Everyone thought she was simply taking her father’s death harder than expected. They fussed over her, all of them so kind. If only they knew, she thought. How would they feel about her then? What would they think? Would they call her a harlot?
The days slipped by, and the only thing that helped her back to reality, the only thing that forced her onto her feet and into her normal routine was the children—her precious babies, who were innocent of what had happened to her. They needed their mother, and her love for them gave her enough strength to go on. She took them home, home to the house where she had known so much happiness with Will. Perhaps there she could find some peace, find herself, pretend that nothing had happened.
Pretend. That was what life would be for her from now on. Still, the pretending would be easier if not for the fact that three more weeks slipped by…past the time when she should have had her monthly. The fear of pregnancy terrified her so that she could not eat. Sleep would not come, and she began plotting how she would approach Dr. Enders to ask him how she could abort the child. She had no choice. She could never explain the pregnancy to Will. She did not want to tell Enders, but what else could she do?
The day finally came when she made up her mind. She would visit Hernando, and while she was there she would find Enders and tell him what she wanted done. She could not send for him to come up to her own house, for Hernando would know she had sent for the doctor, and he would wonder why. No one must know she had seen him at all.
She dressed herself in soft blue, deciding that since she was only visiting her brother and would not be seen in public, she need not wear her mourning black. She put on a lovely little hat, needing to look pretty, continuing her display of pretended normalcy, the pretense not just for others, but for herself. Yes, she was fine now. She would show everyone that she was recovering, getting over her loss, getting back to her old self. She would talk about Will and how she expected him home any day. She would forget what had happened to her. Once she aborted the baby, she would be rid of the rape. She would put it out of her mind.
Yes, she could do that. She dressed the children and asked a hired hand to hitch the carriage. She would go and see Agatha. Maybe she would like to go visiting with her. The thought brought another little ache. She so needed to tell another woman what had happened, ask her advice, cry on her shoulder. An abortion was a horrible thing, a terrible sin for a Catholic woman; but here was something else she would have to bear alone. She could never explain this to Agatha or Teresa. She was too afraid they would not understand. If she lost their love and friendship, she truly could not bear to go on living.
No. There was no one with whom she could share this. Enders would be the only one to know, and since he was not family, it didn’t matter so much what he thought. He would never tell anyone. She trusted him that much.
She gathered the children and herded them outside, preparing to climb into the carriage. Before she did so, she hesitated, her heart beginning to beat faster with new hope. Someone was riding up the roadway toward the house, someone familiar. He was mounted on one of her father’s fine Palominos, and the way he rode…
“Will!” she whispered. Could it be? She told the driver to watch the children for a moment, and walked down the drive that led to the house. The horse and its rider came closer. The horse stopped, then the rider kicked it into a hard run.
“Dear God. Dear God,” Santana murmured. It was him. It was Will!
He reached her, and there was no time for questions, or for wondering what she would do now about the life that was growing inside her. There was time only for realizing her beloved was really there. Home! Alive! He dismounted and walked toward her on two legs, embraced her with two arms. He had not come back with some ghastly wound like the ones she had seen on some veterans in San Francisco. He was there, holding her, embracing her in those familiar arms, enfolding her in his love. Oh, how she needed this!
“Will,” she cried, “Carino mio!” She broke into uncontrolled sobbing, and he cried right along with her.
“Santana,” he whispered. “My beautiful Santana.”
Twenty-Three
“I rented a carriage out of San Francisco to your father’s house. I’ve seen Hernando. He told me about Dominic. Oh, Santana, I’m so sorry. It must have been so terrible for you, not knowing what had happened to me.”
Will continued to cling to Santana, hardly able to believe that after three and a half years he was holding her again, feeling her against him, smelling her familiar scent. “What you must have suffered while I was away, raising the children alone, losing your father…”
Hugo Bolivar raped me, Will! What am I to do? I am no longer just yours. All Santana could do was weep and hold him. Even if she were able to tell him, which she knew she never would be, how could she do so at this special moment? How could she tell this man such a thing, when she didn’t even know what he had been through himself? It was too wonderful for now that he was home, alive, in one piece. He was too happy to be there. She could not tell him such an awful thing. Perhaps, now that he was home, she could begin to erase the memory, to get back to the work of pretending it never happened—except for one thing. She could already be carrying Hugo’s baby. She had been on her way to see Dr. Enders about an abortion. What was she to do now?
Somehow, though, with Will’s arms around her, even that didn’t matter. She heard the children coming, eight-year-old Glenn shouting “Padre!”
“Oh, my God, Santana, is that Glenn?” He let go of her for a moment, fresh tears in his eyes at the sight of his children. Glenn leaped into his arms, and six-year-old Ruth and four-year-old Dominic jumped up and down, neither of them remembering their father well, but realizing this was he. Santana had talked about him every single day and had kept his memory as alive as if he had only been gone a day. Little Juan, just over two and a half, hung back, staring at the stranger who was hugging his mother and siblings, not so sure about this man the others called padre. He frowned, pursing his lips, deciding he would not like his padre right away. After all, the man was hugging his mother, and he didn’t like that. He wanted all her affection to be spent only on himself.
For several minutes Will exclaimed over his children. He could hardly believe how they had changed, and realized what he had missed. With children, even a few weeks was too long to be away. They grew and changed and learned new things so quickly. He hugged each child, promising never to leave them again. Finally he noticed a small boy standing a few feet away, watching him with beautiful dark eyes and a pout. He frowned, letting go of young Dominic. “And who is this? Does he belong to one of the help?”
Santana walked over and picked the boy up, and carried him over to his father. “This is Juan Santos Lassater Chavez, your son. He is two years and nine months old, and he was born exactly nine months after you left.”
A look of astonishment came into Will’s eyes, and he reached out to touch the still-frowning boy’s chubby fist. “Dear God!” He glanced at Santana, then studied his son again, a new pride welling in his soul. All this time he’d had four children, not three. Here was a child he had never known, never seen as a newborn, never watched learn to walk, say his first words. He reached out for him, but the boy was reluctant to go to him.
“This is your padre, Juan,” Santana told him gently. “It’s all right. This is your father, and he loves you. He wants to hold you.”
Juan just pouted more, putting his head on his mother’s shoulder and wrapping his little arms around her neck. Will felt sick inside to realize he was a stranger to his own son. Santana patted Juan’s bottom, feeling sorry for the look on Will’s face. “He will get used to you. You have to understand he is just a baby yet, and he has never seen you before. When he sees the other children playing with you and being close to you for a few days, he will come to you too.”
Will picked up Dominic again, reaching out with his other hand to touch Juan’s back. “He’s beautiful, Santana.” He studied his wife, this woman who h
ad waited so faithfully. She was more beautiful than he remembered, still shapely in spite of four children, still carrying that air of elegance and high-born pride. Her light blue dress made her skin look darker, creamier. Anyone who did not know her would never guess she was almost twenty-eight years old. She looked much younger, a woman who carried her years and her burdens well. Still, there was something in her eyes he had not seen before, a deep tragedy. He assumed it was because of her father’s recent death and the loneliness she had suffered while he was gone. And she was too thin. She probably had not had much of an appetite since Dominic’s death.
They held each other’s gaze, both realizing there was so much to talk about, so much time to make up for. Then Santana turned and began walking toward the house, Will beside her, the children running and laughing in front of them.
A plan began to form in Santana’s mind, a plan to forever mask the horror that lived deep in her soul, and that would give her an explanation for the baby she feared she was already carrying. Much as she dreaded the thought of being touched by even her own husband, perhaps, if he was well enough and needed her that way…Yes, that could be her answer. She could say the baby was Will’s. The child would most certainly be dark, but then so were their other four children. Will would think nothing of it. Rather than commit the atrocious sin of aborting a child, she could keep it and say it was Will’s. Perhaps, somehow, she could learn to love it. After all, the child was innocent, was it not? How could she blame a baby for how it was conceived? Still, that was exactly what she was doing. She hated the life inside her, hated its father with even more passion than she loved her own husband and children.
Will put an arm around her shoulders. “I have so much to tell you, Santana. The war was more hideous than I could ever explain. I spent the last year in a prison camp. That’s why I couldn’t write you.”
She stopped and looked at him, truly taking inventory of him for the first time, now that the initial shock and tears were over. So thin! He looked so much older than his thirty-seven years. He wore simple cotton pants and shirt, and she noticed he had brought with him only a small leather bag of personals. “You have suffered much,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.” She wanted to hate him for leaving her, for what she had suffered from Hugo, but there was something terrible in those blue eyes, something that went deeper than the horrors he had seen in the war and what he had suffered in the prison camp. A thought suddenly struck her, and she drew in her breath. “It’s Gerald, isn’t it?”
Will looked away. “He’s dead.”
“Dear God.” Santana moaned. “This will kill Agatha! I am so sorry, carino mio!”
Will turned to watch the children run and play. How could he tell her the truth about how his brother had died? Gerald hadn’t wanted anyone to know, certainly not Agatha, not his family. “He was part of Sherman’s march through Georgia,” he lied. “Some sniper shot him. I, uh, I managed to find out what happened to him after I was finally freed from prison. I have the—” He hesitated, pain ripping through his insides at the memory of his brother’s last moments. “I have the pocketknife our father gave him. Maybe Aggie can give it to James.”
Santana wondered how much more sorrow she could withstand. They had all been so happy before Will and Gerald left. Now there were these lost years that they could never get back; Gerald would never come home; and Hugo had stolen something precious from her, a part of her that had always belonged to Will. Life could never be the same.
“You were right, Santana,” he said, his voice broken. “It was a stupid, useless war. It should never have happened. If the South had not been so damn stubborn, if men could just have sat down and worked it out without all the bloodshed…” He sighed. “I could never begin to tell you all of it. There are no words to describe what I’ve seen, or the devastation the South has suffered. It will take them a lifetime to rebuild, a lifetime to get over the loss…and the hatred will prevail for years to come. We’ve saved the Union, but the price was high, and for many in the South, they will never be a part of the United States.”
He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, thinking about Tim, poor Tim. He was glad he had at least been able to give the boy friendship and support while at the prison. Someday he would have to tell Santana about the young man who’d helped him keep his own sanity.
“Still, after what I went through at that prison,” he continued, “as much as part of me has to feel sorry for what has happened, I can’t help harboring a lot of hatred myself. Part of me says they deserve everything that happens to them. They deserve to suffer. They asked for this, and now they’ll pay. But so many of them are just innocent citizens who never wanted this war.”
Santana hoisted Juan over to one arm and put her other arm around Will. “There will be plenty of time to talk about it. For now we will just enjoy the fact that you are home and did not suffer some terrible injury. You need time to grieve for Gerald. We both need time to grieve, for your brother, for my father, for the years we have lost.”
He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around both her and Juan. “I never should have left, Santana. I knew it after my first battle, but then I was in it and I had to stay. I was an officer. Men depended on me, and in spite of the ugliness of it all, I knew we had to do what we did. We couldn’t let this country split up. I’ll never know if it was right or wrong for me to go, but it’s done now. I just wish I could have brought Gerald back with me. I feel lost without him. He was my right arm, a part of myself. It will be so hard getting started again without him.”
Santana rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. Will was here! Her beloved was back from that awful war. It was still hard to believe. “You will do it because it is what Gerald would have wanted. Noel has kept the mill in operation, and it will be good for you to get back to rebuilding, bigger and more successful than before. The only way to get over losing Gerald is to build Lassater Mills into the most successful logging industry in the world. You can do that, Will.”
He kissed her hair. “I was afraid you would hate me for leaving.”
A quick flash of resentment rushed through her at his words. Yes, there had been moments when she’d hated him for going away. After the rape, her feelings of anger and resentment had festered, hitting her for brief moments but going away again. Now Will was here, holding her again. It was easy to put aside the anger and blame. It was too wonderful to have him back again to think about the bad things. She just hoped that in time those feelings would leave her forever, that she and Will could find the joy and love they had shared before all of this.
“For now I am just glad you are home,” she answered. “We can only take one day at a time, mi esposo. Gradually you can tell me all of it, and each day the pain of it will grow dimmer. For now it is important to let the children get to know you; and we have to find a way to tell Agatha about Gerald. It will be so terrible for her. She still feels out of place here, no matter how hard I try to make her feel at home. I think that once she finds out about Gerald, she will leave California.”
They began walking toward the house again, and Will breathed in the sweet air he had missed, catching a scent of the ocean. A hawk flew overhead, heading for the pine forests higher in the hills, where the redwoods stood, ever sturdy, ever watchful over man and the way he had of making a mess of things. How he had ached to stand alone deep in the forest again, smelling the thick scent of pine, leaning against one of those monstrous trees and feeling its power, drawing from it a sense of peace, feeling closer to God and nature.
Home! He was home at last, with his precious children and the woman who was his entire reason for existing. If only Gerald could have come home with him, everything would be almost perfect again.
They reached the house, and Will took a moment to stand and look at it, the sprawling stucco home where he had known so much joy and love. “I never realized until I left just how much California had gotten into my blood,” he said to Santana. “I�
��ll never leave again, Santana. That is one promise I will keep.”
Santana looked up at him, studying the blue eyes she loved so, telling herself she must not blame him or hate him. Yes, she had suffered, but so had Will. Somehow she must find a way to live with her secret horror, and even though he was a bit of a stranger to her now, she must allow a new consummation of their love—soon—so that if she was carrying a child, she could say it was Will’s. She would carry the burden of the truth to her grave.
Little Juan suddenly reached out to Will, smiling. “Well!” Santana exclaimed. “I believe your son has decided to make friends.”
Will grinned, taking the boy into his arms. Santana watched her husband’s face light up with rapturous joy at being accepted by this son he’d never even known had existed. Yes, they would find a way to rise above the horrors they had suffered, for there was something between them that was stronger than both of them, able to conquer the bad memories and all the things that tried to destroy what they had together. That something was the love they shared, the love that had never left their hearts. She could live with her secret, as long as she had her Will by her side. Couldn’t she? Part of her wanted to scream at him that she had suffered something worse than Gerald’s death, worse than anything he had seen in the war, worse than that prison camp. She had been violated in a most devious, despicable way, and if Will had been there…
The Forever Tree Page 31
