The Dancer (3 page)

"Oh my God," Meg said. "He's got red hair." Before Elena had a chance to say anything, Meg groaned. "The pain's coming back!" she cried.

Blood gushed, then a dark, meaty-looking mass. The afterbirth, Elena realized. She'd heard whisperings about how an afterbirth was supposed to be buried or misfortune would follow but she'd never known exactly what the women meant by the word.

The bleeding slowed, Meg's pains eased and Elena, after wrapping the afterbirth in a towel, began cleaning the blood from Meg.

"You must cut his hair," Meg babbled. "Right down to the scalp. All of it. Now."

"It'll grow back," Elena said.

Meg burst into tears. "I want his red hair cut off."

The baby, who'd quieted, began to scream.

"All right, I'll do it." Elena said. "After I get you into bed."

When Meg, in a clean nightgown, lay with the sleeping baby in her bed, Elena took a pair of small scissors from Meg's embroidery kit. Now that she'd washed the blood and waxy birth covering from the baby, she saw his hair was as bright a red as Rory's. Luckily, there wasn't much of it.

Gingerly, she snipped at the fine strands, shearing the little head until only a fuzz of indeterminate color remained.

"Poor little Patrick," Elena murmured. He woke and turned his head, making sucking sounds. "Patrick wants to eat," she told Meg. "Put him to your breast."

Meg stared up at her. "I don't know how."

Open your gown. I think he'll do the rest."

Patrick took only a moment to find his mother's nipple. Meg grimaced. "I don't like the way that feels," she complained. "And I'm getting cramps in my stomach."

Elena, carefully removing every strand of the hair she'd clipped off, frowned at Meg. "You'll get used to him nursing."

Tears trickled from Meg's eyes. "Don't scold me. I'm doing the best I can."

Elena bent and kissed Meg's forehead. "You've been very brave."

"I've heard that a baby's hair sometimes comes in a different color if it's cut off early," Meg said. "If Patrick's doesn't, maybe we can dye it brown."

"Not forever."

Warren will never believe Patrick is his baby. Not with red hair. I'm afraid he'll leave me and then what'll I do?"

"Don't worry about the day that hasn't come. Perhaps Warren had an ancestor with red hair. Or you did."

Meg brightened. "I can say I did, whether it's true or not. On my mother's side. No one around here ever saw her people. If Patrick's hair comes in red again, I'll tell everyone my mother's mother had red hair."

As Elena called Conchita to clean the room, she thought to herself that for someone who had to be cajoled into marrying Warren, Meg seemed eager to stay married to him.

Which was all to the good. Baby Patrick might even forge a new bond between them.

She was happy Patrick had been born without trouble. And that there'd been no doctor attending the birth who might say he wasn't an early baby. Whether Meg thought so or not, Elena felt Meg's troubles were over.

Mike Dugald tossed the empty bottle into the dry arroyo, hearing the clunk as it hit the sand, and led his bay toward the house. No moon tonight, one of the reasons he'd chosen it. Starlight was enough to see by, but too dim to make pursuit easy. Not that he planned to be pursued. He'd watched and waited for almost a week and dropped a few questions in Los Angeles cantinas as well.

Warren Bothwick played poker every other Friday night at a men's club on what used to be Esperanza Street--Hope Street, they called it now that Anglos were running Los Angeles. Not that he cared. Gringo or greaser made no difference to Mike Dugald, he trusted no one but himself.

On this Friday night he'd watched from his hiding place in the eucalyptus grove and seen Bothwick rattle over a new-built bridge across the arroyo in one of those automobiles, trailing stinking blue smoke.

Mike had taken care to find that no men-servants were in the house. And the small ranch had no sleep-over hands. Bothwick hired by the day. Except for the young and skinny stable boy, there were no men on the ranch at all. Only women.

And Rory's baby.

He'd hit Los Angeles two weeks ago, blowing in on a chubasco from Mexico. An ill wind for the Burwashes. He'd taken care to stay out of sight of anyone who knew him, frequenting Sonoratown, the Mexican slum east and south of the plaza. The yellowbellies were edging into Sonoratown, just like they'd already done to Nigger Alley north of the plaza. Wouldn't surprise him if Los Angeles turned all Chinese some day.

A man could learn damn near anything he needed to know in Carmona's place on Buena Vista Street. It was there he'd learned that Meg Burwash was married to Bothwick and she'd had a baby named Patrick. Damned clever of Meg to get herself married to some trusting fool so quick. She was like all Burwashes--no damn good.

Not that he cared. Patrick was all he was interested in. Patrick Dugald, he liked the sound of it.

Elena lifted the baby from the arms of his sleeping mother. His blue eyes fluttered open only to close again as she carried him to the door. Patrick's cradle had been in her room for two weeks now, ever since he was born. Meg nursed him but otherwise Elena cared for him, since Ysabel was still in El Doblez caring for her ill daughter.

Because of Meg's feelings for Rory, Elena had expected her friend to dote on little Patrick. But Meg seemed content to have the baby with her only long enough to nurse him.

"Mrs. Bothwick has a delicate constitution," was Dr. Evans's pronouncement. "It'll be sometime before she regains her strength."

Perhaps that was it.

Warren smiled when Patrick was brought to him but showed none of a father's pride, leading Elena to wonder if he didn't suspect the truth--though he seemed as devoted as ever to Meg.

Elena adored the baby and was convinced he already recognized the sound of her voice. Since Patrick's hair was slow to grow back, it was hard to tell if it would be as red as before.

As she closed the door to Meg's bedroom, Elena heard someone climbing the front staircase and paused. It wasn't like Warren to return so early on a Friday night and the servants weren't supposed to use the front stairs, though they sometimes did.

"Warren?" she asked.

No." A man's voice. A man's figure approaching along the dimly-lit corridor.

Elena tensed. She'd narrowly avoided Davis last week when he came to see his new nephew. He was the last person in the world she wanted to meet now. "Who is it?" she demanded.

"Only little Patrick's uncle," the man said.

Not Davis's voice. Uncle? "Mike Dugald!" she exclaimed in dismay as he strode up to her. "What are you doing here?"

He reached for Patrick, trying to take the baby from her arms but she turned away, resisting him. "No, don't, he's asleep. And, anyway, you shouldn't--""

Mike glared down at her. "Don't you go telling me I can't hold my own brother's child."

"He's not--" she began.

"I found a note written by his mother that says he is."

He reached again for the baby. The rank smell of whiskey filled her nostrils.

A note? The lost note? It must be. Elena shrank against the wall, intent on protecting Patrick. "How did you get into the house?" she asked, realizing no one had announced his arrival.

"Walked in." Mike put his hand on the hilt of his holstered gun. "You can make this easy on everyone or you can do it the hard way but I mean to take my nephew with me. Bothwick don't want another man's child and she don't deserve him, she's a Burwash."

"Take Patrick? Are you crazy as well as drunk? He's only two weeks old! What do you know about taking care of a little baby?"

"Not a damn thing." He smiled at her, a thin-lipped smile that curdled her blood. "Guess you'll have to come along with me and Patrick to save him from his drunk ole uncle." He drew the pistol.

"No," she whispered, her gaze on the gun.

"If you don't come along quiet-like," he warned. "I'll kill Patrick first. He's better off dead than living with Burwashes."

He was crazy. She didn't dare risk the baby's life, she'd have to do what Mike said. "At least let me bring blankets for him," she begged.

At gunpoint, she entered her room and retrieved the old black cloak for herself, blankets and clothes for the baby. Mike forced her to walk ahead of him down the stairs to the front door. Once outside, despite her protests, he lifted Patrick from her grasp.

"Tell the stable boy you want a horse saddled," he ordered. "I'll be listening to what you say so you'd best watch your words. You try to give the alarm and Patrick dies first."

Clem, the stable boy, gawked at her when she asked for a horse. "Right now, tonight?" he asked unbelievingly.

"I've had bad news from home," she told him, her voice quivering with dread lest Mike misinterpret Clem's delay.

What would he do if the baby began crying? "Please hurry."

"I'm sorry, miss," Clem said, reaching for a saddle. He paused. "You want a side saddle?"

She knew he'd asked because she was wearing an ordinary house gown, not a riding habit with a divided skirt but she grown so accustomed to riding astride she didn't dare risk a side saddle.

"No, a regular saddle is fine."

He shrugged and bore the saddle inside. When he brought the mare, she noticed it was Meg's palomino, Bella, not her own elderly horse. "Had to give you the missus's," Clem said. "Your mare's lame, I been poulticing her."

Elena had no choice but to mount Bella, glad the long cloak covered her hoisted skirts. She rode to where she'd left Mike and found him gone. Before she had time to panic, she heard him call her name in a low tone.

"Elena--over here." Mike was mounted, Patrick clutched in one arm--precariously, or so it looked to her.

Let me take the baby," she pleaded.

"No. Follow me."

They rode south through the dark of night, keeping a slow but steady pace. Unused to riding a great distance, her unprotected thighs chafing, Elena tired long before Patrick woke and began to wail.

"Pull up," Mike ordered. When she did, he reined in next to her. "You take him," he said. "Get him to shut up."

She lifted Patrick from his arms. "How can I quiet him?" she demanded. "He's hungry and I have nothing to feed him."

"If he needs milk, I'll find a cow."

"He needs his mother's milk, not a cow's."

"Milk's milk." Mike surveyed the countryside.

Elena, doing her best to shush the screaming baby, was vaguely aware the sky had lightened a bit and there were rolling hills to either side of them. She had no idea how far they'd gone or where they were.

"We're on the ranch now," Mike said at last. "Much as I hate to give the kid Burwash milk, I guess I'll have to."

The Burwash ranch! Could she possibly get away from Mike and ride to the ranch house?

As if in answer, Mike reached for Bella's bridle and tied a rope to it. "Not that I don't trust you," he told Elena mockingly.

They rode on with his bay leading the mare. When he finally located, a few head of cattle, several with half-grown calves, near a single live-oak tree, she was ready to fall from her mount in exhaustion.

"Know how to milk a cow?" he demanded.

"Yes." Her answer was reluctant.

"Good. This is gonna take two of us, these range cows ain't used to having people milk 'em. Now don't move."

He untied the rope, fashioned a lasso, twirled it and sent it flying over the horned head of one of the cows. The bay braced himself but the cow didn't bolt. Using a second rope, Mike cast another loop over the animal, binding her legs. When she tried to run, the cow fell onto her side. With the bay braced to hold her, Mike backed him, then had the horse circle the tree twice.

With the cow now firmly tethered, Mike slid from the bay. He reached up for Elena and, holding Patrick, she let him lift her down, finding she could scarcely stand. Mike took the baby, now sobbing fitfully, and wedged him into a high crotch of the tree. He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a tin cup.

"Okay, milking time," he told Elena.

With her kneeling by the trapped cow and squeezing the udders while Mike held the cup so the milk squirted into it, they managed to get a cupful. They retrieved the baby and, using a clean cloth from the baby's belongings, she dipped it into the cup and then carefully dribbled the warm milk into

Patrick's mouth until he wouldn't take any more.

"You better drink the rest," Mike said. "We ain't gonna be eating for awhile."

Elena didn't argue. He took the empty cup from her, wadded the cloth inside it and stowed it away. Only then did he release the cow.

Elena's muscles protested when she remounted and she bit her lip to keep from groaning. He handed up the sleeping baby. Holding Bella's reins, he remounted his bay and they rode on.