Anxious farm hands greeted Diego and his passengers as he arrived at the hacienda. They had been watching for him for a while, with the warm glow of lanterns shining through the mist.
The head man had called Alejandro outside, and all attention was drawn to the man in the back of the cart. Somehow they had looked past the figure in the driver's seat and had mistaken Alonso for Diego.
Victoria had drifted into a heavy doze and was helped into the hacienda, and then the men assisted Alonso. Diego stood back with a bemused stare at the commotion he had caused.
"Senor you will be well rewarded for your courage today," Alejandro said, his voice shaking a little from worry.
"Father, it is me. Diego."
Alejandro's eyes opened wide, taking in his dripping wet son scanning him from head to toe, almost unable to believe his eyes.
"Diego? But you can't be...who is that with Victoria?"
"Believe me, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw him, it was like looking in a mirror."
Alejandro grasped his son's arm, as if needing to feel his solid form.
"No mirror image here, you are as real as he is," Alejandro said, shakily. "I'm not seeing an apparition…"
Diego placed a steadying hand over his father's. "I'm no ghost," he assured him. "And he's not dead. At least, I don't think so."
"How bad is that wound?" Alejandro said, leading Diego into the hacienda. The warmth was comforting and just being out of the wind and sleet was enough to feel more human.
"It shouldn't be causing this reaction. It was little more than a graze. Just a gash from a ricochet passing over and hitting the rock next to him. A chip may have embedded itself in his skin, but I didn't see it when I bandaged it."
"He looked drained of colour. Perhaps the cold was too much for him?"
"He was on the verge of collapse the whole time. Exhaustion?"
"Perhaps."
A servant rushed to help Diego off with his soaked jacket, and replace it with a dry one. Diego shivered a little, as his body adjusted to the change of temperature. He had never been so glad to see the inside of his home in his life.
Alejandro poured his son a medium brandy and made him drink it while he watched.
"Sit down before you fall down," Alejandro said, indicating the chair near the fireplace.
"I've been sitting for hours. At least it seems like it. What a terrible idea to go out in such changeable weather, I should have known better," Diego said, shaking his head. "What was I thinking?"
"You were thinking of three innocent children braving those same weather conditions and the dangers that the bandits presented. I would have done the same at your age." Alejandro paused and his eyes ran over his still standing son.
Blood smears covered every item of Diego's clothing, and grime and slush covered his fine boots that were not designed for such treatment. He seemed exhausted, and the frown on his son's face reflected the frustrations of the day.
"It was my fault, I should have cautioned care." Alejandro's voice sounded strange to his own ears, wondering when the last time he cautioned Diego about his own safety. Normally his son was taking too much care of himself. Normally Diego was not doing anything at all dramatic, his son had been tightly controlled for a long time. Why hadn't he seen that before?
"I am a grown man, father," Diego said with a touch of annoyance. He sat heavily in the chair, nursing the second brandy that his father had poured after the first. "I should be able to take care of myself."
"That's not what I meant." Alejandro said with a frown. Diego should have known that, it should have been obvious. There was an edge to Diego's voice that spoke of more than today's frustrations. A world weariness had settled on his son. It was something he hadn't expected.
Diego had so many interests to keep himself amused, he was always active with his scholarly pursuits - drawing in the hills, studying birds somewhere inaccessible, teaching the local indian village in their tepees. Never around when he was called, always busy. That or lying in bed with a cold or hayfever or whatever was going around.
Alejandro had always thought his son was weak, but how had he kept up that level of busyness? It was undermining his strength, and that was why he was always ill. He'd have to have a word with his son, when he was in a better mood.
"I made sure that….that…"
"His name is Alonso."
Alonso. He looked like Alonso, his dead brother, almost identical. And the name… He shuddered. The last time he had looked at his brother, Alonso, he had been that pale, that drained of energy. Killed outright by a traitor in the midst.
Diego glanced up at his father, aware that the silence was dragging on. "He's not a ghost, father. He was very heavy when I helped him down the mountain, and ghosts are meant to be insubstantial."
"Alright," Alejandro said and took a deep breath. If the situation got further complicated, he would go completely mad. "What is the explanation for the similarities between Alonso and yourself?"
Diego shrugged. He stared into the dancing flames for a moment, savouring the warmth of the fire. "I have no idea."
"What was he doing in the mountains in these conditions?"
"He was trying to find the children as well. He has some sort of connection to the children or to the family or something. Bandits were shooting at him, and he said he had been tracking them from San Francisco."
"Bandits? Highly unlikely. From what Clara has been saying there was some incident at the house where her parents were killed, and they had been rescued by their uncle. Is he their uncle?"
"The flesh wound was new, and Clara was saying their uncle had been bundled up and been sick for a while. If he is an uncle, he isn't the one that helped them escape the house."
Victoria woke in the warm de la Vega guest room, and decided she needed to know what was happening in the hacienda. She had dozed off with the rhythm of the cart's movement, warm and safe under the oilskin that Diego had given her. It had been taken from her, but it had been a comfort in the misty weather.
It had smelled of him, of his body, and although slightly sweaty, it was a nice smell. Soapiness and warmth, she had snuggled down inside it, with Alonso so still. A hand over his chest had assured her that he was breathing deeply, and evenly, without strain. Obviously he was very tired, but the wound was minor. The bandage had contained the bleeding completely, so that there was little to fear from the wound.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, aware that she was still dressed in her underclothes, the wet things had been removed. She could hardly present herself like that to the men of the household. But she didn't want to wait until morning to know what was going on.
Going to the wardrobe in the corner of the room to search for clothes hadn't felt intrusive until she saw the dresses inside. She stepped back, chewing on her bottom lip with concern.
She knew whose dresses they were. They could be no one else's except Donna Elena's, Diego's mother. They were very fine and well preserved for their age. They seemed to be her size, but should she dress in any? The idea seemed outrageous in the extreme. She raised a hand to caress the silks and satins, and then dropped it before touching them. She had no right to wear such clothes.
She would have to wait until morning, when her clothes would be returned to her. They would be currently spread before a fire, drying thoroughly. She hugged herself, and decided to go back to bed. The covers were toasty and warm.