Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1)

by Paula Scott

  “A battle is going on for your heart, Dom. Please, son, pray with me,” his mother said last year when he was home and found her kneeling beside his bed as he slept. He was too embarrassed to crawl out from under the covers in front of her so that he could kneel beside her. He preferred sleeping without clothes and couldn’t imagine what his devout little mother would say upon discovering this. Feeling like a small, chastised boy, he reached out his hand to her.

  For what seemed like a very long time, his mother prayed, holding his hand. It was cold that night, and he worried for her kneeling on the plank floor of the two-story New England cottage he’d grown up in.

  He tried to offer her a blanket from the bed, but nothing seemed important to her but praying for him. Certainly, she prayed because her youngest son had not married and wasn’t raising a respectable family like the rest of his siblings. His two older brothers were fine Christian men like their father. Married to sweet, submissive women like his mother. His two older sisters were also married. They too reared busy families. Only Dominic’s little sister, Chloe, remained single, as he was. She lived at home and begged him to take her on one of his voyages, which of course their parents forbid. Chloe was only fifteen years old.

  Dominic knew he was a disappointment to his parents. A wry smile crossed his lips, and he winced. His lower lip was swollen and throbbed when he smiled. Out of all his siblings, he was the most successful. In a worldly sense anyway. He was by far the wealthiest. His brothers worked the Boston docks beside their father, making a living, feeding their families, going to church on Sundays, and reading their Bibles. They were soft-spoken, hardworking men. Dominic admired them, but he didn’t want to be like them.

  When he was thirteen, he’d decided he wanted to be wealthy. He remembered the day he’d asked his father, “Why don’t we own a sailing ship like that one?” The beautiful ship had sailed into the harbor, her decks loaded with tea from the Orient, cattle hides from California, and fur from the Russians.

  Dominic’s father smiled, admiring the ship with her tall white sails full of wind and sunshine. “She’s a fine ship, no doubt, but the Good Lord hasn’t blessed me with my own ship. He’s given me sons instead and daughters to raise up for the kingdom of heaven. These docks give me a steady income, and I never miss a Sunday in church with your mother. It’s a life good enough for me, Dom.” Patrick Mason ruffled his son’s sun-bleached brown hair.

  “I’m going to own my own sailing ship, Father,” Dominic told him. “And when I do, I’ll call her The White Swallow, and she will have an angel on her helm to guide me on the open sea.”

  “Those are fine plans, but remember, angels help us, but it is the Good Lord who guides and protects us. Don’t ever lose your way, Dom. The devil is always waiting for a man to take the wrong road.”

  Now Dominic hurt in a hundred different places, especially his face. His nose was bruised. His mouth ached. Perhaps he’d cracked a rib. The only thing that brought him any consolation was the thought that the Spaniard may have taken a worse beating than he did. Those boxing matches on the docks when he was a youth had paid off in more ways than one. Boxing made him a lot of money back in Boston. And a lot of friends. Friends in high places who helped him become captain of a clipper ship. A ship he now owned all by himself. The White Swallow with her angel on the helm. His boyhood dream.

  So why wasn’t he a happy man?

  Upon his return to Boston, he was all set to marry Sally. A sweet young woman who sat between his parents and hers each Sunday in church. Sally was kind. Smart. Appealing. So why didn’t the prospect of marrying her quell his interest in other women?

  Feeling a trickle of warm wetness, he rubbed his hand over a deep scratch on his neck. His fingers came away bloody. The redhead had done nearly as much damage as her brother in a much shorter time. Great seagulls, Maria Vasquez was something else. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he could hardly catch his breath.

  Now here was sin knocking on his door. The Spanish girl erased every memory of Sally from his mind. He groaned, rolling over onto his stomach, staring at the wall for a while, trying not to think about the redhead.

  But it was no use.

  A short while later, he rolled again onto his back to stare at the ceiling before turning his attention to the painting on the wall of Jesus being removed from the cross by several weeping men. Maria Vasquez was surely Catholic. His Protestant family would never understand if he ended up in California married to a Catholic girl.

  He thought about the land he’d purchased in Yerba Buena on San Francisco Bay. What a harbor, San Francisco. The finest in the world, no doubt. He’d purchased several lots on the water, paying next to nothing for the valuable land. He imagined fine wooden docks like the ones in Boston where ships could sail right up and unload their wares. He also imagined a grand house on the piece of land he purchased on a hill overlooking Yerba Buena. A mansion like the ones back east with gables and three different shades of paint. Green, he decided. His mansion would be white and green. The same shade of green as the redhead’s eyes. That’s the kind of house he dreamed of settling down in one day to raise a family. Imagining a passel of little red-haired girls made him grin.

  Where did Maria get those eyes? Her brother had them too, but Dominic had no desire to ever gaze into his green eyes again. But Maria. Oh, Maria. He would have drunk vinegar to sit at the table with her and look into those beautiful green eyes all night long. His stomach and head now felt like that’s what he had drunk, vinegar.

  His parents did not imbibe spirits. Neither did his siblings. They all believed wine was better left untouched. And spirits brought about real and frightening battles with demonic spirits, said his mother. Dominic on the other hand, had decided if Jesus drank wine, he could too. He did his best to avoid drunkenness, but sometimes it snuck up on him. Like tonight, with the redhead filling his glass again and again. By the time the dancing began, he knew he was drunk. Pleasantly inebriated, he preferred to liken it.

  He stared at the painting of Jesus’s body being taken down from the cross on the wall of his room. Then he rolled onto his side to stare at a different wall. The painting depressed him. He couldn’t see it that well anyway in the light of just one candle. When he’d stepped into this room this afternoon, the first thing he noticed was that painting. He’d gone right over to it and tried to read the inscription, but it was in Spanish. Before going down to dinner, he’d asked Parker, his half-Mexican deckhand, to come to his room and interpret the script for him.

  “It is finished,” Parker read, then skedaddled out of the room in a hurry. God made his sailors uncomfortable, though in severe storms, these same sailors would pray along with Dominic for their lives and the ship to be spared.

  He closed his eyes, commanding himself to sleep. He didn’t want to think anymore. Didn’t want to pray anymore. Certainly didn’t want to look at the Savior’s broken body anymore in that colorful Catholic painting. And lastly, he didn’t want to think about Maria Vasquez. That was for sure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Though the night had ended earlier than planned due to the fight, Rachel still found herself walking all alone through a sleeping hacienda the next morning. Not even the servants were up yet. Relishing the quiet sunrise and encouraged by the sparkling beauty of spring’s arrival, she headed for the vineyard. Once there between the vines, she stood with her face upturned toward the sunrise, her eyes closed in prayer. Sometimes when she prayed, the Spirit illuminated her mind, and a heavenly light would swirl through her senses, so warm and soft and comforting with God’s presence. For how long she stood like this savoring his goodness, she didn’t know, but when she finally opened her eyes, Steven stood beside her.

  “Good morning. I prayed I’d find you alone this morn.”

  She returned his delighted smile. “Good morning to you.”

  “Am I interrupting your devotions?”

  In a sisterly fashion, she straightened a button on his shirt. “Of cou
rse not. You could never interrupt me, Steven.” Her heart ached for him, coming all the way to California only to find her engaged to Roman.

  “Has the Lord made it clear whom you are to marry?”

  Straightforwardness was one of Steven’s strengths. She tweaked the button on his shirtfront so it finally settled into place. Then she looked him over. He was as tall and earnest as she remembered. A fine man. A godly man. The husband she’d always dreamed of. “No, the Lord hasn’t made it clear to me yet,” she admitted.

  “Why are you living in his home before marriage?” He did not sound condemning, just concerned for her welfare.

  “He took me from my father’s house.”

  “Against your father’s wishes?”

  “I don’t think my father cared. He has recently married a woman not much older than me.” She thought of Rosa there too at her father’s beck and call. She ached over her father’s sinful lifestyle. “Walk with me.” She beckoned Steven to follow her.

  Birds sang all around. They headed away from the house, through the vineyard, down toward the creek, where real privacy could be found. “It would not be hard for my father to come fetch me. Yet he has not. California is not what I expected. My father is not what I expected.”

  Steven moved closer to her, measuring his long steps to hers as they walked. “Roman shared with me last night a bit about his past. He has not had an easy life.”

  This surprised Rachel. “What did he tell you?”

  Steven smiled. “We talked for several hours. I did not want to leave him after the fight. He was bleeding quite badly.”

  She stopped walking, looking toward the house. “How badly is he hurt?”

  “Bruised and swollen, but he’ll be fine. Lupe used a sewing needle on him. Darned his eyebrow like a sock last night. I’m grateful he’s not so handsome now. It gives me a chance to have you look at me.”

  “Oh, Steven, the Lord made you handsome as well.”

  He grinned wryly. “Not like Roman Vasquez. I suspect when he heals, his face will be even more intriguing to the ladies with that new scar to admire.” Steven grew serious. “Are you in love with him?”

  Looking up into his kind brown eyes, she found herself fumbling for an answer.

  “Don’t be afraid to hurt me. Your love for him would only confirm what the Lord has already shown me.”

  “What has the Lord shown you?” Her heart skipped a beat.

  Tears filled Steven’s eyes. “I shall not marry.”

  She grasped his hands. “Are you sure? That can’t be true!”

  He pulled her into his arms. “Don’t tell me you love him,” he whispered huskily. “I can’t bear to hear you say it.”

  His embrace took her aback. This wasn’t like Steven at all. “In heaven, none of us will be married,” she whispered back to him. “We must remember heaven is our true home.” Tears filled her eyes.

  He held her for a while, pressing his cheek to her hair, and then, with a deep sigh, he released her. Stepping back, he pressed his thumbs against his eyes.

  She knew he fought back tears. “Ours is an eternal hope. We must keep our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith.” She captured his hands, squeezing them in encouragement.

  “I’ve loved you for so long. I just needed to see you again.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve always thought you would be my wife. The light of Christ shines through you. Pray for me, Rachel,” he said hoarsely. “A battle rages in me. I don’t want to let you go.”

  She closed her eyes, her hands tightly squeezing his. “Oh, Lord, reassure us that your plans are better than the plans we hold for ourselves. Let our lives be a sacrifice to you, dear Lord Jesus.”

  “Amen,” Steven agreed.

  Tears dripped down Rachel’s cheeks. “The Lord is with us here in this place.”

  “Yes, he is. I did not feel God’s reassurance on the ship, but I feel him now.”

  She felt his gaze on her before she saw him. Rising onto her tiptoes, she peered over the top of Steven’s shoulder to find Roman standing amongst the vines.

  Steven turned and saw him too. He waved Roman over.

  “He has a terrible temper,” she whispered in warning.

  Steven smiled reassuringly.

  Roman’s bruised and swollen face was like a thundercloud when he stepped up to them there near the creek.

  “We were praying. Would you like to join us?” Steven invited.

  Roman glanced at Steven and then leveled his gaze on Rachel. “I understand,” he said abruptly. His eyes burned over her, and then he spun on his heel to leave.

  Steven captured his arm. “Don’t go. Pray with us, Roman.”

  Roman shook off Steven’s hand. “I do not pray. I’ll leave you two alone with your God.”

  He walked stiffly away.

  “See how he is?” Rachel laced her fingers together to stop from wringing her hands.

  “We must show him the love of Christ.” Steven stared after Roman, his face shining with compassion.

  “You don’t know what he has done.” She bit her lip. Certainly, she couldn’t tell Steven about Roman’s embraces. And that he’d seen her bathing and bathed her himself when she was ill. She shuddered at the thought of how intimately he knew her. And how she responded to his touch.

  “He’s a man who doesn’t know our Lord. We must help him see Jesus. I believe he loves you, Rachel. I think you could return his feelings in time.”

  “Truly, I don’t know what I feel for that insufferable man.”

  Steven placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We must trust our Lord. He knows what he’s doing with us here.”

  Steven turned and plucked some unripe grapes off one of the vines. “When the harvest comes, these grapes will be crushed to make wine.” He handed Rachel the cluster of green grapes. “We must allow our Lord to ripen us like these grapes. Ultimately, we will be crushed to produce the wine God chooses to fashion from us here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A grove of ancient oaks shaded the picnic grounds on top of a hill overlooking the hacienda. Blankets spread upon the grass provided a lovely spot to rest and eat beneath the canopy of great trees. Oxen led by vaqueros towed the wooden-wheeled carts transporting the servants holding steaming plates and baskets of food up the hill to the picnic grounds. The Vasquez family was well practiced in entertaining guests this way in the grove. As the familia and their visitors indulged themselves on the ridge, vaqueros assembled below on the plain, practicing feats of horsemanship for the onlookers above. Roman remained below with the cowboys, appearing every inch the vaquero on his palomino stallion.

  “He is the best rider of them all,” Isabella said proudly. The girl had appointed herself Rachel’s dueña and refused to leave her side. Remaining close to Isabella was a smiling servant named Chatequa. Another Indian woman, not so cheerful, followed Maria around. These dueñas played a quiet role, doing little more than trailing the girls everywhere they went. Rachel smiled at Chatequa as she rested in the shade. The dark, round-faced servant with kind eyes grinned back at her.

  The day was warm and vibrant, the sky sapphire blue with white puffy clouds drifting lazily along. “Will your brother come up here to eat?” Rachel asked Isabella. She hadn’t seen Roman since he left her and Steven in the vineyard early that morning.

  “Probably not. He prefers to be with the vaqueros. If they don’t stop to eat, neither will he. This evening, the vaqueros will feast like wolves after their day is done.”

  Rachel was disappointed. She wanted Roman to see that Steven did not sit beside her in the shade. Steven was now keeping his distance from her, reclining with Captain Mason on the other side of the picnic grounds. Don Pedro sat with Steven and Captain Mason, eating, drinking, and watching the cowboys down below in the plain.

  Hours went by. Rachel reclined back on the grass under an oak tree after eating. Nobody seemed in a hurry to do anything. And she still felt the l
ingering weakness of her recent sickness. A little rest would do her good. She closed her eyes just for a short while.

  When she awoke, she found herself alone on top of the hill except for a handful of servants cleaning up the picnic. Startled, she sat up, looking around for the others.

  “They are at a horse race down below.” Eating a cold tortilla filled with meat, Roman leaned against the wide trunk of the tree she’d slept under. He was just a few feet away from her.

  She scrambled to her feet. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “I assured Isabella you would be safe in my care.” A wry smile twisted his lips.

  She smoothed down her skirts and pushed the hair off her warm cheeks in embarrassment.

  “One of the Yankees has captured Isabella’s attention. She’s down watching him.” Roman finished the tortilla and then pushed himself away from the trunk, stepping over to her side. He pointed below where everyone else had gathered. Capturing a lock of her hair, he tucked it behind her ear. “Are you feeling ill again? Is this why you sleep?”

  “I’m all right.” His nearness made her nervous. The servants nearby pretended not to notice them under the tree together.

  “My sisters are spellbound by the blue-eyed Americanos.” Roman plucked a leaf from Rachel’s locks and then stared intently into her eyes.

  “It is natural, I suppose, for young women to notice young men.” Rachel felt breathless staring back at him.

  “Maybe it is time for me to arrange suitable betrothals for my sisters. Maria especially needs a firm hand now that she is older.”