Carly tried to concentrate on Vincent Bannister’s conversation but her glance kept straying to the Spaniard and his fiery palomino horse. With its broad chest, thick neck, long, pale mane, and even longer tail, she had never seen a more beautiful animal; nor, she secretly admitted, a man with more masculine appeal.
He wore no silver today, just a full-sleeved white lawn shirt and soft brown suede breeches that clung to his sinewy thighs. The breeches were laced up the sides, she saw, and at the bottom, flared slightly over brown leather boots. A flat-brimmed black hat hung down his broad back, secured by a thin braided lanyard around his dark throat.
She smiled to think of the powerful man, the beautiful horse, and the tiny brown-and-white dog now riding calmly on the stallion’s back. She watched as the odd threesome paused and the don began speaking to a wrinkled little woman Carly presumed to be his mother. A taller, thinner woman a few years younger stood at one side, and across from them Pilar Montoya smiled at the don with undisguised warmth.
Carly had met Pilar the night of thefandango.She was a widow, Uncle Fletcher had told her but her period of mourning had ended. Pilar was husband-hunting and Ramon de la Guerra seemed the leading contender for her hand.
Carly found herself frowning at the notion, and she was afraid she knew why.
Since the moment she had seen the handsome don, she had been attracted to him. He was unlike any other man she had ever met, taller, more charming, and far more exciting. A single glance from those hot dark eyes made her insides turn to butter. Still she knew the attraction was futile. She had promised her uncle and she meant to keep her word.
Besides, as nearly as she could tell, the don had none of that same interest in her.
“They’re getting ready to start,” Vincent said. “We had better find our places.”
“Yes. There’s Uncle Fletcher now.” They joined him, taking prime seats in the front row of the raised wooden dais where they could see every section of the course. William Bannister and other of her uncle’s friends quickly filled the remaining spaces and still more people gathered at the starting line.
Fewer than a tenth of those attending were women. With the grueling voyage around the Horn, a trip across the Isthmus, or the prospect of a lengthy and dangerous overland journey, most of the men in California had come west alone. There were Californio women, of course, and the usual sordid array of camp followers looking for some of the loot coming out of the gold fields. But eastern women were a rarity. Carly had met only a few and none that she could call friend.
“What do you think of my father’s horse?” Vincent asked as Raja was led toward the start. He was a sleek, dappled-gray gelding, long and lean of limb, more gracefully built than any horse she had ever seen.
“He looks fast enough, but the course is fairly long and not completely flat, and the ground is a little rough. Uncle Fletcher is worried that he might not have enough stamina.”
Vincent jerked as if he’d been slapped. “Raja can take any horse in California. My father paid a fortune for him, and Stan McCloskey is the best rider on the West Coast.”
Though most of the hands were dressed in work clothes and the vaqueros wore open-throated white shirts and rough-cut leather breeches, Vincent sat beside her in a navy blue tailcoat and a wide white wrapped cravat tied in a bow.
“Raja will win,” he said, “you may count on it.”
“It may not be quite so easy,” she couldn’t resist putting in. “I hear Californios are among the finest horsemen in the world.”
Vincent’s expression turned smug. He arched a sandy eyebrow. “I would say that remains to be seen.”
The riders mounted their horses, both of which were extremely high spirited, dancing sideways and tossing their magnificent heads. Gradually, the men brought each of them under control, but it must have been like trying to hold back the wind. She noticed the don rode a different saddle today, smaller, lighter, with none of the fancy silver trim.
He was a great deal larger than Stan McCloskey, a handicap to be sure. She didn’t realize she was staring, admiring the way he sat his horse, till the Spaniard’s dark eyes locked with hers and he flashed her a bright white smile. Carly flushed as he touched the brim of his flat black hat in a mock salute, then loosened the braided cord around his throat, removed the hat, and sailed it to one of his men.
Though she felt a considerable amount of guilt, Carly sent up a small silent prayer that he would win.
She nearly leapt out of her seat when the starting gun fired.
“They’re off!” cried her uncle.
The gray got the jump on the don’s palomino, but the stallion took up a place close behind. They ran the first leg with the gray horse a full length ahead. Even from a distance, Carly could hear their pounding hooves, would have sworn her own heart pounded just as madly. The horses rounded a huge live oak that signaled the first turn and started the second leg of the course,which climbed a slightly rounded hill, a wide swath having been cleared through the dry brown grass of late summer.
There were more oaks scattered along the course, but most of the rocks had been cleared. By the time they reached the creek and leapt across it, landing with a splash on the opposite side, Rey del Sol had closed half a length, but the gray horse still held the lead position.
A light rain had fallen two days earlier; in places the ground was still damp. It sucked at the animals’ hooves, taxing their muscles and draining their strength, but the more powerfully built palomino seemed not to notice. McCloskey bent over the gray, urging the animal on. The don leaned forward, too, but where the other rider surged with each of the Thoroughbred’s motions, the Spaniard seemed more in tune, moving with the same fluid grace as the horse.
“They’re so beautiful,” Carly said, thinking she had never seen another man ride with such perfection.
“They’re coming to the flat at the back of the course,” Vincent said. “The gray has greater speed—this is where he’ll move even farther ahead.”
But Carly wasn’t so sure. The gray seemed to be tiring while the Andalusian had not yet reached its peak. They flew across the long flat section at the top of the hill and started down the incline on the opposite side, the gray still half a length ahead.
Three-quarters through the third leg of the course, Vincent was frowning. According to his theory, Raja should have been far out in front.
“I’ve got a thousand dollars riding on that horse of yours, William,” her uncle said. “He had better not come up short.”
