Unbridled Vengeance

1-2

Preoccupied with what he should do next — send a rider for the sheriff, go back to the Russell’s to get his mother — he’d got halfway across the courtyard to the kennels when he noticed the dogs were hanging back, acting peculiar again, dragging their tails between their legs, shifty in their movements. It came to him in a rush that he should be more on his guard. Maybe the killer was still in the vicinity. Maybe they were waiting for someone to come home in the hope of better pickings.

He stopped and surveyed his surroundings, moving slowly in a semi-circle, examining every bump and shadow, the yard still poorly lit by the delicate curving moon barely over the horizon. Halfway through the circumference on his search he stopped. What was that thrown across one of the outdoor cooking pits? An unburned log? Some other rubbish? He didn’t recall it being there earlier in the day. The men would have eaten here before going out to local grog houses. New Year’s Eve was one of the few nights of the year that the ranch was left pretty much deserted.

A rising dizziness, like he’d experienced when he found Miguel, threatened to engulf him again. He turned and ran for the house.

I need a lantern. I might be being ridiculous, but I can’t do this without one.

He quickly assembled and lit the lantern, and with the light in one hand and his gun in the other, he stalked across the yard like a man holding a lit fuse.

As he approached the oven pit, he raised the lantern to the full length of his arm to cast a strong, wide circle of light. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to withstand whatever it was he was going to be forced to see.

When he opened them, the dogs began howling. Not just Jupiter and Venus, but all the dogs they had in the kennels alongside, howling as if it was a full moon.

It seemed like just the right response because splayed out before him on his back was the shirtless figure of a man, his bare chest burned with branding irons that carried the mark of Rancho Del Oro — the golden cup that overflowed with good things.

But not tonight. And not ever again for this poor sod. Caleb wanted to stay rooted where he was, feet distant, but he knew he had to step closer, to see it all. He stepped right up to the edge of the pit and brought the lamp down low over the man’s face. It was badly beaten. An eyebrow and lip split open, the lips set in a tortured expression that could have been a cry of pain and could have been a strange half smile.

“Noooo! Oh nooooo!”

He heard a low-pitched keening noise and knew there was no one else here. That noise was coming from him. He didn’t need a second view to confirm who was lying there. Rory, his childhood “twin” and the man he suspected Josefa imagined as her primer amor, her first love. His gut cramped.

There’d been a bitter estrangement, threats to contest Rancho Del Oro ownership after Dougal Mackinnon’s first wife died and he married again. Dougal had died last year, but Caleb and Rory hadn’t spoken in more than a decade.

So what on earth had he been doing here? And who would want to kill him?

Caleb pulled himself upright, stiffened his backbone. Right now, he needed to get Rory’s body inside, away from the night prowlers, the coyote scavengers. And then he had to get help.

“Are Miguel’s people going to be all right for Monday?” Doña Valentina was pale and drawn, but her voice still rang with regal authority even when she was asking a question.

“There’s really only Juan, his brother left, so yes. Other than Juan, it’s us. Del Oro was Miguel’s life, we all know that.” Caleb picked at some cold meat slices that sat on the coffee table in front of him.

His eyes flicked to Josefa, who slumped in remote silence, arms folded across her chest, staring at the floor. They were in a small ante room in the Russell house, Josefa distanced in a chair set apart from the sofa where he and his mother sat. Her jaw flexed. She avoided eye contact with both of them.

“As for Rory, the county coroner will have to handle that. I don’t know where Consuela is. She’ll have to be the one to organize Rory’s ending. Meantime the coroner will have him.”

From her corner, Josefa jumped to her feet with a noise that could have been a hiss or a stifled sob, and glared at him, her face white and venomous.

Doña Valentina stood in alarm, matching her daughter’s stance. She took one step toward her, then stopped. “I know it’s been a shock, Josefa, but really, you must hold yourself together, my dear. It’s a very long time since any of us had anything to do with that family. And the dreadful time they gave your father . . . It’s a tragedy, I know, but it’s not our tragedy.”

Josefa jerked as if she’d been poked in the eye with a hot poker. “You don’t know a thing about it!” She glared from her mother to Caleb. “You! You were going to meet him.” Her furious control was dissolving into a wail. “How could you?”

“Meet him? What are you talking about?” Caleb’s hands were blocks of ice. “I haven’t seen or heard from him in nearly fifteen years.”

“Liar! You’re a total liar.”

Doña Valentina took another step forward. “Josefa, you’re upset—”

Josefa whirled to face her mother, hands on her hips. “And you! You only care about Caleb. The golden boy who stepped in and saved the family. Well, I’m sick of it. Sick of you all!” She turned and fled from the room.

The muted sounds of teacups clinking on saucers, and snatches of subdued conversation floated in from down the hall, where the rest of the clan was engaged in a restrained New Year’s Day brunch. An old clock ticked a loud steady beat on the mantel. The fire hissed.

Doña Valentina faltered. Her skin was gray and lined in the sunless day. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her, Caleb. What is she talking about?” She stared up at him, her eyes drawn and perplexed. “You meeting Rory? Where could she have got that idea?”

“I don’t know. But she knows more than she’s letting on, that’s for sure. All those visits she’s been making to Aunt Bonnie’s lately . . .”

Bonaventura was Consuela’s mother, and Valentina’s cousin. His throat suddenly felt parched, and he took a sip of the tea that had been poured when they first sat down. It was lukewarm.

“I wonder if she’s nursing some idea of a romance. You know, she’s always had a soft spot for Rory. And she’s been so vague and dreamy lately. I guess now we know the answer.”

Doña Valentina’s face darkened, her brows narrowed. “What? Surely she wouldn’t be so disloyal? After the agony Consuela has caused us?”

“Rory didn’t have anything to do with it, you know that. It was all Consuela. He can’t help it if she’s his stepmother.”

It still burned. For his mother and, if he was honest, for him too. The spurious claim Dougal Mackinnon had made against Fergus and Del Oro, alleging that Dougal been an equal recipient in the land grant they’d worked together. Claimed he’d not been properly paid out. The discord began within months of Fergus marrying Consuela after the death of his first wife, and they’d always suspected she was the manipulator behind it.

“I accept that Rory had nothing to do with that sad business, but what was he thinking? Coming to our house when we weren’t even there. It just doesn’t make sense.” Doña Valentina frowned and wiped her hands down her face.

Caleb took her by the elbow. “Well, we won’t find the answers here. I need to get you home, Mother. We’ve a lot to do before Monday. Let’s collect the boys and get going.”

Getting away wasn’t easy. The twins, all hollow legs and with no memory of Rory or his family, were wolfing down a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, Welsh rarebit, grilled potatoes and a selection of breads and jams. Even some rolled oats porridge and cream was laid out on the sideboard, in deference, Caleb guessed, to their Scots heritage. His queasy stomach wasn’t ready for any of it.

“Doña Valentina, Caleb, do join us. Dreadful business, I know.” John Russell guided Valentina to a chair next to Pania’s. Graysie and Madeleine sat on the other side of the table, Graysie with her god-daughter Minette nestled in her lap, Madeleine with the baby George on her shoulder. They struggled valiantly at chit-chat about Paris fashion or, Caleb guessed, some other nonsense.

He gravitated to a seat next to Aristide and Nathan, catching Aristide mid-sentence. “They’re damned pushy, I have to say.” His blue-gray eyes flashed with annoyance. “And they’ve a very odd way of doing business.” He acknowledged Caleb’s presence, turning and clapping him on the shoulder. “Sorry to hear the news, mon frère. If there’s anything we can do . . .”

Caleb sighed. “I think we’ve got it under control. I hope so — I’ve been up half the night getting the sheriff, the coroner, the undertaker involved. It was a huge shock, of course. But don’t let me interrupt. We’ve done all that we can for now. Life must go on.”

Nathan nodded. “Suppose so. Aristide was just telling me about these two agents who’ve been pestering him. They appear to be working for a number of San Francisco high rollers, stiff-arming their way into anything that appears to be making money, aiming at taking a cut. Sanctioned extortion is what I’d call it. Isn’t that right, Aristide?”

The winemaker nodded. “Back home in Bordeaux some of the wine districts had cooperatives — all the growers sold to the same agency and the wine was made under a cooperative agreement — and it worked fine if the terms were fair and honest.”

“You were part of that?” Caleb’s eyes felt as if they had sand in them, but he tried to act interested.

Aristide grimaced. “These guys are pushing to set up the same sort of thing here, but as far as I can judge they’re charging ridiculous fees and introducing some very sneaky sub-clauses. I’ve told Sir John not to touch them with a ten-foot pole. I think they’re crooks.” The vintner’s gray eyes flashed angrily, and then he seemed to make a big effort to let go. He shrugged. “I shouldn’t get too wound up about it, I suppose. You just say ‘No’, don’t you? I don’t know why I’m getting steamed up.” He raised his glass. “To prosperous sound business.”

Nathan grinned. “I can drink to that.”

Caleb had a sudden thought. “Where did you say this pair are based? And who exactly do they represent?”

Aristide’s answer was interrupted by a knock at the dining-room door. Madeleine was standing in the entry, her face chalky white. She looked nothing like the sanguine smiling woman at dinner last night. Her eyes searched out the pram, where she’d set down George before going to answer a knock at the door.

“Sir John, excusez-moi. There’s two men here to see you. They would not accept you were already engaged.”

A handsome man with military bearing strode in, brushing her aside with brusque impatience. He held a hat in one hand; his glossy black hair was echoed by a neatly trimmed black mustache; the cut of his jacket fitted perfectly around broad shoulders. He had the air of a man to be reckoned with.

He was followed in by a second fellow of stringy build. He was a head taller than the first, with a thin ginger fuzz above his top lip that was a poor excuse for a mustache. The leading man was confident and vocal, while the second stood to one side in surly silence.

“Sir John.” He thrust his hand forward with assurance. “My word, you’re a difficult man to get hold of. Gérard Le Blanc at your service. And this is Roland Durand, my assistant. We’re agents for Buffer, Jones and Cottlesloe, a renowned San Francisco law firm, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Sir John remained standing with his hands on the back of his chair, ignoring the outthrust hand. His black eyes flashed with irritation, and his jaw set, though he held himself in a controlled neutrality. “That may be, but we are in the middle of a private family gathering here, gentlemen. New Year’s Day is not the time for business.”

Le Blanc sallied on as though Sir John hadn’t spoken. “The information we have at our disposal will be of immense benefit to your business interests, make no mistake, Sir John. And you’ve been impossible to reach.” He emphasized “impossible” with a slightly French lilt and raised one eyebrow theatrically as he did.