by Linda Ladd
Conchita departed with the breakfast tray, and to Carlisle's chagrin, she realized she was looking for Chase when she stepped out of her bedchamber. He wasn't in sight, so she strolled along the upper porch, mazed at the huge Spanish house. The architecture was so different from what she was used to. Each room opened directly onto the covered gallery, both upstairs and down, and the building was constructed around a big garden area with great leafy trees and flagstone-paved walkways.
It was like having a yard inside the house, Carlisle thought as she descended a wide, curving stone stair-case that led to the patio. She stopped at the bottom to admire a double-tiered fountain. Jets of water arced gracefully to tinkle in the shallow bricked pool surrounding it. As a faint breeze rustled the leaves of the mimosa tree just above her head, Carlisle decided it was very pleasant there. A jingling of spurs captured her attention and she turned, expecting to see Chase. But it was Esteban who approached her.
"Hola, Dona Carlita," he said, politely removing his hat.
"Hola," Carlisle returned, smiling.
"Chaso asked me to show you the ranch, if you wish."
"Is Chase to join us?"
Esteban's dark eyes looked apologetic. "Chaso is already gone. Did he not mention it to you?"
"Gone? Where?" Carlisle asked quickly, more up-set by the news than she wanted to be.
"He had urgent business, but he asked me to make you feel welcome."
"He's not going on to Mexico City, is he? He's supposed to take me there with him."
"No. I believe he's gone to Saltillo."
Carlisle froze for a second. Could Chase already know about the rebel encampment? That was something she'd try to discover when he returned.
"Chaso said he would return here. I do not think he plans to be away long."
"I see."
"I have saddled a horse for you," Esteban told her. "Do you ride?"
Carlisle shook her head. "Would you teach me, Esteban? I've always wanted to learn."
"Si, everyone at the rancho rides, and the mare I have chosen for you is very gentle."
"Then let's have our first lesson now," Carlisle suggested eagerly. But when they reached the front drive, the horse in question seemed very big and intimidating.
Putting on the leather riding gloves and flat-crowned hat that Esteban provided, she hid her trepidation and listened carefully as he explained how to handle the reins. Actually, it sounded quite simple. All she had to do was pull in the direction she wished to go.
"I ordered Dona Maria's sidesaddle for you," Esteban said. "Are you ready?"
"Si," she said, but as she stepped up on the mounting block and placed her foot in the fancy silver stirrup, she thought how it felt when Chase had held her before him in the saddle. Settling her knee over the saddle horn, she took up the reins. The position seemed very precarious, and she waited nervously as Esteban swung gracefully atop his own mount. Her horse sidestepped when Esteban moved closer to her, and Carlisle tightened her grip.
"Bueno, Dona Carlita," he said. "You must show her who is in charge, or she will get big-headed and try to rule you. You must wear your hat, too, senorita, or your skin will burn. Our sun is very hot."
Obediently, Carlisle pulled the wide-brimmed hat from where it hung down her back and angled it to shade her face. Side by side, they walked their mounts down the paved avenue which led around the end of the house. Tall, big-limbed cedar trees shaded their way, and Carlisle found that riding was not as difficult as she'd imagined—but then, the horses were moving at a sedate pace. A wild gallop, such as the one she'd taken with Chase, would be a different story. Yet that was what she really wanted to do!
At the rear of the hacienda were the stables, a long, low, whitewashed structure covered by the same heavy red Spanish tiles that decorated the main house. Beyond the practice rings, the road led to a pasture where the bulls were kept.
The bullring was large, surrounded by a six-foot-high adobe wall. Esteban led her to a thatched-roof pavilion where they could watch a young vaquero reining a beautiful white Arabian through a series of intricate steps and maneuvers.
"What a magnificent horse!" Carlisle cried, leaning up against the rail.
"Chaso handles him better than anyone else, though he rarely goes into the ring anymore."
Surprised, Carlisle glanced at Esteban. "Chase is a bullfighter?"
"Si, he was very good, but he no longer enjoys it. Chaso saved my life once, right there." Esteban pointed to a spot against the high white wall.
"Really? From a bull?"
"Si. We were only boys. My parents were campesinos and worked for his grandfather, who was the great hacendado. Chaso was ten and I was twelve, but we wanted badly to be matadors. The bull charged, and I froze with fear. Chaso distracted el toro with his cape, but the horns caught him in the thigh. He still bears the scar, and I never forget that I live and breathe because of his bravery."
"You and Chase are very good friends, aren't you?"
"Si, we are closer than brothers. I would be honored to give my life for Chaso."
They watched the vaquero for a time, then re- mounted and rode past huge fenced pastures with great herds of cattle and horses. Carlisle was amazed by the vastness of the ranch. Not far from the main house, just over a small rise, they came upon a village, its adobe houses bleached by the sun.
"That is La Mesilla," Esteban told her, reining up and smiling in his gentle way. "Conchita and I live there with the other vaqueros and indios who work the fields. Come, Conchita will have naranjada cooled and ready."
Carlisle nodded, eager for a rest from the hot sun and hard saddle. The little town was composed of rows of squat, flat-roofed dwellings clustered around a tidy central plaza. A twin-towered mission church with capped buttresses and high, narrow windows dominated the square, but many market booths lined the perimeter, where groups of Indians and mestizos sold their wares.
Esteban led her to a cozy house surrounded by a low brick wall. He lifted her from her horse and tied the mounts to a hitching ring beside the grilled gate. Conchita came running through the small, shady yard.
"So there you are!" she cried. "Come inside, where it is cool!"
When they reached the thatched front porch, Carlisle took off her hat and sat down in a wooden rocker. Conchita immediately rushed off to bring them refreshments.
"You honor us by visiting our casa," Esteban said, sitting down on a low wall.
"I'm pleased to be here. You have a lovely home."
Carlisle did like the little white house. Though small, it was neat and cool, and filled with the scent of gardenias and roses.
"Chaso wanted us to live in the estancia with him, but I like it here in the village. I like to paint the people when they are at market or dressed for Mass."
Carlisle had almost forgotten he was an artist. "May I see your work, Esteban?"
He appeared inordinately pleased that she'd asked, and when he led her inside the house, she saw that all the walls were hung with his pictures, the paintings done in vivid colors, with a crisp sense of reality that made Carlisle exclaim with delight.
"You're very talented!" she told Esteban, walking to one particular picture that caught her eye.
Chase was portrayed in a bullring, resplendent in a short, richly embroidered blue jacket with gold braid, a red cape hung over one shoulder. His head was held at an arrogant angle, his blond hair shining in the sun. She'd seen him look that way several times during their voyage when he stood at the Mayan's rail and gazed out to sea.
"You've captured him well," she murmured.
"Gracias. Will you sit for me?"
"Of course I will. Anytime you wish."
"Perhaps we can start tomorrow night? I always work at night."
A few minutes later when they'd returned to the covered porch, Conchita served the orange juice and a delicious vegetable stew which she called puchero. Later, after Conchita left to visit with a friend at the front gate, Esteban got out a pad and penci
l and sketched Carlisle while she rocked contentedly in the shade.
"Conchita told me you asked her about San Miguel," he said unexpectedly, rousing Carlisle out of her lethargic mood.
"Yes, I did," she admitted, feeling guilty.
"It was very bad," he said then, his placid face troubled.
"If it bothers you, Esteban, you don't have to discuss it."
"No, I do not want you to think us murderers, Chaso and I."
Carlisle felt terrible, because she already liked Esteban and Conchita very much, and she certainly didn't want to insult them.
"I don't think you're a murderer."
"I have killed more men than I can count, but only in the war." He paused, then went on, his voice very quiet. "Four years ago, the massacre happened, and every day I pray to the Holy Virgin for forgiveness. Chaso, too, suffers much for what happened at San Miguel."
"Was he in command of the Juaristas that day?"
"Si, but he did not order the massacre. He and I had taken some of our men around the mountain to find a back way into the mission. Still, he blames himself, because his men did the killing."
Carlisle waited, Esteban's deep sorrow communi-cating itself to her.
"The war was terrible, with many atrocities com-mitted. The French were butchers. The ones who died at San Miguel were evil. They rode in bands that plundered and destroyed the villages." His face took on terrible, sad lines. "They were the men who raped my poor Conchita."
"Oh, no, Esteban!" Carlisle cried.
"Si. They came upon the gypsy wagons at the river and shot many of the men. Then they took the prettiest women for their putas. Conchita was bitter for a long time afterward, but she gets better each day."
Carlisle couldn't hide her horror, and she looked to the gate where Conchita was laughing and chatting. No wonder Conchita had reacted with such anger when she'd mentioned the French.
"Many Juaristas suffered and died at San Miguel before Chaso lay siege to the mission. The French used the old church as a prison, where they tortured and killed our men. That is where they took my Conchita and many muchachas like her. She escaped, gracias a Dios, but others were not so lucky. Chaso wanted to destroy the evil place, but we had no cannon. The mission was well fortified, because the priests of San Miguel used to operate a silver mine there for the Church."
Esteban hesitated, his eyes haunted. "Each day that we camped in the plain in front of the gate, they killed one of our compadres and threw the body over the wall. The murders went on for many days, until the defenders were starved into surrender. When they finally opened the gate, it was as if our men went loco. It was horrible what they did to the French and Mexicans who rode with them. Bodies were dismembered, blood ran in the streets—"
Esteban's voice choked, and a sheen of tears misted his dark eyes. In his mind he saw the carnage again as he and Chaso led their men out of the mine shaft. The killing was almost over by then, but they had heard the screams of agony from inside the church. Swallowing hard, he fought the memory of what he'd seen when he'd thrown open the church doors, but the scene hit him again with the force of a blow. French soldiers, their hands nailed to the walls; corpses, hacked and bloody, piled in the aisles; even children—one small boy lay sprawled across a pew, his skull crushed by a gun butt. Sickness overcame him in a great, swift tide, and without another word to Carlisle, he got up and entered the house.
Carlisle watched him stumble away, her emotions in turmoil. No wonder San Miguel was never mentioned to Chase and Esteban. There was no doubt that Esteban suffered deeply from remorse. Chase probably did as well.
Carlisle had been so sure Javier and Arantxa had been right, but after Esteban's painful revelations, she didn't know what to think. Both sides had been brutal, both had killed and maimed, just as they had in her own country's civil war. But one thing she did know—Esteban and Conchita weren't the bloodthirsty monsters Javier had described the Juaristas to be.
8
For the next two weeks, Carlisle settled into the routine of the hacienda, waiting for either Chase to return or Javier to come for her. She slept until mid-morning as was the custom, then wandered until the sun drove her inside for siesta. Usually, Esteban and Conchita would join her for the late meal, or comida, as they called it, and in the evening she'd sit for Esteban.
One night in late April she again sat in Esteban's lantern-hung patio. She had donned the simple white cotton dress and lovely white lace mantilla which Esteban insisted she must wear to look like an angel. But inside, her thoughts were far from seraphic as she fumed over Chase's continued absence.
He'd probably planned to leave her like this all along, she thought crossly, to ruin her trip by insisting she come to his ranch instead of visiting the Perez family, and then strand her there alone. It'd serve him right if she left with Javier before he came back! The thought of never seeing Chase again was disconcerting, if only because she'd be cheated out of giving him a piece of her mind for dumping her off like some old dog!
She looked at Esteban, who sat before his easel, his slim body erect, his dark eyes intent on Carlisle's hair, then on his palate as he mixed the exact shade of red. She'd found that when Esteban worked, he shut the world out. Even now, his wife was muttering impatiently in her gypsy dialect, sleepy and wanting to go to bed. But Esteban seemed unaware, so absorbed was he in his work.
During the past few weeks, not only had she learned to ride, but Conchita had worked with her on her Spanish until Carlisle felt much more competent with the language. But she missed Arantxa and all the talks they used to share. And Javier. He'd told her he loved her! Where was he? Why hadn't he come back for her?
She visualized Javier astride a horse, his handsome face ablaze with patriotic purpose, ammunition belts slung over his chest while he led his gallant men to defend the Holy Catholic Church. Perhaps they even wore crosses on their tunics like Richard the Lion-Hearted and his Crusaders, she thought dreamily. The guerrilleros would be noble and compassionate, nothing like the cruel Frenchmen Esteban had described to her. After all, they were loyal Mexicans, fighting for their freedom and the survival of their faith. They would never hurt innocent people, like Maximilian's French troops had.
Carlisle looked up, roused from her daydreams when, across from her, Conchita suddenly smiled and jumped to her feet.
"Chaso's back!" she cried, running toward the front gate.
Carlisle froze, then turned slowly, appalled at how her heart had risen into her throat. Chase came striding toward her, his arm around Conchita. He was dressed in a short
charro jacket and fitted trousers with silver buttons down the sides. The dark blue coat was adorned with beautiful silvery embroidery, and he looked unbelievably handsome.
"Hola, Carlita," he said, his smile so warm and caressing that she melted. She'd vowed to lash out at him the moment she saw him, but with him here be-fore her now, Carlisle couldn't pretend she wasn't glad to see him.
"Bienvenido, Don Chaso," she said. His expression told her that he was pleased she'd greeted him in Spanish.
"Esteban has prevailed upon you to sit for him, I see. He's a slave driver when he paints. I sat for him once."
"It is about time you returned, amigo," Esteban said, for once drawn away from his canvas. "Carlita was wondering if you had left her here forever."
"I wouldn't do that," Chase replied, looking at her. Something in the way he said it sent a thrill of pleasure through her.
Chase sat down on a bench, unable to force his eyes from Carlisle's face. God, he had missed her. He had taken his time on his ride to Saltillo, trying to come to terms with his feelings. Stubbornly determined to rid his mind of Carlisle's face, he had stayed away longer than was necessary. All the while, he yearned to see her, wondered what she was doing and whom she was with, until he branded himself an idiot and rode home.
"Don Chaso, I have brought aguardiente for you," Conchita said.
Chase dragged his attention from Carlisle long enough to take
the cup she held out to him.
"I am glad you are here," Conchita whispered to him. "You will make Esteban stop, eh? He does not listen to me when he holds his paintbrush."
Chase laughed, well able to understand Conchita's dilemma. Ever since they'd been children, Esteban had been fanatical about his art. When young he'd satisfied his creative urges with crude pencil etchings and watercolors, but now he nearly always fashioned portraits in oil. At times it was hard for Chase to think of his quiet, sensitive friend as the great fighter he'd proved himself to be during the war. Esteban was a man of courage on the battleground; in fact, he was one of the bravest men Chase had ever known.
When Chase had rallied to the Juarista cause after Maximilian had driven Benito Juarez and his government from Mexico City, Esteban had ridden at his side for the four long, bloody years it had taken to rid their country of the foreign interloper. He trusted Esteban with his life.
Chase raised a booted foot and propped it atop his other knee, watching as Esteban reached out and pulled the jeweled comb from Carlisle's hair. The long, shiny tresses fell from the knot she had twisted atop her head, tumbling around her shoulders. He felt a strong, absurd jealousy as Esteban carefully arranged the gleaming mass of coppery waves while Carlisle sat docilely, an angelic smile on her face.
Dios, she was exquisite, he thought. Why should one woman enjoy so much beauty? He watched, fascinated, as Esteban carefully rearranged the delicate mantilla around Carlisle's face. The gossamer white lace could not hide the gleaming golden-red hair. Suddenly, he decided that when the portrait was done, he would persuade Esteban to give it to him.
Esteban had called Carlisle "the angel," and she looked like one. But if anyone knew she was not destined to play that role, it was Chase. From the beginning he had seen the real Carlisle. For some reason, she had never pretended with him, as she did with others. Underneath that cool and flawless exterior, she was as hot-blooded as Conchita.
While he studied her, she looked up and smiled, her small white teeth flashing for an instant, and Chase felt himself beaming back, rather stupidly, he feared. But apparently she wasn't angry with him for leaving her for so long. Suddenly eager to be alone with her, he stood and looked pointedly at Esteban.
