The night was cool, the sky clear, the moon full. Stars winked down from the black canopy of the heavens. But no soft wind stirred. No owl hooted. No coyote yowled. The ragged pinnacles of the surrounding mountains peered over the high adobe walls of Cielo Azul. Nesting against those same walls, the small adobe houses of the camp, with its all-but-deserted streets, seemed to crouch in silence. And wait.
Inside the villa itself, in the bedroom where Paco’d previously guarded her, Jacey sat alone and scared on the four-poster bed. With nothing but worries to occupy her time, she stared at the locked door. She could hear, out in the hall, every movement of her new guard, a most unsociable man with one eye and a knife-scarred face. And a big gun. Relieved of her own gun that afternoon by Miguel Sereda, and escorted here by her unfailingly pleasant host, she’d spent the afternoon by herself. Locked up. And praying for Zant’s return. Where could he be?
Too, she could only wonder what had become of Paco, Conchita, and Esteban. Were they even still alive? Her heart thumping leadenly, Jacey closed her eyes and sent her prayer heavenward. Please, God, let them be alive. And send Zant home in a hurry. I could really use him right now. But please don’t let him get hurt. I couldn’t stand that. But if he doesn’t make it back here in time, then, God, find some way to let him know how much I loved him. Amen. Oh, and my sisters, too. And Biddy. Tell them too that I loved them. Amen again.
Opening her eyes, blinking against the sudden wetness and blurring of her vision, Jacey looked down at herself and grimaced, fisting her hand around the delicate material of her skirt. Those danged maids. She shook her head at the events that had taken place earlier at sundown, in this very room. Three maids, none of whom she knew, had entered. Six big men had followed them, hauling up the bathtub and buckets of hot water.
Seeing what was about to happen, she’d thrown enough of a tantrum to gain for herself the few moments of privacy it took her to undress herself behind the screen—and to hide her knife inside one of her boots.
But after that, the chattering women had been all over her like cows on clover. They’d proceeded to bathe her and rub scented oils on her skin. They’d then stuffed her into a score of underclothes, which they topped off with what was, she had to admit, the prettiest and fanciest dress she’d ever seen.
Once they’d poked and stuffed and hooked her into the purple-reddish gown, they’d sat her down, settled a combing jacket over her shoulders, and then begun torturing her hair. After a vigorous, eye-watering brushing, the three hens had settled on a style that wrenched all her black hair up in a ponytail knot that allowed a heap of curls to hang free over her shoulders.
She’d reached the end of her rope when they fetched about twenty yards of ribbon and began trying to tie bows all through the curls. Silliest thing she’d ever heard of. Jacey grinned wickedly. She’d let them know exactly what she thought of such folderol. Those three witches had run screaming from the room when she’d begun yelling and shoving them. Enough was enough!
Except for when it came to this gown. She yanked now at the scandalously low, scalloped bodice. But to no avail. There just was no material to spare. She gave up, flopping her hands onto her lap. Her barely covered bosom rose and fell with each agitated breath. Jacey watched her mounded flesh and wondered why she’d been trussed up as fancy as a fir tree at Christmas. Were killings around here formal affairs? Or did that Don Rafael have other plans for her? Plans that had nothing to do with a sit-down supper … and more to do with the pleasure of her, uh, company?
Zant’s words from last night, about Don Rafael having his eye on her, came back to haunt Jacey. She put a hand over the stuttering beat of her heart and tried to take a deep breath around the sudden constriction in her chest. But the corset and gown were too tight for any but the shallowest of breaths. Still, she jutted out her chin and harrowed her eyes, vowing she’d die first before she’d allow Don Rafael to put a hand on her. She’d die, or he would.
As if Fate meant to give her a chance to find out which ending was her destiny, the key turned in the lock. Jacey sat stock-still and stared. The door swung inward. I swear, Zant, I’ll stay alive. I’ll do whatever it takes. I won’t die. I love you. Please hear me. And please hurry. I need you. Old One-eye stood there, grinning like he’d heard her prayers and laughed at them.
Gathering courage from fisting her hand over the hidden sheath strapped again to her thigh, Jacey raised her head. “What do you want, you ugly lizard?”
Old One-eye, who obviously spoke no English, remained grinning. “Venga, señorita.” He crooked a finger at her in a come-here motion.
Raising an eyebrow, Jacey remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Kiss my gelding’s ass.”
One-eye nodded. “Sí. Venga.”
“I’ll venga, all right,” she muttered. Jacey forced herself to stand up. Walking over to One-eye, as if stepping onto a scaffolding that sported a noose in her neck size, she said, “Lead the way, you mother’s nightmare. There’s nothing that can happen to me that’ll be any worse than you look.”
Again, no response from her guard. He turned and preceded her down the long hallway. A few steps behind him, Jacey began her litany of courage. I love you, Zant. I love you. I love you. Please hurry home. Please be in time.
* * *
Zant reined in Sangre atop a hill that overlooked Cielo Azul. “You feel that, Blue?”
Blue pulled back on his Appaloosa mare’s reins and shook his head. “Feel what—the cool air? Nice, ain’t it?”
“Not the air.” Zant gave himself over to the gut-deep unease that gripped him. “Something else.”
“Like what?” Blue’s movements in his saddle creaked the well-worn leather.
“It’s too quiet. Down in the compound. Listen.”
Zant watched as Blue did just that. Then, frowning, his blue-eyed friend turned to him. “Damned if you’re not right. What do you make of it?”
Zant drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a low whistle. “Trouble, that’s what. Something’s happened while we’ve been gone. I can feel it. Damn. We put out one fire at Villa Delarosa, only to have a bigger one crop up at home.”
Blue was quiet for a minute, but then spoke his mind. “Assuming you’re right, and I think you are, what d’you want to do?”
Zant shrugged. “I’m not sure. All I’ve got is a hunch, and that’s not much to go on. Hell, I could be completely wrong. It could just be a quiet night.”
Blue looked askance at him. “You don’t believe that for a minute, do you?”
Grim, Zant shook his head. “No, I don’t.” What he didn’t give voice to was his worst fear, that this trouble had something to do with Jacey.
Blue exhaled sharply. “You think it could be all over, and we’re just riding into the tag end of it?”
Zant gazed down on the quiet of Cielo Azul. “No. Could be they’ve done their dirty work, and now they’re in place and waiting. For me. I must be the missing piece. Otherwise, there’d be celebrating going on down there.”
It wasn’t much, but it was his only hope that Jacey might still be alive. If she was the carrot being used to lure him in, then they’d need her alive. Maybe if he kept thinking, She’s alive, she’s alive, the thought would make it true. God help them if it wasn’t.
Zant felt Blue staring at him and met his friend’s eyes. When Blue reached a hand out and squeezed Zant’s arm, he looked down at it. Blue’s quiet words sounded loud in the night’s calm. “She’s okay, Zant. They wouldn’t dare hurt her.”
Zant clenched his jaw until it hurt. “I hope you’re right.”
Blue drew his hand back and considered the silent compound below. His tone, when he spoke, was the impersonal one of a general scanning a battlefield for its strengths and weaknesses. “There’s hardly a guard posted. Not even a dog out in the arena. Only a few lights shining. And those are in the villa.” He straightened up, looking at Zant. “So how d’you want to handle it?”
Zant urged Sangre into a walk. Blue did the same with his mare. After a few paces, Zant told him, “We go in nice and easy. Gun drawn and stuck in your waistband. Fold your duster around it to hide it. And proceed right through the front gates.”
From his right came Blue’s softly spoken answer. “I’m with you, jefe. But don’t you think we ought to go in the back way, by the camp’s gate?”
Looking straight ahead as he pulled his duster back and drew his Colt, Zant shook his head. “Nope. That’s exactly what they’d expect. I won’t sneak into my own home. If they’re going to kill me, they’re going to have to do it out in the open, by God.”
* * *
It was worse than he’d thought. But better than he’d feared. No one challenged him and Blue at Cielo Azul’s main entrance. The heavy mesquite-wood gates swung open at their slow approach. Inside, there was no bloody scene to greet them. No bodies littered the ground. But not one of the guards looked him or Blue in the eye or greeted them.
They didn’t have to, because Zant recognized the men. They were some of his own. And they never operated the gates. Where then were Don Rafael’s men? Ranged around the central arena and hidden, their rifles trained on him and Blue?
Zant’s men’s tight expressions sent him the only message he needed. Don Rafael was still firmly in control. After exchanging a look with Blue outside the villa’s front door, Zant dismounted and handed him Sangre’s reins. Zant watched him go, knowing Blue’d make directly for the bunkhouses and find out what was going on. He’d then handle things outside the villa—and would watch Zant’s back when the time came.
Just then, the front door opened, flooding Zant in light. He tensed, his hand on the Colt stuck in his waistband. But he relaxed when he saw Manuel standing there. The man’s expression was grim as an undertaker’s, but he bowed Zant in, closed the door behind him, and spoke quietly. “Supper has been held for you, Señor Chapelo. Don Rafael and the Señorita Lawless await you in the salon.”
Zant nearly slumped against the wall. Jacey’s alive. Keeping his relief to himself, he merely nodded and removed his Stetson. As if the gesture helped him think, he ran a hand through his hair and cast his gaze down the hall to the salon. He then turned to the silent, waiting Manuel and grabbed the Mexican man’s arm. Pulling him closer, he whispered, “What the hell has happened here, Manuel?”
Manuel’s dark eyes held the same look the gatemen’s had. He looked all around the foyer, as if hidden ears listened. He then spoke rapidly. “I am not at liberty to say, señor. Just, please, hurry and change.”
Zant considered the servant a moment, then let go of him and sighted down the long hall to the open arch of the salon. He didn’t need to change clothes for what he had to do. He took a step in that direction, but Manuel’s hand on his arm stopped him. This had never happened before. He looked down at the short man.
“Please, señor. Go upstairs and change.”
Zant gritted his teeth in impatience and frowned. “Why in the hell is what I wear so important?”
Manuel’s expression reflected a desperate urgency. “It is not your attire so much, señor, as it is what awaits you in your room. You must go there first. I can say no more.”
With that, he hurried away. Zant watched him go and considered the man’s words. Knowing now that Manuel was sympathetic to his cause, Zant figured the man wouldn’t urge him to go upstairs if he was going to be ambushed. But wait—was his repeated insistence that he go upstairs a warning in itself? After all, he’d seen the gun in Zant’s waistband. And too, if Manuel’d been coached to send him upstairs, and hidden eyes watched to see that he did, then hadn’t his face and gestures warned of his reception?
Zant looked up the long curving stretch of stairway. And then cast another glance toward the very quiet salon. His gnawing fear told him to get the hell in there. But Manuel insisted.… Zant looked again to the stairs and made his decision. Resettling his Stetson on his head, he pulled his Colt out of his waistband, kept close to the wall, and began his cautious ascent to the second floor. All right, Manuel, but this better be important.
* * *
“Ahh, Señorita Lawless, I hear Manuel speaking with someone. Perhaps my grandson has returned at long last. If it is him, I’m sure he will join us soon. And then we can all dine together.”
Oh, thank you, God. Thank you. Letting out her breath, Jacey gave no other outward sign of her intense relief that Zant was here. Instead, she kept her poker-face gaze on her host and retorted, “Did you say dine or die?”
Señor Chapelo chuckled and shook his head. “One little letter to make such a difference, eh? I of course said ‘dine.’”
When quiet descended on them, Jacey lowered her gaze to her skirt and smoothed the fabric, resettling folds and pleats. No way was she going to initiate polite conversation. If he wanted to talk to her, he could darn well open his mouth.
“Tell me, Señorita Lawless, how are your lovely sisters?”
Fear lanced through Jacey’s gut and stilled her hands. She looked up, meeting the don’s far-from-innocent expression. “Fine.”
“Ahhh. They are fine. You know this, eh? Which reminds me, I believe I have been remiss in offering my condolences to you on the recent and tragic deaths of your parents. You must be deeply saddened.”
You no-good, rotten, guilty-as-hell, son of a— “I am.”
In the salon, seated across from her in his leather chair, Don Rafael crossed an ankle over his opposite knee. “As you say. And yet, here you are at Cielo Azul. Why?” He suddenly sat forward and pointed a finger at her. “And I want none of your sass and games this time, young lady.”
Before she could temper her response, Jacey shot forward in her uncomfortable seat. “Games? The games are all of your making—playing the polite host, calling me your guest, making me wear these fancy dresses. But that’s over. No more. I’m here because someone who works for you stole from me on the same day my folks were killed. But that yahoo made the mistake of leaving something that led me here. A piece of Kid Chapelo’s spur. And the rest of that spur was in your office. So don’t try to tell me you know nothing about it. Because you and I both know you’re lying when you say otherwise.”
Breathing hard, her lip curled in a snarl, Jacey held the old man’s gaze. What she saw shining from those eyes scared her. She recognized that her enemy was much more than cruel and ambitious. He wasn’t even insane. He was evil. She’d thought it before, had even said it before. But not until this moment had she realized just what it meant.
Don Rafael’s grim expression slowly changed to a knowing grin. Had he read her thoughts? “What exactly is it that you think I’m guilty of?”
Jacey sat back in her chair and gripped the armrests. “I hate to admit it to the likes of you, but I don’t know yet. I just know you’re guilty of … something.”
“Of something. I see. Well, that’s certainly enough to have me shot or hanged. I’m guilty of something, and you yourself—my accuser—admit you have no idea what.” Through narrowed eyes, he considered her a moment, as if chewing on some thought. Then, he perked up and raised a finger. “I have it. Question me. Let’s see where this leads. Perhaps we can clear up this whole misunderstanding.”
Jacey’s heart leaped. This was a trap. Her calculating thoughts narrowed her eyes. Aha. He’d brought up her family, knowing that would hurt the most. Let’s see how you like a dose of your own medicine. “Good idea. Tell me about your wife, Zant’s grandmother. What was she like?” And how could she ever have loved a bastard like you?
The old don tented his fingers together and looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Ah, yes, my wife. Elena.” He lowered his head and leveled his sharp stare on Jacey. “She was Spanish nobility, of course. Her family and mine arranged the marriage. We never met before she arrived for our wedding. She was beautiful, very young, very gently raised. Unfortunately, the harsh … rigors of life at Cielo Azul did not suit her health. She had the good grace to give me a daughter before she died. I never remarried.”
Saddened for the girl and horrified at Don Rafael’s callous words, Jacey sat up straighter. But feeling she was on the right track, that there was something here to uncover, something important, she persisted. “Tell me about your daughter. She died in an untimely manner, didn’t she?”
Bull’s eye. Don Rafael visibly tensed. But he nodded his agreement and gave every appearance of being calm and relaxed. “My daughter. Miranda. So much like her mother. Such a tragic figure. Despite my best efforts to see her married well, she had the poor judgment to fancy herself in love with a common outlaw, such as your father was. She saw him behind my back. And even bore Kid Chapelo’s bastard when he wouldn’t marry her.”
He paused, as if he thought she’d like to defend her father. Jacey made sure her expression didn’t change. Acknowledging her refusal to quibble, Don Rafael went on. “For two more years after Zant’s birth, the Kid mistreated her. But she wouldn’t come home, or allow me to help her in any way. Then, about a year after your father killed the Kid, when Zant was only three, my daughter took her own life. I then took in my little grandson, my only heir, and raised him as best I could. He is the only person I have ever loved.”
Jacey never looked away. She heard the warning note in his voice with his last words. He’d not allow her, a common outlaw’s daughter, to take his grandson away from him. With that realization came another. Don Rafael was being so forthcoming with his family history, he was answering all her questions, even encouraging her to ask them … because he didn’t plan on her ever leaving Cielo Azul. Alive, anyway.
A trickle of sweat coursed slowly down between her bound breasts. Well, then, she didn’t have anything left to lose, did she? Wanting to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her family, she blurted out the very first thing to pop into her head. “It’s ironic—isn’t it, Don Rafael?—how life seems to turn in circles. Your daughter gave birth to a bastard, as you called your only heir. His father was, as you say, a common outlaw. And now”—Jacey paused to laugh softly, as if at the irony of it all—“here I sit. The daughter of the common outlaw who killed your Miranda’s one true love.”
Don Rafael sat forward, looking like a wolf preparing to kill. “I’d advise you to make your point, Señorita Lawless.” He all but spat her name.
Feeling the power had shifted, that she was now in control, Jacey smiled. “Be patient. I’ve had to be for nearly three months. Surely you can wait three minutes? Now, as I was saying, here I sit. Unmarried. Your grandson’s lover.”
“And the mother of my child.”
Jacey jerked toward the salon’s portal. Mother of his child? Has he lost his mind? From the corner of her eye, she saw Don Rafael shoot to his feet. Sputtering and gasping sounds were all that issued from him.
But her attention stayed riveted on Zant, who continued when he had their attention. “Yes, Don Rafael. Another Calderon bastard. Or so it would seem. But certainly nothing is as it seems here, is it?”
Zant was dressed in the same denims and shirt he’d had on that morning. His revolver dangled from his hand, as if forgotten. But it was his face, his strong and handsome and beloved face, that brought her hand to her heart. As if just forced open against a too-bright light, his black eyes squinted with pain. Under his tanned and wind-lined complexion, she detected a pallor, an ashen grayness. His firm, down-turned mouth was limned in white.
An emotion, stronger than relief at seeing him, stronger even than the love she bore him, tugged at Jacey, making her ache with the need to hold him and protect him. She intuitively knew he’d just learned or gone through something that was tearing him apart. And from the way he stared unblinking at his grandfather, she also knew that Don Rafael was the cause of it.
With a swish and a rustling of her elaborate gown, Jacey came slowly to her feet. She knotted her hands at her waist, looking from Zant, who all but ignored her, to Don Rafael. He too looked only at Zant. The air thickened with the hate and hurt that radiated from them both. If she were able to make her feet move, Jacey knew she would flee from the room. Because something was happening here, something that had nothing to do with her.
But before she could make a move, the old man took an angry stride toward her. Jacey retreated, hitting her legs against the chair behind her. She fell against it, clutching at its high back for support. A gun was cocked. Wide-eyed, Jacey jerked in the direction of the sound. Zant had his revolver pointed at his grandfather.
“Stop right there. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand. So help me God, I will.” His voice could have been coming from upstairs, so vacant did it sound.
Jacey stayed frozen in place, and Don Rafael stopped where he was. His mouth worked futilely, but he finally found his voice. “My grandson, my heart of hearts, you would shoot me? After everything I have done for you? All of this that my family before me and, now I, have built—it will be yours. You do not want to shoot me. Not over her.”
He pointed to Jacey but kept his gaze on Zant. “We can rid ourselves of her. It is not too late. Think of it—there is no child born yet. And look at her. She is a slut, a nobody, an outlaw’s daughter. She would lie with dogs. She cannot be the mother of a Calderon. She is not worthy, and I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it? What you want doesn’t matter. And she’s a thousand times the person you are. So take a good look at her. Go ahead. This is the woman I love. In her belly is the future of the noble Calderons of Spain. Even as we speak, my son grows big and strong inside her. And he is a little bastard—like you made me think I was all my life. So, don’t talk to me about everything you’ve done for me. You’ve done nothing but hurt and kill.”
Jacey gasped, along with Don Rafael. Had Zant gone plumb loco? None of this made sense. She was not carrying his baby. And he knew it. And all this talk about bastards … or thinking he was one. What had he found out?
A subtle movement of Don Rafael’s alerted Jacey. She pushed away from the chair and locked her gaze on the old man. The mask of gentility, of civility, was gone. His naked expression made her heart pound, made her palms slick with sweat.
With spittle forming at the edges of his snarling mouth, he started for her. Jacey had time only to stiffen and cry out before he was upon her.
She heard Zant yell a warning. But with the mighty roar of a bear, Don Rafael swung his heavy arm back and came down with all his strength, his huge hand catching her across her cheek. Her head snapped back, the side of her face exploded in pain, her ear rang with the force of the blow.
Shocked into numbness, with time moving forward at blinding speed, Jacey heard the sharp report of her head hitting the stone fireplace. Or maybe it was the deadly bark of Zant’s gun. But then, it ceased to matter as she fell to the floor in a silk and taffeta heap. The light slipped away from her.
* * *
The bullet from Zant’s gun pinged harmlessly off the fireplace. But Zant’s heart hit the floor with Jacey. The way her neck snapped with the force of the old man’s blow. The sickening thunk as her head hit the fireplace. The crumpled, unmoving, broken-doll heap she was now. As little as she was, she couldn’t have survived such an attack. Don Rafael had killed her.
Momentarily stunned by the swiftness of his grandfather’s strike against her, Zant could only stand and stare. But finally, every nerve ending in his body came to life. He stung, he burned, he raged with the need to hurt. Zant leveled his revolver on Don Rafael. He cocked the gun. This time, he wouldn’t miss.
He looked the scared old man in the eye. And knew this twisted monster deserved to die. But suddenly, without warning, Zant’s limbs felt weak, his heart drained of hateful revenge. Because it just didn’t matter anymore. Not if Jacey was dead. None of this, not Cielo Azul, not the people here, not being the jefe, not leading a life that counted for something. None of it mattered without her.
He now realized, like never before, that he’d wanted to make something good happen at Cielo Azul … for her. He’d been trying to make himself worthy of her. But if he couldn’t have her, then none of it mattered. He’d walk away, go back to the boozing and the women and the gunfights. Until finally, someday, a better gun than him would come along and blessedly take his life.
Without being aware that he was going to do it, Zant lowered his gun and spoke. Even to his own ears his voice sounded blank, flat. “You killed her. Move away from her. Now.”
Don Rafael made an imploring gesture with his entire crouching body, as he callously, casually stepped over Jacey, as if she were no more than a kitten killed by a wolf. “Think, Zant. It’s over now. We can bury her and go on as before. Only this time, we’ll—”
“Say no more!” Zant sprang forward, covering the few feet between them as if they were mere inches. With his pistol still in his fist, he grabbed Don Rafael by his shoulders and flung him aside. His grandfather sprawled onto his leather chair. Zant pointed a finger at him. “Get out of my sight, you evil son of a bitch. In fact, clear out of Cielo Azul. If I see your face again, I’ll kill you. And I don’t want to do that because there’s still something left of my soul, something good and forgiving, despite your years of trying to kill it.”
With that, Zant turned away from his grandfather and knelt beside Jacey. He laid his gun down on the floor, pulled her away from the fireplace, and gently turned her over. His heart all but stopped. A thin line of blood trickled from her temple, her mouth slacked open, her black eyes were rolled back in her head. A tortured sob tore from the depths of Zant’s soul. He pulled her limp body against his chest and held her there.
Not even the sounds of Don Rafael stirring behind him could make him look up. Jacey was still so warm, so soft. Maybe she wasn’t dead.
Just as Zant found her pulse, just as joy spread through him, an explosion of pain in his head sent him Sprawling forward atop Jacey.