They buried Fletcher Austin late that afternoon. He would have liked the pomp of a big funeral service. He would have liked his wealthy friends from San Francisco to have been in attendance. There wasn’t time for them to get there, and as far as Carly was concerned, dead was dead. Her worry now was for the living.
While the cooper who worked at del Robles built a sturdy oak coffin, her uncle’s body was washed and made ready, and he was dressed in his finest black broadcloth suit. Carly, Rita Salazar, Cleve Sanders, and the dozens of people who worked on the rancho stood at the top of a hill beneath an ancient oak overlooking the hacienda. It was a glorious spot to face eternity. She knew at least she had pleased him in the choice of his final place of rest.
It was all the lovely valley owed him. More than what he should have had, she admitted—after the ugly truth she had discovered just that morning.
Still, he was her uncle. As ruthless a man as he was, she had cared about him. She cried as she stood at the grave and Riley Wilkins solemnly read verses from the Bible. If only things could have been different. When the service was ended, everyone walked back to the house, where a huge assortment of food had been set out: chicken en mole and fresh cooked tortillas, platters of steamed corn, fried potatoes, and stewed meats. A bullockroasted on a spit over the coals. There was wine and sangria to drink and homemade custards and chocolate rolled in tortillas.
As soon as she had received everyone’s condolences, Carly slipped off to her room to change into her riding clothes. She had waited long enough. She was going to Las Almas, she told the others, returning to her husband. She needed him, now that her uncle was gone. And she loved him.
All of which was the truth.
She didn’t let them know how worried she was about him, that with every step her little mare took in his direction, her heart ached for Ramon.
***
Ramon stirred on the bed and his eyes popped open. His shoulder throbbed and the skin around the wound burned like a fiery brand. But his head no longer pounded and his skin felt cool to the touch, no longer hot and clammy. In the night he had thrashed off the sheet and his naked body sprawled with familiar abandon on the clean white muslin sheet.
For a moment he said nothing, just enjoyed the fact he was going to live, the sight of a sky outside the window brightening from yellow to blue, and the quiet breathing of the woman who slept in a chair beside his bed.
He knew she had come, had sensed the very instant she had walked into the room, yet he hadn’t really seen her. His skin had been so hot he was sure it would burst like a cooked potato. His eyes wouldn’t open and he didn’t have the strength to lift his head.
Then he’d felt something cool against his forehead, heard his wife’s sweet voice soothing his troubled sleep. She wasn’t going to leave him, he’d thought vaguely. Caralee was here to stay.
He’d rested easier after that. The fire in his body burned itself out, allowing him to sleep, and even as he did, his strength had begun to return.
As quietly as he could, careful not to wake her, he pulled himself into a sitting position, propped his back against the headboard and reached for the water glass on the table beside the bed. He rinsed his mouth and drank the rest, then ran a hand through his tousled black hair. He glanced in his wife’s direction, noticed her blouse had come unbuttoned, and caught a glimpse of rounded pale flesh. His body stirred. He pulled the sheet up over his growing arousal.
Yes, he was definitely feeling better.
Still, he didn’t want to disturb her. She needed her rest, and he liked just sitting here beside her. He smiled at the way her dark copper hair gleamed in the early morning sunlight, itched to pull the pins that held it in a coil at the nape of her neck then stroke his fingers through it. He wondered how long she would make him suffer before she declared him well enough for a return to his bed.
He grinned at that. Not nearly as long as she would like, he vowed.
She stirred on the chair beside him and her eyes slowly opened. Bright leaf green orbs fixed on his face. “Ramon?”
“Buenos dias, querida.”
“Ramon!” She was off the chair in an instant, stopped just short of hurling herself into his arms. Instead she frantically reached out to touch his forehead, testing the heat with her palm. “Your fever’s broken!”
“Si, mi amor.I am well on my way to recovery.” He looked at his wife’s ruby lips and his shaft stirred again beneath the sheets. He grinned wickedly. “Already I am almost back to normal.”
Carly eyed him from head to foot, noticing the wavy black hair curling over his forehead and the muscles rippling acrosshis bare chest when he moved. “How can a man who’s been injured as badly as you possibly look as good as you do?”
He laughed at that then winced at the pain that speared through his shoulder. “I am glad you think so, since already I am planning your seduction.”
Carly grinned. “My, you are feeling better.” The soft smile faded as she took his hand and sat down beside him on the bed. “I’ve been so worried. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
“It was better that you waited. Everything is all right at Rancho del Robles?”
Carly shook her head. “There’s so much I have to tell you.”
“Tell me you will be staying at Las Almas. That is all I wish to hear.”
Her grip on his hand grew tighter. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to this? Maybe you should rest for a while. I don’t want you to tire yourself out.”
“Tell me,chica.I wish to hear what you have to say.”
“My uncle’s dead. He died in the fighting outside San Juan Bautista. Angel was killed as well.”
