by Jane Toombs
He wished he could carry her off to a safe place and keep her there until he decided how to undo what was done and start over with Angelica.
"For God's sake don't look so forlorn," Stella snapped. "Do you take me for a callous fool? As long as she's under my roof, I mean to see nothing bad happens to the girl."
Diarmid clasped Stella's hand. "I don't know what's happened to me," he mumbled. "I've never felt like this before."
"Love doesn't care how hard it hits."
He stared at her. Love?
Stella grinned, seemingly restored to good humor. "My, how the mighty have fallen. Never mind, you'll get over it in time." She leaned to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Adios, Diarmid."
He rode back to the rancho and, for the first time, didn't feel the thrill when he crested the hill and saw the valley spread below. He wanted the land, he'd never give it up, but he also wanted Angelica. How could he have both?
Because Concepcion was so thin, the child she carried distorted her body by the fourth month. Diarmid moved to another bedroom, telling her it was for the child's sake. By the sixth month she looked so grotesque he could hardly bear the sight of her and her touch sickened him.
On the first Sunday of November, Manuelo left for San Diego and his wedding, planning to bring his bride back with him at the end of the month. Don Francisco was in Mexico City with his sister. Diarmid, deprived of both the don's and Manuelo's company, grew progressively more irritable and distraught. Finally, unable to bear his situation any longer, he decided he must rid himself of Concepcion.
The first step was to remove her from the rancho on some pretext she'd believe was only temporary. Once she was gone, he'd make certain she didn't return. On the third Sunday of November, he asked her to join him in the don's study.
"I want you to visit your father," Diarmid told her as soon as she'd maneuvered her swollen body into a chair. "I won't be able to come along."
Concepcion's eyes widened. "You're asking me to leave you? To go without you to El Cuidad de Mexico?"
"Think of the child. There are doctors in Mexico City, you won't have to depend on an old midwife like Rosa."
"I trust Rosa with my life!"
Diarmid sighed. "That's not the point. I'd feel better if you had the child in Mexico City. Your father and your aunt are there, you wouldn't be alone."
Concepcion frowned. "My place is here, with my husband. I belong by your side and here I'll stay."
"I don't want you here!"
She tightened her lips. "Is that why you ride every week to El Doblez?"
He hadn't thought she paid any attention to his comings and goings. Damn it, what he chose to do was none of her business! "What I do in El Doblez has no bearing on you going to Mexico City," he said coldly.
"You never touch me anymore!" she cried. "You have another woman, some cheap puta in El Doblez. But I'm your wife and I won't leave you."
Diarmid took a deep breath, fighting his rising anger. How dare she refer to Angelica as a whore? He'd never so much as kissed the lass, he only went to see her and talk to her.
"I have no other woman," he told her. "I'm thinking of your own good--yours and the child's.
"I don't believe you. How can you ask me to make such a long and arduous journey in my condition? You know how miserable I feel, how sick I've been. Rosa understands, she takes care of me." Her accusing eyes told him that was more than he did.
"Damn Rosa! Take her with you if you can't do without her."
"I'm not going!"
Fury at this ugly, screeching woman thrust Diarmid to his feet. "If you won't go willingly, I'll send you away." He threw the words at her.
She glared up at him, tears swimming in her eyes, her hands gripping the wooden arms of the chair. "You can't force me to leave. If you try I'll tell about Myron's murder and how you hid his body."
Diarmid froze.
"I was at the cove that morning but I kept silent for love of you," Concepcion sobbed. "I heard Myron curse you for deserting his sister and now you try to rid yourself of me." She flung her arms wide. "Kill me as you killed him but do not ask me to leave your side. I will not go. Ever!"
Someone tapped at the door. Diarmid strode over and threw it open.
"Does she need me?" Rosa asked, her eyes averted from his.
"Get the hell out of here!" Diarmid snarled, slamming the door in Rosa's face. He whirled on Concepcion. "Go ahead, tell the world what you know!"
She stretched her arms toward him. "I don't want to, I love you."
He turned away from the sight of her blotched, tearful face and her distorted shape but he couldn't close his ears to her pleading whine.
"I'll do everything you want, I swear I will," she said brokenly. "Anything except leave you. Didn't I lie for you and tell that man from Los Angeles I never heard of anyone named Myron?"
Diarmid grabbed her arm. "What man? What are you talking about?"
Concepcion dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. "He arrived on one of the days you were in El Doblez. Inquiries came from San Francisco, he said, about a missing man thought to be on his way here. He told me the name. It was Myron. I said such a person had never come to the rancho. The servants all agreed this was true."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You're hurting my arm," she said.
He let her go. "Why?"
"Because I knew the truth and didn't want to cause you worry. Just let me stay by your side and I'll never breathe a word about Myron for as long as I live."
Diarmid didn't move for long moments, his mind whirling as rapidly as a dust-devil and to as little purpose. Concepcion had him stymied. He controlled the urge to shake her until her teeth rattled. He'd never dreamed she was so devious.
No doubt the servants reported every move he made to her, she probably even knew he carried one of Angelica's handkerchiefs in his vest pocket. Rosa was the worst of the lot, always creeping around the place, outwardly meek as a mouse. He was sure she hated him and had from the first.
Damn it, he didn't have to put up with being spied on and he wouldn't. He already had a market for the avocado crop, he'd have that money coming in, he could afford to hire decent servants. Much as he hated to admit it, Concepcion was right about a long journey in her condition being dangerous. In his eagerness to get rid of her, he hadn't thought the plan through. He couldn't afford to have her miscarry the child that would guarantee him the rancho. She'd have to remain here until the baby was born.
"You'll stay with me," he told Concepcion curtly. "Rosa and the rest will go. I'm hiring new servants."
"Not Rosa!" she wailed.
"There's a midwife in El Doblez, I'll have her come to you."
"But Rosa is not like a servant, she's my friend." Concepcion clutched at his hand. "Oh, please--"
"Do you love Rosa more than you do me?"
"No, no, how could I?" She began crying again.
"Rosa hates me. Why should I be forced to put up with someone like that in my own house? Out she goes with the rest of them."
Ten days later, Concepcion watched Diarmid ride toward Los Angeles. True to his word, he'd sent away all the servants, some she'd known since her childhood, and hired three women from El Doblez, one a midwife. He was going to Los Angeles in search of male workers because it had proved impossible to find men from the fishing village who wanted to work at the ranch.
The two vaqueros had left on the first of the month because Manuelo was bringing new cowboys, relatives of his bride, with him from San Diego.
Concepcion wrapped her arms over the vast bulge that was her stomach and tried not to weep as Diarmid, without once turning to wave, disappeared from sight. With the new servants, the house no longer felt like her own. Though they obeyed her orders, she knew they were afraid of her and she had no idea why.
How she missed Rosa!
“I'll come if you need me, never mind what he says," Rosa had assured her. Much as she'd have liked to believe Rosa, Conce
pcion feared she'd never see her again.
Why was Diarmid so cruel to her? She didn't want much, only to be with him for the rest of her life. Wasn't she his wife?
Sighing, she turned and walked slowly back to the house. She'd noticed the slightest exertion made her short of breath now and it upset her. Also, she could only get her feet into one old pair of slippers. When she'd mentioned her worries to the midwife, Anna, the woman had merely shrugged.
Concepcion was resting upstairs when the young messenger rode in at noon, asking for the midwife. She reached the head of the stairs in time to hear the youth say bluntly, "Maria Gomez's baby is stuck inside her. If you don't come, they'll both die."
"I'll come," Anna agreed.
"But what about me?" Concepcion called down the stairs. "What if I need you?"
“Isn't Maria my friend?" Anna demanded. "Would you have me let her die? You aren't due to have your baby for another month--why would you need me tonight? In any case, I'll be back in the morning."
By the time Concepcion returned to her room for her slippers and descended the stairs, Anna was gone. Not only Anna, but the other two women as well, evidently taking the chance to ride home and see their families. Without asking her! How dare they? Perhaps because they didn't mean to return?
Madre de Dios! Concepcion thought, I'm all alone. She'd never been left alone in her life. Terror skimmed along her spine and she dropped to her knees in the corridor by her father's study and rested her head against the wall. "Mother Mary have mercy on me," she prayed between sobs. "Help me."
She wept until no more tears came and could hardly drag herself to her feet afterwards. She stumbled into the study and eased into her father's favorite chair. "Oh, papa," she whispered, "I wish you were here."
Inside her the child moved sharply, somehow kicking her in two places at once. "Be still, little one," she murmured, stroking her stomach.
The reminder of her baby soothed her. She must be strong. Whether she felt like it or not, she must find food and eat for the child's sake. However afraid she was, she'd survive alone, she and the child, both. Anna had said she'd be back tomorrow. And even if she didn't return, Diarmid would. He'd promised.
When the shadows lengthened into the winter dusk, Concepcion's small flare of courage dimmed. I'll light all the lamps, I'll light extra candles, she told herself. There'll be no darkness inside the house. Nothing to be afraid of.
Once she'd carried out her plan, the casa took on a deceptive air of festivity, as though for a party. With a shock she realized the Christ Child's birthday was almost upon them. Recalling childhood Christmases when she was secure and happy and loved brought tears to her eyes but she blinked them back determinedly. whatever she did, she must not begin crying again. It wasn't good for the child.
She had to rest. Even if she didn't shut her eyes all night long, she must lay down and rest. Not upstairs. To be alone upstairs at night surpassed the limits of her bravery. She'd have to bring down blankets and quilts and pillows and make a bed for herself on the floor. In her father's study. She felt more secure there.
Concepcion was exhausted when she finally arranged the bedclothes to her satisfaction. She decided to keep her clothes on except for her shoes. Her feet were so swollen she could hardly pry the slippers off. She stretched out with a sigh.
It was too dark. Wherever she looked, shadows shifted threateningly and she trembled at their possible menace. The candles and lamps were set too high, that was the trouble. She'd have to bring them lower, onto the floor.
Struggling to her feet, she placed the flickering candles in their holders and the glowing lamps on the floor. The flame of the unprotected candles wavered in the draft along the floor but she didn't want to shut the door to the study, she felt safer with it open.
Lights still burned in the other rooms and along the corridor. In her house of light, surely nothing bad could happen.
How her back ached! It was all the bending over, she supposed. After she'd rested, no doubt she'd be more comfortable. Again she settled herself into her makeshift bed. In one hand she clutched the heart-shaped locket Diarmid had given her. She'd coaxed him until he'd cut off a lock of his hair to place inside with one of hers.
A lock of her hair was also inside her mother's locket but she'd given that locket back to her father to take with him to Mexico City. "This will keep you safe on your journey," she'd told him. "As well as remind you of how much I'll miss you."
She'd brought the Gabaldon family Bible to bed with her, too, the massive, leather-bound volume nestling at her side. Protecting her. She caressed the smooth cover with her free hand. Inside were all the names of her relatives, going back for several hundred years. Her father had written her name in it when she was born. Later he'd clipped a strand of her baby hair and glued it beside her name. As she'd do when her child was born.
Despite her attempts to keep her eyes open, as if seeing could miraculously keep danger at bay, she dozed off time and again, rousing with a frightened jerk to the flickering candlelight and the realization she was alone and that her back ached terribly.
Surely Diarmid meant to return. He hadn't left her for good. He loved the land, if not her. He'd come back. Wouldn't he?
Eventually exhaustion overcame her pain and her fears and she slept. She dreamed of Rosa. Rosa calling her from afar off, so far away she could hardly hear her. In the smoky darkness she couldn't see, there was only Rosa's voice to guide her. She groped toward the voice, trying to hurry but she could barely drag herself along because of the heavy load she carried, a load she couldn't put down, no matter how hard she tried.
Afraid she'd lose Rosa, she tried to call, "Rosa, wait!" but she couldn't speak. She had to rest, her back was about to break from the load, yet she didn't dare stop. Her feet hurt, she hurt all over but she had to go on. If she lost Rosa there was no hope for her, none at all.
Chapter Five
Was it a dream or did she really feel the wind in her face? Concepcion, hovering between waking and sleeping, struggled to understand. A sharp bang jerked her awake and she opened her eyes. She looked around in bewilderment, coughing. The dimly-lit, smoky room was her father's study and she lay on the floor in a tangle of blankets. Two lamps burned, their flames flickering in the breeze sweeping through the room.
Concepcion tried to sit up and cried out as pain gripped her, stabbing from her back through her stomach. "Rosa!" she screamed.
No one came. The pain clutched her fast, she couldn't move, couldn't think, could only moan. As it began to ease, it came to her why she was sleeping in the study. Rosa was gone, everyone was gone. She was alone. Her hand touched the smooth leather of the family Bible and she picked it up, hugging the Bible to her breast.
The wind, strong and warm and dry, came from the eastern mountains. A Santa Ana wind, her father called it. The wind must have sprung up while she slept. Struggling to her feet, her eyes smarting from the smoke--there must be a fire somewhere--Concepcion stumbled toward the open door.
The corridor was smokier than the room and she gasped for breath as she staggered along. To her bewildered horror, flames licked at the staircase. The house was ablaze! How could she get past to the outside door? The courtyard door swung back and forth, open, banging as the wind blew it to and fro. Hadn't she shut all the doors earlier?
Groping through the smoke, Concepcion stumbled through the door into the courtyard. Though wisps of smoke eddied from the house, she could breathe better. She reached the pepper tree before another pain struck her. When it finally passed, she released the low-hanging branch she'd clung to and stared at the house as she tried to make sense out of what was happening.
Flames glowed red through the windows. The house was on fire. From the wind overturning burning candles? But why was the courtyard door open? She didn't think the wind could have unlatched it. The pains--did they mean the baby was coming? Fear paralyzed her. What was she to do?
If I stay here I'll burn to death, she told herself.
Since three sides of the courtyard were part of the house, the gate in the back wall offered the only escape. She staggered toward the gate.
It seemed a mile across the courtyard to the back wall. The wind swirled her unbound hair across her face and into her eyes, at the same time making her choke on the smoke from the burning house. When Concepcion, gasping and retching, reached the gate she found it wouldn't open. As she yanked futilely at it, another pain struck. She dropped to her knees, her forehead against the gate and sobbed.
In her desperation, she couldn't think of a single prayer, all she could do was mumble Rosa's name, over and over as an invocation. As the pain eased, a terrible realization pierced through her. He's trying to kill me!