by Nan Ryan
And Burt Burnett was indeed a passionate man. A fact of life which had been attested to by more than one beautiful, starry-eyed, well-sated woman who couldn’t keep from boasting about her own unforgettably torrid trysts with the amazingly ardent, darkly handsome lover.
As the train wound its way homeward in the setting California sun, Burt Burnett smiled with guilty pleasure, recalling the pair of fun-loving twins he had met in Chicago.
The gorgeous Todd twins, Hope and Faith, had shown him unlimited charity. The girls were identical. He couldn’t tell them apart, so he never really knew which one he was with. But then it hadn’t mattered. Not to him. Not for them. Both were fantastically gifted in the finer points of lovemaking.
For Burt it was his swan song. The final romp before settling down to domestic bliss. So he had made the most of it. Thanks to the accommodating, acrobatic Todd twins, his last hurrah had been memorable.
The train was beginning to slow.
The tiny depot was coming up in the near distance. Burt took another swig of his iced bourbon, swirled it around in his mouth, and swallowed. He drew on his cigar and blew a well-formed smoke ring. Then he set the goblet aside, snubbed out the cigar in a crystal ashtray, and lowered his booted feet to the carpeted floor. He rose, moved unhurriedly to the window, lifted the shade, and looked out.
The lights of Capistrano were twinkling on, one by one, as the sun disappeared completely leaving only a wide ribbon of red-gold light in the far west behind the ocean. Smiling as he studied the familiar landmarks of home, Burt’s attention was suddenly drawn to a slim, sombreroed rider galloping headlong toward the approaching train.
Burt’s smile broadened.
He knew exactly what the dashing, leather-trousered vaquero intended to do. He knew, because he had done it so many times himself.
It was the kind of senseless, daredevil stunt wild young men enjoyed. Only the most experienced horseman would attempt such a dangerous feat. It took a great degree of bravery and was considered a true mark of manhood.
Burt had been just fourteen the first time he had tried it.
Burt raised the window all the way and stuck his dark head out. He whistled and applauded as the brave, foolish rider raced his chestnut stallion across the tracks just a split second before the train’s engine, whistle blowing loudly, reached the crossing.
The slim, charm-clad rider yipped joyfully as the chestnut’s rear hooves cleared the railroad tracks a half second before the big black steam engine reached the crossing. The train roared past with its whistle blowing frantically, and its heavy wheels screeching and grinding on the steel tracks as it attempted to stop.
Burt laughed as the rider disappeared from sight.
The rider galloped on, ignoring the raised fists the ashen-faced engineer shook out the window from his perch at the engine’s throttle. Never looking back, the rider cantered directly to the little village’s stables as total dusk descended.
Dismounting, the rider threw a long leg over, dropped to the ground, and patted the winded chestnut’s sleek neck.
“That’s a mighty fine stallion you have there,” said Paxton Dean, the stable owner, again admiring the mount.
“The best,” said the rider. “Trained him myself. He does anything I ask of him.”
“You’ll be wanting him again in the morning?” asked Paxton Dean, as he took the reins and began removing the lathered chestnut’s bridle.
“By all means. Look for me around sunup.” Patting the big stallion’s velvet muzzle and cooing to him, the rider said, “You are the best, aren’t you, big boy.” The chestnut whinnied and blew, answering his master. The rider laughed and gave the stallion’s jaw a gentle slap, then heading for the open door, said, “See you both tomorrow.”
“I’ll have him saddled and ready for you,” said Paxton Dean. “Night now.”
“Good night.” The rider walked away, but stopped suddenly and paused in the doorway, pondering. Then turned back and said, “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be needing my horse tomorrow.”
“You won’t?”
“No. I won’t be riding after all.”
The rider immediately stepped outside, looked both ways, then crossed Camino Capistrano, the village’s main thoroughfare. Casting a covetous glance, as usual, up the street toward the stately white Mission Inn, that grand, obscenely expensive hotel built on the cliffs adjacent to the old Spanish Mission, the rider went directly to the much more modest little Inn of the Swallows.
A small, unimpressive hostelry sandwiched between the silent undertaker’s parlor and the noisy Balboa Saloon, there was nothing grand about the inn. All the small, colorless rooms were identically furnished with iron bedsteads, washstands, an armoire, a small round drum table, and a worn horsehair sofa. No pictures graced the plain white walls, no curtains covered the window shades.
But the place was clean and the price was right.
The rider climbed the stairs to the second floor and threw the door open to a pair of connecting rooms at the end of the hall.
“I’m back! Where are you, Carmelita? I’m finally back.”
A short, stocky Mexican woman with dark flashing eyes and thick black hair shot through with strands of silver entered from the adjoining room, her hands on her spreading hips.
“Do you know what time it is? I was ready to send out the sheriff to look for you!”
“You worry too much,” said the smiling rider and swept off the big sombrero, allowing an abundance of luxuriant long blond hair to cascade down around slender shoulders.
Two
BURT WAS STILL LAUGHING when he pulled his head back inside the train window. The wheels ground to a screeching halt while he buttoned his half-open white shirt and reached for the dark suit coat lying across the pearl-gray velvet sofa. He shoved long arms into the jacket’s dark sleeves, reached up behind his head to adjust the stiffly starched white shirt collar, then shot his arms forward to display an inch of snow-white cuff.
The train stopped.
A uniformed conductor jumped down, reached up for the set of deboarding steps, and placed them on the ground. Then he stood aside, hands folded before him.
Smiling sunnily, Burt swung down from the train and spotted Cappy Ricks waiting beside the black, open carriage. Cappy’s roan gelding was tied to the back.
Cappy Ricks, Lindo Vista’s head ranch foreman, had turned sixty-six on his last birthday. His full head of hair was totally gray and his six-foot-two frame stooped a mite, but he was still a remarkably strong, fit-looking man.
Burt called to the aging ranch foreman.
Cappy’s craggy features tightened into a brief smile and he started forward. The two men shook hands warmly.
“Good to have you back, Burton.” Cappy affectionately patted Burt’s muscular shoulder.
“Good to be back,” Burt said. Then he asked immediately, “How is he, Cappy? How’s Dad?”
“Holding his own,” Cappy assured him. “Actually, he’s been feeling a little better for the past couple of days.”
“Good! Any chance he’ll feel like attending the big shindig Saturday night?”
“He’s not feeling that good, son,” Cappy said. “But don’t be worrying about that. I’ll stay home with him Saturday night, keep him company.”
“You’re a good man, Cappy Ricks,” said Burt with gratitude and affection.
“Well, now, I don’t know about that.” Cappy ducked his head, half embarrassed, yet pleased. Clearing his throat needlessly, the aged ranch foreman looked up again. “So … how did it go up there in Chicago? Your trip worthwhile?”
“In more ways than one,” Burt said, and winked, his sunny smile broadening mischievously.
Reading his meaning, Cappy shook his gray head, clapped the younger man on the back, and warned, “All that’s behind you now, my boy. I hope you fully realize that and are willing to—”
“I do and I am,” Burt said, nodding. “So stop your preaching. From here on out, you won�
�t know me.”
Cappy looked skeptical. He had known Burt Burnett since Burt was just a year old. He knew Burt as well as Burt’s own father knew him, maybe even better. He knew Burt’s strengths as well as his weaknesses. One of his weaknesses was women. Cappy didn’t blame Burt, knowing the fault wasn’t entirely his.
Since back when he was just a young strapping boy of fifteen, Burt had drawn women to him without even trying. And the strangest thing was that Burt was not some soft, suave, insincere ladies’ man. He was a man’s man. As rugged and rough as the toughest California cowhand, and he never lied or made deceitful promises to woo a woman.
But then, he didn’t have to. They were willing to take him any way they could get him and then savor the memory of the brief encounter ever after.
“I believe you really mean it,” Cappy finally said, idly patting Burt’s back again.
“I do, my friend. You’ll see. I’ll walk the line.”
“Well, that’s a load off my mind,” Cappy said and meant it. “Your daddy’s gonna be mighty glad to see you, boy.”
“He’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow.” Burt grinned.
“Yep. He knows.” Cappy inclined his gray head to the waiting carriage. “I did what you asked, Burt. Brought the open carriage in for you. I’ll ride Dusty on home and tell your daddy you made it in okay.”
“I sure appreciate this, Cappy.” Burt nodded yes to the uniformed porter. While the porter loaded the matching leather valises onto the floor of the carriage, Burt shrugged his wide shoulders and, smiling, said to Cappy, “You know how Gena is about horses. Can’t stand the smell of them. If I rode Sam over to see her, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Now ain’t that a heck of a note,” said Cappy, frowning. “A gal that’ll be spending the rest of her life on Lindo Vista and she don’t like horses and cattle. Why, she don’t even like the land or the sun or the—”
“She likes me, Cappy,” Burt smilingly interrupted the older man.
Cappy laughed then. “Lord, I guess she does.” He shook his gray head. “I’ll have to hand it to Miss Gena. She’s shown the patience of Job, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, siree,” Cappy continued as if Burt hadn’t spoken, “waiting around all these years for you to settle down and finally marry her. She’s one understanding and tenacious gal.”
“Gena’s been a good sport,” Burt agreed, nodding. “And she’ll be a good wife, you wait and see.”
“I suppose,” admitted Cappy dubiously. Then—“But you better be getting on over to her place. The train was two hours late getting in, you know.”
“Was it?” Burt sounded surprised. “So Gena was expecting me at … ”
“Six p.m. It’s almost eight.”
Burt climbed up onto the carriage’s leather-padded seat and took up the reins. “I’m off then. See you tomorrow. Thanks again.”
“Say hello to Gena and the senator.”
Burt waved a hand in the air as he drove away, signaling that he would. He wasn’t worried about Gena being upset. She would be glad to see him, no matter how late he arrived.
Gena de Temple was pretty, dark-haired, and twenty seven years old. She lived with her widowed father, State Senator Nelson de Temple on a long, narrow piece of land that was the northern border of Lindo Vista.
It had been understood, for as long as anyone could remember, that Burt and Gena would one day marry. It had suited Burt just fine. It still did.
He and Gena enjoyed a fond, familiar, comfortable closeness, despite the fact they were, in most ways, direct opposites.
Gena didn’t ride; had never been on a horse. She couldn’t stand the smell of horseflesh. If Burt had been out riding, Gena refused to let him touch her until after he’d had a bath. She had no interest in the land, had never been off the main road leading into the village. She assiduously avoided the harsh California sun. She detested the arid deserts, the forbidding mountains, and the pounding coastal surf equally.
The only rugged thing Gena de Temple loved was Burt Burnett.
Which was fine with Burt. She might never share his love of the rough, wild land, but then what woman would? Educated, intelligent, the consummate hostess, Gena would make him a good wife, be a caring mother to his children. Since foolish, storybook romance didn’t actually exist, Burt saw no reason to wait any longer to marry Gena and make an honest woman of her.
His wild oats had been freely sewn. Gena was tired of waiting. His father was slowly dying and Raleigh Burnett’s greatest wish was to see his first grandchild. So with all parties in agreement, it had been decided. Burt Burnett would—at long last—marry Gena de Temple. Tonight, at dinner, they would finalize the wedding plans.
Burt turned the matched blacks into the circular drive outside the large de Temple mansion. The carriage wheels had hardly rolled to a stop on the pebbled drive before the front door opened and Gena stepped out into the fast fading twilight.
Burt bounded out of the carriage, turned the reins over to a waiting groomsman, and went to meet his fiancée. Gena paused on the porch steps and watched the man she openly adored come toward her.
He was smiling, naturally.
His perfect white teeth flashing in the darkness of his tanned handsome face, he moved quickly, with a catlike certainty. When he reached her, Gena stood on tiptoe and threw her arms around his neck, eagerly lifting her lips for his kiss.
Burt kissed her once, twice, then raised his dark head.
“Miss me?” he teasingly inquired.
“I did. And you? Did you miss me, darling?”
Burt buried his face in Gena’s dark hair as a sharp pang of guilt shot through his chest. An incredibly graphic vision of the naughty naked Hope Todd—or was it Faith?—well, anyway, one of the tantalizing Todd twins rose up to remind him of his recent infidelities.
“Mmmmm,” he murmured into Gina’s perfumed hair and felt heat rise to his face.
“Good!” said Gena, pulling back to look up at him. “I was terribly lonely, so I’m glad you were, too.”
Burt just smiled at her.
Arm in arm, Gena chattering happily, they went inside, where they were met by a beaming Senator de Temple. The distinguished silver-haired senator shook the younger man’s hand, welcomed him home, and within minutes, the three retired to the high-ceilinged dining room to enjoy a long, leisurely dinner.
The conversation was of the wedding plans. An official engagement part was set for Saturday evening. Tiffany-engraved invitations had been sent out a month ago. RSVPs had been received. There had been no regrets. Everyone who had been invited would attend.
Senator de Temple, proud father, would host a crowd of three hundred in the mansion’s marble-floored ballroom. A church wedding and extravagant reception would follow at Christmastime.
After dinner, the trio enjoyed brandy and coffee in the library. And more talk of the nuptials.
“I must have the largest, most elaborate wedding in South California history,” mused Gena aloud. “I am, after all, the daughter of the powerful Senator Nelson de Temple. And I shall be marrying the most eligible bachelor in the entire state!”
“And so you will have the biggest and best wedding, my darling,” said the doting senator. “I’ll see to it.”
“I’ll have my wedding gown made in San Francisco,” Gena said, squeezing Burt’s hand. “And I know of a very special florist down in San Diego who promises he can deliver hundreds of white orchids even in December. Daddy, you recall that caterer we used for your induction party back in … ”
And so it went.
Burt listened politely, secretly wishing that Gena and he could quietly elope and avoid all the folderol. But Gena had waited a long time. The least he could do was to go along with her plans with good grace.
“I do hope we haven’t left out anyone whom we should have invited to the engagement party,” said Gena, troubled.
The silver-haired senator smiled indulgently
at his daughter. “Dear, I’m sure we’ve thought of everyone. Do stop worrying. You’ll make yourself ill.”
Burt seconded her father’s mild warning. His arm around Gena’s shoulders, he gave her a gentle squeeze. “The senator’s right, Gena. Relax. The engagement party will be all you ever dreamed of.” He drew her closer. “Everything is going to be perfect.”
Three
“I’M SORRY, CARMELITA. I didn’t realize it was getting so late,” the slender, leather-trousered Sabella Rios said apologetically as she ran slender fingers through her heavy blond hair. “I won’t stay away this long again.”
Carmelita Rivera’s hands stayed on her hips, but the frown on her face dissolved with the relief of having Sabella back, safe and sound.
“Any luck today?” Carmelita asked, beginning to smile at the beautiful, headstrong young woman whom she couldn’t have loved more had Sabella been her own flesh and blood.
Sabella shook her head and flung herself down onto the horsehair sofa. “None.” Pulling her right knee up to her chest, she tugged off her brown leather boot, dropped it to the threadbare carpet, and begun rubbing her cramped toes.
“I will do that for you,” said Carmelita. The older woman groaned slightly as she lowered herself to the footstool directly in front of Sabella.
She removed Sabella’s remaining boot, drew both her feet up onto her lap, and massaged them with strong, nimble hands.
Sighing, moaning, nodding her thanks, Sabella leaned back, threw her arms up behind her head, and said, “I can’t understand it. How can a man never be on his own property? Isn’t there work he should be doing? Is he so lazy he never helps the cowhands out? Could it be that something is wrong with him? Perhaps he’s sickly and can’t … what if he’s an invalid who never sets foot outside the ranch house?”
Carmelita gently scolded, “You know better than that. If something were wrong—if he’d been in an accident or anything—you would have read about it.” Her knuckles kneading the tender sole of Sabella’s left foot, she voiced her thoughts aloud, “We should never have come here. It is not too late. No one knows yet. Why don’t you give the whole thing up and let’s go home.”
