by Nan Ryan
Sabella snatched her foot from Carmelita’s hands. Her arms came down from behind her head, and she leaned forward until her set, determined face was mere inches from the Mexican woman’s.
“Never!” she said through clenched teeth. “Never. I am staying. You’re free to go back to the Arizona Territory if you wish, but you’ll go alone. I’m not leaving until I have what I came here for.”
Her dark eyes clouded with worry, Carmelita said, “I wouldn’t leave you but, Sabella … nena, nena … this can only lead to more heartbreak and tragedy. What you are doing … what you aim to do … it is not right. It is not right and I—”
“Not right?” Sabella’s tone was brittle. “It’s not right?” she repeated, incredulous. “What I’m doing is not right? Have you forgotten what they—”
“No, no. I have forgotten nothing. But I pray each night that you will one day forget.”
“Save your prayers, Carmelita.” Sabella abruptly shot to her feet. “I don’t need them. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“No,” Carmelita said firmly, sadly, “you do not. You are too young to know some things. Too inexperienced to fathom the kind of tragic consequences your actions will bring to all involved. Including yourself.”
Yanking the long tails of her white shirt out of her tight leather trousers, Sabella laughed away Carmelita’s concerns. “Carmelita, dear, dear, Carmelita. Certainly there will be consequences. I realize that I will pay a price, and a high one, but I’m perfectly willing to do so.” Her dark eyes turned a shiny, polished obsidian and she added resolutely, “It will be worth it”
“I hope so,” said a defeated Carmelita, shaking her head. A silence. Then: “You’ll be riding back out there in the morning?”
Sabella shrugged slender arms free of her shirtsleeves, and idly blotted the beads of perspiration from her throat and shoulders with the soiled white shirt.
“No. I won’t be returning to the rancho tomorrow. I’ve decided to try another tack. I’ll stay close to the inn all day. I’ll get dressed up. Do a bit of shopping here in the village.”
Carmelita’s dark eyebrows knitted together. “Have we enough money for … ?”
“I won’t spend any money.”
“Then why go shopping?” Carmelita slowly rose, putting a hand to the small of her back.
“To meet people. To make friends. To see what I can find out about Mr. Burton J. Burnett.”
She pinched her cheeks. She bit her lips. She twisted her clean, shining hair into a thick golden rope and pinned it atop her head. She ran her hands over her slender waist, smoothing down the gathers of her freshly laundered, pink cotton dress. She plucked at the high, white lace collar, and touched a tiny white button at her throat.
She grabbed up the straw bonnet with the pink satin ribbon around the crown and hurried from the bedroom. Kissing Carmelita’s cheek and telling her not to worry, Sabella Rios left their small suite.
She descended the stairs in such a ladylike manner, no one would have recognized her as the same young woman who had raced down the steps yesterday in trousers and boots. Heads turned when Sabella reached the tiny lobby, and when she stepped outside, a couple of prosperous-looking gentlemen stared openly in frank admiration.
Sabella was pleased.
It wasn’t because she wanted to attract the attention of these particular gentlemen. She didn’t. But she was relieved to see that here—just as in the Arizona Territory—she could spark swift interest in the most sophisticated men. Her physical attributes, the immediate attraction she held for the opposite sex was extremely gratifying to Sabella.
But it wasn’t shallow vanity that made her glad so many men found her appealing.
It was much more.
It was a necessity that she be attractive if her well-thought-out plan were to work.
She had to be pretty. She had to be alluring. She had to be mysterious.
And she had to attract Burt Burnett’s attention on their very first meeting.
Smiling, Sabella strolled along in the warm California sunshine. More heads turned. Men, young and old, noticed the tall, slender blonde in the pastel pink dress and saucy straw hat. They speculated on who she was, what she was doing in Capistrano. Gentlemen nodded and tipped their hats as Sabella walked leisurely past.
She wondered as she glanced at their faces: Was one of them Burton J. Burnett? Could it be the tall, blond man with the handlebar mustache who was grinning so foolishly at her? Or the short, brown-haired young fellow who was a half a head shorter than she and already developing a paunch beneath his custom-tailored clothes? Or the skinny, lank-haired man with the gaunt, Lincolnesque face, and the funeral-drab frock coat?
Sabella released a soft sigh of relief when finally she had gone past the entire knot of men and was alone on the sidewalk. She felt the wispy hair on the nape of her neck rise and her stomach reflexively turn at the unpleasant prospect of marrying any one of the men she had just passed.
Dear God, she silently prayed, please, don’t let Burton Burnett be too repulsive.
Sabella immediately felt guilty for calling on the Almighty with such a selfish and sinful request when the reason behind her wish was so unforgivably sinister. Hoping the Lord wouldn’t strike her dead, Sabella swept through the door of a millinery shop.
It was empty, save for a thin, middle-aged woman placing gloves in a glass-topped case near the back of the store.
The woman looked up as Sabella entered. She smiled and said in warm, friendly tones, “Good morning, Miss. Is there anything special you’re looking for?”
“No. Not really. I’ll just browse around for a bit, if I may.”
“For as long as you like,” said the congenial clerk. “Call me if you need help. I’ll be back in the storeroom.” Smiling, she turned then, ducked through a curtained doorway and disappeared.
Sabella had been milling about for only a moment when she saw, stopping just outside the millinery shop’s front windows, a couple of women. Young women. Neither looked to be more than twenty years old. The well-dressed pair came hurrying inside, talking excitedly.
Sabella swiftly removed her straw bonnet, snatched an absolutely atrocious-looking hat from a nearby pedestal, slammed it on her head, turned to the chattering girls, and asked, “What do you think? Should I buy it?”
The girls looked at her. They looked at each other. Then back at her. And they burst out laughing. Sabella laughed with them, picked up a long-handled hand mirror, and mugged at herself, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes before she took the hat off and returned it to the pedestal.
In minutes all three young women were trying on hats—every kind of hat, every cap and bonnet in the store. When they had exhausted the supply, they all fell down in a giggling heap atop the ruby-red loveseat at the center of the small millinery shop. Clutching their stomachs, tears rolling down their cheeks, Janie Desmond and Cynthia Douglas took an immediate liking to Sabella Rios.
The trio left the millinery shop together, walked one block up the street, and went into a ladies’ ready-to-wear. They spent the remainder of the morning trying on dresses. None bought anything.
Back out in the warm sunshine, Cynthia Douglas said, “My stars above, it’s almost noontime. Mother’ll have a walleyed fit if I’m not home by straight up twelve.” She grabbed Sabella’s hand. “Janie’s having lunch at my house. You come along, too.”
“You’re sure I wouldn’t be imposing,” demurred Sabella.
“Good grief, no!” assured the green-eyed, auburn-curled Cynthia. “Say you’ll come. Please, please. After the meal, we’ll go up to my room. Janie and I are going to practice our dancing. Do you dance beautifully, Sabella? I just know you do. Maybe you can show us. What do you say?”
Sabella accepted Cynthia Douglas’s invitation. Cynthia’s parents were gracious and cordial, and far too well-mannered to quiz her about her background.
But after lunch, when the young women retired to Cynthia’s big upstairs bedro
om, Sabella came under rapid-fire questioning from both the inquisitive Cynthia Douglas and the talkative Janie Desmond.
Nonetheless, Sabella revealed very little. She told them that both her parents were dead and said that she had come to San Juan Capistrano to check on a possible inheritance, but did not elaborate.
“My traveling companion and chaperon, Carmelita Rivera, and I are presently in residence at the Inn of the Swallows,” she said. “We’ll stay on for an indefinite period of time until we—”
“The Inn of the Swallows?” Cynthia interrupted. “Why, that’s a dreadful place. You should have chosen the Mission Inn! It’s a splendid hotel; the rooms are gigantic and the best ones face the ocean and … and … ” She caught the look on Sabella’s face and immediately began apologizing, “Sabella, how thoughtless of me. I am sorry. The Mission Inn is terribly expensive and if you’re staying for several weeks—”
“Exactly,” said Sabella.
Cynthia frowned. “If only it were fall instead of spring.”
Nodding, Janie hurried to explain Cynthia’s meaning. “Both our families—Cyn’s and mine—spend the entire summer up in San Francisco every year. Otherwise you could stay with one of us.”
“It’s very kind of both of you to worry about me.” Sabella smiled at the auburn-haired Cynthia Douglas and the brunette Janie Desmond. “But Carmelita and I are actually quite comfortable. The inn isn’t so bad.”
“The worst thing is we’ll hardly have time to get to know you,” Cynthia lamented. “We leave bright and early next Monday morning for San Francisco.”
“And we won’t be back to Capistrano until September,” Janie sadly concurred. “By then you’ll be gone back to the Arizona Territory.”
“That’s true,” Sabella said, thoughtful. She brightened and said, “But we have until Monday, so let’s enjoy ourselves while we can.”
“You’re right. We’ll spend as much time together as possible!” said Cynthia.
“Yes! You’ll have dinner at my home tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll go on a picnic at the beach and then … oh, I almost forgot! Saturday night! Promise you’ll go to the big party with us this Saturday,” enthused Janie.
“A party?” Sabella said, dark eyes lighting with interest. “I do love parties. Is it some special occasion?”
Janie let out a loud Indian whoop while Cynthia, shaking her head piteously at Sabella, declared, “Special? I guess it is. Only the biggest even in Capistrano history!”
“Oh, my yes!” trilled Janie excitedly. “It’s Gena de Temple’s long-awaited engagement party! You must come with us, you simply must!”
“But I wasn’t invited. I don’t even know Miss de Temple.”
Cynthia waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Our engraved invitation was addressed to the entire family, which of course includes any houseguests.”
“But I’m not a houseguest.”
“We won’t tell if you won’t,” Janie said, and Cynthia nodded.
“Well, all right. I’ll attend Miss de Temple’s engagement party with you,” Sabella laughingly replied. “Who is the lucky groom?”
“Only the most eligible bachelor in all Southern California,” Cynthia stated emphatically, a dreamy expression coming into her green eyes, a foolish little smile to her lips.
“Really?” Sabella said, amused, and turned to Janie.
“Oh, absolutely!” agreed Janie, pressing folded hands to her breasts as if in prayer and closing her eyes.
Laughing, Sabella asked, “Does this wonderful man have a name?”
In unison the girls sighed, “Burt Burnett.”
Four
THE DAY HAD BEEN a gratifying one for Sabella.
Everything was falling into place sooner than she had hoped.
Back at the inn late that afternoon, Sabella stripped off her straw hat and pink cotton dress. Wearing only her chemise, she climbed atop the bed and folded her long tanned legs beneath her.
She reached under the pillow and withdrew a worn, leather-bound journal. She flipped past the pages filled with large, distinctive handwriting to the journal’s back where she had tucked several carefully saved newspaper clippings. Some were long, in-depth articles. Others contained but a few lines. Several of the clippings were brittle and yellowed with age. A few had been only recently pasted in.
One name prominently dominated each and every article in Sabella’s leather book.
Burnett.
Solemnly, Sabella reached for the folded copy of the morning’s San Diego Herald which Carmelita had left there for her. She unfolded the newspaper and her dark eyes narrowed as she searched anxiously for the name.
Burnett.
It didn’t take long to find it. The Burnett name headed up an article on the front page of the society section. Bottom lip caught behind her top teeth, Sabella read:
Wealthy young cattle baron, the handsome Burton J. Burnett, is due back at his palm-shaded palace after a ten-day stay in Chicago, Illinois. Burnett, son of the aging patriarch, Raleigh Burnett, traveled to the big Midwest city to meet with a team of hydrology scientists. The Burnett family is one of the main underwriters of a hush-hush hydrology research program currently underway. Burt Burnett arrives back in San Juan Capistrano just in time for his Saturday engagement party to …
Sabella read the entire article. Then read it once more. She then took a pair of small embroidery scissors, snipped it neatly from the paper, and placed it in the back of the leather-bound journal with the other clippings.
She closed the book, lifted it from the bed, folded her arms around it, and pressed it to her breasts.
Her dark eyes staring into the past, she said softly, “I will definitely be present at Burt Burnett’s engagement party. Nothing could keep me away. After all, if I’m to be Mr. Burnett’s wife, I really should attend.”
Saturday evening.
The fifteenth day of May.
Lights blazed in every window of the two-story de Temple mansion. A steady stream of carriages rolled up the circular drive to discharge arriving guests. Music floated out over meticulously landscaped grounds of neatly trimmed lawns and rare exotic shrubbery and ornamental waters.
Inside the roomy, opulent de Temple mansion, ladies in extravagant gowns and gentlemen in custom-cut evening wear moved down the wide corridor toward the marble-floored ballroom. There at the arched entrance to the gigantic ballroom stood the hosts, the silver-haired Senator Nelson de Temple and his lovely daughter, Gena.
Senator de Temple was impeccably groomed and distinguished looking in a dark tuxedo, pleated white shirt, and white kid gloves. The regal, dark-haired Gena was radiant in a low-cut, stylish, one-of-a-kind ball gown of rustling gold taffeta. A dazzling necklace of gold and diamonds glittered at her pale, bare throat. Matching earrings winked from beneath a mass of dark springy curls dressed into an elaborate, upswept hairdo.
The senator and his daughter smiled and warmly welcomed their guests. The callers shook hands with the senator, hugged Gena or kissed her cheek, asked where Burt was, and were waved away with a laugh and directed on into the rapidly filling ballroom.
Inside, Latin waiters dressed in tight black trousers and waist-length, white starched jackets moved unobtrusively among the crowd, carrying round silver trays in white-gloved hands. Atop the trays were fragile-stemmed glasses filled with fine, sparkling champagne.
At the far end of the long rectangular ballroom, a ten-piece orchestra played waltz music for dancing. In a large, spotless kitchen on the far side of the house, a harried French chef and his crew of six labored over culinary masterpieces.
By shortly after nine that evening, all the invited guests had arrived.
And one who hadn’t actually been invited.
Sabella Rios stood stiffly under the thousand karats of faceted chandeliers in the magnificent flower-filled, gilt-and-marble ballroom. Awed by a display of wealth and opulence far grander than anything she could have ever imagined, she smiled wanly in an attempt to appear s
elf-possessed and at ease.
She was anything but.
Never in her life had she felt so out of place, so inadequate. The dress she wore was the best one she owned, and until tonight she had thought it elegant and beautiful. Now she realized that the white silk ball gown, lovingly hand-sewn by the good-hearted Carmelite, appeared dismally plain and woefully out of fashion amidst the costly and stylish satins, taffetas, and laces swirling so colorfully all around her. No sparkling diamonds flashed at her throat, no string of pearls or even a modest gold locket. She possessed no jewelry of any kind and had nothing to enhance either her plain dress or bared flesh.
The simplicity of her inexpensive ball gown was not Sabella’s only concern. As she watched the elegant dancers spin gracefully about the polished floor, she worried that she would be found out for the imposter she was. She had danced her share in her twenty-five years but never in a great hall such as this. At fandangos and carnivals and Cinco de Mayo celebrations she had danced madly and merrily in the streets. The music had been lively, loud, and brassy. Here in this grand ballroom, violins played smoothly, sweetly, setting a slow restrained tempo for a dance step with which she was unfamiliar. Sabella’s only hope was that no one would ask her to dance.
Pretending to listen as Janie and Cynthia gossiped about this guest or that, she heard nothing they said.
Coolly—she hoped—she searched the sea of faces before her. She looked intently for that one important guest, the man she had come here to find. The man who had no idea she existed. The man who would soon be her husband.
Not Gena de Temple’s.
Sabella’s gaze returned to the dark-haired woman in the gorgeous gold taffeta ball gown, who had, moments ago, shook her hand and welcomed her warmly. Gena de Temple was now graciously circulating among her guests, a stemmed glass of bubbling champagne in her satin gloved hand, a radiant smile on her pretty face.
