Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

“I do not know, señorita. My duties do not cross his path.”

  “What about Tía Consuelo.”

  Maria turned away and busied herself with the stack of bathing towels, choosing one and returning to the tub. “She fainted when she was told you’d been kidnapped. She took to her bed. We thought she might die.”

  Oh lord, my sins get worse and worse.

  She was afraid to ask the next question, but she had to know. “And did she recover?”

  “She is not dead. But she has not left her room since the day of your betrothal.”

  Sorina winced at the reproach in her servant’s voice. She deserved it. Consuelo was old and fragile, and she’d been her duenna, her chaperone. Losing her charge was the height of malfeasance in the eyes of the strict society of Mexican matrons, and when it was your own niece? She could only imagine her shame.

  “I must go to her.” Sorina rose from the water and toweled herself dry. Wrapping her hair in another towel, she put on the simple day dress Maria brought her. It fit badly. She’d lost weight. It would have to do.

  “You-You are not allowed to leave the room.” Maria stammered as she spoke, her eyes focused on the floor.

  “Not even to see my great-aunt?” Sorina sighed. It was as she feared. Grandfather would not have reacted as he had, would not have put such orders into place, unless he had known that she had betrayed his trust. Grainger had told her Grandfather would go along with the kidnapping story that Santoro would put forward. It would save face. But grandfather would not believe it, because he knew she had not wanted to marry Santoro.

  The story would not have helped Tía Consuelo. She had lost face among her peers. At her age, it would have been catastrophic. And apparently, it had affected her health.

  Instead of rushing off, Sorina sat in a chair and tried to think while Maria combed out her hair. Tangles were stubborn and she winced with each tug, despite Maria’s skillful efforts. Her thoughts went to Grainger. Was he well? Had they given him a chance to tell his side of the story? Did he think of her?

  I should be furious, but I cannot muster the energy.

  “There. You look presentable now. Shall I fetch your chocolate?”

  “Thank you. And ask someone to send word to Grandfather that I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

  Maria departed and the lock clicked. Thank God she’d taken the pile of rags with her, hopefully to burn. She couldn’t stand to look at them—or smell them—a second longer.

  Eyeing the rug near her desk, Sorina knelt, pushed it aside and lifted up the loose tile beneath. Reaching inside the hollow in the earthen floor, she satisfied herself that her uncle’s gun was still there. If she couldn’t persuade her grandfather to take her to San Pedro to allow her to tell the truth, she might need it.

  Having replaced the tiles, she stood. Someone scratched at her door. She knew who it was and raced over, forgetting the closed door was locked on the outside.

  “Pablo. Is that you?”

  “Si, señorita. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, Pablo, just a few scrapes. Can you get me out of here? I need to see Tía Consuelo.”

  “I am so sorry, señorita, I do not have the key. It is your grandfather’s wishes that you be locked in. To keep you safe.”

  So that was the story. She’d wondered what friends and servants would be told. “I understand Pablo. Does Tía Consuelo know I am home?”

  “Yes, Sorina. She was told last night. She was overcome with joy, but remains weak. Her health is fragile. She has prayed constantly for your safe return, as have all of us.”

  The wood of the door was rough against her forehead. She’d put Grainger, her family, her friends, even her servants, through a period of anguish, all because of her selfishness and what had happened in the end? Santoro had won.

  If he still lived.

  Pablo left when Maria returned with her chocolate and a pan dulce, warm from the kitchen. Famished, she devoured the sweet bread in four bites, washing it down with the chocolate. Maria watched her. “Your grandfather will see you now.”

  She slammed down her cup and hurried from the room. The morning was cold. The low clouds had not yet burned off. Reaching her grandfather’s study, she stopped, straightened her shoulders, and marched in.

  He sat behind his massive carved desk, the credenza at his back. He was dressed in a short, black vest over a loose long-sleeved shirt. A black scarf was tied in a formal style at his neck. The dim light accentuated the lines under his eyes and his sagging cheeks. He seemed tired and sad, like a man who had outlived his friends and had nothing to look forward to.

  Guilt stabbed her. Had she brought him to this? When she last saw him he’d been happy and full of life, a vital man contemplating the ramifications of the war with the Americans, a man working on the best way to preserve the interests of his family and his people.

  “Sit down, Sorina.”

  “I can explain—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Not today. I cannot stay.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet! You will listen to me and then I must depart. I have something I must tell you.”

  His face was set in a scowl and she dare not breathe. And then her heart stopped. A black band circled his left arm.

  Oh God, Tía Consuelo has not died, has she?

  Fear, as cold as the day, clawed at her spine. She felt like a rabbit, caught in the jaws of a coyote. She gripped the arms of the chair until her knuckles turned white, afraid to breathe.

  “Someone has died, and I’m afraid you are partly to blame.”

  “No . . . no.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “I did not want her to die. I never . . . if I thought . . .” She cried out in anguish. This was the worst possible outcome.

  “Her? It wasn’t a her.”

  She looked up. “Then who?”

  “Antoine Santoro. Two men brought in his body yesterday. Apparently he died trying to find you.”

  Chapter 35

  Santoro was dead.

  Sorina sank her teeth into her lower lip, afraid to move. She should speak of the marriage, but it was obvious her grandfather did not know of it.

  A shudder rocked her, releasing tension she didn’t know was there.

  She was free.

  “You have nothing to say about this turn of events? Are you not ashamed of yourself for running off?” Her grandfather glared at her, his eyes hard. “Oh yes, I knew what you’d done the moment I was told you were missing. You’d fought me over the betrothal. And then you suddenly became meek and gave in, as if I would not see through the subterfuge.”

  “I am sorry about the lies. But I am not sorry about Santoro.” She stared back, her hands planted on her hips. “He was an evil man, even if you didn’t see it.”

  “Do not speak ill of the dead. His funeral is today. As his betrothed you should grieve for him. He searched for you for days. He was beside himself with worry.”

  “I’m sure he was.” She couldn’t control the sarcasm in her voice.

  “And what of the man who helped you? Did you promise him money to take you away? Did you seduce him like a common puta?” His lip curled in disgust. Sorina rarely saw Grandfather in a cold rage. But that’s what it was, and it made her want to crawl under the desk.

  “I . . . he . . .” Words failed her. She stood taller, her spine rigid, ready to face whatever punishment her grandfather had in mind. “I have nothing more to say.”

  Instead of demanding that she respond, Grandfather drooped before her eyes. His shoulders bent inward and he placed his arms on the desk and lay his head face down on them. “Go away, Sorina. Let me lie here in my misery and disappointment.”

  She rushed to the door and called for help. Pablo, eavesdropping outside, rushed in and knelt beside th
e slumped man. “Señor, may I be of service? Do you wish me to help you to your room?”

  Grandfather lifted his head and nodded. Pablo and Sorina helped him up. “I’ll send word to Señora Santoro that you will not be able to attend the funeral today, Abuelo.”

  A weak nod told her he’d heard.

  With an arm slung across Pablo’s shoulders, her grandfather stumbled to his room. She did not like his pallor or his lack of energy and he held his hand to his chest. He was old, yes, but had enjoyed good health as long as she could remember. With both of her relatives ailing, she must be the one to take charge.

  The kitchens weren’t far off. On her way, she cornered Maria. “Have someone in the kitchen make up one of those tonics Tía Consuelo takes when she is feeling poorly. In England they called it a tisane. You know what I mean.”

  “Si, señorita. My mother knows how to make them.”

  “When my grandfather is comfortable, send for me. I shall be in his office. I have letters to write.”

  The maid went off and Sorina went back. Sliding into her grandfather’s chair, she reflected on the news she’d just heard. Grainger’s shot hadn’t missed. There had been four men with Santoro, counting the priest. Two were dead. The others must have come back to aid Santoro.

  She lay back in the leather chair and closed her eyes. It was pointless to claim to be Santoro’s widow now. Only three people knew of the marriage . . . four counting the priest. She and Grainger wouldn’t tell. The vaquero she’d wounded would have no reason to make an issue of it now, nor would the priest.

  Madre de Dios, what a coil.

  Sitting up, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and scanned the desk. She must send word to her friend Arcadia in Los Angeles, asking if she could stay with her. Pablo would take her to the Americans’ camp. Grainger had enough to deal with. He did not need a kidnapping charge.

  The ledger books were placed neatly to one side, and a stack of unopened letters lay in a pile. Perhaps she should stop and open the letters. It appeared Abuelo had not taken care of business for some time.

  And whose fault was that?

  Taking the whalebone letter opener, she slit the seals and read the notes. Most were ranch business. A few were important, and she set those aside. But one made her heart thud in her chest.

  My dearest father, it said. I write to you hoping that by now you know that I was wrongly accused and did not do the horrible things Santoro swore I did. It was necessary for me to let you believe two lies—that I was guilty and that I had run off to escape prosecution. You see, I discovered that our pious neighbor was actually a degenerate, taking helpless young girls from his ranch to slake his despicable appetites. A few disappeared entirely. When I confronted him, he ran to the corrupt authorities and claimed that I was the one who had harmed those girls. I’m sure he bribed them. You must have known in your heart, Father, that I was innocent. I realize running may have swayed your opinion, but I had an opportunity to escape and made use of it.

  I hope you are well, Father, and will allow me to return home. I swear I will hunt Santoro down and bring him to justice, if the Americans haven’t done it yet, now that they are in control in Monterey.

  Sorina sank back into the chair and closed her eyes. Uncle Gabriel. No wonder his name was never spoken. His alleged crimes—Santoro’s crimes—would not be fit for a lady’s ears. Grandfather had thought him guilty. Bearing this shame, plus the additional burden she had placed on him, had been much for Grandfather to endure. No wonder he had collapsed.

  I must let him know of Uncle Gabriel’s wishes.

  Rereading the letter, she sucked in her breath. As soon as he returned she would have an ally and could concentrate her efforts on freeing Grainger.

  Sorina fidgeted in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs—twirling the quill pen through her fingers.

  Soliciting help in running from her fiancé must have played right into the Americans’ hands. Grainger and Mitchell must have clapped each other on the back when she threatened to expose “Lobo” if he didn’t help her. The entire journey from the night on the beach right down to their escape on the ship must have been planned.

  Her throat was tight and her breathing constricted. She tried to stand but her limbs failed her. The sting of tears formed in her eyes. He’d made her laugh. He’d taken her—body and soul—and made her feel cherished.

  He’d said he wanted to marry her.

  Had it all been part of a grand scheme to make sure she remained with him through all the twists and turns of their flight?

  And something had gone wrong. When the ship was damaged, they put into port in San Pedro instead of Santa Barbara.

  But he came after me . . . alone . . . and almost lost his life.

  Her head pounded. Too many thoughts crowded her brain. She couldn’t think. She needed air and sunshine.

  Not caring who saw her, she stopped by her room and grabbed a shawl and headed for the cliff path. The sun was trying to burn through the clouds. The last days of summer would soon be here and the weather would turn cooler. Fall was her favorite time of year. The sea was placid and whales would begin their migration, their spouts sometimes seen from shore.

  She rushed down the path, slipping on the dry dirt. Reaching the ground, she took off her shoes and ran though the sand. Her bare feet sank into the soft depths. Reaching the rocks that marked her favorite spot, she sat abruptly, filling her lungs with fresh sea air while waves crashed on the shore.

  Memories rushed in, like the tide just beyond the circle of rocks. This is where she saw Grainger emerge from the sea, his glorious body naked in the moonlight. This is where they met on the night she asked for his help to escape Santoro. Was it less than a month past? It seemed like an eternity.

  She must set aside all her thoughts, clear her brain, and let the breeze wash over her with its scents of seaweed and salt water. Desperate for peace, she let the cleansing tears flow freely, releasing all her pent-up emotions. When she was spent, and the shudders wracking her body ended, she allowed herself to drift into a stupor, her eyes mesmerized by the ebb and flow of the sea.

  Calm settled over her, loosening the tightness in her shoulders and the knot in her stomach. She was a woman grown, with goals and responsibilities. A new regime would be in charge of her country and there would be much to do. Grandfather would recover now, and Uncle Gabriel would return soon to guide the family through the transition.

  And she might be a fool, but for now she chose to believe in Lance Grainger’s love.

  She could not stand idly by and do nothing to help him. She had a virtual army of ranch hands who knew the territory and were loyal to the family. She would consult Pablo and ask him to send the most loyal on a search for Sean Mitchell. He was well known by those who loved horse racing. Perhaps he was a drinker or a gambler. Or maybe he was in the arms of a woman somewhere.

  If he is in this part of California, by God I will find him.

  Feeling better, she hurried back to the house.

  Chapter 36

  Sitting at her desk, Sorina penned three letters. The first was to Abel Stearns, the husband of her friend Arcadia. She asked him to inquire about Lieutenant Lance Grainger of the American Navy, held by Marines near San Pedro, and if possible, to intercede on his behalf.

  “He’s a good man.” She paused in her writing. How much did Señor Stearns know of her situation? News traveled, even in Alta California. Grandfather probably had sent messages everywhere to try to find her. She decided to be cautious. “Lieutenant Grainger has been falsely accused of kidnapping me when in fact he was keeping me safe during a perilous time. I owe him a great deal. Please help him if you can.”

  No need to go into the details of her escape or Santoro’s death. She could explain as soon as she could arrange for a visit. She’d already penned
a note to Arcadia and was awaiting an answer.

  The second was to her uncle, telling him to come home as soon as possible.

  Grandfather is unwell and I fear he may not recover.

  What a relief it would be when Uncle Gabriel arrived. She could turn over the running of the ranch and be free to claim her own property and pursue her other responsibilities.

  The third was to her closest friend, Isabella, assuring her she had not suffered from her ordeal and begging her to pay a visit. She needed her. Desperately.

  She would have sent a fourth, to Grainger, but what would she say? Anger warred with longing. She wanted to hate him for using her. She wanted to love him for saving her. Isabella’s patient questions would help her sort through her feelings.

  The soft knock at the study sounded like Maria.

  “Your grandfather is awake and asking for you, señorita.”

  Sorina rose and brushed out her skirts. She ran along the corridor to her grandfather’s room, stopping at the door to brace herself for what she might see.

  Fluffy pillows propped him up as he drank from a cup a servant held to his lips. His skin was gray, but it might be a trick of the light. Drawn shutters bathed the room in gloom and the air smelled of stale candle wax and liniment.

  “How are you feeling, Abuelo?” She perched on the side of the bed and took his hand. It was cold to the touch.

  “Tired.”

  “Then you must rest.”

  “I cannot rest until I say my piece.” He reached over to the bedside table and grasped the letter from Uncle Gabriel. She’d sent it earlier, hoping it would cheer him. “Pablo tells me I have done you and your uncle a grave injustice. He found the courage to speak up and I believe him.”

  “No, Abuelo. You have not. As you can see, I am unharmed and in good spirits. I did not suffer greatly from my ordeal.”