by Nan Ryan
Burt shook his dark head, let himself out the heavy front door, and immediately drew in a long, slow breath of clean night air.
He still didn’t bother buttoning his half open white shirt. Instead he took off his dark tuxedo jacket, hooked it on a thumb, and slung it over his shoulder.
He drove himself home, glad to be alone. The matched blacks pulling the open carriage were strong and spirited, so Burt let them have their head. In perfect stride they raced down the deserted coast road, the carriage wheels spinning rapidly, the wind blowing forcefully against the speeding carriage.
Burt lifted his face into the strong cooling winds. His hair blew wildly around his head and into his eyes. He smiled with pleasure. One-handed, he finished unbuttoning his white dress shirt, yanked on it until the long tails came up out of his tuxedo trousers. The wind immediately caught the freed shirt and pushed it back from his bared chest. Burt felt the winds slam against his heated flesh, eddying and swirling the crisp dark hair on his chest. He laughed with delight. Wind tears stung his gray eyes, but he wasn’t bothered by them. He could have ridden forever in the cool spring night, letting the wind drive out of his brain the indelible image of a beautiful young woman with blond hair and golden skin and soft feminine curves.
Burt reached the tall, crossbarred gates of Lindo Vista feeling relaxed and calmed by the long, fast ride. He nodded to the night guard, drove through, and turned the carriage over to a sleepy, yawning attendant. Thanking the young boy, Burt went up to the silent, darkened house and slipped in the back door. He was yawning with fatigue as he climbed the stairs to his room. He grinned. After what Gena had done to him on the drawing room sofa, he would have no trouble sleeping.
In his spacious bedroom at the far end of the long hall, Burt didn’t bother lighting a lamp. In the shadows he hastily stripped down to the skin and climbed naked into the soft bed which a servant had turned down earlier.
Stretched out on his back, hands folded beneath his head, Burt closed his gray eyes, squirmed about until he found just the right spot on the mattress, sighed, let his muscles relax, and waited for sleep.
But sleep didn’t come.
He couldn’t get the blond stranger off his mind. Restlessly, he tossed and turned, seeing her beautiful face, those fathomless dark eyes, that golden-hued skin.
“Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into me?” he finally muttered aloud.
Sure, she was beautiful, but so what? The world was full of pretty women. What was so special about this one? Nothing. Not a thing. He wouldn’t even have noticed her if she hadn’t been a stranger. The fact that he didn’t know her, had never seen her before, was the reason she had stood out from the crowd.
The only reason.
He laughed at himself then, making fun of his foolishness. Everything was fine. He was engaged to a very pretty, dark-haired woman who loved him. Chances were he would never see the blonde again. He knew everyone in Capistrano. She had to be visiting. In a few days, she’d be gone and that would be that.
Rolling his broad shoulders up off the bed, Burt agilely turned onto his stomach, slid a cocked knee halfway up the mattress, and wrapped his muscular arms around a couple of fat, fluffy pillows.
Into their downy softness, he murmured, “Sorry, baby, you’re too late. I’m afraid I’ve been spoken for.”
His heavy-lidded gray eyes closed and he yawned drowsily.
Still, it was a long time before Burt finally fell asleep.
Seven
BURT ROSE WITH THE sun. The minute his gray eyes opened on a brand new day, he was wide-awake, full of energy, his old easy-going self. He bounded eagerly out of bed, feeling totally rested despite the lack of sleep. He sang at the top of his lungs as he bathed, hummed tonelessly as he shaved, and whistled merrily as he dressed.
In half an hour he was out of his room and descending the grand redwood staircase which angled down from the open upstairs hallway. Sniffing the pleasing aroma of freshly brewed coffee when he reached the wide downstairs corridor, he inhaled deeply and headed toward the back of the house and the big white kitchen.
Adjusting the yellow silk bandanna at his throat, he pushed the swinging kitchen door partially open with the toe of his boot, stuck his dark head inside, and said, “Reckon a starving man could get a biscuit around here?”
The kitchen girls giggled. The short, corpulent woman standing at the cookstove jumped, startled, and her gray head snapped around. She saw the big, tall, black-haired cowboy and her blue eyes immediately twinkled, her stern mouth turned up into a wide smile.
Waving him in with a long-handled wooden spoon, the stout-bodied cook said, “Good Lord, are we glad you’re home. Aren’t we girls?” Smiling, the two young helpers nodded, their eyes clinging to the tall man. The cook turned back to her skillet. “I swear, Burton, it’s been so quiet around here I nearly went nuts.”
“Why, Martha, my only love,” Burt said, winking at the girls as he clomped across the spanking-clean kitchen floor, “you’ve been crazy for as long as I can remember.”
Chuckling happily, the rotund cook warned, “You better watch your mouth, boy, or you’ll be riding the range on an empty stomach.”
Burt stepped up behind Martha, put his hands on her rounded shoulders, and leaned his chin atop her head. “You don’t mean that. You’ll fix anything I want.”
“That’s what you think.” Martha elbowed him in the ribs. “Get back. Stop your foolishness, I’ve got work to do.” But she beamed, fond of the tall young man who never failed to praise her cooking.
Burt lifted his chin from the cook’s gray head and let his arms fall to his sides. Looking over her shoulder at the thick-sliced ham sizzling in the skillet, he said, “Looks good. I’ll have a half dozen eggs with it and maybe a couple of—”
“You’ll have what I put before you,” Martha told him.
Then she squealed in outrage when Burt growled like a bear, grabbed her up, and lifted her off the floor. Stretching his strong, muscular arms almost to their full length, he held the shrieking, laughing cook in the air as he calmly recited what he wanted for breakfast. What he had better get.
“You going to give me what I want?” he asked calmly.
“Yes, Yes! Put me down, you big fool,” Martha scolded.
Burt promptly lowered her to the floor and released her. “That’s more like it.” He planted a kiss to her flushed, fleshy cheek and said, “And make it snappy. I’m as hungry as a wolf.”
“Get out of here!” Martha hit him on the arm with her wooden spoon. But, as he turned and walked away, she called after him, “I heard you come in this morning, Burton—” a gray eyebrow lifted “—it was after four o’clock. Must have been quite a party.”
Burt reached the door, and turned back. That familiar grin flashed across his dark face. Filling the doorway he said, “The guests seemed to enjoy themselves and I … I … ”
His words trailed away. He frowned. Out of the blue he was struck with the vivid recollection of looking up to see a mysterious blond beauty across the crowded de Temple ballroom. Now he experienced again that curious and electrifying sensation he’d had when he felt the pressure of her fixed dark gaze upon him.
Burt shrugged and shook his head, as if to clear it. He walked away with Martha firing questions at him.
He found his father and Cappy Ricks on the south flagstone patio. Before going out to join them, Burt paused on the threshold. He silently studied his father.
Raleigh Burnett appeared older than his seventy-four years. His profile outlined by the pink light of morning, he looked gaunt, his cheeks sunken, the wide slash of his mouth drooping downward at the corners. His hair, a snowy white, lay against his narrow skull like a downy cap.
His shoulders in the worn gray sweater were stooped and his hands were heavily veined, the knuckles knotted with arthritis. His once massive frame, now shrunken, emaciated from long years of pain and suffering, was that of a frail, feeble old man.
Cappy Ricks was only eigh
t years younger, but his demeanor belied his sixty-six years. He sat erect, walked briskly, and could stay in the saddle all day. The contrast between the two men was monumental.
Burt drew a deep breath and called out to them.
At the welcome sight of his tall son approaching, Raleigh Burnett smiled broadly with delight.
“Well, well,” he exclaimed when Burt reached him, “damn if it doesn’t give my old eyes pleasure to see you.”
“Same here, Dad,” Burt said, patting the old man’s thin shoulder and nodding to Cappy. He took his place at the table where coffee steamed in a silver urn and cutlery lay in neat array. “How you feeling?”
“Better, now that you’re back,” said the elder Burnett.
Burt poured himself a cup of strong black coffee and draped a large white napkin across his knees. Silver-domed platters of ham, bacon, sausage, eggs, and hotcakes were soon brought out to the table. He helped himself to large portions of everything.
Full of farcical stories, Burt entertained the two older men with tales of his adventures and misadventures in far-off Chicago. Embroidering slightly to make some of his escapades even more colorful, omitting, of necessity, some of the highly personal exploits, he regaled them throughout breakfast.
Cheered by the comical tales, the elder Burnett’s pale face turned crimson and he went into spasms of ribald laughter more than once during the meal. And he listened raptly, his eyes shining, as Burt talked of last night’s engagement party.
The time went by too rapidly to suit Raleigh Burnett. Soon Burt was pushing his plate away, patting his full stomach, and reaching inside his black cowhide vest for a cigar.
“Have another cup of coffee, Burton,” urged his father. “Stay and enjoy your cigar.”
Burt nodded and poured himself more hot black coffee. Knowing how his father longed for company, he leisurely smoked his cigar and drank his coffee. It was Cappy Ricks who finally fished his gold-cased watch out of his vest pocket, looked at Burt, and said, “Burton, if we’re going to get that corral ready on time, we’d best get to it.”
“He’s right, Dad.” Burt pushed back his chair, tossed his napkin on the table, and rose. He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You gonna be okay out here? Want me to take you inside?”
“No, no, I’m fine, son.” Raleigh Burnett affectionately patted the strong brown hand resting on his shoulder. “You two go on.” He looked up and smiled. “Good to have you home.”
“Good to be home, Dad,” Burt replied, and he and Cappy left the old man to his memories and daydreams.
Burt worked hard throughout the day. And as he worked, he joshed and cut up with the ranch hands just like always. He was, as usual, full of mischief and laughter.
But secretly, silently, down deep inside, Burt felt strangely keyed up, anxious almost. He was fidgety and distracted. Late that afternoon, when hours of manual labor hadn’t rid him of his restlessness, he decided to take a long relaxing ride. That would do the trick.
He enlisted Cappy to accompany him. The ranch foreman was glad to go along. Shortly after six p.m., the mounted pair set out toward the close coastal ranges. Knee to knee they crossed the wide green valley of rich grazing grounds, heading toward the foothills where a sea of yellow lupines and orange poppies drowned the sloping hills in blazing color.
The warm California sun shone down on their backs and lit the tops of the mountain peaks far out in the distant inland ranges. Down into shaded canyons and up steep rocky hills they rode, and along the grassy banks of the gurgling Coronado creek. Below the broken rock dam at Dreamy Draw, they stopped and watered their horses.
After zigzagging in and out of the rolling hills, they turned back toward home. Topping a rise, they saw in the distance a lone rider astride a big chestnut stallion silhouetted against the setting sun.
Both Burt and Cappy drew rein, exchanged puzzled glances, and looked back at the lone horseman.
Squinting directly into the bloodred rays of the dying sun, Burt watched as the slim rider lifted an arm, swept off a big straw sombrero, and shook out an abundance of long golden-blond hair.
“Jesus, it’s her!” Burt exclaimed and kicked his paint stallion into a gallop.
Puzzled, Cappy Ricks followed.
But they were too late. The elusive rider swiftly wheeled the chestnut about, dropped below the horizon, and disappeared.
Burt, then Cappy, reached the spot where the rider had been. With Sam, his paint stallion, dancing nervously beneath him, Burt shaded his eyes and anxiously looked in all directions. No sign of her. It was as though she had never been there.
“Are my old eyes deceiving me, or was that a woman I saw?” Cappy said.
“It was a woman.”
“What you reckon she was doing way out here?”
“I don’t know,” Burt said. His tone was tranquil. But his thoughts were in a turmoil and silently he added, But I intend to find out. Wheeling the big paint around, he called, “Let’s go home. I’m due at Gena’s in an hour.”
The next afternoon Burt again went for a ride. This time alone. He anxiously searched for her—for the blond rider in the tight leather trousers who was one and the same with the blond beauty in the white silk ball gown. Mile after mile he rode until his back ached from too many hours in the saddle and his eyes burned from relentlessly sweeping the endless horizon.
Then finally, he caught a fleeting glimpse of her.
But just as yesterday, she vanished before he could reach her. Cursing under his breath, Burt raced the winded Sam over fallen boulders and up a craggy butte to the flat mesa where she had been. He plunged the paint down into a deep, steep-sided canyon in a desperate attempt to find her.
But to no avail.
The mysterious woman was beginning to become an obsession with Burt. He had to find her, meet her. He couldn’t rest until he did. He wouldn’t stop until his search was successful. Until he caught up with her and learned who she was and what she was after.
No one suspected that anything was bothering Burt.
Except Gena.
Highly intuitive, at least where Burt was concerned, she sensed something was wrong. When he was with her, he seemed distracted, as if his mind was somewhere else. Even when his arms were around her and his lips were on hers, it was as if they were not alone. Someone was with them. Something was coming between them.
Gently, she questioned him. “What is it, darling? Have I done something? Are you upset for some reason? What’s wrong? Please, tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Burt smilingly assured her.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Unconvinced, Gena said anxiously, “Burt, kiss me. Kiss me, darling.”
Eight
IT HAPPENED WHEN HE least expected it.
Exactly one week after he’d first seen her at the engagement party, Burt was alone out on the far eastern reaches of the vast Burnett range. He had been riding all day. At dawn he had filled a canteen, packed a lunch in his saddlebags, and set out. He had ridden more miles in one day than he had ever covered before.
When the sun began to wester and still he hadn’t seen her, Burt was ready to concede defeat and head back. He had been behaving like a fool and it was high time he called a halt. This was it—the last excursion. No more searching for her. No more thinking about her.
Burt patted the tired Sam’s lathered neck and said, “I’m sorry, boy. I know I’ve punished you today. How about a nice long drink of water and then we’ll go home?”
The stallion blew and snorted as his master turned him about and guided him slowly up a narrow rock path into the foothills of the southernmost tip of the Santa Ana mountains. The reins loose in his hands, Burt carefully maneuvered the big steed along the jutting ledge of a timbered hillock. Rounding the conical slope and urging Sam down the hillside, he found a rushing brook fed constantly by the snow melt from high up in the mountains.
He found more than water.
Wonder
ing if he was seeing things, terrified it was only an illusion, Burt pulled up sharply on Sam’s reins and stared at the golden-haired, leather-trousered woman standing on the bank beside the flowing stream.
For a long moment she stood with her back to him, unmoving. Then she heard his approach, slowly turned, and looked directly at him. Her dark flashing eyes holding his, she said nothing. She stood with her booted feet slightly apart, the brown leather of her trousers hugging each long leg like a second skin. Her scarlet butterfly tie was untied and hanging loosely around her neck. The white shirt she wore was undone down to the swell of her breast. Her hair—that glorious golden blond hair—tumbled wildly around her face and down her back.
She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. More tempting in her revealing tight pants and man’s white shirt than she’d been in the shimmering white silk ball gown. She would, he knew instinctively, be even more ravishing if she wore neither. Naked, she would surely be the most exquisite creature on earth.
His pulse racing, his heavy, rapid heartbeat pounding in his ears, Burt dismounted, and hurried toward her, but stopped a few yards away, afraid she would flee. Leave him. Vanish like the lovely dream she was.
When, miraculously she didn’t move, made no attempt to escape, Burt flashed her a wide smile, moved slowly closer, and said in low, teasing tones, “This is private property, Miss.” His smiling eyes locked with hers. “You’re trespassing.”
Sabella smiled seductively back at the tall, dark man in the snug-fitting Levi’s and yoked sky-blue shirt, whose warm gray eyes clearly revealed his attraction to her. “Really? Well just what are you going to do about it? Kill me?” She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows, put her hands on her trousered hips, swayed a step closer to him, and tilted her head back. “Or kiss me?”
Burt didn’t hesitate.
His long arm shot out with lightning speed, his lean fingers curled around the belt loop of her tight leather pants, and he pulled her to him.