“Yes!” Sorina jumped up and ran to stand next to her friend. “Yes, he had a contact there. A man who seemed to own the place.”
“Could he have been a spy? Like Grainger?”
“It’s possible. They seemed to know each other well. The man helped me hide when Santoro’s men came looking for me.”
“Then you must find him and tell him what’s happened. He may be able to help.”
“Shall I go in person? Do you wish to come with me?”
“No.” Isabella placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “You shall send your most reliable messenger. Someone who can be trusted. Do you remember the name of the man?”
“Oh dear, I do not.” Sorina rubbed her temples and knitted her brows. “But I know where the cantina was and I remember what the man looked like.”
“San Diego is a small village. That should be enough.”
“Thank you, Isabella. I’ve been so worried. I’ve already engaged Pablo to send out trusted men to search for Mitchell. But they are looking in this area and in a few settlements to the north. Do you really think the man in the cantina can help?”
Her friend reached out and patted her cheek. Her hand was warm and reassuring, as was the expression in her eyes. “I don’t know, Sorina, but it’s all you have.”
“Who shall I send?”
“Pablo would be best as this may require delicate questioning.”
She was right. Pablo would do as she asked. And while he often scolded her, like a parent, he also indulged her.
“I shall find him immediately.”
~ ~ ~
The next few days crawled by. Sorina and Isabella went about the duties women conducted on the ranch. On the fourth evening they dealt a few hands of cards, but couldn’t concentrate. Isabella yawned behind her hand. They’d eaten a simple meal and retired to the drawing room. Both Tía Consuelo and Grandfather had eaten in their bedchambers.
Waiting was exhausting and comfortable beds beckoned. Sorina led her guest to her room and slid into her own bed. When Maria blew out the candle and gently closed the door, Sorina threw off her covers and wriggled out of her nightgown.
Naked, she lay back in her soft sheets and thought of Lance. His beloved face, eyes heavy-lidded with passion, came to mind. If she closed her eyes she could imagine his hands and mouth on her, his soft lips creating ripples of feeling where they touched her skin. Perhaps Isabella was right. Passion was not always a sign of love. But the memory was delicious.
She wriggled under her English goose-down coverlet and focused instead on his actions. Lance had asked her to marry him. But that was after he’d taken her virginity. Was it obligation? She’d thought so at the time. Honor meant everything to him and in his own eyes, he had committed a dishonorable act.
But he followed me.
Santoro’s cow camp was a dangerous place for a man alone. He’d come anyway. To save her. Sorina was sure he’d known about Santoro’s depravities. Was that enough to risk one’s life for a stranger? She answered her own question in her mind. It was not.
He must love her.
Warmed by her memories, despite the tightness in her nerves, she eventually fell asleep, to be awakened the next morning by Pablo when the sun was already bright in the sky.
“Pablo.” She almost sat up, forgetting she had dispensed with her nightgown the night before. “What news?”
“I found the place. But the man is gone.”
Chapter 38
The door opened and the sergeant of the guard poked his head into Grainger’s room. “You have a visitor, sir.”
Lance put down the book he’d been reading and looked up. The past few weeks he’d had very few visitors. This one was none other than the esteemed Abel Stearns. The merchant brought him clean clothes, a warm blanket, and more books. He listened to his story and told him Sorina had asked him to make inquiries about Mitchell among the horse-mad hidalgos. War had not disrupted their activities. More races were planned.
Lance had been hungry for news of Sorina, but Stearns could tell him little of her well-being. A note had arrived by messenger, asking him to intervene. But there was little he could do. Grainger’s confinement wouldn’t be a civil matter once he was cleared of the kidnapping. It would be a military one. Civilians had little jurisdiction—or influence—with the military, especially during time of war.
“You’re looking better than last time I saw you.” Captain Sutherland sauntered into the room as Stearns left. He gestured toward the door. “Was that Abel Stearns, husband of Arcadia Bandini, one of the richest men in California? You have powerful friends.”
“What have you discovered?” It was hard not to sound eager. The dread in his gut grew daily. Mitchell would never leave his assignment unless forced to by others. Santoro might still be out there. He might even have Mitchell.
He squeezed that thought out of his head and concentrated on the man in front of him. Sutherland’s uniform was clean and his boots polished to a fine sheen. He was old-school . . . precise and formal. Grainger wasn’t sure why he’d offered to help, but it was good to have someone who believed in his innocence. He’d asked him once, and Sutherland had replied that he’d been trained as an engineer before taking up his commission. He worked from a set of facts. In Grainger’s case, the facts were unclear.
Sutherland sat on a stool and leaned forward. He spoke in whispered tones, even though the room was not occupied by others. “A man named Jameson has come forward. He confirms there was a spy network in the territory working to make sure the hidalgos supported the Americans.”
“He’s here?” Grainger couldn’t contain his excitement. Maybe . . . just maybe he had a chance to exonerate himself.
“He’s been in Monterey and is on his way back to San Diego. He signed a statement confirming your identity, but says he was surprised when you showed up with a woman and only knows you were eluding men who were looking for her.”
“It’s a start. Mitchell always kept his cards close to his chest. Santoro was a big prize. He wouldn’t want anyone to jeopardize the mission.” Grainger scratched the stubble on his cheeks. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck in tracking Mitchell.”
“He’s a ghost. He’s disappeared from the face of the earth.” Sutherland shook his head as if in disbelief. “I thought he might have gone north where all the action is. But none of my inquiries have turned up a thing. Not that we have the best resources here on the frontier.”
Grainger bit his lip and tasted blood. Where could he be? If he turned up, there would be no dismissal. Mitchell was more than a contact. He was his superior officer. And his credentials came straight from Larkin. But if he couldn’t be found . . .
“Where did you look?”
“The usual places . . . bordellos, cantinas . . . even jails. But nobody meeting his description had been seen in any of them.”
“What about stables?”
“Stables?”
“Mitchell was a genius with horses and the grandees are mad for racing. Stearns said big contests are coming up? Maybe he’s nearby, helping someone improve their odds.”
“Don’t know. But I’ll find out. Any suggestions?”
“Start with Abel Stearns.”
“I’ll see to it right away.” Sutherland reached into his pocket and took out a cheroot, holding it up. “Brought you a present.”
Grainger grabbed it and put it to his lips, leaning forward as the captain struck a match and lit the end. He inhaled the sweet smoke and blew it out.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Grainger chuckled. “Wait. What’s going on with the war? It is August, is it not?”
Sutherland turned at the door. “Opposition is melting like a mud wall. The ranch owners never put
up a fight. Too smart. Half of them are foreigners, anyway. Most of the settlements are secure. The pueblo of Los Angeles has a new flag raised in its plaza. It is still a dangerous place. Soon the diplomats will take over.”
The diplomats. Grainger had been one of them. He’d never thought to be a spy. And he knew now, if he survived, he would not be one again. Even the sea no longer had the same appeal. He wanted his boots on land around cattle and horses and a certain green-eyed beauty who’d brought out the best—and worst—in him.
He turned back to the cot and sat down, savoring the calming effects of the tobacco. He didn’t smoke often, but he liked the taste. He’d smoked his first cheroot in England and thought of that country whenever he had one.
And Sorina.
A pain cut through his stomach, making him grit his teeth. Had Santoro claimed her? Was she now lying in the monster’s bed, being subjected to his attentions? No, dammit. He was dead. He had to be. He hadn’t missed.
Then why wasn’t his body where he’d left it?
He rubbed his eyes as if to wipe away the haze that clouded his memory. All he could clearly recall was Sorina, her eyes flashing, her chin tilted in defiance . . . blood on her hands. She’d sacrificed herself by marrying Santoro, then saved him from the noose with that dazzling bit of knife throwing. If she’d had to, she would have engaged in hand-to-hand combat against his captors. He’d never met a woman like her. One minute she was pure Amazon, and the next she was soft and yielding, an angel with a siren’s body.
God how he loved her. And if Santoro lived, she was lost to him.
He has to be dead.
Most people—Mexicans and Americans—did not know about Santoro’s secret opposition group or his depravities. They would rely on the opinion of his peers, who would say he was a refined gentleman who occasionally wagered too much and lost, and who had dreamed of arming his peóns to fight the Americans. They would call him a patriot . . . misguided, perhaps, but not a real threat. Certainly no one spies would be interested in.
Sorina could clear him of the kidnapping charge, but nothing else. And in telling her story, her reputation would be soiled forever.
And she’d be ostracized.
All this was speculation. If Santoro lived, he’d force her to remain on his ranch and he’d never see her again, in fact he might try to revive the kidnapping charge.
He shuddered and took another puff of the cheroot.
A quick knock sounded and the Marine came in. “Sir, I’m to take you to the jail. Captain Sutherland says you speak Spanish. We found a guy nosing around where he shouldn’t have been. But he’s obviously had too much to drink. See what you can find out.”
He changed into the clean clothes Stearns had brought and followed the young man to a small enclosure near an old stable. The camp was actually a small abandoned hacienda not too far from the pueblo. A makeshift jail with one iron cell was inside.
Spanish epithets peppered the silence. The cell’s occupant was drunk and stumbled around, finding a clay pot in the corner where he relieved himself. Grainger waited while Captain Sutherland joined him. The man finished his business and found the cot. Snoring ensued almost immediately.
Staring out of half-closed eyes, Grainger studied the stranger. He was a Mexican, dressed as a vaquero. His loose shirt and knotted kerchief were typical of the clothing worn on the plains. But his boots were out of place . . . snakeskin, much like the boots worn by Santoro’s men. Grainger recorded that detail while lashes cut his back. To minimize the fiery pain, he focused hard on single objects. The boots were right in his downcast line of sight.
He took the cheroot out of his mouth and walked over to the bars of the cell.
“Señor, quiere un cigaritto?” The man stirred and opened his eyes. Grainger held up the glowing cheroot and raised his eyebrows. “Si?”
The man rose and stumbled over to the bars. Reaching through he grabbed the remains of the cheroot and put it to his lips.
Shifting his brain into the Spanish language, Grainger formulated his questions. “What is your name?”
The man eyed him and retreated to the cot without answering.
“Are you one of Santoro’s men?”
Coughing, the man doubled over and then took a few more puffs. “Why do you ask?”
“I was admiring your boots. I knew a few men who wore boots like that. They worked on Antoine Santoro’s ranch.”
“Well I do not work for Antoine Santoro.” He turned away and faced the opposite wall.
“But you know him, don’t you?”
“You ask too many questions, señor.”
“Do you know him?”
The man spat on the floor, but held tight to the stub of a cheroot. The ash was almost to his fingers. Taking a last puff, he ground it out with his boot and lay back on the cot.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Which one was that?”
“Antoine Santoro. Do you know him?”
“Let’s say, I knew him.”
Grainger stilled, his heart pounding in his chest. “What do you mean?”
“I knew him. He’s dead.”
Chapter 39
Morning fog hovered over the horizon like a soft blanket. Seated at the edge of the cliff, Sorina gazed out at the calm sea, watching a ship at full sail, making its way up the coast. A stiff breeze ruffled her unbraided hair, causing tendrils to blow free around her face.
Memories stirred . . . Grainger by her side, his arm around her waist, the warmth of his body shielding her from the wind. Grainger . . . naked above her, watching her as she moaned with need and pleasure. The sea would always remind her of her beloved and the memories would comfort her in the years of loneliness ahead.
No, I must not give up hope. He will be exonerated. He will come back to me.
Her lungs seized. Shoving her fist in her mouth, she willed away the tears that burned her throat and threatened to spill down her cheeks. When alone, she often gave in to her fears. But she couldn’t think when emotion choked her and emptied her mind of everything but her personal pain. She had to remain strong and clearheaded. Surely, there was something she could do for her beloved. If only . . .
If only. A useless phrase. Reality dictated her world now, not fantasies or possibilities. And in the real world military men did not listen to unmarried young ladies who had been compromised by fellow officers. That news, delivered in a formal letter from Abel Stearns, was a blow. She’d hoped to plead Grainger’s case . . . to tell anyone who would listen that he’d been a diplomat in London, that he was a good man who helped her at great risk to himself.
A sob escaped and she couldn’t breathe. She remembered the rest of the letter. Grainger seemed to be in good health, but he was anxious and moody.
And depressed.
She ached with the need to hold him, to whisper in his ear that everything would be all right. Even if her words carried no weight with his peers, she wanted to try. He had saved her from a monster. He deserved praise.
Tears came unbidden then, and she let them. They would cleanse her of stifling emotion, clear her mind and give her new focus, new resolve. When her shoulders stopped shaking, she hoisted herself up from the hard ground and took deep gulps of moist sea air.
Isabella would be looking for her. Thank God she’d extended her stay. She should get back.
The sound of footsteps made her look over her shoulder. A tall man approached. The length of his stride and the slight swagger to his cadence told her immediately who it was.
At least one prayer had been answered.
Sorina hurled herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. “Uncle Gabriel! You’ve come at last. I wondered if you would ever get here.”
“What’s this? Tears. Of happiness, I hope.”
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His arms around her back were welcome, his chest solid under her cheek. Stepping back, she inspected his face. His hair was worn long, in the style of the Mexican grandees, held back with a leather thong. A dark shadow covered his jawline, and he wore the clothes of a vaquero, not the grander styles of the sons of the rancheros. But his eyes still danced with mischief.
“Where have you been, Uncle? I had run away to find you when—”
“When what? That cabrón Santoro snatched you? Father must have been mad to think marriage to the pig could protect you better than he could. Let’s talk about this later. Let me look at you.”
She put her hands on her hips. He was here and she couldn’t stop smiling. She had someone to counsel her now, someone she respected.
And some of the burdens would fall from her shoulders.
“My little niece has grown up.” He cocked his head to the side and his eyes swept over her from head to toe. “A little thin. But you have your mother’s looks. Yes. You’ll do.”
“I’m glad I meet with your approval.”
He reached out and tweaked her nose. “And do you still have that sharp tongue and rebellious streak? Now that you no longer have to worry about Santoro, you’ll have to become a docile, accomplished, obedient little lamb so you can attract another suitor.”
She snorted. “You know I can never be like that. Besides, I am one and twenty now. I can live on my father’s property and run my own ranch, exactly like Isabella.”
His eyes darkened for a moment and the smile on his lips faded. “Ah yes, the incomparable Isabella.”
“She’s here, you know.”
He stilled. “No, I did not know.”
“Yes, and she’s probably wondered what happened to me.” She looped her arm with her uncle’s and started back on the cliff trail. “Come. It’s time to go back. This fog is not going to lift until the afternoon and I’m getting cold. Besides, you must tell Grandfather you are here and Tía Consuelo. They will both be happy to see you.”
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