Shadow of the Fox Read online

  He’d gone to great pains with his disguise. He’d even tried to change the way he walked, adopting for a time the bowlegged swagger of the Mexican vaqueros, but had given up.

  She had studied him like a woman trying to piece together a puzzle. Eventually, she would figure it out.

  Recognition hit him in the face like a bucket of water the first time he saw her. She and her chaperone were on their way to a christening at a nearby rancho. Wearing a high-necked gown with long sleeves, she’d stepped sedately into her grandfather’s coach. A tortoiseshell comb held a black lace mantilla that covered her head and flowed around her shoulders, like a protective cover.

  She’d worn considerably less the last time he’d seen her, well over a year ago in London. Arriving late to a ball, he’d leaned against a pillar in the flower-filled room and watched the young beauty flirt and laugh, placing her hand on an arm, a lapel, even a face. It was not done. But she was a tactile creature, turning her back on convention.

  He’d left the ballroom for air and was surprised when she appeared in his quiet corner of the garden. Someone had crushed her spirit and he let her talk. He knew what it felt like to be an outcast and wanted to make things right for her, but didn’t know how to do it. He’d drawn her into his arms to dance and when he kissed her she had melted into him, a woman craving affection.

  Fortunately, someone strolled nearby. In a heartbeat, she was gone.

  The next morning, he’d chastised himself for reckless behavior with an innocent. He was an officer and a diplomat of the United States of America. He’d spent his adult life striving for perfection to erase the splotch on his family name. His behavior had to be impeccable.

  What to do now had him baffled. The ranch was large, but he was not sure he could keep out of her way. If she confronted him, he would have to lie and pretend she was mistaken. He could not jeopardize his mission.

  And he would have to tell his body to forget the smell and the feel of her, a memory fixed in his mind forever.

  Chapter 3

  Rancho de Los Lagos, the next day

  The hot, howling wind—as relentless as a coyote stalking prey—blew over the land, twisting and drying everything in its path. Locals called it the Santana. Sorina called it the breath of the devil.

  Reaching up to loosen the high collar of her blouse, she lifted her scarf to her mouth and firmly tied it behind her head below the edge of her bonnet. Fashion was not important on a day like today. If she resembled a bandito, so be it. At least she could breathe.

  She had been riding since daybreak and the hated English sidesaddle, insisted upon by Grandfather, made the ride a torture. She much preferred breeches, a loose shirt, and a Western saddle, but her grandfather wouldn’t hear of it. She was a lady, he reminded her, not a hoyden. And men were present.

  Madre de Dios, she didn’t have to impress anyone.

  The men were so far behind her they looked like the vague, featureless drawings in one of her novels. But it was not her place to argue. On this ranch, Grandfather’s word was law.

  Gritty dust mingled with the sweat that trickled between her breasts under her riding habit. The garment was a hot, cumbersome piece of apparel purchased in London. Despite her fondness for sweets, she had not gained weight since returning. The green serge skirt and jacket decorated with gold braid and buttons still fit. With it she usually wore a jaunty hat with a single plume, but today her old straw bonnet seemed a better choice.

  She turned to look back toward the low-lying hills where the survey party rode in the distance. Their horses followed one another in a straight line at the base of the hill. Soon they would reach the tall single oak, a silent sentinel at the entrance to a narrow pass, which made a suitable landmark to note on their map. The group would then turn west along the stream at the northern boundary of the property, following it all the way to the ocean.

  Sorina held her horse in check and waited for Grandfather to come abreast. She had not wanted to be out here today, witnessing the meticulous process dictated by Mexican law for documenting and recording one’s acreage. But Grandfather insisted, saying he was old and on death’s door. She was young and would remember the boundaries in the event of a land dispute. He was, of course, in perfect health and his memory was as sharp as a cactus needle. Sorina humored him because she had her own reason for being here.

  Shading her eyes with her open palm resting above her eyebrows, Sorina squinted into the sunlight, and focused on the stranger. He sat taller in the saddle than the others, but had not joined in the survey, hanging back as though to make sure no one intruded on the process. She had not questioned her grandfather about him, not wanting to signal her interest. It would seem suspicious.

  But Pablo will know, and Pablo was due back from San Pedro this afternoon.

  She adored Pablo. He was Grandfather’s majordomo and had been a special favorite of her mother. When she died, he’d transferred his attention to Sorina and made it his purpose in life to look after her.

  He was loyal to the core.

  He also knew all the gossip.

  She smiled as Grandfather joined her for the remainder of the ride to the cliffs.

  “These have been long days for you, Sorina.”

  “They have also been unnecessary days, Grandfather.” She allowed her irritation to surface as she yanked the scarf away from her mouth. “You know perfectly well that you are too fastidious to die. You would not like to rot in a coffin.”

  His laugh was a rich throaty sound that left the corners of his mouth upturned, making his skin wrinkle at the corners of his eyes.

  “You are right about that, chiquita. But all this will be yours, someday. This new survey includes your father’s ranch. As you know, Governor Alvarado granted it the year before your parents died. It is important for you to witness the confirmation of your boundaries, as well as my own.”

  She sighed. “As you wish, Grandfather.”

  My wish is to be lying naked in a tepid bath smelling of rosewater. But she had at least another hour before she could escape.

  Grandfather cocked his eyebrows and ran his fingers over his short beard. “It will be a great deal of land for a woman to manage on her own, even though the law permits women to inherit. Perhaps it is time to find you a husband, eh?” He reached out and tugged the strings of her bonnet loose in a playful gesture, as if she were still a child.

  “Madre de Dios, you haven’t been listening to Tía Consuelo, have you? I am, as the English matrons say, an ape leader.” She grabbed her bonnet strings and retied them firmly to her head.

  “Do not swear. It is unseemly.” He scowled, his tone harsh.

  “I apologize, but it’s true. I am too old. No man will have me now.”

  And I want no man to rule me.

  “You are an intelligent, accomplished woman, Sorina. I feel I have neglected your welfare. With all these foreigners coming into California, you would be far safer if you were under the protection of a husband.”

  He sounded serious. He could force her, but she did not think he would. Her birthday was very close. “You know I have the skills to take care of myself and to run a ranch the size I will inherit, even yours, although that day will be far into the future.”

  She leaned over and spit out the grit that had flown into her mouth while talking.

  “Sorina! You are not a man. You are a gently bred girl. Did you learn nothing in England? Ladies wipe their mouths into their kerchiefs.”

  Ah yes, another rule.

  “Si, Señor.” She looked down as contritely as she could, hoping she would be forgiven. Her grandfather knew all of her bad habits—well, not all of them. It wasn’t like someone else was present to witness her lapse.

  She must learn to be more careful, to guard her tongue and her thoughts and actions until the land she d
esperately wanted to own outright was hers. If not, Grandfather might foist her off on some old fool looking for a hostess for his home, or a mother for his brood, or worse, a fertile body for his bed. She knew at least two men her grandfather’s age who might overlook her advanced age for the land and wealth she would bring to a marriage.

  And then there was Santoro.

  She shuddered. As the son of the adjoining landowner, he was one of the neighbors witnessing the survey today. He would be a guest for dinner.

  “I must join the men now,” Vega said. “We shall stop for a midday meal and finish the mapping today. If you are tired, you may rest in your own quarters before tonight’s activities.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  He spurred his horse and the great roan stallion shot off, as if it were starting a race. Sorina admired her grandfather’s dexterity as he urged the horse into a full gallop. For decades Vega had been known for his horsemanship and his skill with a rope. He was also a shrewd cattleman who had built a lucrative hides and tallow trade with the Russians and the Americans. He would not want his business relationships to change. But he might not have a choice.

  The uneasy political situation might be fueling his thoughts about marrying me off.

  As far as she knew he’d never become involved openly in provincial politics, preferring to exert his influence quietly behind the scenes. Sorina was proud of Grandfather’s ability to control and diffuse with a few chosen words. She wished she could be more like him. Unfortunately, she was more like her uncle Gabriel.

  Where are you, Tío?

  Her uncle had taught her how to handle a gun as skillfully as a man. The knife she wore strapped to her thigh was at his suggestion. Don’t ever take a man for granted, he’d warned. We live in dangerous times and more danger is brewing with a divided California. Those words had been spoken right before she left for England. When she returned, he was gone.

  She’d quizzed Grandfather about his absence, but had received a tight-lipped response. He was gone and would not be returning. Do not speak of him again.

  How could she not? He was her hero. His nickname was “the fox” and she was his shadow.

  Ten years younger than her mother, he’d encouraged her to apply herself to her lessons and had answered endless questions when her father was away.

  He’d taught her to think critically, to be thoughtful when making decisions, and to stand up for the landless Indians who toiled on the ranch. He made her see them as people needing protection and education, not invisible bodies who magically tanned hides and tended crops or sewed garments and emptied chamber pots.

  The girls especially needed her. She must look after them, especially around those who did not value them. He’d been the first to warn her about Santoro, but had not given her details except that he was not to be trusted.

  He’s a dangerous man, Sorina. Stay out of his way.

  She’d grown up believing she could count on her uncle if she ever had a serious problem. When she’d asked Pablo where he gone, he gave a vague answer and told her not to ask questions.

  Scowling, she once again scanned the horizon for the man she hoped to see on the mesa today. If he was there, he now blended with the others who had turned south and were measuring the distances across the cliffs. After their meal and a brief siesta, they would continue the process. It would take the rest of the day.

  She grinned. Her English relatives had been horrified when she told them workers in California were given siesta time. They’d called the two-hour break a waste of time and money. Sorina thought it quite the opposite. Resting during the hottest part of the day restored depleted energy and renewed vigor, making workers more productive.

  She would take her own rest in the great four-poster bed Father had brought around Cape Horn from England. And tonight, after the lavish dinner for their neighbors, she would slip away and gaze at the stars from the beach, an egregious transgression if she were ever caught.

  And that’s what makes it so appealing.

  Turning her horse, she rode back toward the river and the house, counting the minutes until she could remove her clothes and put on a loose gown.

  Heaviness settled in the area of her heart as she gazed at the distant hills. Her parents were the last members of her family to witness the process of juridical possession, the survey that created the desayuno that recorded boundaries. When Grandfather passed on, she would have to confirm the edges of her property all over again.

  Mexico City thrived on paperwork. So did Sorina. If she’d learned anything from the English tutor her father had employed, it was the importance of documentation.

  Most unmarried ladies filled the sea chests at the foot of their beds with linens and crystal and hand-stitched gowns. Hers had law books and sheaves of carefully preserved papers, such as her parents’ marriage lines, her baptismal record, and property deeds she’d copied by hand. Of particular importance was a thick book of laws relating to the United States of America. If the information she’d gathered from eavesdropping and reading months’ old gazettes from Monterey was accurate, she might need the information the book contained.

  Everyone believed war was coming and it would be here soon. She would be ready.

  Chapter 4

  Later that night

  The angle and phase of the moon told Grainger it was time to go. On clear days and nights he didn’t need the pocket watch hidden in his saddlebag. His sea training had taught him to tell time by looking at the sky.

  Getting up quietly, he folded his blankets and carried them to the corral. Responding to his low whistle, his horse trotted over to the edge of the fence. Grainger climbed into the enclosure, slipped the bridle over the horse’s muzzle, and led him to the gate away from the snoring group of vaqueros. Mitchell had provided the horse. It knew several useful tricks.

  He’d left his saddle hidden in the barn next to the corral, not trusting thieves who sometimes stole into camps during the night. After tethering the horse, he brought the saddle out, pausing to make sure no one was awake. A man could get shot if mistaken for one of the thieves. But the man assigned to stay awake and keep watch was snoring the loudest.

  Grainger saddled the horse and rode toward the north end of the seacliffs where a stream flowed down to the shore. He’d gauged the distance today as he followed the survey team, ever watchful for bands of roving Indians. Most were former neophytes of the mission, abandoned by the system that was established to care for them. They were now landless and hungry.

  I wonder if they will fare any better under American rule.

  At least the survey was over. He could go back to his regular duties, which gave him opportunities to eavesdrop on interesting conversations. His tasks also took him to the far reaches of the rancho, close to the boundaries with Santoro’s Rancho de Las Ranas. At such times it was easy to slip away and do reconnaissance.

  Thin wisps of clouds spread over the sky, obscuring some of the stars. After a day of swallowing dust he actually looked forward to immersing himself in the ocean. The hot, fierce winds had stilled. Tame gentle breezes now blew off the beach from the west.

  Reaching the shoreline, he turned south and hugged the bottom of the cliffs. Sand muffled the sounds of his horse’s hooves. Even in the shadows he could see well enough to dodge the larger boulders that littered the beach. The smell of seaweed left by the receding tide was strong, but the cool damp air made the trip enjoyable.

  Swinging down from the saddle, he led his horse through a section littered with driftwood. Nothing stirred. Waves curled and pounded the sand as water rushed onto shore.

  A few dozen yards away a rocky path wound its way up to the top of the cliff nearest Vega’s hacienda. He’d watched a few vaqueros descend to the beach, using the path. Hides used for trade were thrown from the cliff to the beach below. Sometimes t
hey caught on the side of the cliff and had to be retrieved. The narrow path seemed more suitable for a goat than a man. But at night the path made a good landmark, so he tied his horse to a weathered log and waited for the signal.

  Clouds momentarily covered the moon. When they drifted past, the ship was clearly outlined on the horizon. If anyone else saw it, they’d think it was a trading ship, waiting for dawn.

  The light signaling him was abrupt and bright. One, two, three lights then blackness. It was time to go. The longboat was underway.

  Grainger waited. In a calm sea, it would take about twenty minutes to row to where the waves broke.

  Counting fifteen minutes, he shucked his clothes, leaving them in a neat pile near his horse. The breeze on his bare skin brushed away the heat and dust of the day. When the lantern signaled from the skiff, he ran into the water, the shock of cold hitting him like a wall of melting ice.

  He dove under a breaking wave and came up behind it, swimming with firm strokes to the place where he’d seen the signal. He stopped to get his bearings, finding the small boat off to his right. Swimming in that direction, he reached the skiff and grabbed the side.

  “Give me the packet and make it quick.”

  “Balls freezing off, are they?” The two men in the skiff laughed at his discomfort and handed over a small packet wrapped in sealskin. It was embedded in glass, like a flat bottle.

  “That’s new. How do I get it out?”

  “Break it on a rock. The glassblower who made it said the glass is thin, but watertight.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “Be off with you. It’s getting cold out here.”