I have something to say to you.” Dante’s intimidating form stepped into a shaft of moonlight. Dark hair brushed his shoulders as he teetered where he stood.
“In the middle of the night?” Flinging on her robe, Caroline groped for a match on her bed stand, and after lighting the lamp, turned toward him. “Are you injured?”
Lantern light flickered over his handsome face as he studied her with an intensity that should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Perhaps she was a fool, but she trusted Dante Vega. With her life.
“No,” he replied, rubbing his stubbled jaw. He leaned one hand on the bed frame for support.
She inched closer and touched his arm. “Ill?” Surely that must be it from the way he seemed unable to stand straight.
“No,” he replied.
The smell of alcohol stung her nose. “You’ve been drinking!” Releasing him, she backed away.
“I have, señora. It is what pirates do. Or hadn’t you heard?” He huffed and crossed his arms over his thick chest as if proud of the fact. “And I’ve come to tell you … to tell you … that I’ll not allow you and those … children of yours to weasel your way into my heart and trick me into”—he waved a hand through the air—“staying in this house with your good cooking and charming family and your …”
Caroline’s face grew hot. “How dare you insinuate such a thing? We … I am not tricking you!”
He wobbled and took a step toward her, leveling a finger toward her face. “Then, stop being so kind and patient and gentle and”—withdrawing his finger, he rubbed his temple as if it ached—“absolutely wonderful. I’m not falling for it.”
Her anger dissipated beneath his compliments, no matter their drunken delivery. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Señor Pirate. I suggest you go back to the barn and sleep it off.” She attempted to turn him around and shove him toward the door, but even in his besotted condition, she couldn’t budge him.
He chuckled. “You call me Señor Pirate when you’re cross with me.”
“Then you have no doubt as to my current disposition.” She managed to turn him to face the door. “Nor that my anger will only rise if you do not leave immediately.”
“And one more thing.” He spun back around. “Tell your children to stop calling me Papa. I am not their papa, and I will never be.” Though his tone was harsh, the look in his eyes spoke otherwise. Was the moisture she saw there from emotion or alcohol? He stepped toward her and gently fingered a lock of her hair. “And stop being so beautiful.” His voice softened. “With your gold spun hair and sea-green eyes and skin a man longs to touch.” He ran the back of his fingers over her cheek.
Why, when he’d burst into her bedroom, shouting and accusing her of tricking him, did his touch feel so good? Stirring a longing in her she’d never felt before, not even with François. “I’ll do my best Señor Vega to not be so appealing,” she breathed out in a whisper.
“Impossible.” He huffed, dropping his hand to his side.
“Let’s get you to bed, Señor Pirate.”
He grinned, his gaze shifting to her tousled covers.
“To the barn I meant.” Shaking her head, she grabbed his hand and started for the door.
He pulled her to him, pressed her against his chest, and wrapped her in his thick arms. He smelled of leather and ale and the sea, and she settled her head against his shirt. Despite his drinking, despite his intrusion in her bedchamber, she felt safe in his arms.
For the first time in many years.
A shout and a crackling sound drew them apart. Dante darted to the window. In the distance, yellow flames reached for the sky.
“My grapes!” Caroline threw a hand to her mouth. “The vineyard is on fire!”
Dante instantly sobered. “Stay here. Protect the children,” he shouted before storming off.
But she couldn’t stay. Not when her livelihood, her very survival, was at stake. Instead, she got dressed as quickly as she could, roused the children, instructed Philippe to stay with Abilene on the veranda, and then sped into the darkness. But it wasn’t dark anymore. Fires had sprung up in every direction. Red flames licked the sky, casting a hellish glow over the entire vineyard. Where had they come from? Smoke burned her nose. Men sped past, hoisting buckets of water from the creek. First Sisquoc then Manuel, Diego, and finally Dante, who ordered her back in the house. Clutching her skirts, she grabbed a bucket to assist them. She would not stand by and do nothing.
The sound of rifle shots exploded over the crackle of flames. Pop! Pop! Pop! Halting, she spun around. The men crouched to the ground as more shots thundered. One zipped past her ear. Fury started its own fire in her belly. Señor Casimiro! It had to be him and his men. He would not burn her out! She would not let him! Dropping her bucket, she started for the house to get a rifle. Dante hid behind a large grapevine and returned fire, gesturing for the other men to stay low. But what did it matter? Half her vineyard was aflame. Flames she could feel from where she stood as heat seared her in rolling waves, bringing with it the sting of smoke and the sour scent of burning grapes. Halting before her house, she stared benumbed at the sight of everything she’d worked so hard to achieve devoured in an instant.
“Get in the house!” Dante shouted, his voice muffled by the roar of the fire. But she couldn’t seem to move. How would she support her children now? What would happen to them?
In the blur of heat and haze of smoke, she saw Dante running for her.
A shot fired. He clutched his shoulder, stumbled, and fell to the dirt.
Blackness as thick as coal surrounded Dante. Someone was hammering. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The vibration sent piercing pain through his head. He tried to rub it away but couldn’t move his arms. Make the pain stop. Oh, God, make the pain stop.
“Will he live, Doctor?” The words were distant and muddled yet distinctively Caroline’s.
“Yes. He’ll recover in time. A quarter inch to the right and I’d be saying something different, but with lots of rest, your husband will be back on his feet in a month, maybe less.”
Light tried to penetrate the darkness. It failed. Dante was swept back into the night.
Sometime later—an eternity or only a moment, he didn’t know—he heard Caroline praying by his bedside, pleading with her God for Dante’s healing, thanking God that he lived. Oddly, it brought him comfort. Other moments came and went like scattered dreams. Children’s laughter, sunlight, darkness, someone spooning broth into his mouth, a weight on his chest. Pain that sent him back into the darkness. Heat … fire … why was it so hot? His mouth felt full of cotton. His head spun. Someone held his hand, caressed his skin. A kiss on his cheek. He smiled and fell back asleep.
Thoughts came alive in his mind. Instead of drifting atop a nebulous mist, they landed on reason, where they stirred more thoughts to life. Sounds alighted on his ears. Children’s voices, Caroline singing, birds chirping. The smell of smoke filled his nose. The vineyard!
He pried his eyes open and blinked to focus. The wooden ceiling beams of a bedchamber came into view. He lowered his gaze to a pair of walnut Victorian chairs then to the matching wardrobe and over to the lacy covering atop the dresser, the glass candlesticks, bottles of perfume, jars of cream, and the brush and comb lying before a framed mirror. Definitely a lady’s bedchamber. He pressed a hand against his chest and groaned.
“You’re awake.” Caroline entered the room, rubbing her hands on an apron, and dropped beside him, smiling.
“How long?” His voice came out scratchy.
“Four days. You had a fever.” Taking a cool cloth, she mopped his brow. He tried to move. Pain rumbled through his shoulder.
“You’re not going anywhere, Dante. You’ve been shot and you need your rest.” She propped the pillows up behind him then took a glass from the table and held it to his lips. He hated being coddled, but the water tasted so good.
He wiped his mouth. Even that small effort pained his chest. “The vineyard?”
She sat back with a sigh and looked out the window. “Burnt to the ground.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes it is. If I hadn’t been drinking, maybe I would have seen the men coming, stopped them before they set fire to the grapes.”
“You don’t know that.” She leaned forward and took his hand in hers. “Besides, you saved my life.” Sunlight glittered on spirals of golden hair framing a face that looked drawn and tired.
“I got shot is what I did, and that does you no good.”
“It certainly didn’t.” She arched an accusing brow. “I and the children have been worried to tears over you.”
“You have?” No one had ever worried about him before. Not even his own mother. Emotion burned in his throat. “Thank you for caring for me.”
She smiled. “My pleasure, Dante.”
“What will you do?” he asked.
“What can I do? I’ll sell the wine I have, start a new crop with the few vines that remain, and”—she sat back with a sigh—“pray.”
“Why not just sell the land and go back home?”
She rose and made her way to the window. “I promised François on his deathbed that I’d keep the land, raise his grapes, and make the wine he dreamed of making his entire life.”
“He was a fool to ask you that. To put you and his children in jeopardy.”
She shrugged. “How could I deny a dying man his one request?”
Dante could not believe the selfishness of this man. “What of next year when you have no wine to sell?”
“I will learn a trade.” She hugged herself. “We will trust God to take care of us.”
Dante ground his teeth together. “You’re a stubborn woman, Caroline. I don’t know whether your faith in God is commendable or crazy.”
“He has never let us down. There’s a verse in the Bible that says, ‘I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’ ”
Dante snorted. “I’d rather do things my way. As soon as I am well, this Señor Casimiro will pay for what he’s done.”
“No, please.” She turned, worry lining her face. “You cannot fight a man like him. He is too powerful.”
“Perhaps not alone, but you forget, I still have a crew in town. And by now they will be itching for a fight.”
“Then it will never end. And more people will get hurt.” She sat beside him and took his hand again, pleading. “Leave it to God, Dante.”
He was about to respond that he didn’t trust God to right wrongs when Philippe and Abilene skipped into the room. Their faces lit when they saw him, and making a mad dash, they both leapt onto the bed. Philippe perched beside him, while Abilene tossed her arms about Dante’s neck. His shoulder throbbed beneath her weight, but it was worth the pain for the love these precious children lavished upon him.
Dante hated being bedridden. He’d always been a man of action, strong, capable, able to do anything he put his mind to with wit and vigor. But he’d never been shot so close to his heart, and the wound took its toll on his strength. It also took its toll on the way he looked at things. Facing one’s eternity had a way of making a man think. And he had plenty of time to do that while he recovered.
Caroline and the kids entertained him well enough: they played card games, Philippe practiced his reading, Abilene regaled him with made-up stories, and Caroline spent countless hours talking with him. He cherished those moments the most, listening to her soothing voice, her pleasant laugh, watching the adorable way her nose scrunched when she disagreed with him, the sparkle in her green eyes when she teased him, the shy looks of affection that made his heart leap.
At night she’d read to him from the Bible, stories of adventure, romance, and war—exciting tales he never dreamed were to be found in such a holy book. With every inflection of her voice, with every tear of joy that slid from her eye, he knew she believed every word she read. Words from a God who loved His creation more than anything, who wanted the best for them and agonized when they chose a path that caused them pain. Words from a God who, when all else failed, sent His own Son to redeem people from the depths of hell.
Words that woke a deep hunger within Dante.
One night, after all had gone to sleep, he called out to this God of hers, expecting nothing but silence in response to a man like him. But instead, a glow ignited in his heart. It spread to his limbs in a tingle that brought a chuckle to his throat. Wind stirred the curtains, and though the night was foggy, silvery light spun ribbons of glitter through the room. And a voice sounded from deep within him. “I love you, son. You are home now.”
Dante drifted to sleep, comforted by a Father he’d never known, but One who was here to stay. He’d also made up his mind on another important matter. If Caroline would have him, he would forsake the sea, stay with her and the children, and become the man she needed him to be.