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  “He has had men follow the tracks left, but the tracks always vanish after a few miles. He has posted guards at night around the rancho since the last time they came here. The cattle and horses are being brought in off the range, closer to home, and men are left with them at all times now.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What else is there, niña? We are prepared, but the rancho is too large. The bandidos strike our weak points, when no one is there. They are never seen.”

  “You just called them bandits. So you do think it is El Carnicero.”

  “You mistake me, Sam,” Manuel said quickly. “There are many bandidos—not just this one.”

  “I wish I could meet this one,” Samantha said impulsively.

  “Madre de Dios!” Manuel exclaimed. “He is one man you must pray never to meet, niña. They say he hates gringos with a madness and kills them with more pleasure than he does his worst enemies.”

  Samantha changed the subject. “What else do you know about this man?”

  But Manuel stood up. “You keep an old man from his work, niña. Enough questions for one day.”

  “Oh, no, Manuel.” She caught his arm and pulled him back down beside her. “You do know more, don’t you?”

  “Sam—”

  “Tell me!”

  He sighed. “I saw him once. It was many years ago.” He gazed off into the distance. “It was the time el patrón sent me to Mexico City to bring back that big trough you bathe in.”

  “My bathtub?” She grinned.

  “Sí. On my way back I stopped at a cantina in a small town—I do not remember the name of it. El Carnicero had been brought there, captured by soldados when he was wounded raiding a village nearby. They were taking him to Mexico City. It was said the bandido had massacred everyone in that village, not even a woman or a child was left alive to tell the horror of it.”

  Samantha had turned pale. “Did you believe that?”

  “Why should the soldados lie? They were there. They saw it all. But this was during the revolution, niña. Such things happened often, innocents killed on both sides by both armies.”

  “Are you saying El Carnicero was a soldier then, a guerrillero?”

  “They say he fought for both sides during the war, on whichever side was winning at the time. I do not know if that’s true. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  “But what happened when you saw him? Was he really terribly ugly? Lana says he is.”

  Manuel shrugged. “Who is to say if a man is ugly? I could not tell. I could barely see him because he was so covered in filth and blood.”

  “But was he tall? Short? Fat? What?”

  Manuel strained to remember. “He was a short man, with dark hair surrounding his face. His body was like a barrel, his arms long and like so.” He touched his fingers together to form a large circle. “If a man can be called ugly because he looks like the devil, then sí, he is ugly. I have never seen such a mean-looking hombre.”

  “Was he taken to Mexico City?”

  “No, niña. He would be dead now if he hadn’t escaped that very day before my eyes, while most of the soldados were busy in the cantina. Some of his followers had sneaked into town. They killed his guards, and he got away. So he went on to rob and massacre again and again.”

  “He’s not doing that here, though. Killing I mean,” she said thoughtfully.

  “No, he is not.”

  Wheedling information out of the old vaquero was becoming very wearing. “You’re just not going to give me your opinion, are you?” Samantha sighed, exasperated.

  “You have not yet given me yours,” Manuel countered smoothly.

  “Because I don’t have one!” Samantha exploded. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Nor have I,” he replied. “You forget we have both only just returned.”

  “Oh!” She stood up to leave. “At least you had Maria to tell you everything. I had to pry the truth out of you—which was not easy! You have told me all of it, haven’t you? You didn’t leave anything out?”

  “No, Sam. You know as much as I know.”

  “Well, I intend to find out one thing more—what was in those messages. It’s time my father started being more truthful.”

  With that thought in mind, Samantha strode determinedly toward the house, passing the corral and stable and entering the house through the side patio, which led from the stable. But two steps inside, she collided with a figure of medium height in a short bolero jacket and bell-shaped pants, the chamois leather of the suit intricately embroidered with white braid.

  It had been a long time since Samantha had seen a typically Spanish outfit, and she knew without even seeing his face that the owner of the costume could be only Ramón Mateo Nuñez de Baroja. She had completely forgotten that he was waiting for her. El Carnicero had pushed him out of her thoughts.

  Samantha tilted her head back to see his face. His appearance surprised her. There was a thick blond mustache added to the adult Ramón, and there was also a marked masculinity in his face, which had not been there before.

  “Ramón, mi amigo.” Samantha spoke at last.

  She hesitated, greeting him, as she had always done, with an innocent sisterly kiss on the cheek. This new Ramón was imposing, a stranger. This was not the boy she had once teased, calling him the white sheep of his family because he was the only fair-haired one.

  “Samantha.” He said her name softly, wonderingly. And then he gave her a brilliant smile. “Samantha! I had forgotten how truly beautiful you are. And now—”

  “Yes, I know, I know.” She cut him off with a laugh. “I’ve grown up—I’m a woman now.”

  “Not just that,” he assured her, taking her hands, spreading her arms so that he could look her over. “Now you are even more beautiful. And where is my greeting?”

  Without giving her a chance to answer, he pulled her forward for a kiss. He captured her mouth with his. There was nothing brotherly about it.

  The kiss lingered, but when Ramón started to push his tongue through her closed lips, Samantha drew away abruptly. “You never used to do that!”

  “You never would have allowed me to.” He grinned. His grin was infectious.

  “I suppose not.” She gave him an impish smile in return. “I would have laid my fist to your cheek and told you to go home.”

  Ramón threw back his head and laughed. “You do not say, as a woman would say, that you would have slapped me. You say, as a man would say, that you would have punched me.” And he added with mock severity, “I think you did not stay at your Eastern school long enough, Samantha. There are still things I must break you of.”

  Samantha stiffened, and her eyes flashed angrily. “Break me! I—”

  But Ramón quickly put his finger to her lips. “Forgive me, Sam. I was only teasing you.” He coaxed her with that charming smile. “I know as well as anyone does that no one can break you.”

  “I’m glad you understand that, Ramón. I may look more like a lady now, but I will never think the way ladies are supposed to think. I tried, and it…”

  Samantha turned away, repelled by the turn of her thoughts. She had almost told Ramón too much. She had given so much effort to acting like a lady for Adrien that the effort had blinded her to what he was. Could that also be why she had misjudged Hank Chavez?

  “What is it, niña?” Ramón ventured quietly, turning her around to face him again. “You are looking so miserable.”

  Samantha rubbed her forehead. Lord, couldn’t a day go by without that devil popping into her thoughts? She needed a distraction, and Ramón supplied it.

  “Niña?” Her vivid green eyes narrowed, and her hands went to her hips. “So you think you are old enough to call me that, do you?”

  “Now, Sam…”

  “You were no bigger than I when I left here, and not very much older either,” she continued in a stern tone. “But now that you are taller, you think you are much older, as well, eh? Is that it?”
/>   “You wound me, Samantha.” His brown eyes turned mournful. “I had forgotten this quick temper of yours.”

  She suddenly grinned. “Now who cannot take a little teasing—nio?”

  With a gleeful laugh, Samantha mussed his blond hair, then dashed around him and ran into the sala. By the time he turned around to touch her, she was gone. He followed her to the center of the large room and found that her carefree mood had gone as quickly as it had come.

  “Wasn’t my father in here with you?”

  “Sí, he kept me company while I waited for you—several hours I might add.”

  Samantha ignored that. “Where is he?”

  “He left when one of your vaqueros reported a fire.”

  “The line shack to the west?”

  “Sí.”

  “Damn! I wanted to talk to him. Now there’s no telling when he’ll be back.”

  “Then talk to me instead.” Ramón came up behind her. “I have waited forever to see you again. Come, sit here with me.” He gestured to the long sofa.

  She let him take her mind off her father and those mysterious messages for an hour. But as soon as Ramón left, her thoughts returned to the problem of El Carnicero. There was something more complicated there than just cattle rustling and a little malicious damage. What was really going on? She was certain her father knew. And she wouldn’t let him evade the issue again. There would be no more of his “don’t worry, Sam, there’s nothing to be concerned about.” She knew better.

  It was long past the dinner hour when Hamilton Kingsley returned. Samantha was asleep. She had worked herself into such an anxious state while waiting that she had fallen into an exhausted sleep. He did not wake her.

  Chapter 15

  THE plains were bathed in the delicate pink glow of approaching day. Samantha woke at dawn to see the dark blue sky streak with purple over the mountains beyond her window. She knew that, behind the ranch to the east, the sky would be vivid with reds and oranges.

  She did not often awaken at dawn, and instantly, realizing that she was fully clothed, she remembered falling asleep simply because she had rested for a few minutes. She had missed the opportunity to speak to her father.

  She would speak to him now, before he had a chance to avoid her again. She would wait outside his door if necessary, just in case he decided to sneak away. She knew he wasn’t looking forward to facing her with the truth, not after he had tried to pretend nothing was wrong. No, he wouldn’t want to see her.

  Samantha rolled off the bed, which was still made but rumpled. There was a chill coming through her open window, but she didn’t feel the cold floor, because she was still wearing her soft leather house shoes. Sleeping with her shoes on!

  She quickly tore off the green striped linen dress and donned a full beige buckskin skirt. It was split up the middle and fell only halfway down her shins. A saffron yellow blouse of heavy linen was enough even in that chilly morning air, but she also grabbed her fringed buckskin jacket that matched the skirt. Of all the outfits she had designed herself, she liked this one best. It made her feel like a cowgirl. She liked feeling equal to the land, equal to the harsh elements.

  Picking up her high leather boots, she carried them over to the bed and put them on. All of her riding outfits and boots still fit. It didn’t matter if the skirts were a little short. They had always reached daringly above her ankles anyway, and an inch or two higher was of little concern, because her boots were nearly all knee length. Her waist had not thickened in three years, but her many shirts and blouses were a trifle tight now.

  The gunbelt she always wore when she was riding was draped over the foot of the bed, but she didn’t need to strap it on yet. She grinned, thinking that it might intimidate her father while they talked—or argued. She would come back later for her gun and hat, when things were settled and she could go out for her morning ride.

  Standing, Samantha straightened her skirt, then crossed to her dresser for an ivory-backed brush. A few quick brushes and a piece of leather braid to tie them back was all the attention she gave her streaming auburn locks. She turned to leave her room, which was already bright with the increasing light outside. She took a few steps toward the window first, to see what kind of day it would be. And then she saw the smoke.

  There was a great gray-brown wall of smoke rising higher each moment, threatening to hide her beautiful mountains behind it. It was far away, far enough to be…the crop fields!

  “Damn them to hell!” she cried, gripping her window sill, wanting to disbelieve what she was seeing.

  Instead of staying in one place, spiraling higher, the wall of smoke moved first south and then north, spreading on and on in both directions. After a while she could see nothing but smoke, relentless smoke.

  With a cry, Samantha grabbed her gunbelt and hat and ran from the room. She pounded twice on her father’s door before she rushed into his room.

  “They’ve set the west fields on fire!”

  Hamilton was too stunned to speak. Watching his daughter stomp back and forth in agitation as she buckled on her gunbelt with stiff fingers, his bleary green eyes focused with effort.

  “Get up!” she screamed. “It’s too late to save the fields, but Juan and his boy are in the field camp. They might be dead!”

  It worked. Hamilton swung out of bed, the message finally reaching his sleep-clouded brain.

  “I’ll get the horses ready and wake the men,” Samantha called as she turned to leave the room. “I’ll meet you out front. Hurry!”

  “Sam, wait! You’re not going!”

  But she was running down the hall. He knew damned well his order was falling on deaf ears anyway.

  Hamilton cursed the day he’d first let those green eyes twist his heart. She had been such a defiant little creature in their early years together. He had spoiled her terribly, his new daughter, the daughter he’d tried for nine years to bring home. After all the time they’d been apart, he’d felt he had to earn her love. He’d done anything she asked of him.

  It was his fault that she was so independent, so willful. It was his fault, too, that she was such a little hellion sometimes. He had hoped the Eastern school would temper her, but it hadn’t. He grimaced, thinking of his daughter in that buckskin outfit, a gun strapped to her thigh. His Samantha…a better shot than even he was! That wasn’t right. She should have no desire to tote a gun, to ride the range on her own. She should wear silk and lace.

  Why did she have to be so damned—different? But how he loved her, this unique child of his. Even with her temper and stubbornness, she meant the world to him. He hadn’t seen Sheldon since he was a baby. It had caused him years of heartache, but now he considered that he didn’t have a son. Samantha was all he had.

  She was riding away as he reached his horse. Hamilton mounted and, having selected ten of the best riders to follow, set off after her.

  He couldn’t afford to take all his men with him, couldn’t take the chance that this wasn’t a trap, a fire meant to lure them away from the house. He might return to find the house in flames, too. It was just as well that Samantha was with him. He could keep an eye on her. He knew he would die if anything ever happened to that girl.

  Since receiving the first message, Hamilton had known for certain that El Carnicero was responsible for everything. That miserable bastard! The audacity, ordering Hamilton to leave Mexico! It was absurd, yet the bandit was making certain that Hamilton seriously considered the ultimatum. No outlaw was going to dictate to him, however. He’d bring in his own army of mercenaries before he’d leave. He’d blow The Butcher right out of those mountains. And now, with this attack, it was time to think of doing just that.

  They were drawing close to the field camp, and smoke was heavy. Samantha had been right—it was too late to save the fields. The earth was scarred black and no longer burning, but the small camp of thatched huts where the workers stayed during harvest and planting was still roaring, black smoke belching skyward.

  Sam
antha rode straight to the huts before Hamilton could stop her. She was the first to see Juan, beyond the camp, leaning back under a gnarled tree and holding his head in his hands. His small son knelt beside him, staring up at his father.

  “Juan!” cried Samantha as she slid from her horse and bent over the two.

  The child, no more than seven, was wide-eyed with terror. Juan himself was crying, holding his hands to his forehead where a deep gash bled.

  “Patrona?” he looked up in a daze. “I tried to stop them.”

  “Of course you did, Juan,” she replied gently.

  “There were too many of them.” He was mumbling now. “One of them hit me with a rifle, but I still tried—until they said they would kill my hijo.”

  “It is not your fault, Juan. Your life and the boy’s are more important.”

  He seemed to understand. But he was gripped by a sudden fear just then and grabbed her arm, his fingers clenching painfully.

  “You are not alone, patrona? Please! Say you did not come here alone!”

  “Do not worry, Juan. My father is here. We will get you back to the ranch safely.”

  “No! You must go—quickly. They are still here. They have not gone!”

  Before the Mexican’s frantic words could sink in fully, Samantha’s father was behind her, pulling her out from under the tree.

  “Did—did you hear what Juan said?”

  “Yes,” Hamilton growled. “But I didn’t need to. Look.”

  She followed his hard gaze to a small hill on the other side of the field. Now that the smoke was not so heavy, she could see clearly. There were fifteen men on horses spread out across the hill. Samantha had never seen such a menacing-looking group. They sat watching, sunlight glinting off crossed bandoliers and long knives. Wide sombreros hid dark faces.

  Her father pulled her to her horse and helped her to mount quickly. She had never seen him look the way he did.

  “Ride, Sam,” he ordered firmly. “Get back to the ranch now.”

  “No.” Her voice held defiance, but was as firm as his.