Shadow of the Fox Read online

  Right where we’re headed.

  He wasn’t going to tell Sorina, but after her ill-advised behavior, a little fear might be healthy.

  “I discovered something in the village. The search for us has already turned south.” The horse’s gait was smooth and easy. He did not have to turn his head for her to hear him.

  “Is Santoro near?”

  “I reckon so. I’m damned surprised he didn’t stick to the El Camino Real and pass right by the San Luis Rey Mission. Most people think it’s deserted. We certainly did. But in the village I was told the mission was sold last year, but Father Barona still has a room there. Luckily he was away.”

  Aware of every breath she took as she nestled against his back, he physically felt her catch her breath. Now she knew what danger she’d put herself in by bathing alone in the open. Maybe the little vixen would be more careful from now on.

  They both had to keep their wits sharp. They were in a life or death situation. Her life would not be pleasant if Santoro found her. His life would end.

  “If the men were off the main road, señor patrón, should we take that road ourselves?”

  “I’ve given it some thought and will chance it when we get to a certain stretch. This coast has a few deep canyons and rivers to cross. The road to the mission at San Diego goes inland and misses them.”

  “What of the Army? Did they have news of the war?”

  “No. They’d not heard about the war.”

  The horse plodded along. Grainger nudged it in its flanks to speed up the pace. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention whenever he heard a strange noise. The sooner they reached their destination, the better. The pueblo was built near the port and had a few brothels and saloons. He knew one where a Larkin man worked. If the Army wasn’t there—and it was a good bet they had not yet arrived—he would need the help of a fellow spy to help get the girl to Santa Barbara.

  Does that mean you would leave her alone and unprotected?

  He knew the answer before he formulated the question. She was his responsibility now. And he’d be with her until she found her uncle.

  The wide-open plains formed into gentle hills. The wind picked up until the dust was thick around them. He drew his compass out of his pocket and checked it against the position of the sun. When they reached Peñasquitos Creek they would follow it to the main road, then hope to blend in with any other travelers they encountered.

  They traveled in silence. When the trail—no more than a goat track—was straight, he picked up the pace. After a few hours they came to the stream and Grainger pulled up the horse and stopped in a stand of alders.

  Taking down the canteen and the last of the rabbit, he led the horse to the stream to drink and then tied it so it could graze on the patchy grass nearby. Sitting with his back against a tree, he waited for Sorina who had gone to relieve herself behind a bush. She emerged and walked to the edge of the stream. He must have dozed because she sat cross-legged in front of him when he woke.

  “Here.” He passed the water and a piece of rabbit to her. It wasn’t much, but if Josh Jameson was on duty at the Buffalo Saloon, he’d be able to get her a regular meal. She seemed tired and something else . . . contrite? No, not his Sorina.

  Kill that thought. She’s not your Sorina. You’re a convenience to her. Nothing more.

  Putting away the water and checking the saddle, Grainger turned to his companion.

  “Ready to ride?”

  “Si, Señor.”

  “Are you getting sore, riding astride?”

  “No, señor. I prefer to ride astride, and I often ride bareback. It is much preferable to that odious English saddle.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. Often wondered how women kept their seat, especially jumpers.”

  “With great difficulty. And much stupidity, especially in those cumbersome riding habits and silly feathered hats.”

  Chuckling, he climbed into the saddle and hoisted her up. He checked their surroundings and then turned east toward the El Camino Real. Sunset was not far off, but with luck they should make it into the pueblo at dusk.

  “We’re going to join the main road now. Keep your eyes averted and if anyone speaks to you, try not to answer. Your voice is too high. Someone with a sharp ear might get suspicious.”

  “Si, patrón.”

  Grainger was reaching the end of his stamina. He’d been up almost thirty-six hours and he fought to keep his eyelids from drooping. The only thing keeping him alert was the bundle of warmth hugging his back. Sorina depended on him.

  He would not let her down.

  Chapter 23

  The narrow trail turned into a wider track as they reached the main road. No one was about, but in the distance, dust told them riders approached.

  “Keep your head down and look the other way as they pass,” Grainger said.

  Sorina did not have to be told. The entire trip kept her nerves on alert, especially after she was told Santoro’s men had been seen in the village and had offered a reward for information.

  She shoved her wide-brimmed hat slightly forward, and found a lower resting place for her hands.

  “My God, woman, you’re torturing me.”

  Sorina did not understand until she felt a stirring under her palms.

  Grainger reached down and moved her hands upward again. Astonished that mere touching of male parts had that effect, Sorina stored the information for future use. Were all men the same? Or was it only Grainger?

  As they approached the dust cloud, she sighed in relief. It was a cart pulled by oxen, laden with hides.

  A fortune, Sorina thought. Enough to trade for many household goods.

  Grainger tipped his hat to the man driving, and the one who rode beside. He seemed anxious to get to San Diego before dark, and she was not sure how far it was. Her last visit had been in a closed carriage and she had slept most of the way.

  When they reached the river, they paused. The presidio occupied the hill overlooking the pueblo. Grainger removed a small looking glass from his saddlebag and studied the terrain.

  “The Mexican flag still flies over the presidio.”

  “Are there soldiers about?”

  “Can’t tell from this distance.”

  “Maybe they are off fighting the war.”

  “Only one way to find out.” He turned the horse into the water. The rains had not been as frequent during the winter and there were several shallow spots. Still, Sorina flinched when water splashed her legs through the thin cloth.

  Madre de Dios, she must look like an errant pig.

  As they neared the tiny pueblo with its low buildings, laid out in a square, she couldn’t help thinking about her last visit. It had been a baptism for one of the Estudillo offspring, a lavish affair that lasted two days. At the formal dinner, congratulating the new parents, Sorina had worn a white lace dress with an underskirt of the sheerest blue silk, her hair tied back with a blue bow. She stared at her mud-spattered feet and her dirty clothes. How long could she keep up this charade?

  As long as it takes to get to my uncle.

  Grainger’s voice brought her back from her reverie. They were close enough to the plaza now to see signs of activity—a man watered his horse at a trough, two garishly dressed women sashayed along a street, a man sat on a blanket with calabazas in front of him, offering the bright green and yellow squash for sale. The town was too quiet to be a place preparing for battle.

  “Who do you know in the pueblo?” Grainger sounded tired. He wasn’t going to leave her with the Estudillos or Bandinis, was he?

  “A few people, why do you ask?”

  “Is anyone likely to recognize you?”

  “Not in this costume.”

  “What if they look directly into your face?�
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  “I will be invisible to them. They will see what we want them to see. They will not see Señorita Braithwaite.”

  He nodded and looked thoughtful. “We’ll go into the village and find my friend. He’ll know if news of the war has arrived here yet.”

  They tied the horse to a hitching post and walked among the buildings. Sorina kept her head low, as instructed, staying a few paces behind Grainger. They passed a pulquería inhabited by sailors drinking and playing cards. They spoke a strange language. The port was many miles to the west, but sailors found their way here to carouse in the bars.

  She stopped to study the plaza in the growing darkness. It was larger than the one in San Juan Capistrano. The Mexican flag still flew from the flagpole and a large cannon sat under it.

  “What are you doing? Come along,” Grainger hissed.

  They hurried into a back alley where a low mud-brick building had an open doorway.

  The interior of the establishment was smoky and dark. Oil lamps placed in niches along the walls made it possible to see. A half a dozen men sat at scattered tables. Grainger led Sorina into a corner where he sat with his back against the wall.

  “Stay here.” He got up and sauntered over to the bar. A man with a thick black beard and eyes hidden under bushy brows looked up. He was completely bald and wore a headband that nearly covered his forehead.

  She was too far to hear what was said, but Grainger nodded to her and disappeared through a door on the right side of the long bar. She got up from the table and followed. As she approached the door a hand tightened over her arm.

  “Wot’s this? A lad? Indian are ye?” A rough-looking man in a seaman’s garb yanked her down into a chair. “Wot’s yer name, lad?”

  As instructed, Sorina continued to look down and said nothing.

  “Cat got yer tongue? Surely yer not deaf? Pretty boy like you.”

  Sorina tried to stand, but a beefy forearm pushed her back into the chair. “Let’s get this lad a drink.” He called out to the bartender, but he’d disappeared with Grainger. “No barkeep? Guess Mort will have to get his own.”

  He laughed as he jumped up from his chair, his two companions egging him on. “Let’s have a dance. No wimmin here so this lad will have to do.” One of them started whistling while the one called Mort skipped from side to side. “Come on, lad.”

  Sorina shook her head, her heart pounding.

  Where is Grainger? How can he leave me here?

  “Bugger off.” She used the epithet in a low gravelly voice. She’d heard her uncle use the term, but didn’t know what it meant. A shout of laughter met her response.

  “You’ve learned a few curses in English. Bet you can curse in several languages. Let’s see what ye look like, lad.” He tugged her hat off, exposed shoulder-length black hair gathered at the back by a thin piece of leather. She had not told Grainger she cut off her braids, but it had seemed prudent when she was back at San Luis Rey, dressing for the journey. Now she was glad she had.

  A man slapped a glass of brown-colored liquid in front of her. “Drink up. It will loosen yer legs for the dance . . . and mebbe yer tongue.”

  She tentatively reached out to pick it up, thinking it might steady her nerves. A hand reached from behind her, knocking it away.

  “Get up, Sancho. I require your services.”

  “Hey now, you takin’ away this lad? We’re havin’ a bit of fun.”

  “Not today. He has work to do.”

  Chairs scraped back as the three sailors stood. Sorina slowly got up herself, keeping her eyes averted.

  Madre de Dios, how were they to get free?

  She patted her leg, feeling the knife she kept strapped there.

  “We want the lad to stay here.”

  “And he is my property and will go where I tell him.” Grainger spoke quietly, but there was command in his voice. There was also a gun in his hand.

  Where did he get that?

  “Beggin yer pardon. Take him.”

  The group sat down, making noise as their chairs scraped the planked floor.

  Sorina ran to the door, watching Grainger holster the gun, pick up her hat and follow.

  It led into a narrow hallway with rooms off to one side. High-pitched giggling came from one. A banging noise and muffled cries from another.

  “What is this place?”

  “Go through the door at the end of the hall and throw the bolt. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “But I want to go with you.”

  “Don’t argue. I have something to do.”

  “Si, patrón.” She looked up through her lashes to see Grainger frowning.

  “What the hell happened to your hair?”

  “It is shorter.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But I . . .”

  “Not now. We’ll talk about this later.”

  She went into the small room and sat on the cot. A mouse skittered across the floor. It was dark and Grainger had left no candle, but his saddlebag was on the floor and the blanket from the horse.

  Had she offended him in some way? Surely, it was not her hair. The men at the table? It was not her fault that someone pulled her arm until she sat down.

  She had done everything Grainger had told her to do. Except for the curse word. It slipped out. She couldn’t help it.

  English. How could she be so stupid?

  But Grainger had used a British accent, very different from his usual inflections. For a moment she was back in London, listening to peers of the realm. So maybe it wasn’t so unusual that a servant would pick up a word or two.

  She was rationalizing her mistake. There was nothing to do now but wait for Grainger to return.

  Dim light came into the room from a window. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw it above the bed. Reaching up she drew back the piece of burlap that served as a curtain. The pane was dirty, but it would let a bit of light in from the moon.

  Spreading the blanket over the cot, she sat down, testing its strength. Straw poked out of the mattress and Sorina sincerely hoped fleas or worse had not made their home in it. She loosened the leather tie and let her hair fall straight across her shoulders, combing through it with her fingers. Even straight hair tangled. How she wished she had a brush.

  With nothing to do, she lay on her back and stared at the beam that ran across the center of the pitched ceiling. What was Tía Consuelo doing right now? Supervising the preparation of the evening meal? Stitching in her sampler? And Grandfather? She hoped he was drinking a glass of wine and making preparations for the coming of the Americans. He was a good man. He would want his workers protected.

  You are a dreamer, Sorina. You know exactly what both are doing.

  They are worried and heartbroken. They are asking themselves what they did wrong. They’re wondering how a child they’d nurtured and loved could walk away in such a disobedient, flagrant manner. Oh yes, they would not think for one second that Lobo had kidnapped her. They knew her.

  And yet they loved her with all her faults.

  It was only because she was tired that a tear made its way down her cheek. She didn’t cry when first her father, and then her mother, died. Not right away. She didn’t cry when she returned from England to find her beloved uncle gone, his belongings stripped from the hacienda, his portrait removed. What had he done while she was away in England that turned his own father against him, that made him so distasteful no one would even speak his name?

  She had chosen her path, even though it meant she was temporarily alone in the world.

  Not alone. You have Grainger.

  It was a comforting thought for a moment. And then reality washed over her, that bud of practicality that had seen her through many crises, flowering now into sure
knowledge.

  Grainger was an officer in the United States Navy. Grainger was a man she had coerced into helping her. Grainger would leave her.

  And she would have to let him go.

  Chapter 24

  Grainger moved like a cat through the night, treading softly, hiding in the shadows, alert to every sound that might spell danger. He needed his horse, left grazing outside the town. He had a ride of five or six miles to get to the anchorage.

  But his first priority was Santoro.

  Where was that devil?

  The pueblo of San Diego was no more than a trading village. Rows of adobe buildings formed a square. A few alleys intersected streets with mud huts, some with thatched roofs. The sprawling haciendas of the Estudillos and the Bandinis were its most prominent buildings, along with the presidio that overlooked the town. The mission, once the dominant presence, had been moved up river where there was a better water source.

  The port, with its merchant-owned storehouses, was a busy one. Sailors found their way to the bars and bordellos of the pueblo, once their cargoes were exchanged. Two, sometimes three, ships anchored in the bay. He hoped to find one headed north.

  A woman’s muffled scream broke the silence of the night. Grainger flattened himself against a wall and peered around a corner. Two men pinned a fleshy woman between them. Light from oil lamps in the nearby saloon outlined the trio without defining their features. Debating on whether or not to intervene, the skinny one reached into his pocket and took out a coin, flipping it in the air. The woman broke away and caught it, laughing as she beckoned them to follow.

  Grainger studied the gait and swagger of the men. They were dressed as cowboys, but they could be locals. No way to know unless he followed them, but he didn’t have time to watch their sexual frolic with a prostitute. If they were Santoro’s men, he needed to get Sorina away.