The Dancer (7 page)

The only choice left was to forget him.

By the second day at Mateo Amato’s casa, Davis wanted to ride north but he knew he needed at least one more day to regain enough strength. He sat in the sun in the courtyard absently watching a maid wash clothes while he planned the journey home.

Whether he wanted to or not, he’d have to bring Elena with him and the mestizo girl to feed Patrick. And her baby. A damned caravan. The girl, Felicia, he’d discovered, was a cousin of Senora Alviso, and Felicia’d been taken advantage of by a married man. The Alvisos had done Davis a great favor by helping him return to San Diego and in providing milk for Patrick, the least he could do in return was to see the girl decently provided for. Maybe Stella could find her a husband.

Davis moved his shoulders uneasily. Every time he thought of Stella he recalled how quickly she’d arranged Meg’s marriage to Warren. In less than a week from the time he’d first heard Meg had accepted Warren’s proposal, as he recalled. Had there been a hidden reason?

No! Meg would never become involved with a man such as Rory Dugald. Not his innocent little sister. Just because Patrick had red hair…

“Senor?”

Davis realized the maid had left the washtubs and was approaching him.

She stopped by his chair and held out a crumpled piece of paper. “I find this in the baby’s blanket. I bring to you.”

Davis took the paper, thanked her, and she walked back to the tubs. Certain it was nothing important, he unfolded the creased and soiled paper and glanced at it.

The sight of his name, in Meg’s ornate writing, made him draw in his breath. As he scanned the note his jaw clenched. He couldn’t believe what he read. With all his heart he wanted to deny it, but this was undoubtedly his sister’s handwriting.

Obviously he’d been meant to get this note after Meg eloped with Rory Dugald. How it had gotten into Patrick’s blanket, God only knew. Elena? Davis shook his head. He didn’t think so. She’d let herself be blamed for everything, keeping Meg’s defection and disgrace a secret. He grimaced, remembering the terrible things he’d said to Elena, the inexcusable way he’d treated her.

Mike Dugald must have found the note and learned the truth about Patrick. In the twisted workings of Mike’s mind, stealing Patrick must have seemed the perfect revenge. Davis wondered if he’d killed the bastard there in Tia Juana. He sure as hell hoped so.

Elena had known the truth all along. Meg would have confided in her from the first. Stella must have found out. No wonder the marriage had been hastily arranged. Did Warren know? Davis didn’t plan to ask him.

How in God’s name was he ever going to make things right with Elena? He didn’t know but he had to make the attempt. As soon as possible. Rising, he entered the casa.

In the kitchen, Catalina raised her eyebrows when he asked where Elena was.

“I thought Elena told you she was leaving,” Catalina said.

“Leaving?” he echoed, startled and upset. He glanced toward Felicia, who was sitting in the corner, nursing Patrick, her own son sleeping in a basket at her feet.

“Without Patrick?”

Catalina eyes him levelly. “I see you don’t know. Early this morning Mateo asked Elena if her aunt was any better. We’d heard from Mateo’s sister in Los Angeles that Francesca was seriously ill. Apparently Elena had heard nothing about it. Francesca hadn’t told her. And she hadn’t visited her aunt recently. How could she, the poor girl, forced to travel to Baja with a madman to protect a helpless baby?” Catalina looked toward Patrick. “What bright hair that one has! I’ve never seen the like.”

Davis winced inwardly. Would Warren be able to accept the boy as his son with everyone remarking on the color of Patrick’s hair? Although, if he knew Meg, she’d concocted some tale of red hair in the family to account for Patrick. He loved his sister but she was devious, she always had been, even as a tiny girl. Knowing that, why hadn’t he questioned his assumption that it had to be Elena eloping with Rory?

Because he couldn’t think straight where Elena was involved. Because he’d wanted her for himself. And still did. Davis sighed. He couldn’t go after her now, even if he felt better. Returning Patrick to Meg and Warren was his first responsibility.

“Did Elena leave a message?” he asked.

“Since she had no other horse except the palomino, she asked me to tell you she’d see that the mare was returned to your sister. We didn’t allow her to ride alone, of course. Our son Manuelito accompanied her.”

Manuelito. A good-looking young man, charming as his grandfather Manuelo had been, a great favorite with the girls and still unmarried.

Why didn’t Elena mention her aunt’s illness to me? Davis wondered. I’d have given her enough money to take the train to Los Angeles and to hire a buggy for the trip to San Gabriel. She didn’t need to go by horseback, she’d have been more comfortable on the train. And she could have traveled alone, without Manuelito. He found himself clenching his fists and forced himself to relax his hands. Moth of God, if he didn’t stop thinking about Elena, he’d soon be as crazy as Dugald.

Elena arrived in San Gabriel too late to see Tia Francesca alive but in time to make arrangements for her funeral. Father Xavier had been persuaded to come up from Los Angeles to say the mass in the old mission and her aunt was buried in the mission churchyard, as she’d always wished.

Standing alone by the raw earth covering the grave, Elena wept tears of grief and of guilt. Why hadn’t she come to see Tia Francesca more often? Her aunt had enjoyed her visits for all she kept telling Elena not to bother making the long trip to San Gabriel. She’d come too late, she hadn’t even been with her at the end.

Now I have no one, Elena thought.

Since the cottage hadn’t belonged to her aunt, Elena had little of value to inherit, just a few keepsakes. It was time to return Bella to Meg, pick up her belongings at the Bothwick house and go back to El Doblez where, she was sure, she’d be able to work again at the cantina.

She loved Meg but she couldn’t bear to think of remaining in her house. If Meg claimed to need help with Patrick, she’d suggest Felicia. The girl seemed bright and she’d be delighted to work in such a fine place. As for little Antonio, she’d mention to Meg that it might be good for Patrick to have someone to play with.

My life must be lived apart from the Burwashes, Elena told herself firmly. Otherwise I never will forget Davis. I won’t allow Meg or anything else to change my mind.

Chapter Five

Warren Bothwick looked down at the sleeping baby in the cradle that had been his mother's, then his. Thank God his mother's failing eyesight prevented her from being able to see that an interloper slept in the family cradle. But nothing came free in this world, there was always a price to pay for getting what you wanted. He'd married Meg, exactly as he'd planned. If he was saddled with this little red-haired bastard he'd bestowed his name on, there was nothing he could do but put a good face on it.

A damned shame Davis managed to rescue the brat before it perished in Mexico. On the plus side, Davis had brought a wet nurse for Patrick when he returned the baby so now Meg had no excuse to postpone their trip to New York. Without Patrick. He'd raise him and educate him, treat him as a son in the eyes of the world but he sure as hell didn't intend to play the doting father in private.

Let the Burwashes think they'd put one over on him, it would keep Davis disarmed. Which would make things all the easier for Warren Bothwick now that Diarmid was out of the way. He reached down and touched the baby's feather-soft hair, the red a dead giveaway. He wasn't a cruel man, he'd never harm the brat--after all, Patrick had made it certain

Meg would marry him and he'd needed the marriage to consolidate his position.

It was a bonus when Meg turned out to have a taste for passion. Giving her what she needed in bed would bind her to him. But his acceptance of the baby was the surest bond. He ruffled Patrick's red fuzz.

"Enjoy the cradle," he murmured. "You earned it."

"Darling?" Meg came to stand beside him and he realized she must have overheard what he'd said. "Do you know that's the first time I've seen you touch Patrick?"

He looked into her hazel eyes, reached for and fingered a strand of her dark brown hair. "The red must come from your side," he said, smiling, "because it certainly doesn't come from mine."

"Way back somewhere in my mother's family--or so I've heard." Meg leaned her head against his shoulder. "I hope Patrick doesn't have a temper to go with it."

"Like his uncle."

Meg pulled away and glanced up at him. "His uncle?" Her voice was uncertain.

Warren paused for a long moment, enjoying the fright he was giving her. He knew she feared he meant Mike Dugald. "Why, yes--I've always thought Davis had a rather short fuse."

Meg laughed. "I can't deny that.

Warren put his arm around her. "So now that we have our boy back safe and sound, we'll make that trip to New York. Patrick'll do very well here with Felicia nursing him."

He felt her stiffen. "We don't know Felicia very well," Meg said. "I'd trust Elena with Patrick but she's in Mexico City."

"Elena's never coming back, you told me that yourself when you arranged for her to study with that Frenchman--what's his name--Petipa?"

"Davis made the arrangements and paid for the lessons, as you very well know. Not that Elena's aware--she never would have gone if she realized Davis had anything to do with it. I had enough trouble convincing her it was the only way I could repay her for saving Patrick." Meg sighed. "It's what she's always wanted--being a dancer--but I feel I've lost my only friend."

"Doesn't a husband count?"

Meg snuggled next to him, giving him a hug. "Woman friend, I meant."

He held her closer. "I must visit New York on business and I'm not traveling alone. You'll enjoy the trip--haven't you always wanted to see the country? It'll be like a second honeymoon. I know you haven't had a chance to make new women friends but I plan to keep on this full-time companion I've hired to look after mother. With her, and with Felicia

taking care of Patrick, when we return you'll have fewer responsibilities and be able to socialize more."

"That's wonderful. And I'd love to go to New York. But Patrick--"

"Will be fine. Dugald's dead, no one, nothing will harm the boy. Felicia treats him like her own. And we'll ask Davis to come around and check on how things are going."

Warren felt a perverse pleasure in the quiver that ran through her when he said Dugald. He might have to pretend he thought Patrick was his but that didn't mean he couldn't punish Meg whenever the chance came. "Strange, isn't it, how your brother shot both the Dugalds," he added. "Mike must have gone as crazy as the younger one--what was his name?"

Meg pulled free. "I don't recall," she said.

Warren shrugged. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"When do we leave for New York?" Meg asked, turning away from him.

He smiled.

After Elena arrived in December of 1901, Mexico City overwhelmed her at first, especially the mountains topped with snow-capped volcanoes surrounding the city. The mountains of southern California seemed puny in comparison. She'd thought Los Angeles had grown into a gigantic city--

after all, over 100,000 people lived there--but La Cuidad de Mexico impressed her far more.

There was Chapultepec Castle for one. Los Angeles had nothing as magnificent as a castle. Once the Emperor Maximilian and Empress Carlota had lived in the castle but their rule ended in tragedy when he was executed by a firing squad and she went mad. Now President Diaz ruled from the castle.

Mexicans were her people, they spoke her language. But there was more. She'd always been aware dancing came from the soul, here she was learning what was meant by el alma espanol, the soul of Spain. Mexicans were, after all, Spaniards, too.

Her teacher wasn't the great Marius Petipa, the French composer and dancer who'd made Spanish culture and dancing his life's work, However, she'd been fortunate enough to be taken on as a pupil by a woman who'd studied under him, Maria Cuadro, a thin, lithe woman in her sixties.

Madame Maria, as she preferred to be called, was full of tales of the old days in Spain. "Someday you'll dance in Madrid, my child," she assured Elena. "In the Teatro Real, of course, since you're foreign, but that's where everyone goes anyway. Even the king. Think of dancing before a king!"

As Elena walked along the cobbled streets, to and from Madame Maria's studio, she promised herself one day she'd do just that, dance before the King of Spain, Alfonso XIII.

When she practiced her tacaneo, the heel beats synchronized with complicated rhythmic patterns on the castanets, she pictured King Alfonso sitting in the royal box at the Real watching her. Applauding. It helped relieve her homesickness.