by Jane Toombs
Near sunset he came to the small fishing hamlet of El Doblez. Don Francisco Gabaldon's land began beyond the hills just east of El Doblez, he'd been told. Noticing a cantina set under palm trees off the dusty road, he reined in. He and the buckskin could use a drink, a bit of food and a rest.
He pushed open the door and strode inside the adobe building, glancing around as he looked for the proprietor.
A buxom lass in a square-necked, loose-fitting embroidered gown approached him, threading her way between crowded tables occupied mostly by men.
"Mi casa es su casa," she told him, smiling. Her words held a tinge of invitation.
Diarmid stared at her. Fair skin and hair, hazel eyes. About Miriam's age, she was an attractive lass. He'd never expected to find the likes of her in a cantina.
"In case you don't understand Spanish," she went on, "what can I do for you?"
Taken by her looks, by her husky voice, he grinned. “Whatever you want, lass."
She tilted her head to one side and examined him. "You're a long way from home, aren't you, Scotty?"
He shook his head, the grin fading. For all that he couldn't rid his voice and his words of Scotland, California was his home. "Come to that, what're you doing here?" he challenged.
"Earning my way in the world. If it's any of your business."
"When I have the time I might make it mine. For now, I need a bit of food and drink. And your name." He could tell she liked his looks. Old or young, most lasses did.
"One of the girls will serve you," she told him, starting away. He touched her arm and she stopped, glancing at him with raised eyebrows.
"I'll make a fair trade--my name for yours." He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. "Diarmid Burwash, ma'am."
By now most of the customers were watching them. One, a stocky, swarthy Mexican, scowled blackly at Diarmid. The blonde lass hesitated, pursing her lips, then suddenly curtsied. "Miss Stella White, sir," she murmured, her eyes laughing at him before she turned away.
The Mexican lass that served his food was young and dark and her breasts all but fell out of her bodice as she bent over the table, tantalizing him. But as he ate his tortillas, his eyes followed the blonde as she moved from table to table, smiling and saying a word or two but not lingering nor serving anyone. She wasn't dressed in the latest San Francisco fashion of tight bodice and bell-shaped flounced skirt held out with a multitude of petticoats--her loose-fitting gown hinted at, without revealing, lush curves.
Up until now, he'd never known a lass named Stella. But no matter how much she appealed to him, he had the letter to deliver first. Once that was done, there'd be nothing to stop him from coming back and getting better acquainted.
Diarmid reached Don Francisco's hacienda before the true darkness of night. Both he and Bruce were more than ready to stop. Turning over the buckskin to a servant, Diarmid strode under an arbor of blooming white roses, their sweet scent following him onto the front veranda. Determined not to be intimidated by fine dwellings and servants, he lifted the massive iron knocker and let it fall hard on the plate, once, twice, three times.
An old woman in black, an Indian by the look of her, opened the door.
"I carry a letter for Don Francisco," Diarmid announced in Spanish.
Wordlessly, she gestured for him to enter. As she led him along a dark corridor, he felt himself watched, but quick glances at the unlit rooms they passed revealed no one. The old woman escorted him to a small room glowing with lamp-light. Shelves built against the white-painted walls held scores of gold-embossed leather-bound books.
A bone-thin man with white hair, mustache and beard sat in a chair with a leather seat, a book open on his lap. The man set the book aside and rose, showing himself to be a head shorter than Diarmid.
In his limited Spanish, Diarmid introduced himself and briefly explained the circumstances that brought him to the rancho. He held out the letter as he finished.
Don Francisco accepted the letter without taking his eyes from Diarmid. "Dark as you are," he said, in English, "you could be a Spaniard--except for the way you speak the language."
Diarmid smiled. "Who can tell? 'Tis said that long ago, when the British defeated the Spanish Armada, many's the Spanish sailor who washed up alive on shores of my birth-land."
"Ah, the Armada. A humiliating defeat for Spain." The white-haired don shook his head. "Many thanks for delivering this to me. You will spend the night, of course."
Diarmid, who'd had his fill of camping, thanked him and agreed.
The silent old woman appeared and led him upstairs to a bedroom, painted white, with bright red and yellow mats on the plank floor and left him there. His belongings from his saddle bags were already piled neatly on a chest at the end of the bed. To his surprise, someone had placed a white rose in a silver vase on the square wooden table by the bed, its delicate fragrance sweetening the air. Though he couldn't be sure, he doubted the old woman, clearly a servant, was responsible for the rose.
Rising hair on his nape again warned that someone watched him. Quickly striding to the open door, he stepped into the shadowy hallway, lit only by candles in iron sconces. Something moved to his right--the slight figure of a lass, dressed in white, hurrying away. Before he could move or speak, she slipped through a door and was gone.
Did the don have a wife? A daughter? Could the watcher have been a curious servant? Diarmid shrugged and, yawning, turned away. It made little difference. Tired as he was, he hoped whomever she was she didn't mean to creep into his bed--at least until he'd had a bit of rest.
Diarmid woke at cock-crow. He lay quietly for a moment, savoring the clean, soft bed. The cock's crowing had taken him back to his childhood. When he had his land, he'd make certain to raise chickens--for the fresh eggs, if for no other reason.
After he dressed and came downstairs, a middle-aged woman he hadn't seen before served him ham, beef and beans. When he'd eaten all he could hold, a man-servant entered the dining room. "Don Francisco awaits you, sir," he said in Spanish.
The old don waited in a courtyard where birds sang in flowering bushes and trees, exotic scents perfumed the air. Diarmid, caught off guard by the unexpected beauty of his surroundings, blurted, "Paradise must have been like this!"
Obviously pleased, Don Francisco smiled. "Would you like to have me show you the rest of my holdings?"
"I'd be honored, sir."
As they turned to re-enter the casa, Diarmid saw a lass in white hurrying down the corridor ahead of them. His watcher of last night? Had she been secretly observing him again?
"Concepcion!" the don called and she stopped, turning slowly.
Diarmid, who'd been intrigued by the idea of a lass spying on him, was disappointed. From her slight figure, he'd expected her to be young and perhaps pretty. Instead, she looked to be at least forty, sallow and plain, her dark hair pulled into a knot at the back of her lace-covered head. Her brown eyes flicked one timid glance at him, then didn't meet his gaze again.
The don introduced her as his daughter, Senorita Gabaldon. A spinster, then. Rather a surprise. Though she was no beauty, Don Francisco must be able to provide a lavish dowry. What had kept suitors away?
She fancied him, that was plain. As for him, even if she'd been a beauty, he wouldn't dream of laying so much as a finger on Don Francisco's daughter if she begged him on bended knee. Californios, he'd learned, took offense if a man so much as looked sideways at their lasses. Luckily the senor who'd challenged him had a terrible aim.
He greeted her courteously and dismissed her from his mind.
Mounted on Bruce, Diarmid rode with the don to the treeless hill behind the hacienda. Since he'd traveled from El Doblez in the gathering dusk, he hadn't really seen the rancho. When the don reined in his black stallion at the summit, Diarmid pulled up beside him.
"From here one sees most of the property," Don Francisco said with a wave of his hand.
As Diarmid's gaze followed the gesture, he clutched Bruce's reins, stu
nned. He couldn't speak, he could scarcely breath. Spread out below him and stretching into the distance was the golden valley of his dream, beautiful beyond belief, more desirable than any lass. Blood thrummed in his ears, muffling the don's voice so he only heard bits and pieces. "...grant from the crown...ocean...cattle...drought…hides...ships..."
Finally aware Don Francisco waited for a response, Diarmid did his best to gather his wits. "'Tis a wonder, sir. A wonder and a glory." Before he could stop himself, he added, "God knows how much I wish 'twas mine."
Instead of taking offense, the don gave him a long, measuring glance. "I will tell you I've considered selling," he said at last. "I'm no longer young and my sons--" he sighed. "They are dead, my sons. There's only Concepcion."
Diarmid heard but one word clearly. Selling. Was it possible--? No, he hadn't anywhere near enough saved. "I'd offer for it if I had the money," he said honestly. "To own land is my fondest dream." He gestured toward the valley, his gaze yearning. "But this--this is far beyond my means."
"Perhaps not," Don Francisco said.
Diarmid's head whipped around to stare at the old man.
"You're a strong and healthy young man," the don went on, "capable of working hard, able to sire sons."
Confused as to where they were heading, Diarmid nodded in agreement but said nothing.
"I prefer to keep the land in the family," the old man continued. "Are you a Catholic?"
Blinking in puzzlement, Diarmid admitted he was, not mentioning he hadn't been inside a church in six years, not since his mother died.
The don nodded in satisfaction. "When I see how your spirit reaches toward this land, my heart tells me you should have it. That you are not one of us may prove to be an advantage. If the rancho belongs to you, you'll find a way to keep the land, you'll discover a way to overcome the problems I've struggled against too long. I make the assumption you haven't a wife. As for Concepcion, she'll obey me."
"Concepcion?" Diarmid echoed, the unbelievable truth beginning to dawn.
"My daughter. She's young enough yet to bear at least one child. Marry her and my rancho will, in time, be yours once she bears you a son."
Diarmid's head whirled. Marry that dried-up stick of a lass? Compared to Concepcion, homely Miriam was a beauty. But even as he rejected the idea, he knew he'd eventually come to embrace it as he'd be forced to embrace her. To own this land he'd wed the daughter of the devil himself.
In a daze, he followed the don back to the hacienda. As they stepped onto the veranda, Diarmid finally began to believe 'twas really true that the rancho could be his, if he agreed, and he quelled a sudden, wild impulse to step inside ahead of the old man, turn to him and say grandly, "Mi casa es su casa."
Chapter Two
At Don Francisco's insistence, Diarmid remained at the rancho as a guest. "You must have time to become acquainted with Concepcion before you make a final decision," he told Diarmid. "And I wish to show you all my holdings."
More likely he wants to be sure he hasn't made a mistake about me, Diarmid thought, not blaming the don. He still couldn't believe the Californio meant to turn his land over to a virtual stranger.
"Becoming acquainted" with Don Francisco's daughter was complicated by having the old Indian woman, Rosa, present on every occasion as a chaperone. Never once was Diarmid permitted to be alone with Concepcion.
Do they think I'll seduce the lass in the courtyard? he wondered. Leap on her and take her by force in the parlor? He'd never once forced a lass--what need, when so many of them were so willing? As for seduction, the pickings would have to be damn sparse for him to be overcome with desire for such a skinny, sallow lass, without even youth to recommend her.
He'd tried to be polite and talk with her, but Concepcion was either too shy or too stupid to say more than a word or two, and those in answer to a direct question. Yet he was certain she fancied him. If she thought he wasn't looking, her deep-set dark eyes followed his every move with a yearning gaze he'd seen before. In Miriam Goetz's eyes, before she began seeking him out as he slept.
Not that he believed Concepcion would have the daring to come secretly to his room at night. For one thing, unlike Miriam, she was undoubtedly a virgin. She might think she wanted him, but he didn't think she understood what that wanting meant.
The morning rides exploring the property with the don strengthened Diarmid's resolve to persist with the awkward chaperoned meetings with Concepcion in the afternoons. But on the fifth morning he balked. Instead of returning to the hacienda with the don, he excused himself and rode off for El Doblez, saying he'd return the following morning. Feeling like a caged hawk suddenly set free, he sang an old Robbie Burns song as Bruce loped over the grasslands toward the low hills that hid the ocean.
"Robin was a rovin' boy
Rantin' rovin' rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy
Rantin' rovin' Robin..."
For all that he craved the don's rancho, for all his need for his own land, at the moment Diarmid was one with Rovin' Robin. No cage for him, he'd do as he pleased, choose his own company, find his own lass.
He'd begun to wonder, too, what he'd do once he took over running the rancho. He knew nothing at all about cattle, but the skinny, horned beasts that roamed the don's grasslands looked unhealthy to him. And wasn't it spring?
To the north the grass was green and growing. Here, it remained dry and golden. A beautiful color, but not a life-giving one. He could learn quickly, he always had, but would that be enough?
Once he topped the hills and gazed down at El Doblez, he found it even smaller than he remembered--a few adobe houses. One stood one on a rise behind the cantina and there were a scattering of shanties near the two wooden docks extending into the blue waters of the tiny bay. No boats rocked at their moorings, no doubt the men were fishing. The adobe cantina, Diarmid's destination, was the largest building in the hamlet.
Inside, an old man, in tattered and filthy clothes, nursed a mug of aguardiente at a table near the door. There were no other customers. At a table in the back of the cantina, Stella White and another woman were making tortillas. With an apron tied loosely over her gown and her blond hair in a single braid down her back, she looked younger than she had the night they met--and even more desirable.
Stella glanced at Diarmid when he approached, and her hands stilled for a moment before she resumed slapping the corn dough.
"You're too early for dinner," she said by way of a greeting.
He smiled. "I didn't come to eat. Or drink. I came to see you."
"So now you've seen me."
"And talk to you." He bowed. "May I invite you to take a stroll with me?"
"Maybe you haven't noticed, but I'm busy."
"When aren't you busy?"
She looked sideways at him. "In my cantina, I sell food and drink. Nothing else."
"I wasn't asking to buy. Just to talk."
"In my experience, men usually have only one thing on their minds--and in their conversation."
Ah, she's not to be easily won, Diarmid told himself, more intrigued than ever. "What I want is a friend." His voice was soft, persuasive. "Robbie Burns says it better than I." Dropping onto one knee, he tried to look mournful as he clasped his hands over his heart and intoned:
"Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee;
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear..."
Stella turned to stare at him.
Diarmid rose to his feet. "'Tis the plain truth--I need someone to talk to."
Her lips quivered and he decided she was trying not to smile. Good, he'd interested her. Best to keep his mouth shut for the moment and see what she'd do.
"Heaven help me, I know better," she said. Switching to Spanish, she asked the older woman next to her, "Should I go for a walk with this man, Lucita?"
Without so much as a glance at h
im Lucita replied in Spanish, "One man is much like another, though this one is more handsome than most. No matter what I say, you will do as you please."
He realized neither of them knew he understood the language and he grinned, sketching a bow toward Lucita. "Muchas gracias, senora," he said.
After a startled stare, she grinned back at him. Looking at Stella, she shrugged as if to say it was in the hands of the gods.
"Half an hour, no more," Stella told him, untying the apron strings.
He's a strange one, Stella thought as she coiled her braid under a straw bonnet. Fair as her skin was, it didn't do to get too much sun. She settled a Chinese silk shawl over her shoulders for the breeze off the ocean was cool. Like as not she was making a mistake, but then, it wouldn't be her first. Or her last. When it came to men, she never learned.
