his black stallion a few paces to one side, rider and horse moving as one. The man can certainly sit a horse, Jordan thought with reluctant admiration. He'd like to see him, though, on the deck of the Dancer for a few days--he'd be sick as a dog. Jordan smiled at the thought.
Esteban smiled back, his white teeth flashing. He's a handsome devil, Jordan admitted to himself.
"I welcome you as brother greets brother," Esteban said, "not with great ceremony but with pleasure and in the spirit of comradeship. My people are your people. My home is your home."
"Don Esteban, whatever pleasure you have in welcoming me only equals half the joy I feel in being at last at the home of my betrothed and her gracious family."
"Well said. Already you speak like a Californio. In truth, soon you will become one."
"Never. I'm a sailor. I've been a sailor all my life and I intend to remain one."
"As for myself," Esteban said, "I love the sea. I have sailed to Spain, to Acapulco, San Diego and Yerba Buena many times. Never have I suffered from the mal de mer . Forgive me, I did not intend to appear boastful--I only wished to state a fact."
" De nada . It is nothing."
How I'd like to take you down a peg or two, Don Esteban Mendoza, Jordan thought. Why did Margarita's older brother always have this effect on him? Each time he met Esteban, Jordan's intentions were of the best. I'll make a friend of the man, he'd assure himself, and each time, after a few minutes, he found himself gritting his teeth.
Could he be envious of Esteban, Jordan wondered. Though he was not as tall as Jordan, the Spaniard who, at thirty, was Jordan's age, was muscular and lithe and sat his horse as though the animal were an extension of himself. The man had charm, too, Jordan admitted, or at least women seemed to think so. Perhaps he was put off by Esteban's small black mustache. Jordan distrusted men with mustaches even though he himself wore a beard. There was something almost effeminate about a mustache, he thought.
"Senor Huerta will escort Senor McKinnon to his room," Esteban said as they dismounted in the courtyard in the center of the Mendoza casa.
"I'm anxious to see Margarita," Jordan told him, glancing up at the gallery in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of her. "It's been almost two years."
"A lengthy absence kindles the flames of love. Be patient--she will come to us soon. I can attest that her impatience is the equal of your own."
The casa appeared little changed, Jordan thought, with the living quarters for the Indian house servants, the bathing rooms and the offices on the lower floor. The two men climbed the stairs to the gallery, which ran completely around the inside of the house and overlooked the courtyard in the center. Esteban pulled aside a beaded curtain and they entered the sala , a dark, cool apartment furnished with tables, two chaise lounges and armchairs made of cane. Candles flamed in brass and iron sconces on the walls.
Esteban went to a side table and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. He handed a glass to Jordan and poured the wine.
"To the marriage of Jordan Quinn and Margarita Mendoza," he said, raising the glass. "May their union be blessed with every happiness known to God and man."
They sipped the wine in silence.
"I deeply regret that I was unable to meet your ship," Esteban said after a time.
"Your emissary, Senor Huerta, was most profuse in expressing your apologies."
"Three days ago I and others were summoned to the rancho of Don Jose Ortega at Refugio Bay. He had received a report that Monsieur Bouchard and his men were about to mount an attack. Fortunately the report proved false."
"The pirate Bouchard? Then there actually are pirates in these waters."
“Of a certainty. A sea captain arriving from the Sandwich Islands told of seeing Bouchard's ships anchored there and hearing that they planned to sail east to raid the coast of the Californias. These pirates are men of evil who care nothing
Esteban smiled back, his white teeth flashing. He's a handsome devil, Jordan admitted to himself.
"I welcome you as brother greets brother," Esteban said, "not with great ceremony but with pleasure and in the spirit of comradeship. My people are your people. My home is your home."
"Don Esteban, whatever pleasure you have in welcoming me only equals half the joy I feel in being at last at the home of my betrothed and her gracious family."
"Well said. Already you speak like a Californio. In truth, soon you will become one."
"Never. I'm a sailor. I've been a sailor all my life and I intend to remain one."
"As for myself," Esteban said, "I love the sea. I have sailed to Spain, to Acapulco, San Diego and Yerba Buena many times. Never have I suffered from the mal de mer . Forgive me, I did not intend to appear boastful--I only wished to state a fact."
" De nada . It is nothing."
How I'd like to take you down a peg or two, Don Esteban Mendoza, Jordan thought. Why did Margarita's older brother always have this effect on him? Each time he met Esteban, Jordan's intentions were of the best. I'll make a friend of the man, he'd assure himself, and each time, after a few minutes, he found himself gritting his teeth.
Could he be envious of Esteban, Jordan wondered. Though he was not as tall as Jordan, the Spaniard who, at thirty, was Jordan's age, was muscular and lithe and sat his horse as though the animal were an extension of himself. The man had charm, too, Jordan admitted, or at least women seemed to think so. Perhaps he was put off by Esteban's small black mustache. Jordan distrusted men with mustaches even though he himself wore a beard. There was something almost effeminate about a mustache, he thought.
"Senor Huerta will escort Senor McKinnon to his room," Esteban said as they dismounted in the courtyard in the center of the Mendoza casa.
"I'm anxious to see Margarita," Jordan told him, glancing up at the gallery in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of her. "It's been almost two years."
"A lengthy absence kindles the flames of love. Be patient--she will come to us soon. I can attest that her impatience is the equal of your own."
The casa appeared little changed, Jordan thought, with the living quarters for the Indian house servants, the bathing rooms and the offices on the lower floor. The two men climbed the stairs to the gallery, which ran completely around the inside of the house and overlooked the courtyard in the center. Esteban pulled aside a beaded curtain and they entered the sala , a dark, cool apartment furnished with tables, two chaise lounges and armchairs made of cane. Candles flamed in brass and iron sconces on the walls.
Esteban went to a side table and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. He handed a glass to Jordan and poured the wine.
"To the marriage of Jordan Quinn and Margarita Mendoza," he said, raising the glass. "May their union be blessed with every happiness known to God and man."
They sipped the wine in silence.
"I deeply regret that I was unable to meet your ship," Esteban said after a time.
"Your emissary, Senor Huerta, was most profuse in expressing your apologies."
"Three days ago I and others were summoned to the rancho of Don Jose Ortega at Refugio Bay. He had received a report that Monsieur Bouchard and his men were about to mount an attack. Fortunately the report proved false."
"The pirate Bouchard? Then there actually are pirates in these waters."
“Of a certainty. A sea captain arriving from the Sandwich Islands told of seeing Bouchard's ships anchored there and hearing that they planned to sail east to raid the coast of the Californias. These pirates are men of evil who care nothing
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