“Of course, Don Luís,” the ranchero answered, a curious look in his eyes. “I do not understand you, Don Luís, but you must do as you wish.”
“Perhaps Doña Amaya would care to see more of the rancho, Andres,” Doña Feliciana suggested softly. “You ride the horse well, Doña Amaya?” she questioned, a doubtful look in her eyes. “It will be a many-hour journey. Do you think you are good enough?”
Mara smiled slightly, sensing the subtle provocation behind Doña Feliciana’s casual words. “I think I shall manage,” Mara answered, the challenge of Doña Feliciana being silently accepted as the two women exchanged glances.
“I must warn you, Doña Amaya, that Feliciana is right,” Doña Ysidora added, a concerned expression on her face, “for you will have a hard ride ahead of you. Do you not wish to change your mind? We will all understand.”
“No, thank you, Doña Ysidora,” Mara replied firmly. “I must become used to this land sometime, and now seems as good a time as any.”
An hour later, Mara left her room and made her way along the gallery to the stables. She was dressed in a black cloth riding habit with a long, full skirt and close-fitting jacket that buttoned down the front, revealing, beneath, a plain cambric shirtfront. Mara tipped her black beaver hat with its floating veil over her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright glare of the sun as she stepped from the coolness of the patio into the outer courtyard.
Brendan was already mounted and held a squirming Paddy before him on his saddle, a situation he hardly relished, Mara thought sympathetically as she avoided meeting Brendan’s martyred look of suffering. But Paddy was no match for these accomplished Californians, who seemed to have been born in the saddle, and she didn’t want an inexperienced Paddy trying to compete with them. Even the smallest of children rode without a sign of fear evident on their cherubic faces as the wind scattered their cries of enjoyment.
Mara gave a start of surprise as she saw Doña Feliciana mounted sidesaddle on the back of a high-spirited black-and-white pinto that danced prancingly under the guiding hand of his rider. She was still dressed in black mourning clothes, but she had changed from the shyly awkward schoolgirl of just an hour ago. Doña Feliciana had come to life as she sat elegantly on the back of her mount, her eyes flashing darkly beneath the rakishly tilted brim of her flat-crowned hat.
Mara grasped the plaited rawhide reins of her horse, her knee hooked around the horn of the saddle and one booted foot fitted in the loop of silk that served as a stirrup, and waited patiently as their group steadily increased in size as more riders joined them and their casual ride turned into a grand excursion, complete with a carreta filled with picnic baskets and blankets.
“It would seem as if the shy little dove has found her wings,” Brendan commented, a look of unconcealed admiration in his eyes as he watched Doña Feliciana’s small hands skillfully handle her mount with practiced ease.
The colorful cavalcade finally began to make its way from the rancho with a cloud of dust being kicked up, marking its progression from the road and into the gently sloping hills of the valley. The sky overhead was a deep, sapphire blue with a fleecy white veil of clouds floating high above the hills and patterned in wisps by the air currents swirling around them. The horses carried the party through fields of pale yellow and deep orange poppies that blanketed the hillside in a satiny cloak that swayed with the breeze. Groves of massive white oak dotted the slopes, their twisted trunks standing stalwartly as their labyrinthine branches swept the ground in supplication.
Mara’s gloved hands tightened on the reins as a long-eared jackrabbit, startled from his hiding place, jumped in front of her horse’s hooves and bolted across the sloping hill, his black tail disappearing into the chaparral brush in a flash. They made their way along a dry stream bed, weaving through spiny-branched shrubs and spikes of sage, their laughing voices carrying back into the arroyo as they climbed the rocky slope and galloped across a wide expanse of rolling hill.
Mara glanced back into the valley where the hacienda baked under the noontime sun, its red-tiled roof repelling the heat as the thick adobe walls kept the interior of the house comfortably cool during the hot daylight hours. As Mara’s horse disturbed a cluster of greenish-gray chaparral, a gray fox shot out of the dense tangle of underbrush and fled into the safety of the hidden crevices of the arroyo they had just left.
“To be sure, I never thought I’d be finding myself tired of riding.” Brendan spoke next to Mara as he maneuvered his mount closer to hers, his face flushed from the sun.
“I seem to remember a certain person groaning about never having enough time for pleasure, and missing the romps in the park,” Mara reminded him with a teasing smile.
“An afternoon’s ride with a lovely woman in the park, and this wild ride through the wilderness, I’ll have you know,” Brendan commented, his voice full of mock grievances, “are two completely different things. I feel as if I should be wearin’ buckskin and fringe.”
Mara laughed at the thought of Brendan playing the unlikely role of a pioneer. “And don’t be forgettin’ your coonskin hat.”
“Aye, to be sure, ’tis as amusin’ as seein’ you dressed in a sunbonnet and churnin’ butter, mavournin,” Brendan returned with a smirk.
“And thankful I am you’re havin’ the sense to be seein’ that, for that’s one role I’d not have a likin’ to be taking on. Besides,” Mara continued, feigning disappointment, “I’ve nothing in calico to be wearin’.”
Brendan shook his head, a laugh of appreciation trembling in his voice. “You’re never at a loss for words, are you, Mara?”
“Oh, look!” Paddy exclaimed as he gazed up at a spread-winged hawk gliding effortlessly above the hills and casting a swiftly moving shadow across the land.
Brendan followed its progress until it disappeared behind the summit of a far-distant hill. Mara caught the longing in his dark eyes as he stared at the empty horizon.
“Why didn’t you lose Don Luís when we landed in San Francisco, Brendan?” Mara asked suddenly, curious about Brendan’s motives in fulfilling his debt of honor.
“Why didn’t I run out on the old buzzard?” Brendan repeated with a thoughtful expression. “Well, you know, I’ve asked meself that very same question, and you know, I’m not sure.”
With a smile of self-derision Brendan continued in speculation. “I could say it was not the honorable thing to do, to run out on a debt, but then we both know I’m not above doing the dishonorable, and turning tail and running. Or I could claim it was because of you and Paddy, seein’ how we hadn’t a shilling to our names. How could I get a stake going, even get out to the mines without supplies? I couldn’t leave you without support in a strange city, especially one like San Francisco. Why, you’d probably have starved,” he explained, almost convincing himself it was the truth. But his dark eyes slid away from Mara’s as he admitted reluctantly, “But I’m thinking ’twas more the coward in me than anything else. A fear of facing the unknown, you might be sayin’. Maybe even a fear of failing and finding one more hope just as unsubstantial and fleeting as a dream. I can’t go on struggling to make barely enough to put food on the table and little more than that. We’re not living, Mara, we be merely existing, never gettin’ anywhere. Well, that’s not the life I’m wanting any longer. I want back that life that was stolen from us, that we’re entitled to,” Brendan said bitterly, “and if I die doin’ it, then ’twas worth the struggle. The only thing I’m worried about now is that at this rate I’ll be too old to enjoy it. Has Don Luís said anything to you yet about concluding this charade? I’d like to get paid and be moving on.”
“Don Luís isn’t one to be saying much, except for us to bide our time and let the Villareales get acquainted with me. The covenant of engagement isn’t binding unless we both agree to it now that we’re adults. I suppose Don Luís was hoping that Don Andres would go ahead and conclude their business, whatever it is, in anticipation of the coming relationship.”
; “Well, it all seems just a bit queer to me, and the only thing forthcoming that I want is our money,” Brendan declared impatiently.
Mara wiped her brow with the back of her gloved hand and turned to find Doña Feliciana riding beside her.
“You feel the heat, Doña Amaya,” she commented casually, showing no visible ill-effects herself from the sun blazing down on them. “We rest shortly unless you wish to stop now?” she offered, a contemptuous look in her eye as she took in Mara’s flustered appearance. Mara pushed a clinging tendril of dark hair off her temple and replied with a forced smile that gave away nothing of her true thoughts. “I wouldn’t think of it; please let us continue, Doña Feliciana.”
“As you wish,” she answered shortly, before sending her horse on ahead, her black skirt billowing out beneath her as she kicked her horse’s flank, urging him to greater speed.
“Are you getting the feeling that our little dove doesn’t have a liking for Amaya Vaughan?” Mara commented to Brendan as her eyes followed the swiftly moving figure.
“So it would seem, mavournin,” Brendan agreed, “although your cousin Raoul isn’t feeling near the same,” he added with an amused smile curling his lip as the young Californian galloped toward them at a breakneck pace, only to pull up on his reins as he reached them, his horse’s hind legs sliding beneath as he came to an abrupt halt. A cloud of dust settled over them as Raoul quickly turned his mount and fell in beside them.
Brendan glared impotently at Raoul, who was oblivious to having caused them any discomfort with his thoughtless exhibition of his equestrian skills. All of his attention was centered on Mara as he rode along beside her, his gaze lingering on her face and long column of neck.
“You ride better than I would have thought for a European, but perhaps it is the Californian blood in your veins that gives you such skills,” he complimented her.
“Thank you, Raoul”—Mara politely accepted his compliment despite Brendan’s rude guffaw—“but I think Doña Feliciana would disagree with you about my abilities.”
“Ah, well, she is just jealous of you, Amaya.” Raoul dismissed Doña Feliciana with a careless shrug of his shoulders. “She is spoiled, and it does not help that Andres is her guardian.”
“Oh, and why should she be jealous?” Mara asked quietly, showing little curiosity.
“You do not know? Feliciana fancies herself in love with Don Andres. She has always had the grand passion for him and hoped to be his bride one day,” Raoul explained unsympathetically. Then, laughing cruelly, he added, “At least she did until mi padre appeared with you on his arm.”
“And what of Don Andres?” Brendan asked.
“He will do the honorable thing, the proper thing, and what his madre wishes,” Raoul told them with a sneer of contempt. “He still follows the old ways. However, I think he will not mind so much now that he has seen you. I think it will be his pleasure to wed you, Amaya,” Raoul added with a suggestive look that slid over Mara’s tight-fitting bodice.
So, Mara thought, that is why there is that thinly veiled hostility in Feliciana’s manner. She was in love with Don Andres. She fears that Amaya will be the next Villareale bride, and not herself. Mara wondered about Don Andres’s feelings toward the lovely young Feliciana, and whether he had given her reason to believe her love might be returned. As far as Mara had seen, he had never given any indication of more than brotherly affection for her. Perhaps it was just a schoolgirl crush and would fade with time.
Mara followed the carelessly scattered group of riders into a hollow formed of low-lying hills where a stream meandered gently through the willow-shaded valley floor. In the distance the slowly moving carreta with its rickety railing and large, solid-wood wheels was making its bumpy way into the valley behind two oxen yoked to the long pole that stretched out in front of the cart.
Don Andres, astride the golden palomino with the ivory mane and long, flowing tail that he often rode, organized the group as they dismounted and found places to rest beneath the drooping branches of the willows. Mara found herself seated beneath a bank of wild irises, the creams, deep reddish purples, and lavender blues creating a perfect backdrop for her beauty as she lounged in the cool shadows of the sweeping willow limbs.
Farther along the bank and closer to the stream, Paddy was peering intently into the clear depths of the water, his small face eager as he searched for frogs and hopped along the slippery banks with several other young children. Mara caught the sound of his laughter and realized that for children there was a universal language that had no barriers as they innocently played together.
Mara gratefully accepted a glass of the cool stream water from Don Andres, who had poured her some from a jug freshly filled from farther upstream.
“The ride was not too much for you, Doña Amaya?” he inquired solicitously as he stared down in unconscious fascination at the entrancing picture she presented.
“I enjoyed it, Don Andres,” Mara reassured him with a provocative smile curving her lips. “Your rancho is certainly more than I had imagined, and very lovely.”
“Gracias, but it cannot compare with your beauty. I—” Andres began, only to stop as Feliciana came strolling up to them.
“Andres,” Doña Feliciana interrupted, her lips pouted as she put her hand possessively on his arm. “Had not you better see to the fires and your other guests?” she reminded him.
“Doña Feliciana is right, of course, if you will excuse me?” he apologized regretfully as Doña Feliciana led him away.
“This isn’t so bad,” Brendan remarked lazily as he dropped down beside Mara, a glass full of wine held carefully in his hand. “I could come to enjoy this life of leisure. To be sure, it fits just fine my ideas of what a gentleman’s life should be,” he said on a deep sigh as he stretched out on the fresh green grass.
And Brendan was right, it was a gentleman’s life. One could come to enjoy it very much, Mara mused dreamily. The afternoon passed languidly. Sides of beef were roasted on iron spits over live-oak coals, the aromas mingling with the sounds of fiddles and laughing voices. As the afternoon shadows lengthened and appetites were appeased, the never-tiring Californians sought entertainment in a small-scale rodeo.
Demonstrating amazing feats of horsemanship before an appreciative audience, the rancheros and vaqueros showed off their prowess. Using the reatas hanging from their saddles, they effortlessly roped any stray steer that wandered near, or played at a mock bullfight with a rogue bull who angrily charged his tormentors. Too often he barely missed the shining flank of one of the horses as the rider’s red sash flapped enticingly before the enraged bull.
Doña Ysidora sat contentedly beneath the shade of a tree with her ever-present embroidery near at hand and only glanced up occasionally to see that all went smoothly. She had ridden her mount as agilely as any young girl of sixteen, never showing a sign of fatigue as she kept pace with the younger members of the party. Even the soft, feminine hands of Doña Jacinta had shown strength and skill as she had demonstrated her own proficiency in the saddle, her small, green silk slippers with ribbons tied over the instep peeking out beneath the fine embroidered muslin of her skirt as she spurred her horse relentlessly on.
Raoul sauntered unsteadily over to Mara, pausing before he reached her to take a deep swallow of wine from a highly polished steer horn. Its bottom had a stopper of wood, and it was decorated with bands of silver. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Raoul came to stand before Mara.
“You liked my riding, sí? I am the best, I think,” the wine emboldened him to say. “I can pick a golden coin from the dust, while riding at a full gallop. Never have I missed.”
“You’re quite an accomplished fellow,” Brendan remarked snidely, unimpressed with the young Californian’s revelations. “Now, if only you could be pickin’ up gold nuggets from horseback…” he murmured thoughtfully, a devilish twinkle in his eye.
“You do not believe me?” Raoul asked in offended amazement. “I have even, single-ha
ndedly, lassoed a grizzly bear. This you can believe. It is the truth. ¿Sí, Jeremiah?” he demanded of the American who had quietly walked up beside him.
“If you say so, Raoul,” Jeremiah replied indifferently.
Raoul smiled triumphantly at the O’Flynns, missing the American’s patronizing look as he swayed on his feet and took another long drink of the dark red wine, some of it trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“Your madre desires your presence at her side, Raoul,” Jeremiah delivered his message, a pitying look in his blue eyes as he watched Raoul straighten his shoulders. “She wishes you to meet someone.”
“Bah! She always wants me by her side,” Raoul complained. “You tell them of my bravery, eh, Jeremiah, for you have nothing of your own to talk of,” Raoul said insultingly and staggered through the milling group of people toward Doña Jacinta and the plump girl standing nervously beside her.
A dull flush spread across Jeremiah Davies’s boyish face as he stared after the weaving figure of the Californian. “The fool,” he muttered scornfully.
He returned his attention to the O’Flynns, the determined glint in his narrowed blue eyes fading as he assumed his accustomed expression of humble servility.
“You are enjoying the rodeo and merienda?” he asked politely. “If I might join you, Doña Amaya, Señor O’Sullivan?”
“Certainly. Be our guest,” Brendan invited him, an expansive grin on his face. “You must get tired of hearing Spanish all the time,” he prodded the American, his eyes innocent as he smiled encouragingly.
“It is part of the job,” Jeremiah replied with a slight shrug. “You know, there are now probably more people in California speaking English than Spanish,” he commented with a smirk curving his small mouth upward. “Someday Spanish may even become a forgotten language here.”
“You seem to find that rather amusing,” Brendan said as he heard the American’s low chuckle. “Won’t you be findin’ yourself out of a job then?”
Laurie McBain Page 11
