The Bastard (15 page)

In every other way, she was an ideal wife. She managed the servants better than he did, meals
were
as he liked them, she entertained his friends in style. She enjoyed fine clothes but
wasn't
extravagant, she rarely complained and was always ready to listen if he cared to talk.

Los Angeles
was still
Californio
rather than Anglo but more and more Anglos--Gringos the Mexicans called them--were moving into
Los Angeles
. There was a new section of town west of the plaza with frame houses instead of the usual adobe and even talk of a circulating library in Hellman's general store. Angelica had made new friends, men and women interested in music and art. Diarmid
didn't
have much in common with them but neither did he dislike them. Not that he saw too much of them--the long trip between the ranch and Los Angeles over the rough roads was no joy ride, even in the new carriage he'd bought for Angelica.

El Doblez, much closer, had hardly grown at all--it was still a sleepy, mostly Mexican, fishing village. Thinking of El Doblez reminded him of Stella and he wondered why Angelica
hadn't
asked her to visit them lately. Perhaps she had and Stella had been too busy. In the morning, he planned to make a trip to
Los Angeles
to buy Angelica an anniversary
present,
he'd stop at El Doblez on his way and talk to Stella.

"No, I haven't been especially busy,"
Stella
told him when he tracked her down on the back porch of her house on the hill. She waved him to a chair. "Why do you ask?"

"I never see you at the ranch."

"Invite me and I'll come." Her tone was dry.
Mocking?

"Did you have a disagreement with Angelica?"

Stella shook her head.

He looked at her, wondering if she was telling the truth. He could usually count on her honesty.

"You must be hot after riding here in this weather," she said, rising. "Let me pour you some lemonade."

A
Santa Ana
wind was blowing, the day would get hotter,
he
should be on his way.
But
he sat, waiting for the lemonade, reluctant to move.
He'd
forgotten how much he enjoyed Stella's company.

"I've missed you," he admitted as he accepted the drink.

 
She smiled down at him. "Those are always pleasant words to hear."

He could smell her scent, spicy and sweet, and he seemed to breathe in desire with the scent. As she started to move away from his chair, he grasped her hand.

Stella's smile faded. "I swore I'd laugh at you when you came to me like this."

 
Diarmid, hardly aware of his own intentions until she spoke, rose to his feet and pulled her close to him. "I don't hear any laughter," he murmured into her ear.

She tasted of lemon and sugar as her lips opened in response to his kiss. Her body pressed eagerly against his, she wore no multitude of stiffened petticoats under her bright pink gown, and the feel of her soft warmth heightened his need. The knowledge she wanted him was like throwing fuel onto an already blazing fire.

He would have taken her on the floor of the porch if she
hadn't
pulled away and led him along a corridor to her bedroom. When he found she wore nothing under the dress, he flung off his clothes in a wild frenzy, grabbing her and falling onto the bed. They came together in a frantic joining, hot and violent.

Afterward, when he could think again, he turned to Stella, lying curled on her side, facing him. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her
flesh,
her spicy scent was mixed with his smell. She edged closer,
raised
up and blew gently in his ear, then smiled at him.

He looked admiringly at her ample curves, reached out and ran his thumb slowly over her pink nipple, feeling it harden under his caress. The urgency over, he had time to enjoy all of her and he meant to make the most of it.

He
didn't
remember he was on his way to
Los Angeles
and why until he woke late in the afternoon. Stella was
gone,
he was alone in her bed. Diarmid yawned and stretched. Despite the heat, he felt better than he had in months. He had no qualms about what he and Stella had done. He loved his wife but a man needed a woman like Stella in bed.

In
Los Angeles
, he bought a pearl necklace for Angelica. Before he left the shop, he noticed a gold butterfly pin with tiny rubies for eyes. Recalling how Manuelo had once compared Stella to a butterfly, he bought the pin for her.

When he gave the necklace to Angelica two days later, she accepted it with enthusiasm, kissing him on the cheek. He
made no
attempt to take her in his arms as he usually did when she showed him the slightest sign of affection.

 
"I was wondering why you haven't invited Stella to the ranch lately," he said.

Angelica shrugged. "We really don't have much in common with her, do we?"

"She's your cousin, isn't she?"

"Only by marriage."

He gave her a level look. "Stella took you in when you had no one else. Cutting her off is a fine way to repay that debt."

"I haven't forgotten how she befriended me. If only she
weren't
so odd--dressing like a Mexican peasant, for instance.
And
her language. I never know what she might say."

"That makes her more interesting than some of your fine friends you're afraid she'll shock. I expect you to include Stella in your party and dinner invitations."

Angelica lowered her eyes. "If you insist, of course I will."

The following month, Diarmid moved to a separate bedroom. If he
hadn't
longed for a child, he wouldn't have bothered to come to her bed again--making love to her had become almost as much of a duty for him as it was for her.

Because he wanted a son, he visited her room at least twice a month. He saw Stella as often as he could. The arrangement seemed to suit everyone and, though she never said a word about it, he sometimes suspected Angelica knew exactly what he was doing.

The months slipped by, then the years.
In November of
1861
a fifteen-day rain began a deluge that continued from December into January, flooding the ranch and the surrounding area.
Los Angeles
merchants were up to their waists in water; no mail could get through. Then, as if God regretted bestowing so much water on southern
California
, it
didn't
rain again for almost three years. The earth-scorching, life-killing drought cut into Diarmid's profits, but
didn't
devastate him because of his irrigation ditches and the fact he had less than a hundred head of cattle to lose, their bones bleaching on the hills. His sheep herd survived by eating gayety, a drought-resistant weed.

Though Diarmid knew of the North-South war raging in the east, it seemed much less important than his own struggle to keep enough water flowing for his crops and animals to survive. Many area residents and ranch owners went belly-up from the drought, but Diarmid managed to scrape up enough spare cash to purchase more land. Through one of Angelica's friends,
he'd
met Hank Jarvis, a
Los Angeles
lawyer, and the two men joined forces to buy what Hank assured him were prime town lots--paying three dollars apiece for them at auction.

By
1865
both the war and the drought were over and there was no question, which was more important to Diarmid.
Or
to
Southern California
in general, since the state had lost forty percent of its livestock.

When an earthquake rattled the dishes on the shelves of his house in May but did no further damage, Diarmid marked it down as the fourth since
he'd
built the house. Not one of the quakes had been serious, despite the old Indian's mumbo-jumbo about sleeping spirits.

A railroad
was built
from
Los Angeles
to its port on the ocean, San Pedro, and vaqueros amused themselves by racing their horses against the trains, often winning.
But
the town grew, changing from a wild little pueblo into a thriving more-or-less law-abiding city. To the south, even drowsy
San Diego
came to life with the arrival of the California Southern Railway from
San Francisco
.

Despite the collapse of the Comstock silver boom, Indian wars in the northeast, Chinese massacres and vigilantes,
California
grew as Diarmid's ranch was growing, with a population of 300,000 by the mid-seventies.

All Diarmid touched seemed to turn to gold. The ranch brought in so much money he invested in other enterprises--railroads and a canning plant. He added to the house until it had twenty-eight rooms. He worked hard and enjoyed his life. The only thing he regretted was that Angelica
hadn't
produced a child. Manuelo and Juanita, after having four children, were now grandparents. They lived on their own land, land
he'd
given them as he'd promised, and Manuelo raised beef cattle.

On Christmas Eve in 1876, Diarmid sat in the library letting his thoughts drift back, as he did every year at this time, to Bonny Charlie. If his son had lived
he'd
be a young man now--twenty-three.
And
probably impatient for the "old man" to give him his chance to run the ranch.

Forty-four
isn't
old, Diarmid thought. Hell,
I
can outride men half my age.
And
do as well in bed, too, or I miss my guess.

When Angelica came in to see if he was ready to go to church, he sighed and rose.
She'd
traveled the route of most converts, becoming a better Catholic than many born and raised in the faith.
Better than he was, certainly.
To keep her from nagging him to death,
he'd
long ago agreed to go to Mass with her twice a year--on Easter and Christmas.

When they returned from the chapel at El Doblez--now a full-fledged church with a pastor of its own--Angelica paused after removing her coat and hat and handing them to the
maid
. "Would you step into the music room for a moment?" she asked him.

Once inside, with the door shut, she turned to face him, smiling. "I have a wonderful surprise for you," she said. "I'm going to have a baby."

Diarmid stared at her in disbelief. Women of her age,
he'd
heard, went through something called the change of life. Was it possible this had happened to Angelica and
she'd
mistaken what was occurring?

"How can you be sure?" he asked.

She placed her hands, one on top of the other, over her abdomen. "Today I felt the baby move.
We'll
have a spring child, in April, I think. I've prayed for so many years to Mother Mary and at last she's granted me my dearest wish."

She threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Diarmid, I'm so happy!"

Diarmid, holding her as carefully as though she were made of glass, felt his heart lift. He was positive Angelica would give him a son.

Davis Malcolm Burwash, named after his two grandfathers, came into the world on
the fifteenth of April
in 1877 after a long, arduous birth.

"Forty-two is old for a woman to bear her first child," Dr. Marietta told Diarmid. "I fear her health will be permanently affected. Needless to say, she should have no more children."

Diarmid, thrilled with his healthy son, was quick to agree. Since he still visited Stella periodically, as well as occasionally seeking out women in
Los Angeles
, it was an agreement he kept to without difficulty.
For five years.

Davis
, his hair and eyes as dark as
Diarmid's
, thrived. By the time
Davis
was two, Diarmid had all but forgotten Bonny Charlie. On
Davis
's fifth birthday, children and adults celebrated.
After the children had gone home or to bed, the adults continued the party.
Diarmid, annoyed because Angelica had "forgotten" to invite Stella and also because he didn't much care for one of the guests she had invited--a Frenchman who bowed over her hand and smiled at her suggestively--took one too many snifters of brandy.