by Jane Toombs
"I was wondering why you haven't invited Stella to the ranch lately," he said.
Angelica shrugged. "We really don't have much in common with her, do we?"
"She's your cousin, isn't she?"
"Only by marriage."
He gave her a level look. "Stella took you in when you had no one else. Cutting her off is a fine way to repay that debt."
"I haven't forgotten how she befriended me. If only she weren't so odd--dressing like a Mexican peasant, for instance. And her language. I never know what she might say."
"That makes her more interesting than some of your fine friends you're afraid she'll shock. I expect you to include Stella in your party and dinner invitations."
Angelica lowered her eyes. "If you insist, of course I will."
The following month, Diarmid moved to a separate bedroom. If he hadn't longed for a child, he wouldn't have bothered to come to her bed again--making love to her had become almost as much of a duty for him as it was for her.
Because he wanted a son, he visited her room at least twice a month. He saw Stella as often as he could. The arrangement seemed to suit everyone and, though she never said a word about it, he sometimes suspected Angelica knew exactly what he was doing.
The months slipped by, then the years. In November of 1861 a fifteen-day rain began a deluge that continued from December into January, flooding the ranch and the surrounding area. Los Angeles merchants were up to their waists in water; no mail could get through. Then, as if God regretted bestowing so much water on southern California, it didn't rain again for almost three years. The earth-scorching, life-killing drought cut into Diarmid's profits, but didn't devastate him because of his irrigation ditches and the fact he had less than a hundred head of cattle to lose, their bones bleaching on the hills. His sheep herd survived by eating gayety, a drought-resistant weed.
Though Diarmid knew of the North-South war raging in the east, it seemed much less important than his own struggle to keep enough water flowing for his crops and animals to survive. Many area residents and ranch owners went belly-up from the drought, but Diarmid managed to scrape up enough spare cash to purchase more land. Through one of Angelica's friends, he'd met Hank Jarvis, a Los Angeles lawyer, and the two men joined forces to buy what Hank assured him were prime town lots--paying three dollars apiece for them at auction.
By 1865 both the war and the drought were over and there was no question, which was more important to Diarmid. Or to Southern California in general, since the state had lost forty percent of its livestock.
When an earthquake rattled the dishes on the shelves of his house in May but did no further damage, Diarmid marked it down as the fourth since he'd built the house. Not one of the quakes had been serious, despite the old Indian's mumbo-jumbo about sleeping spirits.
A railroad was built from Los Angeles to its port on the ocean, San Pedro, and vaqueros amused themselves by racing their horses against the trains, often winning. But the town grew, changing from a wild little pueblo into a thriving more-or-less law-abiding city. To the south, even drowsy San Diego came to life with the arrival of the California Southern Railway from San Francisco.
Despite the collapse of the Comstock silver boom, Indian wars in the northeast, Chinese massacres and vigilantes, California grew as Diarmid's ranch was growing, with a population of 300,000 by the mid-seventies.
All Diarmid touched seemed to turn to gold. The ranch brought in so much money he invested in other enterprises--railroads and a canning plant. He added to the house until it had twenty-eight rooms. He worked hard and enjoyed his life. The only thing he regretted was that Angelica hadn't produced a child. Manuelo and Juanita, after having four children, were now grandparents. They lived on their own land, land he'd given them as he'd promised, and Manuelo raised beef cattle.
On Christmas Eve in 1876, Diarmid sat in the library letting his thoughts drift back, as he did every year at this time, to Bonny Charlie. If his son had lived he'd be a young man now--twenty-three. And probably impatient for the "old man" to give him his chance to run the ranch.
Forty-four isn't old, Diarmid thought. Hell, I can outride men half my age. And do as well in bed, too, or I miss my guess.
When Angelica came in to see if he was ready to go to church, he sighed and rose. She'd traveled the route of most converts, becoming a better Catholic than many born and raised in the faith. Better than he was, certainly. To keep her from nagging him to death, he'd long ago agreed to go to Mass with her twice a year--on Easter and Christmas.
When they returned from the chapel at El Doblez--now a full-fledged church with a pastor of its own--Angelica paused after removing her coat and hat and handing them to the maid. "Would you step into the music room for a moment?" she asked him.
Once inside, with the door shut, she turned to face him, smiling. "I have a wonderful surprise for you," she said. "I'm going to have a baby."
Diarmid stared at her in disbelief. Women of her age, he'd heard, went through something called the change of life. Was it possible this had happened to Angelica and she'd mistaken what was occurring?
"How can you be sure?" he asked.
She placed her hands, one on top of the other, over her abdomen. "Today I felt the baby move. We'll have a spring child, in April, I think. I've prayed for so many years to Mother Mary and at last she's granted me my dearest wish."
She threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Diarmid, I'm so happy!"
Diarmid, holding her as carefully as though she were made of glass, felt his heart lift. He was positive Angelica would give him a son.
Davis Malcolm Burwash, named after his two grandfathers, came into the world on the fifteenth of April in 1877 after a long, arduous birth.
"Forty-two is old for a woman to bear her first child," Dr. Marietta told Diarmid. "I fear her health will be permanently affected. Needless to say, she should have no more children."
Diarmid, thrilled with his healthy son, was quick to agree. Since he still visited Stella periodically, as well as occasionally seeking out women in Los Angeles, it was an agreement he kept to without difficulty. For five years.
Davis, his hair and eyes as dark as Diarmid's, thrived. By the time Davis was two, Diarmid had all but forgotten Bonny Charlie. On Davis's fifth birthday, children and adults celebrated. After the children had gone home or to bed, the adults continued the party. Diarmid, annoyed because Angelica had "forgotten" to invite Stella and also because he didn't much care for one of the guests she had invited--a Frenchman who bowed over her hand and smiled at her suggestively--took one too many snifters of brandy.
After the guests had departed for their own homes or to their rooms if they were staying overnight, Diarmid came up behind Angelica, who was making sure that none of the discarded cigar butts were still smoldering. He put his arms around her, pulling her against him and nuzzling her neck.
"You're drunk," she said, trying to free herself.
"A Scot is never drunk!" he exclaimed. He lifted her into his arms and started for the staircase.
"Put me down," she ordered, keeping her voice low. "You don't know what you're doing."
"Going to carry the blushing bride across the threshold of her bedroom, that's what." As he climbed the stairs, he burst into song:
"Her bosom was the driven snow
Taw drifted heaps sae fair to see
Her limbs the polish’s marble stone
The lass that made the bed for me..."
"Hush, you'll wake everyone," she warned.
"Will you make the bed for me?" he asked. "No, you never did, never will. But I'll make the bed for you, yes I will."
"Diarmid, do be quiet, you'll rouse the very devil with your noise."
"No doubt the devil enjoys Robbie Burns." He fumbled the bedroom door open and kicked it shut behind them. Staggering over to the bed, he dumped her onto it and began to undress her.
"Stop that!" she cried, trying to squirm away.
He held her firmly and continued
to take her clothes off. "Who's the man in this house?" he demanded. "I'll tell you who he's not--that fancy French flute-player you flirted with all night."
"Monsieur Dubois is a gentleman!"
"Sum’s I." Diarmed stripped off the last of her under-garments, flung it aside, bowed so deeply he almost fell on his face, recovered and climbed onto the bed. "May I have the honor?" he asked.
Without waiting for an answer and without removing any of his clothes, he took her, then fell into a drunken stupor.
He was startled when he woke the next morning to find himself fully dressed and in his wife's bed. Alone. He had no notion of how he'd gotten there.
Margaret Mary Burwash was born on Christmas Day. Though the birth wasn't prolonged, afterward Angelica ran a high fever for two weeks. Though she gradually recovered, she never fully regained her strength. Diarmid was so enchanted by his bonnie little Meg that he couldn't regret the circumstances that brought her into existence. Though he loved Davis, Meg became the light of his life.
The Burwash family celebrated Meg's second birthday by having a quiet Christmas at home. After the children were put to bed, Diarmid retired to the library, leaving Angelica reading in the music room. Later he'd help her up the stairs to her bed for she couldn't manage the steps by herself. He poured himself a brandy and settled into his comfortable leather chair where he fell asleep...
Diarmid felt the heat of the fire before he saw the fiery tendrils reaching for him. He struggled not to turn his head toward the flames but, as always, in vain. When the second sight took him, he involuntarily finally looked and saw a wide stream flowing through the heart of the fire, sparkling in the sun as it cascaded in a waterfall, the stream tumbling down, down onto to sharp rocks, where the water foamed and swirled. The back of Diarmid's neck prickled in fear as he stared at the rocks. Death waited there. Who for?
A cry cut into his vision and he roused, blinking, looking around the library in confusion.
"Diarmid!" Angelica called.
He sprang to his feet and hurried toward the music room. She met him at the door, flinging herself into his arms. "I had the strangest feeling just now." Her voice quivered as she spoke. "Like someone walking over my grave."
He patted her back soothingly, wanting to reassure her but unable to find the words with his own unsettling vision still filling his mind with dread. Had his been a true vision? He feared so. All the others had been.
"I'm so tired," she whispered, leaning against him.
I'll carry you up the stairs," he told her.
After he'd laid her on her bed, he called Conchita to help her undress. Angelica clutched at his hand when he started to leave. "Don't go."
"I'll come back when Conchita's finished," he assured her.
While he waited, he looked in on the sleeping children. Davis lay on his back, arms outstretched. The lad was handsome and strong--an open and trusting child, though with a fiery temper. Meg lay curled on her side, a favorite doll in the crook of one arm. Diarmid smiled down at her, so sweet and pretty. If she was more devious than her brother, he forgave her. Her coloring was not as dark as Davis's, her hair a deep brown, her eyes hazel. When she smiled at him, Diarmid couldn't resist her--she was the most charming wee lass in the world.
Angelica had taken her time about it, but she'd given him two wonderful children.
"Please ask Mr. Burwash to come to me," Angelica told Conchita as the maid tucked the covers around her. She didn't feel right, not right at all and Diarmid's touch would comfort her, would dispel some of her uneasiness.
Conchita nodded. Angelica could never get these Mexican maids to say, "Yes, ma'am," like they should but she was too used to Conchita to want a change. Besides, the woman did have a remarkable flair for hairdressing.
Diarmid stepped through the door as soon as Conchita went out; he must have been waiting in the hall. He strode to her side and stood looking down at her. She patted the bed in invitation and he sat down. After that terrible night when he forced himself on her, giving her Meg, he was careful not to come into her bedroom without being asked.
"How are you feeling now?" he asked. "Are you in any pain?"
"I can't describe what's wrong--it's as though something dreadful is going to happen and yet I have no pain, nothing like that, merely a fluttering inside my chest." She reached for his hand. "Please stay with me. When you're here I'm not afraid."
He held her hand between both of his. "I'll send for Dr. Murrieta."
"No, I don't want a doctor. Just stay with me."
Your hand is so cold."
"Yours are warm. They're always warm."
He brought her hand to his cheek. "I'm worried about you. The doctor--"
"He'd never get here in time."
"Angelica!" His voice rose. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Hush. Don't wake the children."
Diarmid gazed wildly about the room. "There must be something I can do. Some way to--"
"I want you here next to me, that's what you can do for me." She reached up to touch his eyebrows and found the effort almost beyond her. "Don't frown so." She closed her eyes. "Stella," she said.
She heard Diarmid catch his breath and smiled. Did he think, after all this time, she meant to chide him?
"Stella's getting too old to work in the cantina," Angelica continued, finding each word harder to say than the one before. She was so weary. "Bring her here. The children will need her. And you, too."
"It's you I need," he said softly. "It's always been you."
I know, she wanted to say. I know you've always loved me, but she couldn't speak, Couldn’t move, she was drifting away like thistledown, growing lighter and lighter.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Toombs, the Viking from her past and their calico grandcat, Kinko, live on the south shore of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula wilderness. Here they enjoy refreshing Springs, beautiful Summers, colorful Falls and tolerate miserable Winters. Jane is edging toward ninety with her published books and has over twenty-five novellas and short stories to her credit. She’s been published in every genre except men’s action and erotica, but paranormal is her favorite. She’s a member of a closed twelve author promo group called Jewels Of The Quill, where she’s “Dame Turquoise” at
Also from Books We Love Publishing, Hallow House, Books I and II, and Ten Past Midnight. Six stories and three poems on the dark side of paranormal. Everything from ghouls to the heart-eating Egyptian beast who decides one's fate. Even the touches of romance are definitely different. But what traveler can expect the norm when on the wrong side of midnight? Ten past midnight All's not well. Every road leads right To hell..
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