The Dancer (2 page)

"I can hardly wait to see him. Did I tell you I've finally chosen a name? Patrick Diarmid. Since Patrick is Warren's middle name, no one will ever connect it with Rory. But Patrick was Rory's middle name, too."

Elena smiled, happy to see Meg cheerful again. If only Meg's life continued to go on as smoothly as these last few months had been. Whether he talked much to her or not, Warren was gently solicitous of his wife and she was fond of him. Their marriage might have been based on a lie but, God willing, Warren would never know. The marriage was successful and Elena prayed nothing would change that.

On a rancho south of the border town everyone called Tia Juana, Mike Dugald slid off his horse and entered the wooden hut where he slept. Ponciano Dias, his boss, would be at the rancho this Friday since he'd be fighting bulls in Tia Juana on Saturday. Besides being a rancher, Dias was a matador good enough to be asked to fight in Spain, not just Mexico. He was some sight in his black and silver charro outfit, with the wide-brimmed hat, but Mike had to admit Dias was good with the bulls.

Dias had told Mike he showed a flair for bullfighting and had promised to train him. If he laid off the rotgut--bulls and brandy didn't mix. There was a quart of aguardiente in the cabin but Mike hadn't touched a drop of it for a week. A matador. Wouldn't that be something—Michael Dugald, matador. I'll toss the bottle out, he decided as he sat on the sagging cot. Full or not, out she goes. Along with the other junk I've been toting.

He hated Davis Burwash with a searing passion that would never be quenched but nothing was gonna bring Rory back, and a man had to think of himself sooner or later.

He reached under the cot and drew out a canvas pack containing Rory's belongings. The poor kid hadn't had much, one extra shirt, a tobacco tin, his reata, the small Bible their mother had given him. Mike turned the pack upside down to make certain he'd gotten everything and a folded piece of paper dropped onto the dirt floor.

He frowned as he picked up the paper and unfolded it. Rory's? He didn't recall it being with his brother's other gear.

"My dear brother Davis," he read. "Please forgive me for not telling you beforehand. I've gone away with Rory Dugald and we'll be married by the time you read this note. And sooner than you think, you'll be an uncle! I love Rory so very much, please try to understand and forgive us both.

I hope you'll explain to Aunt Stella. My love, your sister Meg."

Mike sat staring at Meg's fancy curliqued writing, hardly able to take in what he'd read. It came to him where he'd gotten the note, he'd picked a paper from the ground at the ruins on the night Rory was killed and stuck it in his shirt pocket. The paper must have fallen into the canvas sack when he packed Rory's gear--he was so blind drunk at the time, he wouldn't have noticed.

"An uncle," Meg had written. "Sooner than you think." Mike crumpled the paper in his fist and cursed. Meg carrying Rory's child? No wonder they were in such a hurry to run off. He counted the months. She'd either had the kid by now or was about to. Rory's kid.

H slammed his fist into the wooden wall, the pain reminding him of all his poor brother had suffered. Well, he wasn’t Rory, but he was damned if he'd let a Burwash raise Rory's kid!

Davis an uncle? Not if Mike Dugald could prevent it. He started to toss the crumpled paper away, thought better of it and smoothed out the creases, refolded it and tucked the note carefully into the canvas bag, along with Rory's belongings. Someday the kid might want his father's things.

Reaching to the crude shelf above the cot, Mike grabbed the green bottle of aguardiente, pulled the cork and took a long swallow.

"Here's to the only uncle you'll ever know or ever need, kid," he muttered. "Your Uncle Mike."

Chapter Two

Early on October 26, an overcast Saturday, Ysabel Guerrero, who'd been staying at the Bothwick house for the past two weeks, left to visit her daughter in El Doblez, planning to return before dark. Ysabel, hired by Stella as a nurse for Meg's coming baby, was also a midwife. The plan, unknown to Warren, was for Ysabel to deliver the baby so the doctor wouldn't have to be notified. Ysabel was Lucita's niece and Stella trusted her to announce the child had come early.

About the time Ysabel should have arrived in El Doblez, the wind shifted to the southwest, the clouds thickened and it began to rain.

"This could turn into a chubasco," Elena said as she watched the rain pelt the windows of Meg's bedroom. Since September, Warren had been sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms, leaving the large bedroom suite, with its separate dressing room, to Meg alone.

Meg, lying on the blue brocade chaise lounge in a dressing gown and slippers, didn't reply. Elena turned to glance at her. Meg's ankles were so swollen she refused to walk any more than she had to. Yesterday Warren, who'd purchased one of the new automobiles, had persuaded her to come down and go for a ride in his Haynes-Apperson Touring Car, but the gasoline fumes had given Meg a headache and the jouncing ride over the uneven road unsettled her stomach.

Today, she announced, she didn't mean to budge from the bedroom.

"My back hurts," Meg complained. "I can't think why women ever have more than one child. I've lost my figure, I've got swollen feet, indigestion, constipation, and now a backache. Besides, he kicks me all the time so I can't sleep."

"I could rub your back," Elena offered.

"That would feel wonderful but I'd have to turn onto my side and then I can't breathe. Do you really think this baby will ever be born?" Meg tried to raise herself higher on the chaise as she spoke and winced, putting a hand to her back.

"What's the matter?"

"The pain seems to bore right through me."

Elena crossed to the chaise. "I'll help you sit up so I can reach your back."

Using a rose-scented dusting powder, Elena began to rub her friend's back.

"I can't abide sitting like this," Meg cried, "it makes the pain worse." She eased down onto the chaise, her hands holding her enlarged abdomen. "It hurts all the way through to here," she said fretfully.

Elena stared down at her, beginning to suspect the pain was something more than a simple backache. Fearing the baby was coming, she cast an alarmed glance at the windows, rattling with the force of the wind-driven rain. Ysabel, she knew, would stay at her daughter's until the storm abated. That might be hours. Her only choice was to send for the doctor.

Between the Bothwick home and the Los Angeles road was a dry arroyo that became a rushing torrent when it rained hard. Just yesterday Warren had mentioned the ancient bridge over the arroyo wasn't safe for the automobile and he'd have a new one built. But the bridge was safe enough for a horse. She'd send Clem, the stable boy, to fetch Dr. Evans and hope the doctor got here in time.

Twenty minutes after Clem had ventured forth on a dependable dappled mare, he was back, drenched, shivering and shaking his head.

"The water in that there arroyo is over the banks, miss, it's covered the bridge. Ole Jessie, she wouldn't set foot on it. Did she, we might've been swept away. Ain't no way to cross I can see. Gonna be a real flood."

Warren had driven the new automobile into Los Angeles in the morning before the rain started, he and the car would be stranded there. Except for the hired help--the cook and two maids, all Mexican--Elena was alone in the house with Meg. The maids, younger than she, were unlikely to be any help but Ines Flores, the cook, was middle-aged. Before returning to Meg, Elena sought out Ines in the kitchen.

"No, senorita," Ines said, "I know nothing about babies coming. While my husband still lived, we were never blessed with a child of our own."

What will I do? Elena asked herself as she hurried up the stairs, hearing Meg's moans before she reached the bedroom. Conchita, the maid she'd left with Meg, met her at the door.

"My grandmother," she said in a low tone, "she make my mother walk up and down, up and down, when my sisters were ready to be born. Madre, she don't like to walk but my abuela, she say it makes the baby come quick, no time for hurting."

"Did you see your sisters born?" Elena asked hopefully.

Conchita shook her head. "My abuela, she make me fetch water and many clean cloths, then she chase me out. I bring to you?"

"Maybe you'd better," Elena said, wondering, as Conchita hurried away, if she should insist Meg walk.

"It hurts," Meg cried.

Elena, beside her, rested a tentative hand on Meg's swollen stomach, finding it hard as a rock. Was that normal?

"I can't stand it!" Meg's voice rose.

Elena tamped down her incipient panic. She had to stay calm, she was all Meg had. "Yes, you can." She spoke soothingly but with as much firmness as she could manage. "I'm going to help you stand and we'll walk across the room."

"No, no, it'll hurt more."

"It won't." With an arm about Meg, she eased her up and off the chaise, refusing to be frightened off by Meg's groans. Maybe walking wasn't necessary but Elena didn't know what else to try and it might at least take Meg's mind off the pain.

"Walking makes it easier for the baby to come." Elena tried to sound more positive than she felt. "Walk to the windows and back."

"I can't," Meg protested but she took one slow step after another, leaning on Elena. At the windows she straightened, staring at the driving rain. "What a terrible storm. The arroyo will overflow." Her eyes were wide with alarm when she looked at Elena.

"We're dry and cozy inside the house," Elena reminded her. "I'm here with you, there's nothing to be frightened of."

"Do you really know about babies coming?"

"I know enough." Elena hoped her lie sounded convincing. "Keep walking."

Meg turned away from the windows. "I might have known

Rory's baby would be born in the middle of a storm."

"To be on the safe side, you'd better stop calling him Rory's baby."

"I can't think of him as Warren's."

"Then think of him as yours. Your baby."

Meg's steps faltered. "It's beginning again." She clutched at her abdomen. "You don't know how it hurts." She sagged against Elena for long moments, then slowly straightened. "It comes and goes in waves," she said tearfully.

"Then we'll walk between times. Come on."

"The Lady of Shalott was luckier than she realized," Meg said. "All she had to do was lay down gracefully in a boat and drift down the river singing a beautiful song until she died. No swollen ankles, no pain."

"You'll change your mind after the baby's born. To the windows and back again."

Conchita knocked, then came in with a large basin of water and a stack of towels, along with a knife and a long twist of thread. "My abuela uses these for the cord," she said before slipping out the door.

Elena hoped she'd understand what to do when the time came. She soon noticed Meg's pains growing closer together. Finally, Meg eased herself onto the floor and stretched onto her back with her knees bent, refusing to rise.

"Just as far as the bed," Elena pleaded, kneeling beside her. "You can lie down there."

"I can't move," Meg gasped.

Suddenly blood-stained fluid gushed from between Meg's thighs. , Meg,grunting between her groans, seemed unaware of what had happened.

Realizing she'd never get Meg off the floor, Elena quickly wiped up most of the fluid with a towel, placed two fresh ones on the floor between Meg's thighs and, flipping back Meg's dressing robe, crouched beside her apprehensively, waiting for whatever came next.

Perspiration beaded Meg's brow and the cords stood out in her neck as she grunted, obviously pushing down hard. Pushing the baby out? Something dark appeared in the stretched opening between Meg's thighs. Elena held her breath, watching blood trickle onto the towels.

Meg pushed and pushed again. It seemed an eternity before the baby's head, then its shoulders, slid free. As Elena reached for the baby, a final push shoved it all the way onto the towels. A boy. He coughed and began to scream.

Elena couldn't get a good grip on the slippery infant.

"Why is he crying?" Meg asked weakly.

"All babies cry." Elena spoke absent-mindedly, her attention on the cord running from the baby's navel, a cord whose other end was somewhere inside Meg. This must be what she was supposed to cut with the knife. And the thread--was that to tie around the cord first so it wouldn't bleed when she cut it?

Hoping she had it right, Elena reached for the knife and the thread.

"I want to see him," Meg said.

"In a minute." Elena looped the thread tightly around the cord about two inches from the baby's stomach and knotted it firmly. She picked up the knife, and, holding her breath, cut through the cord. Blood oozed from the severed end not connected to the baby. Blood also trickled from Meg, worrying Elena. Wrapping a towel around the wailing boy, Elena lifted him from the floor and laid him on Meg’s stomach.