by Jane Toombs
Diarmid, her beloved husband, wanted to be rid of her--this was his doing. He'd crept back to the house in the darkness, set the fire, then opened the courtyard door to make it seem the wind had started the blaze from the burning candles. He'd left through the gate and, from the outside, fixed the gate so she couldn't open it, so she'd be trapped. She and the baby with her.
No! Her baby must live! Concepcion dragged herself to her feet. Pounding her fists against the wood of the gate, she screamed for help until another pain knifed through her. The pains came so close together all she could do was huddle on the ground next to the gate and moan. She found the Bible next to her and clutched at it.
Caught in a web of agony, she was only dimly aware of something pushing against her. She thought she heard her name, then someone grasped her wrists and began dragging her across the ground. With her eyes stinging and burning from the smoke, she couldn't see who it was. Afraid Diarmid had returned and meant to thrust her back inside the burning casa, she screamed.
"Hush, child," Rosa ordered. "I'm here to help you."
Concepcion couldn't believe her ears. "Rosa?" she gasped, half-convinced she was dreaming again.
"I'm here," Rosa repeated. She released Concepcion's wrists. "I've pulled you outside the courtyard but now you must help."
With the old woman's assistance, Concepcion got to her feet, groaning with pain. "It hurts," she whimpered.
“I know. For the child's sake, be brave. What is that you carry?"
Concepcion hugged the leather volume to her. "Bible. For the baby's name." The words came in gasps. Leaning on Rosa, she stumbled away from the burning casa. Dazed by the grinding, constant pain, she didn't care where Rosa led her.
"The wind blows away from the barn," Rosa said. "May God will that it doesn't catch fire."
Thoughts jumbled together in Concepcion's mind. The barn. The Christ Child. Christmas candles. Fire....
"Diarmid tried to kill me!" she cried.
"Hush," Rosa cautioned. "We must be quiet and careful."
"He sent you away."
"I didn't go far. I waited and I watched. I knew you'd need me."
Something hot and wet began running down Concepcion's legs. Her knees sagged. "I can't--" she whimpered.
"You can and you must. Only a few steps farther."
Rosa half-dragged her inside the barn, easing her down onto an old horse blanket. She could hear the horses outside in the corral snorting as they trotted nervously back and forth, spooked by the fire.
"Don't let them burn," she managed to say before the worst pain of all took hold of her body and mind and the darkness turned red.
"Push!" a voice urged. Rosa? "Push down hard. Now."
Concepcion tried.
"Harder."
After a nightmare of agony, there came a respite. Concepcion took a deep breath, afraid any movement would bring back the pain. A baby wailed, the sound thin and lonely.
"A boy," Rosa said. "He's small but he cries. That's a good sign."
For a long moment Concepcion couldn't associate the words with herself. When she finally realized Rosa was telling her she'd borne a baby boy, she burst into tears.
"It's so dark I can't even see him," she sobbed.
"You will. Later."
Stifling her sobs, Concepcion tried to sit up but she was too weak. She felt fluid flowing from her. Blood? "I want to write his name in the Bible," she whispered.
"Later."
"No. It must be now."
"You have no pen. Lie still, the afterbirth is still to come."
Concepcion struggled onto her side, driven by something she didn't understand. "Give me the Bible. And some straw."
"Without ink--"
"I'll use blood."
She couldn't see, she could only feel the Bible. Propped on one elbow, supported by Rosa, she opened it. With Rosa guiding the hand that held the straw she dipped into the blood, Concepcion scrawled, "Francisco Gabaldon Burwash," inside the front cover of the Bible. "Put his hand in the blood," she told Rosa, "and press it on the opposite page."
When Rosa was finished, Concepcion lay back, exhausted. Between her thighs, the child whimpered. Pain cramped her stomach and she knew more blood ran from her. As though a voice spoke inside her head, she suddenly realized she was going to die. Diarmid would succeed after all. He'd be rid of her and have the land he so desperately craved.
"Rosa, listen to me," Concepcion pleaded. "I know I'm dying. We can't let him have the baby. You take little Francisco and keep him safe."
Rosa said nothing, confirming Concepcion's vision of her own death. Strangely, she wasn't afraid. She'd live on in her son and Diarmid would never find him, never inherit her father's land. True, neither would the boy, but that didn't matter, as long as she triumphed over Diarmid. She dare not ask Rosa to try to contact her father. If Don Francisco took the boy, Diarmid would find out, would know he had a son.
And the land would be his.
"Take the boy to your people," she told Rosa. "Now. Tonight. No one knows you've been here, Diarmid will never suspect. You must never tell anyone about the boy, even my father."
"I can't leave you."
"Can you save me?"
"The bleeding--"
"Tell me the truth, as you always have."
"Your life is in God's hands."
"He's already told me I won't live. Raise my son, Rosa. I trust you as I do no other."
Rosa leaned over her. "I'll stay with you until--"
"No! I'm afraid Diarmid will come. If you love me, take the boy and go. Now." She thrust the Bible at Rosa.
"This goes with you." Fumbling with the clasp of the gold chain at her neck, she finally undid it, opened it and plucked out Diarmid's hair.
"Take the locket, too," Concepcion insisted. "It has a lock of my hair inside. Give it to Francisco when he's grown."
"It breaks my heart to leave you alone," Rosa said.
"It will give me peace to know the boy is safe."
Rosa sighed, kissed her on the forehead and, after a few moments, lifted the child from between Concepcion's thighs. Because of the dark, Concepcion couldn't see what her old friend was doing but eventually she heard a horse riding away and knew it was Rosa leaving. With the boy.
She was truly alone now. Taking a deep breath, Concepcion made the sign of the cross, folded her hands and prepared to confess her sins to God. A terrible pain gripped her, taking her by surprise so that she cried out. She'd thought the hurting was over.
"Please," she begged. "No more."
But the pains continued, as hard and grinding as before, until at last everything faded and she knew no more.
Diarmid smelled the smoke when he reached El Doblez. The Santa Ana winds had begun sometime in the night, hot and dry. With so little rain, it was no wonder a fire had started in the hills. He was tying Bruce at the rail in front of the cantina when, to his surprise, he saw Anna Morales come out of the cottage next door.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he called to her.
She stared at him defiantly. "I'm a midwife, I go where I'm needed. Is your wife a child that she can't be alone overnight?"
"Alone? You mean the others came with you?"
Anna shrugged. "How can I stop them from doing as they please?"
Diarmid cursed, untied Bruce and remounted. No matter how much he wished to be rid of Concepcion, it appalled him to think of her alone at the rancho. "Don't bother to come back," he told Anna. "None of you. And don't expect any wages."
Who cares?" she shouted after him. "Everyone knows it's bad luck to work for that woman."
At the summit of the first hill, Diarmid spotted the source of the smoke and drew in his breath. He kicked Bruce into a gallop. By the time he flung himself off the buckskin outside the smoldering ruins of the hacienda, Bruce's lathered sides were heaving.
"Concepcion!" Diarmid shouted again and again. He probed through the burned house as best he could, knowing she couldn't have lived t
hrough such a blaze. At last, he turned away and walked toward the corral to check on the horses. As he passed by the barn, he heard a faint, strange sound, like a kitten's mewing. Puzzled, he strode into the barn and stopped, shocked beyond speech.
Concepcion, her thighs spread, lay in a welter of blood. In the midst of the gory mess, a tiny infant whimpered. "My God, my God," Diarmid muttered as he flung himself onto his knees beside her and reached for her hand. Cold. Her open and staring eyes confirmed she was dead.
But the child lived. Diarmid tore off his jacket and laid it on the ground. When he tried to lift the baby, he found it was still attached to the afterbirth. Not knowing what else to do, he wrapped everything into his jacket and tried to think what to do next.
Stella was the only answer he came up with.
Since Bruce couldn't be ridden again so soon, Diarmid saddled the chestnut mare and, his son snuggled in his left arm, set off for El Doblez.
Stella bit her lip as she looked down at the baby boy wrapped in the serape. She'd never seen a baby quite so tiny--he looked unfinished. Lucita had tied and cut the cord, washed the blood from him and fashioned a diaper from a soft cloth.
"Too small," Lucita muttered to her, shaking her head as she tried to coax him to suck at a milk-soaked nipple made from a piece of wool. "We might get Maria Gomez to wet-nurse him if he has the strength to suck."
"What do I tell Diarmid when he returns?"
Lucita shrugged. "The boy still lives. What else can I say?"
"What are his chances?"
Lucita shrugged. "I'll take him to Maria and we'll see what happens." She lifted him into her arms. "Pobrecito," she murmured, "to have such an unlucky mother."
Stella watched her leave. Yes, poor little thing. She prayed the tiny boy would survive. And certainly Concepcion had suffered more than her share of ill fortune. But even if the child died, Diarmid's luck held. As she understood it, the rancho would be Diarmid's because the child had been born alive.
And would Angelica, too, be his?
Stella had done her best to convince herself she wasn't jealous of the girl but she was. Not that she hadn't grown fond of Angelica. The girl was like a friendly kitten--capable of scratching but not really meaning to hurt.
She still couldn't understand why Diarmid was so taken with Angelica, he all but worshipped her. Unless it was because of the girl's supposed resemblance to an old portrait of his mother.
What kind of a wife would Angelica be? Stella smiled one-sidedly. Angelica had a distinct prudish streak--she might not take well to love-making. If so, that would disconcert Diarmid. He might wind up on her doorstep just as he had after marrying Concepcion. She hoped he would--how satisfying to be able to refuse him!
If the baby lived, no doubt Angelica would spoil him, she had no sense of discipline. As for other wifely duties, the girl would manage a house well, she was used to servants.
Once she had a house. Diarmid would have to build one before he could ask Angelica to marry him. All in all, marriage to him would be a solution for the girl.
But, ah, that poor woman who'd died in pain and alone--somehow it was always the women who suffered.
Stella and Lucita rode to the rancho to lay out Concepcion and Diarmid had Lucita's husband dig a grave inside the ruined courtyard. Diarmid brought a priest from Los Angeles to say the burial prayers. Father Lugo also baptized the baby, Charles Francisco Burwash..
Bonny Charlie, as Diarmid called him, didn't thrive. He was too weak to suck, so milk had to be dribbled into his mouth with a dropper and he often choked on it rather than swallowing. He whimpered rather than cried and failed to gain weight. Two weeks after Diarmid found him in the barn, Bonny Charlie died.
Word of his death was sent to Don Francisco, as word had been sent about Concepcion two weeks earlier. The baby was buried beside his mother.
Diarmid, who'd been careful to get a baptismal certificate from the priest, didn't pretend to suffer deep grief over the deaths. He regretted the way Concepcion had died but he hadn't loved her. He did mourn his son. Still, he hadn't known the baby long enough to grow attached to him. With so much work to be done at the ranch, there wasn't time for brooding over what had happened.
As the site for a new house, he chose a saddle between two rounded hills not far from the barn and corral. Two other small outbuildings, one a cottage where the Gabaldon vaqueros lived, had survived the fire. The only relic he uncovered in the debris of the demolished casa was the silver crucifix, twisted and blackened, that had hung over their marriage bed. His first impulse was to throw it away but, instead, he placed the crucifix into one of the straw-filled storage barrels that he'd found in the rafters of the barn. He'd never have to see it again.
When Manuelo returned, the remaining cattle were killed; their hides brought more money than expected. Diarmid bought sheep but set some money aside to begin building a new house.
Manuelo's wife, Juanita, a plump and practical young woman, cleaned and refurbished the cottage so she and Manuelo could live in it for the time being. Diarmid slept in the barn.
Juanita also brought with her twenty-five small orange trees, a wedding gift from an uncle. Manuelo planted them near the cottage so Juanita could water them from the well.
In January, the first rains came and for two weeks it rained at least part of every day. Green sprouts appeared everywhere, even in the burned courtyard. When the skies cleared, Tio Tomas arrived on a visit, bringing a rooster and five hens as a gift for Juanita and condolences for Diarmid.
"A strange thing happened last year," he told Diarmid before leaving. "A man came asking for you and I told him the way to the ranch. Then, later, another man arrived to ask about the first." Tomas shrugged. "I told him what little I knew."
"The second man must have been the one who came to the rancho," Diarmid said. "Apparently an acquaintance of mine from San Francisco planned to visit me. He never got here. I understand he didn't return to San Francisco either and so inquiries were made. I have no idea what happened to him."
Tomas shook his head. "Bandidos overrun Los Angeles these days. As I warned both men, no stranger is safe. But they were Anglos and did not listen."
After Tomas left, Diarmid turned over the idea that had come to him as he listened to Manuelo's uncle. To build his new house and improve his land took money. He had too little. But in San Francisco he still owned one-third interest in a thriving store. What were his chances of getting any money from that interest?
Myron had no other family except for Miriam. Sooner or later she and Irv Goldman would have to go to court and have Myron declared legally dead. At present Irv would be running the store. Irv was no Myron, he wasn't aggressive and demanding. He might be easy to handle.
If Diarmid traveled to San Francisco, it was possible he could talk Irv into buying his one-third share of the store. And Miriam? He shrugged. No need to let her or Irv know Concepcion was dead. As far as they were concerned, he was a married man.
The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea. A week later, leaving Manuelo in charge at the rancho, Diarmid rode to Los Angeles and bought passage on the stage to San Francisco. With stopovers to sleep, it took him six and a half days on the rough, unfinished roads of El Camino Real to reach the city.
Once he'd paid for a room at the Miner's Inn, Diarmid sent a messenger with a note deliberately addressed to Irv and Myron, asking them to come to the hotel.
Waiting in his room for an answer, Diarmid stared from the window at the bustling street below. San Francisco was even busier than when he'd left a year ago. New and more substantial buildings replaced those burned in the fire of '51 and business looked to be booming.
The town had changed for the better since he'd arrived three years before, hungry and broke. He'd met Irv and Myron that same day because of a "mule-driver wanted" sign in their store window.
Diarmid soon saw that most of the store profits came from his delivery of goods to the mines. He worked harder than Irv
and Myron put together and they knew it. The second year, he negotiated for one-third interest in the store, taking a cut in his pay to achieve his goal. When he offered to sell Irv his share, he certainly wasn't asking for anything he hadn't earned.
A knock on the door snapped him out of his reverie. Opening it, he was taken aback to find Miriam had come with Irv.
"Please come in," Diarmid said, stepping aside, hoping he'd concealed his surprise at her appearance.
Miriam swept past him and perched on the edge of the room's only chair, Irv standing protectively beside her.
