Secrets Read online

  The ranch ho­use was at the end of the val­ley whe­re the gro­und slowly ro­se to me­et the sky. Nu­me­ro­us barns, pad­docks, and wo­od-si­ded bu­il­dings, all we­at­he­red gray, ga­ve the ran­c­ho the ap­pe­aran­ce of a small, sec­lu­ded vil­la­ge. Pri­va­tely, Re­gi­na co­uld ima­gi­ne just how won­der­ful Mi­ra­mar wo­uld lo­ok freshly whi­te­was­hed, but she wo­uld ne­ver say so.

  They pas­sed ac­res of oran­ge gro­ves. Sla­de had not be­en very com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ve sin­ce they had kis­sed, but now he co­uld not ref­ra­in from tel­ling her abo­ut his ho­me.

  "My gran­d­fat­her, Ale­j­an­d­ro De­lan­za, cho­se to bu­ild his ho­me he­re rat­her than at the ot­her end of the val­ley."

  "I don't bla­me him," Re­gi­na mur­mu­red. The Spa­nish-st­y­le ha­ci­en­da was sil­ho­u­et­ted boldly aga­inst the pas­tel-blue sky, fra­med on one si­de by pi­ne-clad hills, and ga­ve the dis­tinct ap­pe­aran­ce of re­ig­ning abo­ve all the land, pe­op­le, and ot­her li­ving cre­atu­res be­low it.

  Sla­de ga­ve her a long lo­ok. "The­re we­re no towns down-val­ley back then, just the mis­si­on at San Mi­gu­el."

  "Even so, yo­ur gran­d­fat­her had an eye for gran­de­ur."

  The ro­ad wo­und to­ward the ho­use, which was whe­re it en­ded. As they ap­pro­ac­hed the out­l­ying barns, pas­sing blo­oded colts frol­lic­king in one pas­tu­re, Sla­de sa­id, "Once we had a hun­d­red men in our em­p­loy, and Mi­ra­mar sup­por­ted not just them but the­ir wi­ves and chil­d­ren, too. In tho­se days we we­re a tra­di­ti­onal ha­ci­en­da, me­aning that we we­re self-suf­fi­ci­ent. Ever­y­t­hing we ne­eded was ra­ised, grown, or ma­de right he­re."

  "That's very ro­man­tic."

  Sla­de ga­ve her anot­her tho­ug­h­t­ful lo­ok. "But not pro­duc­ti­ve, and by the ti­me Ca­li­for­nia re­ac­hed sta­te­ho­od, not com­pe­ti­ti­ve. Now we ha­ve a do­zen va­qu­eros in our em­p­loy, one tan­ner, one but­c­her, and Co­okie. Not in­c­lu­ding so­me help up at the ho­use," he ad­ded.

  It was a far cry from the old days, Re­gi­na tho­ught. It was so­me­how sad. Sla­de might ha­ve gu­es­sed her tho­ughts. "I wo­uldn't turn back the clock even if I co­uld," he sa­id.

  He dro­ve past the out­bu­il­dings and barns, ta­king them di­rectly to the ho­use. A man who bo­re no re­al re­sem­b­lan­ce to Sla­de, but who so­me­how re­min­ded her of him, ca­me thro­ugh the co­ur­t­yard to­ward them.

  "Wel­co­me to Mi­ra­mar," the smi­ling yo­ung man sa­id. "I'm Ed­ward."

  Re­gi­na smi­led back at him. His open, di­rect fri­en­d­li­ness was very wel­co­me af­ter the com­p­li­ca­ted, tan­g­led sta­te of her re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Sla­de. He hel­ped her down from the car­ri­age. "Now I know why James was in lo­ve with you," he sa­id.

  Re­gi­na was awa­re that his flat­tery was rat­her smo­oth, but he was such a han­d­so­me man, his charm in­na­te, that she did not mind. He­re, su­rely, was the clas­sic la­di­es' man. His flir­ta­ti­o­us­ness did not un­ner­ve her, not at all, and she had the fe­eling that she was well-ver­sed in this kind of ex­c­han­ge. "That is too kind of you," she sa­id.

  "I gu­ess you must he­ar flat­tery all the ti­me. Do­es it ever get bo­ring be­ing told how be­a­uti­ful you are?"

  From be­hind them, Sla­de be­gan he­aving her trunks on the gro­und.

  She was not em­bar­ras­sed and she la­ug­hed. "You, I think, are a ro­gue."

  "A ro­gue?" His grin was de­vi­lish and han­d­so­me. "I've ne­ver be­en cal­led a ro­gue be­fo­re. I li­ke it."

  Re­gi­na la­ug­hed aga­in. She had most de­fi­ni­tely pla­yed this flir­ta­ti­on ga­me many ti­mes be­fo­re; not only was she well-sc­ho­oled in it, she was com­for­tab­le in such an ex­c­han­ge. But then she won­de­red how it was pos­sib­le if she had spent the past few ye­ars clo­is­te­red in a pri­va­te scho­ol for yo­ung la­di­es. In such a set­ting she wo­uld not ha­ve had the op­por­tu­nity to flirt with han­d­so­me yo­ung men; bri­efly, she was per­p­le­xed.

  "Well, you'll cer­ta­inly he­ar it from now on," Ed­ward sa­id, grin­ning, "until you do get bo­red."

  Re­gi­na flas­hed anot­her smi­le, but it was only a fa­ca­de. "I don't think a yo­ung lady ever ti­res of flat­tery," she sa­id auto­ma­ti­cal­ly. She was une­asy with her last tho­ught. She did not ha­ve ti­me to bro­od upon the con­t­ra­dic­ti­on, ho­we­ver, for Sla­de ma­de a con­tem­p­tu­o­us no­ise, ga­ining both the­ir at­ten­ti­on.

  "You think wo­men re­al­ly fall for that?" he sa­id.

  Re­gi­na re­gar­ded Sla­de in sur­p­ri­se, won­de­ring why he was angry when his brot­her's words we­re me­rely a ga­me.

  Edward smi­led at her aga­in. "He's je­alo­us. He's je­alo­us be­ca­use he wo­uldn't know how to swe­et-talk a wo­man if his li­fe de­pen­ded on it."

  Sla­de lo­oked at Re­gi­na be­fo­re an­s­we­ring his brot­her. "I ha­ve no use for 'swe­et-tal­king.' But you se­em mo­re than adept at it."

  "I'm wo­un­ded," Ed­ward sa­id jokingly, but he se­emed puz­zled by Sla­de's res­pon­se.

  Sla­de threw anot­her ac­cu­sing glan­ce at Re­gi­na. "You both se­em mo­re than adept at it."

  Re­gi­na co­uld not be­li­eve that he wo­uld at­tack her so. Be­si­de her, Ed­ward lo­oked equ­al­ly sur­p­ri­sed. "Sla­de," he pro­tes­ted.

  Sla­de ig­no­red them both. He he­aved the last of her trunks on the gro­und and di­sap­pe­ared in­to the ho­use.

  Re­gi­na's fe­elings we­re wo­un­ded but she was very ca­re­ful to hi­de them. She tur­ned to­ward the ho­use so that Ed­ward wo­uld not see her flus­hed fa­ce. "You ha­ve a be­a­uti­ful ho­me," she sa­id une­venly.

  "The ho­use was first bu­ilt in '38," Ed­ward sa­id qu­ickly. Then he to­uc­hed her arm. "He didn't me­an it."

  "Yes, he did. And I se­em to be very ac­com­p­lis­hed in the art of flir­ta­ti­on."

  "So­me­ti­mes even I can't un­der­s­tand my brot­her," Ed­ward sa­id grimly. "Most of the la­di­es I know flirt."

  His words did not so­ot­he her. In the past few ho­urs she had pus­hed Sla­de away, when that had not be­en her in­ten­ti­on at all. She owed him her li­fe, she was su­re of it, but all she had do­ne was to an­ger him.

  "Co­me on, let's go in, it's much co­oler in­si­de," Ed­ward sa­id, ta­king her arm.

  He was ho­ping to dis­t­ract her, and Re­gi­na wan­ted to be dis­t­rac­ted. She lo­oked at the ho­use and re­ali­zed that it was in­de­ed be­a­uti­ful. Hu­ge ole­an­ders, red and pink and whi­te, sur­ged up aga­inst the si­des of the spraw­ling, U-sha­ped ado­be ho­use. Thro­ugh the ar­c­hed en­t­r­y­way she co­uld see that the ho­use was bu­ilt aro­und a vast co­ur­t­yard with ap­ri­cot-hu­ed sto­ne flo­ors, a li­mes­to­ne fo­un­ta­in, and a pro­fu­si­on of exo­tic blo­oming plants. The­re was an ope­ning at the back of the co­ur­t­yard, and it lo­oked as if anot­her co­ur­t­yard was be­hind the first.

  "Of co­ur­se, it's be­en ad­ded on­to qu­ite a bit sin­ce '38," Ed­ward sa­id. "What you see now is ac­tu­al­ly only a part of the ori­gi­nal struc­tu­re. We are a re­al Ca­li­for­nio fa­mily, one of the last ones. Most ha­ve sold out."

  "I see," Re­gi­na sa­id, than­k­ful that he was suc­ce­eding in his at­tempt to bring a deg­ree of nor­malcy back in­to the mo­ment.

  "You'll pro­bably he­ar this over and over aga­in, but the Me­xi­can go­ver­nor, Ju­an Ba­utis­ta Al­va­ra­do, awar­ded this land to us in '37. All of the Me­xi­can ran­c­hos we­re ori­gi­nal­ly Spa­nish mis­si­ons; when Me­xi­co ga­ined her in­de­pen­den­ce from Spa­in in '22, she cla­imed Ca­li­for­nia. Me­xi­can sol­di­ers and set­tlers, even so­me fo­re­ig­ners, pe­ti­ti­oned and re­ce­ived lar­ge grants o
f land. Our grant was one of the first. My gran­d­fat­her was a sol­di­er. Of co­ur­se, when Ca­li­for­nia be­ca­me a sta­te, we lost most of our land. But we fa­red bet­ter than the rest of the Ca­li­for­ni­os, most of whom lost ever­y­t­hing. And tho­se that didn't lo­se the­ir land so­on di­vi­ded it up. Rick wo­uld ne­ver do that."

  Des­pi­te her­self, Re­gi­na fi­nal­ly let her tho­ughts slip free of Sla­de, and she tur­ned to fa­ce Ed­ward. "Why did you lo­se yo­ur land?"

  "The Ame­ri­cans wan­ted it. The Ca­li­for­nio cla­ims we­re old, the ori­gi­nal grants of­ten lost or un­re­adab­le, bo­un­da­ri­es of­ten-and usu­al­ly-mar­ked by na­tu­re: a pa­ir of bo­ul­ders, for exam­p­le, or the tur­noff of a cre­ek, or a tree that was struck by lig­h­t­ning. As you can ima­gi­ne, in a half a cen­tury cre­eks chan­ge co­ur­se or dry up com­p­le­tely, bo­ul­ders are re­mo­ved, tre­es are chop­ped down or up­ro­oted by storms." Ed­ward shrug­ged. "Most of the Ca­li­for­nio grants we­re over­tur­ned, the land gi­ven to the new­co­mers by the new­co­mers' co­urts. We spent a do­zen ye­ars de­fen­ding our cla­im, at a gre­at ex­pen­se, and for­tu­na­tely we re­ta­ined a third of our hol­dings." He smi­led. "Truth is, the ori­gi­nal grant was so lar­ge it was not just un­ma­na­ge­ab­le, it was ob­s­ce­ne."

  A wo­man en­te­red the co­ur­t­yard from the far si­de of the ho­use and be­gan wal­king to­ward them.

  Re­gi­na wat­c­hed her, sa­ying, "But that se­ems so un­fa­ir."

  "Is li­fe fa­ir?"

  She lo­oked at Sla­de's brot­her, who was no lon­ger smi­ling, who was sud­denly se­ri­o­us and in­tent. She did not ha­ve to know him well to know that he pos­ses­sed a sunny and ple­asing cha­rac­ter. Yet in that in­s­tant, she saw the sha­dow in his eyes. A shi­ver to­uc­hed her. For he was right. Li­fe was most de­fi­ni­tely not fa­ir. She had only to re­call the tra­gedy of James De­lan­za's de­ath or her own plight in or­der to ag­ree with his as­ses­sment.

  "Ed­ward," the wo­man cal­led.

  Re­gi­na tur­ned to her cu­ri­o­usly. She was a slen­der wo­man with gle­aming auburn ha­ir that was pul­led back in­to a fas­hi­onab­le and clas­sic chig­non. She mo­ved for­ward with re­so­lu­te stri­des. As she ca­me clo­ser Re­gi­na saw that she was an ol­der wo­man, per­haps forty, but a be­a­uti­ful one. Re­gi­na al­so no­ti­ced that her pas­tel-gre­en dress had on­ce be­en de­sig­ned to ac­com­mo­da­te a bus­t­le. It had be­en al­te­red, but the­re was no mis­ta­king its ori­gi­nal in­tent. It was mo­re than a few ye­ars old and ho­pe­les­sly out of fas­hi­on.

  "This is my mot­her, Vic­to­ria," Ed­ward sa­id.

  "And you must be Eli­za­beth." The wo­man smi­led, ex­ten­ding her hand. "How very ni­ce to fi­nal­ly me­et you af­ter all the­se ye­ars."

  Re­gi­na sho­ok her hand. Al­t­ho­ugh the wo­man's words we­re warm, they rang fal­se. Her smi­le se­emed as brit­tle as glass. When Re­gi­na lo­oked in­to her eyes, she saw that they glit­te­red. A chill crept up the back of her neck.

  "I ho­pe you are not too up­set over the tra­uma you J ha­ve suf­fe­red," Vic­to­ria sa­id.

  "I fe­el much bet­ter to­day," Re­gi­na sa­id. "Thank you."

  "Co­me with me. Sla­de will bring yo­ur lug­ga­ge in. I'm gi­ving you a gu­est ro­om which al­so fa­ces the oce­an. It's the co­olest ro­om in the ho­use. The­re's al­most al­ways a bre­eze."

  Re­gi­na hadn't re­ali­zed that they we­re that clo­se to the Pa­ci­fic Oce­an. She was hur­ri­ed along, le­aving Ed­ward le­aning aga­inst the thick wall in front of the ho­use with a ci­ga­ret­te in one hand, rum­ma­ging in­tently in his poc­kets with the ot­her, ap­pa­rently no lon­ger even awa­re of her.

  Re­gi­na fol­lo­wed Vic­to­ria in­to the ho­use, and it was li­ke en­te­ring anot­her world in anot­her ti­me and pla­ce.

  The fur­ni­tu­re was dark, he­avy, and old. The Ori­en­tal rugs we­re ex­qu­isi­te but very fa­ded and so worn that she ac­tu­al­ly dis­cer­ned se­ve­ral te­ars. A Spa­nish chest in the cen­t­ral sa­lon ca­ught her eye be­ca­use of its im­men­se pro­por­ti­ons-it was at le­ast chest-high-and the chunky en­g­ra­ving upon its si­des. As they pas­sed the di­ning ro­om she glim­p­sed a lar­ge old tres­t­le tab­le and a do­zen he­avy cha­irs, up­hol­s­te­red in stud­ded, worn tan le­at­her, with a mas­si­ve ta­pestry on one wall, much of it fa­ded and crac­ked and in gre­at ne­ed of re­pa­ir. Un­qu­es­ti­onably, ever­y­t­hing was Sep­har­dic and, Re­gi­na sus­pec­ted, da­ted back to the era of the ori­gi­nal land grant or even ear­li­er.

  "Did the first De­lan­zas bring the fur­nis­hings with them?" she as­ked cu­ri­o­usly. "It's all so unu­su­al, but so han­d­so­me." She re­ali­zed she was used to mar­b­le flo­ors and gil­ded mol­dings, to wro­ug­ht-iron and sta­ined glass, to elec­t­ri­city and te­lep­ho­nes, not sto­ne ti­les, whi­te­was­hed stuc­co, gas lig­h­ting, and old, dark wo­od.

  "Of co­ur­se." Vic­to­ria's reply was co­ol and al­most dis­da­in­ful. They had left the ho­use and en­te­red the in­te­ri­or co­ur­t­yard, this one smal­ler than the one in front of the ho­use. Anot­her fo­un­ta­in spra­yed co­ol, in­vi­ting wa­ter in its cen­ter. It, too, was gra­ced with many sha­de tre­es and an abun­dan­ce of blo­oming shrub­bery and flo­wers. They cros­sed the co­ur­t­yard qu­ickly, pas­sing the fo­un­ta­in. The air aro­und it was co­ol and mo­ist with tiny drop­lets of wa­ter.

  "He­re we are," Vic­to­ria sa­id, en­te­ring a ro­om di­rectly off the co­ur­t­yard. She swiftly mo­ved ac­ross it to open the do­ors on the op­po­si­te wall. Re­gi­na was gre­eted with a bre­at­h­ta­king glim­p­se of a sum­mer-yel­low hill sli­ding away ab­ruptly to the shim­me­ring gray oce­an.

  "What a won­der­ful vi­ew!"

  Vic­to­ria tur­ned, smi­ling. The smi­le was cold.

  Re­gi­na's own smi­le di­ed. She be­gan re­mo­ving her glo­ves, her he­art lur­c­hing une­asily. She ca­re­ful­ly to­ok off her hat. When she lo­oked at the ot­her wo­man, she saw her sta­ring at her pe­arls.

  "How be­a­uti­ful," Vic­to­ria sa­id, with no warmth what­so­ever.

  "Thank you."

  "I will ha­ve Lu­cin­da bring you le­mo­na­de. This is the gu­est wing, and as you are the only gu­est, you ha­ve it to yo­ur­self." So­me­how, her words we­re not kind or hos­pi­tab­le, but qu­ite the op­po­si­te.

  "You will want to fres­hen up be­fo­re din­ner," Vic­to­ria con­ti­nu­ed. "I'll ha­ve Lu­cin­da run you a bath. We di­ne at se­ven."

  "One of the few bre­aks with tra­di­ti­on Rick has al­lo­wed," Sla­de sa­id from the do­or­way, hol­ding two of her bags.

  Re­gi­na was ter­ribly glad to see him. Ed­ward's mot­her was not just un­p­le­asant, but dis­tur­bing. She was cer­ta­in the wo­man des­pi­sed her. Yet she co­uld not even be­gin to fat­hom why.

  Sla­de en­te­red, dum­ping her bags on the flo­or. "Rick is up and out at the crack of dawn, so tra­di­ti­onal di­ning at ten or ele­ven in the eve­ning is out of the qu­es­ti­on."

  "I see," Re­gi­na sa­id.

  Wit­ho­ut anot­her word Sla­de tur­ned and left. Re­gi­na ga­zed af­ter him, wis­hing he had sta­yed. She did not re­lish the idea of be­ing alo­ne with Vic­to­ria any mo­re than was ne­ces­sary.

  At that pre­ci­se mo­ment, Vic­to­ria mo­ved qu­ickly ac­ross the ro­om, clo­sing the do­ors that ope­ned on­to the co­ur­t­yard and clo­se­ting the two of them to­get­her. Re­gi­na sta­red at her.

  "So tell me," Vic­to­ria sa­id un­p­le­asantly, "is this a ru­se?"

  "What?"

  "Is this a ru­se? A cha­ra­de? This loss of me­mory of yo­urs?"

  "No! Of co­ur­se not! How I wish I co­uld re­mem­ber!"

  "I see." Vic
­to­ria mo­ved slowly to the bed, fin­ge­ring the brightly co­lo­red cot­ton co­ver­let. "Then why did you co­me he­re-Eli­za­beth?"

  "I… Rick in­vi­ted me. He sa­id I was wel­co­me, as if I we­re ac­tu­al fa­mily."

  Vic­to­ria la­ug­hed mir­t­h­les­sly.

  Re­gi­na re­ali­zed that she was stan­ding with her back aga­inst the hard wo­oden do­or. "What is it?"

  "Don't you know what he in­tends for you? Don't you re­ali­ze why he's in­vi­ted you he­re? Can't you fi­gu­re it out?"

  "No." Re­gi­na was dis­ma­yed by the wo­man's in­nu­en­dos, dis­ma­yed to re­ali­ze that the­re might be so­me kind of mo­ti­va­ti­on ot­her than what Rick had pro­fes­sed.

  "Hasn't Sla­de told you? Or hin­ted?" Vic­to­ria as­ked.

  "Hin­ted at what? Told me what?"

  "Rick in­tends for you to marry Sla­de."

  "What!" Re­gi­na was shoc­ked. "But-I was sup­po­sed to marry James!"

  "And James is de­ad. Now Rick plans to see you mar­ri­ed to Sla­de. Co­me hell or high wa­ter."

  "I don't un­der­s­tand. Why?"

  "Why?" Vic­to­ria la­ug­hed. And she lo­oked po­in­tedly at Re­gi­na's per­fect pe­arls. "For yo­ur mo­ney, of co­ur­se."

  Chapter 6

  Re­gi­na was in­c­re­du­lo­us.

  Vic­to­ria had left in tri­umph. Re­gi­na pa­ced the ro­om, wrin­ging her hands, too shoc­ked to think cle­arly. Rick had se­emed so sin­ce­re. But he hadn't be­en sin­ce­re, not at all.

  The do­ub­le do­ors of her ro­om which ope­ned on the co­ur­t­yard ban­ged open. Re­gi­na hal­ted. Sla­de sto­od the­re with one of her lar­ger, he­avi­er trunks. "Whe­re do you want this?" he as­ked.

  Anger over­w­hel­med her. She mo­ved to­ward him be­fo­re she knew what she was even go­ing to do. He was as much an ac­com­p­li­ce to this de­cep­ti­on as his fat­her was. For he had known. And she had trus­ted him. He had sa­id he wo­uld pro­tect her. Oh, how she had trus­ted him! But he wasn't trus­t­worthy at all. He had li­ed to her. He ho­ped to use her. The bet­ra­yal was de­vas­ta­ting.