Summer Chaparral Read online

  “And then the Americans came.”

  “The Bannisters came.” A chilled whisper, as if announcing the snake in the garden.

  She remembered the rough lick of the velvet nap of the sofa against her cheek and under her palm as she crowded closer to hear.

  “Colonel Bannister burned it to the ground.”

  “Then snatched it up for himself when we couldn’t pay the taxes!”

  A high flutter of indignation, Catarina’s own heart fluttering in sympathy.

  “And to make certain it was his—”

  “He murdered Don Alvarado’s heir.”

  Her flutters chilled into shivers.

  “And the Bannisters claimed it was an accident!”

  “But the old Colonel wasn’t done then.”

  A pause, so that all might shake their heads together. A pause to draw out the horrid anticipation for what came next.

  “Oh, no. Then he took Sweet Little Lola—”

  “Sweet Little Lola! The heiress.”

  “—and married her to his eldest son.”

  The worst was coming then, the aunts’ voices gaining speed as they hurtled toward the crashing ending.

  “But he was cruel.”

  “So cruel!”

  Sung like the call of a bird and all the more horrifying for it.

  “And Sweet Little Lola was forced to… murder him.”

  Murder had ice dancing down her spine.

  “But the inquest said it was self-defense!”

  A chorus of sighs, as the aunties reached the end of their sad tale.

  “And the youngest son, carving up the Rancho like a butcher with a side of beef…”

  “Selling it off in little bits!”

  “And Sweet Little Lola…”

  “Well.” A sniff there. “Just look at her now.”

  That last had always confused Catarina, because there was no Sweet Little Lola to look at, not that she’d ever seen. The story was three decades old—Sweet Little Lola had been pulled out to sea by the same tides that had carried away the Rancho Alvarado, time erasing the both of them.

  It was a sad story, to be sure, but no one at this table had ever seen the Rancho Alvarado. It was as much a myth now as the magical island of Amazons that had given California its name.

  As for the Bannisters, that younger son was a judge in faraway Los Angeles. None of them were hiding out here, lurking behind a tree, waiting to snatch someone unawares.

  It was a children’s story now, nothing more.

  She shoved her beans around her plate, beans she had no interest in eating. The silence her mother had called down stretched and stretched, never breaking no matter how far it was pulled. The scent of barbacoa rose from the dish, delicious, yes—she had made it—but delicious in the same way it had been the hundreds of other times she had prepared it.

  The pattern on the handle of her knife caught her eye, vines and flowers climbing up toward the blade. Mr. Merrill’s chaps had been like that—intricately tooled. Yet they were worn, almost battered.

  As if he wasn’t afraid to use beautiful things as they were meant to be used.

  She was a beautiful thing. And no man was using her at all.

  “I think you should keep him on, Papa.”

  The words left her before her plan was fully formed, as if the unknowable part of her mind had decided for her.

  Aware the entire table was staring, she kept her gaze on her father, gripping her fork to provide the steadiness she would need.

  “If Franny and Felipe are impressed, he must be skilled.” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Isn’t it our way to provide hospitality to whomever needs it?” She looked to her mother, eyes just wide enough to suggest innocence without shouting it. “Mama always says so.”

  “Hospitality? Giving him a job is hospitable?” Her father sounded as if she’d been speaking gibberish.

  “Well, it’s not hospitality if Felipe needs the help. It’s simply common sense, then, isn’t it? Do you need the help?” she asked Felipe, praying that he’d follow her lead.

  “I might,” he said slowly, the spark in his eyes telling her he understood her intent.

  Her father’s expression suggested she’d just sprouted wings. Perhaps she had—she’d never felt compelled to speak on ranch matters before. She pulled her shoulders back—yes, there might be something new between them, pushing forth from her.

  “What should I do about this American, Señora? Is Catarina correct?”

  A shiver of elation ran through her at the consideration in her father’s question. Usually only Franny heard such tones from their father.

  A small victory, to be sure, but still all hers.

  “I dislike having Americans about the place as much as you,” her mother answered. “But Catarina is correct. We must be openhanded.”

  The triumph rose with the gooseflesh on her arms. Catarina pressed her lips hard together to keep from shouting.

  Power was a delicious thing.

  “I suppose it would cause little harm to let him stay for a time. A short time.” Her mother raised her eyebrows in her version of a shrug. “And if he causes any trouble? Then throw him out.” She made a tiny flicking motion with the tips of her fingers.

  Her mother had spoken, and that was that. He could stay.

  Catarina stared at her plate, the food she’d prepared according to her mother’s demands the same as it ever was.

  And yet, everything felt different. Exhilaration swept through her, as thrilling as a dip in a cool stream.

  Her mother sat at the head of the table, her power settled about her shoulders—Catarina knew what that power felt like. Just the barest brush she’d had—this maneuvering to convince her father. But…

  I want more.

  She ought not to have done it. A good Spanish daughter didn’t work against her parents’ wishes for her own ends. But really, where had being good gotten her? She played the perfect daughter for her parents. She played the fearless elder sister for her siblings. She played the perfect flirt for the men of Cabrillo. She played the roles everyone expected of her.

  What did she expect of herself, when no one was watching?

  Those chaps of his came to mind again, the scrollwork wending up his legs toward his lean hips. The thrills dashing through her went hot.

  They would only ever be imagined thrills with Mr. Merrill. Oh, she might someday have the courage to confront her father about her suitors—or lack of them. Might someday dare all for a local man she couldn’t live without.

  But a stranger? Against the loss of her family, her home… It was too much to risk for a man she hardly knew.

  But look at what she’d dared tonight. And the victory she’d won.

  Perhaps she ought to dare a little more.

  Chapter Four

  Don’t be an idiot, Merrill.

  Jace watched the particular bit of idiocy he was contemplating heft another crate into the donkey cart.

  Once she’d dropped the crate into place, Catarina brushed her hands clean, then went for another one.

  Someone really ought to help her—not that it ought to be him. He’d only been here a week and hadn’t the goodwill stored up to attempt it. Might never have enough goodwill to attempt what he really wanted.

  He caught sight of the Señor, holding court on his gray gelding as usual. This time it was Lucas Crivelli come to talk. The day before it’d been a man Jace didn’t recognize. The day before that had been James Harper, who’d stopped a moment to chat with Jace as well.

  All week, a steady stream of men coming to consult with the Señor, who never left the back of his horse as he parceled out his wisdom.

  Ramon Moreno was a fixed point that the town revolved around, make no mistake. Jace shouldn’t even be thinking of speaking with the man’s daughter.

  The cowboys milling about the front of the barn were taking a morning’s pause before mounting up and getting on with
the work. Not one of them seemed inclined to go over and help.

  Hell.

  And not one of them had said a word to him yet—whether because they couldn’t speak English, or they didn’t want to speak English with him, he couldn’t say. It rankled, their contempt. He hadn’t felt so isolated since arriving on the Circle T as a green boy.

  His ignorance then had explained his shunning. But he was a damn good cowboy now—there was no reason for these men’s stoniness.

  Catarina grunted again as she struggled with the crate, the donkey braying as she banged into the cart with it. She was in a pretty hat, flowers climbing the crown of it, and a dress the color of the green of the hills. She was trying to load the crates without mussing her dress, holding them too far away to get any kind of leverage. Which explained the grunts.

  She needed some help. Someone to load that up while she watched with a grateful smile. One that might show those dimples of hers. Maybe even one of those looks of hers, long and slow from under her lashes…

  Don’t be an idiot, Merrill.

  A crate banged the cart again, the donkey shying.

  Damn it all to hell, she was going to get hurt at this rate.

  “Can I help you, Miss?”

  Those cinnamon eyes widened in surprise as he set his hands over hers on the crate. Her hands were soft, warm. She swallowed and said, “Thank you.” She wiggled her fingers, then pulled her hands free.

  He set the crate carefully into the cart, so as not to bruise the produce within. Ruby red peppers, vividly orange carrots, and creamy peaches were nestled there, smelling of bright freshness. He turned to grab another crate. “Where are you taking all this?”

  She had on a half smile—no dimples yet. “To the mercantile, the lumber camp, and the Harper ranch,” she ticked off. “I grow much more than we can eat, so…”

  He set another crate in. Only two left. He wished there were more so he’d have an excuse to linger.

  Idiot.

  “You sell all this, then?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s all very… appealing. I imagine you get a good price for it.”

  The dimples came out. “Oh? And how much would you pay?”

  Anything. I’d pay anything.

  He dropped the next crate into the cart a little too roughly. Only one left.

  “No citrus, huh?” He almost rolled his eyes at his own inane comment.

  Those dimples stuck around. “No. It does snow here, you know.”

  He set the last crate in, his hands lingering on it a moment too long. “I don’t believe it. Everyone knows it doesn’t snow in California. The climate’s always beautiful.”

  She gave him a look—not that one, but a searching one. One that came from behind her vixen’s mask.

  The breath held hard in his lungs.

  “Winter can be beautiful as well,” she said softly. “Or are only sunshine and clear skies pleasing to you?”

  The solemnness of her tone startled him. “I've never experienced a true winter,” he said. “I don’t know how I’d feel about it.”

  “If you settle here, you will. The amount of daylight is small, but the days are long. Work slows and everyone stays indoors, keeping warm and entertained.”

  He could imagine some entertainments to engage in with her on a long winter’s day, nothing to do but conserve fuel and stay under the bedclothes…

  “Here.” She held out a handful of cherries. “For your troubles.”

  “It was no trouble.” Her fingers tickled at his palm as she set the fruit there. They were shockingly red against his skin, so red as to be almost black, the flesh giving ever so subtly as he wrapped his fingers around them, no doubt as delicious as—

  “Jace?”

  Felipe appeared at his elbow. His tone wasn’t censorious—the man was perpetually easygoing—but it only reminded Jace of the damn fool thing he was doing.

  He took a step back. “All set then, Miss?” He tipped his hat to her. “You’d better be going. Thank you for the cherries.”

  And then she did it—gave him that long, slow look, up and under from the thick fringe of her lashes.

  Hellfire, but that expression set him aflame.

  He stared after the donkey cart as she drove off, the dust rising from the wheels obscuring her figure in the seat. And still he watched, his eyes lost to his command.

  “Jace.” His attention swung back to Felipe. “You ready?” Felipe asked.

  The high country. He was supposed to be readying for a trip to the high country. Not mooning over the boss’s daughter.

  “Yes.” He shook off the odd effect she had on him. “And you?”

  “Let’s go,” Felipe ordered resignedly.

  The high country was different from Cabrillo. The land was wilder, freer—the scent of it holding more pine, the vegetation sparser, the ground rockier—no people, no houses, only nature bursting forth.

  A man could think on nothing up here.

  Felipe was clearly thinking on something. He never stopped peering at the stands of pines suspiciously, as if something might jump out at him. They were here to round up bronco cattle—cattle that had gone astray in the mountains—but Felipe was clearly hunting something else. Something that made him vibrate with anxiety.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Felipe didn’t turn from the chamissal he was studying, answering abstractedly, “I’m looking for”—his expression went dark and his voice dropped to a growl—“her.”

  Jace followed the line of Felipe’s finger toward a boulder, expecting to see a harpy, or even a gorgon. Not one young lady.

  “Howdy.” Franny waved from the back of her mare.

  Felipe exploded into angry Spanish.

  Jace pulled Spot to a halt, watching Felipe heave like he’d never seen before. Hell, the man didn’t even raise his voice to his dogs—not that those cattle dogs of his needed it. But now—now the man was about to succumb to an apoplexy.

  Franny rode toward them with a smile on her face, as if Felipe weren’t there. “I’m here to help.”

  Jace didn’t mind. He’d seen her working on the ranch—she was her father’s shadow, working right alongside the rest of the men—and he figured she could handle herself. Felipe, though… Felipe didn’t seem to agree.

  “Does your father know you’re here?” Jace asked, raising his voice over Felipe’s continuing explosion.

  “Yes.” She raised her chin. “He thinks I’m capable enough.”

  No need to say who didn’t think her capable enough.

  Felipe slowed, his chest heaving as his invective stopped. “You’ll get hurt,” he warned.

  “No, I won’t.” Airy. Confident.

  “I’ll make sure she doesn’t hurt herself,” Jace offered. Felipe always reacted so queerly to Franny—Jace had yet to see her hurt, and she was skilled enough to keep herself out of trouble.

  “No, you won’t,” Felipe said grimly. “That’s my job.” He spurred his horse into a lope, shaking his head as he went ahead.

  Franny turned her mare to follow, but not before Jace saw the wobble of her chin.

  He remembered his first week on the Circle T. Landing ass-first in the dirt when his horse stopped and he didn’t. And every man’s laughter at the sight. The angry shame burning in him as he dusted himself and went to catch up his horse.

  He liked Franny—she reminded him of himself at fifteen, so eager to ride with the herds. And she was a damn sight more talented than he’d been at her age.

  “He doesn’t mean it,” he said gently.

  “He does,” she replied calmly. “You don’t scold a person as much as he does me and not mean it.”

  Franny would know any denial he made to be false, so he kept his mouth shut. The both of them did, even after they caught up with Felipe, still wearing a dark scowl.

  On the ride back to the rancho a day later, Felipe’s mood was quite a bit brighter. All three of them bubbled with excitement actually, their
prize following them.

  Once those cowboys saw what Jace had brought back, they’d have to unbend and give him the respect such a thing deserved. If their reactions were half as effusive as Franny and Felipe’s had been, they’d have no other choice.

  Perhaps the Señor might even treat him with something pleasanter than veiled contempt when the man chose to acknowledge him.

  “He got him,” Franny crowed as she rode ahead of them, announcing their return to the entire rancho. “He got him! He got Red King!”

  A familiar figure detached from the shadows of the porch—nipped waist, swaying hips, and a broom clutched in her hand. Catarina set her elbows against the railing, eyes going wide when she saw what was behind them. Her dimpled smile broke out on her face and he imagined for a dangerous moment that it was all for him.

  “But how…?” She laughed as if not quite believing it. “That bull’s been running loose for two years. However did you catch him?”

  The bull in question bellowed and rolled his eyes, pulling against the rope. Once he’d loosed that protest, he came along again. His red hide was mottled with white and matted with dirt and bracken, but a few weeks of being back on the rancho would put a fine gloss on him.

  “Jace did it!” Franny said. “He saw him and herded him into a canyon where he couldn’t get out again.”

  “Very clever of you, Señor.” She leaned out a little farther.

  He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am. I have my moments.”

  Look at what I brought home for us.

  His brain shoved forward that unreasonable thought, but he shoved it right back. This wasn’t his home. She and him weren’t us.

  But when she smiled at him like that, like he’d just completed one of the labors of Hercules—one of the good ones, not the stable cleaning bit—well, his brain got unruly.

  So did his body.

  “Oh, it was so wondrous, Catarina, you should have seen it…” Franny babbled on as they rode past the porch.

  He knew better than to glance behind him, knew he ought to keep his concentration strictly on the half-wild bull coming behind him—and still his gaze pulled toward her, a compass needle caught by the magnet of that dimpled smile.

  One quick peek. That’s all.

  Half a second he allowed himself, only long enough to see she was following their progress, elbows folded over the railing, like a woman waiting for her man.