The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  He turned and walked out, and everyone looked at one another, embarrassed for Hugo but also suddenly ashamed to be his guest. “Who was that?” someone asked.

  “Will Lassater,” one man answered quietly. “He’s building a lumber mill up north of here. I’ve been buying lumber from him myself for my construction business. Seems like a pretty good man, been in the business all his life. I read in a newspaper a few days ago that he married Santana Lopez.”

  No one else spoke. They all just stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do. Hugo managed to get to his feet and walk to the table, his face and hand covered with blood. Several of the women looked away. Hugo knew many women were already repulsed by the scar on his head and his partially severed left ear, courtesy of Will Lassater. He picked up a linen napkin and held it to his forehead.

  “You may all…leave,” he said weakly. “I will understand.”

  Several of the men cleared their throats, all thinking the same thing as they helped their wives with their capes and found their top hats. It had been rumored that Hugo Bolivar had shot a man in the back in a duel over Hugo’s then fiancée, Santana Lopez. Apparently, the rumors were true. Now there had been a fire at Lassater’s lumber mill. If Hugo had had the fires set, how could the man be trusted?

  “Listen, Hugo,” said the man who knew Will, “we’ll look into this railroad thing ourselves. There’s plenty of time. Word is Congress is more concerned with growing trouble with the South over tariffs and such than with putting out money to build a railroad.”

  Hugo could feel the change in the air. The women whispered among themselves; the men appeared embarrassed and uncomfortable. By this one act, Will Lassater had gone a long way in destroying his business associations in San Francisco. It would take months, maybe even years, to regain the trust of many of these men. His guests left rather silently, and he stood there alone at the head of the elegantly set dining table. He took the blood-soaked napkin from his forehead and stared at it, still shaken over the feel of the big blade nicking his skin. He gritted his teeth, literally growling with rage.

  “Someday,” he swore. “Someday…Will Lassater and my sweet bitch, Santana, I will find a way to repay you both! I will find a way, and Santana, my little slut, you will wish you had married me after all!”

  Part Two

  Fourteen

  May 1857…

  Will rode as fast as possible, worried he might already be too late for the birth of his first child. He was even more worried that something could happen to Santana. She had not carried the baby well, had started bleeding a month too soon and was forced to lie in bed these last four weeks. He had asked Marcus Enders to stay close the past month, putting him up in a small guest house he had built near his and Santana’s new home. He just hoped the man was sober today. Enders was a good physician when he wasn’t drinking. Will couldn’t completely blame the man for drinking the way he did. He had never gotten over the fact that he hadn’t been able to save his own wife, and Will supposed that if that happened to him, he might drink his life away too.

  He had grown to love Santana much more deeply than he had thought possible. She was attentive, giving, a good helpmate, and smarter and better-schooled than he had realized when he married her. She had made a point to get involved in the lumber business, to learn how it operated, and had even begun helping him keep his books. It had upset her the past month that she couldn’t get out of bed, but a child was more important than the business, and now the baby was finally coming. A messenger had come to get him that morning, having ridden all night. Now it was nightfall again. The baby had probably already been born.

  He wasn’t far from home now, and he did not intend to stop until he got there, even if it meant riding his horse until it dropped. He prayed all had gone well, and wished he had come home a few days earlier, as he’d originally planned. A breakdown of the steam engines that ran his band saws had created big problems with a backup of work, though, and there had been an accident up at the cutting site, a man badly injured.

  The logging camp had grown into a small city, with the saloons and whores that naturally appeared in places where there were a lot of well-paid single men. Will knew Santana was very jealous of the way some of the prostitutes looked at him. “You are a rich and handsome gringo,” she would say. “They want to know what you are like in bed. I can see it in their eyes, but you belong to Santana Maria Chavez de Lassater!” Yes, he belonged to her, and gladly. There wasn’t a woman in that camp who could please him the way Santana did. The beautiful young woman he had married had blossomed into the best wife a man could ask for, and now she would be a mother.

  He finally reached the house, a sprawling stucco home fashioned after the Alcala house. It was built exactly where they had originally planned, high on a hill that overlooked the valley far below. On a clear day they could see the Alcala spread several miles south of them. Besides the house itself, they had built stables, a guest house, and several other outbuildings. Santana insisted on having a number of horses, and Will knew she’d be eager to go riding again, now that the baby had been born.

  He guided his horse around a rose garden to the front of the house, where he quickly dismounted and tied the animal to a hitching post. At Santana’s insistence, the post was made from some of the burned wood from the fire that had destroyed the original house. To her it was a way of saying that nothing was going to stop them. He gave a passing thought to Bolivar, glad that there had been no more trouble from the man. Perhaps there never would be.

  At the door Will stopped to brush remaining sawdust from his shirt and hair, wishing he’d had time to clean up a little. He was sweaty from the hard ride, and still wore his heavy work boots and cotton pants and shirt. He hurried inside the house, where the new cook, a heavyset, aging widow named Anna Martinez, greeted him anxiously. “She is very weak, Senor Lassater. She was in labor much too long. She keeps asking for you.”

  “The baby?”

  “A healthy son, senor.”

  Will closed his eyes and said a quick prayer of thanksgiving. He hurried to the bedroom, one of four. He and Santana had dreamed of filling all three other bedrooms, perhaps even having to add more someday. Right now, though, he wasn’t sure he wanted her or himself to go through this more than once. Knowing what she must have suffered made him feel guilty for making her pregnant. How strange that something so exotically pleasurable could lead to so much agony. It didn’t seem fair that only the woman should suffer labor. He should be suffering some kind of pain too.

  The housemaid they had hired, Ester James, met him at the door. “Mr. Lassater! You’re here at last. The child was slow in coming, but he is a healthy boy. Dr. Enders is still with your wife.” She patted his arm. She was an older woman whose children were already grown. Her husband, Harold, worked at the logging camp, and Will had built a small cabin near the main house where Ester and Harold could stay when Harold came to see her. “I think she will be fine now.”

  Will entered the room and stared at Santana, startled at how gray she looked. Her hair was stuck to her head from sweat. He felt awkward and helpless, wondering if Santana hated him for what she had suffered. Dr. Enders was washing his hands, and Santana lay quiet, looking too still, too ashen. When she opened her eyes and saw him, though, she managed a smile.

  “Will,” she whispered.

  Enders turned to look at him. “At last you’re here. The baby is fine, but Santana is pretty weak.”

  Will blinked, wondering when he would wake up from this strange dream. He walked over to kneel beside Santana, taking her hand. She looked at him with eyes that showed the struggle she had just endured. “It is a boy, a son for my Will.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Thank you, carina mia. I’m so proud, but I’m also so sorry I wasn’t here.”

  “It is all right. He came…a little sooner than…we expected. I would like to call him Glenn…your second name…and Fernando, for my father’s second name. Glenn Fernando Lassater Chavez. He m
ust…have two last names…the Spanish way…his father’s and…his mother’s. All our children must be…named so…to show they are legal…children of honor.”

  Will grinned as he stroked a few strands of her damp hair away from her face. “You and your long names.” He kissed her cheek. “Call him whatever you want. You’re the one who went through hell bringing him into this world.”

  Santana swallowed, licking her dry lips. “We name our children…this way…so that not just the father’s name is honored…but also the mother’s.”

  “And I fully agree that’s how it should be.” He looked at Dr. Enders. “Are you sure she’s going to be all right?”

  “Yes. Why don’t you go take a look at your son and let her rest?”

  Will nodded, still feeling stunned. “Thanks, doctor.”

  The man shrugged. “I guess I’m good for something once in a while.”

  Their eyes held, and Will could see Enders’s pain. He realized how hard it must have been for this man to lose his own wife when he felt he should have done something to save her. Enders nodded toward a cradle, and Will walked over to look at his new son. The boy started crying, healthy squalls coming from a furious little being that probably wanted to go back into the warmth of his mother’s womb. Will had thought he could imagine how it would feel to be a father, but this was unlike any feeling he had ever known…pride, worship, awe, even a little fear. The boy was dark, like his mother, a shock of thick black hair making him look comical. His eyes were blue, and Will wondered if they would stay that way. Santana had often said that she hoped one of her babies would have his blue eyes.

  “There is a letter for you on the dining table, Mr. Lassater,” Ester said as she returned to the room. “A rider from the ranch brought it.”

  Will touched his son’s cheek, marveling at its softness, relieved that the child looked so healthy. After telling Santana he would be right back, he walked out of the room to find the letter. It was from Gerald. He quickly opened it, and the first words tore at his heart.

  Dear brother

  I hate to have to write you with news like this, but our mother passed away…

  His eyes quickly teared, and he couldn’t even read the date. For as long as it would take a letter to get there, his mother had probably been dead for six months already. She had died without his even being aware of it, and he would never see her again.

  He forced back the tears and finished the letter. Ruth Lassater had died October 28, 1856. Here it was May of ’57. He had gone on all this time not realizing his mother had already left this life. If only he could go back to Maine once more, see the old home, see his mother one last time.

  He finished the letter, his son’s bawling filling the house. Gerald planned to sell everything and come to California…finish the dream. He wanted to invest in a fleet of ships, so they could transport their own lumber to distant ports, eliminating shipping fees and middlemen.

  It would be damn good to have Gerald there, to see his brother again, all the family he had left. He hoped Gerald would take the overland route, as he had told him to do when he’d written him after first arriving in California. The voyage by ship was no trip for a woman and children.

  He closed his eyes, memories flooding over him—of a loving father and mother, of things he’d done as a boy, of being tucked in at night by a woman with gentle hands and kind words. What a strange day this had been, new life, a new family in a new land; and now the news of his mother’s death. Part of him wanted to laugh and rejoice over the birth of his son; another part of him needed to weep. His mother’s death seemed to represent the cutting of the last tie to his past, and it hurt. He walked outside and sat down in a wicker chair on the portico, letting the tears come, feeling almost like a little boy needing to be held by his mother. But the little boy was a man now, and he had Santana…and a new son.

  Ester’s voice came from the doorway. “Your wife wants you to come back inside and visit with her and your son.”

  Will nodded without reply, pausing a moment to wipe his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he crunched the letter in his hand and shoved it into his pants pocket. He hurried back into the bedroom, suddenly needing Santana’s love more than ever. In spite of her ordeal, she looked beautiful to him now, lying there with little Glenn wrapped in blankets and nestled in the crook of her arm. Everyone left the room so they could be alone, and Santana frowned when she saw his face.

  “What is it, mi esposo? There is great sorrow in your eyes.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached over to gently hold his son’s tiny hand, thinking how big and calloused his looked next to it. “There was a letter waiting for me,” he answered. “It’s from Gerald.” He closed his eyes. “My mother died, more than six months ago.”

  Santana drew in her breath. “I am so sorry. I know the feeling, but in your case, to be so far away…” She turned her head to kiss her baby’s hair. “Yet this same day…a son is born to you. Life goes on, carino mio. Now you are the father instead of the son. You have a son of your own…and we both love you.”

  He smiled through tears, then turned and lay down on the bed beside her and little Glenn. “Thank God for both of you,” he said, slipping an arm around them. “And in a few months my brother and his family will be here. Gerald is selling everything and coming to California. If he’s coming overland, he’s probably on his way right now.”

  Santana cuddled her baby closer. “Then we must pray for their safety. It will be good for you to be with your brother again.”

  Will raised up on one elbow, touching her face. “You’re a good woman, Santana, and I know you’ll be a wonderful mother. You’re my family now, but it will be good to have Gerald here.”

  He pulled the baby’s blanket away to study the infant, who was sucking on his own fist. “He’s beautiful, Santana. This is a wonderful gift.” He kissed her lightly. “I don’t want you to go through this again too soon. I’d better sleep in a different room at night.”

  “You will do no such thing,” she said. “I do not sleep well when you are not holding me. God will decide when another child comes, not us.”

  Will settled down beside them again. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now I’m just glad you’re both all right. You need to rest. We both do.”

  “Si, my love. Sleep with us for a little while…and be with those who love you. Through us, your mother is still with you.”

  The words were comforting. Will fell asleep remembering another life, another world, another time…gone forever.

  Hugo read the short announcement, brought to his attention by his business partner, Marcos Parales.

  BIRTHS: On May 28 a son was born to lumber baron William Lassater and his wife, Santana Maria Chavez de Lassater, daughter of wealthy landowner Dominic Fernando Chavez Alcala…

  He did not finish the article. He tossed the paper to the floor and walked to a window that looked out over the fast-growing city of San Francisco. Its growth was helping make him richer, but that growth had come because of the Americanos. Until Will Lassater had arrived, Hugo had always welcomed the gringos and their money; but he’d never thought he would lose a woman to one. Will and Santana had been married eighteen months, and still the embarrassment of the loss ate at him. Not just the duel and the shame of his scars, or what Will had done and said in front of his business associates, but also the mere fact that he had stolen Santana. For years he had watched her grow and mature into a deliciously beautiful woman. At night he would dream about how satisfying it would be to break her into womanhood, to own her, to have her on his arm and be the envy of other men. Lassater had destroyed those dreams.

  What irked Hugo even more, though, was Lassater’s success with his lumber mill. Already he was being called a lumber baron. Hugo sniffed. The man was far from matching his own wealth. Still, Hugo had not been able to discourage others from doing business with him, and secretly, ever since Lassater had disrupted his dinner party and threatened him with that dam
n hatchet, he had been afraid of Will Lassater.

  The bastard! It should have been his own son to whom Santana had given birth, not the Americano’s! He still dreamed of getting his revenge on the two of them. He had almost succeeded when he’d had Will’s mill and home set a fire, but he dared not try that again. It hadn’t stopped the man anyhow. But he had to do something to show Will and Santana that he was not afraid, and to remind them that he was still there, still thought about them.

  He grinned. Congratulations! That was what he would do. He would send them a note of congratulations on the birth of their son. It would be a friendly gesture that they could not argue, yet it would irritate Will and make Santana uneasy. They would see the real message, a little reminder that he was still there and still angry. He suspected that would particularly disturb Santana, who had always seemed afraid of him anyway.

  He sat down at his desk, taking out a piece of his finest parchment. He dipped a pen in an inkwell and wrote the note neatly.

  Permitame ser el primero en felicitarle. “Let me be the first to congratulate you,” he repeated aloud, then kept writing, “on the birth of your son. May there be many more. Perhaps one day I will pay you a little visit.” He smiled. That was enough to be friendly, but the last remark would unsettle Santana. He would send a gift with the note.