The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  Santana was glad for the lessons. They kept the children occupied. She was too worried about Will to handle the noise and activity that morning. She walked outside and up a small hill to the family burial ground. A new grave was there now, beside her parents’ and Father Lorenzo’s. Oh, how she ached to hold her little boy again, to see that ever-present smile. She prayed he died from smoke long before the flames reached him.

  She knelt beside the grave, touching some wilted flowers that lay on top of it. “My sweet Valioso,” she whispered. “Mama loves you, but you are in a better place now, and you are loved much more than I could ever love you. Forgive me for not wanting you. How could I have known you would bring me so much joy, that you would be the very thing I needed to help me survive?”

  She heard a horse approaching, and looking up, saw Will riding over the hill. He noticed her at the grave and turned the horse to head in her direction. How wonderful her husband looked perched on a fine Palomino. He was forty-three now, but strong and handsome as ever, the lines of aging only making him look wiser, more manly. His sandy hair was still thick, his eyes still so blue. But what did she see in those eyes now? She was not sure.

  He rode close to the burial plot, then reined the horse to a stop and dismounted. He kept hold of the reins as he walked over to her, a determined look on his face. “We’re going to see Bolivar.”

  Santana knew that tone in his voice. There was no arguing his decision. She swallowed, not sure what he meant to do. “Why?”

  Will drew in his breath in an effort to control his anger. “Because you deserve to face the son of a bitch and let him know you’ve told me the truth, that he didn’t accomplish a thing by doing what he did, except to commit a sin he’ll have to live with the rest of his life. To embarrass him in front of his wife. He’s got to know he didn’t hurt us at all, and I want to see him shake in his high black boots when he finds out I know the truth!”

  “You—you won’t hurt him?”

  “I don’t know yet what I’ll do.”

  Santana turned away. “I think he already knows you have won. You bought Rancho de Rosas out from under him. You are growing more wealthy every day, while he is losing everything.”

  “I don’t care. I want to face him on this. I want him to realize that I know.”

  Santana swallowed, shivering at the thought of finally facing Hugo with Will at her side, the truth out in the open. It would be a pleasure in a way, but she feared what Will might do. “I do not think it is fair for his wife to know. I am sure she has suffered enough over the years just being married to the man and being unable to give him children. I do not wish to add this burden to her heart.”

  “Fine. We’ll ask to see him alone.”

  Santana faced him. “Gracias. We will go then.” She watched his eyes, seeing the hurt there, the guilt…and was that love?

  “I’m sorry, Santana, for what you suffered. I have more to say to you, but I want to do this first. We can’t begin to heal the wounds until we look the enemy in the face and show him he can’t defeat us.”

  She nodded. “If that is what you want, mi esposo, then we will go.”

  Will glanced at Valioso’s grave. “I loved him like my own, you know. As far as I’m concerned, he was mine. I won’t shame Valioso’s memory by letting Bolivar know he was the father. Valioso was too sweet and good for anyone ever to know he came from the seed of a man like Hugo Bolivar.” He looked at her again. “I don’t want anyone to know, not even Bolivar. I am Valioso’s father.”

  Santana smiled. “Si, carino mio. And you were a good father. He loved you, and you loved him, and that is why I could never tell you the truth.”

  Will shook his head. “You’re a lot stronger than I ever gave you credit for.” He turned away. “We’ll leave today. We’ll tell the others it’s a business trip.” He mounted up and rode off, and Santana knew there would be no talking this out between them until he had done what he felt he must do. Her stomach rolled at the thought of facing Hugo, but at least Will would be at her side. “God help us all,” she whispered.

  Thirty-One

  Santana waited nervously beside Will, both of them standing at the front door of the stone mansion Santana had hated when she was young. She thanked God that Will had come along and saved her from having to live here all these years, in this cold, heartless home in the city. Will raised the knocker and banged it a second time, and finally a butler opened the door, peering out at them. He was not anyone Santana recognized.

  “We are here to see Hugo Bolivar,” Will said with a note of authority. “Tell him Will Lassater and Dona Santana Chavez de Lassater are here.”

  The butler stepped aside to let them in. “Don Bolivar is quite ill, sir,” the man said. “I will check with Senora Bolivar to see if he can receive guests.”

  He left them to climb a circular staircase that led to the rooms above, and Will looked around the two-story-high foyer. It had marble floors, and a grand chandelier hung from above. He thought how he could build a home much finer even than this one for Santana, but she would have none of it. She wanted her simple stucco home, just like the one that had burned. It had been bigger and fancier than their old house, but still warm and homey. This place seemed to fit its owner—cold, overbearing.

  Every time he thought about what Bolivar had done, he wanted to crush the man’s skull. If only he had killed him in the first place! What a horrible, unspeakable thing he had done to Santana, and for her to have held such a thing inside all these years, thinking to spare everyone but herself, only showed how strong she was, how important her family was to her.

  He should have guessed. He had guessed. There had been another man, just as he’d suspected, but it had been a horrible nightmare for her, something that had left her unable to be a woman again in the fullest sense for years afterward. He ached to make love to her, just to reclaim her for himself, to remind himself who this woman belonged to. But first they had to face Bolivar. She had to reach this last hurdle and rid herself of this man and the memory forever.

  Poor Valioso, so innocent of all of this. Now he understood why Santana had put so much time and energy and love into the boy, not just because of his condition, but because she needed to soothe her own conscience over not wanting him. What woman would want the child of such a dastardly deed? God worked in strange ways, and he did not doubt that Valioso’s problems had been a blessing in disguise, something that touched Santana’s heart and made it possible for her to love him in spite of his beginnings. The child had given her a reason to keep going, had kept her busy and preoccupied during those years of healing. Now it was Will who had to heal, from his own guilt for not being home when his wife needed him most, guilt for not killing Hugo Bolivar when he’d had the right and the chance.

  He glanced down at Santana, and he could feel her trepidation. He had demanded they do this, and she had not argued, even though it had to be the hardest thing she had ever done. She needed his strength and comfort, but for these last three days on their journey to the city, he had been too full of anger to give her what she needed. Maybe when this was over…

  He saw Carmelita coming down the stairway, and he was startled to see that although she was younger than Santana, her hair was already graying heavily. It was no wonder, he thought, having to live with a man like Bolivar. God only knew the hell the woman had been through. She wore a plain dark blue taffeta dress, and her hair was drawn into a pile on top of her head. She wore no earrings, no jewelry of any kind except a wedding band, and her eyes showed a deep sorrow.

  Santana’s own pity for the woman was mixed with a great relief that she had never had to walk in Carmelita Bolivar’s shoes. She seemed to be a proud woman, and Santana well knew how difficult Hugo could make life for such a woman, who probably had thought she was marrying a charming, wealthy Spanish gentleman. Her religious beliefs would prevent her from ever leaving her husband, so she had lived with her personal hell all these years.

  “Senor Lassater. Don
a Chavez de Lassater,” she greeted them stoically, her eyes revealing her indignity at their presence. “I am well aware that you have no good feelings for my husband. Why would you pay your respects now that he is dying?”

  “Dying?” Will frowned. “We didn’t know.”

  “The doctor says it is a cancer. It is all through his body. When it reaches his brain, he will die, which the doctor says will be in only a few days. He is suffering great pain, and often he begs me or the doctors to shoot him and end it.”

  A proper death for such a devil, Will thought. “Can he speak? Would he know us?”

  “Si,” Carmelita answered. “But what possible business could you have with him now?”

  “It’s personal,” Will answered. “We would like to see him alone.”

  “Will, maybe we should just leave,” Santana said.

  “No.” He kept his eyes on Carmelita, suspecting she realized this involved a wrong her scoundrel of a husband had committed. “Por favor, Senora Bolivar, this is a matter of great importance to me and my wife. It could even be important to Hugo, since he is dying. There are certain things a man must get in order before he dies.”

  Carmelita studied his eyes, turned her gaze to Santana. She saw a deep agony in the other woman and had no doubt that Santana had known her own horror at Hugo’s hands at one time or another. As a wife who had made promises to her husband in marriage, she felt a duty to protect him. In her heart, though, she could not help thinking he deserved to die as he was dying, God forgive her. And she did not doubt that Will and Santana Lassater deserved to have whatever last say they had come there to say. She looked back at Will. “I will show you to his room.”

  She turned and walked across the marble floor to the staircase, and Will took Santana’s arm and followed. Carmelita said nothing until they reached a doorway, where already they could hear Hugo groaning in agony. Carmelita turned to them. “You will barely recognize him. He weighs less than a hundred pounds.”

  Santana’s eyes widened in shock. Only three months ago Hugo had stormed into their home in San Francisco, ranting and railing about Will buying Rancho de Rosas.

  “I know that you have been buying some of Hugo’s property,” Carmelita added, looking at Will. “When he dies, I will sell all that is left to pay off debts and go home to Los Angeles. San Francisco is not a pleasant or safe place to be right now. There has been rioting and unrest, and this city has never been home to me. If you are interested in buying whatever Hugo has left, come and talk with me after he is gone.”

  Will felt sweet revenge at the words. Yes, he would gladly buy up anything Hugo Bolivar had left, own every last piece of property and commercial enterprises the arrogant man had once owned. He nodded to Carmelita. “I’ll be glad to help you out. I’m sure you’ll take comfort in being able to go back home.”

  “Si. I miss my family and southern California.”

  Santana thought how much like herself Carmelita was, a true Californio who felt a special loyalty to home, to the land where she had been raised. Even though she was still in California, coming to San Francisco was like leaving home. “Gracias,” she said to Carmelita.

  The woman met her eyes, and Santana saw her grief, a grief not for Hugo, but for herself. “You are a lucky woman to have found a man like Senor Lassater. I read about the fire, your son. I extend my deepest sympathy, but remind you that at least you had him for a while, and you have five other children in whom to take comfort. I have never known such a blessing. Perhaps if I at least had had children, life would have been more bearable. I would have known some joy.”

  She turned and left them. Santana looked up at Will, who kept hold of her arm and led her into the room where Hugo lay in a large bed, looking shriveled and old, his cheeks sunken, his black hair thin and lusterless. His head moved back and forth as he groaned in agony, and it took a moment for him to realize Santana and Will were standing there. Seeing him that way, every last bit of horror that lingered deep in Santana’s soul over what he had done to her vanished. Hugo Bolivar was being properly punished by God.

  He looked stunned to see her there, and shame and anger filled his dark eyes, eyes that used to make her shiver, but were now glassy and yellow-looking, the fire gone out of them. “Go…away,” he whispered.

  Santana didn’t move. “My husband knows what you did to me,” she said. “He would gladly kill you, but it is obvious God is doing that for him. I only came to tell you that your plan to destroy me did not work, Hugo. Will knows everything. I told him that you raped me. You said that if he ever knew, he would leave me, but here he is, at my side. We have a love that is much stronger than anything you ever could have done to us. I want you to know before you die that our love is stronger than ever, that you did not succeed in your effort to ruin that love. You can die knowing that you committed a terrible sin. You can die wondering if you will be sent to purgatory for what you have done. I am sure you committed many other sins. The journey to heaven, if you ever make it, will be long and slow for you, Hugo Bolivar.”

  The man groaned and shuddered, putting a hand over his eyes. “Go away!” he said in a stronger voice. He moaned in pain, then took his hand away, looking wide-eyed at Will. “No! Wait!” He reached out to Will. “Kill me! It is what…you have always wanted…to do. Kill me, Will Lassater. The doctors…my wife…they would never tell. I am already dying. You would only…be putting me out of…my misery. Kill me! Enjoy the vengeance…you have always wanted.”

  Will shook his head. “Your suffering is much more pleasurable to me,” he answered. “I suggest you get a priest up here and confess to all the things you have done wrong, unless you choose to burn in hell.” He squeezed Santana’s arm and led her toward the door.

  “Wait! Wait!” Hugo tried to sit up, still reaching out to them. “Kill me! You…have your chance. Please. Please end this pain!” He fell back to his pillow, and Will kept walking, hurrying Santana to the door and down the stairs, where Carmelita waited. Santana stopped before the woman, and they shared a look that told it all. Santana took hold of Carmelita’s hands.

  “I am sorry you never had children,” she told her. “I hope you find peace in going back home.”

  Carmelita nodded, her eyes misty. “It does not matter that I am childless.” She glanced up the stairway toward Hugo’s room. His cries of pain could be heard through the open door. “I am not so sure that I would want a child fathered by Hugo Bolivar. Perhaps God would have punished him for his cruelty by making all of his children deformed…or retarded.”

  Santana gasped and let go of Carmelita’s hands. Will grasped her arm, holding it tightly in his own shock. She knew! Hugo’s wife knew about Valioso!

  “How—”

  “I am not a fool,” Carmelita interrupted Santana. “I know my husband. It was only a guess about your son, but I see in your eyes that I was right. Do not worry. I never told a soul, and Hugo never suspected, fool that he is. I commend your strength, Dona Lassater, and your valor in keeping the boy and loving him.” She looked from Santana to Will. “Go in peace now. It is done.”

  She turned away and went back upstairs. Santana looked at Will. “My God, she knew!” she whispered.

  “She’s a strong, wise woman, much like you, and I have just gained an even greater respect for the pride and honor of your race, Santana. Let’s go home.”

  Santana closed her eyes and took a moment to let it all sink in. It was over now, and she wondered how she had let a worthless man like Hugo Bolivar nearly destroy her marriage and her own will to live. He was nothing now, a near-penniless, shriveled, dying old man who would go to his grave with the burden of his sins in life.

  She rested her head against Will’s chest, and his strong arms came around her. She thanked God for bringing this man into her life, for his ability to forgive and understand, his capacity to love above and beyond the ordinary man. “Te quiero, mi esposo,” she told him.

  Will kissed her hair. “Everything will be all right now, Santana.
”

  The carriage rolled over gentle hills, and Will and Santana watched the countryside, each lost in his and her own thoughts. Santana waited for Will to speak, unsure what he was thinking or feeling. He had said little since seeing Hugo. They had left San Francisco only an hour later, and they had spent the last two nights at the homes of friends who lived along the way, rather than sleep in the open. The area between San Francisco and the ranch was still unpopulated and lonely, with no inns along the way. Although they had a driver along and there was more law in California now, Will still carried a rifle and a handgun when they made this trip. The two places they stopped, Will spent the night smoking and talking with the man of the house about the fire, always avoiding the subject of Valioso; and Santana talked with the woman about nothing but Valioso, often breaking into tears.

  It seemed Will was deliberately avoiding her, and now that things were cleared up with Hugo, that confused Santana. At the homes of those who hosted them, they slept apart, Will on the couch, Santana sharing a room with one of the children. As they rode together in the carriage, Will made small talk about business, rebuilding, spoke with the driver, Enrique Hidalgo, about James marrying Enrique’s daughter, Juanita. He went on about how he hoped to lumber out some of the burned trees before the wood became too brittle, wondering how he was going to clean up the useless wood. He said Santana would probably have to supervise most of the rebuilding of their home, as he had too much to do in other areas.

  They finally reached the main ranch, where Will dismissed Enrique and took the reins himself. He asked Santana to get in the front seat with him, and she obeyed. “There’s something I want to do before we see the children,” he told her. He snapped the reins and headed away from the house, toward their own spread, taking a road through many acres of plowed fields, then veering left at the little road that led to the spot that had been Santana’s favorite hideaway when she was young. The carriage clattered and bounced over the old dirt road that now led through burned-out forest. It broke Santana’s heart to see it, especially to think that her faithful lodgepole pine tree was surely also destroyed. When Will finally reached the clearing where it stood, though, she gasped in surprise. There it was, skinny, scraggly, but green and alive, untouched by the conflagration that had consumed everything around it.