Pale Dawn Dark Sunset. Anne Mather
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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
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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