Damian’s turbulence faded as he looked around at the smirking faces of his friends. How they loved to see him squirm in the agony of love. How they enjoyed teasing him. Like interrogators facing a stubborn criminal, they thrust a long-legged stool beneath his knees and knocked his feet out from beneath him. They leaned forward in anticipation and Damian relaxed. He needed his wits about him. He would sharpen them on Alejandro and Rico and Hadrian and Julio, and any of the rest who dared ruffle his feathers.
Especially Julio de Casillas. His gaze shifted to the sharp restless face of his dearest friend, his greatest rival, his most fearsome enemy. Julio hung back, examining his fingernails as if he hadn’t the slightest interest in seeing Damian roasted slowly over the coals of mockery. That, Damian knew, was untrue. Since the day when they toddled about in dresses, Damian and Julio had competed in every way possible. Sometimes Damian had won, sometimes Julio, but always they struggled.
For all their unholy delight at his predicament, he knew he could trust his friends. Never by word or deed had they displayed to Katherine their knowledge of his love. They treated her with affection and sought to know her because they understood, even if she didn’t, that soon she’d be one of their group.
He deflected their arrows once more, saved his own hide once more, provided entertainment once more. In a flash, he realized Vietta wasn’t a member of the group, and he stood to look for her.
Over the heads of the men, he saw her sitting on the bench where he’d left her. She’d said nothing as they’d joked. She hadn’t joined them. Yet there was nothing pathetic about her loneliness. Her back was ramrod straight, her fingers intertwined. Her gaze traveled over each member of the society that ignored her, and he thought she noted them with a kind of satisfaction.
From beyond the crowd, Mariano Vallejo hailed him. “Damian, look who’s come to visit.”
Damian craned his neck and saw the dapper Mariano accompanying a stout blond man. Damian gave a shout. “Gundersheimer! Mi amigo, what are you doing here? Mariano, where did you find this fellow?”
“I was out at the stables and there he was.” Mariano’s broad face beamed, the whiskers that grew across his cheeks bristling. “I invited him out when I met him in Monterey, so I’ve been watching for him.”
“Good for you, Mariano. Gundersheimer, let’s get you a drink and a seat.” Circling the group, Damian embraced the dusty fellow.
“Thank you.” Gundersheimer sank down on the proffered seat and accepted the water pressed on him. With hearty goodwill, he drained the gourd and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Very good.” A glass of beer found its way into his hand. Settling down, he grinned at Damian. “Now I can talk.”
“How are things in Nueva Helvetia, and how’s my old friend, Captain Sutter?”
“He is well and sends his greetings. I traveled to Monterey to oversee the unloading of our goods off a Yankee ship.” He nodded pleasantly. “Now I return. When will we see you back in the Sacramento Valley?”
“After I settle my affairs here.”
Damian’s words brought groans and laughter from his guests, and he bit his lip when he realized how his unthinking comment had been interpreted. His rude and explicit gesture did nothing but bring more merriment.
Gundersheimer watched with bright eyes, and Damian said, “I shouldn’t introduce these tactless folks to you, but for your own ease, I offer them. This is Godart Gundersheimer,” Damian told them as they one by one accepted Gundersheimer’s handshake, “a legal adviser for Captain Sutter. He’s a neighbor of mine at my rancho in the Sacramento Valley.”
“Can’t you convince this fool to move back to civilization?” Julio drawled. “He’s spending all his time in the interior, up by the mountains, and depriving us of his company. It’s not safe, with the wild Indians who kill for the pleasure of it.”
“No,” Gundersheimer said. “I come to tell him to return.”
“Why?” Damian asked with alarm. “Is there a problem?” Gundersheimer scratched his ear. “That American is back.”
“Which American?” Bewildered, Damian stared at the uncomfortable German.
“That . . . that bullyboy. That Frémont.”
Damian’s brows twitched together. “He’s back?”
“Yah, in December.”
“Oh, Frémont,” Mariano said, disgust rife in his voice. “Now there’s a character.”
Gundersheimer took a swallow of his beer as if it would wash the bad taste out of his mouth. “I’ll tell you. Captain Sutter wasn’t there. Frémont gave Bidwell a list of supplies he wanted, just like the Fort was a storehouse. It wasn’t cheap stuff, either—sixteen mules he wanted! Packsaddles and flour, too. Things have been tight at the Fort, and when Bidwell couldn’t fill Frémont’s order, he threw a tantrum. Well, Bidwell buckled under and Frémont got almost all he wanted. Food. Fourteen mules we could ill afford to lose, and we shod them for him.”
Mariano said, “That’s generous of you.”
“That’s not all. He left for a month and when he came back, Captain Sutter was there to welcome him. Frémont was much more pleasant to the Captain.” The man nodded vigorously. “Much more pleasant to the Captain than to the peons.”
Mariano asked, “Where is he now?”
“He took Captain Sutter’s schooner down the Sacramento River. Went to Yerba Buena, went to Monterey, visited with all the officials and gave them some cock-and-bull story about how his trip was in the interests of science and commerce. About how he was surveying the nearest route from the United States to the Pacific Ocean.” He sniffed in disdain. “If they believe that, they’re dunces of the first water.”
“I know the officials in Monterey.” Mariano smiled, drawing on his knowledge of area politics. “General José Castro, the comandante, can be quick to temper. I didn’t always agree with Alvarado’s dictates when he was governor. But it would be ill advised to assume they are dunces. What is Señor John Frémont doing that you doubt his word?”
“He’s got—” Gundersheimer squinted towards the westering sun as he tried to figure “—sixty men in his party. They’re all trappers and shooters.”
“Shooters?” Damian said.
“Yah. Just to show off, one of them shot a vulture out of the sky by breaking one wing. You know—shooters.”
“Marksmen.” Damian looked thoughtful. “Do the officials believe Frémont came for science?”
Alejandro elbowed his way forward. “No one believes anything this Frémont says. His men insulted the family of Don Angel Castro. They insisted their daughter drink with them. They are drunkards and thieves. They don’t act like guests in a foreign country. They act like they own the country.”
“Thieves, yes. Did you hear what Frémont did to Don José Dolores Pacheco?” Rico asked.
Mariano’s face grew stern. “Tell us.”
“There was a complaint lodged with Don José’s office. He’s the alcalde of San José, you know.” The heads around him nodded. “Don Sebastian Peralta discovered that one of the horses in Frémont’s camp was his—was stolen. So he sought to retrieve it, and Frémont insulted him. Insulted him about the return of his own horse. As if there aren’t horses to be had in California. They mock our hospitality with their rudeness.”
“What about Don José?” Hadrian stood snapping his fingers.
Rico answered, “He wrote a letter to Frémont, a very nice letter, broaching the problem. Frémont insulted him, too. He wrote a letter back calling Don Sebastian a vagabond.”
An angry murmur followed the general groan.
“Where is Frémont now?” Damian demanded.
Everyone turned to Gundersheimer. “Making trouble somewhere, no doubt.”
“What does Governor Pio Pico say about this?” A relative of Pico’s, Rico felt honor bound to query, but he knew he’d asked the wrong question when Alejandro rounded on him.
“What does Pico ever have to say? He’s hiding in his headquarters in Los Angeles, demanding all the money
from the treasury in Monterey. The question is, what does General Castro say about this?”
“I know the answer to that.” Gundersheimer grinned as the faces turned on him. “He’s not happy. You should return to the valley, Don Damian. You need to protect your interests.”
“Oh, why?” Alejandro said in disgust. “Damian works until he has callouses on his hands like a vaquero. What could possibly be there worth going back for?”
The blunt German stuck out his neck. “You are the fool if you think you have anything here. This is a well-kept ranch, true, but in the Sacramento Valley we have everything. The elk stand up to their knees in waving grass. We have flowers and trees in abundance, and sweet soil that welcomes the grape. The rivers, they flow crystal clear, so clear you can pluck the salmon out with your bare hands.”
Julio drawled, “Ah, yes. In the valley, the land is tough with turf. You must come miles to bring your hides to market, and go miles back with your supplies. The company is few and far between, and there are no women with which to ease your hunger.”
“Julio!” His wife joggled his arm. “That’s not a subject for the daylight.”
Julio turned to Maria Ygnacia, a tiny woman with a snowwhite streak in her hair. She blushed beneath his scrutiny and took a step back. “Of course, my dear.” He bowed courteously. “I forget myself.”
Godart Gundersheimer hadn’t forgotten himself. Belligerent in defense of his chosen home, he said, “There are getting to be too many people in the valley.”
“Americans,” Damian sneered.
“You’re judging all Americans by the actions of one hot-head,” Mariano chided. “They’re a young, energetic race, with all the brash rudeness of a child. Yet when I was comandante general of California, I warned Mexico to take action if it wished to retain this province. They ignored me. With the continued uninterest of Mexico, who better to turn to than the United States?”
Damian rounded on him fiercely. “Perhaps there’s none better, but I don’t have to like it. You make excuses for Frémont, but in my opinion, he’s an example of what we can expect from these people.”
Putting his arm around Damian’s shoulders, Mariano said, “We’ll do the best we can, Damian. California is a tasty morsel, and the wolves of the world salivate over us. If we’re not careful, there’ll be armies marching over our soil and destroying everything we’ve built.”
“Couldn’t we govern ourselves?” Hadrian wondered.
Both Mariano and Damian laughed, amused in varying degrees.
“We can’t even do that with the occasional interference of Mexican officials. Southern California struggles to wrest control from Monterey, and no one knows who’s in charge.” Mariano shook his head. “No, I don’t hold out hope for that.”
“So the Americans will take California, and I will go live in the Sacramento Valley.” Damian turned back to Gundersheimer. “But the Americans are taking over there, too?”
“Yes, there are Americans,” Gundersheimer admitted. “But not long ago, one of the men found a lone Californio working to build a house. He had papers from the governor saying the land was his. So you see, company is coming, and only the early claimants will get the best lands.” His voice rose. “Ducks and geese by the thousands, figs heavy on the trees, a paradise on earth.”
Putting his hand under Gundersheimer’s elbow, Damian assisted him to his feet. “You’re tired.” He lifted his finger, and Leocadia materialized before them. “Find Señor Gundersheimer a bed. He can join us later.”
“Yes, I’ll do that, with gratitude. I’m not the horseman you are, Don Damian, and my back aches from the ride.”
“He’s a fanatic,” Julio said with cool distaste as the man strode away. “He talks too much.”
Alejandro insisted, “There’s nothing in the Sacramento Valley to keep you there.”
“I like it,” Damian answered plainly. “This is my father’s land and my home. But my rancho in the valley is my own and I will return.”
“Every man should have the thrill of conquering his own land and taming his own woman.” Mariano bowed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I must leave you now and prepare to return home.”
Damian grasped his arm. “Must you, Mariano?”
“You know I must. My wife awaits me in Sonoma, and I’m gone too much with this nonsense in the government. As usual, your hospitality was warm.”
“Next time, bring the family,” Damian ordered.
“I will.” Mariano walked away, looked back and grinned. “The Vallejos will come to dance at your wedding. We wouldn’t miss that.”
A raucous burst of laughter followed him away.
Damian glanced up as new guests rode up the road towards the stables. “I, too, must leave you.” He held up his hands against the sighs and complaints. “Guests are arriving for the fandango, and I must prepare our musicians to play. Until then, find someone else to distress with your teasing.” He reached out and touched Maria Ygnacia’s cheek with his finger. She had been the only woman he’d ever worshiped in his youth, and he retained a fondness for her.
She smiled at him, then glanced at Julio.
Damian found Julio watching them with a cynical gaze.
She folded her hands and lowered her eyes, and Damian wanted to groan in distress. The increasing animosity between his two friends distressed him, but what could he do? Neither of them would thank him for his interference.
As he drew abreast of Julio, the man took his arm. Damian jumped, almost guiltily, but Julio had other matters on his mind. “Look, compadre,” he said into Damian’s ear.
Following Julio’s eye, he saw her.
His Katherine.
Carrying a dusty carpetbag that bumped against her knee, she followed Leocadia and Gundersheimer to the house. She was discussing something with the man, Damian was distressed to note—perhaps shipping schedules. And she was smiling at Gundersheimer until he reeled beneath the attention.
She’d sewn the seam on one of her unattractive black dresses. She’d tucked her hair beneath a voluminous black cap so that not one strand shone in the sun. She looked hot, struggling to fulfill everyone’s needs. She looked flustered and harried, working too hard and sleeping too little.
She looked wonderful.
All his anger, his fear, his delight rushed back at him as if they’d never been banished. He had eyes only for her. Only for Katherine.
Beside him, he heard Julio laugh sharply. “Perhaps you don’t like the Americans, Damian, but I bet you’re going to annex that piece of the country soon yourself, hey?”
22 May, in the year of our Lord, 1777
My brothers and I knew the danger. We were not fearful, putting our trust in Christ. The very soldiers sent to protect us started the trouble. What imbeciles they were, to believe the Indians would accept such insults. Their chief’s wife raped, his son dragged behind a horse to his death! The soldiers died in agony, without last rites. The mission burned like a torch in the night and too many of my brethren remained within. Yet they died in a state of grace, so surely their souls will be received directly into Heaven, and they’ll stand beside the martyrs and saints exalted by Holy Mother Church.
In that belief is my comfort.
—from the diary of Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista
Chapter 5
“Doña Katherina, we have new guests.”
Don Lucian’s voice stopped her as she stepped onto the shaded veranda. She broke off her eager discussion of the Sacramento Valley’s virtues with Mr. Gundersheimer. Temporarily sun blind, she blinked and struggled with her dismay. More guests! Already the hacienda strained at the seams. Now four more men stood silhouetted against the setting sun, their faces in shadow. One she recognized as Don Lucian. One wore the sombrero of a Spanish hidalgo. One had whipped off his hat at her appearance and one—one smelled like a skunk. She blinked at his pungent smell, but offered a cordial welcome in Spanish. “Of course, it’s a pleasure.”
Mr. Gundersheimer touched his
hat to the strangers and stomped into the house without a word, his boots heavy on the floorboards. Puzzled, she stared after him as she handed the carpet bag to Leocadia and waved her inside. Turning back to the guests, she said, “If you gentlemen would take a seat, I’ll send someone with refreshments while I prepare a room.”
“Thank you, but I brought these gentlemen over for the day, only.”
The pure British accent identified him, and she said in English, “Mr. Hartnell. Forgive me, I couldn’t see you.” She took the proffered hand of the courtly gentleman, the owner of one of the largest ranchos along the Salinas River. “Where is Señora Hartnell? Didn’t you bring her?”
“As if I could keep Maria Teresa away,” he scoffed. “We brought three of our daughters and seven of our sons. Twelve of our grandchildren trailed along, too. They’re mingling with the ladies.” He nodded out toward the lawn. “They want to whip up some enthusiasm for a dance tonight.”
Familiar with his twenty children and his uncounted grandchildren who lived and visited at will, Katherine wasn’t surprised by his wry humor. “They’ll not have a struggle, I’m sure. There’s been a danza every night of fiesta.”
Smiling, she turned at the new sound of boots on the stair behind her, but her smile faded when a too-familiar voice agreed, “The mariachis are warming up already.”
The sun blindness had faded, she realized, for Damian looked only too clear to her. One flashing glance from his fiery eyes, and she turned away to find the two strangers studying her.
They were Americans. One held his hat in his hand. He was tall and blond, tanned and windblown and attractive. The other . . . was dirty. A mountain man, clearly, dressed in the same kind of buckskins as his companion. Where his companion had taken advantage of civilization to wash, this man obviously considered cleanliness optional.
“Don Damian, you’re looking well.” William Hartnell stepped forward with the hearty good humor that had earned him his place as one of the most popular foreigners to settle in California. “I was here for that ridiculous display of bravery before the bull. You’ve started a whole new trouble for me. All my grandsons have decided they, too, should challenge the bull in such a manner.”
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