Circle Star

by Tatiana March

  “I need to talk to you,” Claire said. “The office will give us privacy.”

  Miguel nodded and followed her into the house.

  Once they were seated, she got straight to the point. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  The old man contemplated her for a moment, then gave a heavy nod.

  “I can keep it a secret for another month. Then it will show.”

  Claire saw the question in Miguel’s eyes, but she knew he would never ask it, and she chose not to offer a reply.

  “I had a letter last night,” Miguel said finally.

  Claire leaned across the table, half rising out of her seat. “You promised that you’d tell me at once.”

  Miguel shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Old Squint stopped by the saloon after he’d been to the post office. He came back late and forgot to give me the letter. I only got it this morning.”

  “And…?”

  “Mr. De Santis has written to you. You should receive the letter any day now. He’s riding out with the money to buy back the ranch. He’s going to Cedar City to make the payment to your lawyer.”

  “That’s good news,” Claire said. “Did he mention Rafael?”

  Miguel shook his head. “No. But he said that he expects you to be gone by the time he gets here. He wants full possession of the ranch as soon as the money is paid over to the lawyer. He’s bringing the full amount in cash.”

  Claire bit her lip. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miguel said. “I’ll tell him about you and—”

  “No.” Her tone was sharp. “I don’t want any mention about anyone other than Hartman in connection with the baby. Otherwise speculation will get stirred up. As far as anyone is concerned, I’m a widow expecting my late husband’s child.”

  Miguel nodded. Claire looked into his eyes and saw that she had answered his unspoken question anyway—that either Rafael De Santis or Burt Hartman could be the father of her unborn child.

  Miguel turned his battered hat in his hands. “I could talk to Mr. De Santis. Explain how it was between you and Hartman. All he knows is that you are the widow of the man who ruined him and stole his son’s heritage.”

  “No.” Claire rose to her feet and exhaled a deep sigh. “Thank you for the offer, but this way is better.” She hugged her arms around her body. “The ranch is just a small part of Hartman’s property. There are railroad stocks, a tenement building in Chicago, shares in a silver mine, plenty of cash. I’m a wealthy woman. I can look after myself.”

  “Money is not what you’re about, Miss Claire.”

  “Then what am I about, Miguel?”

  His voice was gruff. “You are a woman who has suffered and needs someone to hold her at night. Someone to stand by you when the baby comes.”

  “Even if it might not be his baby?”

  “I reckon so.”

  She gave another sigh, her shoulders sinking. “I’m going to return to Circle Star and stay there until the baby arrives. I’ll be there, in case he comes back. Once the baby is born, it will be easier to make decisions.”

  “I’m telling you this, so that you know.” Miguel looked troubled. “I saw the boy here on the night Hartman died. And if I saw him, there’ll be others who might have seen him too. I reckon that’s why he knows he has to stay away.”

  “I don’t understand.” Claire gave the old man a puzzled frown. “If he was here, so were dozens of other people. Why would that matter?”

  Miguel’s gaze didn’t waver. “But none of the others were seen climbing out of your window while you were in the parlor waiting for the sheriff to arrive.”

  Claire let out a muffled cry. The room spun around her. She swayed on her feet. Miguel flung is hat on the desk and jumped up from his seat. He grabbed her by the arms and eased her back down into the padded chair.

  “The armoire,” she said in a voice that trembled. “The armoire was locked with no key, and later it was open, and there was a key in the lock.”

  “He was hiding inside?”

  Claire nodded. “He must have been. H must have guessed what I was planning to do, and he wanted to be there, to make sure I was safe.” Her hand crept up to touch the native amulet Rafael had given her. Day or night, she wore it around her neck.

  Miguel stiffened. “He didn’t kill Hartman?”

  “Of course not!” Claire stared up at him. “Is that what people think?” She fell silent. Then she spoke quietly. “I had planned it all. The only reason I married Hartman was to get close to him. I made sure the sheriff knew he had promised to leave me alone at night. Then I made equally sure that Hartman wouldn’t keep his promise. And I shot him, just as I had intended to.”

  “Jesus,” Miguel said. “I thought it was the boy.”

  Claire shook her head. “He wanted to protect me. To be there, just in case my plan didn’t work.” She covered her face with her hands. “I wish I had just walked away. Let Hartman live and gloat over what he did. We could have gone away together.”

  “What about Circle Star?” The old man’s tone held a challenge. “What would have happened to your friends there if Hartman had lived?”

  Claire lowered her hands and looked up again. “I don’t know. Connor is tough and determined, but it is hard for an honest man to beat a crooked one.”

  “See.” Miguel gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “You had to do it. The sheriff has accepted it was an accident. All we need now is for the boy to come back and everything will be fine.”

  “Yes,” Claire said listlessly. “He’ll come back, and everything will be fine.”

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Claire watched expressions flicker across Susanna’s face—concern and pity and a touch of cautious joy. “It will be all right,” Susanna said. “We can go through it together, compare how we feel and comfort each other.” Rallying, she broke into a teasing smile. “Of course, I’m ahead of you, as I’ve always been. I’m almost six months gone, and you’ll be…”

  “Two months and three weeks,” Claire supplied. Her nervous fingers tugged at the sofa cushion in need of mending. She almost regretted coming back to live at Circle Star. She could no longer muster up the girly enthusiasm they had once shared.

  “When did you know for sure?” Susanna asked.

  “I could tell almost right away because I kept being sick.”

  “Morning sickness,” Susanna said with sympathy. “I’ve escaped it.”

  Claire didn’t say anything. She found little to say these days. Her life felt like a foreign country, something she couldn’t fully understand. It seemed as though the scales of fate had decided she’d enjoyed too much happiness up to now, too much privilege in her carefree youth, and now she needed to experience the worst of everything. Including a difficult pregnancy.

  “Is Connor looking forward to the baby?” she asked, something to say.

  “He’s thrilled,” Susanna replied, her delight nearly bubbling over. “If he weren’t worried about his manliness, he’d be knitting booties by now.” Then comprehension dawned. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew wide as saucers.

  “I’m getting to hate that look,” Claire said.

  “What look?”

  “The look people get when they realize I’m expecting a child for the man who raped me and whom I shot dead on my wedding night.”

  “I thought it could be Rafael’s. I thought you and he might have…you know….”

  Claire darted a glance toward the open doorway. “Don’t mention his name.”

  “I’ll be careful. You know who he really is, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Claire hesitated. “And we did…you know.” Blushing, she pulled a face to cover up her embarrassment. “And it was every bit as wonderful as you told me it would be.”

  “The baby?”

  Claire shrugged her shoulders and tried to appear unconcerned. “There is no way of knowing. It was only three days after Hartman raped me. I won’t know un
til the child is born.”

  Susanna studied her features with an assessing look. “Maybe not even then. You have fair hair and pale skin. Even if Rafael is the father, the child might be fair.”

  “I know. Maybe I’ll never be able to tell.” Claire forced a smile. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to love this child, even if it turns out to be green and purple.”

  The girls looked each other and knew what they were both thinking—she could love the child, but if Rafael came back, could he love a child fathered by his enemy?

  ****

  “Juana! Juana!” Claire dragged her steps down the hall, calling for the new maid who had yet to learn her tasks at Circle Star. She located the girl standing at the dining room window, staring dreamily through the glass.

  “Juana,” Claire said gently. There were times when the girl didn’t seem to recognize her own name. Claire had a theory about that, although she hadn’t shared it with anyone.

  “Miss Claire?” The maid spun around, her face a mask of fear.

  “It’s all right,” Claire soothed her. What was it with the girl? Everything sent her scurrying like a frightened animal—the sound of a gunshot, a rider arriving after dark, a letter with her name on it in spindly writing. Claire had a theory about that, too, but she was keeping it to herself, for now.

  “I was just getting breakfast ready,” Juana said.

  Claire moved to stand beside the girl at the window. “I love the light at this time of day, the rich hues of sunrise. It makes me think of a painting by Gauguin.”

  “I know,” Juana replied with an absent nod. “And then the sun rises higher, and it turns into a Cezanne.”

  Claire studied the girl. Maids didn’t usually talk about art with such knowledge. Juana’s skin was light for a Mexican, and her high bridged nose and the proud tilt of her head gave her an air of someone who belonged in ancient times. For once, the girl’s expression appeared serene, and there were no dark shadows under her eyes.

  Juana had been with them for a month now, and although she applied herself diligently to her kitchen chores, it was clear that the tasks were new to her and required much practice before she could master them. She tired easily, but insisted on carrying on until the work was done.

  “I was sick in my washbowl,” Claire said with an apologetic lift of her brows. “When you’re done here, could you go and clean it up? I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid the smell would only set me off again.”

  “Please, Miss Claire.” Juana reached out to lay a hand on her arm. Then she appeared to realize it was an inappropriate gesture for a kitchen maid. Flustered, she withdrew her hand. “Of course I’ll do it, Miss Claire. I want to help.”

  “Thank you, Juana.” Claire glanced at the table behind them. “I think I’ll skip breakfast. Maybe I’ll be able to eat something later. I’ll go and sit in the garden.”

  In the courtyard, Connor had set up a sanctuary for the pregnant women. A canvas canopy provided shelter from the sun, and beneath it stood a table and a pair of benches. Because of the dry desert climate, cushions and shawls could be left out overnight without getting ruined by the dew.

  Claire trundled over and flopped down on a bench. A light breeze always seemed to flow through the tunnel formed by the canvas canopy and the adobe wall behind. She tilted up her face, taking deep breaths of the fresh morning air.

  A sob rose in her throat, and she huddled deeper into the pillows. She was fighting so hard not to feel bitter. Connor and Susanna remained cocooned in their mutual love that seemed to grow stronger every day. Compared to their happiness, her life was in tatters.

  There was no sign of Rafael, even though his parents had moved back into their old home. They knew nothing about her relationship with their son, but they hated her for the name she bore through her infinitesimally brief marriage. To cap it all, she was expecting a child without knowing whether the father was the man she loved, or one she despised.

  Claire tried to accept life as it unfolded, but it was hard to remain noble when Susanna bloomed with her pregnancy and she spent much of her time retching into a porcelain bowl. Claire closed her eyes. Perhaps sleep would provide a momentary respite from the harshness of reality.

  ****

  Susanna lay panting on the disheveled bed. Claire moved closer and poured water into the glass on the nightstand. Sweat beaded on Susanna’s skin. Her hair, broken loose from its braid, hung in damp tangles around her face. When another contraction racked her body, she bowed on the mattress and screamed.

  It only lasted a moment, but it seemed much longer. Then the room grew quiet again, and Susanna slumped on the bed. Dr Jameson leaned over her and told her she was doing fine. Claire took a step back and shuddered, thinking of her own time to come. Fine? The doctor called this fine? If Susanna, the brave Susanna, was squealing like a pig, the ordeal had to be almost too terrible to bear.

  Two minutes later, Susanna bellowed out another scream and kept it up until the contraction was over. Miranda, squatting at the foot of the bed, scrambled to her feet. The towel in her hands was streaked with blood. She added it to the pile of others, picked them up and hurried out of the room.

  Connor, who had been pacing the upstairs hall, hurried to the door the instant it flung open. Claire could see him hovering on the threshold, leaning past Miranda, staring anxiously toward the bed.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  The maid threw him a harassed look. “No. Not is good for husbands.”

  “Connor?” Susanna rasped at Claire. “Tell him…I’m…fine.”

  Claire went to deliver the message, grateful for a moment’s respite. In the hall, Connor had resumed his pacing along the plank floor. Each time another raw sound of suffering pierced the air, he flinched, as if someone had stuck a pitchfork in his gut—which is exactly how Claire assumed Susanna was feeling right now.

  “She is fine,” she assured Connor, and felt like an idiot for saying so.

  Connor shoved her out of the way. “I need to see her.”

  Claire grabbed his shirt, trying to stop him. “Don’t go inside.”

  He shook off her clinging hands. “If my wife is dying, I have a right to hold her one more time and say goodbye.”

  Secretly, Claire agreed. She watched Connor storm into the room where Dr Jameson was now bent over the foot of the bed, peering between Susanna’s legs. Connor ground to an abrupt halt. For one crazy second, Claire feared he was going to attack the doctor for getting into such an intimate position with his wife.

  Then Connor seemed to come to his senses. He moved up along the bed, to where Carmen sat on a chair, patting Susanna’s face with a cool cloth. A cotton sheet covered Susanna’s rounded belly, providing an illusion of modesty.

  When Susanna noticed Connor standing beside her, a shadow of a smile eased the grimace of pain on her features. Then her body tensed beneath the sheet and another scream tore through the room.

  “Push,” Carmen said.

  “Huh, huh, huh.” Susanna made huffing sounds with each panting breath.

  Connor muttered a curse. His face was as pale as Susanna’s. His eyes were frantic, his voice gravely with strain. “Is everything all right?” he asked the doctor.

  “I’m not bloody all right,” Susanna screamed. “I’m splitting in half.”

  “The baby is large,” the doctor said. “She’s in for a difficult labor.”

  Connor flinched. “Are you saying she’s only just getting started?”

  “You won’t be a father tonight,” the young medical man said as he leaned down to observe Susanna’s next contraction.

  When the contraction was over, Susanna slumped back on the pillows and raked a tired look over her husband. “What are you doing here?”

  Connor reached out to clasp her hand. “I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

  “Don’t you dare to leave me,” she yelled.

  “I’m sorry. I love you. This is my fault. We’ll never have another baby. Not unless you wa
nt to. I’ll never touch you again.”

  “Get out of here,” she yelled.

  “But…” Connor threw a confused look at the doctor.

  “Women in labor can be irrational,” Dr Jameson said.

  “This one was irrational even before she got pregnant.”

  Susanna gave a tiny laugh that turned into a groan.

  “Can I stay?” Connor asked, leaning over his wife.

  “No,” she said. “If you stay, you’ll make me feel like a coward for screaming, and I want to scream.”

  Connor turned to Dr Jameson. The blond young man cleared his throat. “It is usually considered less stressful for everyone if the husband keeps out of the way.”

  Connor turned back to Susanna. He bent to brush a comforting kiss on her brow, but a glazed look had entered Susanna’s eyes. Another scream rippled around the room. Connor scooted back a step, and then he whirled and fled.

  After his retreat, Claire returned to the bedside. She took turns with Miranda to assist Carmen and the doctor. Hour after hour, they could hear Connor pacing the hall, subsisting on the endless cups of black coffee Juana brought up from the kitchen.

  Darkness fell, and then thinned out again as the dawn broke. When the first rays of sunshine touched the hilltops on the horizon, the wail of a newborn rose in the air.

  Carmen opened the door. “You have a son, Señor Connor.”

  Connor pushed past the tired woman into the room. Claire stepped away from the bed, where Susanna was now sitting propped up with pillows against the headboard. Sweat still streaked her face, and her hair clung in matted clumps, but an angelic smile brightened her pale features. She cradled a small, wrapped bundle in the crook of her arm.

  “Come and say hello to your son.” She folded the cloth aside to reveal a tiny, wrinkled creature that looked a hundred years old.

  Connor sank to his knees beside the bed. Little damp circles appeared on the cloth that protected the baby. Claire leaned closer to see what was causing them, and saw tears streaming down Connor’s face. He cupped his wife’s cheek with one hand, and with his other hand he gently touched a fingertip to the wrinkled skin of his newborn child.