A chance encounter with a ship owner led to a night watchman job in addition to his long hours of cargo handling. His mother protested, but Brit reminded, “Our Father can be with me just as well there as anywhere.” Mr. O’Donnell agreed. With decent food and rest, he had regained much of his splendid strength.
The whole family’s dream was to save enough to find and purchase farming land. Sprawling cities grated on those used to the peace and quiet of pastoral scenes. The screech of crowds contrasted sharply with roosters crowing, hens clucking, and the garbage-filled, narrow streets prevented even taking in great breaths of air.
❧
Months slipped into years, Katie and the lads grew, and one day enough money hid in the old sugar bowl for the great exodus.
“Maine,” the O’Donnells decided in family consultation. “It has coasts and rivers and trees. We can feel at home there. Other Irish families have migrated to Maine.”
Brit added, “Aroostook Country in the eastern upland region has fertile soil. We can grow potatoes again.”
“And continue to make lace,” Mrs. O’Donnell added. Some of the sugar bowl money had come from the exquisite lace she crocheted, adding flowers and symbols of America to the shamrocks and rosettes of the traditional Irish crochet lace.
Faith in God and hard work resulted in the establishment of the family on the farm they had dreamed of for so long. Not only potatoes but milk and butter and eggs would help keep the family prosperous.
Brit pitched in as wholeheartedly as the rest, yet his eyes often looked westward. Tales of riches and opportunity stirred something within him. Now, on this misty morning that reminded him of County Cork just before the sun rose, he lifted his face to the sky. “Lord, I have kept my promise. I have worked hard and always at jobs that would not dishonor Thee. Is this restlessness Thy way of preparing me for something new?” His low voice sounded loud in the clear air. Before him lay fields cultivated and planted with his own hands. Behind him lay neatly kept home and outbuildings.
Gaze steady on the glimpse of sea in the distance from which the sun would burst into glory, Brit continued, “The lads are old enough now to work with Father. Katie, young as she is, already knows cookery enough to run our home should Mother fall ill.” He laughed at the thought. God had restored health to the family. Brit’s heart swelled. “Is my longing of Thee?”
A streak of pink, a glow of rose, and the never-ending wonder of the sun’s climbing into the sky and reflecting in the sea stilled further prayer. Humbled as always by the beauty of his heavenly Father’s creation, Brit waited until the pink and rose faded into a warm yellow glow then turned toward the barn and morning chores.
Not until the family had finished their morning meal and Katie and the lads had vanished on pursuits of their own for the hour allowed before chores did Mrs. O’Donnell, with her uncanny knowledge of her son’s feelings and thought, placidly say, “Son, you’re a man now. Twenty-four you’ll be in another month. Your father and I can never thank you enough for all these years you’ve worked and sweated and never once complained.”
He started to reply, but she raised her hand and continued, “Your father and I feel it’s time you be making your own life.” She offered him more Irish soda bread, lumpy and warm, then passed preserves from blackberries the family had picked the summer before. If it’s in your heart to leave us, we understand.” In the emotion-charged moment, her face settled into its usual laugh-crinkled expression. “It’s not as if you’ve set your heart on a pretty colleen and long for a farm and wee ones.”
“I haven’t had time.” Brit grinned to cover the depth of love and the feeling of being set free when he hadn’t even realized he’d been caged.
His father’s gaze, blue-gray as his son’s, rested on Brit. “Mind when you find her she’s like your mother.”
“As if I wouldn’t.” Britt grew serious. “Just this morning I talked with God about the future.”
“We’ve seen it coming. Rightly so,” his mother said fiercely. “Is it west you’ll be going?”
“Why, how did you know?” Brit couldn’t hide his astonishment.
“There’s a look that’s crept into your eyes when you turned toward the setting sun,” she gently replied. “Go with God.”
❧
A fortnight later, Brit O’Donnell began his long journey west, too late for the California Gold Rush, but intrigued at the idea of being a pioneer and seeing unknown places. When his father offered to buy passage for him to California on shipboard, he shuddered and refused. “I’ll go by land. The trip on the Promised Land killed any wish for ocean voyages! And I’ll not hurry. I’m strong and can work hard.” His eyes twinkled. “If I find wealth in California, will you come?” He caught the quick exchange of glances, the shadow of parting, and hastily said, “Why don’t we talk such things when the gold’s in my pocket!”
The same versatility that had helped in the past rose to aid Brit on his westward trek. He worked his way instead of touching the little hoard carefully sewn into his jacket lining by his mother’s nimble fingers. Personable, unafraid of the meanest tasks, good-natured, he slowly moved west, driving teams for those who fell ill on the wagon train he joined at Independence, helping at round-ups on ranches where he tarried, repairing broken wheels and machinery. He spent the winter months trapping in the Rocky Mountains and added to his assets. In the spring he pushed on, got caught in a late blizzard in the Sierra Nevadas, and but for the grace of God, would have perished.
Lured by his long absence from the sea, Brit rode into Monterey early in the fall of 1858, unkempt but unbowed. He filled his lungs with good salt air and curiously examined the strange, Spanish-looking homes so different from Irish and New England architecture. Quickly reviewing what little he knew of the city, he remembered Monterey had been under Spanish, Mexican, and then American rule and had been California’s capital city until 1850. He liked the palm trees with their downbent fronds and the lacy ironwork fences and gates behind which aristocratic Spanish and Mexican high-caste families dwelled.
One of the gates stood open. A long winding road vanished into a stand of oak trees and tall bushes covered with brilliant flowers. Brit slowed Shamrock, the bay horse he had purchased and renamed when he left the Rockies in the spring. He stared open-mouthed at the delicacy of the patterns in the gate. “It looks like our lace,” he told Shamrock.
Before the gelding could do more than lazily turn his head, the rapid pound of hoofbeats jerked Brit’s attention away from the gate and to the road inside. Gravel spurted when a magnificent white horse rounded the clump of oaks and headed toward him at a dead run. Why didn’t the rider rein him in? Then, Brit saw the slipping saddle that could not have been cinched properly and the terrified face of a white-faced boy no older than the lads at home. Chalk white against midnight black hair, the boy fought valiantly to remain in the saddle.
“He’ll never do it,” Brit muttered and turned Shamrock so they’d be parallel when the runaway exploded through the gate.
The white stallion stretched out, ready for a long run. The saddle slipped more.
“Kick your feet out of the stirrups!” Brit shouted.
The rider obeyed and tried to rein the stallion in.
Tense, Brit waited helplessly, praying the boy could stay on just a few feet farther. If he fell now, he’d be impaled on the pointed iron fence.
With a mighty leap, the stallion swept through the gate. The saddle turned down toward the horse’s belly. The rider tried to rein in his mount but could not.
“Now, Shamrock!” Brit spurred his bay, the first time ever. With a start of surprise, the fine animal sprang alongside the stallion. Brit pressed his knees into his horse’s sides and gripped like glue. His right arm shot out, caught the endangered boy by the back of his shirt, and yanked. The shirt tore, but not before Brit had its owner face down across Shamrock while the white stallion thundered away riderless.
“Whoa, boy!” Brit pulled hard on the reins
and curbed Shamrock’s headlong rush after the low white streak. The bay snorted and reluctantly slowed, then stopped.
Brit slid from the saddle and dropped the reins. Shamrock had been taught to stand once this happened. “Are you hurt?” He assisted the struggling boy upright and onto the ground.
“No, señor. Just very angry.”
Brit could believe it. The boy’s midnight eyes held rage at the ignominious defeat at the hands of the stallion.
“Gracias.” The slim rider shook his head in the direction the stallion had taken and proudly drew himself up. “Sol always tries to throw me but he never can.” His thin nostrils dilated. “It was the saddle. A new peon in the stable and. . .” He shrugged and lifted one arched eyebrow indicating that surely señor understood.
Brit squelched the desire to laugh at the haughty manner. Instead, he said solemnly, “Shall I go round up Sol?”
“Si. Papa will be furious, enraged, distraught should harm come to Sol. I will wait here.” He gracefully leaned against the still open iron gate. “When you return and drive this bad horse inside, I will slam the gates shut and he will be caught.”
The minute he got out of earshot, Brit chuckled. His first encounter with Castilian aristocracy had its amusing moments. He urged Shamrock into a run, wondering where the rescue might lead. If he’d expected excitement, he was doomed to disappointment.
Once free of his rider, the white stallion fell to the lure of rich grass not more than a half mile from the hacienda. He raised his head and neighed, turned and showed Shamrock his heels.
It didn’t intimidate the range-trained bay gelding, yet Brit respected the wicked glint in the stallion’s eyes and knew driving Sol back would be impossible. The months he’d spent on roundups served well when his lean fingers reached for his lariat. The rope sang and a wide noose dropped over Sol’s shoulders and tightened. Before the stallion could protest the indignity, Shamrock braced all four feet while Brit jumped from the saddle and raced to the protesting horse. In moments, he had jerked the saddle into place and had whacked Sol so he couldn’t blow himself up and end up with another round of saddle slipping. Brit slipped his left boot into the stirrup and swung aboard, with Shamrock still holding steady. He tightened the reins and pulled Sol’s head high. If the white stallion got his head down between his knees, there would be bucking.
With the unpredictability of his kind, Sol turned docile, obviously used to a struggle then giving in when mastered. Brit beckoned Shamrock, recoiled his lariat, and turned Sol toward the hacienda with the bay just far enough behind to avoid any wicked kicking the stallion might decide to do.
“Señor!” The boy leaped from his indolent pose when the little caravan came near. Perfect teeth shone white in his olive-skinned face that had returned to its natural color.
Brit rubbed his eyes with one hand. He had left one slim youth; now two awaited him, identically garbed in dark riding clothes lavishly trimmed with silver and braid. The second figure only reached the boy’s shoulder, but the same black velvet eyes watched the trio’s approach and a hint of softly curling dark hair peeped from beneath the black hat with its silver filigree band.
“Younger brother,” Brit surmised. “Probably as proud as the peacock I saved from a nasty spill.” He rode into what he now saw was a large courtyard and followed the direction of the boy’s pointing finger toward large, well-tended stables a good quarter of a mile from the long, low hacienda itself.
The two dark figures raced up soon after Brit dismounted and tossed Sol’s reins to an apprehensive, waiting peon whose swarthy skin showed his rank as clearly as his occupation.
A volley of sibilant Spanish from the small figure caused the peon to yank his enormous hat off, cast despairing eyes toward the sky, and wordlessly spread his hands in supplication for mercy. The liquid voice didn’t cease until Brit cut in.
“Don’t be too hard on him. It happens to us all. Horses are smart. They know if they swell up, the saddle won’t be cinched up tight enough.”
“Señor is right, Dolores,” the older boy said.
“Dolores!” Brit stared at the smaller figure.
“But of course.” The boy’s eyes opened wide. “I am Carlos Montoya and this is my sister, Dolores.”
“I beg your pardon, miss, uh. . .señorita,” Brit stammered.
A laugh that tinkled and trickled like a happy waterfall accompanied the cascade of dark curls that fell when she snatched off her sombrero. No man hearing that laugh could mistake Dolores Montoya’s identity. Brit couldn’t take his gaze off her. In spite of the boyish garb, her femininity shone through. She couldn’t be more than an inch over five feet and her beautifully proportioned body topped by a proud head spoke the word patrician with every movement. Brit had seen attractive, yes, even beautiful Irish colleens. He had never seen any girl or woman who surpassed this Spanish señorita.
“Señor, what is it you are called?” Her voice matched her entire bearing in exquisiteness.
“Brit. Britton O’Donnell.” He awkwardly doffed his cap.
A puzzled frown marred the beauty of the white forehead. “You are. . .Yankee?”
He noted the disdain and shook his head. “No. I am an Irishman.” His head unconsciously lifted with much of the same pride the Montoya brother and sister wore as a mantle.
“What is an Irish señor doing in Monterey?” she wanted to know.
“Must you interrogate him?” Carlos demanded. His black eyes flashed. “Where are your manners, Dolores?”
A wave of color washed into the white face. “I am sorry to have been ill-mannered,” she said and disappeared toward the house, leaving Carlos and Brit staring after her.
“That one.” Carlos snorted much as the horses had done earlier. “Always she slips out, steals my clothes, and rides like a boy.” Yet a gleam of pride in his beautiful sister softened his complaint.
With the first decisive move Brit had seen him make, Carlos turned toward the faithful Shamrock, clapped his hands, and told the stable hand that came running, “Care for this horse as if he were your own papa or I will feed you to the dogs.” He added when the boy led Shamrock away, “These lazy peons must be made afraid or they do nothing. Come. It is siesta time.”
“How old are you, Carlos?” Brit curiously inquired.
“I am a man, señor. Fifteen.”
Again Brit hid a grin. “And your sister?”
“Ah, she is eighteen, a woman.” Carlos scowled. “Señor, I must tell you. My family will make you welcome. You saved my life.” He dramatically placed one hand over the general area of his heart. “I am glad you are not a Yankee. We have much hatred of Yankees. They come, they see, they take our land. Once we had one, two, five haciendas such as this. All are gone, stolen by the intruders who swarm into our land, even though our land grants are hundreds of years old. Were it not for Papa’s shrewd nature and the goodness of Dios, God, we would have nothing. Much gold Papa found when others who rushed in found nothing.” He snapped his fingers and disposed of those less fortunate.
“We buy back our hacienda, this one.” His nostrils flared with hate and a sullen look crossed his normally cheerful face. Then he shrugged. “It it is not good to look back.” They walked a few steps in silence then Carlos roused from his memories. “Señor—”
“Call me Brit.”
“Brit.” Carlos rolled it on his tongue and repeated the name, giving it the Spanish pronunciation until it became Breet. “I must give you warning. My sister, Dolores, her name means sorrows. She brings sorrow to the boys and men who fall at her little feet. I would not like to see you feel bad when you have been so kind to me, Carlos Montoya.”
It had been hard to stifle his mirth earlier. Now it became impossible. Brit laughed until he clutched his sides then wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Seeing the indignation in his young host’s face he quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, Carlos. It’s just that I’ve been too busy for girls.”
Frank disbelief shone in the dark eyes.
“You are how old?”
“Twenty-five.”
Carlos swept Brit’s tall frame with a wide-eyed stare and threw his hands over his head. “Are there no señoritas in Ireland?”
“We call them colleens. I left Ireland when I was seventeen, after the terrible potato famine.”
Comprehension on the boy’s face showed him to be knowledgeable of more than California history.
“After we reached America, I worked hard so my family could have a farm.”
“Do you have riches?”
“No, Carlos. I worked my way out here.”
The dark eyes glistened. “One day I wish to travel and see these great United States, even those where the Yankees live.” They had reached the heavy, carved wooden door under the arched overhang that provided a wide porch on all sides of the house. “Enter.”
Brit stepped into a new world. No, a world old enough to have been transported intact from Spain. Priceless tapestries, polished dark wood, color and light from casement windows carved with birds and flowers and religious figures.
“Esta es su casa. This is your house.” Young in years, Carlos didn’t fail to give the time-honored greeting to his guest and benefactor. This time Brit had no desire to laugh.
three
Light from a myriad of flickering candles reflected in the highly polished refectory table that rested its impressive length on heavy legs. It danced in Dolores Montoya’s black eyes, sparkled mischief into Carlos’s face, and dazzled Brit O’Donnell. He had heard of the way the high-caste Spanish lived, but it hadn’t prepared him for such luxury. The perfume of late-blooming red roses filled the air, along with the spicy scent of Mexican food that burned Brit’s throat and made him reach for his tall, crystal water glass.
Veiled Joy Page 3