by Nan Ryan
Because You’re Mine
Nan Ryan
Contents
Part One
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Part Two
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Part Three
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Epilogue
About the Author
For
My six nieces:
A half dozen of the sweetest,
prettiest young women I know.
Helen Hull Clayton
Susan Ford Hull
Jennifer Jonas Leggett
Sarah Allen Soisson
Kate Marie Allen
Chris Mahler Allen
Part One
Prologue
The last days of the Mexican War—afield hospital outside Mexico City’s Chapultepec Castle—dusk on a late September evening, 1847
“WHO GOES THERE?”
“Colonel Raleigh Burnett. Adjutant, Western Border Battalion.”
“Advance, Colonel, and be recognized.”
Colonel Raleigh Burnett quickly stepped into the light of the swaying battle lantern. His injured right arm was tied up in a sling, his uniform jacket draped over his right shoulder. Left-handed, he saluted youthful Victor Rivera, the captain of the guards.
“Colonel Raleigh Burnett,” he repeated his name. “General Patch sent for me.”
“Yes, Sir, Colonel Burnett. The general’s waiting.” Victor Rivera stepped aside, motioning the tall, dark-haired officer into the large hospital tent.
Colonel Burnett came forward, pausing for a second just outside the tent’s open flap. In a voice low and soft, he asked, “Is the general expected to … ?”
The muscular young captain of the guards shook his dark head sadly, then respectfully lowered his eyes. The message was plain. The wounded general was dying. Colonel Raleigh Burnett nodded, removed his dusty blue forage cap with his good left hand, drew a deep slow breath, and ducked inside.
Lamplight flickered and danced, casting shadows on the canvas walls of the noisy field hospital. Wounded men, their faces sweating and contorted in agony, writhed on rumpled cots lined up in rows. The smell of death was heavy in the close, stuffy air. Moans of pain were constant.
Colonel Raleigh Burnett, poised just inside the hospital tent’s opening, had seen so much of death and war he was almost immune to the horrible scents and sounds around him.
But not quite.
Not when his oldest and dearest friend was now one of the war’s casualties. Raleigh Burnett gripped his forage hat in stiff fingers and slowly looked about.
General Norman Patch, his eyes closed, lay unmoving on a cot set apart from the others in a secluded corner of the hospital tent. Situated to afford the mortally wounded general a small degree of privacy in these, his final hours, the cot was but a few short yards from where Colonel Burnett stood.
The colonel stared in horror at the silent soldier lying deathly still on the narrow cot. Burnett’s heart slammed against his ribs. The prostrate general was barely recognizable as the old comrade he had known since their early days at West Point. Raleigh Burnett found it impossible to believe that this ashen-faced casualty, lying helplessly on the cot, was the same man.
Could it be possible that only a few short days ago—not even a full week—this now war-ravaged soul had been the fiery, vibrant, robust commander whose supreme confidence and daring had so successfully rallied his admiring troops against Santa Anna’s army?
Colonel Raleigh Burnett swallowed hard, and set his forage hat on a nearby table. He shrugged his soiled blue fatigue jacket off his right shoulder, let it slide down his good left arm, and placed the jacket alongside the hat. Then gathering himself, he moved forward to face the sad task of saying good-bye.
When he reached the cot, his shadow fell across Norman Patch’s sweating, chalky face. The general’s pale eyes opened. He blinked to focus and saw Raleigh Burnett standing above. The wounded man smiled weakly and lifted a hand in greeting.
Colonel Burnett seized the proffered hand in his good left, smiled, and said, “You old gold brick. Couldn’t you think of some other way to get a furlough?”
Wounded and weak though he was, General Patch chuckled. Or tried to. But the effort made him cough and choke. Colonel Burnett released Patch’s hand, dipped a cloth into a basin of water, and bathed his friend’s shiny face.
“Anything I can get you, Norman? Do for you?” He sponged the fevered cheeks, the glistening forehead, the lank sun-streaked hair.
“Yes, old friend,” the general responded, pushing the damp cloth away. “Pull up a chair. I must talk to you.”
Colonel Burnett laid the cloth beside the basin of water, drew up a folding chair, and sat facing Norman Patch. “I’m here.” He again took the general’s hand, squeezed it gently. “I’m listening.”
General Patch began by saying, “You remember my beautiful wife?”
Burnett nodded. He had first met the blond, aristocratic Castilian, Dona Constancia Carrillo at the couple’s wedding a decade ago. He had been Norman Patch’s best man. He’d seen the beautiful Constancia on several other occasions before her untimely death in the summer of ’43.
“I remember her,” he said softly.
“As you know our large ranch in Spanish California came from a land grant through Constancia’s father, Don Pascal Antonio Carrillo. When Constancia died, I fell heir to the land.”
“Yes. Of course,” Colonel Burnett said, “And in a few days, old friend, you’ll be back on the ranch, resting in your own bed.”
“No,” said Patch. “I won’t.”
“Nonsense, as soon as you—”
“I’m not going to make it,” the general interrupted. “We both know it.”
The smile left Burnett’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said Patch and sighed wearily. Then the general called up his last reserve of strength. His eyes cleared and focused on Raleigh Burnett. He struggled up onto his elbows. “There is something you must do for me. It’s very important.”
“Name it and it’s done.”
“Little Teresa, Constancia’s sister and my ward, is my only living heir. At ten years of age, she’s too young to inherit, isn’t she?”
An attorney by profession, Raleigh Burnett knew the law. “She is. Any inheritance meant for Teresa would have to be held in trust until she turns eighteen. Or, until she marries, in which case her husband could take title to the land on her behalf.”
“That’s what I thought. You handle it, Raleigh. Draw up the necessary documents. See to it the child’s interests are protected. Hold the land in trust for Constancia’s little
sister, Teresa, until she turns eighteen. Or marries, whichever comes first. Since Constancia’s death, little Teresa has been at the Sacred Heart Convent outside Tucson in the Arizona Territory.”
The two friends continued to talk quietly, planning for the inevitable, ensuring the future of the dying man’s ten year old sister-in-law, Teresa Carrillo, and sole heir to the vast Spanish California ranch. Patiently, Raleigh Burnett explained, in laymen’s terms, exactly how the trust would work. Satisfied, the rapidly tiring general thanked his dear old friend who, only two days ago, had risked his own life in a valiant attempt to save his. That was the kind of man Colonel Raleigh Burnett was. Brave. Dependable. Trustworthy.
Now Patch could die in peace.
“You need to rest, Norman.” Colonel Burnett rose to his feet. “Be assured your behest will be honored. I’ll see to it that Teresa Carrillo is taken care of.”
“I know that, my friend,” said General Patch. “And I thank you for this final courtesy.”
Colonel Burnett, blinking back tears, raised his good left hand and saluted his commanding officer one last time; then he returned to his post.
At the hospital tent’s opening, young Captain Victor Rivera continued to stand silent sentinel as the hot September dusk deepened into a still summertime darkness.
The dying general felt relieved. He had seen to it that Constancia’s totally dependent little sister would one day title to the vast cattle and silver empire in Spanish California. Her life would be one of ease and splendor. She would take her pick of her many acceptable suitors. She and her husband would dwell in the magnificent Carrillo mansion and mingle with California’s wealthy landed gentry. The sound of children’s laughter would echo throughout the many rooms of the big ranch house.
It was a pleasing vision and General Patch was filled with a sense of well-being.
But almost immediately uneasiness claimed him again. What if something happened to Raleigh Burnett? Teresa wouldn’t reach her maturity for another eight years. Much could come to pass in that length of time. Burnett could be shot and killed in these final days of the war. And Teresa would be left unprotected. The child might never know about the trust deed, might never lay claim to her land.
With effort, the general struggled to again lift his head from the perspiration-drenched pillow. Focusing with difficulty, he saw the captain of the guards standing a few short yards away, arms crossed over his chest. He summoned the young officer to his bedside.
“Captain Rivera, I understand you are from the Arizona Territory.”
“Yes, sir,” Victor Rivera conformed. “Fort McDowell. Born and raised on the nearby Verde River.”
“Good, good. You know Tucson?”
“Yes, sir, General, I do. How may I be of service?”
“I want you to write a letter for me. Two letters, in fact,” said General Patch, inclining his head toward the nearby battle desk, atop which rested a neat stack of cream vellum stationery, and a plumed pen and inkwell.
While the general dictated, Victor Rivera wrote out the message addressed to the Mother Superior of the Sacred Heart Convent in Tucson, Arizona. The terms of the trust for young Teresa Carrillo were spelled out precisely. Instructions to contact Raleigh M. Burnett, the California attorney, were included, along with a Los Angeles address.
When the message was concluded, folded, put into a vellum envelope, and sealed with candle wax, the general had Victor Rivera write a letter to his sister-in-law. In it he told the young Teresa Carrillo that he loved her as Constancia had loved her, was sorry he had to leave her alone, but that he had ensured her future. Briefly explaining that the vast acreage in old California which had belonged first to her father, Don Pascal Antonio Carrillo, then to her older sister, Constancia, would one day be hers. He repeated the instructions on how to get in touch with Raleigh Burnett to claim her rightful inheritance.
“Give me your word, Captain,” said the general, his pale eyes intense, “that you will deliver these letters as soon as this war has ended.”
“I solemnly promise, sir.”
“The letters are confidential. Do not allow either of them to fall into the hands of anyone other than to whom they are addressed. Do you understand me?”
“You have my word, General Patch.”
The general released a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Carry on, Captain!”
One
A ranch six miles south of San Juan Capistrano, California—sunset on a perfect spring day in 1880
A SLENDER YOUNG RIDER sat astride a dancing chestnut stallion outside the whitewashed fence boundaries of one of Southern California’s largest working cattle ranches. The rider, squinting against the lowering sun, was dressed in the unique garb favored by the Mexican charros—leather trousers, white shirt, scarlet butterfly necktie, scuffed ankle boots, and a broad-brimmed straw sombrero.
The rider’s narrowed, unblinking gaze slowly lifted to the hammered silver sign mounted from the tall crossbars above the rancho’s main gate. The shimmering silver letters spelled out simply Lindo Vista—beautiful view. The rider, whose dark eyes quickly turned as hard and cold as onyx, had no doubt that the view from inside the imposing ranch house located on an elevated rise was indeed beautiful.
Soon, very soon, the rider would know for certain.
As unmoving as a statue, the long-legged, leather-trousered rider stayed resolutely in place for the next hour. It was not the first time the rider had been there. It would not be the last
Since arriving in San Juan Capistrano, California two weeks ago, the slim young rider had ridden El Ranch Lindo Vista’s vast expanse daily, exploring every far-reaching acre, systematically becoming acquainted with every unique landmark.
The rider eagerly learned the location of each hidden trail or secret footpath or abandoned silver mine and all the towering trees and rich grassy ranges and sandy desertlands and towering mountains and rushing streams and rugged coastline.
Carefully keeping out of sight, and avoiding the legions of ranch hands working the big spread, the rider ended each long tiring ride at this same well-concealed vantage point in front of the huge white ranch house. Field glasses raised. Watching. Waiting. Hoping for even the slightest glimpse of the rich, powerful man who called the white, red-tiled roofed house home.
The young one.
Not the old one.
The rider had seen the old one that very first day in California. A frail, sickly old gentleman with silver hair, he’d been out taking the afternoon sun on the southern flagstone patio. He had been there most days since, slight shoulders and thin arms covered with a bulky sweater, knees hidden under a lap robe.
No, it was not for him the rider restlessly hunted. Through the powerful field glasses, the rider’s dark gaze searched anxiously for a strong, vigorous, totally healthy man who at thirty-one was but seven years the rider’s senior. It was for him the rider waited. It was for him the rider watched.
For the ailing old man’s idolized only son. And sole heir to Lindo Vista.
Burton J. Burnett.
The rider didn’t give up the fruitless quest until the blood-red sun had slipped below the western horizon and into the sea behind the imposing many-roomed ranch. Finally, disappointed once more, the rider lowered the glasses, turned the chestnut stallion about and rode away.
The rider put the stallion into an easy lope for the six-mile journey back to the sleepy village of San Juan Capistrano. The rider lifted a hot, sun-reddened face to the cooling evening breezes.
The wind soon picked up, pressing the tight leather trousers against the rider’s lithe long legs, billowing the blousy white shirt out in back, and tossing the ends of the scarlet necktie up against a full-lipped, but set, unsmiling mouth.
The rider laid big roweled silver spurs to the chestnut stallion’s flanks and the powerful beast instantly shot into a fast, ground-eating gallop.
Hugging the galloping stallion with leather-clad knees, the rider solemnly resolved to come back again tom
orrow. Back to the vast rangelands known as Lindo Vista. Back to stand sentinel at the hidden command post behind a towering oak across from the whitewashed ranch house on the cliffs. Back to hopefully see the elusive Burton J. Burnett.
Beginning to relax and enjoy the ride, the determined young rider raced the dying sun back to the village.
As the young rider on the chestnut stallion thundered northward toward San Juan Capistrano, a train snaked toward the very same destination, moving steadily southwestward.
In the very last car—a private Pullman—on the slow-moving train, a lone passenger was sprawled comfortably on a plush, pearl-gray sofa. He lounged lazily, his dark head resting on the sofa’s plush back, his long legs stretched out before him, booted feet propped carelessly atop a gilt-inlaid rosewood table.
He held in one tanned hand a tall crystal goblet of iced Kentucky Bourbon, half full, and in the other a fragrant Cuban cigar, blue smoke curling up from its glowing tip. Totally relaxed, pleased with his successful business trip to Chicago, and even more pleased that it was ended, Burt Burnett was smiling.
As usual.
Burt smiled a lot.
People who knew him well said that they had never seen him without a warm smile on his face. The men of the village swore that even when conducting business, no matter how hard a bargain Burt drove, his engaging smile never left him. The town’s older ladies said that Burt had an adorable, boyish smile, so guileless and open it made them want to give him a big warm, motherly hug.
That famous Burnett smile had a similar effect on younger women. They, too, had a strong desire to hug him, but not in a motherly fashion. Burt Burnett had been, since he turned eighteen, San Juan Capistrano and southern California’s most eligible bachelor. A good-looking, sensual man with warm humorous gray eyes, that compelling, ever-present smile, and a natural easy charm made him a favorite. And not only with the local girls, but with women down in sunny San Diego, up in lazy Los Angeles, and as far away as the bustling Bay city of San Francisco.
Burt Burnett was playful, irreverent, and incredibly attractive. With the upbringing of a gentleman and the charm of a rogue, he knew how to show a woman the time of her life and keep his mouth shut afterward. Never one to kiss and tell, he was a sought-after lover, a man who was as discreet as he was passionate.
