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“No. Are you?” He pulled her into a brotherly embrace. “Don’t worry. Roman is here. He knows what needs to be done.”
Roman saw them together and approached. “Oliver.”
“Hello, brother.”
“I would feel immensely better if the two of you stayed at Las Colinas.” Shelene handed him his jacket and hat, which he accepted with a tight smile.
“Save your breath. Let’s find my nephew,” Oliver said. Shelene appreciated his strength in standing up to his much more fearsome brother.
Roman looked at Shelene. “Please,” he said.
“I must go. Brahim? Where’s Maymun? Does he know?” Durra’s husband would surely want to be part of the group.
“Sayidati, he and some of the others took the wagons to Cadiz for supplies. You are not to worry about anything but Antonio.”
She nodded, turned away and walked to the mounting block. Udad must have selected the horses—all sure-footed Galicians that could endure the mountains and valleys of the estate’s terrain.
Once in her saddle, she pulled out her leather case and utensils, loading her pistols. “I’m ready.”
* * * * *
The horses were nervous, prancing and edging sideways into the horses beside them. It was a reflection of the group’s unease.
“Oliver, when we get to the water, I want you and Shelene to take the west trail.” Roman had described to the riders what he wanted to happen. How he wanted to find Belgrano and ended this heartless mercenary’s ways—and how cowardly—to bring his own family into the fray. Most importantly, he must keep Antonio and Durra from being harmed.
Rousseau was a good tracker and led the group, following a certain set of hooves with a marker on one of the iron horseshoes. Oliver pulled his horse to a stop beside Roman and allowed the others to pass, including Shelene who looked back at them, brows raised. Oliver leaned on his saddle horn, and said, “Do not bring me into your marital discord. If you promised to take Shelene, then you take her the distance. Or is it that you think we are the weakest links in this merry band?”
“You would question me when my son is in jeopardy? Now isn’t the time. And yes, you two are the weakest and may put the rest of us in the most peril. Am I supposed to look over my shoulder worrying about your safety? Am I supposed to be happy about that?”
“The answer is no. I will stay where I am most useful, and that’s on a horse with a rifle in my hand. If you are going to send her on a fool’s errand while her son is God-knows-where, then you will be the one to tell her and why.” Oliver clicked his tongue and tapped the horses’ flanks, galloping ahead to meet the group again.
Roman glanced across the valley. Even as he was carrying Mrs. Johns into the house, his mind had been racing. Why Father Etienne and what did he have to do with this? Her uncle was involved. Somehow. Was the priest part of a larger conspiracy to overthrow the monarchy? Father Etienne was a Jesuit, an order steeped in political intrigue, deception and revolution, when necessary.
It should be no surprise that the two subversives found each other. So, which one was the mastermind? It had to be Belgrano. Why choose Las Colinas and the valley otherwise?
He rarely moved forward without a clear plan, but what could one do when one’s son added an element of fear and extreme uncertainty to the complicated equation? He’d acted and now he was filled with doubt. Roman removed his bolero and wiped his arm across his brow before he tapped his horse and caught up.
The caves were the only possible place they could be hiding. The area wasn’t widely visited or well-known.
A pall fell over the riders. All sat tall in the saddle, gazes searching out the light and shadows around them. They neared the crossroads. Rousseau, in the lead, turned his horse in a circle, examining the dusty ground below him. “They aren’t going toward the caves. The hooves on our horse went toward Arco de la Frontera.”
“Not toward the caves?”
“No, but there are several sets heading that direction, just not the same horse we’ve been tracking.”
“What d’ya want us to do, León?” Dewey asked.
“Roman, Father Etienne says mass every day at eleven. He is there. I know it,” Shelene said.
“Only a Jesuit,” Roman muttered under his breath. “All right. Shelene and I will ride to Arco de la Frontera. The rest of you to the caves. Rousseau is in charge. Do what he says when he says it. Rousseau, stop them. Whoever they are. Whatever they are doing.”
Roman watched as they galloped away. Anger coursed through his veins.
He sensed Shelene draw next to him. “Will Antonio be there?”
“I don’t know.”
He tapped his horse’s flanks and they cantered away and toward the town, Shelene at his side. What could he say to her? The mother of his son? This was his fault for not taking the matter as seriously as he should have. How had he turned a blind eye to the obvious wickedness of the man who had delivered the false news of his death? Had terrorized Spain’s and France’s citizens? Had betrayed family honor, lied, cheated, murdered. There was a reason he’d been in prison.
