The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  As he rode closer, Santana studied him, his powerful arms, his attractive face. She liked Will Lassater more each time she saw him, and she had not had another chance to talk alone with him since the day she had snuck into his room. She had worried he would go back to San Francisco before they could talk again, and she had come here to her favorite place to think of a way she could see him alone once more. Now here he was, as though God had brought him. Why did she feel all shivery when he dismounted and walked closer, those broad shoulders showing his strength, those blue eyes looking so intently into her own?

  “I often come here,” she answered. “Mi padre lets me go riding alone, as long as it is only to this place that he knows I love.” She looked up at the lone pine tree. “I hope that you would never cut this tree, or those around it that protect and shelter it. I feel sorry for it. It seems so alone here, so I come to keep it company. I call it my forever tree.”

  “The forever tree. Why is that?”

  She shrugged. “When I think about how old the California pines become, and how young this one still is, I know it will be here for a very long time, long after I die, even though I am only sixteen.” He saw a shadow of sadness cross her face. “So many things in life change as we grow older, but a tree is forever, a sign that some things never have to change.”

  Will frowned, touched by the way she described the tree as something with a heart and soul. That was how he felt about trees himself, that they were a form of living poetry, something strong yet warm, something that gave so many things to man—shade, homes, paper, the warmth of a wood fire…“I’m glad to know you love trees as much as I do,” he answered. He was sure he was not supposed to be alone with her this way, but he didn’t care. She wore no veil, no special jewelry. Like the day she had come to his room, she was simply dressed. She needed nothing to add to her beauty.

  “I love trees very much, and the birds, the animals.” She turned to her horse. “This is my horse, the one I told you about.”

  “Estrella,” he answered.

  “You remembered her name.”

  “Of course. And she does have a white star on her forehead. She is very beautiful.” Just as you are very beautiful, he wanted to add.

  “Gracias, senor. I love to ride. Do you?”

  Will looked around again. “Yes, but I don’t often get the chance to ride just for pleasure.”

  Their eyes held, each wanting to say things they knew were forbidden. Santana could see Will was anxious. “It is all right, senor. No one will see us talking here, and even if they did, now that we know you so well, my father would not be angry.”

  He smiled. “I wish you would just call me Will.”

  Santana felt a flush coming to her cheeks. “It is best that I do not,” she said, smiling shyly. “Well, perhaps whenever I see you alone this way.”

  Will wondered if that meant she wanted to meet alone with him more often. That did not seem wise, but then, she was too young to be wise, and he was too enamored with her when she was near like this to care about doing the wise thing himself. “Good,” he answered. “I have enjoyed getting to know you and your family, Santana. May I call you Santana?”

  “Si, when we are alone.”

  Will looked her over, thinking how lovely her naked body must be under her dark riding habit. “I doubt that will happen very often.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose not. You will be very busy soon with building your mill, and I will be busy with my schooling, and with preparing myself for marriage.”

  He caught the hint of bitterness in her words. “We never finished talking about that the day you came to my room. Surely you don’t really want to marry Hugo Bolivar.”

  She turned away. “That is a forbidden subject.”

  Will sighed. “All right then, what can we talk about?”

  She faced him again, smiling. “Logging. Tell me all about how you will cut down such big trees, how a sawmill works. I am going to try to talk my father into bringing me with him to see the mill once you have it running.”

  “Well…”

  “Come! Sit with me on the big rock here in front of my forever tree.”

  She tied her horse to a small bush nearby and walked to a rock that had a flat face angled just enough so that a person could sit on it. Will tied his own horse and followed, a little voice warning him that he should get on that horse and ride hell-bent out of there. A stronger force, though, made him stay. For more than two weeks now he had argued with himself that he should keep out of this woman’s business, but every time he saw her at meals, listened to her talk, realized what a lovely and innocent woman-child she was, he felt anger and frustration at the thought of her becoming Hugo’s wife.

  “First tell me about the place called Maine,” she urged, patting the rock with her hand, indicating he should sit beside her. “I have never been away from California, or even any farther from my father’s ranch than San Francisco. What was the voyage like coming here? I want to know about your family, and how did you feel when you saw the big trees for the first time?”

  “Whoa!” Will protested, putting out his hand. “One question at a time.” He sat down and pulled his pipe from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No,” she answered, smiling eagerly. “I like to watch you smoke your pipe. My father smokes only cigars. I much prefer the smell of a pipe.”

  Will packed and lit the pipe, then turned to meet Santana’s eyes. What was it that he saw there? he wondered. Admiration? A deep fondness? Did she see him as some kind of hero? Did she just want his friendship, or would she like him to be more than a friend?

  He answered all her questions, telling her about his family’s history in logging, how he was there to fulfill his father’s dream. He told her about Maine and the winters there, and the wild, dangerous voyage to California.

  “I guess I’m here to stay,” he finished. “I don’t relish ever having to go back, and a man can get used to this land real fast. It’s beautiful here. And as far as how I felt about those trees the first time I saw them…” He shook his head. “I felt like I had stepped into God’s private dwelling.”

  Santana watched him as he spoke, studying his firm jawline, the rugged lines of his handsome face, the way his sandy hair draped over his shirt collar in thick waves. So many times she had wondered how it would feel to be held in his arms. In spite of his obvious strength, he was surely a gentle man, and from what he had told her, he surely came from a loving, caring family. He was nothing like Hugo. Yes, he had come to California to get rich, but riches would never turn a man like Will Lassater into an arrogant pig like Hugo. She knew this man saw right through all of it, that she did not want to marry Hugo, the kind of man Hugo was. Still, she refused to talk to him about that. It just seemed too personal, and there was nothing this American could do about promises made between two Spanish gentlemen.

  “That is how I feel also about the redwoods,” she said, “as though God dwells there. I think a tree is a beautiful thing. A tree provides so many things for us. Our homes, wood for heat, sometimes even food—berries, your maple syrup. So many things come from trees. They are one of God’s greatest gifts to us.” She sighed, looking up at the tree under which they sat. “You did not answer my question. You must promise never to cut this tree or any of the trees close around it.”

  Will grinned. “I promise. If this is your favorite place to come to be alone, then I will never touch it. Everyone needs his or her own little hideaway.”

  Their eyes met. “Gracias,” she said. “You are a very nice man, Will Lassater. I like talking with you. You make it easy. I can never find anything to talk about with Hugo. He only likes to talk about himself and his riches.” She looked away, realizing she had said something she had not meant to say. “I suppose I will get used to him. Once he is my husband, we will have many things to talk about, and there will be children to share.”

  A pain stabbed through Will’s gut at the thought of Bolivar bedding Santana. He had
no doubt the man would be rough and demanding. “You don’t really want to marry that man and have children by him, do you?”

  Santana rose, walking a few feet away. “I told you I cannot talk about that. I should not have even mentioned him.”

  “Nobody knows we’re talking about it. Something tells me you need to talk about it, Santana. Probably nobody else you know understands how much you detest marrying Hugo. They all think you should be honored and privileged to marry such a man. But you don’t want to, do you?”

  She faced him with tears in her eyes. “It is wrong of me to say such a thing to an American who has only known my family for such a short time. You must understand our ways, Senor Lass—I mean, Will. Father expects this marriage. I should be honored. For me to refuse to marry Hugo would be a disgrace to the Alcala name.”

  Will shook his head. “I would never put honor above my daughter’s happiness. Surely your father knows the kind of man Hugo is. He’s a bragging, cocky bastard who loves himself a thousand times more than he could ever love another human being. He won’t be a good husband to you. He’ll be cruel to you and will probably be unfaithful. He’ll use you to bear his children and that’s all you’ll be good for.”

  “Please, stop! You must not talk that way. Let’s talk about something else. We—” She stopped when she heard riders coming. “I must go.”

  “Santana, wait!” It was no use. She hurriedly climbed up on Estrella, sitting sidesaddle, and rode off. Moments later Hernando and two ranch hands rode into the clearing.

  “Will!” Hernando called out. “Have you seen my sister? She is late in getting back. She often comes to this place.”

  Will glanced in the direction Santana had ridden. He doubted she would want her brother to know they had been sitting there talking for the last hour. “I stopped here myself to do some thinking. Santana rode by just minutes ago. She said a hello and went on.” He pointed to where she had ridden. “That way. I’m sure she’ll be heading home soon.”

  The two men studied each other, and Will suspected Hernando did not fully believe him. Will had noted that Hernando had shown a great dislike for Hugo himself. Maybe he could approach Santana’s brother about the marriage, find out if there was any way Santana could get out of it. He guessed Hernando didn’t want her marrying Hugo either.

  Hernando nodded. “I will ride after her and make sure she comes home right away so Father will not worry.” He tipped his hat and rode off with the two ranch hands, and Will walked to his horse. He mounted up, then took a moment to study the tree that Santana loved. Their talk had made him feel closer than ever to her, and it had awakened something deeper than friendship. He had to face the fact that he was beginning to look at Santana as more than an innocent girl. She was certainly a woman in body, and she had a beautiful, giving spirit. Was he falling in love? No, that was crazy. This feeling probably just stemmed from feeling sorry for her having to marry Hugo, and from being mesmerized by her dark beauty. Maybe once he got to San Francisco and then got busy building the mill, he would forget about her. It wouldn’t be wise to interfere with the affairs of the very man whose land and forest he needed to fulfill his dream.

  Perhaps the little talk he and Santana had had would plant enough doubt in her mind that she would do something about the marriage herself…but she carried the same Spanish pride as her father, whom she loved very much. Would she allow herself to be given in marriage to a man she despised just to honor her father’s name?

  Damn! Of course she would. That’s the way these people were, and he’d be damned if he’d stay out of it. There must be something he could do. Thank God the marriage wouldn’t take place for more than a year. He had some time yet to think about it, and to learn what he could do to stop such a marriage without the Alcala name being dishonored.

  Eight

  Santana’s heart quickened when the noise and sights of the mill struck her senses. For nearly a year an ambitious Will Lassater had been building his logging enterprise, which included a sawmill at this site, high in the mountains on the northern end of La Estancia de Alcala, as well as a finishing mill near the ocean. Since leaving for San Francisco to hire loggers and wait for more equipment to arrive, Will had visited her father only once, several months ago. To her disappointment, she had been gone, on another excursion to San Francisco with Hugo.

  She could not help wondering if the visit had been deliberately timed. Since Will had been in San Francisco just before that, and was supposedly dealing with Hugo as a buyer for his lumber, he must have known she was going there. Had he chosen that time to visit her father purposely to avoid her? Her father had gone to watch Will’s progress several times, but Will had not returned to the ranch. She had hoped he would, hoped they would find more occasions to talk, yet she did not fully understand why it mattered.

  She had exhausted all ideas of how to avoid her marriage to Hugo without disappointing her father. The wedding was only three months away, and somewhere in the back of her mind she had hoped Will Lassater would come to her rescue as he had when she was nearly abducted by the banditos. Still, that one time they’d had a chance to talk, she had refused to discuss the matter. Why did she think he would bother with her problem any more since then? He was a busy man, and an American besides. To interfere with her people’s customs could cost him the deal he had struck with her father, and like the other Americans who had come there to rape California for its gold, he was there to rape it for its trees. Americans loved riches, and those riches came before love and honor, did they not?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the screaming of a saw and the roar of some kind of engine. She reminded herself that she had decided not to think about Hugo today, or of the terror she felt at knowing he would soon be her husband. On her last visit to San Francisco, Hugo had brought in the most skilled and expensive dressmaker in town to measure her for a wedding gown. He was already planning a huge celebration, working on an invitation list that included all of San Francisco’s most prominent businessmen. She had wanted the wedding to take place on her father’s ranch, to celebrate with old friends of the family, but Hugo insisted it take place in a cathedral in San Francisco, determined it would be the event of the year.

  With her wedding date fast approaching, she had finally convinced her father to let her come along with him on another of his visits to the logging site to see what kind of progress Will had made. She had reminded her father that it was 1855 already. In November she would be eighteen, and once she was married she would probably have to spend most of her time in San Francisco and would not see much of her father or La Estancia de Alcala. She wanted to spend some time with Dominic while she had the chance, so he had agreed to bring her with him.

  She rode beside Dominic, and they were followed by several ranch hands, both for protection and for helping make camp at night, building fires and cooking their meals. It had been an exciting trip for her, a two-day journey deep into the big redwoods, listening to the owls and wolves at night. She loved the forest, loved the smell of it, the quiet…

  It certainly was not quiet at the mill, however. They broke through a stand of trees to a clearing that had been made near a small lake. The lake was packed with floating logs, and two men stood on top of a couple of the logs, poking at them with long poles, apparently trying to break up a jam. From somewhere inside a building across the lake came the screaming sound again, and the noise of what Santana figured must be the steam engines her father had told her about, used to run two gigantic saws that cut the huge redwood logs into lengths of board. Dominic was learning a great deal about the logging business, and his stories had stirred her own curiosity to the point where she simply had to see all of it for herself.

  “Will is only just getting started,” Dominic told her. “I do not believe he has even made his first shipment to San Francisco yet.”

  “How does he get the lumber to the ocean?” she asked.

  “I will let him explain. Come. Let’s see if we can find him.”<
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  They rode around the lake, and Santana could see that Will had built his own little town. Crude cabins were spread out all over the clearing, and in front of one of them a woman was scrubbing clothes on a washboard, two little children playing at her feet. Santana guessed that a larger log building in the distance was where the men gathered for meals. Her father had told her Will had brought in two cooks, a man and a woman, to feed the loggers, and a supply merchant from San Francisco had set up a store to provide the necessities of everyday living for the loggers and those who had families. Much of the food used there came from her father’s own farm, so already Dominic was making money from the venture over and above what Will paid him to rent the land. Soon he would begin taking a percentage of the profits from the mill.

  “Will wants to bring in a teacher and build a small school,” Dominic said. “I had no idea what it takes to get into this business. Now I can see why the lumbermen before now have failed. It takes much money just to get started. Will told me that with the lumber and syrup he sold here last year, and more lumber his brother sent a few months later, he made seventy-five thousand American dollars! And he apparently had much money behind him to begin with. This gringo is a rich man already, but he says he has spent most of his money hiring men and building this mill, as well as the finishing mill on the coast. He is anxious to begin selling his lumber. I am sure Hugo has found many markets for it already.”

  And I will be married to Hugo, but secretly love Will Lassater, Santana thought. She drew in a quick breath, realizing it was the first time she had entertained the thought of loving Will. Up to now she had merely been fascinated with the man and thought of him as a hero. She was surprised at the sudden knowledge that perhaps she did love him. But how could that be? She had been with him so few times, had not even seen him for a year. Surely it was just her dread of marrying Hugo that brought such thoughts to mind.