by Susan Wiggs
He had chased this dream for so long that seeing it fulfilled seemed anticlimactic. But it wasn’t even that. Sometimes he questioned whether it was the right dream, after all.
He walked across the dusty track to Charles and Noah. Father and son were deep in conversation in the shade of a live oak. They made a fine picture, the two of them, and it struck Hunter that they looked to be more a part of this place than he had ever been.
Odd.
Charles clapped Noah on the shoulder. “Finish eating that Swiss chocolate. We’ve got work to do,” he said.
Noah’s face darkened a shade, but he grinned in pure pleasure. Being at the top of his sport made things like the color of his skin and which side of the blanket he was born on cease to matter. He had attracted the notice of the racing circuit, and inspired pride in the man who had sired him. And through it all, he managed to maintain the joy in riding a fast horse, and that, more than anything, made him a true champion.
“Wait a minute,” Hunter said, a sudden decision seizing hold of his heart. “I want to talk to you both.” He hunkered down in the shade and looked at his cousin and Noah. “I have a proposition to make.”
Part Five
Let us not burden our remembrances
With a heaviness that’s gone.
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest, V, i
Thirty-One
Cielito, California
December 1854
They called her La Llorona, because she looked so sad. When she caught one of the Spanish wranglers or Anita the cook watching her, Eliza tried to remember to smile. And truly, she told herself, she had much to smile about and plenty to be thankful for. Her ship had arrived in San Francisco Bay at the height of the harvest season, and the new land seemed to open its arms with promise. She had a bank draft from Albion Farm which she’d found in the carpetbag she had brought from Virginia. She hadn’t asked for it. She certainly hadn’t expected it. But the generous payment from Hunter Calhoun had proved to be her hope for the future.
A woman with more pride and less common sense might have torn the draft to bits and cast it to the four winds, but a woman alone in search of a new life could not indulge a fit of pique. Nor could Eliza part with something Hunter had given her, for she understood that he had loved her in his own fashion.
Roberto Montgomery, whose agent had seen her work in Virginia, had brought her to the vast and ancient Rancho del Mar, comprising five thousand pristine acres along the coast beside a busy deepwater harbor. The area was exactly as the old, yellowed lithographs had depicted it—sweeping vistas, a dramatic seacoast, endless free range over strange, scrubby grasslands, and yellowed hills where the herds ran wild and no Anglo or Spanish person had ever set foot.
She lived in a small wooden-frame house by the sea, where the thunder of waves filled the night and migrating gray whales spouted as they passed. A short distance away lay the training grounds where she worked each day with the horses, some of them imported from far places, but most culled from the huge herd of wild mustangs. The horses were not so different from the island ponies she had left behind. Yet these were larger, swifter and in brisk demand from the ranchers and settlers in the area. Using the age-old methods she had learned as a child, she culled mares and yearlings from the herd, gentling them in the manner of her father.
It was a way to survive in a beautiful, empty land. It was a way to fill her days, so that the sleep of exhaustion would fill her nights.
But often, in the many quiet moments that came over her, Eliza found herself thinking of the past. Of Blue and Belinda, and the music of their laughter in the morning. Of Hunter, and the way he touched her heart. Even in his most desperate, tormented moments, he always touched her heart.
At such times, tears would fill her eyes and sometimes outright sobs would cripple her, doubling her over with an agony she didn’t think would ever end. And when the ranch hands saw her like that, they whispered of La Llorona and made the sign of the cross.
One day in early December, when a blustery wind skirled down from the heights and rippled across the glassy bay, she sensed a special energy in the cool air. She was used to change and here it was, changing seasons again.
She patted the neck of the mare she was leading and found more evidence of the season. The young mare’s coat had thickened into a dense mat of warmth for the coming winter. As she brought the horse along the narrow track that hugged the craggy coastline, a chill wind blew her dress against her legs, and she smoothed her hand down the front of her ungainly silhouette.
Another change. On that final night, in the moon-washed barn of Albion, Hunter Calhoun had given her a parting gift, this one more precious and profound than anything she could imagine. He had given her a baby.
The prospect brought both a thrill of joy and a shiver of fear to her. She felt lost, inadequate, incapable of being the sole person responsible for another human being. Then she would think of Belinda and Blue and realize that it was so easy to love a child. Here in California, she didn’t fear being questioned about her lineage. Some of the children who raced around Rancho del Mar owed their heritage to Spaniard, Indian, Anglo and probably African as well, she supposed. It mattered to some Californians, of course; it always would. But this vast land was so different from insular Tidewater Virginia. For the baby’s sake, she told the Montgomerys that she was a widow. More she would not—could not—say.
It had been wrong of her, she thought sadly, to think that love didn’t last. It was the most permanent bond anyone could forge. Perhaps if she had realized that before, she might have stayed, made a life with Hunter, even dared to brave the censure of those around them.
In the distance, a sharp bark sounded. Caliban went bounding across the broad meadow toward the landing that gave access to the ranch storehouses. She followed the racing speck of the dog to the water’s edge—and dropped the mare’s lead rope.
Ships were a common sight in the deep, clear harbor of Rancho del Mar. The powerful Montgomery family had an international reputation, and traders came from far and wide to do business with Don Roberto. But this was not just any ship.
This ship flew a red topsail.
She made a small sound, the cry of an animal in pain. And then she started to run.
By the time she reached the landing, the ship’s boat had arrived ashore. Two small figures ran toward her. She went down on one knee and flung out her arms. Blue and Belinda flew to her, and she filled her arms with their warm, ecstatic bodies.
“We’re here,” Belinda crowed. “Uncle Ryan brought us on his ship. We’ve come to see you!”
“Are you surprised?” Blue asked.
“I’m flabbergasted,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
She looked up over their heads and saw Hunter standing on the dock. Her heart seized with terror and elation. “Go and say hello to Caliban,” she said to the children. “And there’s a very nice lady named Anita who will give you something to eat at the big house.”
Laughing with joy and stumbling on their sea legs, the children went racing up to the house.
Hunter came toward her, looking tall and handsome and terribly grave. He appeared exactly the same and yet completely different. His eyes were so filled with love that she couldn’t speak.
“It’s no good,” he said in that low, slow drawl she remembered so well. “I missed you too much—” He broke off as the wind blew and showed her prominent belly. “Good God, Eliza.”
Tears poured unchecked from her eyes. “Surprise,” she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms with such aching hesitation that she cried even harder, burying her face against his warm shoulder.
“I love you,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “I love you.”
“Ah, Hunter,” she said unsteadily, “I love you too, and I always will.” She tilted her face up and welcomed his kiss, tasting tears and salt air and everything she had missed about him. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I think I did.”
“Loving one another has never been our problem, has it?”
“Honey,” he said desperately, pulling back. “I stopped drinking. I don’t drink anymore, ever. The whiskey made me crazy—I didn’t realize that until I stopped. It kept you away from the place where you belong.”
“And where is that?” she asked.
“Right here,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it to his chest. “Right here in my heart. I can’t be without you, Eliza. I was a fool to think I ever could.”
She shut her eyes, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against her palm. Yet she couldn’t help remembering the stifling social gatherings of Tidewater Virginia, and a shadow passed over her hope. “Hunter, some things haven’t changed. I’ll always be the horsemaster’s daughter, whose mother was a runaway slave.”
“How can you think that would change the way I feel?” he demanded. “I love everything that you are. Every drop of blood that runs in your veins. Though I never knew your parents, I honor them, because they made you.”
She tried to stop crying. “You are an amazing man, Hunter Calhoun. But society isn’t ready for a love like ours. I’ll never fit into your world.”
He kissed her eyelids, each in turn, and she opened them to look up at him. “That’s not why I came here,” he said.
“Then why?”
“I came to stay.”
“Here?”
“If you’ll have me. All of us. Me and the children. We can get a place of our own, make a new start out here. This isn’t your world or mine either. We can build a new world together.”
“How could you leave Albion? All your work, your dreams—”
“Albion wasn’t enough, not after I found you. Charles and Noah run the farm as well as I ever did, maybe better. After you left, the dream became my purgatory. I tried to put on a good face, go about my business, but it didn’t work. Nothing works without you.”
“You can’t mean that,” she said. “How can you give up everything you’ve built?”
He smoothed his hand over her belly, and a look of wonder suffused his face. “Building it is better than having it, Eliza. I learned that from you.”
The stark, sweet honesty of his admission struck her, then penetrated so deeply that it almost hurt. “Do you mean that, Hunter?” she asked softly.
“Hell’s bells, woman, of course I mean it.”
Epilogue
Cielito, California
1858
Blue Calhoun started riding early that day. He loved the cool sharp air of morning when the sea mist snaked across the meadows and nestled in the crevices between the hills. He loved the muted quiet before the start of another busy day, and he loved the eager strength of Stephano, his favorite horse, one he had tamed and trained all on his own.
And lately, he loved the sight of Sancha Montgomery, who was thirteen years old and so pretty it made him dizzy just to look at her. She had a habit of coming out early, barefoot and with her skirts swishing around her ankles, to walk along the path that marked the boundary of their parents’ property. It was almost as if she knew his habit of riding out early. He loved talking to her; she was so easy to talk to. Someday he might tell her his biggest secret: that for two years, he didn’t speak. She probably wouldn’t believe him, though, because he talked all the time now.
His father had bought a claim north of Rancho del Mar, and he’d built a huge, rambling white house and a barn and arena even larger than the one at Albion. Breeding and racing were not so important out in the wilds of northern California, but there would always be a need for horses, and already everyone in the area knew where to get the best—from the Calhouns.
Blue brought Stephano down to a walk and kept his eyes peeled for Sancha. A swift wind cleared the mist from the cliff’s edge and there she was, dark hair and red dress, arm raised to wave a greeting. He waved back, feeling a little charge of excitement, because she and her family would be coming for a visit today. In fact, he had to hurry back in order to help organize the celebration, and so he angled his horse homeward, watching the clouds blow away as the sun rose higher.
Down in the yard behind the house, preparations were already under way. It was Belinda’s tenth birthday, and she had insisted on a huge and lavish fiesta. Long tables were set up under the shade trees. Three-year-old Henry, whom everyone called Hank, waddled along behind poor old Caliban. The elderly dog preferred to spend his days sleeping in the sun, but he showed a weary tolerance for Blue’s energetic half brother.
Belinda and Anita wrestled with a long tablecloth that kept blowing in the wind. His father and Eliza came out on the porch, walking hand-in-hand, heads bent together as they laughed at Hank’s antics. Eliza was so pretty, even prettier than she had been when Blue first saw her, shading her eyes and looking up at him in the tree house at Albion. He remembered liking her instantly then, and feeling a gentle unfurling in his heart, and thinking that one day he would tell her the things hidden inside him. And he had, and the miracle was, she and his father had understood. He was old enough now to know that their love and approval protected him far better than any enforced silence.
His parents’ voices drifted up to Blue, a soft assurance that the world they had made was the place where they all fit.
For a moment, an ominous cloud obscured the sun, and Eliza cast up a worried eye, probably fretting that Belinda’s birthday would be spoiled by rain. But after a few moments the cloud drifted out to sea.
Life was like that, Blue supposed, a mixture of dark and light. You had to learn to wait until the sunshine broke through. And if you were patient, it always did, no matter what.
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Three
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-Four
Halfway to Heaven
by Susan Wiggs
Susan Wiggs
Part One
A lady should always have an easy, becoming and graceful movement while engaged in a quadrille or promenade. It is more pleasing to the gentleman.
—Lucien O. Carpenter,
The Universal Dancing Master, 1880
One
The bridal bouquet sailed past a dozen outstretched arms, hitting Abigail Beatrice Cabot smack in the face before it dropped into her unsuspecting hands. Just for a moment she saw stars; her eyes watered and her nose stung from the cloying sweetness of gardenias. She blinked twice, then exploded with a terrific sneeze.
First, a deathlike pall fell over the boisterous crowd of well-wishers. Then titters rose from the young ladies nearby, and a flurry of whispers erupted from the wedding guests gathered in the East Room of the White House.
“I’m allergic to gardenias,” Abigail muttered in an agony of humiliation. Tattered petals drifted down her face and over the front of her dress, leaving behind a powdery yellow residue. A comb dislodged from her
hair, and she felt her braid coming undone.
Dropping the bouquet, she didn’t look to see where it landed, but sought escape, shedding the occasional torn flower as she went. A rustle of speculation stalked her across the polished marquetry floor. With each painful step, she tried not to hear the whispers, but couldn’t avoid catching a few all-too-familiar phrases: What a disgrace to Senator Cabot. His daughter’s always been a little odd, hasn’t she? Must be such a trial to him….
At the moment, her father stood to one side of the room, regarding her with a crushing look of disappointment. Instead of enhancing his image as the senior senator from Virginia, she’d managed to remind everyone in the room that all of his money and power could not buy him a proper daughter. Suddenly, she wanted to die. His expression, the snickering of the guests nearby—it was all too much. In her haste, she nearly stumbled and fell, lurching a little and further undermining the stability of her coiffure.
Everyone passed in a blur: the strapping bridegroom in his military dress uniform and the dainty bride in her pearl-encrusted gown, trying to see what had become of her bouquet; the cluster of gentlemen gathered around the president, vying for his attention; the first lady and her bevy of gossips, avidly discussing the latest disgrace of Senator Cabot’s daughter.
Although the guests parted like the Red Sea before her, Abigail couldn’t avoid the impression that they had all gathered for the sole purpose of witnessing her faux pas. Feeling the darts of a dozen pairs of eyes, she wove an awkward path across the ballroom, hoping to reach the glass doors at the northeast gate before she sneezed again.