Home Before Sundown

Chapter 1 Tom Pettigrew had known his share of pain. He’d been injured when he served under General Zachary Taylor, leaving him with no choice but to muster out just months before the start of the Mexican-American War. In the time he’d traveled with the General, he’d been shot at and stabbed by men who should have known better than to hurt horses in his presence and kicked and thrown by the horses he trained for the Army. But he’d never felt such pain before. They’d all been so happy when they’d learned Analeigh was going to have another baby. George, their four-year-old son, had especially hoped for a baby sister. “I’ll teach her to ride and how to play a flute.” Tom had laughed because his son had no idea how to play a flute, but George’s Mama had told him proudly, “Of course you will, my son. You’ll be an excellent big brother.” Now Tom stood beside the open grave as the coffin holding the bodies of his wife and infant daughter was lowered into it. At his side was his little boy. The black-garbed padre murmured a final prayer. He was as devastated as Tom, since he’d known Analeigh her entire life. The padre had baptized her, had performed all the Catholic rites and rituals, had married them and baptized their son. And at the end, he’d given her the last rites. “God be with you, my son.” Father Felipe made the Sign of the Cross before Tom, then shook Tom’s hand. Even though Tom wasn’t Catholic, Father Felipe had been kind to him. “And God be with you also.” He patted George’s shoulder and gave a brief nod to Don Jorge before crossing to where his dusty donkey grazed. Don Jorge de Alessandro y Echevarría, his wife’s father, waited until the padre was gone before he glowered at Tom from the other side of the hole in the ground. “I want you away from here,” he snarled in Castilian Spanish. Tom understood him. His knowledge of Mexican had helped when he’d bargained for horses for the cavalry as they traveled west, but Analeigh, his beloved, had taught him the elegance of Spanish. Don Jorge never let anyone forget he was a Hidalgo, and while he’d only come to California thirty years before—Tom had the feeling the don’s violent temper had caused him to be banished from his homeland—his family had owned this land for over two hundred fifty years. Tom hadn’t expected anything less than this, although he was surprised Don Jorge would send the boy away. “We’ll be gone by dawn tomorrow, Don Jorge.” “The boy remains. Jorge is my last male heir.” Don Jorge had lost his namesake as well as his other sons, and he’d expected Tom to fill that gap with many sons of his own. When George was born, he’d been almost insanely pleased, and had insisted the boy be named after him. “Try to take him away from here, and I’ll see you dead.” Tom tightened his grip on his son’s hand. He knew his father-in-law too well to doubt his words. He also knew no one in the vicinity would interfere with the don. The best thing Tom could do just then was to appear to accommodate him. “Of course. I don’t want to die. But please…May I spend one last night with him?” Don Jorge curled his lip at him and muttered something about the spineless gringo before he turned on his heel and stalked away, his silver spurs jingling. Fortunately for Tom, the don was so full of himself he never doubted he’d be obeyed. “Papa?” His son’s blue eyes were huge and swimming with tears, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth. At four, George was too old to be sucking his thumb, but Tom didn’t have the heart to scold him for it, not after what had happened the day before. George had so badly wanted a baby sister. He’d had one for a handful of breaths before she was gone. The Mama he’d adored hadn’t lasted much longer. Something else Don Jorge blamed Tom for, because if Analeigh had survived, the don was certain she would have produced more grandsons for him. “It will be all right, Georgie.” Tom squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting back his own tears. He had come to the rancho, bringing with him the body of Don Jorge’s youngest son. Tom had met the young Californio a few years before the war with Mexico had ended, and they’d ridden together during that time, becoming good friends and building a solid reputation for being able to provide sound, saddle-broke horses. They’d been doing well until Guillermo had been thrown during a roundup when his horse had stepped into a burrow while at a full gallop, breaking its leg and Guillermo’s neck. Tom had shot the horse, putting it out of its misery, and brought Guillermo’s body home. For some reason, Don Jorge hadn’t seemed upset by the loss of his son, muttering a Spanish word Tom didn’t recognize. Don Jorge had looked Tom over from head to foot, then hired him to gentle the horses he raised. Tom had never thought to fall in love. He’d trained horses for the cavalry and then became a horse wrangler. He was a tall, angular man, not the sort to draw interested looks from women, until one woman had given him such looks—the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen. The petite señorita had come out to the paddock where he was gentling a gelding intended for the don’s daughter. When she’d strolled up to the fence to watch, Tom’s fingers had twitched with the urge to stroke the silky black hair that cascaded down past her hips. He’d been dismayed to learn she was the don’s daughter, but he’d taken one look into her liquid brown eyes and had fallen head over heels in love. It had taken him almost six months to convince Don Jorge to give him his daughter’s hand, but he’d finally been successful. For five years he’d had a wonderful woman, who had given him an even more wonderful son. Before she’d died, Analeigh had pleaded with him not to let her father have the boy. She’d known that was most likely to happen, having lived with the man all her life. If it came to that, Tom had had years to become aware of the sort of man his father-in-law was. Did Don Jorge really think Tom would leave his son to be brought up by a man with no heart? No warmth? Tom looked down at George as he leaned against his leg. He stroked the blue-black hair that was so like his Mama’s, for while Tom was very fair, the only thing he had passed on to the boy were his blue eyes. “Papa?” “We need to leave, George,” he said softly in English, saddened when his son’s lip quivered. “I know Mama and Mora are here, but if we stay, your grandpapa will want you to be his boy. He’ll keep you and make me go away.” At least he’d try to. “Is that why he calls me Jorge instead of George?” “Yes.” George shivered, and Tom wanted to shoot his father-in-law. “Where will we go, Papa?” “Away from here.” Even speaking English, Tom couldn’t risk anyone overhearing that he intended to take his boy east, back to the States. The sound of clumps of dirt landing on the wooden coffin followed them as Tom led George to the cottage that wouldn’t be their home for much longer. * * * * A few hours after sundown, Tom woke his son. “It’s time to go, George.” He hurriedly dressed the boy. “I packed earlier, while you were sleeping.” Anyone who saw him filling the saddlebags and packs would assume he was doing so because of Don Jorge’s orders. His money belt held all the cash money that was left from what he’d earned with Guillermo. He had no intention of taking the gold coins Don Jorge kept in a chest in the hacienda. Considering how much the don wanted George, he’d accuse Tom of theft and see him strung up. Of Analeigh’s jewels, though—he took two ruby brooches; one he’d given her at the time of George’s birth and the other he’d planned to give her after this last baby was born. He paused a moment to catch his breath, almost overwhelmed by his loss, then closed his fist around the locket that held miniature paintings of Tom and Analeigh. That was mostly for their son to have something of his mother’s to remember her by. Tom had saddled Sunrise, his buckskin mare. He planned to leave behind the fat little pony he and Analeigh had given George on his last birthday and instead take Analeigh’s rangy black gelding—the horse he’d been gentling for her when they’d first met and which she’d named al Caer la Noche—Nightfall. He’d switch horses every few miles, enabling him to cover more ground without wearing them out. Having a remuda would have been better, but the additional horses would have made too much noise. He was bringing a mule, though. He’d worked with Sancho Panza since the mule had been foaled, and Tom knew he could trust him not to throw a tantrum at the worst possible moment. He gathered up his son, hurried to the stable, and swung George up on Sunrise’s back. “Papa?” “We need to make good time, and none of Don Jorge’s horses can keep up with Sunrise.” Tom slid his rifle into its scabbard and mounted behind his son. He’d tied the mule’s lead to his saddle, and now he caught up Nightfall’s reins and nudged Sunrise’s sides. “What will we do when we get to wherever we’re going, Papa?” “Hush, George. I’ll tell you later. We don’t want anyone to know we’re leaving.” “I’m sorry.” He dropped a kiss on his son’s curly hair, then settled George’s hat on his head. “Stay quiet until I tell you.” He kept the horses and the mule at an easy walk. Once they were out of sight of the hacienda, he’d set them at a ground-eating pace, heading northeast. Eventually they’d make their way back to the States, where they’d build a new life.