Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1)

by Paula Scott

  A muscle jerked in Roman’s cheek. His green eyes shone bright as jade as he addressed her. “Lo siento mucho, Yanquia pequeña.”

  There was no regret in his eyes. What she saw there chilled her. Drunkenness allowed the devil an open door to a person’s spirit, her grandfather always said. “Please don’t drink any more,” she whispered, hoping only he could hear her.

  “I will need whiskey when my uncle’s through with me,” he said just as softly. Then raising his voice for everyone to hear, “Won’t I need whiskey, Tio?”

  Don Pedro’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

  “Escort the ladies to their rooms, Rachel.” Her father motioned for Don Pedro and Roman to follow him. The men waited for the women to exit the sala and then trailed the ladies out the door.

  The men headed for her father’s study as she led the ladies down the tiled hallway to the first wing of bedrooms. “Do you know what the men will do in the study?” Rachel hesitantly asked Señora Josefa.

  Before the older woman could respond, the little girl, Isabella interrupted. “They will beat my brother soundly!”

  “Isabella, shush,” Señora Josefa whispered.

  “She’s only telling the truth,” Maria interrupted.

  “You shush too,” Señora Josefa retorted.

  “Roman never drinks wine. Why was he drinking today?” Isabella asked.

  “He doesn’t want to marry Señorita Tyler,” Maria answered. “Our brother is drunk because he’s miserable at the thought of marrying an Americana.”

  “Niñas, enough!” Señora Josefa fanned herself.

  “It’s the truth,” Maria said. “Don’t you think Señorita Tyler should hear the truth, Tia?”

  “I’m sure Señorita Tyler noticed your brother’s misgivings,” Señora Josefa acknowledged.

  “Why wouldn’t Roman want to marry you?” Isabella was practically bouncing up and down. “You’re so beautiful with your fair skin and golden hair. Even the freckles on your nose are pretty.” The little girl wrinkled her own nose, as if freckles were a curse.

  “Thank you.” Rachel felt sick to her stomach. “How will they beat him?” she ventured.

  “With a rod.” Isabella’s blue eyes widened. “A heavy wooden rod that will leave lumps like squirrels on his back. He’ll probably even bleed.”

  “But he’s a grown man.” Rachel stopped walking. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “In California, a child is never too old for discipline,” Señora Josefa explained. “Roman is like a son to us. I have raised him as my own since I married Don Pedro.” She lowered her voice. “His poor, protesting mother was buried by then.”

  “My mother embraced Protestantism before she died.” Maria appeared scandalized, though Rachel sensed the redhead only pretended to be shocked. “An American ship captain and his wife converted my mother. My father threatened to kill the captain before he sailed away. Are you a protester to our religion, Señorita Tyler?” Maria cocked one of those finely arched red brows at her.

  “You may call me Rachel, and I will call you Maria.” She ignored Maria’s question about her faith. Before the priest who married her father returned to Monterey, her father had insisted on a Catholic baptism for her. She signed some church documents, the sign of the cross was made on her forehead with oil by the priest, and then water was poured over the crown of her head. Afterward, she went to her room to sit with her Bible. Being Protestant or Catholic didn’t make a person serve Jesus any more or any less, she’d decided after praying about it. Sin must be forsaken and a life consecrated to the Lord. That’s what mattered to God, not one’s religion. Rachel opened the door to the first bedroom, the one with a large bed intended for a couple.

  “Rachel can’t be Protestant,” said Isabella. “Roman would not marry her if she was a protestor!”

  Señora Josefa looked at Rachel, waiting for her answer. Rachel felt embattled since she still considered herself very much a Protestant, even after her Catholic baptism.

  “You are not a . . . Protestant . . . are you?” Señora Josefa whispered the word while furiously fanning her flushed face.

  “I was baptized Catholic upon coming to California.” Rachel did not want to cause Señora Josefa further distress.

  “Oh, thank the Blessed Mother!” Señora Josefa snapped her fan shut. She smiled and patted Rachel’s cheek. “You will make a fine wife for Roman. He has grown so hard. The Texas war was not good for him. By the grace of God, you will soften him with little ones. He so longs for ninos.”

  Señora Josefa stared lovingly at the little girl now glued to Rachel’s side. “Isabella is our miracle. For years, we had no children. Then one afternoon, Father Renalgo rode up on his donkey to deliver this blue-eyed baby to us. Roman fell in love with her at first sight. Maria was very jealous of her new sister, but Roman dearly loves both of you, doesn’t he, chicas?”

  Isabella nodded in agreement. Maria appeared bored and annoyed, as if she’d heard this adoption story a hundred times and still didn’t fancy it. Rachel was grateful for this insight about her future husband. If he loved children and his sisters, then there must be kindness in him. But why would God yoke her to an unbeliever? A man who touched her so shamefully in his drunkenness, setting her senses afire?

  All her life, she’d dreamed of the man she would one day marry. For years, she thought Steven would be that man. Gentle Steven would never touch her as Roman Vasquez had. Even now, she could feel the heat of his hand running up and down her side, stroking her in places she’d never been stroked, stirring feelings in her that had never been stirred. And that warm, lingering kiss on the inside of her palm. Reprehensible!

  “I hope Roman comes to love you the way he loves me. He loves me more than anyone,” Isabella said with the greatest confidence.

  Rachel swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I hope so too. You may call me Rachel. May I call you Isabella?”

  “Yes, please. Or Izzy, if you wish.”

  Rachel felt the heat of the redhead’s gaze. “Are you afraid of my brother’s bed?” Not an ounce of shame colored her beautiful face. Maria’s features were classic and refined, though her lips curved fuller than most, adding a lushness to her face that was earthy and enchanting. Her eyes were nearly identical to her brother’s. Green, heavily lashed, and striking.

  “Maria!” Señora Josefa snapped the fan against her palm. Rachel thought she might smack the girl on top of the head as she had Roman in the parlor.

  A pout formed on Maria’s mouth. “Do you have a mother?” Maria asked Rachel. Without waiting for her response, she turned to her aunt. “If she doesn’t have a mother, Tia, then you must warn her about the marriage bed. Look at her. Obviously, she knows nothing of men.”

  “The Lord will prepare me for my marriage bed,” Rachel announced with a bravado she didn’t feel.

  “Isn’t that funny? She thinks Dios can prepare her for the marriage bed.” Maria laughed.

  Isabella patted Rachel’s skirt, whispering loudly, “Roman won’t hurt you. He is not like the men who wear out their horses.”

  Though she felt like crying, Rachel smiled down at Isabella. The little minx had quickly become her champion.

  Señora Josefa plopped down on the bed with an exaggerated sigh. “Maria, pull off my boots before my feet swell up. If that happens, they’ll have to bury me in these awful hides.”

  Maria did as she was told, though it was obvious she found the chore utterly distasteful.

  “No more talk of the marriage bed.” Señora Josefa fluffed the pillows behind her head. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas.”

  “Flies do not enter a closed mouth,” Isabella translated for Rachel.

  “Would you like to see yours and Maria’s room?” Rachel asked Isabella. These Californian women were so different than the women she was used to. Never would her grandmother or the ladies of their church have discussed the marriage bed so freely.

  “Can I sleep in your room with
you?” Isabella widened her big blue eyes in sweet appeal. “We are going to be sisters. I sleep with Maria all the time. I want to sleep with you tonight.”

  “Please, Tia Josefa, let Izzy sleep with Rachel. I’m tired of her kicking me all night long. She is such a little goat.” Maria dropped her aunt’s boots on the floor with a thud.

  “It is Señorita Rachel’s decision.” Josefa pointed at the boots. “Tuck those under the bed, mi hija.”

  Maria wrinkled her nose, pushing the boots out of sight with the tips of her own boots.

  “Of course Isabella can sleep with me.” Rachel touched the little girl’s head with tenderness. Isabella reminded her of Molly, only a few years older than the little Irish girl.

  Isabella nestled her small brown hand into Rachel’s and tugged. “Let’s go see your room.”

  Rachel allowed the little girl to lead her down the hall. “Maria calls me little goat. Do you think I have goat ears?”

  Isabella cocked her head, using her free hand to push the long black hair away from a little ear for inspection.

  “I think you have lovely ears.” The child had perfect ears. Like little seashells.

  “I think my ears are nice too.” Isabella giggled happily. “Maria will end up eating with pigs. I know she will.”

  “Why do you say such a thing about your sister?”

  “Because people reap what they sow. Maria is always sowing slop, so she will reap slop one day.”

  “That expression is from the Bible. Do you read the Bible?”

  “The padres read the Bible during Mass. I don’t like going to Mass.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Señora Poppycock is not welcome at Mass.”

  “Who is Señora Poppycock?”

  “My chicken.”

  “You have a chicken?”

  “Oh yes, and she is beautiful and smart and eats flies off the wall. When you come to live with us, I will bring her to your room so she can eat up all the flies, and then they won’t bother you.”

  “That will be wonderful.” Despite her anxiety over her betrothal, Rachel couldn’t help but smile, enjoying Isabella’s company very much.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rosa massaged the herbs and oil into Roman’s lacerated back. He didn’t talk or make any sound as she dressed his wounds, but he drank all the patrón’s whiskey she’d brought along to take the edge off his pain. Never had Rosa seen such a magnificent man, nor one so harshly flogged. He thanked her with a grateful smile, flashing perfect white teeth when she finished attending him, then he rose from the wooden chair he’d straddled while she ministered to his wounds and lay down on the bed with only his pants on. He appeared to already be asleep when she departed. After quietly closing his door, Rosa nearly screamed out loud, coming face-to-face with Sarita.

  “Silencio,” Sarita hissed, calling Rosa a terrible name as well.

  Rosa crossed herself, backing away from the woman. “You must give me Señorita Tyler’s hair,” Rosa demanded in a trembling voice.

  Sarita laughed, making a growling sound that unnerved Rosa. “I will use the Yanquia’s hair to worship Tohic when the new moon rises.”

  Rosa made the sign of the cross again. “I will tell the patrón,” she threatened.

  “Tell him.” Sarita smiled, eyes black and hard as onyx. “I will steal his hair and yours too and offer it all to Tohic if you don’t stay out of my way, you stupid fool.”

  “Why did you come here?” Rosa kept her voice low so as not to disturb her patient on the other side of the door. Rachel’s betrothed had been placed in the mayordomo’s quarters behind the sprawling redwood stables outside the hacienda’s walls until he sobered up.

  “I have come to attend his wounds.” Sarita held up a deerskin pouch that was bloodstained. Rosa shuttered at the thought of what might be in that bag.

  “I have already attended Señorita Rachel’s betrothed.” Rosa mustered all her courage. “He does not need your help.”

  The señora’s eyes grew even blacker, if that were possible, narrowing in fury. “Roman Vasquez belongs to me. He has always been mine. He will always be mine.” Glaring a warning at the servant, Sarita pushed past her, cracking open the mayordomo’s door. “If you tell anyone I was here, I will have you killed.” Slipping into the room, the señora shut the door in Rosa’s face.

  Rosa made the sign of the cross again as she hurried back to the hacienda. Poor Señorita Rachel, an innocent angel tangled in that witch’s web. Knowing the señora probably would not return to the hacienda for some time, Rosa hurried to Sarita’s room and frantically searched for Rachel’s hair. She found charms and woodpecker feathers and numerous herbs, sinister little carvings of animal figures and evil faces, and tiny woven medicine baskets made by Indian women, but not a lock of blond hair.

  Distraught and discouraged, she considered going to the patrón, but she didn’t want to attend to his desires if he happened to be in the mood. After years with him, Rosa knew he was not in the least superstitious. Informing Joshua that his wife was a witch would do no good. But if she told him about Sarita in Rachel’s betrothed’s room, certainly that would stir up enough trouble to keep the señora from casting her spells right now, but who knew where this telling would lead?

  Rosa still hoped she could return to Monterey and the little red tile-roofed house he had built for her there this past winter as he planned his wedding. Upon giving the situation more thought, Rosa decided to return to Señorita Rachel to help her dress for tonight’s celebration without saying anything to anyone. She was a servant after all, and servants kept their mouths shut and did as they were told.

  The siesta was nearly over. Soon it would be time to prepare for the evening activities. After she arrived at the señorita’s room, Rosa helped Rachel into a corset and petticoat, though the women of California rarely wore corsets these days. The peacock-blue silk gown with its scooped neckline and laced-up bodice made the most of Rachel’s slender curves. The girl’s long hair tumbled in golden waves to her waist. Washed and dried now, Rosa brushed the beautiful hair till it shone like sunshine, then pinned it up in artful curls. Thankfully, Señorita Rachel didn’t press her for any information about her betrothed. Rosa’s thoughts swirled about what she could do to help her young charge, but nothing came to mind that would protect the patrόn’s daughter from the wicked woman he’d married.

  # # #

  “You missed Rachel’s singing. You must hear her sing,” Isabella said excitedly upon Roman’s arrival that night at the family’s fiesta. His sister tugged him farther into the courtyard lit by candle lanterns. A table laden with food filled the air with the smells of a feast, but he wasn’t hungry and made no pretense of wanting to be there, resisting Isabella’s pleas to go see Rachel. He’d only come because Tio Pedro insisted on it.

  Isabella finally gave up trying to drag him over to where Rachel stood near the musicians and instead rushed over to Rachel’s side. After pleading with her to sing again— without success, it appeared from Roman’s vantage point, Isabella scampered over to Tio Pedro and Joshua Tyler, who were smoking cigarillos and drinking brandy where they sat in two carved wooden chairs probably carried out from the house into the courtyard.

  Hands on hips, Isabella planted herself before the two men. That determined look was on her little face that Roman knew all too well. He couldn’t make out the words she said, but he had an idea of what she told them.

  Tio Pedro crushed out his cigarillo, and Joshua Tyler did the same. “Have you asked her to sing?” Tyler’s voice rang out loud enough for all to hear.

  Isabella answered him, but Roman couldn’t hear what she said. He’d retired to the darkest corner of the courtyard, planting himself against a cool adobe wall where he set about lighting his own cigarillo.

  After speaking with Isabella, Joshua Tyler walked over to his daughter, who was standing with the Indian musicians. She did not look comfortable there. She looked like he felt, forced into something ne
ither of them wanted.

  Isabella bounced back over to where he sat on the cobblestones, leaning gingerly against the wall. “I am sleeping in Rachel’s room tonight,” she teased. “Don’t you wish you were me, hermano?”

  “You should not talk of things you don’t understand, pequeña. And look, you got Rachel in trouble with her padre.” Roman pointed to Tyler chastising his daughter now.

  A hurt look on her face, Isabella flounced away.

  It wasn’t long before the fiesta quieted as Rachel stepped into the middle of the courtyard once more. The Indians strummed the violins, softly, slowly, and then stronger, with the guitar joining in as Rachel began to sing.

  Isabella skipped back over to Roman, crawling up into his lap. Roman crushed out his cigarillo. He did not wish to smoke in front of his sisters, for he did not want them taking up the habit like some women did.

  “Isn’t Rachel’s singing beautiful? She sings like a bird. A nightingale, I think.”

  He said nothing.

  “I feel like weeping when she sings. Do you not feel like weeping?” Isabella leaned against Roman’s chest. He flinched as her weight pressed his injured back into the hard adobe bricks. He didn’t take his eyes off of Rachel.

  “You smell funny,” Isabella announced. “You smell like a woman.”

  “It’s medicine. Sit still, Izzy, you’re hurting my back.”

  “You smell like perfume,” she accused.

  “If you don’t like how I smell, go sit somewhere else.”

  Isabella pressed her warm little body snugly against his. “No, I like sitting on you, hermano.”

  The two listened to the rest of Rachel’s song in silence. When she finished singing, Rachel left the courtyard with her head bowed. Roman sensed her defeat. Her haunting song continued to ring in his ears. She really did have the sweetest voice he’d ever heard. He stood up, dumping Isabella onto her own two feet.

  “Where are you going?” Isabella asked.

  “Isn’t it your bedtime yet?”

  “I’ll go to bed when Rachel goes to bed. I’m sleeping with her tonight.”