The Dancer Read Online Free Page B
Author: Jane Toombs
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.
"Got to get off the property before sunrise or the boss'll shoot me," he said. "If I don't shoot him first."
Tired as she was, Elena's heart began to thump in alarm at the thought of Mike killing Davis. However she felt about Davis, she didn't want him shot dead in front of her.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"Tia Juana." Pulling a bottle from his pocket, he uncorked it and took a swig.
She'd heard of the border town on the Tia Juana Creek. In the old days, they said, a woman had sold tacos and tamales there, a woman named Tia Juana. Tia Francesca had been there once with a couple who'd been looking for an ill cousin.
"It's a poor place, a shanty town," her aunt had told her years later. "Like the worst slum in Los Angeles. We found the cousin near death in a filthy hut. It was too late to save him."
"Do you live in Tia Juana?" Elena asked, concealing her distress at hearing their destination. She meant to try to escape with Patrick as soon as possible but in the meantime he must be fed and kept clean. How was she to do either in such a place?
"For now. Gonna be a matador, make me a lot of money."
He drank from the bottle again.
She recalled Meg telling her months ago that both Rory and Mike had learned to fight bulls when they lived in Mexico so perhaps Mike meant what he said. Unless it was the drink talking.
"Don't believe me, do you? Don't think Mike Dugald's good enough to be a matador. You just wait."
She shot him a defiant look. "I don't care what you are as long as Patrick is clean and well-fed. He's what matters to me, not what you do."
"Yeah?" Mike drawled the word into a threat. "You think I'm gonna leave you sitting around nurse-maiding Patrick all the time? Think again. Don't forget I was at the ruins the night Rory was killed. That bastard Burwash thought you was the one running off with my brother and he killed Rory 'cause he was jealous of you. You're my woman now and when you're warming my bed that Burwash son-of-bitch will have real reason to be jealous."
Chapter Three
Davis rode Black Knight past Scripps' Miramar Ranch, ten miles north of San Diego. Earlier, from the top of a hill he'd seen the Scripps mansion, four adobe wings around a huge patio. Forty-seven rooms, he'd been told, each with a fireplace. E. W. Scripps was an Easterner, a newspaper man.
Davis had often thought he'd like to meet the man who'd modeled his home after a palace in Trieste. Hell, here he was twenty-two years old and he'd never even been to New York City, much less to Europe. His father hadn't believed travel abroad was worth much.
"They're behind the times in Europe," Diarmid had said. "America, especially California, is the land of promise, lad. Your life is easy because I had the sense to leave the old country behind and try my luck
"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.
"Got to get off the property before sunrise or the boss'll shoot me," he said. "If I don't shoot him first."
Tired as she was, Elena's heart began to thump in alarm at the thought of Mike killing Davis. However she felt about Davis, she didn't want him shot dead in front of her.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"Tia Juana." Pulling a bottle from his pocket, he uncorked it and took a swig.
She'd heard of the border town on the Tia Juana Creek. In the old days, they said, a woman had sold tacos and tamales there, a woman named Tia Juana. Tia Francesca had been there once with a couple who'd been looking for an ill cousin.
"It's a poor place, a shanty town," her aunt had told her years later. "Like the worst slum in Los Angeles. We found the cousin near death in a filthy hut. It was too late to save him."
"Do you live in Tia Juana?" Elena asked, concealing her distress at hearing their destination. She meant to try to escape with Patrick as soon as possible but in the meantime he must be fed and kept clean. How was she to do either in such a place?
"For now. Gonna be a matador, make me a lot of money."
He drank from the bottle again.
She recalled Meg telling her months ago that both Rory and Mike had learned to fight bulls when they lived in Mexico so perhaps Mike meant what he said. Unless it was the drink talking.
"Don't believe me, do you? Don't think Mike Dugald's good enough to be a matador. You just wait."
She shot him a defiant look. "I don't care what you are as long as Patrick is clean and well-fed. He's what matters to me, not what you do."
"Yeah?" Mike drawled the word into a threat. "You think I'm gonna leave you sitting around nurse-maiding Patrick all the time? Think again. Don't forget I was at the ruins the night Rory was killed. That bastard Burwash thought you was the one running off with my brother and he killed Rory 'cause he was jealous of you. You're my woman now and when you're warming my bed that Burwash son-of-bitch will have real reason to be jealous."
Chapter Three
Davis rode Black Knight past Scripps' Miramar Ranch, ten miles north of San Diego. Earlier, from the top of a hill he'd seen the Scripps mansion, four adobe wings around a huge patio. Forty-seven rooms, he'd been told, each with a fireplace. E. W. Scripps was an Easterner, a newspaper man.
Davis had often thought he'd like to meet the man who'd modeled his home after a palace in Trieste. Hell, here he was twenty-two years old and he'd never even been to New York City, much less to Europe. His father hadn't believed travel abroad was worth much.
"They're behind the times in Europe," Diarmid had said. "America, especially California, is the land of promise, lad. Your life is easy because I had the sense to leave the old country behind and try my luck
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