by Nan Ryan
They walked their mounts until they were a couple of hundred yards away from the rancho’s many outbuildings. Sabella pulled up on her chestnut, stood in the stirrups, and cast a longing look at the big whitewashed adobe on the cliffs.
Turning to Carmelita, she said, “We must put as much distance as possible between us and Lindo Vista while it’s still dark. Can you ride hard for two or three miles?”
“Sí, I can, more if necessary. But where are we going?” Carmelita asked worriedly. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Sabella admitted. “We’ll head east—head over the mountains and into the desert—ride as far as we can, and think about it later. Let’s go!”
She kicked the chestnut into a gallop and streaked headlong toward the coastal mountains rising tall and black against the moonlit eastern horizon.
Burt struggled to open his eyes.
When finally he was successful, he quickly closed them again, the brightness of the morning sun momentarily blinding him.
Muttering oaths under his breath, he lay there for a while with his eyes tightly shut, wondering why he had such a terrible headache, why his right arm was numb.
Then he remembered.
Burt’s eyes flew open and he lunged up so swiftly he almost blacked out. Dizzy, nauseated, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up.
“Jesus Christ,” he moaned in agony and put his elbows on his knees, dropped his aching head into his hands.
When the room stopped spinning, he slowly raised his head, looked cautiously about, and muttered, “God. Oh, God!”
The terrible events of last night came flooding back with vivid clarity as Burt rose on shaky legs. His eyes bloodshot, his face covered with a black stubble of beard, he looked as bad as he felt. Heart fluttering erratically, he left the room.
As he walked down the hall, Burt irritably shrugged out of his sleep-wrinkled suit jacket and dropped it to the carpet. His silver eyes narrowed, his mood as black as his badly disheveled hair, he muttered to himself as he descended the grand staircase.
Halfway down, he saw something lying on a carpeted step. Frowning, he stopped and stared.
He slowly bent, picked up the wilted pink Castilian rose, and instantly recalled seeing the blossom tucked in Sabella’s long golden hair last night. An involuntary groan of despair passed Burt’s lips and he hung his head in sorrow.
But only for a moment.
Burt lifted his aching head, straightened his broad shoulders, stood up, gritted his teeth, and went downstairs.
The wilted rose stuck inside a pocket of his wrinkled white shirt, Burt decisively moved into the library and rang for Blanton. The servant immediately appeared.
“Good morning, sir,” Blanton said to attract the attention of the tall man standing across the library, hands in his trouser pockets, looking out the windows.
Burt slowly pivoted. “Have you seen Mrs. Burnett this morning, Blanton?”
“No. Nor Carmelita either.”
Burt nodded. “I thought as much. She’s gone,” he said flatly.
“Yes, sir,” said the servant.
“Get Cappy.”
Cappy Ricks, looking pale and shaken, came into the library. Before Burt could speak, Cappy said anxiously, “Burt, there’s something I have to tell you … your father—”
“Later, Cappy.” Burt shook his head dismissively. “Sabella’s gone. I want her back. Organize the best riders. Send them out now, this morning, as soon as they’re ready to ride. Three contingents. North and south must be covered, but she’ll probably head due east. The majority of the men ride east.”
“You going?” Cappy asked.
“No.”
“All right. But before I leave, I wanted to tell—”
“Time’s wasting, Cappy. You ride with the bunch going east. I’m sure that’s where she’s headed.”
“Okay, son.”
“When you find her, have her sent in here to me,” Burt said, dropping down into the tall-backed swivel chair behind the desk. His tone was tinged with bitterness when he added softly, “I’ll be right here. Waiting.”
Sabella and Carmelita were well up into the higher elevations of the coastal ranges before they finally stopped. The sun was up, warm and bright, and the horses were lathered and thirsty. Carmelita was totally exhausted. Sabella wasn’t particularly tired, but she was suffering from a nagging backache which she prayed was nothing more than too many hours in the saddle.
The campsite she carefully chose was in a steep-sided, twisting canyon whose narrow mouth could be easily guarded. The level floor of the upland valley offered spotty grasses for grazing and around a conical curve, two hundred yards back inside the winding canyon, a trickling mountain stream splashed over fallen boulders at the base of a sheer rock wall.
“This is perfect,” she said to the weary, nodding Carmelita, threw her leg over and dropped to the ground just inside the canyon’s mouth.
Stepping up to the side of the winded chestnut, Sabella untied the bedroll and dropped it to the ground. The loaded saddlebags followed. She unbuckled the cinch and swept the heavy saddle and blanket to the ground near the gear.
She cast a glance at Carmelita. The tired woman was still mounted, slumped over in the saddle. Sabella helped her down, and supporting her, said, “I’ll take care of the horses. You spread the bedrolls, eat something, then get some rest.”
Patting Sabella’s hand, Carmelita said, “But you are tired and sleepy, too, and—”
“No,” Sabella said truthfully, “I’m not sleepy. I’ll water the horses, unbit them, and let them graze while I clean up a little.”
Carmelita nodded sleepily. “I am too tired even to wash.”
“When you wake up,” Sabella said. “Sleep now.”
Sabella left Carmelita asleep in the shade of a rocky overhang. Leading both mounts, a couple of towels tucked underneath her arm, she wound her way back inside the canyon to the cold mountain stream. Sabella removed the horses’ bridles, speaking aloud to her chestnut, warned him, “Don’t even think about running away. And tell the black I said so.”
The chestnut blew and whinnied and nudged her affectionately and she knew she could trust him. The horses drank thirstily for several long minutes then turned away to crop at the grass fringing the stream.
Sabella put a hand to her aching back and, frowning, moaned softly. Maybe a bath would help. The water was cold, of course, but perhaps if she swam about for a while, she would work the kinks out and her back would stop hurting.
She dropped down onto a big slanting boulder which protruded up out of the water. She drew off her boots and wiggled her toes. She rose, unlaced the fly of her worn leather trousers, and putting her thumbs into the waistband at each side, pushed the pants down over her hips as she wriggled and twisted free.
She stepped out of the trousers, sat back down, knees bent, bare feet flat on the huge rock, and began unbuttoning her white blouse.
She stopped abruptly.
Her dark eyes grew round as she stared down at her lap. She anxiously spread her legs apart and stretched them out before her.
“No!” she groaned, staring in horror at the bright red blood staining her white silk underwear. “No! No! No!” she wailed in despair, defeat crushing her.
Now all was lost.
She was not pregnant with Burt’s child!
Heartsick, Sabella put her face in her hands and wept.
Seventy-two hours after her disappearance from Lindo Vista, Burt’s men, with Cappy leading them, caught up with her. Camped in the Coachella Valley five miles west of the Salton Sea, Sabella was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of drumming hooves.
She bolted upright, but before she could fully rise, a firm hand was on her arm and Cappy’s low voice said, “Just relax, Mrs. Burnett. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to take you home.”
It was late afternoon, three days later, when Sabella saw the big white hacienda rising in the near
distance. The November sun was setting behind the imposing adobe, lights were coming on, one by one, inside the mansion.
At the stables Sabella was lifted down off her chestnut stallion as if she were helpless. Flanked by a pair of big, unsmiling cowhands, she was ushered directly up to the hacienda. Inside she was marched through the silent downstairs corridor to the closed door of the library.
One of her escorts reached out and opened the door. The other handed her inside and closed the door behind her.
It was dark in the library. Sabella blinked, unable to see much of anything. Only one light burned and it was a small, shaded lamp casting a concentrated circle of illumination on the redwood desk it sat atop. A half-full decanter of bourbon sat beneath the lamp. A shot glass half full of the amber liquid was beside the decanter.
Sabella flinched when a dark, lean hand moved slowly out of the deep shadow and curled around the shot glass. The hand, the glass, left the light momentarily. Then returned.
The glass was empty.
A faceless voice in the deep shadow said, “Welcome home.”
Sabella swallowed nervously, and said nothing.
A long silence.
Finally Burt leaned up into the light and Sabella shuddered. He was unshaven, the lower half of his face covered with a growth of thick black whiskers. His raven hair was uncombed and falling into his half-shuttered eyes. His shirt was badly wrinkled and half open down his dark, perspiring chest. Unkempt, unsmiling, he looked sinister, dangerous.
Sabella kept waiting for him to speak again. But he said nothing. Nor did he rise. Just sat there staring coldly at her.
Finally she asked, “Why? Why did you come for me? Why did you bring me back?”
Calmly Burt said, “Because you’re mine.”
Part Three
Thirty-Six
SABELLA UNCONSCIOUSLY TREMBLED when he rose, circled the desk, and slowly advanced on her. It took every ounce of her determined will not to cowardly back away from him.
Burt reached her, stood towering over her.
He looked down at her with the coldest, meanest eyes she had ever seen. He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and ushered her out of the library. Heart racing, Sabella struggled in vain to free herself as he calmly took her up the stairs and down the long corridor to their suite.
She screamed at him, she threatened him, she hit at him. She hotly ordered him to let her go or else.
Deaf to her threats, Burt handed her inside their suite, followed her in, and threw the heavy bolt in the lock behind them.
“You bullying bastard!” she hissed, her dark Latin temper fueled by rising fear, “you can’t—”
“I can,” he cut in flatly, turning to face her. “Anything I want.”
“No, you cannot! I refuse to let you—”
“Quiet,” he commanded without raising his voice, his tone low and deadly. His silver eyes impaling her, he leaned back against the solid door, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “I never knew you, did I, sweetheart? Didn’t know you at all.” He smiled then, but it was a cold, rueful smile. “But then, you don’t know me either. Did you really suppose I would let you walk in here and take Lindo Vista away from me? That is your plan, isn’t it?”
Anger, hatred, and pride stiffening her spine, Sabella glared at him, lifted her chin defiantly, and said, “I don’t want a damn thing that belongs to you! I only want what is rightfully mine. And this rancho is mine!”
“You’re mistaken, my love. This land belongs to me and no woman in tight leather pants is going to ride onto this property with some trumped up claim and expect me to hand it over.”
Burt’s long arms unfolded. He ran tanned fingers through his disheveled black hair and moved lithely toward her. His dark hand shot out, cupped her chin, and he turned her face up to his. “Congratulations, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You made a fool of me and in record time.”
“No! No, it isn’t like that and—”
“Shut up.” A vein stood out on his neck and he flushed suddenly. A muscle clenched in his jaw and he ground his teeth savagely, then drew a breath. “Spare me any more of your honeyed lies. You are a very beautiful, very convincing little liar and thief. You cleverly stole my heart solely to—”
“I am not a thief!” Sabella passionately interrupted, her pride intact, her temper white hot. Wrenching her chin out of his grasp, she said accusingly, “You’re the thief! You and your father. You stole Lindo Vista!”
His silver eyes narrowing with controlled fury, Burt said, “I never stole anything in my life and neither has my father. The Burnett name is an old and respected one in this state. My uncle—a Burnett—was the first governor of California. I’m very proud to be a Burnett.”
“Be as proud as you like,” she hissed acidly, “but you’re a thief all the same. You and your shrewd attorney father before you.”
Burt opened his mouth to speak, clamped it shut without uttering a sound. Sabella thought for a moment that he was going to strike her. Blood rushed to his tanned face and another vein pulsed fiercely on his forehead. The tendons stood out in bold relief on his bared brown forearms as his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. His pale silver eyes flashed with naked rage.
Then suddenly the faintest smile came into his intelligent eyes and that unnerved her even more.
Calmly, in a low modulated voice, he said, “If what you contend were actually true—which it is not—why didn’t you come to me? Give me a chance to make it right?” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Who knows? Had you been able to prove your claim, I might have handed Lindo Vista over. I might have wanted to make amends, to set things straight. But you didn’t. And I didn’t.” His frigid silver eyes pinning her, he said, “Now you will not get—or take—anything from me.”
“Fine! All I want is you out of my sight!” she loudly declared and started past him. He stood blocking her way, tall and threatening. She stopped.
He said, “I am fully aware, my dear, that you have but one use for me. To father your child. Your reason for wanting my child, I am told, is twofold. To produce the heir to Lindo Vista. And to break my heart by taking my son away from me. Have I stated it correctly?”
“Absolutely!” Sabella angrily confirmed, all the old burning hatred welling up in her. “Why else would I sleep with a thief!”
“Why indeed? And have you been successful? Are you, even as we speak, carrying my child?”
“No! No. I am not!”
“That’s a shame,” he said, running a hand over his bearded chin. “Tell you what I’m going to do, sweetheart. I am going to honor your wishes. We Burnetts are honorable men and a deal is a deal.” Sabella blinked at him, confused, wary. He continued, “I will see to it that you have a son. My son.”
“No! Not in a million years! I do not want—”
“I will make you pregnant,” he smoothly cut in, “if it takes months, even years to do so. And when finally you are carrying my child, I’ll make sure that you have the best of care. I’ll see to it you are constantly pampered and tended so that nothing endangers the life of our unborn baby.”
Burt reached out then, grabbed the open collar of her dirty white shirt, and roughly pulled her to him. His black-bearded face only inches from hers, his hooded silver eyes looking directly into her startled dark ones, he told her coldly, “And when you have delivered a healthy baby boy, I will banish you from this house and this ranch empty-handed. I will keep the land and the child.” He released her. “You will never see either again.”
Without another word he left her. Livid, shaking with emotion, Sabella shot forward and slammed the door after him. Anxiously locking it, she turned about, sagged back against it, and silently vowed it would be a bitter cold day down in Hades before she allowed Mister Burton J. God Almighty Burnett to lay a hand on her again!
Stripping off her dirty, grimy clothes as she went, Sabella headed straight for the big marble tub and a much needed bath. Sinking gratefully down into the depths
of the suds and hot water, she stayed there for the next half hour, plotting how she would get away again.
The door to the suite stayed locked all day.
Sabella refused to open it. She refused the supper a servant brought up on a tray. She refused to even open the door to a worried Carmelita. She would open it to no one.
Later that night, when the big house was sleeping and silent, Sabella took another refreshing bath, drew on a shimmering nightgown of sky blue satin and got into bed. Exhausted from the week-long ordeal, she was soon asleep.
Long past midnight, she sprang up in alarm when Burt knocked loudly on the door and ordered her to open it
Sabella leaped from the bed, flew across the darkened room, and shouted through the locked door, “Go away! Leave me alone! I hate you. I have no intention of allowing you inside this room tonight or any other night!”
She screamed and retreated in horror when she heard the loud forceful whacking of Burt’s booted foot against the heavy door. Eyes round, hand at her throat, Sabella stood there trembling, telling herself the door was solid. It would not give.
A loud boom like a great explosion.
The door flew open and an angry, dangerous-looking Burt stood framed in the portal. He banged the battered door shut behind him and started toward her.
Truly frightened, Sabella warily backed away as the tall, angry, black-bearded man bore steadily down on her. A chair stopped her flight. Burt grabbed her wrist, yanked her to him, and said, “This is my house and my bed and you are my wife.”
With that he swept her up into his arms, carried her to bed, dumped her on it. He began unbuttoning his shirt. Sabella was up in a flash and off the bed, fighting him, pounding on his chest with her fists and telling him she’d kill him before she let him touch her.
“I don’t belong to you,” she shouted at him, “I never have! I never will! Never, never, never,” she screamed, tears starting to stream down her hot cheeks.
Burt paid no attention to her tirade. He never lifted a hand to defend himself. He continued to calmly undress as she rained blow after blow on his bearded face, shoulders, chest, and ribs.
