The Bastard by Jane Toombs

into the barn and stopped, shocked beyond speech.
     
    Concepcion , her thighs spread, lay in a welter of blood. In the midst of the gory mess, a tiny infant whimpered. "My God, my God," Diarmid muttered as he flung himself onto his knees beside her and reached for her hand. Cold. Her open and staring eyes confirmed she was dead.
     
    But the child lived. Diarmid tore off his jacket and laid it on the ground. When he tried to lift the baby, he found it was still attached to the afterbirth. Not knowing what else to do, he wrapped everything into his jacket and tried to think what to do next.
     
    Stella was the only answer he came up with .
     
    Since Bruce couldn't be ridden again so soon, Diarmid saddled the chestnut mare and, his son snuggled in his left arm, set off for El Doblez.
     
    Stella bit her lip as she looked down at the baby boy wrapped in the serape. She'd never seen a baby quite so tiny--he looked unfinished. Lucita had tied and cut the cord, washed the blood from him and fashioned a diaper from a soft cloth.
     
    "Too small," Lucita muttered to her, shaking her head as she tried to coax him to suck at a milk-soaked nipple made from a piece of wool. "We might get Maria Gomez to wet-nurse him if he has the strength to suck."
     
    "What do I tell Diarmid when he returns?"
     
    Lucita shrugged. "The boy still lives. What else can I say?"
     
    "What are his chances?"
     
    Lucita shrugged. "I'll take him to Maria and we'll see what happens." She lifted him into her arms. "Pobrecito," she murmured, "to have such an unlucky mother ."
     
    Stella watched her leave. Yes, poor little thing. She prayed the tiny boy would survive. And certainly Concepcion had suffered more than her share of ill fortune. But even if the child died, Diarmid's luck held. As she understood it, the rancho would be Diarmid's because the child had been born alive.
     
    And would Angelica, too, be his?
     
    Stella had done her best to convince herself she wasn't jealous of the girl but she was. Not that she hadn't grown fond of Angelica. The girl was like a friendly kitten--capable of scratching but not really meaning to hurt.
     
    She still couldn't understand why Diarmid was so taken with Angelica, he all but worshipped her. Unless it was because of the girl's supposed resemblance to an old portrait of his mother.
     
    What kind of a wife would Angelica be? Stella smiled one-sidedly. Angelica had a distinct prudish streak--she might not take well to love-making . If so, that would disconcert Diarmid. He might wind up on her doorstep just as he had after marrying Concepcion . She hoped he would--how satisfying to be able to refuse him!
     
    If the baby lived, no doubt Angelica would spoil him, she had no sense of discipline. As for other wifely duties, the girl would manage a house well , she was used to servants .
     
    Once she had a house. Diarmid would have to build one before he could ask Angelica to marry him. All in all , marriage to him would be a solution for the girl.
     
    But , ah, that poor woman who'd died in pain and alone--somehow it was always the women who suffered.
     
    Stella and Lucita rode to the rancho to lay out Concepcion and Diarmid had Lucita's husband dig a grave inside the ruined courtyard. Diarmid brought a priest from Los Angeles to say the burial prayers. Father Lugo also baptized the baby, Charles Francisco Burwash ..
     
    Bonny Charlie, as Diarmid called him, didn't thrive. He was too weak to suck, so milk had to be dribbled into his mouth with a dropper and he often choked on it rather than swallowing. He whimpered rather than cried and failed to gain weight. Two weeks after Diarmid found him in the barn, Bonny Charlie died.
     
    Word of his death was sent to Don Francisco, as word had been sent about Concepcion two weeks earlier. The baby was buried beside his mother.
     
    Diarmid, who'd been careful to get a baptismal certificate from the priest, didn't pretend to suffer deep grief over the deaths. He regretted