by Jane Toombs
Outside the cantina, he offered her his arm and asked, "Where shall we walk?"
"To the docks." She enjoyed looking at the ocean and the docks were public enough to keep her safe.
"Why do you work in the cantina?" he asked.
Because I own it. I inherited the cantina from my husband when he died." She had no intention of telling him it was her only source of income, or why she'd married who she had.
He raised his eyebrows. "You introduced yourself as Miss White."
"I prefer my maiden name. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"Nothing. 'Tis only that I find it passing strange a beautiful woman like you, an American woman, would live in El Doblez."
She scowled. How and why she'd arrived in this place was none of his business. He must have sensed her annoyance because he veered off on another tack.
"I've been staying at the Gabaldon rancho," he said. "What do you think of the place?"
Her gaze swept over him, assessing the denim pants, the blue cotton shirt. Clean, fairly new, but inexpensive. Was he staying there or, more likely, working there? "Don Francisco is a gentleman," she temporized.
"The don has a daughter."
"I've heard that, yes."
"With his wealth to provide a hefty dowry, I'm surprised she hasn't a husband."
Where was this leading? Stella wondered as they walked out onto the longest of the two wooden docks. Surely Diarmid Burwash didn't see himself as a suitor for the hand of the don's daughter! At the end of the dock she leaned against a mooring post and gazed at the diamond sparkle of the sun on the water. "I've heard it said Don Francisco is land poor," she said finally.
"What else have you heard?"
She shrugged. "We've had a drought these past four years--that's hard on the cattle."
"You're saying he's in trouble?"
"Don't put words in my mouth. How should I know? And why are you so curious?"
"He's offered me the rancho if I marry Concepcion." The abrupt way Diarmid blurted out the words gave her the feeling he hadn't meant to go so far as to tell her this.
Stella, truly astonished, raised her eyebrows. The rancho must be in dire straits if the Don was ready to accept an Anglo as a son-in-law. "Congratulations," she drawled.
He grasped her by the shoulders, looking down at her intently. His eyes, dark as a Californio's, held hers. A tremor slid along her spine at his touch. "I've been thinking about you ever since we met," he said.
She'd thought about him more than once, but she wasn't about to tell him so. "What's that got to do with Concepcion Gabaldon?" she demanded.
He frowned. "Have you ever seen her?"
She hadn't, but Lucita had described the Don's daughter as an unlucky woman who'd turned into a dried-up old maid. Easing from Diarmid's grasp, Stella said, "Are you asking my advice about whether or not to marry her?"
"No. I want the land and marrying the lass is the only way to get it--so wed her I will. If there's no hook hidden behind the bait. That's what I'm asking you--is there something Don Francisco's not telling me?"
"I've told you all I know."
“But why me? Those Californios are as clannish as Highlanders and God knows I'm not one of them."
"To tell the truth, I wondered the same thing--why you? I don't have an answer." His news had shaken her in more ways than one.
Up until he'd mentioned marrying Concepcion, she'd believed he'd come to El Doblez to see her again, to try to get her into bed if he could. He attracted her and she'd almost decided to play the game of will-I-or-won't-I with him. It stung her to think he'd come for information instead. About another woman, at that.
"I must get back to the cantina." Her words were sharper than she'd intended.
Stella turned from him and he grasped her arm, his fingers warm through the cotton of her sleeve. "'Tis true I'd find it easier if Concepcion looked like you," he said. Desire, warm as sunlight, flickered in the depths of his eyes.
"I'll never marry again." Her words dripped with bitterness. She freed her arm and started to walk away. She felt his hand on her bonnet, lifting up the side.
"'Tisn't marriage I'm proposing to you," he murmured, so close to her that his warm breath tickled her ear.
She ought to snap at him that she wasn't interested in anything he proposed, but she'd be lying. In deciding to come for this walk with him, she'd made up her mind about Diarmid Burwash. Or perhaps she'd known from the moment he walked into the cantina for the first time. Not that she'd make it easy for him, what was the fun in that?
"Stella," he said, "I--"
"Amigo!" a man's voice cried.
"Manuelo!" Diarmid called to the black-garbed Californio striding toward them. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same," Manuelo said, coming up to them.
Diarmid introduced her and Manuelo's eyes lingered on her admiringly. He wasn't bad looking for a Californio--at least he didn't sport one of those tiny mustachios she hated--but he didn't hold a candle to Diarmid. Stella smiled by way of greeting and excused herself.
"I must get to work," she told both men and walked quickly away from the docks.
"How you say--much woman," Manuelo told Diarmid. "It's no wonder you stayed in El Doblez instead of returning to my uncle's after delivering the letter."
"I'm glad to see you've recovered from the malaria," Diarmid said. "Did you come here looking for me?"
Manuelo shook his head. "Me, I'm on my way to San Diego to meet my betrothed, just as I was when we first met. El Doblez is but a stop on the way. It's my good fortune to find you. Shall we once again journey together?"
"I'm not going to San Diego." Diarmid put his arm over Manuelo's shoulders and led him onto the dock, making certain they were out of earshot of any possible listener. "Tell me, what do you know about the man I delivered that letter to."
"I've never met Don Francisco, he's a friend of Don Luis, the man I worked for near Santa Cruz. That's who the letter was from."
Dropping his arm, Diarmid looked Manuelo in the eye, aware of how prickly Californios could be when it came to what they regarded as a breach of honor. "Please don't take offense at my questions, the rest of my life hangs in the balance."
"Are you not my friend? I'll tell you whatever I can."
"Do you have any idea what Don Luis said in his letter to Don Francisco?"
Manuelo stared at him for a long moment. "I think I know," he said at last.
"If it wasn't important to me, I wouldn't ask you to tell me."
Manuelo took a deep breath. "You know what has happened to us since the arrival of the Americans, since California became one of the United States. It's why I went to work for another when once my father owned a thriving rancho."
Diarmid nodded.
"It's little better around here. Between the drought and the Anglos--" Manuelo shrugged.
"Don Francisco?" Diarmid reminded him.
"He asked for a loan. He was turned down, the money's not there to be loaned, Don Luis could no longer even pay me. His land will soon be lost, sold to the Americans before they take it from him like they did my father's. A terrible thing. What are we without land? What is any man without land to pass on to his sons?"
Diarmid digested his words, realizing that here in front of him might be the solution to one of his problems. "You're a lad after my own heart," he said finally. "My friend. How would you like to come to work for me? I can't promise money but, in the future, I can promise you land of your own."
"This is, perhaps, a jest?"
Diarmid shook his head. "I'll explain. One more question. Have you heard why Senorita Concepcion Gabaldon never married?"
"Ah, that's an interesting story. I've never met her, but all we Californios know of the senorita. She is--how you say?--bad luck. She was betrothed three times and all three of the men were killed before the wedding day. One was gored by a bull, one was shot, one fell overboard from a ship and drowned. Some of my friends, they s
ay she's accursed. Me, I don't believe in such things but I'd never propose to a woman so unfavored by God. Besides, now there may not even be a dowry left."
"I've had my share of bad luck and more," Diarmid said, "but that's all behind me. I'm going to marry Concepcion. And there is a dowry--the rancho."
Manuelo gaped at him. "You!"
"That's why I can offer you land if you come to work for me. The Gabaldon rancho will be mine soon after the wedding."
Manuelo eyed him narrowly. "Don Francisco agrees to this?"
"It was his idea."
“You marry his daughter and he gives you the rancho?"
"Once a grandchild's born." Diarmid grinned. "That's easy enough to arrange."
"Dios, I can hardly believe this!"
"Amigo, it's God's truth, but I admit I can hardly believe it myself. On your return from San Diego, stop by the rancho and visit me."
Manuelo smiled and clapped Diarmid on the shoulder. "I'll bring better news to my betrothed than I expected. If you do marry Concepcion Gabaldon, I'll come to work for you. Then Juanita and I won't have to delay our wedding as long as I thought."
"And I'll have the advice of a man who's worked with cattle. I don't know the first thing about running a rancho. I need you, Manuelo, and I'll put my promise of land into writing."
"Your word's enough," Manuelo said. "Friends don't betray one another."
"No, but it's best to have everything written. I intend to do exactly that with Don Francisco."
"You'll insult him!"
"I hope not. But written it must be or there'll be no marriage. Come, we'll have a drink at the cantina before we part. I have a bit of unfinished business to attend to there."
"Ah, the lovely senorita!" Manuelo shook his head in mock disapproval. "And you about to be married."
Diarmid shrugged. "I didn't say I’d enjoy the marriage."
"Your bride-to-be must be nearing forty, by all accounts."
"She looks it. But in the dark--what difference?"
"As you say. I can see you're determined to have the land and I understand. Still, I wouldn't wish to trade places with you, not for all the gold in Spain."
To Diarmid's disappointment, Stella was not in the cantina when he and Manuelo entered. A middle-aged Mexican served them a tot of rum willingly enough but his only answer when Diarmid asked where Senorita White might be, was, “Quien sabe?”
"That's the trouble with pretty mariposas, butterflies," Manuelo commented. "They flit here and there and never light anywhere long enough to be caught."
"Anything can be caught with the right bait," Diarmid insisted. All the same, Stella didn't return by the time they finished the rum and he had no idea where to look for her.
"I'll be getting on," Manuelo said. "A fortunate meeting."
"Certainly for me." Diarmid followed his friend from the cantina, watched him mount his black horse and start off.
"Hasta la vista!" Manuelo called back to him.
Diarmid waved. He glanced at the cantina and shook his head. Never chase after a lass, he told himself. Best to keep her wondering whether you want her or not. He untied Bruce, swung into the saddle and turned him toward the rancho.
He reached the casa at dusk, hungry and out of sorts. A chicken enchilada with beans helped the hunger but did nothing to improve his temper. He was certain Stella was only playing hard to get but when he wanted a woman he had little patience with games.
At this hour, Don Francisco could usually be found reading in his study, but Diarmid had no desire for the don's company. He wandered restlessly into the courtyard, smelling the heavy sweetness of the white flowers he'd learned were gardenias. Their perfume was almost too strong, he preferred the more delicate scent of roses. As he walked under the huge old pepper tree, its spicy odor mingled with the perfume of the flowers. A bird roosting in the branches overhead chirped drowsily. Dried berries and dead leaves from the tree crunched under his boots.
By the shadowy bushes near the wall, something white shifted, and he knew immediately what it was. Who it was. Alone? Diarmid eased toward the white figure with the single-mindedness of a wolf stalking a lamb. When he was sure he blocked her line of retreat, he spoke. “You look like a white moth fluttering in the night."
He heard Concepcion draw in her breath but she said nothing.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked bluntly, tired of all the shilly-shallying.
"No." Her voice was so low he scarcely heard her. Damn it, why couldn't she speak up? "Why won't you talk to me, then?"
"I--I'm not used to men. Except papa."
"He wants me to marry you. What do you want?"
She was silent so long he thought she wouldn't respond. "First tell me what you wish," she said at last, surprising him. Maybe she wasn't stupid, after all.
"I'd be honored to have you for my wife." Deliberately, he made his tone as formal as the words.
"I accept."
He blinked at the quickness of her answer. No hesitation there. "I don't intend to deceive you," he said, "so I won't mention love."
"I don't expect you to. It's not necessary." Her voice was thin and high but calm.
What was she thinking? Diarmid couldn't see her face in the darkness and he wondered if she was as cool and detached as she sounded. "You do want to marry me, though?"
"Oh, yes!"
Pleased that he'd forced a bit of enthusiasm from her, Diarmid reached for her, supposing 'twas now his duty to seal their bargain. Under his hands, her shoulders felt as thin and brittle as a bird's. Carefully, hoping he wouldn't frighten her, he bent to brush his lips against hers. He was flabbergasted when she flung her arms around his neck and clung to him, pressing her lips hard against his. Her embrace might be awkward and virginal, but it sure as hell was fervent.
Good God, he thought, more repulsed than aroused, what am I getting myself into?
Chapter Three
Far from being angry, Don Francisco approved of Diarmid's request to put their agreement into writing. "It's best there be no misunderstandings on either side," he said, "as well as proof to stand up in a court of law."
A Mexican lawyer was retained to draw up a paper stating that upon Diarmid Burwash's marriage to Concepcion Gabaldon and subsequent proof that a male child had been born of the marriage, the ownership of the rancho would be conveyed to Diarmid. By the time the agreement was completed and Diarmid and Don Francisco signed it, a month had passed.
"We'll be married as soon as possible," Diarmid told Concepcion after the signing.
"Oh, yes, but I must have the gown made and the relatives must be notified," she said. "There's food to be prepared and--"
"You have four weeks from today. That leaves time for the banns to be read and for your gown to be finished. As for the relatives--I was under the impression you didn't have many."
"That's true." She spoke deferentially, as she always did to him. "I have two widowed aunts, Tia Gracia, in El Cuidad de Mexico and Tia Anuncion in San Diego. There's one cousin--"
"I know of your father's sister in Mexico City. She won't be able to come for the wedding; he's told me he plans to visit her afterwards. Who is Tia Anuncion?"
"She's the widow of my father's brother. We have little to do with her because my father sided with my grandfather when he forbid the marriage."
"And the cousin?"
"I don't even know if he lives. He went to sea as a sailor some years ago. My father--" She sighed. "He doesn't forgive easily. I'd best not anger him by asking if I may invite Tia Anuncion to the wedding."
"If you wish to have her attend, invite her. I'll speak to your father; I have no fear of his anger." Because he could feel no fondness for her, Diarmid did his best to be kind to Concepcion.
Over in the corner, old Rosa snorted. Diarmid swung around to look at her but her eyes were closed and so he dismissed the noise as a snore. She was but a servant, and Indian at that, she wouldn't dare risk antagonizing him. He didn't much like her but, since Co
ncepcion's mother had died when her daughter was two, Rosa had brought the lass up and Concepcion loved the old woman.
He was surprised to hear Don Francisco had a nephew--the lad had never been mentioned. Would he have any claim to the rancho?
"None!" Don Francisco growled when Diarmid confronted him. "My father disowned my brother Ramon for his scandalous behavior, behavior that led to a duel over a married woman. think of the disgrace when Ramon killed the woman's husband, then married her. My brother's son, if he's still alive, has no rights to the property, none at all, and this he knows."