Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  When she opened her eyes again, Philippe was stroking her cheek and staring at her, the alarm still clear on his face. His eyes were rimmed with red, his dark irises a vivid blue. The beauty of his expression—one of aching concern—sent a jolt of electricity through her veins. If he only knew that the pain she felt inside was ten times worse than her physical injuries.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said before thinking. She wanted to reassure him that she was fine, but her heart hurt too much.

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, love.” He wiped her face with a white towel, and she realized that her hair was matted wet with perspiration. Her skin felt clammy, her stomach nauseated.

  She looked around and discovered she was lying in a large wrought-iron bed, a pale blue quilt thrown across her and two fluffy pillows beneath her. She was in Philippe’s house, the room where she had slept when she had stayed there with Aurora. She was wearing her white nightgown, and there was a makeshift sling on her left arm. She flushed a thousand shades of red and instinctively pulled the quilt to her chin with her good hand.

  Philippe stifled a laugh and tried to take her mind off what he must have realized was her profound embarrassment.

  “Luc wants to see his maman.” He smiled broadly. “Aurora?”

  Aurora appeared at the door with Luc. His little face lit up when he saw Sara. He threw his hands up in the air and strained toward her.

  “Is that your maman? It’s good to see you awake and alert.” Aurora’s voice was cheerful, albeit laced with concern. She put Luc down so he could toddle to Sara’s bedside.

  Sara reached her good arm out toward him, and Philippe, who sat on the edge of the bed, picked him up effortlessly and placed him in the crook of Sara’s arm, where she knew he would not want to stay for long. He babbled and giggled while he pulled Sara’s hair and gave her kisses. She beamed in spite of the pain. She buried her nose in his shiny, fresh-smelling hair and kissed the little dimple at the back of his neck.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Asleep? Try nearly unconscious—for sixteen hours.” Philippe chuckled with relief. “If you hadn’t had a nightmare and awakened with such a start, I would have taken you for dead.”

  Sara felt the shadow cross over her face again. Philippe began to fill in some of the missing details. “Dr. Pratt came around seven, and you barely stirred. He examined your injuries, bandaged your arm and placed it in the sling. You have a slight concussion. He wants you to remain in bed for the next few days.”

  “Days?”

  “Don’t give me any trouble, Sara. Doctor’s orders, and it’s my job to make sure you follow them.” The sharpness of his voice was tempered with a radiant smile that made Sara forget her fears altogether. “You can’t escape me,” he teased. Sara knew she couldn’t win that argument with her pitifully slung arm, concussion and scrapes.

  Luc wriggled out of her arms and slid off the side of the bed. He bounded out the bedroom door toward the kitchen, Aurora trailing him the whole way.

  “And Aurora?” Sara’s voice fell to a whisper. “She will be all right?”

  “Like I said, she was scraped up a bit from the spill she took, but luckily she was outside the house when it happened.”

  “Was anyone else hurt? How’s Rose?” Sara searched his face.

  “She’s fine, but in town, several people died. The damage is extensive, but we’ll rebuild.” He gazed out the window toward the barn, looking as though he were holding something back. His voice lightened. “How’s the arm feeling?”

  “I’ve had worse,” she said quietly. Was he protecting her from something?

  “Yes, I know.” His expression was grave again.

  Sara looked away. She would never tell him how she had sustained the injury to her chest. She could tell he had been the one to dress it. Surely he had been able to tell it was a bite mark. She turned back toward him, but this time, he was the one to look down at the quilt between them.

  “I can’t—I don’t understand how—” Philippe was shaking his head now. Sara silenced him by placing her hand over his.

  “It doesn’t matter, and I don’t want to talk about it. What does matter is that you found Luc and me, and we’re safe.”

  “The thought of someone hurting you …” Philippe’s voice trailed off, and Sara saw anger flash across his eyes. The tug she felt on her heart was quickly overruled by her throbbing head.

  “Let it go,” she said, more sharply than she had intended. He sat back in surprise.

  “You’re so stubborn.”

  Her tone was gentle, repentant now. “Yes. And so are you.”

  He lifted his head and flashed her the crooked smile she so loved. “That could be my best trait.”

  Sara gazed at the blue sky, its far reaches wrapped in a haze of translucent cloud on this unseasonably warm September evening. It looked as though God had taken a bale of cotton and stretched it as wide as the eye could see. The harvest was finally complete.

  Eagle’s Run had fared much better than some of the surrounding wineries in the earthquake. Miraculously, the winery’s structure had remained intact, with the exception of shattered windows on the second and third floors. The old storage barn had been destroyed, but every last piece of equipment had been salvaged from its wreckage. Fortunately, only two windows and a lantern had shattered in the barn where Sara and Luc slept.

  While Sara had spent a week reluctantly resting in bed, Philippe had finished cleaning up the glass and debris and counting the remaining inventory. Of the almost twenty-seven thousand bottles that were stored when the earthquake hit, just over nineteen thousand had survived. Over the next four weeks, Philippe and an assembly line of workers had bottled the surviving sixty-two barrels of 1896 cabernet sauvignon. The new bottling machine helped to expedite the process, but they still had to manually foil, label and box the wine after sterilizing, filling and corking the bottles. Meanwhile, Sara had supervised a crew of more than fifty laborers picking the ripe fruit. By the end of the harvest, they had picked 550 tons of grapes.

  Sara had spent today in the winery, overseeing the de-stemming and partial crushing of the cabernet grapes, which left some of the berries intact. With Philippe’s approval, she had added a large helping of stems back to the grapes to add spice to the wine’s flavor. The mixture would now soak for another two or three days before the wine would be drawn off the skins and moved to the fermenting barrels. Sara didn’t take the responsibility lightly. Constant vigilance was required to create wine of quality and character. Also, Sara had to make sure the Roman Catholic Church’s strict directive was followed: sacramental wine must be naturally made from the grapes of the vine only, not corrupted with sugars or other flavor-enhancing additives.

  Sara could feel fatigue press upon her shoulders, and her healing arm began to ache. Although this was the time of day she most looked forward to, when she and Philippe would settle Luc down to sleep and enjoy dinner together, Sara thought she’d rather retire early this evening. Lost in her thoughts as she ambled toward the barn, Sara nearly jumped out of her skin when Philippe caught her good arm, tucked it in his and started leading her back toward the winery. He was holding something in his right hand, deftly concealing it from her. She caught the delicious scent of his soap and shaving cream on the evening breeze.

  “You’re wearing a new shirt,” she observed suspiciously as she tried to keep up with him, “and you’ve shaved.”

  His eyes were bright and fixed on the winery.

  “I have something to show you,” he said excitedly.

  He led her down the winery stairs to the cellar. Sara smelled the cool, musty air and her eyes strained to adjust to the darkness of the vast stone room. The evening light slipped through the narrow windows near the cellar ceiling and shimmered off the rows of gleaming bottles before them. Philippe put down the glass goblets he’d been carrying, pulled a bottle off the rack and, cradling it in his hand, held it out for Sara’s inspect
ion.

  The bottle’s label bore a beautiful sketch of the Eagle’s Run winery and the winding road leading up to it. A delicate rendering of grape vines wound its way around the design, and Sara’s heart filled as she read Eagle’s Run, Carneros, Zinfandel, 1896. Sara ran her hand over the smooth ivory paper, as if to make sure it were real. It was a work of art. She was choked with emotion.

  She stretched up on her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck. “I’m so pleased for you! You’ve worked so hard for this.”

  His face was exuberant, filled with a joy that echoed Sara’s own. “Pleased for both of us.”

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bottle opener, and opened and poured the wine. Sara swirled the wine in her glass and inhaled deeply. The smell reminded Sara of spiced cherries. The taste was even more delightful—smooth, with just a hint of raspberry. It was by far the best zinfandel she’d ever tasted. She laughed with relief. “It’s superb, Philippe.”

  His voice was unexpectedly serious. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Sara.”

  “I have no doubt that you would have done it all without me, but I’ve certainly enjoyed helping out.”

  His eyes glanced at the stacks of bottles, then back at her. “I found another occupation for you—something to pass the time until your arm has healed.”

  “And what is that?” She was almost afraid to ask.

  He took her glass and placed it with his on a nearby barrel. Then he guided her down the long cellar row.

  “The best man in the county can complete eleven thousand bottle turns in twelve hours. How do you think you’ll fare with the riddling?”

  Sara wasn’t amused. Nothing was more boring than turning bottles. Not to mention that with only one good arm she’d only be able to turn half as many. She swatted Philippe playfully on the chest.

  He took her hand and guided her back up the stairs and over to the workbench on the other side of the winery. “Come here.”

  Philippe gently lifted her up onto the bench, seating Sara so he could look into her eyes. His lips sought hers tenderly, and she felt a familiar, deep longing. Her head began to spin. His fingers caressed her spine, and he moved his lips down to her neck, where they hovered just below her earlobe. “When are you going to agree to marry me?”

  “Um … I”—Sara struggled to regain her faculties—“I hadn’t thought …” Her voice trailed off. Of course she dreamed about marrying Philippe, but she couldn’t imagine how it would be possible.

  He continued his contemplation of her décolletage. “Nonsense. All you do is think and plan and scheme.” She could hear a smile in his voice as his nose traced its way down, and back up, the length of her neck. “The only way I know of to remove that little crease of contemplation between your eyebrows is to kiss you—and often.” He traced her lower lip with his tongue and then took it between his own two lips, sucking gently. Sara shuddered. “I fear it may have to become a full-time occupation for me,” he murmured. “So, back to my question. A simple ‘yes’ would suffice.” He pulled away and gazed at her expectantly, with a trace of humor in his eyes, his hands resting on her waist. “Will you marry me, Sara Landry?”

  Her alias rolled off his tongue in perfect French, but the sound of it snapped her right back to reality. Sara knew she had teetered on the knife’s edge for too long—there was a delicate balance between loving him and leaving him before she ruined everything. And now, here it was: the moment she would have to reject him, against every instinct she possessed.

  “I can’t marry you,” she whispered. In the silence that followed, she almost convinced herself that she hadn’t said anything at all, that she could begin anew, that somehow she could answer “yes” without reservation. She looked down at her skirt, but saw nothing.

  When he spoke, the roughness in his voice splintered her daydream. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both.”

  “You sound confused,” he said.

  “You don’t want to marry me.” She struggled with each word.

  He tipped her chin up with his fingers and drew her eyes back to his. It was unbearable. The only sound was the softness of his breath. His eyes blazed as they searched her own—for what, she didn’t know.

  “Yes, I do. I want you … always.”

  “You have me,” she said lightly, trying to sound relaxed. But Philippe would not be deterred.

  “No.” He brought his lips to the corner of her mouth and whispered, “I want all of you.” He intertwined his fingers with hers. She hoped that he didn’t feel the shudder that rippled through her body. “And you want me, too.” He said the words so simply, so earnestly, that she couldn’t hold back her smile, but behind it was a sinking sensation that the end of her time with him was near. She was so eager to be close to him. Her body folded into the contour of his chest as she wrapped her hand around his neck and pulled him toward her. Her lips sought his urgently, almost violently. Somewhere deep inside her, she knew there wasn’t much time.

  When she finally got hold of her senses and broke away, he laughed softly, keeping one arm securely around her waist while he touched his forehead to hers. “See?” he teased.

  Sara was breathless. She shook her head and looked down again. “I can’t marry you.”

  “Ever? Or just now? Is it time you need?”

  “Not just time. You don’t … know me. There are things that I’ve done. Things I need to tell you. I just can’t—”

  He kissed her once again to silence her. When he pulled away, he looked thoughtfully at her.

  “You’re young, I know, but you are already widowed and a mother to a boy whom I adore.” Philippe took her hand and pressed her palm to his cheek. “I would venture to say you’ve already lived a lifetime.” His eyes were solemn as he continued, “But you have to understand, I’m older, and I know what I want—what I need. You could have been killed in the quake.” His voice broke at this. He shook his head and sought her eyes again. “The thought of it was too much for me to bear. I can’t—I won’t live without you. And I know you love me, too, so you needn’t try to convince me otherwise. But whatever the problem is, whatever impediment you see to our marrying, tell me now.” Sara detected a hint of frustration in his voice. “Let’s figure it out, because it can’t be worse than spending a lifetime apart, can it?”

  The smile that appeared on his beautiful face was so warm and generous that tears blurred her vision. As long as she lived, she knew she would never love anyone this intensely ever again. How could she let him go? She would have to find a way to tell him the truth and then allow him to decide what he wanted.

  “I would never hurt you like he did.” The words stung her. He had completely misinterpreted her reticence. He thought her late husband had abused her, since he could never know that her old wounds had been inflicted by his own brother. His sympathy made her feel all the more sorrowful for what was to come. She was a selfish creature. She should have left Napa before their friendship evolved into something deeper. She should have left Napa as soon as she heard his name.

  Her agony must have registered on her face, for he quickly added, “If time is what you need, you have it.” He stopped abruptly and his head snapped up.

  Sara and Philippe both tensed at the sound of thundering hooves outside. When the rumbling stopped, a single gunshot rang out and a man shouted Philippe’s name. Philippe pulled Sara down to the floor, and they crouched below the open window. He held her head down while he stole a glance outside.

  Ducking down again, Philippe spoke in hushed tones, “Stay here, flat on the ground. Don’t move, no matter what you hear, no matter what happens, do you understand?”

  Sara nodded. He climbed on a nearby cask. Balancing precariously, he felt along the joist overhead until he found the rifle and shells concealed there. He loaded and cocked the gun and stepped out the winery door, calling out to the men.

  The reply was hostile: “Philippe Lemieux?” After a few moments, Sara heard murmurs of thei
r conversation, but was unable to interpret the words.

  Anxious to see, Sara poked her head up for an instant and tried to comprehend the scene outside. Four men, unshaven and unkempt, all carrying guns, fanned out in a semicircle around Philippe. No one looked injured; it must have been a warning shot. Philippe pointed his rifle downward and raised his hand in a gesture of compliance. Sara was alarmed to recognize Jip Montagne atop his horse with a smug look on his face.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Sara stole another glance. This time, she spied Philippe returning from the house. He handed the group’s ringleader a stack of bills, then dismissed the gang with a flick of his head. The man tipped his hat and signaled to his men to mount up. Philippe watched as the horsemen reached the main road and broke into a full gallop. He stood motionless for minutes, staring down the road at the cloud of dust billowing in their wake.

  Then Philippe dropped his head, rested the rifle on his shoulder and walked away from the winery where she was hiding, back toward the barn. Philippe did not cast even a fleeting look in her direction. What was happening? Sara felt her heartbeat stutter, then intensify until it was pounding so loudly she thought it would beat out of her chest. She looked at the spot where Philippe had just asked her to marry him, and leaned back against the door for support. Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor. Sara tightened her arms around her knees, dropped her forehead down upon them and stared into the darkness of her lap.

  The truth of what had just transpired crushed down upon her. Those men had been sent. Montagne had led them here. They were bounty hunters, and they had come for her.

  CHAPTER 17

  Truth

  He knew. Sara was certain.

  Had Marie divulged her identity? Even if she had, Sara had told her she was headed for upstate New York, not California. Had Bastien’s family found her name written in the ship’s manifest, and hunted her all the way across the country? Jip Montagne, she’d bet, had been eager to point them toward Eagle’s Run.