Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1) (33 page)

“No.” Roman raked a hand thought his hair. “It is too dangerous for all of us to travel with war going on. It is best for the rest of you to remain here. Tio and Tia Renaldo will witness for us. We will lodge with them in Yerba Buena.”

“They live in a hovel!” Tio Pedro cried. “A hovel is no place for a Vasquez bride and groom.”

“I have prayed about this,” Roman said firmly. “I believe Yerba Buena is the safest place for us to wed right now.”

“You have prayed?” Tio Pedro replied scornfully. “Since when do you pray,
mi hijo
?”

“Since I came to know my Lord.” Roman held his temper in the face of his uncle’s anger, which was quite unlike him. “You should pray for this to happen to you, Tio.”

Tio Pedro lowered his voice so nobody would overhear them speaking in the
sala
. “Perhaps you should not marry her. We can make other plans to align ourselves with the Americanos. It concerns me that the
Yanquia
has changed you.”

“The Lord has changed me.” Roman walked away from his uncle. “Do not fret, all will be well. Dios is in control,” he called over his shoulder as he left the room.

“God does not want you to marry a Protestant!” Tio Pedro cried out, no longer caring who heard him.

Joshua Tyler traveled south toward Rancho El Rio Lobo. No war had materialized in Sonoma. General Vallejo languished in a prison cell at Sutter’s Fort in the Sacramento Valley. The crude bear flag had been replaced by the stars and stripes of the United States just this afternoon in the Sonoma plaza. Lieutenant Revere, grandson of the famed Paul Revere, came to Sonoma accompanied by a large party of sailors and marines from the sloop of war Portsmouth, anchored in San Francisco Bay. The military raised the American flag not only in Sonoma, but also in Yerba Buena. Monterey was now in the hands of the Americans as well. So was Bodega Bay.

When Joshua heard General Castro had fled and was headed south, he decided returning home was the wisest thing to do. Upon arriving at his rancho
,
he discovered Sarita gone. The servants said she’d packed up the day he departed for Sonoma and headed for Rancho de los Robles. She’d been there ever since.

With Rachel there as well, Joshua gathered his vaqueros to ride to the Vasquez hacienda. He would take both his wife and daughter back and perhaps end the betrothal agreement between the two families, considering this war would make the Californios a conquered people. Certainly, he could find a better match for his daughter if she hadn’t been ruined by that hot-blooded Spaniard.

Pedro Vasquez owed him more than the family could ever hope to repay. Once the United States was firmly in power and California became a state, he would simply take over Rancho de los Robles with the support of his government and send the Spaniards packing.

When Joshua reached Rancho de los Robles two days later in the heat of the day, he found only three chickens scratching in the sleepy yard and a few dogs barking. He saw none of the valuable palomino herds grazing in the fields near the hacienda as they once had. Only one old vaquero lazed in the shade near the stables when he arrived during the afternoon siesta.

Joshua waited in the yard with his army of mounted vaqueros a long time before Don Pedro, rumpled from sleep, came out onto the veranda to greet him.

“Hello, amigo,” Don Pedro called as if the two were the best of friends.

Without returning the welcome, Joshua stepped down from his horse, and walked up onto the porch. Sweating under his hat and shirt, he did not shake Don Pedro’s hand. “I’ve come for my wife and daughter.”

“Come inside
,
” Don Pedro said with great sadness. “I must tell you what has happened to Sarita.”

Joshua followed Don Pedro out of the heat into the cool of the
sala
. Doña Josefa quietly sewed in the parlor, along with the girls, Maria and Isabella.

Joshua’s gaze lingered on Maria. The redhead refused to look up at him, which rankled him, as it always did. The striking young woman ignored him. He didn’t like it one bit.

“What has happened to my wife?” he demanded to know.

Doña Josefa rose to her feet. “I will bring some wine,” she told Don Pedro, hurrying from the room.

The girls quickly followed the older woman from the
sala
. Joshua was sad to see Maria go. “What is going on? Where is Sarita?”

“She is gone,” Don Pedro said, his face filled with grief.

“Gone where?” Joshua refused the chair Don Pedro offered him.

“When she lost the child, she lost her life. I am sorry, amigo.”

Joshua returned to the chair and sat down with a thud. “What child?”

Don Pedro lowered himself into the chair beside Joshua. “Sarita was with child when she came to us.”

“Where is my daughter?” Joshua’s mind was spinning.

“Roman has taken her to Yerba Buena.”

“Yerba Buena?” Joshua tried his best to recover from the shock of Sarita’s death. This wasn’t the first wife he’d lost. And it was nothing like losing Rachel’s mother—a woman he’d actually loved—but still, it unsettled him. Things had gone sour with Sarita mere days into their marriage. Perhaps it was a relief to come home to find her dead and buried. Now he could start over. This time, he wouldn’t take no for an answer concerning Maria.

Don Pedro tried to explain the journey to Yerba Buena. “Roman believes your daughter will be safer living there with the war going on.”

Joshua scoffed. “California has already lost the war.”

“What do you know of the war?” Don Pedro asked eagerly.

“The United States is winning. Fremont can find no one to fight. A few Californio lancers here and there hiding in the bushes like bobcats. Other than that, the American flag has been run up peacefully all over the province. The Californios are just standing around with their hands under their serapes.”

Don Pedro buried his head in his hands.

“I want the betrothal ended between my daughter and your nephew. Things have changed in California. I do not think my daughter is safe in your nephew’s care
.
I heard he’s been riding with Castro’s forces. Of course you understand, Don Pedro.”

Don Pedro looked up from his hands. “This is not possible. Perhaps they have already married in Yerba Buena. You know a betrothal agreement in California is as binding as the wedding union.”

“Did your nephew defile my daughter?”

“Of course not,” Don Pedro said in outrage. “We are an honorable family. You insult me, Senõr Tyler.”

“Are you certain?”

“Nothing dishonorable has happened in my hacienda.” Don Pedro puffed up like a peacock.

“My wife died in your hacienda. She was young and strong and healthy the last time I saw her. She couldn’t have been far along with child. I don’t understand how a miscarriage killed her.”

“She bled to death. Sometimes these things happen.” Don Pedro arose from his chair to huff around the room.

“You owe me a great deal of money.” Joshua rose from his chair as well. “The way I see it, you also owe me a wife. I am willing to cancel both these debts if you give me Maria.”

Joshua knew it wasn’t the time to ask for the girl with Sarita so recently deceased, but he wasn’t about to wait in the midst of a war. Who knew what would happen to the girl when American soldiers arrived here?

Excitement surged through him. The redhead was several years older now. Certainly old enough to marry, even in her uncle’s drunken estimation. He could smell the brandy wafting off the disheveled old Spaniard. He’d become a worthless drunk.

Don Pedro stood up to accept the wine his wife carried into the room on a wooden platter. “Gracias,” the don mumbled, whipping the wine from his wife’s hands and drinking a full glass without taking a breath.

His plump little wife looked at him sternly, but said nothing. After glancing at Joshua with eyes full of trepidation, the Californiana in black mourning clothes hustled from the room.

Don Pedro handed Joshua a glass of wine and then poured himself another from the decanter. Don Pedro drank that too before returning his attention to Joshua.

“I have been considering a betrothal for Maria,” the Spaniard admitted as if the demise of California lay squarely on his shoulders.

Joshua smiled. “I will personally see that Colonel Fremont and his soldiers do not bother Rancho de los Robles. With Maria at my side, I will guard your land as if it were my very own. You will have no problem with the Americans. I give you my word.”

Don Pedro poured himself more wine before saying, “Then we will draw up the betrothal agreement—”

“There will be no betrothal agreement,” Joshua interrupted him. “Maria will leave with me today. I will marry her the same way my daughter and your nephew are seeking their vows. We will ride to the mission and meet with the padre as soon as possible.”

Don Pedro dropped his wine glass on the pine-planked floor. It shattered, and wine seeped into the wood. “No betrothal?”

“No betrothal,” Joshua said firmly. “We are at war, Don Pedro. I see no need for a Californian betrothal agreement when the California government is fleeing south for Mexico even as we speak.”

“Maria may not accept this marriage,” Don Pedro warned, staring at his broken wine glass, appearing on the verge of weeping.

Joshua placed a condescending arm around the Spaniard’s shoulder. “Come, my old amigo, I want to show you something.” He handed Don Pedro his own full glass of wine as he led the old don out of the
sala
and onto the veranda.

The Spaniard gazed at the army of hard-faced vaqueros mounted on their horses, waiting patiently for their boss in the hot summer sun. Joshua did not employ ordinary vaqueros. These were not tame Indians turned cowboys. They were
mestizos
with long rifles tied to their saddles, along with their ever-present riatas and knifes. Some of the half-breeds even sported pistols strapped to their waists, as did Joshua. These were paid desperados with blood on their hands.

“My own little army,” Joshua spoke softly, almost tenderly to Don Pedro.

The don hung his head in defeat.

“Do not fret, my friend. I will take good care of Maria. Much better care of her than you did Sarita.” Joshua pounded Don Pedro on the back and stepped off the porch with a wide smile. “I have learned a man my age should not leave a bride to go off and fight a war. Let the younger men fight these wars. A man of my years should stay in bed with his wife and produce sons to help in his old age. Tell Maria to pack her belongings. We will depart within the hour.”

Roman, Rachel, Dominic, and two old Indian vaqueros who hadn’t been enlisted into Castro’s army, reached Mission San Francisco Dolores just before sunset on the third day. The mission sprawled at the foot of the eastern side of the mountains skirting San Francisco Bay. A creek flowed through the mission lands providing fresh water, before the stream emptied into the bay three miles from the village of Yerba Buena. Though the church and main buildings remained somewhat maintained, the mission was no longer in service, and the outlying buildings were falling apart.

Roman’s relatives lived in a one room house in one of the rundown squares of the mission. With great delight, they welcomed Roman and his guests into their humble adobe. Several crosses hung on their walls. Their furniture was sparse but well cared for. The place was very peaceful.

“Is there a padre here?” Roman asked after embracing the elderly couple.

Pablo Renaldo, Roman’s great uncle on his mother’s side, shook his white-haired old head. “Only Mormons. These families arrived on the ship
Brooklyn
from New York and had no place to stay. We have given them the mission housing. A priest has not lived here in many years.”

“Is there a padre in Yerba Buena?” Roman asked, feeling a keen disappointment.

“I do not think so.” Pablo looked pensive. “There are many ships in the harbor now. Several days ago, the American flag was raised over the town. Most of our padres have returned to Spain. Why do you need a priest,
mi hijo
?”

Roman ushered Rachel forward. “This is my betrothed, Señorita Rachel Tyler. We long to marry.”

Pablo clapped his gnarled hands in excitement. His shrunken little wife, Teresa, displayed pleasure as well. “We will pray for a priest,” Pablo said with great confidence. “The Lord will provide. Come, you must rest after your long journey.”

“Let me settle the horses and my vaqueros for the night,” Roman said. “Tio, this is my amigo, Dominic Mason. He is like a brother to me. Show Dom and Señorita Rachel into your casa
.
I will return shortly.”

“Behind the church you will find lodging for your men,” Pablo told Roman before he ushered Rachel and Dominic into the small but hospitable house with the delicious smell of onions, garlic, and roasted meat wafting in the air.

That night, Roman and Dominic spread their bedrolls on the house’s earthen floor. Across the room, Rachel slept on Pablo’s pallet beside Teresa. Pablo slept on a serape near the men.

Before settling down for the night, Pablo said a series of long, earnest prayers in Spanish that Rachel and Dominic could not understand. But a spirit of goodwill permeated the dwelling. Everyone did a lot of smiling.

Early the next morning, Roman had everyone mounted on their horses to continue on to Yerba Buena, journeying over rolling sand hills covered in gooseberry and wild currant bushes. Native rosebushes thrived as well, as did scrubby evergreen oak and hawthorn brambles. On the steep ridges of the coast range magnificent redwood trees rustled in the breeze from the bay.

The sun steadily climbed in the sky, the morning clear and beautiful when they reached Yerba Buena. The bay shimmered like sapphires surrounded by wooded hills. Dozens of ships, whalemen, merchantmen, and the U.S. sloop of war Portsmouth, stood at anchor in the harbor, along with a host of smaller crafts. Dominic pointed out his clipper,
The White Swallow
.

“So many ships.” Roman was taken aback. The last time he’d visited Yerba Buena only two trading vessels were in the harbor. Several rocky islands made white by the droppings of waterfowl rose out of the middle of the bay, and beyond the bay, steep hills forested with redwoods rose on the other side of the harbor.