by Nan Ryan
Thanksgiving came and went with very little for which to be thankful. The gloom pervading the big hacienda did not lift for the holiday. Martha and her kitchen staff cooked a meal fit for royalty, but nobody was really hungry.
A brooding Burt left the noontime feast mostly untouched. Pushing his plate away, he reached for the bottle of wine which was chilling in a silver bucket on a stand at his elbow. Snagging it between two fingers, he rose to his feet, excused himself and went to the library.
There he stayed the rest of the day.
But he came to Sabella’s bed on that cool Thanksgiving night just as usual. His kisses tasting not unpleasantly of wine, he made slow, exquisite love to her. Satisfying her to the point of sweet exhaustion, he allowed her to fall asleep in his arms. She had no idea how long she slumbered, but when—deep in the dead of night—she abruptly awakened, she found that his arms still warmly encircled her, that her body was pressed against his.
Slowly, sleepily, she raised her head to look at him and shivered when she saw the silver eyes flashing the darkness.
He was still wide-awake.
He quickly drew her closer, pressing the length of her sleep-warm nakedness against his long, lean body, his hands stroking freely over her back, her hips, the twin cheeks of her bottom. Sabella felt her breasts crushed against his chest and an awakening tremble as passion swiftly rose.
In seconds she found herself astride him, his throbbing flesh buried inside her. She met his sudden lust with her own, taking him into her, squeezing depths and holding him prisoner there. Rolling her hips and pummeling him with her pelvis, she leaned down and nipped at his heaving chest, running her tongue over his ribs, letting her unbound hair swish across his face and broad shoulders.
The nightly loving continued and by Christmastime, Sabella suspected she was pregnant. Still she waited until year’s end to summon Doctor Ledet to Lindo Vista. The doctor arrived on a cool, cloudy Friday afternoon, the very last day of December, 1880.
After conducting a short, but through examination, he confirmed Sabella’s suspicions. She was indeed going to have a baby. He couldn’t be certain, but he would estimate that the birth of the child would occur sometime around the first week in September.
Smiling, starting downstairs, the silver-haired physician said, “So where’s Burt? Waiting in the library? Shall I tell him, or do you want—”
“Burt isn’t home at the moment,” Sabella said, not adding that she wasn’t sure where he was. Or when he might be back. “I’ll tell him,” she said, forcing herself to smile, to appear happy.
“Don’t blame you a bit,” said the beaming doctor. He laughed then, a hearty, deep-chested laugh, and said, “It’s New Year’s Eve. You might want to wait until midnight.” He winked at her. “Hand him a cup of eggnog and get him under the mistletoe for a kiss and then give him the joyous news. A romantic way to begin a New Year, hmmmm, Mrs. Burnett?”
“Yes,” replied Sabella, wishing it could be that way, half hoping that it might.
It wasn’t.
Midnight came. The old year died and the New Year was born with no sign of Burt. Feeling foolish and angry and sorry for herself, Sabella was all alone in their suite. She looked from the blazing cedar logs in the fireplace to the big silver bowl of rich frothy eggnog by the bed to the large bough of green leafy mistletoe above the door.
Tears stinging her eyes, she stood before the fire and undressed, letting her clothes slide to the carpet at her feet. Naked she stood staring into the leaping flames, feeling the heat on her bare flesh, the pleasing warmth counterbalanced by the cold ocean winds blowing in through the open balcony doors.
Shaking her head sadly, she wondered at her sanity.
Had she really supposed—simply because she was pregnant—that it would change anything between Burt and herself? Had she actually believed that the two of them would spend a romantic evening together in their suite, toasting each other with eggnog and kissing under the mistletoe?
Gritting her teeth and clenching her fists, Sabella whirled away so swiftly to march to the bed that she stumbled against a foot stool which rested before an old worn leather chair. A chair in which she had experienced some of the most thrilling moments of her life. A chair in which no one ever sat now.
The Happy chair.
No one was happy in this room anymore. Not Burt. Not her.
Dispirited, Sabella sighed heavily, stepped around the empty, lonely looking chair, and trudged to the bed. She didn’t bother with a nightgown. After four months of being married to Burt Burnett, she was just about out of the habit of wearing nightclothes.
Naked, she slipped between the cool silky sheets, turned onto her side, and closed her eyes. She thought about all that had happened in the year just past. She considered all that might happen in the one ahead.
A little sob of despair passed her lips and Sabella placed a spread hand on her bare flat stomach. It had been but a few short hours since she’d learned she was carrying a child, but already she felt protective toward the new life beginning inside her.
A child. A son. My son.
Sabella knew in that moment, as she lay there in the cold firelit room alone, that she would never allow Burt Burnett or anyone else to take her son away from her!
Her eyelids growing heavy, she began to consider names for her son, putting herself to sleep with the pleasant exercise. Just when she was about to drop off, she heard the door open.
Clutching the sheets to her breasts, she slowly, quietly turned over, and saw Burt walk inside, ducking his dark head to avoid the bough of fragrant mistletoe. She started to speak, to say his name, but decided against it.
Since he hardly glanced at the bed, he obviously didn’t know or care if she were asleep or awake. In silence she watched him as he undressed. She continued to watch as he did what she had done earlier; stood naked before the fireplace, staring into the fire. He was, she realized, enjoying the warmth of the flames as well as the chill night winds stroking his nakedness. Slowly, he turned about so that his backside was to the fire.
Sabella took a sharp, shallow intake of breath.
He was awesomely beautiful. With the firelight flickering on the bare bronze skin revealing various scars marring the smooth flesh, he might have been a brave Roman gladiator. A tall, powerful specimen who had thrilled the bloodthirsty throngs crowding the Coliseum with his heart-stopping victories over man and beast. A triumphant conqueror who would live to see another day.
And now he had been sent to the bed of a lusty, willing pagan wench who had watched him in battle and had been given to him for the night. She was his reward.
Burt’s burnished naked beauty and the foolish sexual fantasy it inspired made Sabella tingle with sweet anticipation. Her heartbeat quickened when Burt came to the bed, pulled the covering sheet away, and stretched out beside her. For a long tense moment he didn’t touch her.
He just lay on his side, head resting on a folded arm, looking at her.
Sabella’s caught breath came out in a rush when finally his tanned hand reached out, his lean fingers touched her face, her lips, her chin. Those fingers fanned over her bare shoulder and moved down her slender arm to her elbow. Then he was looming over her, looking at her, the firelight reflected in the depths of his hot silver eyes.
He bent his head, kissed the hollow of her throat. His dark silky hair ruffling against her chin, he stroked her hip, her thigh.
Sighing with pleasure, Sabella whispered breathlessly, “Burt, I … I have something to tell you.”
“Mmmmm,” he murmured, his mouth beginning its slow slide downward.
“It’s … happened,” Sabella said softly. “Doctor Ledet was here this afternoon. He said that I am—”
Burt’s lips left her throat, his hand moved from her hip. “You’re positive?” His head raised, his eyes were boring into hers. “The doctor couldn’t make a mistake? You’re absolutely sure?”
Nodding, she said, “I’m absolutely sure. Doctor L
edet said I will be having the baby sometime around the first week of September.”
She waited for him to react, to say something. Burt didn’t say a word. Instead he promptly got out of bed, walked across the room, and retrieved his discarded trousers. Standing before the fire, he pulled on the pants and buttoned them up over his brown belly.
Returning to the bed, he stood looking down at her. He said, “I won’t be bothering you again, my dear. I’ve stood stud for my last time. I need some rest and so do you. Sleep well.”
He turned, crossed to the door, opened it. He started through it; the mistletoe brushed the top of his head, startling him. He glanced up, smoothed his hair down, and turned to look at Sabella.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, smiling coldly, “Happy New Year.”
Forty-Two
“MY DEAR FRIENDS,” SAID Senator Nelson de Temple, an arm around Gena, a champagne glass raised in his hand, “my daughter, Gena, and I wish you one and all a Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year! Happy New Year!” rose shouts above the music and laughter as the glittering crowd drank toasts to 1881.
The senator downed his champagne, then kissed his daughter’s cheek lightly, and was about to step down off the flower-draped podium when Gena caught him, drew him back.
“Wait, Father,” Gena said, smiling mysteriously, “I have an important announcement for you to make.”
Senator de Temple immediately frowned, worried. What next? He still was not satisfied that she had had nothing to do with the destruction of the Dreamy Draw dam. He was afraid to hear what she was up to now. He should, he realized sadly, have disciplined her more severely when she was growing up.
Inwardly cringing, the senator nodded, and raised his hands for silence. It was several minutes before some of the tipsy merrymakers in the de Temple ballroom could be quieted down. When at last the senator had everyone’s attention, Gena whispered in her father’s ear.
His mouth fell open in shock and disbelief. Before he could say a word, the portly, smiling Don Miguel Andres Amaro had made his way through the crowd and was stepping up on the platform to join father and daughter. The beaming middle-aged don proudly took his place beside Gena, wrapping a short arm around her waist.
The stunned senator finally found his tongue. Relieved, pleased beyond words, he cleared his throat, then happily announced to the curious guests, “My friends, this is indeed a Happy New Year! My beautiful daughter has just informed me that she has—this very night—agreed to become the bride of my dearest friend, Don Miguel Andres Amaro!”
Gasps and shrieks and shouts and whistles followed the astounding announcement. Then loud applause as Gena smiled charmingly, turned, and took the short, stocky Mexican grandee’s fleshy face in her hands and kissed him soundly.
An hour later Gena kissed the don again as they stood alone in the winter moonlight on the balcony outside the still-crowded ballroom. This kiss was his reward for promising to give her what she wanted most. She wanted, she beseechingly told him, to get away from the cloying boredom and smothering small-mindedness of San Juan Capistrano! She wanted to have some fun. She wanted to meet interesting new people and have something of a social life. She wanted to move to Los Angeles!
The don quickly agreed.
He would, he assured his bride-to-be, build for her the most magnificent mansion on Seaside Avenue and staff it with squadrons of servants to tend to the every need and wish of their beautiful mistress.
“Miguel, my dearest Miguel,” Gena said in a soft, little-girl voice, running her fingers up and down the wide lapels of his black evening jacket, “there’s one more little thing … ” She let her words trail away, acting as if she were too shy to continue.
His pudgy hands anxiously squeezing her waist, the troubled don said, “What is it, querida? You must tell me. I will give you anything you desire.”
“There are, I’m told, many dangers in the city,” she said.
“You will be in no danger! I would not—”
“How can you be sure? Have you forgotten that brazen bandits rode on this ranch in broad daylight and blew up Dreamy Draw dam?”
“Ah, sí, sí,” the don murmured, nodding.
“I want to take my trusted Cisco and Santo with us to Los Angeles. I’d feel so much safer with them there to guard me when I’m alone.”
“Gena, my precious little dove, you will never be alone! I will be at your side always.”
Her hands slipped up around the don’s thick neck, and she locked her fingers behind his head. “I know, but … on those rare, dreadful occasions when you cannot be with me.”
“Oh, mi amor. But, of course! You must bring them with us, I insist! And anyone else you wish to take.”
“No one else,” Gena said, smiling sweetly at him. “You are so good to me, Miguel. Kiss me, my darling don.”
When the tall, cased clock struck three, Gena was again kissing the don. Impatiently kissing him good night in the empty, silent foyer. When his lips tried to cling to hers a moment longer, she drew away, giggling softly as if shocked and embarrassed.
The don immediately apologized. “Querida,” he murmured, “forgive me. You are so beautiful, I forget myself.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed the palm, and never saw the look of annoyance and boredom in Gena’s eyes. He said, “I count the days, the nights. I cannot wait until you’re my bride.”
“Nor can I,” she said, smoothly maneuvering him to the front door.
The stocky, starry-eyed grandee hadn’t reached his waiting, crested carriage before Gena was rushing up the stairs to her suite. She slipped inside the dim, fire-lit room, looked eagerly about, and saw no sign of Cisco. She was immediately angry and disappointed. Then she heard the splashing of water. Starting to smile again, she moved through the shadows to the spacious bathroom.
Her smile broadened,
A silver candelabra containing six lighted candles sat on the floor beside the peach marble tub. The flickering candlelight fell on the gaunt, scarred face and wet hair-covered chest of the dark man lolling in the suds-filled tub.
A cigar clamped firmly between his white teeth, Cisco held up a soapy sponge and said by way of greeting, “Bathe me.
Gena laughingly obliged. She was on her knees running the sponge caressingly over his back when she heard Cisco say in a surprisingly gentle voice, “Marry me, Gena, so I can move in here with you. Marry me.”
“Marry you?” She was incredulous.
“Yes. Why, not? What have you got to lose? Burt Burnett’s never coming back. Besides, we’re two of a kind. Marry me, querida.”
Gena reached up, grabbed a handful of his dark wet hair, and pulled his head back to rest on her breasts. “Are you insane? I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have no position—no money.”
“No, but you do.”
“Not nearly enough,” she said, then told him, “I’ve agreed to marry Don Miguel Andres Amaro.”
“Dios! You would leave me for that fat old grandee?”
“That fat, rich and powerful old grandee,” she laughingly corrected. Then, she said, “But I’m not about to leave you. Never! I’m taking you with me, you foolish man. Nothing need change between us. I will have my own suite.” She released his hair, dropped the sponge into the tub, and rose to her feet.
Hands on her hips, she ordered, “Now get out of that tub and into my bed before I change my mind.”
Forty-Three
STORMS—ONE AFTER ANOTHER—blew in off the ocean throughout the month of January, bringing high, punishing winds that stripped the branches from the trees and rattled the leaded-glass windows of the adobe hacienda. The bleak gray skies seemed permanently leaden, the chill air heavy with dampness.
Yet no rail fell.
Upstairs in her suite one interminably long Saturday afternoon, a bored, lonely Sabella nudged back the heavy curtains and stared out at the boiling black sea. Then up at the dark, threatening sky. Maybe
tonight it would rain. Or tomorrow. It had to rain soon. It had to!
Dear God, please make it rain and put an end to this damnable drought, she prayed.
Sighing heavily, Sabella’s sad dark gaze lowered to the big windswept backyard. A solitary figure on the solitary bench quickly caught her attention. Her hand went to her throat as her eyes widened and stared unblinkingly.
Burt sat alone in the gloom, gazing wistfully out to sea. The strong chill winds tossed the locks of his raven hair about his handsome head and pressed the soft cream fabric of his loosely laced pullover chamois shirt against the flat muscles of his chest. He seemed not to notice the wind, the cold.
He sat unmoving, as still as a statue. He looked so troubled, so terribly hurt and vulnerable, Sabella bit her lip, wishing she could help him, knowing she could not.
She was his problem, she thought sadly. At least the biggest part of it.
Burt continued to sit on the hard cement bench until the early winter dusk gathered around him. Finally he rose and glanced up at the house—a slow, brooding stare—then back out to sea.
Sabella’s heart beat in her throat as he walked unhurriedly toward the high, rugged cliffs overlooking the churning, restless ocean. Genuinely worried, she stayed where she was, anxiously squinting into the deepening darkness, until at last she saw Burt return safely to the house.
Only then did she sigh with relief and turn away.
Sabella had come to hate herself for all the unhappiness she had caused. But when she felt as if she could bear it no longer, she reminded herself that the Burnett family was not blameless.
Lindo Vista was stolen from her mother.
But that knowledge no longer soothed her the way it once had. She wished with all her heart that she had never heard of Lindo Vista or Burt Burnett. This purgatory in which she now dwelled was far worse than any hell she could have ever imagined.
