Pale Dawn Dark Sunset Read online

  Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

  collection of fantastic novels by

  bestselling, much loved author

  ANNE MATHER

  Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

  publishing industry, having written over one hundred

  and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

  forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

  This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

  for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

  passionate writing has given.

  We are sure you will love them all!

  I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

  I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

  These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

  We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

  Pale Dawn Dark Sunset

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT was dawn. Already the sky was lightening in the east and a pale apricot gilding was touching the fleecy clouds that shrouded the horizon. Mist rose ghostlike from the trees down in the valley, and the Angelus bell was ringing in the small chapel below. The air was crisp and cool as Rafael came to the door and he breathed deeply, feeling its coldness against the sweating dampness of his flesh.

  But it was over, and behind him he could hear the shrill cries the child was still emitting, audible above the relieved protestations of its father. That its mother was alive, too, was due more to the will of God than the skill of its enforced midwives. Franco Maqueras knew nothing about bringing a child into the world, in spite of the fact that this was the seventh daughter his wife had borne him.

  But somehow they had succeeded, and Rafael could feel waves of weariness sweeping over his aching body. Only yesterday he had driven a hundred scorching miles to Sustancia to share in the celebration of Mass being held in the new cathedral and then, on his return, Franco had come knocking at his door in the dead of night, begging his help, panic-stricken that his wife was about to bear his child with the overworked doctor many miles away at Pagueri. Rafael had agreed to come, to use the skills which had lain dormant for many months, but in spite of his success he felt no sense of elation, only one of extreme tiredness. His thin cotton shirt and pants were clinging wetly to his skin, and rivulets of sweat, cooling now, mingled with the fine dark hair on his chest. He desired nothing so much as a shower, a change of clothes and a couple of hours’ sleep.

  But these were luxuries he could not, and would not, have. At least, not for the present. There were more important matters to claim his attention. As he sluiced his face and neck from the pump in the yard he reflected that Father Domenico would be expecting him at the chapel, to join in the early morning Sacrament, and afterwards there was the message from Juan which had been awaiting him on his return last night, requesting his presence at the hacienda. He stretched and wondered with a swiftly suppressed feeling of cynicism whether he had done the right thing in temporarily abandoning his studies in Mexico City to come home to attend his uncle’s funeral. His mother had been so appealing, so eager he knew to see her eldest son again after their separation, and he had not refused her. His uncle had worked all his life in the service of the Faith and it was not unreasonable to expect his nephew to attend his burial.

  That had been almost two months ago, however, and still he was here in Guadalima. A week, two weeks at the most, he had expected to be away from the seminary, but circumstances had served to detain him. Father Domenico was beginning to rely on his assistance, the people of the villages brought their problems to him, he was becoming involved again…

  He thrust long lean fingers through the thick strength of his hair. Soon, he told himself urgently, soon he must return to the seminary, to finish his studies, to accept whatever responsibilities would be placed upon him once he became a member of the priesthood. His life would not be here in this remote fertile valley in the highlands of the Chiapas where his family had lived for generations, but possibly thousands of miles away in some other part of the vast American continent.

  He turned back to enter the one-roomed dwelling where the Maqueras and their five surviving children lived and ate and slept, and encountered Franco Maqueras just behind him. The Mexican’s broad features creased into a smile and he spread his thick peasant’s hands extravagantly.

  “What can I say, señor?” he demanded. “I am most grateful for all you have done. Without you…” He made an expressive gesture. “I am in your debt, señor.”

  Rafael shook his head. “No, my friend, not my debt. You must thank God for your wife’s deliverance. I did nothing more than serve as his instrument.”

  “Oh, but yes, señor, of course, señor!” Franco crossed himself piously. “But you understand I am so relieved that Maria is well and that the child is healthy that I do not always make myself clear. If there is anything I can do, any service I can perform for you—”

  “I know, I know.” Rafael flexed his aching back muscles and went past him into the room, reaching for the cotton denim jacket he had shed the night before. Maria Maqueras was lying prostrate among the tumbled covers, the baby a squirming bundle in the shawl beside her. A flicker of impatience momentarily darkened his features and then he gave a characteristic shrug of his shoulders. It was not for him to question the burden this extra mouth to feed would place on the family. These people were taught to accept their lot and be thankful. Only occasionally he experienced doubts that life should be built on so precarious a premise, but these he determinedly squashed.

  “You’ll call Doctor Rodrigues as soon as he gets back?” he confirmed with Franco, and the other man nodded vigorously.

  “But of course, señor. No doubt he will be glad it is over without needing his assistance.” He moved his head philosophically from side to side.

  Rafael nodded, hesitating a moment as he saw the greyn
ess in Maria’s face. The woman was exhausted. But in a few short days she would be required to take up her duties as wife and mother to her husband and the six children with whom he had now provided her. How would she cope? How could she be expected to wash and clean and prepare food with the baby draining every last ounce of strength from her scrawny breasts? His hands curled into fists. This was not his concern. He could feel sympathy—compassion; but that was all. He could offer no alternative.

  After a final word with Franco he crossed the yard where skinny chickens scratched a living and climbed into the dust-smeared Landrover that belonged to the estate. He raised a hand in farewell and started the engine with a flick of his wrist. He drove away from the humble collection of dwellings that clung to the mountainside down a track from which dust spurted liberally, creating a cloud of mud behind him.

  The sun was rising and below him he could see the fertile acres of the valley thick with wheat and fruit orchards, exotic with colour and brilliance. This valley had been his home for more than thirty years, it was his heritage, the Cueras estate which his brother Juan now ran had been his inheritance.

  But he had not wanted it. From an early age, he had been more interested in feeding the mind than the body, and the people and their problems had always been his primary concern. He and his father had clashed on that. The estate had been in the family’s hands for more than three hundred years, since the days of the conquistadores. His ancestor, Alberto Cueras, had been a rich and influential man in the old country—in Spain—but when he had come upon this fertile valley he had abandoned his ideas of returning to his homeland. He had built a house and put down roots, sent for his wife and children; and in the years that followed expanded his holding until today it was the largest in the district. Eldest son had followed eldest son, always working for the estate, always making more money, exploiting the workers and using the women for their own pleasure. Of course, in recent years, things had changed a little; large estates were no longer so common, although in these remote districts the quality of life had changed little over the centuries.

  But Rafael had rebelled. Taught from childhood to take whatever he wanted as his right, he had followed his father’s example until its very selfishness had sickened him. He had been appalled the first time he had discovered his father had mistresses, but under his father’s guidance he had become accustomed to winning the affections of any woman that took his fancy. In truth, he had encountered no opposition. His lean frame and dark good looks had disarmed the most reluctant doncellas and he was always generous to those he pursued.

  And then he went to university, and away from his father’s influence his innate decency began to assert itself. He no longer found the satisfaction of the senses an adequate substitute for books and learning and his studies began to occupy more and more of his time. During his vacations, the poverty of the peons or peasant workers, the deplorable housing conditions, the spread of disease—these things began to trouble him, and he no longer felt any identification with the inanimate chunk of land that was his heritage.

  He didn’t really know what he would have done had his father still been alive. He knew the decision to abdicate from his responsibilities to the estate would have appalled him. But his father had died from a heart attack while Rafael was taking his degree in medicine, and it had been natural that his younger brother, Juan, who had never shown any intellectual leanings, and who had been there at the hacienda at the time of his father’s death should take over the running of the estate in Rafael’s absence.

  After that, for a while at least, he had been content. He was able to practise medicine and things had been good. But restlessness had followed hard on the heels of his mother’s increasingly frequent urgings that it was time he got married, fathered sons to ensure the continuation of the Cueras line. Rafael had had no desire to get married, to have children. His youthful decadence had left its mark on him, and the placid Spanish girls produced for his delectation aroused no sexual interest in him. On the contrary, he had serious doubts that any woman could attract him now. And besides, he wanted to serve the community, not his family. And so, in spite of his mother’s tears and recriminations, he had taken the short step from uncertainty to the seminary…

  Now the Landrover was crossing the plain scythed by the rushing, gleaming waters of the Rio Lima. On either side of the river stretched acres of wheat and maize fields. Lush vegetation sprang up the wooded walls of the valley, interspersed here and there by the brown thatched roofs of peasant dwellings.

  Far across the valley, on a rise in the lower slopes he could see the rambling walls of a larger, more imposing building. This was the Hacienda Cueras, the place where he had been born, where he had lived until he went to university, where his mother and brother and younger sisters lived. But their demand of his services would have to wait for the present.

  He crossed the river by means of a wooden bridge, its patched slats bearing witness to the numerous occasions it had been partially swept away by the rain-swollen waters. He could hear the chapel bells, too, increasing in persistence. Just ahead of him now, set among trees, the Capilla de los Inocentes looked like a bride dressed for her wedding. Its grey walls were hung with purple and white blossoms, tiny star-shaped flowers in the colours of the Eucharist. Already he could see women hurrying up the worn stone steps, drawing black scarves over their heads, and he felt the familiar sense of well-being that always came from this duty. This was what he wanted, he told himself. Everything else came after.

  Later in the morning, when the sun was climbing steadily to its zenith, Rafael drove through the wide stone gateway that gave access to the grounds of the hacienda. Although it was still early the shutters were thrown wide, and the scent of beeswax which he always associated with its polished floors was in the air. He could remember sliding across them as a child, incurring the wrath of Jezebel, the housekeeper, who always knew who to blame when she found skidding marks of muddy feet marring the shiny surface. Jezebel, Rafael smiled. Whoever had chosen her name had paid little heed to the connotations of her namesake.

  He walked into the wide hall and looked about him appreciatively. It was a beautiful old building and it never failed to please him. This hall, the two rooms adjoining, and the gallery above were all that was left of the original building, but successive generations had added to its bulk, strengthening its foundations and rebuilding where necessary so that today it rambled over half an acre, split level, and partially two-storied. The furnishings, much of them antique, had the worn patina of years upon them, but its faded elegance went well with the heavily carved panelling and baroque ironwork.

  “Senor Rafael!”

  The housekeeper’s voice was filled with warmth and devotion. So far as Jezebel was concerned, Rafael was still master here. She came towards him eagerly from the door at the back of the hall which led to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, taking one of his hands in both of hers.

  “Good morning, Jezebel.” Rafael looked kindly on the elderly Indian woman who had served his family for over thirty years and who still ran the household with a rod of iron. “I had a message that Juan wanted to see me. Do you know where he is?”

  Jezebel released his hand with reluctance, her fingers indicating the lines of sleeplessness around his eyes. “You do not take care of yourself in that little hut down in the village,” she exclaimed.

  Rafael was patient. “It’s hardly a hut, Jezebel,” he protested mildly. “Where is my brother?”

  ‘señor Juan is breakfasting on the patio, señor. You have had breakfast?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.” Rafael shook his head.

  Jezebel glared at him disapprovingly. “You see? You do not eat—you do not sleep—”

  “Jezebel, I had work to do last night—”

  “Ay, ay!” Jezebel nodded her head. “Of course. I am remembering. It was the Maqueras woman, was it not? Her time had come. Her husband—he come here looking for you last night—very late!”
>
  “That’s right.” Rafael moved his shoulders wearily. “Maria had another daughter. And now—I must see Juan.”

  “I will bring you coffee and croissants, señor,” insisted Jezebel firmly, and Rafael inclined his head.

  “That would be very nice, Jezebel,” he agreed, and with a faint smile he passed her and walked through the arched entrance to the reception lounge which opened out onto the patio at the back of the house.

  Juan Cueras was seated in a cane-latticed chair at the glass topped table. He was like Rafael, yet unlike. Rafael was tall, lean and dark, his features clearly defined. Juan was not so tall and thicker set, and yet the similarity was there in the darkness of their skin, the curve of their brows, the thin firmness of their mouths. Juan’s mouth was perhaps a little fuller, a little more sensual, but that was only to be expected in a man who did not share his brother’s desire for asceticism. He looked up now, as Rafael came through the long glass doors to join him, thickly spreading an apricot preserve over the croissant in his hand. He took a mouthful, nodding at his brother in welcome, and then wiping his lips with a napkin he said:

  “Good morning, Rafael. I see you got my message.”

  “Did you doubt it?” Rafael lounged into the chair opposite his brother, flicking an insect from his sleeve. “But I’d be obliged if you’d be brief. I have a lot to get through today.”

  Juan finished the croissant with evident relish, and poured himself more coffee, offering the jug to Rafael.

  “Jezebel’s bringing me some more,” said Rafael, shaking his head. “She has this inescapable idea that I’m not looking after myself.”

  “You’re not.” Juan was candid. “I simply can’t understand—” He broke off. “But we’ve had that argument before.” He pushed a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice towards the other man. “Go ahead—have some. I don’t enjoy eating alone.”

  Rafael took the glass that was proffered and poured himself some of the fresh fruit juice. He tasted it experimentally and then, finding it to his taste, drained the glass.