Where are you, my love?
The hazy morning light was beautiful today, even though the sun was not out. Drawn to the sea, Sorina had left her pupils in Maria’s care. She had started her school and Maria was now her aide. She could be counted on to make sure the children were kept busy.
Pushing herself to her feet, Sorina emerged from the circle and waded out to the froth left on the wet sand. The waves didn’t quite reach her, but as they receded her eyes lit on a small bright object tangled in a piece of seaweed. It was a tiny silver coin. She reached down and picked it from the copper-colored strands of kelp, holding it up to the light. It was an English coin of an unknown denomination, its writing partially worn off.
Closing her eyes, Sorina made a wish, then threw the coin back into the sea.
Please keep him safe and bring him back to me soon.
Her father had taught her to wish on coins, stars—all manner of things. He said if you concentrate, and if you truly believe, your wish will come true. Not always, but most of the time. He’d said it with a broad grin, reaching out to ruffle her hair.
She’d remembered and today she had closed her eyes, giving her wish her full attention. And she believed. How could she not? Pablo had awakened her from her bed the day after she got home and told her Grainger was cleared and back in the service of his country. And he loved her. Had she not willed it so with her heart?
She had risen from her bed and fallen to her knees to give proper thanks to God. A week later a letter had come, a wonderful letter filled with love and longing and hope. Two others had come in quick succession, then a brief note saying he would be unable to write, but to wait for him.
Nothing since.
A breeze blew her unbound hair into her face. She turned away from the sea and scanned the cliff that rose behind her. A few flowers struggled up from the cracks, the only signs of spring. Making her way up the cliff path, she stopped at the top to gaze over the mesa to the green hills beyond. Soon they would be brown and calves, grazing beside their mothers, would be taken to the high mesa for branding. The cycle of renewal would begin once again.
It hurt not to hear from Lance, but Uncle Gabriel said the war was not yet officially settled. Mexican officials had withdrawn and new institutions were springing up, but there was no word yet about a treaty. Lance was a Navy man and had once been a diplomat. He’d also been a spy. Perhaps they had given him a secret assignment that prevented him from contacting her . . . a job that required his presence among insurgents. Her gut clenched with worry. He had survived so much, but she still scanned the death notices every time she laid her hands on one of the newspapers now being published by the Americans, even ones months old.
Lately, she had filled her time by concentrating on her school. With Maria proficient now in reading, she had helped organize the lessons, and at Uncle Gabriel’s urging, both boys and girls had joined the class. She was teaching them to read and write, and to add and subtract. They were also being taught English. It was the best protection she could give children of her servants who were destined to enter the working world at a young age.
Nearing the house, she stopped to pick herbs for the kitchen, then rushed to her room. Tía Consuelo now knew about her loose-fitting servants’ attire, and she thoroughly disapproved of it. She would change before the noon meal. It was not seemly for an heiress to be garbed in servants’ clothing, according to Tía, and with the paperwork in place, her father’s property was now hers, although she had not yet built a house on her land.
Rancho de Los Lagos had taken on new life with her uncle’s return. He had eased Grandfather’s burden, but still kept him actively involved in the business. Uncle Gabriel could be seen most days riding out with the ranch hands, personally supervising work in the fields and on the range.
He’d reminded them all that the world was changing with the Americans in charge. Uncle Gabriel predicted that the territory would be opened to settlers, and there would be higher prices for cattle and grain. He advised her to plant barley and wheat along with garden crops to supplement her income.
Sorina scrutinized the neat corrals and the old barn, as she passed them. A new barn was being built on her land, one made of redwood from lumber that came from the forests of the north. New businesses were already springing up, especially in the pueblos of Los Angeles and San Diego where settlers coming by land and sea terminated their journeys.
There is still so much to learn.
Isabella was a frequent visitor, advising her on how to deal with the traders who would buy her hides. She seemed nervous and overly cautious with their words when Uncle Gabriel was present. But Sorina could not worry about that now. Her ranch and her workers needed her, and she had thrown herself into her daily routine with vigor, even though her heart was elsewhere.
Sighing, she slipped into her sleeping chamber and closed the door softly behind her. A soft muslin dress was laid out on the bed, along with a woolen shawl. It was April, and while much needed rain had not come often, the breezes from the sea were still cool. She changed her clothes and walked briskly along the corridor to the sala where a large fireplace dominated one wall. Her eyes slanted toward the table in the corner of the room where mail for her was deposited. It was empty. Again.
A blazing log crackled in the fireplace, drawing her. She stretched her hands over the fire, feeling the warmth seep into her frozen fingers. For the hundredth time she wondered if Lance was in a warm place.
Have you forgotten me?
During wakeful nights in her cold bed she’d wondered what she would do if he didn’t return. Pablo had told him she would wait. And she would. She closed her eyes and pictured herself as an aging spinster, surrounded by other people’s children in her busy schoolroom. In time, her hair would gray and her body would grow frail, and she would have to be comforted by the thought that she had given forgotten children a chance at a good life.
Because I will never marry anyone else.
Her hands—warm now—reached for the ends of the shawl to pull it closer around her body. For a moment her vision clouded. Shaking her head, she bit hard on her lower lip. She would not cry. Self-pity was not her style.
But what if he came back and offered her marriage? Could she leave this ranch, the place where she was born and where she expected to die? Could she leave her dream of giving children a better life?
Yes . . . with every beat of her heart and every breath she took, as long as Lance was with her.
She pictured his face the last time she saw him. His eyes the color of the ocean he loved, filled with longing as he pleaded with her to return home. She would never forget the feel of his hands on her body, his lips on her face.
Why did I listen? Why didn’t I stay?
A door opened behind her. Unwilling to give up her daydreams, she didn’t turn to greet whoever came in. Footsteps slowed. The scent of leather and horseflesh reached her.
“Hello, Sorina.”
She stiffened, curling her fingers into her palms. Unable to breathe, she turned around slowly, afraid to see that she was still dreaming.
He was there. Smiling. His hat in his hand. The hair she loved to stroke curling around his collar, a lock falling over his forehead. He took a step forward and held out his arms. Stifling a sob, she ran into those arms, feeling them wrap around her in a blanket of warmth and safety, of promise and fulfillment.
She couldn’t speak, but she breathed in the scent of his skin, a touch of smoke from some recent campfire still clinging to his hair.
“You waited,” he said softly, directly above her ear.
She nodded against his shoulder, emotion choking her.
“I wasn’t sure you would.”
Moving back, but still in the circle of his arms, she studied his beloved face. It was tanned and stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His ey
es were soft, filled with love. His mouth lowered, hovering an inch away. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered.
She felt the brush of his lips even before they covered her own. She closed her eyes, drinking in his essence as his lips moved over hers, deepening the kiss until they clutched at each other, unable to quench a thirst born of absence and yearning. Sorina tangled her hands in his hair, holding his head as their tongues twined. His hands were warm on her bottom, his need evident as he pulled her against him.
“Ahem.”
The sound came from the door and they quickly broke apart. Sorina looked over Lance’s shoulder to see her uncle standing inside the door, a smile on his face.
“I believe an introduction is in order, do you not think so, Sorina?”
She kept her fingers on Lance’s arm, not trusting her legs to hold her. “This is Lieutenant Lance Grainger, Uncle Gabriel. Lance, my uncle, Gabriel de la Vega.”
The two men shook hands. Uncle Gabriel gestured toward the sofa. Happy to sit down, Sorina complied. Lance stood behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.
“Are you on leave, or is this a stop between postings?” Uncle Gabriel asked.
“Actually, I am no longer in the Navy. I have resigned my commission and with the treaty under negotiation, my services are no longer needed.”
Sorina gasped. Did this mean he was here to stay?
“Are you here looking to have your old job back?” Uncle Gabriel’s lips twitched, his eyes full of mirth. “We can always use a seasoned caballero.”
“I was hoping to ask your permission to marry your niece. I assume I must ask your father for that, however.”
“Yes, he is still Sorina’s guardian. And is there anyone else you wish to consult?”
“No.”
“Excuse me, Señor Lobo. I believe there is one more person.” Sorina planted her hands on her hips and twisted in her seat to look at him. This was not how she had envisioned her proposal, although she had to admit she was hoping for one. The beach would have been a more romantic setting . . . but she’d accept the worn horsehair sofa and an audience.
Lance came around the sofa, faced her, and got down on one knee. “Is this better, Señorita?”
She laughed, taking his hand. “It is.”
“Sorina Braithwaite, I love you with all my heart. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? I am to be a translator in the new court system set up in Los Angeles territory.” He glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel. “I can provide for you. But if you wish to keep your ranch, we can have two homes, one in town and one here.”
Sorina smiled and held tightly to his hand.
“Can you give me your answer soon? These floor tiles are hard.”
She laughed again, pulling him up to sit on the sofa next to her. “Yes, yes, and yes.”
They kissed, oblivious to the door opening and closing, deaf to all sounds. They were the only two in the entire world who existed.
It would always be so.
Lance Grainger was the man who had captured her heart in that moonlit garden in London so many years ago, a man who had proven his love for her over and over.
Their life together would no longer be a dream. It would be real, and Sorina had no doubt that it would be full of adventure.
Author’s Note
Writing about California history, especially the Rancho period, has always been a favorite pastime. With that in mind, I know when I take liberties with history, but sometimes it is essential to make a better story.
Carriages appear in this novel, but they were not common until a few years later. A grand hotel has been placed in the pueblo of Los Angeles, but the first one to be built would be a few years after Americans took over. The ranchos of what is now Orange, Los Angeles, and San Diego County, California, were vast—hundreds of thousands of acres. The ranchos in this story are large, but smaller than the huge grants bestowed during the Mexican period.
My main characters are fictitious, but many of the peripheral characters actually lived through the events leading up to and through the Mexican-American War. Finally, was Thomas Larkin a spymaster? Not in the modern sense. As American Consul, he had a network of informants all over the territory who kept him apprised of sentiments toward Americans and the coming war. But I’ve given him a slightly grander place in history.
Author of eight books on California history and ten romance novels, Pamela Gibson is a former City Manager who lives in the Nevada desert. Having spent the last three years messing about in boats, a hobby that included a five-thousand-mile trip in a 32-foot Nordic Tug, she now spends most of her time indoors happily reading, writing, cooking and keeping up with the antics of her gran-cats, gran-dog, and gran-fish. Sadly, the gran-lizard went to his final reward. If you want to learn more about her activities go to https://www.pamelagibsonwrites.com and sign up for her blog and quarterly newsletter. Or follow her in these places:
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Also from Pamela Gibson and Soul Mate Publishing:
SCANDAL’S CHILD
Miranda Comstock, widowed and impoverished, accepts a position in London caring for a child who was blinded in a fire. When she discovers the child’s mysterious guardian is the lover who’d seduced and abandoned her five years earlier, her first thought is to flee. But nine-year-old Phoebe depends on her and is blossoming under her care.
Jeremy Montague returns from Jamaica to take up his duties as the new Earl of Longley and is shocked to find his former lover is his ward’s nurse. Believing she played him for a fool, he vows to remove her from his household, especially when his traitorous body begins to remember the passion they shared.
But there is a mystery afoot involving a long-ago disappearance, Miranda’s resemblance to a society debutante, and the child’s suppressed memories of the fire, which are starting to emerge. As Phoebe’s memories become sharper, Jeremy begins to suspect that he and Miranda were pawns in a twisted game. And both must learn to trust again, if they are to find their way back into each other’s hearts.
Available now on Amazon: SCANDAL’S CHILD
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