Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1)

by Paula Scott

  “I am not ready for a wife, Tio.”

  “The match is already set. You will sign the betrothal papers when you meet your novia in a fortnight,” Tio Pedro said quietly.

  “Two weeks?” Roman ran a hand through his hair again. No matter how much he hated it, Tio Pedro ruled the Vasquez family. Roman prided himself on being a Californio. Arranged marriages were the Californio way. Yet he never thought Tio would interfere in matters of the heart this way.

  “You are like my son, Roman. I have raised you as my own since your father died, the Blessed Mother rest his soul. I love you, and I have prepared a good marriage for you.”

  “Who is she that her family can safeguard our land?” To his own ears, his voice sounded calm. Inside, he was coming apart.

  “She is an Americana. You will meet her when we sign the betrothal papers. I’m sorry, Roman. It was you or Maria who must marry into an influential family. I thought you would rather be the sacrificial lamb than your sister. Maria is young and spoiled. She would not fare well in a marriage with a foreigner.”

  Roman could no longer stand to look at his uncle’s puffy face. Disgust rioted through him. Rancho de los Robles deserved better than this union with the Yankees. A sudden realization hit him. His uncle must be indebted. “How much do you owe this Yankee?”

  “More than you could imagine, mi hijo.”

  “Monte?”

  “And horse racing and cockfighting and . . . the Yankee always wins,” Tio Pedro said dismally.

  Roman raised his hand to silence him. “Don’t tell me more. You are not the only Californio sick with this disease of gambling. Why, Tio? Why did you bet with an Americano?”

  “I wanted to take from the gringo.” Tio Pedro smiled wistfully. “Why take from my Californio brothers when I can take from a Yankee?”

  Tio Pedro turned his horse toward the hacienda. It was several hours away. “I have become an old man. I cannot ride with our vaqueros the way I used to.” Tio Pedro maneuvered his horse next to Roman’s mount. “I’ve never seen men take the way the Americanos take. The Yankees are wolves at our door.” Tio Pedro shook his head. “I pray your gringa wife protects us when war comes here.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The guests in their finest Californian clothes arrived on golden horses accompanied by a sea of servants and Indian vaqueros. A red-haired young woman in the party captured Rachel’s rapt attention. She stood out amongst her dark-haired family like a lamp burning at midnight. Though, like the other women, she rode sidesaddle, she handled her prancing palomino like a vaquero. A richly garbed younger girl rode beside her on a smaller palomino, a large pony, really. Never had Rachel seen such a magnificent sight. All these golden horses and the striking redhead so sure of herself in the midst of that parade of splendor.

  “Maria Vasquez, my fair cousin.” Sarita stepped up behind Rachel on the second-story porch that looked out over the front yard filled with guests. “I hate her.”

  Rachel moved aside to let Sarita swoosh past on the balcony. Her stepmother’s gaze tore through the crowd, her fingers clawing the wooden railing. “He’s not there,” she breathed. Then more confidently, “He hasn’t come.” She gave Rachel a triumphant smile, her ebony eyes blazing with contempt.

  Under Sarita’s unexpected wrath, Rachel found it hard to breathe. Her heart began to gallop in terrified anticipation of meeting her betrothed. Her father had told her so little about him, only that he was a neighboring rancher and nearer her age than his. She didn’t even know her Californian fiancé’s name. For weeks, she’d wondered how God could allow this to happen when she loved Steven. And even now he waited for her in Boston with the confidence they would wed one day.

  Sarita waved to a plump, older woman riding beside an even heavier man on matching palominos. They rode their golden horses regally, dressed in the traditional Californian fashion alongside the red-haired beauty and the pretty little raven-haired girl on her pony. Sarita’s animosity crouched like a living thing between them on the balcony. Rachel chose her words carefully. “My father arranged this match for me. I had no choice in the matter. I don’t even know who my future husband is.”

  “He is my cousin.” Sarita’s crimson dress clung to her generous curves and accentuated her wasp-like waist. Her eyes appeared so black and soulless Rachel could not make out where the pupils ended and the irises began. “Your father is a fool. He will pay for his folly and so will you.” Sarita reached out and yanked a handful of hair out of Rachel’s head as she strode off the balcony.

  Rachel stumbled back, holding her injured scalp.

  Rosa hurried out onto the balcony, looking after Sarita and the strands of blond hair hanging from her fist.

  Rachel blinked away tears. “She pulled my hair for no reason.”

  “Oh no, chica.” Rosa covered her mouth with her hand, eyes big as copper coins. “She has a reason. A very bad reason. I must retrieve that hair from her.” Rosa rushed away, leaving Rachel even more confused.

  Below, her father greeted his guests as they dismounted their horses near the front door. Should she tell him Sarita had just attacked her and that his mistress was chasing after his wife, trying to retrieve his daughter’s hair? What a disaster. Of course she couldn’t tell her father this. In a short while, he expected to find her in the parlor, politely pouring wine for his guests. Apprehension filled her, and she could hardly swallow.

  A soft, warm breeze rustled her skirts as she watched the vaqueros gather up the golden horses. The redhead’s mount balked when the girl turned the reins over to an Indian cowboy. The horse reared on its hind legs, pawing the air in fiery defiance. The redhead impatiently yanked the reins from the vaquero’s hands and led the agitated horse toward the redwood stables herself, though the plump, older couple called after her to give the horse to the vaquero. The girl ignored them, continuing on to the stables with the vaquero trailing after her.

  Rachel’s father stood with the Californian couple, watching the redhead. The unbridled interest on her father’s face sickened Rachel.

  So much lust in this land. Everyone hungry for everything but God. She walked from the balcony and returned to her room, where she knelt beside her bed. Strengthen me, Lord, to fulfill the purposes you have for me here.

  Roman Vasquez tumbled into her thoughts, as he often had of late at the oddest moments. Especially before she went to sleep and when she first awakened in the morning, she found herself praying for him. The man who captured bears single-handedly and questioned her about God and made her knees tremble with fear and something else she wouldn’t name.

  She wondered if he’d recovered from the infection in his leg. She’d asked Jesus to heal him and kept thinking about how he had gently comforted her after the dreadful bear and bull fight. The memory of his hand on hers as they stroked the horse together sent warmth throughout her. The heat settled in her face, making her cheeks burn. Pleasure had filled her at his surprisingly tender touch that day. What was he searching for? A woman’s kindness? A woman’s gentleness? Perhaps a woman’s love?

  She stopped the thought right there. Steven’s face rose before her. And then the unknown face of the man her father had chosen for her to marry. Dread flooded her. Help me, Lord. Please help me. I’m afraid of meeting him.

  As she prayed, Rosa burst into the room as flustered as when she’d bolted after Sarita thirty minutes earlier. “I could not find the señora. She has taken your hair and vanished!”

  Rosa draped a crude wooden rosary around Rachel’s neck. “You must wear this now for protection.”

  Rachel removed the beads and crucifix. “This is but a necklace. It cannot protect me, Rosa.”

  “Do not say that, señorita!” Rosa attempted to replace the rosary around her neck. “You must wear it until I find the hair she took from you. Hair is used for spells. That one, she is a witch! I see the dark calling in her eyes. She worships the evil one.”

  Rachel shook her head. “God is sovereign. The devil can onl
y do what God allows him to do. I was told you cannot wear a rosary around your neck. It is only for prayer to be held in your hands.”

  “Dios wants you to wear the rosary. The evil one is afraid of the rosary! My mother told me so,” Rosa pleaded.

  Rachel handed the rosary back to her. “This is made of wood. It cannot protect me from evil.”

  Rosa wrung her hands. “Please, chica, keep it. Sleep with it under your pillow if you will not wear it.”

  “Will it make you feel better if I sleep with it?”

  “Yes.” Rosa appeared on the verge of tears. Rachel had never seen her flustered like this before.

  “I will put it under my pillow right now.” She walked over and tucked the rosary under her bedding. “Now I’d best go to the parlor. My father wants me to pour wine for the guests.”

  Rosa tried to smile, but her eyes remained frightened. “When the evening is over, I will check on you. And I will pray as you meet your betrothed for the first time. He is a sight for sore eyes, as your father likes to say.”

  “I have seen no man who could be my betrothed amongst the guests who arrived a while ago.”

  “He just rode in on a golden stallion. He rides like the devil but looks like an avenging angel. Never have I seen such a man.” The smile trembled on Rosa’s lips.

  “Will you help me dress?” Rachel held out shaking hands. “I’m so nervous I can’t see straight. What if my betrothed is cruel and proud and fierce?”

  “He does not look cruel. But proud and fierce, yes. I will pray for you.” Rosa began to unhook the buttons on Rachel’s day dress and assisted her as she donned a quilted pink petticoat and a delicate corset with sixty linen stays. After lacing her up tight, Rosa slipped a delicate rose-colored silk gown with vanilla lace trim over her head. Then she piled Rachel’s hair in soft ringlets that spilled down her back. “You look like a European princess. How beautiful you are, chica.”

  “I feel exposed in this dress.” Rachel tried to pull up the neckline where the lacy corset enhanced her cleavage.

  “Men like exposure.” Rosa attempted another smile, but her eyes brimmed with worry. “I’m sure your betrothed will find you irresistible.”

  “The men I’m accustomed to prefer modest attire and do not ride golden stallions. My grandfather and Steven would be shocked to see me in this gown.” Her heart ached thinking of Steven. What would he do when her letter reached him? It had taken her days and countless tears to write it.

  Rosa nodded in sympathy and then pushed her from the room. “Go. Your padre is not a patient man.”

  Rachel adjusted her bodice again as she walked down the hall, her nerves and the snug corset making it hard to breathe. Glancing down into the valley of the gown’s neckline, her cheeks caught fire. She had gained some of the curves back she’d lost during her sickness on the ship. Never would she look like Sarita, with her voluptuous figure, but at least she no longer resembled a boy.

  Aside from the low neckline, this really was an exquisite gown of silk and lace. She did feel womanly in it. The dress was truly beautiful. Remembering her time on the ship making gowns for Molly, she realized Molly would have loved this dress the color of her rosy, rounded little cheeks.

  For the hundredth time, she wondered how Molly and Anne were faring in Monterey. Had they stayed in the seaside village? Had they found Molly’s father? If no other good came of this journey to California—the startling loss of Steven, the uncertain future she now faced married to a stranger—at least Molly and Anne were alive and facing a fresh start in the pretty pueblo town.

  There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend. The thought strengthened her as she approached the sala. She wasn’t dying, but marrying someone other than Steven felt like a death.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Her father and another man waited near the sala door both extravagantly dressed in short embroidered jackets and fine knee-length, velvet britches favored by California dons. Elaborately stitched deerskin boots adorned the men’s feet. Their conversation ceased as Rachel stepped into the long room designed for entertaining guests. In the corner of the sala, a man slouched in one of her father’s carved mahogany chairs. Dressed like a vaquero, he was in the middle of downing a glass of wine. Recognizing his ebony hair, his startling light eyes in his deeply tanned face, that big, strong body with weapons tucked into his belt, she stopped cold.

  The red-haired girl beside him drank wine as well. Up close, she looked younger. And petulant. Again, Rachel was struck by her beauty and boldness, but not nearly as struck as she was by the man sitting beside her.

  Roman Vasquez.

  His long legs were stretched out before him, his dusty, spur-strapped boots propped on one of her father’s expensive rugs. Rugs were a rarity due to the fleas in California. Her father often had his rugs hauled out of the hacienda and beaten in the yard by the servants to keep them pest free. Beside them sat the older woman Sarita had waved to from the balcony. Short and round like her husband, the older woman smiled when Rachel arrived. She held the hand of the little girl, who smiled too, a bit shyly but with a vivacious sparkle in her eyes. The girl was quite pretty with blue-black hair, dusky skin, and a delicate build, but it was her eyes, a startling crystalline blue, that surprised Rachel. Clearly, the child was of mixed heritage.

  “Rachel,” said her father, his voice laced with reproach. “It is well you have finally graced us with your presence.”

  The plump Californio gentleman stepped forward to take her hand. “Señorita Tyler, you are well worth the wait. I am Don Pedro, and your beauty has vastly exceeded my expectations. Your hair is the color of Rancho de los Robles’s horses and your eyes as blue as Monterey Bay.” The don’s ample cheeks puffed with his heavy breathing as he kissed the back of her hand.

  In the corner, Roman Vasquez slowly clapped his hands, applauding the older man’s introduction. His rudeness startled the sweating don leaning over Rachel’s hand. The redhead laughed, muffling the giggle when the older woman rebuked her with her gaze. The older woman then tapped Roman on the head with the fan she held in her hand. She said something in Spanish that Rachel didn’t understand.

  Roman slowly got to his feet, swaying as he rose from his chair. He shoved his empty glass at the redhead and then made his way across the parlor, walking a crooked line that led to Rachel.

  “Señor Vasquez,” she said cautiously, confused by his behavior.

  “Chiquita Yanquia . . . like my uncle says . . . you are as beautiful as my horse.” He made a sweeping bow, staggering as he did so.

  Both girls giggled; the redhead no longer bothering to stifle her mirth when the older woman glared at her. The blue-eyed girl laughed behind hands cupped over her rosy mouth.

  “Roman Miguel Vicente Ramon Vasquez,” Don Pedro said sharply. “You will address your betrothed as Señorita Tyler. And you will cease with this atrocious behavior at once!”

  Roman captured Rachel’s hand. His eyes, a startling green in his deeply tanned face, shone unnaturally bright and bloodshot. Instead of kissing the back of her hand as the plump man had, he turned her hand over and kissed the open palm, the very center of it, his lips searing all the way to her soul.

  Horrified, she attempted to jerk her hand away.

  “Enough, Roman.” Don Pedro tried to step between them, but Roman moved with surprising swiftness, sweeping her against his body while stepping beyond the older gentleman’s reach. She lost her breath as he tucked her roughly against his hard frame. He’d gained muscle since she’d last seen him, and his strength astonished her.

  “My novia and I are well acquainted. I have seen her naked knees.” Roman ran his hand along Rachel’s cinched waist, then down over her hip with shocking intimacy.

  Appalled, she attempted to move away from him, which only caused him to tighten his grip on her. “Drunkenness is a sin,” she hissed in his ear, struggling to free herself of his viselike hold.

  “One of my many sins, my protestin
g little dove.” He gave her waist a rakish squeeze as he grinned at her.

  “Let’s get on with signing the betrothal papers so we can all enjoy the celebration as much as my future son-in-law already has.” Her father walked to the table where the engagement papers were laid out on the polished mahogany wood.

  Don Pedro motioned for Roman to do the same. For a moment, Rachel thought he would resist, but instead, he released her and approached the table. Don Pedro offered his arm to her like a gentleman. His brown eyes extended a wordless apology.

  Gratefully, she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed him to escort her the short distance across the sala to the table. She did not trust her shaking limbs to carry her there alone.

  Roman signed first, dipping his quill in the ink and scrawling his name in a bold flourish. Rachel concentrated hard to put her signature beside his, her hands trembling as badly as her legs.

  Then her father poured everyone more wine and toasted the engagement. “To a grand alliance and grandsons,” he said with a smile.

  The Vasquezes emptied their glasses, all except Roman. He refused to participate in the toast. Rachel’s glass also remained untouched.

  Her father set his glass on the table beside the sealed betrothal agreement. “I have arranged a private fiesta for tonight. My daughter has agreed to sing for us. She has the most beautiful voice. But first we will take a siesta, as the ladies need time to refresh themselves after their travel.

  “Rachel, escort Señora Josefa, Señorita Maria, and Señorita Isabella to their rooms,” her father commanded.

  “Certainly.” Rachel did not like the way her father’s gaze lingered on the red-haired Maria.

  “My study is open for you,” her father told Don Pedro. “I will send a servant to you shortly with the article you requested.”

  “Thank you.” Don Pedro looked grimly determined. “Roman, you will apologize to your betrothed for your shameful behavior before she departs.”