Because You're Mine

by Nan Ryan

  “Julio!” Gena leaped up and ran into the corridor shouting for the old servant. “Julio, get in here this instant!”

  The aging servant, leaving his freshly poured cup of coffee behind at the kitchen table, shuffled into the hall. “Sí, Señorita?”

  “Julio go to the Mission Inn. Find Burt Burnett. Tell him he must come here at once! It is a matter of life or death!”

  “Is matter of life or death!” repeated Julio, his dark eyes blinking.

  “Yes! If you let him get out of town before coming here, I’ll ship you off to furthest Mexico! You’ll spend the rest of your life in the fields picking vegetables in the hot sun. Now go!”

  “Sí, sí,” murmured the frightened old man and lumbered down the hall toward the back of the house.

  Annie Galager had come into the corridor. “I hope I’ve been of some help, Miss de Temple.” She was expecting a reward, perhaps an offer to return to the de Temple mansion at a handsome pay raise.

  “Let yourself out,” Gena said distractedly. “I must change before Burt arrives.” Gena laughed then, almost hysterically, and murmured to herself, “He will, after all, need a great deal of comforting!”

  Gena raced up the stairs and down the hall to her suite, eagerly planning the evening ahead. When they were alone, she would tell Burt how his scheming bitch of a wife had duped him. She would first make sure there was plenty of liquor on hand to ease his pain. And, of course, she would do a little easing of his pain herself. To hell with her father and Don Miguel Andres Amaro. They could dine without her. She would, she hoped, be occupied all night!

  Gena burst into her suite, slammed the door behind her, and saw Cisco sprawled on the peach brocade sofa, a long leg hooked over the arm. Having forgotten all about him, she was suddenly furious at seeing him there.

  “What do you think you’re doing? You shouldn’t be here! Someone might see you.”

  “Querida,” he said in a low voice, “come here and undress me.”

  “Undress you? Are you out of your mind? You must go. Leave right now,” she commanded. “I’m expecting a guest shortly.”

  “Gena, my sweet, you just had a guest. Now it is our turn.”

  “No, Cisco, now it is my turn.” She smiled triumphantly. “Will you leave or must I have you thrown out?”

  Cisco’s smile was just as triumphant as hers. “There is,” he said meaningfully, “only one way you can get me to leave.” With that his hands went to the buttons of his fly.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped, desperate to get him out of the house.

  Irritably, she dropped to her knees between his spread legs, brushed his hands aside, deftly unbuttoned his black trousers, and freed him. When she bent to him, Cisco’s hands went to her head, his fingers entwined in her hair.

  He grinned.

  She was in a big hurry. So of course, he was not. He purposely held back, resisting the climax she was working so diligently to bring on. Grinning evilly, Cisco sat there watching her, wondering how long he could last. How long she could last. He began timing them. His amused gaze lifted to the clock on the peach marble fireplace mantel.

  Five minutes. Six. Seven.

  He silently recited the words to his favorite Spanish ballads, determinedly distracting himself.

  Ten minutes. Twelve. Fifteen.

  Twenty-one minutes passed before he finally took pity on her and gave in to ecstasy. Focusing fully on her and what she was doing to him, he was soon groaning and shuddering with satisfaction.

  Gena raised her head. Eyes snapping with anger, she wiped her gleaming mouth on her dress sleeve. “You son of a bitch! You did that on purpose!”

  “Did what, querida?” he asked innocently, shrugging. “No comprende. I do not understand.”

  She shot to her feet. “Will you please go!” She pointed anxiously toward the balcony doors. “Go and stay away from … and, oh yes, you can forget about the dynamite.”

  “No dynamite?” Cisco rose, leisurely buttoning his black trousers. “Why? What has changed, querida?”

  “Everything,” she said happily. Then she smugly told him, “I’m getting my man back!”

  “Who? Burt Burnett?” Cisco laughed cynically. “And just how do you plan on getting rid of the beautiful Sabella Burnett?”

  Shoving him anxiously toward the door, a confident Gena licked the corner of her mouth with a pink tongue, and said, “Piece of cake.”

  Thirty-Four

  SABELLA RIOS BURNETT WAS, at five o’clock that same afternoon, happy as only the young, healthy, and madly in love can be. Happy beyond belief. Never in her most longed for, girlish dreams had she imagined such complete happiness as was now hers.

  This warm, clear autumn day was, she decided, the best one yet. Better by far than her September wedding day. Better than the exciting days in San Francisco. Better even than those lazy idyllic days on remote Catalina Island.

  This was the day she would remember all her life. An historic, not-to-be-forgotten day when she would, for the first time, put her arms around her husband’s neck, tell him how much she loved him, and mean it with all her heart.

  Sweet anticipation built as the crisp, sunny afternoon waned. Looking forward eagerly to the nippy November night stretching before her, Sabella went about smiling.

  She planned a very special evening.

  She had dashed breathlessly about the mansion throughout the afternoon making sure everything was done. Martha, the head cook, and her assistants had quickly caught the spirit and busied themselves in the kitchen preparing Burt’s favorite foods.

  Blanton, who was head butler as well as Burt’s personal manservant, coolly issued a myriad of orders to the staff. Then checked periodically on their progress. Had the correct wine been brought up from the cellar? Had every inch of redwood paneling and grand staircase been thoroughly polished? Had a table, complete with spotless damask cloth, matching serviettes, and tall white tapers in silver candelabra been set up in the master suite? Was the table properly situated so that the dining couple could see from the tall windows which looked out on the Pacific bluffs across the long, rolling lawn?

  While Blanton and Martha worked their magic, Sabella worked a little of her own. She languished in the bubble-filled marble tub longer than usual, then carefully shampooed her long blond hair. Carmelita joined her after her bath and the two of them, giggling like a couple of young girls, readied Sabella for the special evening.

  The dress they agreed on for the occasion was picked after considering, discussing the merits of, then discarding at least a dozen possible selections.

  Sabella wanted to look just right. Not too sophisticated. But not too naive either. Not too old. But not too young. Not too glamorous. But not too plain.

  She wanted to look like exactly what she was. The healthy, happy young wife of a handsome, prosperous rancher who had just learned that she was expecting their first child.

  It was Carmelita who struck on the perfect dress. When she held it up for Sabella to inspect, Sabella clapped her hands and nodded.

  Carmelita assured her she looked both earthy and angelic in the simple, but beautiful gown of lush rose-pink velvet. Long sleeved and high-throated, the tight-fitting bodice molded Sabella’s full breasts and hugged her narrow waist before angling to a center point low on her flat stomach. The long skirt was very full, falling in soft gathers to the floor. Not one inch of flesh showed from the front.

  But when she turned about, Sabella’s delicate, golden-skinned back was bare to the waist, the cut of the gown both daring and demure.

  Just right.

  Knowing her husband preferred her hair to be worn loose and flowing, Sabella stood perfectly still while Carmelita brushed the heavy locks back off her face and down her bare back. For a finishing touch, Carmelita plucked a delicate pink Castilian rose from a nearby vase, broke off the long stem, and tucked the velvet-petaled blossom into Sabella’s gleaming gold hair.

  By sunset everything was ready.


  Lights shone brightly from every window in the whitewashed adobe hacienda. In the master suite upstairs, where a fire blazed in the stone fireplace, heavy Georgian silver and fragile china adorned a damask-draped table for two. An exquisite meal was ready and waiting in the kitchen.

  And downstairs in the spacious drawing room, Sabella, stunning in the long, rose velvet gown, eagerly waited for Burt to get home.

  Any minute now she would hear the drum of hoofbeats on the palm-lined gravel avenue. Too nervous to sit, she swept about the lamplit room, touching objects, rehearsing what she would say to him. Going over in her mind exactly how she would tell him about the baby. Sabella jumped when the tall cased clock out in the corridor struck seven p.m.

  It wouldn’t be much longer now.

  Sabella moved to a front window, drew back the heavy curtain, and peered out. The early November dusk had turned into enveloping darkness. She could see nothing. She dropped the drapery back in place and rubbed her hands together.

  Any minute now.

  When the clock chimed eight, Sabella was pacing back and forth, battling a nagging feeling of rising uneasiness. She checked with the kitchen and was assured everything was fine, the carefully prepared meal was warming, it would be edible even if Burt was a little late.

  By nine o’clock Sabella was genuinely concerned.

  By ten she was beside herself with worry.

  At eleven Sabella insisted the kitchen crew give up and go to bed. Her nerves raw, she paced and worried and tried to hide her anxiety when Cappy, Blanton, and Carmelita periodically came and checked on her. Each, in an effort to reassure her, suggested that Burt’s business meeting had probably run long and he had decided to stay in town, to spend the night at the Mission Inn.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure that’s it,” Sabella agreed with them. “Please, go to bed. I’ll go up in a few minutes myself.”

  One by one they retired to their respective quarters, leaving her to pace and worry alone. It was after midnight when at last she heard the distinctive sound that made her immediately sigh with relief.

  “Thank God,” she said aloud, and hurriedly checked her appearance in the mirror mounted over the mantel.

  She raced to the window again—for at least the hundredth time—yanked back the curtain and saw the dark horseman galloping up the palm-bordered avenue in the moonlight. Heart racing with excitement, she watched as Burt pulled the lathered Sam to a gravel-slinging stop in the circle drive just beyond the yard. He swung to the ground and tossed the reins to a yawning stable boy.

  Dropping the curtain back in place, Sabella whirled away, lifted the long full skirts of her rose velvet gown and rushed out into the wide silent corridor. Smoothing her hair and flipping it back over her shoulders, she stood smiling, waiting for him to open the front door and eagerly take her in his arms.

  It never happened.

  The front door suddenly exploded inward and Burt filled the doorway. His hair and his clothes badly disheveled, he looked angry and menacing.

  And drunk.

  His dark face set, his silver eyes opaque, he started toward her and a chill skipped up Sabella’s spine. Instinctively she cowered as he aggressively advanced on her, leaving the front door ajar behind him.

  “I … I … was getting worried, Burt,” she said, a hand pressed to her racing heart. “It’s so late and … ” She tried to smile, but failed. She continued to back away toward the grand staircase, watching him warily. “Are you all right?”

  “As if you cared,” he spoke at last, his words slurred and thick. His eyes were pale as ice in his dark, sullen face and the lean muscles along his jaw pulled tight. He bore steadily down on her.

  “Of course, I care, darling.” She swallowed hard, her heart thumping against her ribs. Anxiously continuing her retreat, she asked, “What is it, my love? What has happened? Why … ”

  Her throat closed.

  She could not longer speak. Burt reached her. He stood towering over her, the expression in his pale silver eyes one of contempt, hatred.

  Abruptly he turned away, went into the lamplit drawing room.

  Half panicky, knowing something was very wrong, Sabella anxiously followed. Softly she said his name, looked questioningly at him. He stopped, turned back. He had a dangerous look in his eyes, a look that made her shiver. He didn’t speak, but gazed at her strangely, his cold silver eyes boring into hers. She stared at him, perplexed and more than a little frightened.

  “You … you have been drinking,” she finally managed as he started toward her.

  He went directly for the whiskey decanter. He splashed three fingers of bourbon into a glass, turned it up, and drained it.

  “How perceptive you are, my dear,” he said sarcastically. “I have indeed been drinking. I will continue to do so if you’ve no objection.” He gave her a sneering smile. “As a matter of fact,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection, “I will continue if you do object.” He poured another.

  “Burt, what is it? Tell me what’s wrong?” Sabella said, her throat tight, heart pounding.

  Burt slowly turned, held up his glass to her in salute. “To you, my dear. I have to hand it to you. You’re the best I have ever seen.”

  Fear steadily rising, Sabella murmured, “I … I don’t know what you mean.”

  Burt tossed off his drink, slammed the glass down, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Advancing on her, he muttered blackly, “Drop the act, Sabella. I know everything. That lying Rivera journal. Everything.”

  Stunned, Sabella was speechless.

  Burt stepped around her and drunkenly weaved from the room. He climbed the stairs, walked down the long upstairs hall to their suite, and fell into a deep, drunken slumber.

  Thirty-Five

  SABELLA WAS INDECISIVE FOR only a few short minutes. After Burt left her, she moved trancelike into the corridor and stood at the base of the redwood staircase, trembling with anger and despair, wondering what to do. Her eyes swimming in tears, her heart squeezing painfully in her chest, she was so miserable she felt like giving up on everything. It was over. She was beaten. And she was tired, so very tired. She wanted nothing more than to slump down onto the stairs and cry until she could cry no more.

  Sabella blinked away her tears, squared her shoulders, lifted the long skirts of her rose velvet gown, and determinedly climbed the stairs. Jaw set, tear-bright eyes flashing, she reached the upstairs landing, drew a deep breath, and marched down the long corridor directly to the master suite.

  The door stood open.

  She went inside, glanced at the bed, and saw Burt sprawled there on his back, fully clothed. Sound asleep. She immediately flew into action. She was wriggling out of the rose velvet gown before she reached the dressing room. Once inside, she stepped out of the dress, leaving it where it lay in a colorful rose heap on the carpet. She kicked off her slippers and peeled the silk stockings down her long legs.

  Wearing only her lace-trimmed underwear, Sabella passed up all the fine dresses, luxurious gowns, and fancy riding habits Burt had bought for her. She rummaged until she found, at the very back of the dressing room, her old leather trousers, white blouse, and scuffed boots. She hurriedly dressed in the well-worn outfit, leaving everything else behind.

  Twisting her long blond hair into a rope and pinning it atop her head, she snatched her old sombrero down from a high shelf. She exited the dressing room, glanced again at Burt, and headed for the door. She paused when she reached it. She closed her eyes, opened them. Slowly she turned and glanced across the room. She couldn’t help herself.

  Tiptoeing softly, Sabella slipped silently toward the bed. She reached it, and hardly daring to breathe, looked down at the dark sleeping man. She winced soundlessly as she looked—one last time—at the dear face so boyishly handsome and youthful-looking in repose. Clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs building in her aching throat, Sabella backed away.

  Out in the corridor, she sagged again
st the wall, fighting the knifelike pain in her chest, the waves of weakness washing over her. In seconds she straightened, rushed down the hall, opened the linen closet, and withdrew a couple of blankets and some towels. She descended the stairs, stopped off in the kitchen, and hurriedly filled a picnic hamper with food left from the special dinner that was never served.

  She didn’t dare knock at Carmelita’s door; instead she slipped quietly inside. Dropping her gear, Sabella gently shook Carmelita awake, signaling her to remain silent. Whispering, she explained what had happened. Burt had found out, he knew everything.

  Frowning, shaking her head, Carmelita murmured, “No! Madre de Dios!”

  “Get dressed,” Sabella ordered. “We’re leaving. Right now, tonight.”

  “But what about—”

  “It’s all right. I have what I want. I’m carrying Burt’s child. The California laws of inheritance are very firm. The heir to Lindo Vista is already growing in my womb. Nothing else matters. Now hurry!”

  Under the cover of darkness, the two old friends managed to leave the house without awakening anyone. At the stables they crept into a shadowy barn and past a young boy asleep in the tack room. Sabella’s big chestnut stallion immediately recognized her and began neighing loudly.

  “Shhhh!” she warned him, shaking a finger in his face, then hugged his head to her breasts.

  Sabella knew the black gelding in the next stall was a good, gentle saddle pony, capable of great speed. Pointing, she signaled Carmelita she was to ride the black. The young boy slept on soundly when Sabella took bridles and saddles from the tack room.

  While Sabella saddled the mounts, Carmelita wrapped the blankets and towels into bedrolls to be strapped behind the saddle cantles. She transferred all the food to a couple of saddlebags.

  Fifteen minutes after reaching the stables, the two women rode out into the darkness.

  “The guard on the gate would stop us,” Sabella whispered to Carmelita. “We’ll have to slip out the back way. Ready? Follow me.”