The Bastard (10 page)

She had to rest. Even if she
didn't
shut her eyes all night long, she must lay down and rest.
Not upstairs.
To be alone upstairs at night surpassed the limits of her bravery.
She'd
have to bring down blankets and quilts and pillows and make a bed for herself on the floor.
In her father's study.
She felt more secure there.

Concepcion
was exhausted when she finally arranged the bedclothes to her satisfaction. She decided to keep her clothes on except for her shoes. Her feet were so swollen she could hardly pry the slippers off. She stretched out with a sigh.

It was too dark. Wherever she looked, shadows shifted threateningly and she trembled at their possible menace. The candles and lamps were set too high, that was the trouble.
She'd
have to bring them lower, onto the floor.

Struggling to her feet, she placed the flickering candles in their holders and the glowing lamps on the floor. The flame of the unprotected candles wavered in the draft along the floor but she
didn't
want to shut the door to the study, she felt safer with it open.

Lights still burned in the other rooms and along the corridor. In her house of light, surely nothing bad could happen.

How her back ached! It was all the bending over, she supposed. After
she'd
rested, no doubt she'd be more comfortable.
Again
she settled herself into her makeshift bed. In one
hand
she clutched the heart-shaped locket Diarmid had given her.
She'd
coaxed him until he'd cut off a lock of his hair to place inside with one of hers.

A lock of her hair was also inside her mother's locket but
she'd
given that locket back to her father to take with him to
Mexico City
. "This will keep you safe on your journey,"
she'd
told him. "As well as remind you of how much I'll miss you."

She'd
brought the Gabaldon family Bible to bed with her, too, the massive, leather-bound volume nestling at her side.
Protecting her.
She caressed the smooth cover with her free hand. Inside were all the names of her relatives, going back for several hundred years. Her father had written her name in it when she was born. Later
he'd
clipped a strand of her baby hair and glued it beside her name. As
she'd
do when her child was born.

Despite her attempts to keep her eyes open, as if seeing could miraculously keep danger at bay, she dozed off
time and again
, rousing with a frightened jerk to the flickering candlelight and the realization she was alone and that her back ached terribly.

Surely
Diarmid meant to return. He
hadn't
left her for good. He loved the land, if not her.
He'd
come back.
Wouldn't he?

Eventually exhaustion overcame her pain and her fears and she slept. She dreamed of
Rosa
.
Rosa
calling her from afar off, so far away she could hardly hear her. In the smoky darkness she
couldn't
see, there was only
Rosa
's voice to guide her. She groped toward the voice, trying to hurry but she could barely drag herself along because of the heavy load she carried, a load she
couldn't
put down, no matter how hard she tried.

Afraid
she'd
lose Rosa, she tried to call, "
Rosa
, wait!" but she couldn't speak. She had to rest, her back was about to break from the load, yet she
didn't
dare stop. Her feet hurt, she hurt all over but she had to go on. If she lost
Rosa
there was no hope for her, none at all.

Chapter Five

Was it a dream or did she really feel the wind in her face?
Concepcion
, hovering between waking and sleeping, struggled to understand. A sharp bang jerked her awake and she opened her eyes. She looked around in bewilderment, coughing. The
dimly-lit
, smoky room was her father's study and she lay on the floor in a tangle of blankets. Two lamps burned, their flames flickering in the breeze sweeping through the room.

Concepcion
tried to sit up and cried out as pain gripped her, stabbing from her back through her stomach. "
Rosa
!" she screamed.

No one came. The pain clutched her fast, she
couldn't
move, couldn't think, could only moan. As it began to ease, it came to her why she was sleeping in the study.
Rosa
was gone
,
everyone was gone
. She was alone. Her hand touched the smooth leather of the family Bible and she picked it up, hugging the Bible to her breast.

The wind,
strong and warm
and dry, came from the eastern mountains. A
Santa Ana
wind, her father called it. The wind must have sprung up while she slept. Struggling to her feet, her eyes smarting from the smoke--there must be a fire somewhere--
Concepcion
stumbled toward the open door.

The corridor was smokier than the room and she gasped for breath as she staggered along. To her bewildered horror, flames licked at the staircase. The house was ablaze! How could she get past to the outside door? The courtyard door swung back and forth, open, banging as the wind blew it
to and fro
.
Hadn't
she shut all the doors earlier?

Groping through the smoke,
Concepcion
stumbled through the door into the courtyard. Though wisps of smoke eddied from the house, she could breathe better. She reached the pepper tree before another pain struck her. When it finally passed, she released the low-hanging branch
she'd
clung to and stared at the house as she tried to make sense out of what was happening.

Flames glowed red through the windows. The house was on fire. From the
wind
overturning burning candles?
But
why was the courtyard door open? She
didn't
think the wind could have unlatched it. The pains--did they mean the baby was coming? Fear paralyzed her. What was she to do?

If I stay here
I'll
burn to death, she told herself. Since three sides of the courtyard were part of the house, the gate in the back wall offered the only escape. She staggered toward the gate.

It seemed a mile across the courtyard to the back wall. The wind swirled her unbound hair across her face and into her eyes, at the same time making her choke on the smoke from the burning house. When
Concepcion
, gasping and retching, reached the
gate
she found it wouldn't open. As she yanked futilely at it, another pain struck. She dropped to her knees, her forehead against the gate and sobbed.

In her desperation, she
couldn't
think of a single prayer, all she could do was mumble
Rosa
's name, over and over as an invocation. As the pain eased, a terrible realization pierced through her.
He's
trying to kill me!

Diarmid, her beloved husband, wanted to
be rid
of her--this was his doing.
He'd
crept back to the house in the darkness, set the fire, then opened the courtyard door to make it seem the wind had started the blaze from the burning candles.
He'd
left through the gate and, from the outside, fixed the gate so she couldn't open it, so she'd be trapped.
She and the baby with her.

No! Her baby must live!
Concepcion
dragged herself to her feet. Pounding her fists against the wood of the gate, she screamed for help until another pain knifed through her. The pains came so close together all she could do was huddle on the ground next to the gate and moan. She found the Bible next to her and clutched at it.

Caught in a web of agony, she was only dimly aware of something pushing against her. She thought she heard her name,
then
someone grasped her wrists and began dragging her across the ground. With her eyes stinging and burning from the smoke, she
couldn't
see who it was. Afraid Diarmid had returned and meant to thrust her back inside the burning casa, she screamed.

"Hush, child,"
Rosa
ordered. "I'm here to help you."

Concepcion
couldn't
believe her ears. "
Rosa
?" she gasped, half-convinced she was dreaming again.

"I'm here,"
Rosa
repeated. She released
Concepcion
's wrists. "I've pulled you outside the courtyard but now you must help."

With the old woman's assistance,
Concepcion
got to her feet, groaning with pain. "It hurts," she whimpered.

“I know. For the child's sake, be brave. What is that you carry?"

Concepcion
hugged the leather volume to her.
"Bible.
For the baby's name."
The words came in gasps. Leaning on
Rosa
, she stumbled away from the burning casa. Dazed by the grinding, constant pain, she
didn't
care where
Rosa
led her.

"The wind blows away from the barn,"
Rosa
said. "May God will that it doesn't catch
fire.
"

Thoughts jumbled together in
Concepcion
's mind.
The barn.
The Christ Child.
Christmas candles.
Fire....

"Diarmid tried to kill me!" she cried.

"Hush,"
Rosa
cautioned. "We must be quiet and careful."

"He sent you away."

"I didn't go far.
I
waited and I watched. I knew you'd need me."

 
Something hot and wet began running down
Concepcion
's legs. Her knees sagged. "I can't--" she whimpered.

"You can and you must.
Only a few steps farther."

Rosa
half-dragged her inside the barn, easing her down onto an old horse blanket.
She could hear the horses outside in the corral snorting as they trotted nervously back and forth, spooked by the fire.

"Don't let them burn," she managed to say before the worst pain of all took hold of her body and mind and the darkness turned red.

"Push!" a voice urged.
Rosa
? "Push down hard.
Now."

Concepcion
tried.

"Harder
."

After a nightmare of agony, there came a respite.
Concepcion
took a deep breath, afraid any movement would bring back the pain. A baby
wailed,
the sound thin and lonely.

"A boy,"
Rosa
said. "He's small but he cries. That's a good sign."

For a long
moment
Concepcion
couldn't associate the words with herself. When she finally realized
Rosa
was telling her
she'd
borne a baby boy, she burst into tears.

"It's so dark I can't even see him
,"
she sobbed.

"You will. Later
."

Stifling her sobs,
Concepcion
tried to sit up but she was too weak. She felt fluid flowing from her.
Blood?
"I want to write his name in the Bible," she whispered.

"Later
."

"No. It must be now."

"You have no pen. Lie still, the afterbirth is still to come."

Concepcion
struggled onto her side, driven by something she
didn't
understand. "Give me the Bible.
And some straw."

"Without ink--"

"I'll use blood."

She
couldn't
see, she could only feel the Bible. Propped on one elbow, supported by
Rosa
, she opened it. With Rosa guiding the hand that held the straw she dipped into the blood,
Concepcion
scrawled, "Francisco Gabaldon Burwash
,"
inside the front cover of the Bible. "Put his hand in the blood
,"
she told
Rosa
, "and press it on the opposite page."