Bride of Fortune Read Free Page A

floor where a tough-looking old half-caste Indian herded three milk cows toward a long, low stable on the west side of the big house.
           Hearing the approach of a horse, the man had raised his head and peered from beneath the wide floppy brim of his straw sombrero. His normally impassive face became awestruck. “Don Lucero, is it truly you?” He quickly removed the hat in a gesture that was oddly awkward yet courtly.
           “Hilario? The years have not dulled your eyesight, old man. How is it my father's finest horsebreaker is reduced to herding milk cows?”
           Hilario's gray head bowed and he shrugged with disgust at the cattle, using his hat to swat them along the path to the stables. “Since the imperials came and took the best horses in the stable, I have been afoot. We have hidden the few that remain. Both sides need horses to ride and cattle to eat. These old bags of bones are of no use to them else we'd do without milk, too. I am very sorry for the patrón's death,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “It is good you have returned home, Don Lucero.”
           “It has been a hard time since my father died, then?”
           “Yes.”
           Before he could question the old man further, a squeal of delight echoed across the grassy pasture. A young girl, fourteen or fifteen years of age, stared at him for a moment, then turned and raced for the house, calling for the patrona .
           A smile etched his wide, beautifully chiseled lips. “It seems my wife awaits me. He had nodded to Hilario and urged Peltre into a trot toward the front gate. Servants emerged from various outbuildings along his route, crowding around the big stallion, their bronzed faces mirroring their excitement at the return of the hacienda 's only heir.
           He greeted several by name. A tall, buxom woman of middle years with iron gray hair plaited in two thick braids that hung down her back inspected him from the stone steps of the smokehouse. She stood clutching a ham in her large capable hands. Her shrewd dark eyes measured the dusty young patrón as he smiled.
           “Angelina. You never change. Will you cook a feast tonight for the prodigal's arrival?”
           “But of course, Don Lucero. I will roast this fine ham in your honor. Your lady will be most surprised to see you returned without any word.”
           “There is little chance to write during a war and even less likelihood that letters will be delivered.” He shrugged and turned away from her intent gaze, noting that most of the servants were old and infirm men with a number of women and young children scattered among them.
           The war had reached with greedy hands this far into the northern wilderness to pluck the youths in their prime. How many had he seen die, cannon fodder before modern French weapons? Or, impressed into the imperial army and killed in guerrilla skirmishes by their own kind. Yet as he had ridden closer to the front steps of the Alvarado ancestral home, the tragedies of war had fled his mind. The great sprawling hacienda was his!
           Shaking his head to clear away the dreamy reverie, he shifted in the tub and surveyed the master suite in which he was now ensconced. The massive darkly stained oak furniture had been brought over from Spain in the eighteenth century. Nicks and scratches marred it and a fresh coating of dust covered the intricately carved surfaces. The heavy dark blue draperies were liberally coated as well, the silk frayed and dull with age. The Tabriz carpets had once cost a grandee's ransom, but now they were stained and threadbare. The room reeked of age and neglect.
           Had Mercedes closed it up as a gesture of defiance? Thinking of her, his eyes strayed to the big wide canopied bed in the center of the room. For five generations the heirs of Gran Sangre had been conceived upon it. And he would do his duty as Alvarado men