Treasure of the Sun Read online

  Christina Dodd

  Treasure of the Sun

  Dedication

  For my mother

  Who taught me everything about bravery and perseverance,

  and blessed me with more self-confidence

  than any one person deserves.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1 - California 1846

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  Praise for the Phenomenal Christina Dodd

  Books by Christina Dodd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  There was never at any time an attempt by the missionaries in California to settle the interior. The mission and the treasure are the author’s inventions.

  19 May, in the year of our Lord, 1777

  We were not able to defend ourselves, and the mission, rich though it was, has fallen to the Indians. Every day we pray and tremble, every night we move a little closer to Mission san Antonio de Padua and the coast of California. I fear the Indians know our whereabouts with some certainty, and that we will not be able to evade them much longer. Therefore, I dip pen in ink to leave a record for my brothers in Christ, to tell them of the history of the gold.

  —from the diary of Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista

  Chapter 1

  California 1846

  Frozen in battle, the bull and the man eyed each other.

  “Toro, toro.” Borne on the wind, the sound of the man's voice wafted to Katherine, as sweet as if he called a lover, deep, low and coaxing.

  Against the twelve-hundred pounds of belligerence, Damian de la Sola stood armed with a red cape: velvet, with fine embroidery and a shredded hem. The whipcord strength of his shoulders strained against the seams of his smudged white shirt. He stood, one tanned hand on his hip, as if the bull were insignificant, not worthy of his consideration. Katherine noted the hand, dark, capable. She noted the hip, and heat brought a flush to her cheek.

  He was well formed—beautifully formed.

  He cracked the cape held tightly in the other hand.

  She jumped; the lack of reality wrapped her round. The drama in the corral possessed her. She stood as silent and as intense as any who sat in the stands. The sun of midday almost blinded her. The restless California wind stirred the dust in the corral, and the scent drifted to her nostrils. It mingled with the stronger smell of the bull, crafty, aware, almost too clever for the man who faced death—taunted death.

  The cape cracked again. The bull exploded from standstill to a full gallop. He flew at Damian, who barely moved to let the animal by. The bull passed beneath his arm with inches to spare. As if she stood inside the corral, Katherine felt the brush of death on the sensitive skin of her arm. She felt the pounding of the earth beneath her feet.

  The combatants froze, evaluating each other with new appreciation.

  Katherine loosened the top button of her dress. Despite the mild March temperature, sweat trickled down her back and tickled her forehead; dust devils swirled, but not a creature moved. She didn't understand what made her so warm.

  It couldn't be anxiety. She was Katherine Chamberlain Maxwell of Boston, and she was a sensible woman. She understood that when a man chose such a hazardous pursuit, the consequences were his own responsibility. So it couldn't be anxiety that made her clutch the wooden rail so tightly splinters dug into her palm.

  In the stands, the señoras’ fans drifted to and fro as they tried to cool their faces and their excitement. The rustle of their fans blended with the snap of the cape, but Damian paid them no heed; nor did Katherine. She focused all her attention on the beast and the warrior.

  She had seen this bull before, many times. He was a prize stud. The warm, rich brown of his coat reminded Katherine of cocoa, of the thick sweet mud of springtime between her toes. His nose looked velvety. His eyelashes made a pretty fringed arc on his face.

  She had seen Damian before, many times. The beauty of his pure, classical bone structure reminded her of a Greek god. His high forehead was swept clear by the wind that caressed him. Below the ridge of his brow, his eyes were set deep, lending him a scholarly thoughtfulness. His nose was long and noble. Well-defined cheekbones revealed sensitivity; his square jaw revealed determination. His was the face of civilization, of poetry, of philosophy.

  But it was an illusion. It was all an illusion.

  The bull was a competitor, a fighter by instinct and a gladiator by chance.

  The man was a conqueror, intent on proving his superiority in primitive conflict.

  The crowd sighed, and Katherine heard a first hushed call.

  “Olé, torero. Olé!” It sounded like encouragement of the brutal sport, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the corral to frown her disapproval. Staring fixedly at Damian, she saw him stomp his foot. She heard the small sound of provocation, saw the little puff of dust it raised and how it spooked the beast.

  “Olé! Show us your colors, my son!”

  That did make her glance aside. Damian's father held a fist to the sky, proud as the devil, proud of his son.

  “Stupid,” she said, disgusted with Don Lucian, with the bull-fight, with the whole barbaric display. Her comment was whisked away on the wind.

  As if Don Lucian's encouragement released them from restraint, everyone erupted in the blast of cheering. The women came to their feet, the men surged forward, and from every throat roared, “Olé. Olé, torero!”

  The bull responded with arrogance. His ears pointed sky-ward. His head swayed to the rhythm of the cheers as he studied Damian and the tattered cape. Walking in a circle, the bull acknowledged the crowd, then came to a stop facing his opponent. His eyes fixed on the gold metal gleaming around Damian's neck. His head lowered.

  The razor-sharp horns reached for Damian, for his stomach, his chest, but Damian never retreated. With flicks of the cape, he lured the beast in. He evaded him by a hairbreadth. The bull made a swift running turn and raced back.

  Damian stood there, prepared, disdainful. His passes were precise. He stayed tuned to the moods of the beast, not hearing the screams of the crowd, moving the cape with the sweeping sensuous dance of the bull.

  The game was horrible and graceful and free. Katherine could see the beauty, but more than that, she could smell danger. Watching Damian's straight back, his small, confident smile as he turned his head, she wanted to leap into the corral and stop the nonsense.

  The bull leaped and whirled, coming straight at Damian and not at the distraction he waved. Damian laughed, tossed the cape aside, and waited.

  Katherine wanted to cover her face with her hands, but she couldn't move. All was silent; no fans fluttered. Damian reached over with his hands. Slowly, yet in a blur of speed, he grasped the horns. The bull lifted his head. Damian tucked and somersaulted over the broad back. Landing on his feet beside the astonished animal, he raised his hands high and bowed.

  The air exploded into pandemonium. Women screamed, men bellowe
d. Four vaqueros vaulted over the fence and dashed toward the bull. Confused by the disappearance of his prime target, he charged at them zealously. The cowboys darted around, working in teams until the beast entered the gate and dashed down the chute to the pasture.

  An auxiliary part of Katherine's mind sighed with relief. She just couldn't loosen the grip of apprehension from her body. Her breath still caught, her fingers still clutched; all her concentration riveted on Damian. She looked, feeding eagerly on the beauty that underlay his brown skin, the hint of black beard on his chin, the mustache that defined his upper lip.

  Then he swung that face on her.

  He observed her attention, her admiration, her surprise.

  Echoing the moment when the bull had rushed at him and he'd tossed the cape away, he laughed, softly at first, with personal satisfaction. Then flinging his head back, he laughed out loud.

  She wanted to glance around, see if any of the Californios noticed. She couldn't. She couldn't tear her eyes from the exultant man.

  Like the brightness of the sun and the endless wind, his pleasure made her uncomfortable. He measured her. Measured her responsiveness, measured the life that returned to her in a rush.

  It had been almost a year since she'd been aware: of her body, her surroundings, her self. A numbness had protected her from the vicissitudes she couldn't face. Now life rushed into her mind, and it hurt. It hurt like blood rushing into frozen limbs.

  Someone jolted her, and she jerked from Damian's spell. She glared at the boy who had smacked her from behind, but he climbed through the fence. All about, humanity moved and cheered. Men leaped the rails, women stood on the benches. Children danced, heedless of the dust that rose at their feet. Everyone called Damian's name.

  She looked for Damian, but men surrounded him in the corral, clapping and whistling, making clear their approbation of his magnificent feat. Then he rose on their shoulders, teetering as all hands sought to carry him. He laughed again, but it was a pleased and public laugh. They carried him around the ring, and without a glance, he passed the spot where she stood.

  An odd mood possessed her, as if she'd stepped into a timeless world for a moment. Now she'd returned, and she was out of place.

  That wasn't unusual, though. She was always out of place.

  The tingling in her hand demanded her attention. It still clutched the rough wood railing with all its strength, and it required a moment of willpower to loosen her grip. The palm and the pads of her fingers shone white. On e by one, she straightened her fingers, and a thousand needles pricked at her from beneath her skin. Blood oozed around one large splinter at the base of her thumb.

  “What did you think of that, Doña Katherina?”

  She lifted her gaze from her hand and stared at Damian's father. She had no time to dissemble, to gather her composure and be the steady, reliable pragmatist she knew herself to be. When her voice projected normally, she was pleased. “Quite unusual. Is that the way all bullfights proceed?”

  Don Lucian de la Sola smiled. “Never. Never have I seen a torero who fought with such courage.” Taking her cramped hand in his, he massaged it and watched as the cheering crowd passed Damian a boda bag filled with wine. “Of course, he is my son.”

  “The guests seem to agree that he fought bravely.” Katherine smiled at the elderly gentleman who had guided her through this foreign society and taught her its ways.

  “The bull is very dangerous, even more than you can imagine.”

  “I found I could imagine quite a lot,” she said with exasperation.

  “ A woman's fantasy.” He chuckled and patted her hand. “I should have known. You're a sensitive woman.”

  “I am?” Astonished by such a misreading of her character, she covered her annoyance. “The word is sensible.”

  “Of course. Of course. I thought you were concerned about the fate of my son.”

  “Yes, I was concerned. He's been my employer for almost a year,” she said primly.

  “Quite so.” His fingers pressed on the splinter and when she started, he looked at her palm. He squinted and patted his coat. “I don't have my reading glasses with me.” He carried her palm as far away from his face as he could and focused. “Tsk, tsk. You mustn't let this fester.”

  “I'll take it out,” she assured him. “I have a medical kit in my room.”

  “And where did you get that?”

  She smiled at his astonishment. “I brought it from Boston. I had no idea what I'd find here in the wilds of California.”

  He snorted in disparagement. “Is it as wild as you suspected?”

  She looked out over the seething corral. “In some ways.”

  “That's not what you were supposed to say,” he reproved with mock seriousness. “You were supposed to reassure me that my Rancho Donoso is the equal of your Boston, and that you love it here.”

  A smile broke across her face at his droll reproof. “I d o love it here, and California isn't the equal of Boston, it's better. It's clean and bright and new. When the United States annexes this land, it will be the best country they've ever acquired.”

  “Don't tell Damian that,” he commanded.

  “Why? Doesn't he want the United States to annex California? As a sovereign, Mexico has don e it no good.”

  “Damian would have agreed with you once.” With old-world courtesy, he tucked her good hand into his arm and strolled with her toward the hacienda.

  The previous four days of fiesta had furthered Katherine's acquaintance with the Californios. Seeking the cool of the shade trees, everyone would assemble on the grass eventually. Only the few who sought to escape the stifling crowd at the corral already clustered on the benches. The others would trickle back, demanding refreshment.

  In a thoughtful voice, Don Lucian remembered, “Two years ago, he urged annexation on Señor Larkin.”

  Her mind elsewhere, Katherine asked, “Who?”

  “The American consul. Damian urged annexation on anyone who would listen to him. Now an American threatens to take Damian's land when it comes under the jurisdiction of the United States, and Damian fears for the rights of Californios under the new law.”

  She chewed her lip and frowned. “My uncle is a lawyer, my father was a lawyer, and I know a bit about the law. Land title transfers from one jurisdiction to another can be awkward, but I believe the United States will be fair in its decisions.”

  “Explain that to Mr. Emerson Smith. He's a vulture, waiting to pluck the heritage of my son from his grasp.”

  “Mr. Smith? Isn't he that tall man with the face like a gravestone?”

  Don Lucian nodded. “The one who looks like he escaped from the circus.”

  The lack of kindness in the remark and the snap in his voice startled her. “Why is he here at this fiesta if Don Damian dislikes him?”

  “We welcome everyone. It is our way.”

  “Yes,” she said, stopping and facing him. “I've noticed, and I'm indebted.”

  “I wasn't speaking of you.” His face mellowed and his eyes warmed. “You're family.”

  “Thank you again.” The words seemed inadequate, superficial, yet she didn't know how to express the gratitude she felt. In Boston, she'd been taught she was a burden, a responsibility to be endured. These people, these Californios, had no sense of place and rank, taking friends and strangers to their bosom indiscriminately. And for her, the regard had been warmer, sweeter, gentler. Stumbling to express herself, afraid she would offend, she said in a low voice, “You've behaved as if I were the prodigal daughter, returned from my travels.”

  Don Lucian moved closer and put his arm around her shoulders. “You are the daughter I've never had.”

  She looked up at him. “No one seems to realize I'm only the housekeeper. The other servants aid me with respect. The guests insist on treating me as if I were an honored friend.”

  “Then we're happy.” He paused just inside the edge of shade, close to the trunk of the tree. “Let me take you to Doña Xaviera
Medina. She'll surely have the implements to take care of your splinter, and you'll not have to leave the fiesta.”

  “I couldn't.”

  “Nonsense.” She stepped back, but he turned to the matron who sat on a bench and fanned herself so negligently. “Doña Xaviera, could you help our little friend?”

  The lady was dressed in a large black tent designed to conceal her ample contours and let the air cool her. She ruled the fiesta like a queen, or like the unofficial hostess, which she seemed to be. She took the hand Don Lucian thrust at her and examined it. In a smooth, languid move, she pulled a two-inch hat pin from behind her ear and flicked it beneath the skin of Katherine's palm. The splinter disappeared with only a bit of pain, but the blood welled u p and Katherine sat beside Doña Xaviera in a sudden display of weak knees.

  “Our little friend is not as brave as she'd like you to think,” Doña Xaviera observed, grasping Katherine's neck and shoving it down.

  “It would seem not.”

  Don Lucian moved to block the view of her weakness from the other ladies, and Katherine concentrated on controlling her queasiness, turning her face sideways, gulping great breaths of air. She let her hands dangle beside her feet. The wind helped, and the massage of Doña Xaviera's beefy hand on her shoulders. When she felt well enough to sit up, she pushed against the hand and it fell away. She leaned back against the tree trunk with a sigh, and her hair tumbled around her arms. “Ah , Señora Medina,” she complained. “No t you, too.”

  “You bind your hair so tightly, it must rob you of your circulation,” the señora said in simulated reproof. “You should leave it down. It draws the eye like a river of gold.”