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his stallion beside her mare.
    She would leave him before they reached the house. Her brain teemed with lies she would tell if her father saw her. She saw the lights in the distance and dug her heels into Thorny’s sides. “Good-bye, Gabriel,” she called, turning to wave to him.
    “Watch out.”
    His warning didn’t penetrate her mind until the tree branch swiped against her shoulder and hurled her from the saddle. She landed on her back, the breath momentarily knocked out of her. Gabriel jumped from his stallion’s back and knelt beside her.
    “I’m all right,” she gasped. “So stupid.”
    “Are you certain?” he asked. He put his arms around her as she struggled to her feet.
    “Yes, yes,” she said, pulling away from him. “I must get home.”
    “ Querida , let me help you.”
    She didn’t even hear the endearment. But she saw her brother and father standing in front of the house, smoking cigars. “Please go away,” she said to Gabriel, grasping the saddle pommel.
    “All right,” he said. “I will see you again soon, Byrony.”
    He wheeled about and galloped away. Byrony drew a deep breath and rode Thorny to the small stable. She dismounted, her body aching and pulling, and began the task of rubbing down her mare. She had nearly finished when she saw her father standing in the narrow doorway of the stable.
    “So,” he said very slowly, very precisely, “you finally decided to leave your lover, huh, girl?”
    She stared at him, not understanding his words.
    “The rich little greaser, Gabriel de Neve,” he said, and spat into a pile of old straw.
    “He is just a friend,” she said, her heart speeding up with fear. “Just a friend. I met him three months ago in San Diego.”
    “And the friendly little greaser rips your shirt, daughter? You like being on your back?”
    She looked down at the jagged tear at her shoulder. “I fell,” she said. “That’s all. A tree branch clipped me and I fell.”
    “Like hell you did, you filthy little slut. I’ll make you sorry you ever—”
    “I’m sorry you’re my father,” she yelled at him. “God, I hate you. You have a filthy mind—”
    He lunged at her, but Charlie said from the door, “No, Father. Wait, leave her be and listen to me.”
    Byrony blinked. Help from her brother? Surely the world had taken a faulty turn. To her surprise, her father, after giving her a look filled with malice, turned to his son.
    “Come outside a minute, Father,” Charlie said. “It’s important, I swear.”
    “You, girl,” he said to Byrony, “get indoors and clean your lover’s juices off your body. I’ll deal with you later.”
     
    Don Joaquín de Neve was informed by Luis, one of his vaqueros, that Señor DeWitt wanted to see him. Don Joaquín frowned, and closed the ledger on his desk. What did that ridiculous man want? It didn’t occur to him to deny the man, even though he despised him. He rose from his chair, tall, square-shouldered, and proud. He eyed Madison DeWitt as the man roared into his quiet study like an angry bull.
    “Señor DeWitt,” he said with exquisite politeness. “What may I do for you?”
    As always, the proud, aristocratic Californios put Madison DeWitt off stride. He hated them, but they made him feel somehow insignificant, unimportant, something to be tolerated. “I want to talk to you about your son,” he said, drawing up.
    “Which son?” Don Joaquín asked.
    Foul, angry words stuck in Madison DeWitt’s throat. He eyed the splendid rich furnishings of Don Joaquín’s study, and felt greed and jealousy flow through him. He managed to moderate his voice. “Your son Gabriel,” he said. “The boy has ruined my daughter. Raped her. I want reparation, señor. I demand it.”
    Don Joaquín showed no emotion. “Indeed?” he said, a thin black brow arching in interest.
    “Yes, he took her yesterday. I saw him and my daughter, her clothes ripped. He shamed her and her family.”
    Ah, Gabriel, Don Joaquín thought,