Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  The track became steeper and trees thickened as he entered the broad meadow where Santoro kept a two-room adobe and several corrals and barns. He’d been told it had once been an estancia, a mission outpost where mass was said and baptisms and last rites took place for the Indians who once lived here. Now it was Santoro’s sanctuary. It might also be the place where his renegades trained to do battle.

  They were fooling themselves if they thought they would be a match for Colonel Stephen Kearny’s soldiers or the Marines aboard the naval ships. But Santoro was a man filled with a pumped-up sense of self, and reminded Grainger of some of the petty dictators he had studied in school.

  Stopping well away from the building, Grainger tied his horse, making sure it was hidden from view. Nobody seemed to be about, which was a surprise. But there were two horses in the corral, and Grainger recognized one as Santoro’s famous racehorse.

  Using the lengthening shadows of afternoon to shield him, Grainger flattened himself against the wall of the house and glanced into a window. The room was empty. Sidling toward the rear of the building, he peered into the other. Nothing.

  Where could they be?

  If he’d guessed wrong, and they had taken her somewhere else, he would never forgive himself. But this was where they brought the strays. And there was fresh horse dung along the track he’d followed. They had to be here.

  He quickly searched the barns and outbuildings, finding a cache of small cannons, several containers of arms, and other munitions. He was planning an attack, all right. With this kind of firepower he could do serious damage, especially if his men set an ambush for the unsuspecting Americans.

  But there was no Sorina.

  He moved back into the trees to think. A stream flowed on the property, a trickle this time of year, but it was cold and fresh when he filled his hands with water and cooled his face. Sitting on a rock, he stared up into the branches and tried to remember his last visit here.

  The house had been a surprise. They’d entered because Santoro had not been present. His majordomo had invited them in to look at a boar’s head his patrón had had mounted. After admiring it, they’d left, but not before Grainger had poked around. The main room was large and clean with heavy carved furnishings and a horsehair sofa. Instead of hard-packed earth, the floor was tiled and covered with Oriental rugs. The open doorway into the next room had revealed a large four-poster bed. Why would a man need such amenities in a working cow camp, where calves were branded during the spring roundup?

  He’d later discovered it was Santoro’s hideout, the place where he did not have to play the role of dutiful, refined son. He could get lost in his fantasies and engage in depravities . . . all away from the penetrating eyes of Mexican society. It made him worry more about Sorina’s fate.

  He mounted his horse and trotted to the edge of the meadow. Roundup was long past and the cattle had all been moved to other pastures. His eyes searched the topography . . . gentle, rolling hills covered with oaks and lindens. Had he missed another trail? He turned his horse and backtracked the way he had come, following the stream bed until it narrowed and the valley walls grew steeper. Trees and shrubs were thicker here and the canyon walls rockier. Frowning, he studied the trail at a point where there was a crossing.

  Wheel tracks. On the other side of the river.

  A horse whinnied in the distance. Grainger dismounted, leading his horse as he hugged the far side of the canyon wall. Drawing his gun, he advanced slowly. Voices carried on the wind. Men laughed and cracked whips. A can toppled into the dirt.

  Moving slower still, he hid the horse and crouched behind a rock. It would be dark soon and being alone, he needed the cover of darkness to be effective. Hell, he wasn’t sure how many men Santoro had in this place. He needed a plan and he would think while he waited. Maybe Mitchell would come in time to help. He’d told him to bring reinforcements. He’d be very interested in the arsenal in the barn.

  Was the messenger he’d engaged reliable? Was Mitchell still there, with the siege starting? Or was he on his own?

  Grainger slid between two rocks, took off his hat, and hunkered down.

  Chapter 32

  The crack of a whip broke the silence.

  Sorina struggled to sit up, hampered by her bound hands. The whip cracked again, followed by the tinkling of glass and men laughing. They were playing a game and she knew it well. A bottle is tossed into the air and the person with the whip tries to break it. Uncle Gabriel had taught her to flick her wrist in precisely the right way to break thick sticks and bottles in the air.

  Dear Uncle Gabriel, will I ever see you again?

  The quest to find him had been stupid. Instead of running away, she should have faced her grandfather’s wrath and refused the marriage to Santoro, even if it meant banishment once again to her English relatives.

  If only he had believed me when she’d told him of Santoro’s rumored depravity. But no, such a worthy man would never do what she had said. She must not listen to malicious gossip perpetrated by others, jealous of Santoro’s wealth and refinement.

  If Uncle Gabriel were here, he’d tell her to be smart and find a way to remove these bonds. She glanced around the room, but the only useful tool might be a piece of broken crockery. The crash could bring someone to the lean-to. No, she must find another way.

  She hopped off the cot and leaned sideways against the hard, wooden frame. Propping her foot on the edge, she slid the side of her leg down the rough wooden edge until it caught, hoping her full skirt would remain over it. When the wooden edge of the cot touched the bottom of the knife strapped to the outer part of her leg, wood met the tip. She then slowly pushed the knife upward until it fell out of the binding, dropping to the floor.

  Lowering herself to the ground, she backed up on her rump until she could grab it, careful not to hold too tightly to the small blade. Positioning it in her hands behind her, she slowly rubbed the blade against her bindings. A painful bite told her she’d nicked her wrist, but she dismissed it, and continued the compact motion. When the ties loosened, she twisted her hands sharply. They broke and she pulled free.

  Yes!

  She flexed her wrists, put the knife back in its sheath, bound against her leg, and dabbed at the tiny cut with her skirt. A mere scratch—nothing to worry about. The high window was slightly above eye level, so she moved the chair over and climbed up to see what was happening. Two of Santoro’s men were engaged in the game. The other two must be on watch. But where was Santoro?

  Next she tried the door, but it was locked. A quick search of the cabin found a jug of water, but nothing else. Her stomach growled in protest. Perhaps they planned to starve her.

  She decided to risk breaking a small plate to give herself another weapon. Wrapping it in the blanket from the cot, she stomped on it, feeling it break into several pieces. She picked up the longest piece, tested the edge, and thrust it inside her bodice. It wouldn’t kill anyone, but it might do some damage. The rest of the shards were kicked under the cot.

  Why was she here? Why didn’t Santoro just return her to her grandfather and be a hero?

  Be smart, Sorina. Plan your escape. It’s useless to analyze Santoro’s motives.

  Horses’ hooves broke the silence. Sorina scurried to the window. It was Santoro and he had a robed monk with him. The priest meant one of two things. Santoro still wanted to get married or there would be last rites given for some unfortunate soul.

  Maybe me.

  He couldn’t want to marry her after all this time, although he’d mentioned a wedding. She’d been in the constant company of a man. She was used goods. He would want an innocent wife . . . a virgin. Wouldn’t he? Yes. His ego would demand it, unless he’s only after money.

  She put back the chair and sat on the bed, reaching for the bindings which she quickly twisted around her wrists behi
nd her. The door opened and Santoro stood there, a sly smile playing on his face.

  “Here she is, Father Donato. My blushing bride.”

  The priest hesitated at the door, then took a step back. “But Señor Santoro, I was led to believe that this was a real ceremony. The, er, bride does not look to be willing.”

  “What? Of course she is, are you not, my dear?”

  “Go to hell.”

  The priest winced and crossed himself. She’d bet he hadn’t been told the truth. The door closed and they went back outside. An argument punctuated by shouting ensued. Most of the priests were men of integrity and compassion. A few were not. Santoro had probably offered a great deal of money for the man’s services.

  Another sound grabbed her attention. Swearing . . . in English. Her heart plummeted.

  Madre de Dios, they had Grainger.

  The men were not in view of the window, but she listened intently, making out a few words. Spy . . . pig . . . seducer . . . these were uttered by Santoro. A scuffle, followed by a groan. And then the crack of a whip . . . on flesh.

  What is happening?

  Another crack, followed by a moan.

  She flew to the door and without thinking rushed out. They had Grainger tied between two trees. His shirt was torn and bloody on his back.

  “No!” she screamed, running toward Grainger.

  Faces turned toward her.

  “Sorina? Thank God . . . you’re all right.” His voice was hoarse, his words halting.

  Santoro strode over and grabbed her around the waist. She tried to break free, her hands flailing, her boots kicking out as he lifted her from the ground.

  “Let him go.”

  “I will, if you stop squirming.”

  She collapsed against him, watching as Santoro signaled the man with the whip to lay it down. “It seems your captor means more to you than I thought,” he sneered. “Perhaps he was more than a captor, yes? A lover perhaps? Do you care for him, Sorina? Do you?” He shook her with a force that jarred her.

  “Yes . . . yes,” she hissed between her teeth. “Are you satisfied now? Yes I care for him.”

  “Then you don’t want him harmed, do you?”

  “No.”

  Santoro pulled one of her arms behind her, apparently not noticing her missing bindings. It hurt, but she clenched her jaw and did not cry out as he tightened his hold. His breath was hot against her ear. “Now, my dear, I believe the wedding ceremony will take place as scheduled. You see, my purse is empty. I am in need of your trust fund . . . the money your grandfather kindly told me about. He thought a suitor would need incentive to offer for you, as you are so old.”

  “Let . . . him . . . go.” Her eyes darted to Grainger, struggling against his bonds. Why had he come alone?

  “You will sign the marriage papers—I know you can read and write—and you will say your vows without complaint. Father Donato will keep the proof of our marriage safe until it is filed in the pueblo. When the ceremony is finished, I will let him go.”

  Grainger’s form was limp and blood ran down his back. She struggled to get free, but Santoro held her in a grip as firm as a bear trap.

  “Very well.”

  She gritted her teeth and held her breath. She didn’t know if it was his words or his hold on her arm that caused the anvil pressing on her chest and the knot in her throat. She nodded. She couldn’t speak.

  Santoro motioned to the priest who rushed over. Sweat beaded his brow, despite the coolness of the evening. The sun had not yet set, but the gloaming made the landscape soft, like a painting she’d seen in the British Museum. It was an evening for lovers, not enemies.

  Her eyes settled on Grainger. One hand had been released and he was now bound to only one of the trees. Sitting on the ground, his head lolled on his neck to one side. Madre de Dios, was he even conscious?

  “Are you willing, my child?” The priest’s voice was soft, his eyes frightened. The man’s eyes darted between Santoro and Grainger. What had the toad promised him so he would do this? Surely he knew she was coerced. “Yes, Father.”

  “Let us move over to that stand of trees. It is so much nicer for a wedding, is it not my love?” Santoro tucked her arm inside his own. She could barely put one foot in front of the other. What nonsense was this? Santoro wanted a more suitable backdrop for the ceremony? Was he performing for the sake of the monk?

  She stepped over broken glass and small branches from the game played earlier and stood in front of the priest. He frowned at Santoro and reminded them him was a holy act. “Please remove your gun. It is unseemly.”

  He nodded and handed it to one of his henchmen.

  “Please kneel.”

  Santoro’s hand was rough on her shoulder as he pushed Sorina down and knelt beside her in the dirt while the priest removed a small book from his robes and began the service. The beautiful Latin words sounded obscene in this environment.

  She bowed her head, but turned to look at Grainger who was now stirring. Pain shot through her from a vicious pinch. “Pay attention, my dove. I am a man of my word. He will be released.”

  After a few more words, the priest bid them to rise. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  Santoro turned to Sorina and pecked her on the cheek. “You are so dirty, my wife. A bath in the stream might be in order before I take you to my camp to consummate the marriage. Perhaps I will join you and see how time has ravaged your body.” He stood back and studied her, shaking his head. “It is a shame your grandfather would not give you to me when you were fourteen. I asked, you know. But he said you were too young and were still grieving.”

  Disgust crawled from her stomach into her throat. She gagged, swallowing repeatedly.

  “Let him go.”

  “Who? The man bound to the tree?” Santoro struck a pose. His finger stabbed at his chin.

  “You promised. Let him go.”

  Santoro called out to his men. “Carlos, revive the spy and then untie him.”

  The man threw a bucket of water in Grainger’s face and loosened his bonds. Grainger slumped forward, looked up and squinted. “Sorina.”

  “It’s all right. You’ll be free soon.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “How noble,” Santoro said, a derisive tone in his voice. “Such a gentleman. You know, my dear, I believe we must accommodate him.”

  A tremor rocked her. Something was not right. Santoro was being too willing. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s injured. We cannot let him go off on his own quite yet.”

  “You promised.” She balled her fists and lashed out at her husband.

  “Such a temper. Perhaps it would be fun to play with you after all.” Santoro retrieved his gun and turned away. “String him up.”

  “No!”

  Sorina reached under her skirt for her knife and leaped on Santoro’s back, slicing his ear as she tried to stick the knife in his neck. He shouted and threw her to the ground. He lifted his hand to his neck. The hand came away bloody. “You vixen. You’re as wild as your uncle. I’ll fix you like I fixed him. When I was through with him, no one believed he was innocent of his crimes, or should I say, my crimes.” She screamed and pain shot through her ribs as his boot made contact.

  Sorina watched in horror as a horse was led from the corral. A rope was flung over a branch and two men approached Grainger.

  The pain in his back must be excruciating. She remembered their conversations about his father, how he had dishonored the family name. Grainger would die with dignity.

  No, he shall not die.

  Desperate to find a way to save him, she grabbed the knife where it had fallen and scrambled to her feet. Pain shot through her as she ros
e, but no one was paying any attention to her now. Santoro’s eyes were fixed on Grainger as one of his men moved in to lift him to his feet. Sorina held the knife behind her back as she walked slowly forward, gauging the distance.

  She was close enough now, and stopped. Grainger’s eyes met hers. “Do you have any last words?” Santoro taunted. “The priest is here, should he pray over you?”

  Sorina lined up her target, took aim, and threw the knife at the man nearest Grainger. It lodged in his left shoulder and he cried out and slumped against Grainger, giving his captive an opportunity to strip his gun from his belt.

  Grainger crouched and fired, bringing down the two vaqueros near him. The third one climbed on the horse and rode off.

  Where was Santoro?

  Sorina moved toward Grainger, but he was already running toward the river.

  “Grab one of the pistols and take cover. I have to go after him,” he shouted. He disappeared into the woods.

  Sorina put her hands over her ears as shouting and then more shots rang out.

  Please, God, let him be all right.

  Chapter 33

  Grainger staggered out of the cluster of trees, searching for one face.

  Sorina sat on the ground, her hair awry and her gown bloody. A piece of crockery fell from her hand as he moved into her line of sight.

  “Lance.” She scrambled up and ran toward him, then stopped, her eyes wide with fear. “I don’t know where to touch you, querido. Your back must be on fire, and now your arm.”

  He looked down at blood oozing through his sleeve. Santoro’s shot had grazed his arm.

  “I’m all right.”

  And then she was holding him, like a fragile piece of porcelain, not the breath-robbing bear hug he wished he could endure. She stepped back and reached under her skirt, untying a cloth that had held her knife in place. The knife was gone. Wrapping the cloth around his arm, she led him over to a stump and made him sit down. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt.