingly.

  A vision of her naked body, lying beneath his, made him pause. Was this about lust? Is that why he couldn’t take no for an answer? Or was it something else, something he didn’t want to admit, even to himself? After thinking about how many couples marry for companionship, survival and financial solvency, he was the first to recognize that his feelings—his needs—were different. He didn’t want her money or her land. He didn’t require her skills running a household, or her body to satisfy lust.

  He needed her, a woman who brought out the best in him, who comforted him when he was worried, who would talk sense to him when he had foolish ideas. He needed to cuddle her at night, to make plans with her for the future. And yes, there was a name for that although his lips had refused to form the word . . . love.

  He leaped from the rock and ran down to the beach, waving his hands at the nearest ship, trying to attract attention. He had to see Sorina now. He had to tell her that he loved her. He wanted to marry her, not to fulfill his duty, but because she made him whole.

  Where is everyone?

  He could swim out. It wasn’t far and though the morning was cool, the water was bearable. He sat in the sand and removed his boots, ripped off his coat and shirt and started to drop his pants. But if he did that, the crew would clap him in irons and put him in the brig. They’d think he’d lost his mind if he turned up nearly naked. They wouldn’t understand.

  “You seem a bit agitated, my man. What can I do to help?”

  Grainger turned toward the voice. An officer from the British merchant ship strode toward him. “I must get to the Russian ship. I have urgent business there.” He used his British accent.

  The stranger viewed Grainger’s lack of attire and shook his head. His hand was inside his coat pocket. A gun might rest under his hand.

  “I apologize for my state of undress. I had thought to swim to the ship.”

  “Your business must be urgent, indeed.” The older man seemed skeptical, but continued to talk as Grainger put his clothes back on. “Are you an English citizen?”

  Grainger weighed his options and decided to remain in his guise. “Yes, Sussex born and bred. Lance Grainger, Baron Marbury.” He bowed from the waist.

  “Well, then, I guess I can accommodate you. We’re about to row back to our ship. We anchored an hour ago, but the hides we are buying are not here yet.”

  “Thank you.” Grainger stood and brushed sand from his clothes. He’d lost his hat somewhere, but he tried to look trustworthy and sane. Smiling broadly,
he stuck out his hand and announced that he and his wife were seeing the world and were en route to Santa Barbara.

  “And I am Captain Horatio Carlson.”

  After gripping hands, Grainger climbed aboard and kept quiet during the short trip to the Russian ship. Thanking the seamen, he climbed up the ladder and searched the broad deck for Sorina, expecting her to be outside. She wasn’t.

  “Drat the woman,” he muttered under his breath as he descended into the companionway and down the corridor to their room. The door was ajar, the trunk was in the center of the room, but Sorina wasn’t present.

  Maybe she’s having tea in the saloon.

  He scurried back to the deck and entered the large saloon that served as eating and social area of the ship. Two minor officers were there playing a card game, but no Sorina.

  “Danilov?”

  One of the men rose and leaned out the door, pointing aft.

  “Spacibo.” Grainger thanked them in Russian and hurried toward the steering station on the stern. Danilov was there. “Greetings.”

  He thought carefully, trying to remember the Russian words he’d learned during his study of languages. The first mate strode by and he grabbed him. “I am looking for my wife. She does not seem to be in our cabin.” He must keep up the pretense of marriage at all times when onboard. Sorina’s reputation must not be compromised.

  “I have not seen her, nor has the captain.” The man scratched his beard, and turned toward a man who was polishing the wooden wheel and asked a few questions in Russian. The man shook his head, but uttered another name. “Come with me. I’m sure she is near.”

  They walked together toward the port side of the deck. The first mate stopped to question several people, but spent more time with one man whose eyes kept shifting downward. The mate’s voice rose and the man faced away and coughed, then looked back, a sullen expression in his eyes.

  Another man spoke up. Grainger recognized him as the man he had saved the night of the storm. “He says she left in the company of three men who rowed ashore. He does not know where they went.”

  Grainger’s heart thumped in his chest. He couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t just walk away without a word. “Ask him how long ago.”

  The first mate turned to the informant who shook his head, uttering what sounded like nonsense to Grainger. “About an hour ago.” The first mate narrowed his eyes and put his hand on Grainger’s arm. “I do not know what to say, sir.”

  “Nor do I,” Grainger said. “Thank you.” He hung his head and plodded back to the cabin. A note. Surely she left a note. He searched the small room, but there was nothing. Opening the lid of the trunk, the dress she had worn the day before was on top. Reaching down among the silks and velvets, he grasped something hard. It was the sapphire brooch.

  This belonged to her mother. Sorina would not have left it, even if she left me.

  Grainger closed the lid, slipping the brooch into his pocket. Where could she be? What had happened to her? Had her grandfather come? It would have been a huge coincidence. Her uncle? He was supposed to be in Santa Barbara.

  A sick feeling crept over him.

  There was only one explanation.

  Sorina was not a coward. This morning she said she did not want to marry him, she did not love him, she had plans of her own. It had taken courage for her to say those things, given the fact that she might be with child.

  She would not leave without telling him. She would have stood with her hands on her hips, raised her stubborn chin, and refused his renewed efforts to marry her. She would have demanded that he leave and find an American ship.

  She knows I am eager to join the fight.

  No. Something had happened to her. And he knew without a doubt what or rather, who, that someone was.

  Santoro had kidnapped her.

  The man was mad.

  Chapter 31

  Shadows were deep when the cart stopped and Sorina was freed from her hot, hide-covered dungeon. Muscles screamed as her bonds were cut and she crumpled as soon as her feet touched the ground.

  “Ah, my little flower wilts in the heat of the afternoon.” Santoro lifted her up, holding her close to his body. It took all her strength to keep from shuddering.

  Her arms hung loosely at her side. Thousands of needles shot through her as cramped limbs sprang back into life. Santoro reached out and put his hand on her waist and slid it over her hip, daring her to react. She looked him in the eye—it would not do to show fear—and spat. The sting of a slap was her reward.

  Good. I got to you. And kept you from moving your hand to my thigh where my knife is sheathed.

  “It seems my flower has grown thorns.” His eyes hardened and his lip curled. It would not be a good idea to goad him further. Santoro was dangerous. She remembered the conversation she’d had with her maid, Maria, about Santoro’s reputation as a man who liked to degrade women. If by chance he’d found money elsewhere, he might have pursued her only to reclaim his machismo. His reputation suffered when she ran off, especially in the eyes of his followers who might have been skeptical of the kidnapping story.

  “Bind her hands again and take her into the cabin.” He shoved her in the direction of a burly vaquero with wild hair and several missing teeth. He tied her hands behind her back and pushed her forward. Still wobbly, she held her head high and focused on the wooden lean-to in the distance.

  The short walk gave her time to get her bearings. They were in a canyon, surrounded by tall, rocky cliffs. Oaks covered the valley floor and water moved over stones in the distance. They’d traveled all of yesterday and had stopped for a few hours in the night to rest the horses and eat. Sorina had been given water and had been allowed to relieve herself among the trees. She’d considered running away, but guards were posted strategically, and she wouldn’t get far.

  It was late afternoon, judging from the angle of the sun. They must be on Santoro’s ranch. Land grants totaled thousands of acres, and Rancho de las Ranas went far back into the hills south of the Canyon de Santa Ana. There were no pines, so they were not in the mountains. But there were signs of habitation here . . . a rundown corral, the tiny cabin, and an old campfire site.

  The vaquero opened the squeaking door and pushed her inside, shoving her down onto a cot.

  “What about my hands? Are you not going to untie them?”

  He laughed and slammed the door as he left.

  The room was small, but it contained two chairs, a crude wooden table, and a tall cupboard built into the corner. A cowhide served as a rug on the hard-packed dirt floor and there was an uncovered window over the cot to let in air. The cot was not clean. Dust flew into the air when she plopped down on it.

  It is not Santoro’s bed. He is too fastidious to allow bedbugs or fleas.

  There must be another building nearby, a place only Santoro occupied. If so, what was this place used for?

  A tremor shook her. It had nothing to do with the hunger that clawed at her belly. She was exhausted.

  And afraid.

  Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, but she must . . . not . . . cry. Gritting her teeth, she stifled a sob and swallowed several times. She must be strong and remember what Grainger had once said to her.

  You’re clever, you’re strong. You can get through anything. Believe in yourself. That’s your best weapon.

  She repeated his words over and over in her mind until her shoulders relaxed and she breathed steadily. If Santoro brought her here to carry out the marriage, so be it. She would find a way to defeat him. And if he brought her here for other purposes—she dared not think what they could be—she would thwart him. She still had her knife. Right now she needed to rest.

  She lay on the cot, willing it to be vermin-free, and closed her eyes. A few hours of rest would refresh her and then she could
think clearly. Her thoughts drifted to Grainger. By now he would have returned to the ship and found her missing. Was he searching for her? Or had he declared good riddance and gone off to find an American ship to take him to Monterey? He’d wanted to marry her, and she’d refused. What a fool she’d been. In time, perhaps he would have learned to love her. Now she might never see him again.

  The tears welled in her eyes again.

  I am strong. I believe in myself. Santoro will not win.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lance used the last of his coins to purchase a horse and followed the banks of the Santa Ana River until he could no longer see, then had stopped for the night. Santoro’s land was south through a series of canyons, but he’d not found the track until early this morning. Now he was sure that’s where they were headed. Cart tracks and hoof marks were plain in the loose dirt. He and two other vaqueros had delivered stray cattle to a corral there last year. He was sure he could find it.

  I have to find it. Sorina’s life may depend on it.

  His stomach tightened at the thought of his woman in the hands of that madman. The stories that he and Mitchell had heard about Santoro’s peculiar appetites came crashing back into his brain. Santoro’s tastes ran to the very young—girls and boys. Grown women were used to service him, but he preferred to give them to his men.

  Grainger spurred his horse and thanked the Lord for the peon who had pretended to sleep near the beach and had confirmed the abduction. For a few pesetas, he had described the men and the woman who was bound and thrown in the cart and covered with hides. Grainger had added to the man’s reward and hurried off to buy a horse and a few supplies. He’d also sent word to Mitchell, telling him he was heading for Santoro’s cow camp in the hills, closing in on him, but didn’t have time to wait. Send help.