Manuelo. The sheep. What about orange trees? A few thrived near the hacienda and there'd be a market in San Francisco for oranges. The same for grapes. Could water be diverted from streams rising in the mountains so other crops could be grown whether the rains came or not? He hoped his friend knew some of the answers.
He'd sounded the don out on a few of his ideas but the old man shrugged the questions away. "It's true the land has provided for me most of my life but my interests lie elsewhere. I leave everything for you to decide."
Don Francisco loved reading, loved his books and hated to be distracted from them. Diarmid realized the old man had little real interest in anything he might do except provide him with a grandchild who'd someday inherit the land. The don also looked forward to an extended visit with his sister in Mexico City .
"I'll meet with old friends," he'd told Diarmid enthusiastically. "Some I've not seen for over forty years."
Diarmid was as eager to see Manuelo and they'd only been parted for a little over a month. It was impossible for him to imagine not seeing a friend for forty years. A lifetime!
A week before the wedding, Diarmid rode on his customary morning inspection tour, halting Bruce on the summit of one of the many round hills--duns, his mother would have called them--and surveyed his golden land. To the east the summits of the higher hills, mountains really, marked the edge of the property. The don had told him that survivors of the mission Indians converted by the Spanish priests lived in those mountains. Since he owned to the summits, the Indians were squatters on his property.
"I have no use for the mountain land," Don Francisco had said, "so I permit the Indians to live there. As long as they don't bother my cattle, I leave them alone. Rosa is one of them. My wife tried to train several Indian girls as servants, but Rosa is the only one who stayed."
The western boundary was the low ridge of hills that hid the ocean. To the south, the seaward hills dipped to form a narrow passage and there the land rolled down to the very edge of the sea. He'd explored this passage, finding a hidden cove with a pleasant sandy beach.
I'd like to bring Stella to this cove someday, he thought, but then shook his head. He'd have little time for her in the weeks and months to come.
Evergreens twisted by the wind grew down the seaside slopes of the hills almost to the sand itself. Last week he'd climbed a hill to take a closer look at the largest of the trees and came across a hole extending under its roots that he thought might once have been a bear's den. Though the don assured him no bears had been seen on the property for many years, he meant to make certain that hole would never be used by a bear--he'd have it filled in. But there was no hurry. First things first.
Scanning the seaward hills, Diarmid caught sight of a rider cresting the summit of one. Not a vaquero of the don's unless the man had been to El Doblez. Could it be Manuelo, returning early? God, how he hoped so! He had no qualms that what he was doing was anything but right. Still, as the wedding day approached, more and more he felt the need to have a friend by his side.
Kicking Bruce into a lope, Diarmid rode toward the western hills but, as the distance between him and the oncoming rider narrowed, Diarmid frowned, slowing his mount. That was a bay, not Manuelo's black stallion. And the horseman rode awkwardly, unlike Manuelo. He wasn't dressed as a vaquero, either. Who was he?
"Ho!" the man shouted. "Diarmid Burwash!" Diarmid's jaw dropped as he recognized the voice. God save him, it was Myron Muskatt !
Sitting on a blanket in the cove, Concepcion carefully brushed every grain of sand from her feet before pulling on her stockings. She reached for her slippers. One of the great joys of her life was riding to this cove to wade in the ocean. She'd been taken here to play as a
He'd sounded the don out on a few of his ideas but the old man shrugged the questions away. "It's true the land has provided for me most of my life but my interests lie elsewhere. I leave everything for you to decide."
Don Francisco loved reading, loved his books and hated to be distracted from them. Diarmid realized the old man had little real interest in anything he might do except provide him with a grandchild who'd someday inherit the land. The don also looked forward to an extended visit with his sister in Mexico City .
"I'll meet with old friends," he'd told Diarmid enthusiastically. "Some I've not seen for over forty years."
Diarmid was as eager to see Manuelo and they'd only been parted for a little over a month. It was impossible for him to imagine not seeing a friend for forty years. A lifetime!
A week before the wedding, Diarmid rode on his customary morning inspection tour, halting Bruce on the summit of one of the many round hills--duns, his mother would have called them--and surveyed his golden land. To the east the summits of the higher hills, mountains really, marked the edge of the property. The don had told him that survivors of the mission Indians converted by the Spanish priests lived in those mountains. Since he owned to the summits, the Indians were squatters on his property.
"I have no use for the mountain land," Don Francisco had said, "so I permit the Indians to live there. As long as they don't bother my cattle, I leave them alone. Rosa is one of them. My wife tried to train several Indian girls as servants, but Rosa is the only one who stayed."
The western boundary was the low ridge of hills that hid the ocean. To the south, the seaward hills dipped to form a narrow passage and there the land rolled down to the very edge of the sea. He'd explored this passage, finding a hidden cove with a pleasant sandy beach.
I'd like to bring Stella to this cove someday, he thought, but then shook his head. He'd have little time for her in the weeks and months to come.
Evergreens twisted by the wind grew down the seaside slopes of the hills almost to the sand itself. Last week he'd climbed a hill to take a closer look at the largest of the trees and came across a hole extending under its roots that he thought might once have been a bear's den. Though the don assured him no bears had been seen on the property for many years, he meant to make certain that hole would never be used by a bear--he'd have it filled in. But there was no hurry. First things first.
Scanning the seaward hills, Diarmid caught sight of a rider cresting the summit of one. Not a vaquero of the don's unless the man had been to El Doblez. Could it be Manuelo, returning early? God, how he hoped so! He had no qualms that what he was doing was anything but right. Still, as the wedding day approached, more and more he felt the need to have a friend by his side.
Kicking Bruce into a lope, Diarmid rode toward the western hills but, as the distance between him and the oncoming rider narrowed, Diarmid frowned, slowing his mount. That was a bay, not Manuelo's black stallion. And the horseman rode awkwardly, unlike Manuelo. He wasn't dressed as a vaquero, either. Who was he?
"Ho!" the man shouted. "Diarmid Burwash!" Diarmid's jaw dropped as he recognized the voice. God save him, it was Myron Muskatt !
Sitting on a blanket in the cove, Concepcion carefully brushed every grain of sand from her feet before pulling on her stockings. She reached for her slippers. One of the great joys of her life was riding to this cove to wade in the ocean. She'd been taken here to play as a
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