Hours later, dawn not yet a hint in the sky, they were all gathered in the large front parlor. The remains of a hurried repast covered the table against the wall. Bathed and dressed, burns and blisters soothed with salve, Belinda offered another heated pot of coffee. Conner was the only one to ask for more.
Marty curled in one corner of the large leather couch, snuggled beneath a gaily woven blanket, PeeWee nestled in his arms. Kenny sprawled on the opposite end. Both were asleep. Macaria, chased from the bedroom by Sofia more than two hours ago, sat beside Phillip on the smaller settee. Conner had claimed a high-backed chair before the fireplace and Belinda returned to its mate across from him. Jessie kept vigil by the window. Santo had left them sometime before and had not returned.
Dixie no longer cried out, at least Belinda had not heard her for a while. She looked up and saw Sofia pause in the doorway. Signs of exhaustion were evident as each one turned to look at Sofia. She gazed only at Macaria as she made a stately walk across the rugs scattered over the wide-planked floor. Despite the lateness of the hour, and her own tiredness, her head was high, her manner formal.
Macaria rose and stood in place, hiding the need to run and ask, no, demand news. Sofia would not come to her unless the child had been delivered. But she waited, for Sofia, despite their ages, and their long friendship, would insist on making a formal announcement. Hurry, hurry, old friend, we need joy in this house on this of all nights.
“La patrona, the child is born. A princesa, patrona.”
“A girl?”
“Sí, patrona, a little corderito.”
“Lambkin,” Macaria whispered, hugging her close. “Ah, Sofia, friend of my heart, it is great this joy you bring to me.” Tears gathered in Macaria’s eyes as she stepped back. “Dixie? She is well?”
“She is resting. Soon she will sleep.”
“And the child? Come, come, my friend, I must see them. Ah, Sofia, a little girl.”
Phillip, having risen when Macaria did, remained unnoticed as they rushed from the room. He smiled at Conner. “If ever an occasion called for a drink, I believe we have one now. Whiskey?”
“Make it a large one.”
“Ladies? Sherry?” Phillip asked.
“Save mine,” Jessie answered. “I want to see Dixie and the baby.”
“I would like a glass, Uncle,” Belinda replied.
“Then the three of us shall make the first toast to a new generation of the Kincaids.”
Phillip moved off to the liquor cabinet where Macaria had earlier served them brandy with their coffee. He kept up a light stream of meaningless chatter, casting looks over his shoulder at Conner. As he had mentioned to his niece, the man was remarkable. He couldn’t believe he was still awake, a remote, controlled expression guarding what brooding thoughts darkened his eyes.
Conner roused himself to take the glass, joining in several toasts. He drank the liquor without tasting it, for the bitter pill of betrayal had numbed his senses.
He was waiting for Santo to come back. The old man had insisted he be the one to go. No argument that Conner could muster had moved him from his decision. In the end, Conner had to respect the man’s desire to right a terrible wrong. He tilted his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. He had thought he knew the limits he could push his body and his mind, but tonight had shown him new truths about the punishments a man could deliver to himself and still survive.
Belinda. Just thinking her name disrupted his somber thoughts. But he couldn’t allow her to interfere with what he had yet to face. He had no need to look at her to know he had her total attention. She was truly magnificent, striking in her beauty despite the terrors of the day. To keep himself awake, Conner thought of Hazer and what he would say about Belinda. A woman with sand in her bottom and her head on straight. Stubborn, opinionated…and if he called her, she would come to him without a question.
But he couldn’t call her. Couldn’t touch her. He might falter and never go through with it if her softness tempted him to let down his guard.
Belinda watched him as the silence lengthened. She worried as he steadily sipped from the glass. She felt his tension like a living thing that grew with every weighted passing minute.
Conner obviously waited for someone or something to happen. But what? What more could Conner or any one of them endure this endless night?
Conner’s eyes were the color of slate when he lifted heavy lids and focused on her. Belinda quickly judged he did not really see her sitting across from him. Conner never noticed her uncle coming to his side, silently taking the empty glass forgotten in his hand. Belinda had a strange feeling that Conner listened to some noise that was beyond her hearing.
Moments later he rose from the chair, glanced toward the doorway, then looked, really looked at Belinda. “You must excuse me.”
Belinda heard it then, the rhythmic thump that came from the hallway. She thought it was Santo finally returning. Conner was halfway across the room when Santo appeared in the doorway.
“Patróne, it is time,” Santo solemnly announced.
Conner inwardly winced hearing Santo name him master, but took no issue over the term. “Where is she?”
“Who, Conner?” Macaria asked, standing behind Santo.
“Rosanna.”
For long seconds, Macaria stared at her eldest son. Never had she heard this cold, deadly voice from him. He sounded like his father, Justin, stern and unyielding, facing what had to be done.
And like his father before him, Conner would not be deterred. “I will come with you,” Macaria said. “I wish to speak with Rosanna about her neglect tonight.”
“Madre, you will not come with me. This is for me and Santo to attend.”
“Santo, what is this? Am I an old woman to be cast aside within my home? What does Conner wish with Rosanna?”
“Patróne,” Santo pleaded.
At his sides, Conner’s hands curled into fists. He had no wish to hurt his mother, less to deliver a verbal blow to Santo. Hearing the demand in his mother’s voice, along with the tiredness besieging them all, he had to answer her.
“Rosanna must answer for the fire she set.”
“Conner! No!” Macaria cried. Her bewildered gaze lit on Santo’s stoic expression, then on the hard set of her son’s features.
“Santo, where is your reason? Tell him,” she demanded. “Tell my son this is not possible. Your daughter was raised from birth in my home. Never will I believe she would do this thing to us. Tell him!”
Santo stood with his head bowed, still and silent. Macaria pressed one hand to her chest, then anger rose, hot and potent.
“Deny this, Santo. Look at me and tell me my son lies.”
“Where is she, Santo?” Conner’s sharp voice cut across his mother’s pleas.
“The office, patróne. It is the place for a matter of honor.” Shame and defeat colored the old man’s voice. One of his blood had betrayed his honor and loyalty to the family he had vowed to serve with his life. His tall, spare frame seemed to shrink where he stood.
Conner stood in front of him. The tanned, webbed face had aged with deeper creases, startling against the white mane of hair. Conner rested one hand on Santo’s shoulder, feeling its bony strength that seemed to bend beneath his touch. “This is not your shame,” he whispered to the man he loved like a father.
Santo did not answer him. He turned, awkward with the crutches until Macaria stepped away from him in the hall.
Conner looked back at Belinda. “I know you are exhausted, but I must request that you wait here awhile longer.” In the hall, he stopped before his mother.
“Madre, if I could shield you all from this pain, I would. Believe that I do not make this accusation without knowing the grave consequence. But, Madre, stay out of this.”
She reached out a hand to him and he shook his head, his gaze filled with regret.
“I have no choice.”
“You will kill Sofia when she learns—”
“Then go to her, Madre.”
“What will you do to her?”
His answer was silence as he walked down the hall to the office door where Santo waited with his daughter.
Macaria entered the parlor. “Phillip, forgive—”
“Nothing,” he said, a few long strides bringing him to stand in front of her. Phillip brought her hand to his lips. “Is there anything, anything at all I can do to help?”
“Can you pray?” She lifted weary eyes to look into his. “Pray for an end to this night, Phillip.” She attempted to pull away, but he held her hand fast in his.
“I’ll come with you. I would like to see your first grandchild.” He glanced back at where Belinda still sat in the chair. “Join us?”
“No, Uncle. I will wait for Conner.”
“Do you know why he accused Rosanna?” Macaria asked Belinda.
She gazed into Macaria’s dark eyes. “No, I have no idea why he asked me to wait for him, or what I could tell him about her. I do not know the young woman.” But I have suspicions, Macaria. Afraid she would give herself away, Belinda closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair. As they left the room, Belinda hoped that neither one had noticed how tightly her hands gripped the arms of the chair.
Macaria glanced at the closed door of the office as she walked by with Phillip. Her pace quickened when she heard the key turn in the lock.
Conner removed the key from the lock and handed it to Santo, who stood close to the door. Then he faced the doe-eyed dark beauty whose pose and gaze spat defiance at him.
Rosanna, little sister to the Kincaids, was no longer a child to be indulged. Her lush hips rested against the edge of his desk, her arms behind her, supporting her. Rosanna’s black hair, a cloud of rippling curls, was pinned away from her face with the combs he had bought for her fourteenth birthday. Dirt stains smudged the hem of her dark blue skirt. Conner saw the damp spots indicating she had knelt recently. His gaze traveled upward to the wide, mobile mouth that often wore a smile. There was none on her lips now.
“Whatever my father told you is a lie.”
“Rosanna, you will listen to what I say, you will not speak unless I ask a question. Is that understood?”
“Why did my father bring me here? I have done nothing.”
“Defiant to the last.” Conner raked both hands through his hair. “Santo,” he said, “sit until we are done.” But he did not look at him. Rosanna held his complete attention.
“I will not waste time asking foolish questions. I know you started the fire, Rosanna. Silence!” he commanded when she opened her mouth to interrupt. He felt the cold rage tearing at him, and he feared not being able to control it. “I want to know how much Riverton paid you to betray us and why. That is all I wish to hear from your lips.”
“What will you do with me?”
“Answer me,” he replied in a very soft, very hard edged voice. “Or I will not be responsible for my actions.”
“He hates you. He will do anything to destroy you and your family. He paid me mucho dinero, el patróne,” she spat in a mocking manner, sliding one hand to her hip. “All in gold.”
Conner rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The pounding in his head had increased tenfold in the past few minutes.
“You sold us out to Riverton. You gave him the information about the mine payrolls and shipments,” he stated, unable to look at her. Pieces slipped into place, one by one, then faster and faster. Sickened, he had to look at her. “You almost cost Logan his life.”
Santo, fearing that Conner would falter, made his own demands. “You will tell me why you dared dishonor—”
“Dishonor? It is you who dishonor me, padre. Always they come first, for you and madre. La patrona wants, so run and fetch, Rosanna. La patrona needs…hurry, hurry. She is sad, Rosanna, sing for her. She desires, Rosanna—”
“Cease! You will not speak so disrespectfully of la patrona. She gave you the very milk from her breast when your mother could not. She clothed you. Always she made a place for you. She has given—”
“What?” she screamed. “The crumbs from her table? Sí, always she comes first with you. Then the sons. Never do you think, what do I do for my children? What do I give to Raphael and Rosanna? Even the land you claimed was deeded back to them. To your sacred Kincaids.”
Conner’s slap came as a shock to her. She had never once seen him raise his hand to her or any woman.
“Apologize to your father,” he whispered from between clenched teeth, fighting against losing his temper.
“Never. What I have said is not a lie. That is what you find bitter. I tell the truth. He would give his life for you before he thought of me.”
Santo gasped. Every word she spoke brought the venom of a viper’s strike to pierce him. One crutch fell as he clutched his chest.
“Damn you!” Conner rushed to Santo, kicking the crutch out of his way. Taking the old man’s weight, he led him to the large chair in front of the desk. “Get brandy for him.”
Stricken by her father’s ashen face, Rosanna ran to the liquor cabinet. She couldn’t stop shaking, and brandy sloshed over the edge of the glass as she poured it into a glass. She brought it to her father, but Conner took the glass from her and blocked her attempt to get near him.
“Easy, old friend. Here, sip this slowly.” Conner remained bent over Santo, holding the glass for him as he sipped and color returned to his face. He remained a few more minutes, until Santo’s breathing was easier.
“Let me take you to lie down. I will finish this.”
Ageless eyes met Conner’s compassionate gaze. “I will stay.” He motioned the glass away.
Very carefully, Conner set it down on the desk. He wanted to throw it, he needed to vent the anger churning inside him. When he thought it safe, he faced Rosanna.
“Greed was your reason. What of Enrique? What made him help you?”
“That weakling?” Rosanna’s full-throated laugh mocked Conner and her father.
“You were promised to marry that weakling, daughter.”
“Did I marry him? Do you believe me such a fool. I used him. Many times he told me things that I sold. He is like Raphael, a fool in my clever hands. They truly believed you would reward them.”
“And you knew better?”
Rosanna tossed her head, ignoring Conner’s question.
“Answer me. Answer el patróne.”
Santo’s deliberate use of the title was a goading reminder to his daughter of the high respect with which he held Conner.
But it also served, for Conner, as an unwanted reminder of the place he had held and never wanted. He glanced at Santo. He sat with pride and dignity in every proud line of his body. Conner knew Rosanna’s answers pained her father, as they did him. But you couldn’t tell from the old man’s bearing how devastating it was for him to hear Conner verbalize his suspicions about Raphael.
“Answer him!” Santo demanded.
“Sí. I know better. I know there is nothing for me but to work here until I am old and beaten down. A slave like my mother to the Kincaids.”
Conner moved to her with astonishing speed. She tried to run, but he already had his hands around her throat.
“A slave would wear a collar or, at the very least, a mark of ownership.”
Rosanna trembled. He dragged her nearer. Their faces were so close she could feel the heat from his skin. Stark fear crumbled her defiance.
Santo watched in silence.
A cold sweat broke out over Conner’s body. He dropped his hands and backed away from her. All he could think of was what he had almost done.
He moved swiftly around the desk, jerking open the large bottom drawer where he kept the strongbox. He lifted it to the desk top, flipping open the lid, and took out a canvas sack.
“Judas only received thirty pieces of silver. Your betrayal is worth more, Rosanna, much, much more.” He threw the sack across the desk. It landed against her hip, but she made no move to touch it.
“Go on. You’re greedy for gold. There are fifty-dollar gold pieces inside. Five thousand dollars’ worth. It was to have been your wedding present,” he stated in a cold, relentless voice. “Of course, we were going to pay for the wedding and the trip to San Francisco you wanted so badly. And my mother, the woman who made a slave of you, ordered the satin for your wedding gown from France, and the lace and the silks, no expense to be spared for our Rosanna.
“And this,” he added, lifting the gilt-edged deed from the box. “This was the balance of your gift. One thousand acres in the south quarter made out to you and Enrique. Despite what I believed about him, despite my suspicions, my mother insisted this be done. She wanted everything for your happiness, Rosanna.
“But she is not a wise woman, this softhearted mother of mine. She nursed a viper who put us through hell.”
Conner was breathing heavily. He didn’t think he could continue with his cold delivery, but when he looked at Santo, at the hard, implacable features, he knew he had no choice.
“Take your Judas gold, Rosanna. But not the deed to our land.” He ripped the paper into shreds then let them fall while her eyes watched him like a wary animal watched a predator.
“I do not want your gold.”
“Think of the money as payment for the service you have tendered this household. There will be no debts between us. I want you off Kincaid land by morning. And if you think I am weak because I don’t kill you now, I won’t be in the morning. You will keep your life because of the love I bear for your father and mother.”
He quickly went to Santo and helped him stand. “Lean on me, old friend, it is finished now.”
“No.” Santo stared at his daughter. “I grieve the loss of my child. I have no daughter. My wife has no daughter,” he said in a strong, ringing voice. “My son will claim no sister. You are wiped from our memory as if you had never been given life. You will go as you are, as el patróne has ordered. You will never return.”
“Padre.”
“You have none.” He leaned heavily against Conner. “Take me from this room. I will not breathe the air with this foul betrayer.”
“You think you have won, el patróne,” she cried out in a shrill voice.
Conner kept walking. Santo handed him the key as they stood by the door, but as Conner slipped the key into the lock, his blood turned cold when Rosanna spoke.
“Go look in the silken purse of the fine lady you brought into your fine house, señor. Go and see who is the true betrayer beneath this roof.”
“What lies—”
“Leave her, Santo. I didn’t hear anything.” But he had heard her. Rosanna was many things, but would she make a claim so easily disproved against Belinda when the girl had barely escaped with her life? Yet to even consider there was any truth…no! He refused to play her game.
“Do you not ask yourself how Charles knew where to strike this night? How could Charles know where there are no guards?”
Conner unlocked the door and urged Santo out into the hall.
Before Conner fathomed her intent, Rosanna shoved past her father, knocking him into Conner. She flew down the hall to the guest room given to Belinda.
“Go. Go after her,” Santo ordered as Conner steadied him against the wall.
Conner ran. He wanted her to have no chance of planting some false evidence against Belinda. Coming through the doorway, he almost slammed into Rosanna.
“There, go look.” She pointed at Belinda’s reticule sitting on the low dresser. “Are you afraid?” she mocked.
“You were ordered to leave this house.”
“Is that all you can tell me? Look at it. Look,” she dared in a rising pitch. Rosanna grabbed the silk pouch from the dresser and tore open the drawstring. “Here,” she declared, throwing a small, folded paper at him. It fell to the floor at his feet. Enraged, she rushed to sweep it up and pushed it into Conner’s hand.
Her gaze shifted from Conner to the door. Belinda stood there, one hand covering her mouth. Behind her stood Macaria and Phillip.
“I am guilty. I will leave this place gladly. But see first the viper you nestled in your arms, Conner.”
“Conner, wait. I can explain.”
He gave no indication that he heard Belinda’s softly spoken protest. He opened each fold slowly, dreading what he would find. He noted the fine trembling of his hand but couldn’t stop it. His gaze locked on the map he held. He studied each dark dot, each place marked to show where they had posted guards around the land that bordered Riverton’s.
“A most damning piece of evidence,” he murmured in a very controlled voice. Then he dropped the map to the floor. His boot heel ground the paper into the carpet.
He leveled a cold look at Rosanna. “Is there more?”
Head held high, defiant to the end, Rosanna walked out of the room. No one spoke to her, their attention was on Conner and what he would do.
Belinda could not wait, she stepped forward, stopping behind him.
“Conner, I copied that map from one that Charles had. I overheard him buying the map. I was going to use it to bargain with you if you continued to refuse to let me see Marty. But I brought it with me with the intention of giving it to you so you would know that Charles had this information.”
“Your confession is unnecessary, Belinda.”
“What did you say?” She grabbed his arm, but he caught hold of her hand and drew her to stand in front of him.
“Since this is your first visit to my home, Belinda, you couldn’t have copied the map here. When did you have time to search? You didn’t even know anything about it.” He lifted his hands and very gently threaded his fingers through her hair to cup the back of her neck.
Belinda searched his features, studying his weary eyes. No accusation gleamed in their darkness. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for your belief and your trust.”
“You’re very welcome.” He ignored the tremor of his hands as his thumbs caressed the sensitive skin beneath her chin, then tilted her head up. Her dark eyes held a potent magic as they gazed into his. Conner couldn’t resist his need. He lowered his mouth to hers.
Due to their audience, the kiss was, of necessity, chaste and far too brief, but filled with promise.
“Your bed,” he mouthed with barely a sound against her lips, “is very tempting.”
“Your mother. My uncle.” She brushed the words over his mouth in a regretful reminder.
“Forgive me.” His forehead touched hers. “I’m not thinking. It wasn’t meant as an improper suggestion. I’m afraid I’ve reached the end of my endurance.”
Belinda took a moment before she jerked her head back. Conner’s hands slipped from her neck. His eyes shuttered closed and he pitched forward. Only her uncle’s fast reflex saved them from both toppling to the floor.
Belinda spent what remained of the night in Conner’s bed. Alone.
The most incredible display of color heralded the dawn by the time she finally closed her eyes.
She had discovered a most frightening feeling.
She was in danger of falling in love with Conner Kincaid.