by Jane Toombs
While he waited for his wedding day, Diarmid rode Bruce early every morning, inspecting one parcel or another of the ranch land. When Don Francisco had shown him the original Spanish land grant papers, Diarmid had been astounded and awed at the immensity of the property. Measured in leagues at that time, it was, by his figuring, close to 90,000 acres. That he, Diarmid Burwash, would soon own so vast an acreage was almost beyond belief.
He knew he must make plans, that he couldn't merely drift along, expecting the ranch to survive on starving cattle. The cattle hadn't afforded a living for the don these past few years and they wouldn't for him. The only animals on the ranch that seemed at all thrifty were a small flock of sheep the don had acquired in payment of a debt and had since ignored. Should he kill off the remaining cattle, sell the hides and use the money to buy more sheep?
Unlike the scrawny Spanish cattle of the don's, sheep provided a good supply of meat. Diarmid knew his former San Francisco store never had enough meat on hand to furnish the demand. Sheep could be driven north and slaughtered there--meat on the hoof. Also, those not killed for meat could be sheared for their wool and live to produce another crop year after year. And he knew from his childhood in Scotland that sheep could thrive on land where cattle would starve.
He planned to discuss his idea with Manuelo when he arrived for the wedding but it seemed a prudent first step in improving the rancho. And one he could afford. His mind churned with questions to ask Manuelo. The sheep. What about orange trees? A few thrived near the hacienda and there'd be a market in San Francisco for oranges. The same for grapes. Could water be diverted from streams rising in the mountains so other crops could be grown whether the rains came or not? He hoped his friend knew some of the answers.
He'd sounded the don out on a few of his ideas but the old man shrugged the questions away. "It's true the land has provided for me most of my life but my interests lie elsewhere. I leave everything for you to decide."
Don Francisco loved reading, loved his books and hated to be distracted from them. Diarmid realized the old man had little real interest in anything he might do except provide him with a grandchild who'd someday inherit the land. The don also looked forward to an extended visit with his sister in Mexico City.
"I'll meet with old friends," he'd told Diarmid enthusiastically. "Some I've not seen for over forty years."
Diarmid was as eager to see Manuelo and they'd only been parted for a little over a month. It was impossible for him to imagine not seeing a friend for forty years. A lifetime!
A week before the wedding, Diarmid rode on his customary morning inspection tour, halting Bruce on the summit of one of the many round hills--duns, his mother would have called them--and surveyed his golden land. To the east the summits of the higher hills, mountains really, marked the edge of the property. The don had told him that survivors of the mission Indians converted by the Spanish priests lived in those mountains. Since he owned to the summits, the Indians were squatters on his property.
"I have no use for the mountain land," Don Francisco had said, "so I permit the Indians to live there. As long as they don't bother my cattle, I leave them alone. Rosa is one of them. My wife tried to train several Indian girls as servants, but Rosa is the only one who stayed."
The western boundary was the low ridge of hills that hid the ocean. To the south, the seaward hills dipped to form a narrow passage and there the land rolled down to the very edge of the sea. He'd explored this passage, finding a hidden cove with a pleasant sandy beach.
I'd like to bring Stella to this cove someday, he thought, but then shook his head. He'd have little time for her in the weeks and months to come.
Evergreens twisted by the wind grew down the seaside slopes of the hills almost to the sand itself. Last week he'd climbed a hill to take a closer look at the largest of the trees and came across a hole extending under its roots that he thought might once have been a bear's den. Though the don assured him no bears had been seen on the property for many years, he meant to make certain that hole would never be used by a bear--he'd have it filled in. But there was no hurry. First things first.
Scanning the seaward hills, Diarmid caught sight of a rider cresting the summit of one. Not a vaquero of the don's unless the man had been to El Doblez. Could it be Manuelo, returning early? God, how he hoped so! He had no qualms that what he was doing was anything but right. Still, as the wedding day approached, more and more he felt the need to have a friend by his side.
Kicking Bruce into a lope, Diarmid rode toward the western hills but, as the distance between him and the oncoming rider narrowed, Diarmid frowned, slowing his mount. That was a bay, not Manuelo's black stallion. And the horseman rode awkwardly, unlike Manuelo. He wasn't dressed as a vaquero, either. Who was he?
"Ho!" the man shouted. "Diarmid Burwash!" Diarmid's jaw dropped as he recognized the voice. God save him, it was Myron Muskatt!
Sitting on a blanket in the cove, Concepcion carefully brushed every grain of sand from her feet before pulling on her stockings. She reached for her slippers. One of the great joys of her life was riding to this cove to wade in the ocean. She'd been taken here to play as a little girl but no one except Rosa knew she still indulged herself in such childish amusements. When she married Diarmid, would she have to give it up?
The thought of him made her pause with one shoe half on. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen in her life, far better looking than any of the three men she'd been betrothed to before. She'd mourned them, of course, but it was true she'd scarcely known any of the three.
Diarmid she saw every day. How she loved looking at him! Often she watched him when he didn't know she was anywhere about. She knew how his thick dark hair curled at his neck, how he smiled to himself when he thought no one saw, his strong teeth flashing white against his tanned face, his upper lip curving so sweetly she longed to kiss him.
After they were married, perhaps she'd be so bold as to press her lips to his as often as she wanted. She could hardly wait to be his wife.
What matter if he didn't love her? She had enough love for two. Together they'd make babies--how she yearned for a child! She wasn't altogether clear on how a man gave a woman children. She'd seen bulls mounting cows and dogs mounting bitches but surely what happened between husband and wife wasn't so crude. Never mind if it was, she looked forward to whatever came. She'd all but given up hope of ever being a wife and she could hardly believe in her great good fortune. This time, she was determined that nothing would stop the marriage. She meant to become Mrs. Diarmid Burwash and woe betide anyone who tried to prevent her.
Concepcion eased on her slippers and glanced at Rosa, lying on a blanket, head propped on a pillow, sound asleep. For some reason Rosa didn't trust Diarmid.
"He'll bring you pain," Rosa had warned.
Let him! He'd be her husband and that's what mattered. "Rosa, wake up," Concepcion said, nudging the old woman. "I'm ready to go home."
It took a few minutes to pack the blankets and pillows and the food basket Rosa always insisted on bringing. After tying everything securely to the saddles, the two women mounted their horses. Both wore divided skirts and rode astride because Concepcion could see no sense in having to ride sidesaddle when Rosa didn't. After all, she wasn't where anyone could see her. Since her father didn't know, he’d never had occasion to object. What, she wondered, would Diarmid think of this unladylike practice? Urging her chestnut mare into the lead, Concepcion started away from the sand beach. Before the horses had climbed to the top of the slope that led away from the water, she halted and waved Rosa to a stop. Voices!
Dios, it was Diarmid! Riding to the cove! She didn't recognize the voice of the other man but that made little difference, it was Diarmid who mattered. She didn't want him to see her, not like this, riding astride. She turned the mare and hurriedly retreated, Rosa following, to the far end of the sandy beach where a rocky outcropping hid them from view. She didn't expect Diarmid to stay long at the cove; she and Rosa
would outwait him.
Before the two men reached the sand, they stopped. Because they spoke loudly, angrily, Concepcion could hear every word, though she didn't understand all of them because Diarmid and the other man were quarreling in English.
That she knew any English at all would have surprised her father. But one winter when her brother Diego was sixteen and recovering from a broken leg, it had amused him to teach his nine-year-old sister what English he'd learned. Concepcion, who shared everything with Rosa, had taught her the words, too. It was a secret and Concepcion loved secrets. Even today, she and Rosa occasionally spoke English to each other in private.
Diarmid and the other man shouted at each other until Concepcion was tempted to put her hands over her ears. Instead, she listened carefully, eager to catch the sense of what the argument was about. Whatever affected Diarmid, affected her.
"Give me the knife you used to cut the cheese," she whispered to Rosa, determined to rush to Diarmid's defense if the need arose.
"You knew damn well Miriam was carrying your child," Myron told Diarmid after they'd halted their horses halfway down the hillside above the beach. His voice was loud and furious.
"You ran off like the cur you are. Ran off and left her to weep."
"I never promised to marry your sister." Diarmid tried to keep his tone level but he was rapidly losing patience with Myron.
"Maybe not. But you will, oh, yes, I'll see to that, all right. There ain't going to be any bastards in the Muskatt family."
"I refuse."
"You don't have a choice. I ran you down, didn't I? Sent your description to the mayor of every miserable hamlet in the state. Got lucky in Los Angeles, found out you stayed with some Mexican there named Tomas Valdez. When I got off the stage I went right to Valdez and he told me the news about you being engaged to some fancy senorita."
"That's none of your business!"
“Either you come back north with me or I go to her father and tell him about Miriam." Myron smirked triumphantly. "You can't tell me the news wouldn't kill your chances."
It well might, Diarmid realized. The Californios had rigid notions of honor and hearing he'd left a pregnant widow in San Francisco could convince the don to call off the agreement. He couldn't take the chance. Yet he sure as hell wasn't going to marry Miriam. Thinking desperately, he came up with an idea.
"Look, Myron," he said, "I stand to own 90,000 acres if my marriage to the senorita goes through. You could have part of it. And Irv. All he'd have to do is marry Miriam. You and he get land, she gets a husband, the baby has a father. Think about it."
Myron stared at him. "You--you--" In too great a rage to speak, he yanked the rifle from the saddle scabbard, leaned sideways and swung it at Diarmid. Diarmid ducked and the barrel caught Bruce across the withers.
Bruce whinnied and reared, Diarmid slid off his back and rolled quickly away. He sprang to his feet in time to see Bruce's front right hoof knock the overbalanced Myron from his bay, who promptly bolted. Before Diarmid could move, Bruce's forelegs came down, trampling the screaming Myron.
Diarmid grabbed Bruce's halter, led the frightened horse aside and tethered him before returning to kneel beside Myron. He was dead, the left side of his head shattered, bone splinters, brains and blood oozing from the wounds made by the horse's hoofs.
"Dear God," Diarmid muttered, struggling not to vomit. Despite his shock and his sickness, he forced himself to think. If Myron was found dead, there'd be a great to-do. And Diarmid's connection with him might well be discovered.
Disaster! That meant Myron's body must be hidden. Where? Diarmid looked about frantically and the twisted evergreen on the hill to his left caught his eye. The bear den under the roots. He'd put the body in that hole and cover it over. Since he'd already discussed filling in the hole with the don, no one would think it odd. He'd have to find the damn bay and make certain all of Myron's belongings wound up in the hole, too.
Taking a deep breath, Diarmid rose to his feet, finding the sea breeze suddenly chill.
Much later, after she was sure Diarmid was gone, Concepcion motioned to Rosa and the two of them emerged from hiding. Riding back to the ranch, Concepcion spoke sternly to Rosa.
"We'll tell no one what we heard. Ever."
“He killed the man." Rosa's voice was sullen.
"He buried him," Concepcion corrected. "We don't know how the man died because we didn't see what happened."
Rosa slanted her a dark look. "I don't forget the name. Myron."
“I say you will forget that name. If anyone ever asks about the man, you know nothing. Do you understand?"
“I understand you will marry a murderer."
"He is not!" She halted her horse and, when Rosa stopped, fixed the old woman with an impassioned gaze. "Swear on the blood of Christ that you'll never reveal what we heard today."
"I swear," Rosa muttered after a moment. "Have I ever gone against your wishes?"
They rode on, Concepcion's mind whirling with the frightening fragments of what she'd overheard. She hadn't understood everything but she knew Myron meant to stop Diarmid from marrying her, meant to take him north to marry a woman called Miriam. She'd never wished a man dead but she couldn't be sorry Myron had been silenced. Nothing, no one must interfere with her marriage to Diarmid. He'd been promised to her and she was determined to have him.
"Mine!" she exclaimed. "He's mine."
"He belongs to no woman," Rosa warned. "He never will."
"Perhaps not, but he'll be married to me."
Rosa sighed and shook her head dolefully.
On the evening before the wedding, Tia Anuncion arrived on horseback, escorted by one outrider, an old man so feeble he all but fell off his horse when dismounting. Diarmid watched while a man-servant helped him shamble away. Don Francisco greeted his brother's widow with cool courtesy.
"My daughter insisted you be present at her wedding," the don added as he ushered her into the casa.
Anuncion, a plump older woman with lively eyes and gray curls escaping from under her black bonnet, smiled wryly. "I knew it was none of your doing," she said. "Nevertheless, I'm grateful for the invitation."
If she hadn't been the mother of a man he saw as a possible contender for the property, Diarmid thought he might come to like this outspoken woman.
After dinner, Anuncion chose to sit in the courtyard for awhile before retiring. Out of duty, Concepcion kept her company and Diarmid joined them.
My fiancée tells me your son is a sailor," he said to Anuncion.
"He was, yes." Her gaze was shrewd and Diarmid had the notion she knew exactly why he was interested.
"He's chosen another line of work?" Diarmid asked when she volunteered no more.
"He's been dead these past four years."
"I'm sorry, I hadn't realized--"
She waved away his apology. "You couldn't be expected to know. Yes, he's dead and his wife, too. My grandson is my sole consolation."
So there was still a male Gabaldon. Don Francisco had assured him the brother's descendants had no claim on the rancho but the existence of Anuncion's grandson made Diarmid uneasy and Anuncion's wise dark eyes told him she was well aware of his thoughts. If they were ever at odds, he decided, she'd be a formidable opponent.
"Tell me, my dear," Anuncion asked Concepcion, "where did you ever find such a handsome young man?"
"He was sent by the Blessed Virgin," Concepcion said quietly, taking both of her listeners aback.
She can't be serious, Diarmid told himself, she only means to silence Anuncion.
"I've prayed to Mother Mary for years," Concepcion went on, "and at last she granted my dearest wish." She turned to Diarmid and smiled. On a prettier, younger woman the smile would have been radiant. As it was, even Concepcion's thin and sallow face momentarily glowed.
Diarmid, as embarrassed as he was moved, clasped her hand for an instant before rising and excusing himself. He fled into the night, striding away from the hacienda to the
small grove of Mexican fruit trees near the house that Don Francisco had told him were avocados.
"Years ago my wife planted the pits from the fruit we ate," the don had said, "and every pit sprouted." Diarmid had never seen an avocado, much less eaten one.
Anuncion's grandson has no rights, he told himself firmly as he plucked one of the long green leaves and tore it into strips. I'll plant my own seeds, grow my own fruit trees. Just as my seed will grow in Concepcion to give me this land. My land.
The next afternoon found Diarmid pacing restlessly up and down the verandas. Why he should be so nervous on his wedding day, he didn't know. When Manuelo rode in just before the ceremony was to begin, Diarmid was so relieved to see his friend he ran into the yard and all but dragged him off the black stallion, hugging him and clapping him on the back.
