Rancho El Ocaso, Southern California—June, 1864
Loosely holding the reins in his gloved hands, Joaquin leaned forward in the saddle to make his stallion’s climb easier up the grassy hill. Bright sunlight warmed the air, but a constant breeze kept the spring temperature tolerable. Low-growing sage brush and greening brittlebush dotted the dirt and forced Joaquin to guide Fuerte on a zigzag path. At the top of the rise, he eased back on the leathers to signal his horse to slow his pace, then stopped. He patted the horse’s neck. “Take a rest, amigo. You earned it.” He removed his broad-brimmed hat and shook his head to let the breeze cool his thick, damp hair. If he didn’t make the time for his sister, Ventura, to trim the length, he’d soon have to tie it back into a queue again.
This spot was one of his favorites for viewing the Galtero family rancho nestled in a shallow valley in the Saddleback Mountains foothills. Several furlongs below spread the buildings, barns, sheds, corrals, and cattle that made up the Galteros’ world—the only home he’d ever known. He held nothing but admiration for his parents, Rafael and Yoana. They’d arrived twenty-two years earlier, when he was only two, and established this cattle ranch amidst the rolling hills. Over those decades, the family earned a solid reputation for the quality of their beef and the calves born from their stud bulls. Now, the responsibility for managing the stud service lay on Joaquin’s shoulders. But a problem weighed heavily on his mind.
An hour earlier, he set out on this ride to clear his mind and develop a solution for Tornado’s injured hoof.
Two evenings ago, the prize bull limped into his stall, favoring his rear right foot.
Joaquin assigned his younger brothers, Cisco and Pablo, to scour the pasture for any object that might have caused the injury, but they reported finding nothing suspicious. The lack of a solution ate at his thoughts.
Movement off to the right caught Joaquin’s attention, and he shifted his gaze. A well-appointed barouche carriage with a pair of matching black horses drove down the lane toward the main house. The portmanteaus strapped on top and at the back indicated a stay longer than afternoon tea. That conveyance must be delivering the guests Papá mentioned for the first time last night.
Joaquin clicked his tongue and squeezed his thighs against Fuerte’s sides. “Andale, Fuerte. Let us see who has arrived.” Giving the stallion his head, Joaquin let him pick his own path down the hill to the flat ground. Then he urged the horse into an easy lope to cover the distance toward the casa. Nearing the stopped carriage, he eased back on the reins. “Whoa.”
A metallic clink sounded, and the door swung wide.
Joaquin dismounted and tossed the reins toward the packed dirt of the drive. “Tu te quedas.” He didn’t bother to check if his horse minded the command to stay. Fuerte had been barely weaned when Joaquin trained him, and the horse showed great instincts around cattle. “Welcome to Rancho El Ocaso.” He peered into the shadowy interior.
A wrinkled hand grabbed the window frame before its frail owner appeared in the doorway. “Such a formal greeting, Joaquin.” The bowler hat tilted enough to expose a familiar, tanned face.
He’s so much thinner. “Don Arturo.” Joaquin smiled and extended his right hand to brace the gentleman’s elbow. “I’m glad to see you.”
Arturo stepped out of the carriage, balanced on his cane, and straightened his jacket. “You sound surprised. Did Rafael not inform you of our arrival?”
“Oh, he did.” Had Papá mentioned the name of his close friend, or had he just said guests? Maybe Joaquin hadn’t been listening closely enough at supper.
From inside the carriage, the swish and rustle of layers of clothing preceded the appearance of another passenger.
Did the widower remarry since his last visit? Right hand extended, Joaquin stepped closer, then he stilled as the almost-forgotten scent of jasmine and patchouli wafted past his nose. If he remembered right, Casta and his sisters discovered perfume on the de la Luzes last visit.
A woman dressed in an emerald jacket and black skirt lingered in the doorway. Lace hung from the edge of her narrow-brimmed hat, obscuring part of her face. “Well, well, Joaquin Galtero y Fermin. How long has it been?”
The throaty voice threw him, and he barely registered the weight of her hand in his as she gripped it, stretched a black boot toward the ground, and disembarked. Casta de la Luz y Aznar. He blinked at the unexpected vision before him. His sister’s best friend. Shouldn’t she still be in boarding school? Where was the girl with coltish legs, split skirt, and messy braids? “Long enough for you to have grown up.” Under the casa’s roof, Ventura had matured and rightly so should have the girl who always wanted to tag after the Galtero brothers when they were younger. “Hola, Casta. ¿Que tal? How have you been?”
“I’ve been well.” With gloved hands, she rolled up the lace onto her hat brim, then rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Acting as hostess for Papá’s various business meetings keeps me busy.” Turning her head, she ran her gaze over his figure from head to toe.
His breath stuttered. Gone was the girl with the scraggly hair and sunburned cheeks, replaced by a poised woman with long lashes accenting cinnamon-colored eyes that didn’t demur but held constant in a steady gaze. He remembered teasing her about her deep dimples, but right now, they weren’t in evidence. In place was an assessing once-over look that made him wish he stood before her in a fresher state than being sweaty and dusty after a day’s work out on the rancho.
“So modest, mi princesa.” Arturo linked an arm with hers. “Casta is following in her Mamá’s and abuela’s footsteps.”
Joaquin racked his brain for Casta’s late mother’s name, let alone what she had done that was noteworthy of emulating. One thing he recalled was the addition of delicious fried buñuelos with powdered sugar when the de la Luzes visited. “Is that right?”
Casta narrowed her eyes, her gaze taking in his face. “You don’t even remember, do you?” She shrugged and turned away. “Come, Papá. Let’s get you out of the hot sun.” She reached out her free hand to run it down Fuerte’s nose, then scratched under his chin. “Ah, que caballo tan guapo.”
As Joaquin watched the pair walk toward the casa’s entrance, he couldn’t push away the disturbing thought that rose. I want her to call me handsome, too. He shook his head, then leaned over and gathered the slack reins. “Come, Fuerte.” He’d known Casta since they were kids. Why feel any physical attraction now for this woman he used to consider a pest? Grumbling at his surprising reaction, he strode toward the stables, waving a hand for the carriage driver to follow. What he needed was a long soak in the mineral hot springs.
After disrobing, he sat in the pool, neck resting on a flat boulder and staring at the ever-changing cloud formations. He couldn’t avoid thinking about Casta and how he struggled to catch his breath at seeing her again. Well-acquainted with the other local rancho families containing single women his age, Joaquin hadn’t met a woman in years who sparked his interest. Not even with the increasing population in Aliso, a town about ten miles from the rancho. He flexed his limbs and determined the waters ridded his muscles of their soreness. Time to climb out.
Minutes later, he approached the casa’s back porch, a silk robe left for communal use brushing against his knees. The bundled roll of his riding clothes tucked under his left arm. If he hadn’t let a beautiful black-haired woman distract him, he would have brought his own clean clothes to the rock pool surrounded on three sides by sagebrush. Sometimes, a caballero needed to be still in nature and let heated water relax his muscles and allow his thoughts to wander. Too bad, the water did nothing for his problems. If he didn’t find a fix for Tornado’s injured foot, he might have to hold him back from stud services. That decision would negatively impact the rancho’s income.
On the back porch, he scraped his boots on a sisal mat before removing them with the aid of a nearby bootjack. Ducking into the mudroom, he set the dusty boots on a wooden rack. He stepped into the large kitchen, his bare feet chilling by the tile floor.
Josefa and Luisa—wives to Papá’s cousins who made the relocation from Mexico with his parents—stood at the counter, chopping vegetables and whispering.
The heady scent of onion and garlic filled his nose as he crept toward the back stairs. If he reached his bedroom, then no one would know of his less-than-dignified attire.
“Nice robe, chico.” Then the tias both giggled.
He snapped a salute and vaulted the stairs two at a time. From the upstairs hallway, he heard voices murmuring from the first-floor parlor. Good, everyone’s contained there. He took a step toward his room, then heard the click of a door closing.
A titter trilled, then muffled.
Knowing in his gut what he’d see, he looked over his shoulder.
Eyes flashing over a hand clamped on her mouth, Casta lingered in front of a bedroom door, her other hand resting on the knob.
“Discuple, Casta. I was enoying the hot springs.” He refused to put his discomfort on display by tugging on the robe’s hem.
“Still got those piernas flacas, uh, Joaquin? But now they’re so hairy.”
At the hated skinny legs nickname, he stiffened and arched his eyebrows. “Is this the way a young lady should be speaking?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced. He sounded like a disapproving abuelo.
“What?” Her hands rested on her hips. “I do have a brother. Besides, how many hours did we spend at the swimming hole together as kids?”
“We’ve grown since then.” Standing in nothing but a robe in the hallway put him at a disadvantage—a position he rarely found himself facing.
“We sure have.” She gave him a once-over, and her mouth spread into a smile that dimpled both cheeks.
Her perusal kicked up his pulse, and the appearance of those dimples that looked like twin slashes in his mamá’s empanada dough bottomed out his stomach. He squared his shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll head to my room and dress for supper.” What was he to do with this changed woman whom he used to think of only as a pest?