CAMERON CRAWLED CLUMSILY to his feet and holstered his pistol. “What can I help you with?”
Marina moved forward, until she stood only a few feet away from him. The starlight shone in her large brown eyes. “Señor Clark—” She hesitated, as though finding the words strange on her tongue. “My husband and I do not understand why you will not accept our offer.”
Cameron felt like a chastised schoolboy. He smiled ironically. “‘Offer’?” he said. “More like a death sentence, wouldn’t you say? You grew up in that country. You must know how many Apaches still haunt that part of Sonora.”
“We will travel at night. The Apaches will not fight at night. Besides, the Indios are busy fighting with your government and mine. They will not bother with a small party such as ours.”
Cameron sighed and retook his seat beneath the paloverde. He brought his knees up and set his wrists on them, studying her. He’d been right. She did have spunk. She was also a fool. “Why don’t you two go alone, then? You know the country. One more man isn’t going to make much of a difference if the Apaches come callin’.”
“I have never been to that part of Mejico. Neither of us has. And in the unlikely event the Apaches do come calling,” she said coolly, “we will need men who know how to fight them. I have never fought them. Neither has Señor … my husband.”
Cameron tipped his head and studied her wryly. “How long you been married, anyway—you and Señor Clark?” he added with a touch of irony.
She lowered her gaze. “One month.” Cameron could have guessed as much. Was that why they did not look like a couple, or was there another reason they seemed such a mismatched pair?
“Newlyweds, eh?”
She looked at him, frowning, not understanding the phrase or the irony with which it had been expressed.
“Never mind,” Cameron said with a flick of his wrist. “How did you two meet?”
“Why do you want to know?” Marina asked guardedly.
Cameron shrugged. “Just curious.”
She studied him for a moment, then got up and moved several feet away from him sitting on a rock. She put her feet together and brought her knees up, smoothing her skirt over them. “We did not … meet in the traditional way,” she said, not looking at him. In the shadows the starlight traced the straight, aristocratic line of her jaw and nose, and Cameron could see her at one of those come-one, come-all Mexican fandangos—the belle of the ball, a whole passel of brightly dressed vaqueros lined up awaiting their turn to lead her onto the patio.
“He won me in a poker game.”
Cameron could have been knocked over with a feather, but his face remained inert.
Marina added, gazing directly into his eyes, “From my uncle.”
Finally, Cameron took a sharp intake of air and let it out with a low whistle. “How in the hell…?” He let his voice trail off.
She continued, staring at her feet. “My father’s rancho was attacked by Apaches.” A shadow passed over her face, the muscles in her cheeks and neck tightening. “Papa and Mama—my brother Ubre—all were killed. All the vaqueros and their families. I alone survived. Papa had taught me what to do if an attack came. There was a fast horse always saddled for me if I would need to escape. I took the plat, and I rode out through the smoke and galloped through the hills to the pueblo. Men were sent out to the hacienda … but it was too late.” Her voice caught, but no tears came to her eyes.
Cameron let some time pass. Then he asked, “What about your uncle?”
“He was my father’s only brother, a half-brother, and they were never close. My uncle Romero had ridden with desperadoes when he was young, and lost an arm in a duel. He opened a cantina in the pueblo and took me in, and I worked for him serving customers.”
Her voice hardened with anger. “He bragged about the favor he was doing me, taking in his homeless niece, but he let his customers treat me like a whore. The people in the pueblo allowed it because they were jealous of my father’s money even though he had provided for all of them.”
She paused.
“The customers weren’t the only ones. My uncle … I was my uncle’s whore.”
Cameron glanced at her sharply, but she kept her eyes on the ground. “Then Señor Clark came to the cantina with three other men. They were purchasing mining claims, I think. They gambled with my uncle for two days and a night.”
“And you fell into the pot?” Cameron said, his voice circumspect.
Marina nodded and looked at him, absently smoothing the skirt over her knees. This was hard on her, Cameron could tell, and his own discomfort at hearing such a confession made him want her to stop. But she seemed to need to tell it. “My uncle’s wife wanted him to get rid of me. She found out he was visiting my room … on nights when he wasn’t too drunk to climb the stairs.”
“And Clark won.”
“Sí.”
“And you gave him the plat?”
Her gaze found his again, fastening on him. It was no longer an unpleasant sensation. “He is not a bad man, Señor Cameron. He is a much better man than my uncle. All he wants is to buy a ranch out West in your country and start over.”
“And what do you want?”
She did not say anything. She looked away, staring into the darkness. Cameron could not see her face, but he knew its expression was troubled.
Marina said something at last, but in a voice too soft for Cameron to hear.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
She cleared her throat. “I want to get my daughter back.”
Cameron chewed his lip, silent. That was enough—he didn’t want to hear any more. But he knew he was going to.
“It was my uncle…” Her voice trailed off.
It took Cameron a moment to understand. Then he gave a ragged sigh.
“My aunt took my baby … my daughter … to the sisters in the convent in Piro Alta.”
“How long ago?”
“Two years. I had her for three months before”—her voice faltered almost imperceptibly—“before she was taken away.”
“Did your aunt know…?”
“That my uncle was the father?” Marina finished for him, regaining her composure. “No. She would have killed Marlena if she had. I suppose she knows now, but the sisters have her.”
Her voice became firm and strong, but pleading. “I want the money to get her back. The old crones in the convent are not above taking bribes; they’ve even hid desperadoes for money. If I pay them, they will give Marlena back to me. And I want the money to give her a good life … the kind of life I had before the Apaches took it away.”
A nightbird cooed and Marina gave a start, turning her head sharply. At length, she turned to Cameron. “Will they come? Those men from the stage?”
“I don’t know,” Cameron said. “My guess is they won’t try anything at night. They’ll probably wait until we’re back on the trail tomorrow, maybe crossing the San Pedro. That’s what I’d do … but then, I’m not Gaston Bachelard. We have to be prepared for anything.”
Cameron heard a rustle of cloth and saw Marina stand and move toward him, her feet coming down softly in the pebbles and grass. She knelt only a foot away from him. Cameron was puzzled. She rested a hand on his arm and put her face close to his. He could smell her, feel her warmth, and he was ashamed at the stirring she caused in his loins.
“Please,” she said stiffly, as one does who is unused to begging, “help me find the gold … so I can get my daughter back from the nuns.”
As her fingers dug into his forearm, Cameron felt his resolve weaken slightly. But he’d ridden the Mexican trail enough times to know there was little or no chance of finding the treasure—if there even was a treasure—and getting out alive. As far as getting Marina’s daughter back, well if there was no gold …
Besides, Cameron had to get back to his ranch and get ready for the autumn gather. He couldn’t go traipsing off to Mexico with some well-heeled Southern gentleman and his Mexican wife—no matter how beautiful the wife may be. When he was younger he would have gone after the woman as well as the gold. But Cameron was no kid anymore, and his wanderlust had gone the way of Ivy Kitchen, whose death had taken the heart out of him. No longer was any woman worth a wild-goose chase into Mexico.
He wagged his head and turned away. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be rich,” she urged.
“Nine out of ten treasure trails lead to nothing. Take it from an expert.” They both sat there, saying nothing, for several minutes.
“I understand, Mr. Cameron,” Marina finally said, releasing his arm. “I am grateful for the help you have given us. We were wrong to ask for anything more. I hope you can forgive us.”
She stood.
Cameron sighed. “No … I’m sorry…”
“Sorry?” she said with a laugh. “You saved our lives!” She turned and started away. “Good night.”
When she’d gone, Cameron sat there, hands entwined, feeling like a lout.
Then he heard her scream.