by Nan Ryan
“Me? I’ll do anything for you, child. But I don’t understand.”
Gena dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her dinner napkin. “Mr. Burnett, Burt is being … unfaithful to me.”
“No!” His pale blue eyes widened. “That worthless whelp!”
“He’s seeing another woman and … and … I’m afraid it might be serious.”
“Oh, now, Gena, you know better than that.” He patted her hand. “While it’s despicable of him to … to … who is she? An actress from San Francisco? A lonely San Diego divorcee looking for a good time?”
Gena shook her head. “She is single. She’s twenty-five-years old. She’s staying right here in Capistrano. Her name is Sabella Rios.”
“A Mexican!” Raleigh Burnett’s white eyebrows shot up and his face flushed red with anger. “My boy’s carousing with a Mexican girl?”
“She’s Spanish, so she says. She showed up here several weeks ago from the Arizona Territory to settle an inheritance. But her story doesn’t check out. No attorney has anything pertinent in probate that I can find. But she found Burt, and he found her. I’m not sure how long their affair has been going on, but I suspect it began the minute she came to town. Looking back, I vaguely recall her coming to the engagement party with the Douglas family. But Burt never even met her that night, so I don’t know … ”
Gena continued, speaking rapidly, excitedly, telling all she knew of Sabella Rios to the attentive old man. She admitted she was very worried and she needed his help. She told him that for the past few weeks, Burt had been handing her the flimsiest of excuses for not coming to see her.
“Do you know why? He’s been with her! With that Spanish girl. With that … that … cheap peasant who wears pants like a man! Mr. Burnett, I will not be made a fool of nor will I … ”
Gena continued to rage. Her stunned companion listened intently, sympathized, and assured her that he would straighten Burton out but good.
Gena felt relieved when she kissed the old man good-bye around three that Monday afternoon. She knew she could count on him to swiftly solve her problem. Everyone was aware of Raleigh Burnett’s deep hatred for Latins. He would very likely demand that Burt drop the Spanish woman immediately or risk being disinherited.
In no time the whole unpleasant affair would blow over and Burt would be back in her arms where he belonged.
The placated Gena had no idea that she had left Raleigh Burnett far more upset than she herself had ever been.
After Gena had gone, Raleigh Burnett stayed on in the paneled card room alone, angrily waving Blanton away when an afternoon nap was suggested.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted, his pale eyes wild. “Get out! Get out of here and shut the door!”
Puzzled, concerned, Blanton did as he was told.
Long minutes passed.
Raleigh Burnett trembled violently despite the comfortable warmth of the card room.
“Could it possibly be?” he asked himself in horror. “Twenty-five-years old, Gena had said. That would be about the right age and she had come here from the Arizona Territory. Could it be … ?” His bony fingers gripped the wooden arms of his wheeled chair and his heart squeezed so painfully in his narrow chest he could scarcely breathe.
“Was this Sabella Rios the daughter of … of … Merciful God, no!”
Seventeen
ALONE IN THAT SILENT handsomely paneled room overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean, Raleigh Burnett felt ill.
Sick with worry.
Secrets from his long-buried past came flooding back to overwhelm him, to plague and threaten him.
His thoughts tumbling, the years fell away. Time sped swiftly backward.
It was again that hot September sunset in 1847. He had been summoned to the field hospital tent of his fellow officer, General Norman Patch. He sat at his dear friend’s bedside and solemnly vowed to honor the dying general’s last wish. To hold in trust for his ten-year-old sister-in-law, Teresa Carrillo, the Southern California rancho, which he, General Patch, had fallen heir to upon the death of his wife, Teresa’s older sister, Dona Constancia Carrillo Patch. The vast acreage was to be turned over to Teresa when she reached eighteen or married.
Looking back on that day the now aged Raleigh Burnett squeezed his tortured pale blue eyes shut for a second and laid a hand on his hurting heart.
Shaking his white head, he opened his eyes and stared unseeing at that restless sea. He murmured aloud, “Norman, Norman, my friend, I meant to keep my promise, so help me God.” Raleigh Burnett ground his teeth and shuddered. He’d had every intention of honoring the vow. Had never meant to break his word. And he wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for … if he hadn’t met …
The vision of a young, beautiful red-haired woman sweeping gracefully down a grand staircase in a San Francisco mansion came back as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. It had been almost thirty-two years.
Out of the army, back at his law practice in Los Angeles, Raleigh Burnett had traveled that chilly November of ’48 to San Francisco to settle a disputed mining claim for a client. The client had insisted he come that evening to a gala party. Reluctantly he went and for a long, unpleasant hour stood awkwardly about, tired, half bored, considering how he could manage, without being detected, to steal away.
He was about to do just that when, staring across the wide, silent corridor, he looked up to see, coming down the stairs, a tall, slender woman with the fieriest red hair and the palest white skin he’d ever seen.
Awed, he stood rooted at the base of the stairs, speechless, watching her come slowly down, the lush, full skirts of her emerald velvet dress brushing the marble stairs behind her. A youthful, elegant creature of incredible beauty, she never once looked at the steps as she descended.
She looked directly at him.
When she was two steps from the bottom, she paused, smiled, and extended her hand to him.
He took it and looked into a pair of large arresting eyes the exact color of the emerald green gown she wore.
“I’m Dana Hart,” she said, moving one step lower. “Were you waiting here for me?” She smiled flirtatiously then, her pale cheeks dimpling prettily. “Or were you going to slip away before I had the chance to meet you?” She moved down another step.
His hand holding hers firmly, he said, “I’m Raleigh Burnett, Miss Hart, and I’ve been waiting all my life just for you.”
“You’re a charming liar, Mr. Burnett,” she said and her voice was as warm and pleasing as her smile. “If you’re bored and wish to leave, I can well understand.” Her green eyes sparkled. “Now’s your chance to slip out. I won’t tell.”
“Come with me,” he said impulsively.
She laughed. “I wish I could, but my father would never forgive me.”
Then it registered. She said she was Dana Hart. He was in the home of a Mr. and Mrs. Connor Hart. “Good Lord, you’re—”
“The host’s daughter,” she admitted cheerfully. “I promised Daddy I would come down for a few minutes.” She took the final step, stood directly before him, looking up into his eyes. “Will you dance with me once before you leave, Mr. Burnett?”
She possessively took his arm. Together they went into the crowded ballroom. As they turned about on the floor, he learned that she had just turned twenty. That she had spent four years in a finishing school in Boston. That she had recently returned from a grand tour of Europe. That she hoped he intended to stay in the Bay City long enough to take her to the theater and the opera and the many fine restaurants.
He did.
He stayed long past the time he should have gone back to Los Angeles and his neglected law practice. He was afraid to leave. Afraid someone would steal her away. Someone younger, handsomer, richer than he. He told her of his fears.
Dana laughed and said, “Younger? Raleigh, you’re being foolish. Let me assure that that I don’t mind your being old enough to be my father. I’ve always been attracted to mature men. Handsomer? Why I think you’re
quite the handsomest of men with your raven black hair and sky blue eyes.” Then, totally innocent, completely sincere, she said, “Richer? Darling, aren’t you terribly rich? I naturally assumed that you’re wealthy like everyone else we know.”
Raleigh Burnett realized then that without a great personal fortune he couldn’t hope to win and wed the enchanting red-haired twenty-year-old aristocrat with whom he was madly in love.
An outlandish idea instantly flashed into his mind. A devious decision was quickly made. He held in his own name—in trust for the eleven-year-old Teresa Carrillo—the deed to exactly twenty-two square leagues of rich Southern California rangeland. Lindo Vista was a working, well-run ranch where thousands of cattle and horses grazed and dozens of employees worked and an empty many-roomed white mansion sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
A vast empire worth untold millions.
“Ah, love, sweet love,” he said, laughing easily, “I suppose I couldn’t exactly be called poor. Besides my law practice, I have a little place down in Southern California. You may have heard of it. Lindo Vista.”
Dana’s large emerald eyes widened. “Why, Raleigh Burnett, what a modest man you are. Of course, I’ve heard of Lindo Vista! The old Carrillo land grant. You own that rancho?”
“I do,” he said, forcing himself to sound nonchalant. “How would you like to be mistress of Lindo Vista?”
“Darling, are you proposing to me?”
“Yes. Marry me, Dana.”
Remembering now how the deceitful scheme had come about, the aging Raleigh Burnett relived—as he had so many times—the day of the fateful decision. Once he’d told Dana the monstrous, unforgivable lie, there was no turning back. No making amends. No confessing that the property was not really his.
Not if he wanted to keep her.
So he had officially made it his. Then and forever. Any and all legal documents naming Teresa Carrillo as heir to Lindo Vista were destroyed. Sworn statements, credentials, records, and charters were taken from the files and burned.
With the defeat of Mexican California, many land titles were in dispute. As a colonel of the victorious Union forces, his hold on Lindo Vista was more firm than any alcalde. Possession was nine-tenths of the law.
A smart, knowledgeable attorney, he knew exactly how to clean up any traces of evidence that the land rightfully belonged to the little Carrillo girl. He didn’t worry that he would ever be caught. Young Teresa Carrillo was the only living member of either the Carrillo family or the Patch family. There was no relatives on either side, which was the reason she lived in a convent. She had no one, not even a guardian.
Raleigh reasoned that she was only a child who had no idea that her dying brother-in-law had set up the trust for her. When her older sister had died in 1843, Teresa had been placed in the convent at the tender age of six. She probably remembered very little about living at Lindo Vista. She likely didn’t recall where the rancho was located.
Telling no one of his terrible duplicity, Raleigh Burnett married the beautiful red-haired Dana Hart and brought his bride home to Lindo Vista. The next two or three years were the happiest of his entire life. Pushing his guilt aside, refusing to think about the little girl he had so callously wronged, he showered his adored young bride with Paris gowns and luxurious furs and expensive jewels. Within a year she bore him a son and his happiness was complete.
And if the beautiful Dana was less than a devoted mother, Raleigh couldn’t fault her for it. She was, after all, only a child herself. There were plenty of servants to care for Burton. A young maid who was weaning her own child was happy to serve as wet nurse. The young mistress of Lindo Vista didn’t wish to spoil her fine figure, her high, round breasts. That was understandable. Raleigh didn’t want them spoiled either.
Worshiping her as he did, he never once considered that his darling Dana neglected their son. She was simply a little overwhelmed, which was natural. In time she’d grow used to being a mother and would love the boy as he did.
Blind to her faults, he was content just to be in the same room with her. Often she treated him more like a father than a husband, but he was charmed when she sat on his lap and teased him and went through his pockets looking for trinkets he’d brought her as if she were a little girl.
Many was the night he carried her up the redwood staircase to their room in the mansion’s southern wing, thinking he was the luckiest of men. And sometimes in the darkness when his beautiful wife slept sweetly beside him, he felt so thankful he was almost afraid. He was too happy. Too content. Could anything so wonderful last?
For more than a half dozen years Dana was rarely out of his sight. If she wanted to go into the village, he drove her. If she expressed a desire to go on a trip, he traveled with her.
Then came that summer he would never forget. Burton was six years old and all boy, a real outlaw, cute and precocious, and full of mischief. Dana confessed to her husband that she needed to get away from their rambunctious son for a while. She loved him dearly, of course, but she hadn’t had a moment to herself since his birth.
“Sweetheart, how thoughtless of me.” Raleigh was understanding. “Burton is a handful I know. My sweet angel needs a rest.” Smiling, he said, “I can’t get away from the ranch right now, but you go to San Francisco. Spend a week or so with your folks. It’ll do you good.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“I insist on it!”
She went and never came back. Not even to say good-bye to her son. Their son.
Raleigh was shocked and devastated. For love of her he had betrayed a sacred trust, stolen a fortune, become a thief. And still she had left him. Ran away to Mexico with a rich, handsome grandee who was only a few years older than she.
Raleigh had forgiven her long ago. She was young and beautiful and spirited. She had longed for romance, adventure, excitement and he couldn’t blame her for that. Grateful for those few wonderful years she had given him, he cherished the son she had borne him. In Burton, he still had a part of her.
After she’d gone, every dream, every hope, every plan he had was for his son, Burton. And now all those dreams, hopes, plans were in danger.
Again.
He had reasoned wrongly about the young Teresa Carrillo never learning of the trust. He hadn’t figured on the dying General Patch telling anyone else about their agreement. But the general had told the young captain of the guards, Victor Rivera. He had apparently also written the young girl a letter telling her of her inheritance. When Teresa Carrillo turned eighteen, Rivera took her from the convent. On her behalf, Rivera had contacted him, Raleigh Burnett, to inform him that Teresa Carrillo was now of age and ready to take title to her land.
Remembering the terrible unpleasantness that followed, Raleigh Burnett drew a ragged breath. The girl Teresa soon married a vaquero, Tito Rios, and Rios and Rivera both took up the cause. Years of bitter accusations, legal hassles, and angry threats followed. Then Tito Rios was crippled in an accident and gave up the fight. So did Teresa. Finally, even the stubborn Vic Rivera realized there was nothing he could do.
Teresa Carrillo Rios had been swindled out of her fortune.
“You’ll pay for this, Burnett!” Rivera angrily threatened the last time they met. “You won’t get away with it, you greedy unprincipled gringo bastard! Mark my words, one day you’ll get what’s coming to you!”
That day, Raleigh Burnett realized, had finally come.
He needed no one to confirm his worst suspicions. Instinctively he knew that this mysterious young woman, Sabella Rios, was the daughter of Teresa Carrillo Rios. He knew as well why she had come to Capistrano.
She was here to pay him back for what he’d done to her mother.
He didn’t blame her. He deserved it. But his much-deserved retribution could be exacted in one way and one way only.
By destroying his beloved son, Burton.
Eighteen
FEELING FAINT AND SHORT of breath, the troubled Raleigh Burnett struggled to whee
l his chair the few feet to the bell pull. The effort left him perspiring, wheezing, and so weak he had to wait several minutes to get his breath and regain enough strength to pull the cord.
Blanton appeared almost immediately. He took one look at Raleigh Burnett and his brows drew together in concern. Crossing quickly to the white-haired old man, the worried servant said, “You are going to your room right now and nap until dinnertime.”
“I’m going nowhere,” Raleigh Burnett stubbornly declared. “I’m staying right here! As soon as the boys get back, send my son in here!”
“You can speak with Burton at dinner, but now—”
“You heard me!”
Shocked, baffled, Blanton said in low, controlled tones, “What is it, Raleigh? What did Miss de Temple do to upset you?”
Raleigh Burnett sadly shook his white head. “It isn’t Gena … it’s … oh, God … ”
He said no more. He waved his servant away. Blanton left, but remained in the wide corridor just outside the open door, considering whether or not he should immediately send for Doctor Ledet. Against his better judgment, he delayed.
Burt and the hands got in early. It was shortly after four in the afternoon when Burt and Cappy Ricks came up to the house. Blanton heard them, cast a quick glance inside at Raleigh Burnett, then hurried down the long corridor to the main section of the house.
Cappy Ricks stood at the base of the redwood staircase, slapping his gloves against his trousered leg and announcing to no one in particular that he thought he’d go out to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Paying no attention, Burt was already climbing the stairs.
“Burton,” Blanton called to him, “your father wants to see you in the card room.”
Burt turned on the stairway, smiled, and gestured to his sweat-stained and dusty Levi’s. “Ten minutes. Soon as I get cleaned up.”
“I think you’d best come now,” said Blanton.
Burt frowned, but came back down the stairs, running a hand through his dirty, disheveled black hair. Motioning Cappy to follow, Burt hurried around the corner. The two men walked fast down the long wide corridor to the card room. Blanton was close on their heels.
