The Dancer Page 5

  Turning to look at the men, she tried to think of a way to help Davis, but when she saw Mike pinned beneath him and the bloody mess Davis was making of Mike’s face with his fists, she decided maybe he didn’t need her assistance. His hands closed around Mike’s throat, squeezing, and she watched Mike gasp for breath and go limp. A few minutes more and Mike would be dead.

  “Stop! You’re killing him!” Elena cried.

  Davis, his lips drawn back in a wolfish grimace, paid no heed. Elena watched helplessly, horrified at what she was seeing, wondering if even a man as crazy as Mike deserved to die.

  A shot rang out.

  Davis blinked, his hands falling away from Mike’s throat as he twisted to look behind him.

  Benicia stood in the doorway, Patrick held in her left arm. In her right hand, she held a gun, pointed at the ceiling. “You!” She shifted the gun until it was aimed at Davis. “Leave my man alone or I’ll kill you.” Without taking her eyes off him, she said, “Elena, you tell him in English, so he understands.”

  “I speak Spanish.” The words grated from Davis’ throat. “I’ll do as you say.” He got up from Mike’s limp body, standing with an effort.

  Elena was alarmed to see his shirt now dripped blood. “You’ve been shot!” she cried.

  “Take him away,” Benicia ordered her. “Now. The baby as well.” She thrust Patrick at Elena. “Go!”

  “I’d like my pistol.” Davis told Benicia, pointing to the forty-five under the cot. Elena stared in surprise. She’d had no idea Davis had pulled his gun.

  Benicia glanced at Elena. “You know nothing of guns or you wouldn’t have thrown this one to me. You pick up his gun and walk outside, you and the baby. When you reach the horses, I’ll let him follow you. Leave Tia Juana. Leave Mexico.”

  Mike hadn’t moved. Elena, as she bent to retrieve Davis’ gun, noticed blood discoloring the mat underneath him and remembered the two shots she’d heard after she’d dropped to the floor. Had Davis’ bullet struck Mike? Was he dead? Frightened at what she’d seen, fearing Benicia might change her mind and kill them if Mike was dead, Elena grabbed the gun and, carrying the baby, rushed from the casita, running for the horses tethered in the stable.

  Hearing Black Knight stomping outside the stable wall, she hurried to him, thrust the gun into a saddle bag, untied him and brought the stallion inside the stable. Untying Bella, she climbed on the mounting block and, holding Patrick under one arm, hoisted herself onto the palomino. There she waited, praying Benicia would let Davis leave.

  When she saw Davis walking slowly toward the stable, she let out her pent-up breath in a sigh of relief, only to tense again when she saw how carefully he moved. He was hurt and bleeding. How could he ride?

  Without looking her way, he went directly to Black Knight and painfully hoisted himself into the saddle. Saying nothing, he urged the stallion into a walk with his heels and headed not for the road, but for the field in back of the casita. Elena, hoping he wasn’t dazed into confusion from loss of blood, followed on Bella. She didn’t know where he was going; she’d have to trust him.

  To her dismay, Davis slumped lower and lower in the saddle as they rode, going God knew where but toward a stench that she thought had to be one of the worst she’d ever smelled. Her only comfort was that Patrick slept peacefully against her shoulder, minding neither the jouncing ride nor the awful smell.

  By the time they reached the source of the stink--a pig farm. Davis was swaying with every step Black Knight took. Elena rode close and lifted the reins from Davis’ lax fingers to lead the stallion.

  “Hold on, Davis!” she urged him as a man came running from a nearby house.

  “Madre de Dios!” the man exclaimed, coming up to them and peering at Davis. “What has happened to you, my friend?”

  Hearing his words, Elena knew they’d reached their destination. Elena tossed Black Knight’s reins to the man. “He’s been shot,” she said. “Please help him.”

  An hour later, Elena sat in the bed of a wagon cuddling Patrick as Diego Alviso convinced the two mules hitched to the wagon that they wanted to travel north. Next to her. On a blanket over a bed of straw, lay Davis, eyes closed, his face white and drawn. A second baby, his bright dark eyes watching Elena, rested on her lap.

  Diego’s wife had controlled the bleeding by binding a cloth tightly about Davis’ chest. The bullet, she’d said, had gone in and out again. If he didn’t start coughing up blood, he’d recover. One way or the other, it was best to take him to his friend in San Diego. Diego’s wife solved the problem of Patrick as well.

  “San Diego, Mateo Amato,” Davis had said, only half-aware of his surroundings. “My friend, Mateo.”

  His words had convinced Elena they must travel on.

  By this time she was so accustomed to the smell pervading the farm that it didn’t matter the wagon was ordinarily used to transport pigs. Nothing mattered except getting Davis safely to San Diego. Black Knight, tethered to the rear of the wagon, rolled his eyes, resenting being forced to trot along in its wake.

  The dark-eyed baby’s mother, a mestizo girl named Felicia Fernando who looked scarcely old enough to bear a child, rode Bella. Felicia was to provide milk for Patrick until he was reunited with his mother.

  Once convinced they should begin moving, the mules set a steady pace, the wagon jouncing over the rough road, each bump jolting through Elena and increasing her worry over Davis. Would the jolting ride make the bleeding start again? Despite her apprehension, she was so exhausted that after a time she settled into a daze, broken only when Patrick began to wail.

  Felicia slowed Bella until she was rode beside the wagon next to Elena. She held out her arms and Elena leaned over to hand her the squalling Patrick. By the time the girl finished nursing him, her own baby, Antonio, had begun to cry.

  Eyeing the girl’s slenderness, Elena asked, “Do you have enough milk for two?”

  Felicia’s smile transformed her dark, rather sullen face. “Muy mucho,” she said, handing back Patrick and taking Antonio to her breast.

  “Patrick,” Davis muttered, opening his eyes. “Where’s Patrick?”

  “The baby’s fine,” Elena assured him. “He’s right here.”

  Davis raised his head to look toward her and, as she shifted Patrick so he could see the baby, the slanting rays of the setting sun touched Patrick’s head.

  Davis’ eyes widened. “Red,” he muttered. “He’s got red hair.” His bewildered gaze fastened on Elena but she said nothing. She could hardly deny the color of Patrick’s hair.

  “Rory’s,” Davis said after a moment. “He’s Rory’s. No, I don’t believe it. That’s mean Meg….” He broke off.

  Elena maintained her silence. She’d kept Meg’s secret until now, it wasn’t up to her to admit the truth.

  “The red hair doesn’t prove anything,” Davis said finally, as though arguing with himself. “What’d you do, convince Dugald it was his brother’s kid because of the red hair?”

  “I told you what happened,” she reminded him. “How Mike sneaked in and took Patrick.”

  He scowled. “I didn’t believe it then. I don’t now.”

  Elena held Patrick closer. Much as his words hurt her, she wouldn’t defend herself further. If he couldn’t trust her, he could go to the devil.

  Davis scowled at her. “Admit it, you started Dugald on this plan to abduct Patrick, then got scared when you couldn’t control the bastard. He’s crazy as a locoed cow.”

  She refused to answer him. Determined as he was to believe ill of her, what was the use?

  The wagon lurched onto a much rougher road, forcing her to grasp for the side. Davis grunted with pain.

  “Pardon,” Diego called to them. “I’m taking a short cut. Probably we’d have no trouble at the border but why take the chance?”

  Elena braced herself, protecting Patrick against the worst of the jouncing. She could do nothing for Davis. A part of her wanted to think he deserved the punishment but Senora Al
viso’s words about coughing up blood came back to trouble her. What would happen if he did? No matter what he thought of her, she didn’t wish him dead.

  Would this ride never be over?

  Davis didn’t speak again, even when Diego pulled onto a better road and the jolting lessened. Felicia kept her baby with her on Bella and Patrick slept. Elena could not. Between glances at Davis to make certain he was still alive, her thoughts bubbled and simmered like the La Brea tar pits.

  Davis had rescued her, he’d held her close and kissed her but it meant nothing. Not to him. He mistrusted her, he’d come for Patrick, not for her. He didn’t love her, he never would. She’d tried to hate him but one tender moment in his arms had dissolved her hatred.

  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.