The beefy woman said, “You said your last name was Delisola?”
“De la Sola,” Katherine corrected. “Yes, it is.”
“You’re married to one of these guys?”
“Yes, and as mediator, I can help.”
“That your husband?” She pointed to Damian, now at Katherine’s side between them.
“Don Damian de la Sola. Yes, he’s my husband. And your name is? . . .”
One of the men at the tree shouted, “Damned if I’m going to listen to preaching from some treacherous bitch who fucks Mexleans!”
Damian reached for Katherine’s bridle, and in her shock she let him grab it. “Get back,” he said between his teeth. “This is men’s work.”
“No.” She resisted his fierceness, his twist of the reins. “It’s only men’s work if it comes to shooting, and surely sensible—”
Wading through the blackened stubble of grass, the woman waved her fist left and right, wearing the same grim expression that all in the American camp wore. “I’m a God-fearing lady, an’ I know that ducks cleave to ducks, fish to fish, an’ cows to cows. It’s unnatural for any clean American woman to be in some greaser’s bed. It’s against the will of God, an’ it’s treason against the country.”
“My good woman,” Katherine said fastidiously, “cows cleave to bulls.” As a retort, it sounded a bit lame, but her usual quick wit had failed her. Never in all her objections to their marriage had she thought she would be scorned as a heretic and a turn-coat. She believed—she knew—that the common ground of language and background would smooth this encounter.
Yet when she said so, the Americans muttered and Damian urged, “Katherine, get back behind us.”
He used her bridle to move her once more, and once more she resisted.
“I ain’t talking to some greaser who can’t even control his own wife,” the man with the hatchet taunted.
Katherine stared at him, her green gaze boring holes in his bravado, and he stepped back. She was so pleased to note she hadn’t lost her power of dominance that Damian placed her behind the line of vaqueros before she realized. Once started, her mare couldn’t be halted; again she found herself facing horses’ rumps.
A husband faced her, too, his lips tucked so tight white lines bracketed his mouth. She opened her mouth to speak, but when he leaned towards her something in his face made her stop. “Intelligent,” he approved, and she bristled. Still his fury and command held her motionless. “Listen, my dear. Someone’s going to get shot before the day’s over. Those other women are smart enough to realize it. Even that loudmouthed puta knows it. Now stay out of the way, and maybe the only ones to be shot will be these squatters. Unless you want to throw your lot in with these—” he waved a dismissing hand “—these Americanos, and see our own people gunned down?”
The way he said “Americanos” shocked her, as if it were a dirty word. His insinuation shocked her more. As if she cared more for these ignorant strangers than for the people of the Rancho Donoso. She looked aside from his blazing contempt, and he murmured, “Good.”
“Don Damian?” She stared at the tree by the river where the women had been washing. “There’s a strange man with a gun pointed at your father.”
Damian whipped his head around; his pistol appeared in his hand. He’d squeezed off a shot before she could draw breath, but the gun only popped and flashed—a misfire. Damian flinched from the heat. The blaze of Prudencio’s gun knocked the man head over heels like a puppet on a stick. Gunfire deafened Katherine; Damian took her head and thrust it ignominiously against her horse’s neck. A vaquero and his horse dropped to the ground before her downcast eyes. Damian’s pistol no longer misfired; it roared along with the rest.
Then there was peace.
Damian rode to the front, and Katherine cautiously raised her head. On the ground, the vaquero struggled away from the saddle, untouched by a bullet but crying with silent tears for his horse. At the river, the man lay unmoving as the water flowed over his face. One man at the tree thrashed on the ground in agony; the other stood with an ashen face. The man with the hatchet knelt, holding his arm as his hatchet quivered a few feet from Don Lucian’s horse.
“You’ve trespassed on our land,” Damian said grimly. “You’ve fired the first shot and gotten at least one man killed. Let’s see if we can help you enough to get you on your way.” He started forward into the clamorous silence, then stopped. “Unless you have any other men hidden somewhere?”
From out of the grass beyond rose a boy of about twelve, and he screamed, “Yes, we do.” He jerked up a rifle too big for him and discharged it towards the crowd of Spaniards and vaqueros. Damian shouted, “No,” but a rifle answered the boy’s.
The shock of the American’s bullet threw Prudencio off his horse and he landed, hands outflung, close to Katherine’s mount.
The boy fell and disappeared, covered by the tall grass. Prudencio.
“No,” Katherine sighed, slipping from her saddle. “Oh, no, not this. Not again.” She touched him, but no breath remained in his body, no beauty, no life. A mother’s shriek from the American camp pierced the pity she felt for the fallen warrior.
A smoking rifle identified the one who’d shot the American boy, and he wasn’t much more than a boy himself. Perhaps fourteen, he sat in the saddle and shrugged under Don Lucian’s scolding. “If he was old enough to raise a gun in anger, he should have been prepared to die.” His voice quivered as he added, “Besides, he killed my uncle.”
“Do you have a blanket?” Katherine asked. “Don Damian?”
He looked down at her.
“Do you have a blanket?” she repeated. “We need to cover Prudencio. The flies are already coming for the blood.”
She crawled away in the grass and fainted.
Damian held Katherine firmly as they mounted the stairs to her bedroom. She no longer had a buzzing in her ears, and her faint, she pointed out with indignation, had been a brief one. Still, he made sure she remained erect, his silence being more eloquent than another man’s diatribe.
His other hand, burned by the misfire of the pistol, was wrapped in loose linen stfips. The pain made him wince and, she supposed, kept his fury at a boiling point. Certainly the thrust of his jaw and the proud line of his back made his opinion clear.
It seemed as if he were angry at her, as if she were responsible for the whole afternoon, filled with rancor and battle. As if she were responsible for the evening of cleanup, of laying out dead bodies and bandaging wounds.
Yet she reminded herself that he had reason for his outrage. Perhaps not with her, but it was human nature to blame those closest. As they entered her room, she plunged into apology. “Those Americans aren’t indicative of the nation.” She bit her lip. It hadn’t come out as contritely as she had hoped, and he only glared straight ahead. “I’m sorry about the deaths. It was good of you not to drag the squatters in to Monterey and have them incarcerated.”
He looked at her with narrow assessment.
“Especially after all that woman said to you,” she added, smoothing the curve of her watch. “Both before and after the violence.”
Still he stared, and her conciliatory attitude soured. “Although I think you could learn a lesson from your father.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Indeed.” Taking a breath, she reminded herself that people respond to advice only when not accompanied by criticism. “Your father speaks first, using the voice of logic, and when you perceive failure of logic, you speak with the voice of pugnacity.” In any other man, she would have called Damian’s expression a snarl.
“Would you ever wonder if my father and I have assigned roles? That when logic fails, he cedes control to me?”
“Why would you do that? To act in such a manner is to admit ahead of time that logic will fail.”
“Logic always fails when dealing with people who think with their emotions and not their brains.” He held up his hand when she would interrupt. “Yes, Señora Ho
peful, there are many who are lesser humans, as that bandage on your throat should prove. Now I don’t believe we have anything else to say to each other.”
“You mean we’re not speaking.”
“Exactly.”
A band around her chest formed, and she found it difficult to breathe. “If you’re looking for a way to punish me, that’s the best way. For the success of our marriage, communication is the key. To speak of your anger will clear the air. You should explain to me what it is I’ve done that annoys you.”
“Besides get in the way, almost get yourself killed, precipitate a murder?”
The injustice of his accusation jerked the band tight. “That’s not fair.”
He tapped his toe against the floor for one long, agonizing moment. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. You didn’t precipitate the murder, at least.” He turned on her like a striking rattlesnake. “But you flouted my orders. In public. You put me in a bad light with my people.”
She gaped. “What?”
“You made me a laughingstock.”
Her fury rose swift and sure. “Is that what this is all about? You’re angry because I didn’t obey you?”
“A man should control his own wife.”
“I’m not your horse or your dog. I have a mind, and I do what I think best.”
“What is sensible,” he sneered.
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t know sensible if it smacked you in the face.”
“Sir, you insult me.”
He took her by the arms. “Listen to me. You could have been killed today. My heart leapt in my throat when the gunfire started.” She tried to interrupt, but he shook her. “Listen! I haven’t waited all my life for you to have you shot for some high-minded ideal of yours. From now on, we’ll live by rationality—my rationality. I ought to leave you here at Rancho Donoso and go after the gold alone.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Because you would find a way to get in trouble no matter where you were. My father hasn’t a chance against your ‘sensibleness’ and your willfulness. But take heed. From now on, you’ll do as I say or take the consequences.”
She had trouble comprehending what he meant, why his cheeks flushed with ruddy color and his hands trembled. She only heard the fury, not the frustration and fear behind it. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes. I am. The way I feel right now, I’d take great pleasure in giving you what you deserve.”
She jerked from his grasp. “Leave me alone.”
He jerked her back to face him. “We have to go after that treasure. It doesn’t matter how we feel right now, we have to find the source of the gold.”
“I agree.
“There’s danger if we don’t.”
“I’m not arguing.”
“Very well.” Taking his hands away, he looked at them with distaste. “Call for a bath. It will be the last warm water we see for a long time, and I wish to wash this blood from beneath my fingernails.”
“Will you sleep here?”
“Where else would I sleep, bride of mine?”
“Your bedroom,” she faltered.
“No. Perhaps we’ll not finish that unfinished business of ours tonight, but we’re married, and sleep together we will.”
As he turned away, she whispered, “Even if we have to stay awake all night to do it.”
2 June, in the year of our Lord, 1777
The great weight of the gold inhibits our speed. It’s heavy, so heavy. I carry the chest filled with the worked gold of the chapel. Each of the three women carries a pouch on her back. They are bowed with the strain, for some of the nuggets are so big that they fill my hand and weigh down my arm.
In his weakness, Fray Lucio staggers like a drunken man and has slowed us almost to a crawl The women assist him, but the narrow trails of this mountain range make walking in single file a necessity.
I fear the Indians of the interior still pursue us; I fear they pursue us even more vigorously now that their women are gone. Yet I will not abandon one bit of this gold with which God has blessed us. When I return to the mission with this great wealth, the interior will be settled with good Catholic Spaniards and the Indians’ souls will be saved through continual contact.
Then will my goal of settling the interior be justified
—from the diary of Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista
Chapter 15
The wide bed hadn’t been nearly wide enough for two people intent on never touching. Damian awoke tired, snappish —and aroused. All the night through, he’d thought about Katherine. Awake, asleep, she’d been in his mind, and his body didn’t understand his anger. He still wanted her.
Rolling over, he looked at her. Even in sleep, she clung to the side of the mattress with her hands, staying as far away from him as possible, and he understood why.
He knew he’d been rough and unfair last night, but when he remembered how close Katherine had come to disaster, he wavered between panic and a strong desire to lock her away. What he wouldn’t do to return to the time when no one knew the whereabouts of Tobias’s widow. What he wouldn’t do to be able to keep her safe.
Now the newest de la Sola couple were undoubtedly the talk of Alta California. They had to leave this hacienda before a wedding celebration arrived on their doorstep—a wedding celebration with a possible murderer in its midst. Instead, they would go seek the gold, exposing themselves to that same murderer and dangers of perhaps a greater nature.
He smoothed her hair away from her lips, parted slightly with her breath. When she sighed and stirred, he lifted his hand and slid from the bed.
“Charming.” Don Lucian held one of Katherine’s hands out and looked her over. “Absolutely charming.”
She made the effort to smile as she descended the last two steps of the porch. “Thank you for the riding habit. I assure you, I’ve never had anything so fine.”
“The midnight blue of the jacket changes your eyes from green to the misty azure of the ocean. Don’t you think so, Damian?”
Damian turned from the saddlebags he was strapping on Confite and inspected his wife. “She looks very neat,” he approved, but his gaze lingered on the coat that fit tight at her waist and hugged her bosom. With a slight bite in his tone, he said, “The gold makes her look quite Californian.”
The reprimand found its mark, and she looked down at the fanciful pattern of gold braid. Cleverly hidden in the folds of the skirt was a pocket for her watch, its silver chain looped up into the design to hook on securely. She fingered one of the gold buttons to hide her dismay at his indifference.
With a flourish, Don Lucian presented a hat box. “I have the finishing touch.”
“You are too good to me,” she protested, but she snatched the box greedily. “I can’t remember the last time I had a new—oh!” She graced Don Lucian with a heart-stopping grin. “I love
Lifting her full skirts, she leaped up the steps into the hacienda. At the hall mirror, she pulled out the midnight blue velvet hat. Shaped like a vaquero’s, its flat brim sported an intricate trim of gold braid that matched her jacket. Its box crown was wrapped with a misty gold scarf that trailed in two tails off the back.” A Californian,” she muttered. “This will show him a Californian.” She settled the whole fashionable, jaunty creation across her forehead. A matching scarf for her neck completed the outfit, hiding the pink scar on her throat. She saluted herself before marching out to show off.
“The perfect touch,” Don Lucian hailed her. “Eh, Damian?”
There seemed to be something about the way she posed at the top of the stairs that gave Damian pain. As if flames were licking at his toes and he could hardly wait to flee, he turned to tie the saddlebag with one more knot. “We need to leave if we’re to get to San Juan Bautista this afternoon. If you’re ready, Doña Katherina?”
His unemotional suggestion punctured her exuberance. “Of course.”
Don Lucian gave up. “What will you do if you fin
d nothing at the mission?”
“Go to another mission,” Damian said briefly. “And keep going until we find what Tobias found.”
“Are you sure you have enough supplies?”
“I packed for two weeks on the road and possibly in the mountains, and covered every contingency I could think of. I’ve got rope, blankets, food.”
“Your pistol?” Don Lucian’s mouth was puckered with wry amusement.
“Yes, Papa.” Damian’s grim mouth eased into a smile. “I’ll give it one more chance. You have to admit it performed well after that first misfire yesterday.”
Don Lucian sobered. “Many times, my son, there’s no chance for a second shot.”
“I have my rifle and my other pistol, too,” he assured him. “At least the Americanos are gone, and if they should return, you will have your own trusted pistols with you.”
Don Lucian agreed. “The vaqueros patrol every inch of our land like hounds with noses to the ground. Thank God for their support.”
Damian turned to Katherine. “Are you ready?”
She nodded. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t known what to say all day. She and Damian were speaking; yes, they were. So politely, so logically, they’d discussed their best plan. To the mission, first, then into the mountains. Damian would organize the supplies. She would pack the clothes they needed. They’d smiled stiffly at each other, for all the world like passing acquaintances, then they’d separated to do their duties.
Now her mare stood waiting at the mounting block and the activities that had buffered their silence were at an end. She placed a quick, shy kiss on Don Lucian’s cheek, then strode to her horse. Damian met her there and, before she could step up, put his hands on her waist. Her eyes flew to his; they stared for one awkward moment. The warmth of his palms radiated down to her skin; she blushed. Then he lifted her into the saddle.
Under Don Lucian’s concerned gaze, they rode away. Eight vaqueros would accompany them, for their safety seemed precarious. Their formality affected the spirits of the men, making it a quiet three-hour ride through the warming afternoon.
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