The Dancer Read online

  Golden Chances: Book 3

  The Dancer

  By

  Jane Toombs

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-18-5

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love Publishing Partners

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  Copyright 2010 by Jane Toombs

  Cover Art 2011 by Michelle Lee

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Chapter One

  Elena Gabaldon, shaking with dread, knew Davis Burwash walked behind her but she didn’t look back as, her nakedness covered by the black cape, she hurried toward the house. After what Davis had tried to do to her in the ruins, she certainly couldn’t remain in his house any longer. Despite Meg's need for her, she’d leave in the morning.

  Elena slipped inside the front door as quietly as she could and crept up the front stairs, afraid a servant might see her if she used the back. She gained her room with a sigh of relief. After hiding the bundled shawl in a corner of her wardrobe, she poured water into the washbasin and dropped the cloak to the floor.

  The door opened. Elena yelped, grabbing for the discarded cloak. She was partly relieved to find it was Stella, not Davis. Stella crossed to her and pulled aside the cloak, staring at her blood-smeared nakedness.

  "Oh my God!" Stella exclaimed, shaking her head. "I told you to stay away from him."

  Elena burst into tears. Once started, she couldn't stop. She cried while Stella washed the blood from her back and dabbed arnica on the thorn scratches, wept as Stella slid a nightgown over her head and led her toward the bed.

  "Hush, now," Stella urged, patting her shoulder. "Get into bed. You need to rest.”

  Elena obediently climbed onto the bed and took the handkerchief Stella handed her. "I can't stay in this house," she said between sobs.

  Stella sighed. "No, not after this. I knew there'd be trouble with Davis but I didn't think he'd go so far as to force you. He'll hate himself for it and the sight of you will make it worse. You can't stay here. Meg will have a fit but I'll promise her you'll come to her after she's married to Warren and in her own house. You will, won't you?"

  Elena nodded. She couldn't desert Meg entirely; Meg needed her. She wasn’t quite sure what Stella meant by “force.” Yes, Davis had hurt her, but she didn’t think he’d finished what he’d started to do. Which had been terrible enough. Best to avoid men entirely after this.

  "I know you give your aunt money to live on," Stella continued, "but all I can offer is a job at my cantina in El Doblez until the marriage takes place. Ricardo Gomez manages the cantina for me now that his father's dead--I'll talk to him if you like."

  "Thank you," Elena said, drying her eyes. A cantina, she thought. Tia Francesca will have a heart attack at the idea. "It's kind of you to help me," she added. "I don't mind working in a cantina but please don't tell my aunt."

  Stella smiled. "I understand how she feels. Don't worry, Ricardo will see to it the men won't bother you and you can room with his mother, Lucita. She's my good friend. As for Davis--possibly you'll never forgive him but try to remember how badly he wanted you. Because he thought you'd given yourself to Rory, he was driven by lust and jealousy, a bad combination. They're violent creatures, men, and there's little a woman can do to change them. Put Davis from your mind, sleep if you can, I'll see to Meg."

  Erasing Davis from her mind was impossible with all the wounds from the thorns still smarting. She certainly never wanted to come anywhere near him again, but forgetting what he’d done to her wouldn’t be easy. Forgive him? Never! After fretful tossing and turning, Elena's final thought as she slid over the border into sleep was that maybe Ricardo Gomez would let her dance in the cantina.

  In the two months Elena worked at the cantina, she learned more about the way men and woman behaved with each other than she had in all the rest of her years. Ricardo guarded her fiercely so she wasn't unduly troubled by crude advances. And he permitted her to dance every night once he saw she was talented enough to draw a crowd.

  Much as Elena enjoyed performing but, even though she was enthusiastically applauded by those who watched her, she knew she wasn’t good enough yet. A dancer needed proper training to know how to do her best. Unfortunately, training took time and money and she hadn't enough of either. Yet the small taste of success renewed her dream of becoming a great dancer.

  Someday, she vowed, I'll find a way to learn what I need to know. In a way, she was sorry when Stella came bearing the news that Meg was married, settled in her new home, and desperately needed Elena.

  "Meg told me she must have you with her or she can't go on," Stella said. "She's behaved well, considering everything, and Warren seems content enough, but I don't think she can keep it up without you by her side."

  "I'll keep my promise," Elena said, knowing Meg really did need her. But she dreaded more involvement with the Burwashes. How could she possibly bear ever seeing Davis again? She'd have to be careful to avoid such a meeting.

  When she arrived at the Bothwick home, a substantial two-story frame house in the midst of a small ranch on the outskirts of Los Angeles along the El Doblez road, Warren greeted Elena with enthusiasm.

  "Meg hasn't been feeling well," he said. "I do hope having you here will lift her spirits."

  Elena did her best to hide her shock at Meg's appearance. Her friend had become thin as a featherless bird, her hair was lusterless and her eyes deep-circled.

  "Whatever is the matter with you?" she asked Meg as soon as they were alone together. "You look like you're dying."

  Tears gathered in Meg's eyes. "I feel like I am. I wish I would."

  "What about the baby?"

  Meg sighed. "He makes me feel so sick to my stomach, it's as though Rory's punishing me for marrying Warren."

  "That's nonsense! You may feel queasy because you're carrying a child but the poor little baby doesn't mean to make you ill. Don't blame him. Or a dead man, either. Rory's gone far beyond us, he's a spirit now. He's with God."

  Meg blinked. "Do you really think he is?"

  "Of course." Casting about for something to catch Meg's interest, she asked, "Do you have a piano here?"

  "No. But it doesn't matter, I haven't felt like playing."

  "Then I suppose I won't be able to practice my dancing." Elena tried to look woebegone. "I counted on you playing for me while I danced." Actually, she could dance just as well without music but she hoped to get Meg thinking about something besides herself.

  "If I had a piano, I would."

  Elena glanced around the parlor with its massive mahogany furniture, taking in the gold-framed oil paintings on the walls, the elaborate electric light fixtures and the Wilton carpet with the wine velvet drapes matching the carpet's predominant color. Warren obviously had money.

  "I'm sure Warren would buy you one," she said.

  "Oh, I couldn't ask him to. How can I ask him for anything?"

  "You're his wife."

  "But he doesn't know why I married him. I feel so guilty about the marriage, I'm sure what I've done is a sin, but I haven't dared confess to Father Ambrose."

  Elena chose her words carefully. "If you do your best to make Warren happy, wouldn't that be atonement?"

  Meg's face brightened. "Maybe it would be."

  "Yes, I think so. And couldn't you ask for your mother's piano to be sent from the ranch?"
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  "Nobody in the family plays except me," Meg said "so the piano might as well be here. Then I could play for you while you practice." She clapped her hands. "It'll be almost like old times."

  Elena meant to try hard to make it seem that way to Meg. It terrified her to see her friend wasting away before her eyes.

  The piano from the ranch arrived a week later and Meg greeted the instrument like an old friend. By the first of September, Meg looked like her old self--except for her round protuberant tummy.

  "Do you think Warren seems happy?" Meg asked Elena in the privacy of Elena's room. "He's so quiet it's hard to tell. When I told him about the baby coming, he didn't act as though he cared one way or the other. Though I'm fairly sure he didn't suspect anything was amiss."

  "Warren's always been on the quiet side. I believe he is happy, he has you for his wife and that's what he always wanted."

  Meg frowned. "I wish he'd talk more--I never know what he's thinking. And I wish Davis would be more friendly to Warren. He used to be, I don't know why he changed."

  "Perhaps he hasn't. Davis doesn't like to come to the house because I'm here, you know that."

  "I think that's the silliest thing I ever heard, Davis taking against you like he did. After all, what business is it of his whether or not you were interested in Rory?" Her hands caressed her swollen abdomen as they always did when she mentioned Rory's name.

  Elena hadn't told Meg about that terrible night at the old ruins with Davis; she tried never to think about it herself. She hadn't seen him since then. Four months had gone by yet she still couldn't hear his name without a shiver running along her spine.

  Meg eyed Elena's blue summer matinee of nainsook and lace and sighed. "Do you think I'll ever have a waist again? I can't believe mine once was as small as yours. That shade of blue becomes you, Warren remarked on it. He mentioned introducing you to a friend of his."

  Elena shook her head. "I'd rather he didn't. I'm not interested in meeting men."

  "But surely you plan to marry eventually?"

  “I hope someday to study flamenco dancing, to become a dancer, a real dancer, not just in a cantina. I want that for myself more than I want marriage."

  Meg smiled. "I know I'm selfish, but the longer I can have you to myself, the better. If you weren't here to talk to, I swear I'd go mad. Warren is gone so often. Something to do with politics, I think. He really doesn't tell me very much. Sometimes I think he treats me like a child."

  Elena, who'd been listening to the various conversations Warren had with men who'd been invited to dinner, knew Meg's husband was a nominee for assemblyman from the new district formed when Orange County split away from Los Angeles County. Apparently Meg hadn't been paying as much attention to what was said as she had. "I think Warren may be running for a public office in the next election," she said.

  Meg shrugged. "If that's what he wants to do. Maybe I should show more interest but with the baby so close to being born I can't think about anything else. I worry sometimes for fear he'll look exactly like Rory. I'd like that and yet its the worst possible thing for the baby."

  "Most little babies I've seen don't really resemble anyone. Not until they're older."

  "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 fo
r 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.