Chapter 1

Tom Pettigrew had known his share of pain. He’d been injured when he served under General Zachary Taylor, leaving him with no choice but to muster out just months before the start of the Mexican-American War. In the time he’d traveled with the General, he’d been shot at and stabbed by men who should have known better than to hurt horses in his presence and kicked and thrown by the horses he trained for the Army.

But he’d never felt such pain before.

They’d all been so happy when they’d learned Analeigh was going to have another baby. George, their four-year-old son, had especially hoped for a baby sister.

“I’ll teach her to ride and how to play a flute.”

Tom had laughed because his son had no idea how to play a flute, but George’s Mama had told him proudly, “Of course you will, my son. You’ll be an excellent big brother.”

Now Tom stood beside the open grave as the coffin holding the bodies of his wife and infant daughter was lowered into it. At his side was his little boy.

The black-garbed padre murmured a final prayer. He was as devastated as Tom, since he’d known Analeigh her entire life. The padre had baptized her, had performed all the Catholic rites and rituals, had married them and baptized their son. And at the end, he’d given her the last rites.

“God be with you, my son.” Father Felipe made the Sign of the Cross before Tom, then shook Tom’s hand. Even though Tom wasn’t Catholic, Father Felipe had been kind to him. “And God be with you also.” He patted George’s shoulder and gave a brief nod to Don Jorge before crossing to where his dusty donkey grazed.

Don Jorge de Alessandro y Echevarría, his wife’s father, waited until the padre was gone before he glowered at Tom from the other side of the hole in the ground.

“I want you away from here,” he snarled in Castilian Spanish. Tom understood him. His knowledge of Mexican had helped when he’d bargained for horses for the cavalry as they traveled west, but Analeigh, his beloved, had taught him the elegance of Spanish.

Don Jorge never let anyone forget he was a Hidalgo, and while he’d only come to California thirty years before—Tom had the feeling the don’s violent temper had caused him to be banished from his homeland—his family had owned this land for over two hundred fifty years.

Tom hadn’t expected anything less than this, although he was surprised Don Jorge would send the boy away. “We’ll be gone by dawn tomorrow, Don Jorge.”

“The boy remains. Jorge is my last male heir.” Don Jorge had lost his namesake as well as his other sons, and he’d expected Tom to fill that gap with many sons of his own. When George was born, he’d been almost insanely pleased, and had insisted the boy be named after him. “Try to take him away from here, and I’ll see you dead.”

Tom tightened his grip on his son’s hand. He knew his father-in-law too well to doubt his words. He also knew no one in the vicinity would interfere with the don. The best thing Tom could do just then was to appear to accommodate him. “Of course. I don’t want to die. But please…May I spend one last night with him?”

Don Jorge curled his lip at him and muttered something about the spineless gringo before he turned on his heel and stalked away, his silver spurs jingling. Fortunately for Tom, the don was so full of himself he never doubted he’d be obeyed.

“Papa?” His son’s blue eyes were huge and swimming with tears, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth. At four, George was too old to be sucking his thumb, but Tom didn’t have the heart to scold him for it, not after what had happened the day before.

George had so badly wanted a baby sister. He’d had one for a handful of breaths before she was gone. The Mama he’d adored hadn’t lasted much longer.

Something else Don Jorge blamed Tom for, because if Analeigh had survived, the don was certain she would have produced more grandsons for him.

“It will be all right, Georgie.” Tom squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting back his own tears.

He had come to the rancho, bringing with him the body of Don Jorge’s youngest son. Tom had met the young Californio a few years before the war with Mexico had ended, and they’d ridden together during that time, becoming good friends and building a solid reputation for being able to provide sound, saddle-broke horses. They’d been doing well until Guillermo had been thrown during a roundup when his horse had stepped into a burrow while at a full gallop, breaking its leg and Guillermo’s neck. Tom had shot the horse, putting it out of its misery, and brought Guillermo’s body home.