“You do no listen to me,” she accused. “Do you not love me anymore?” She measured her slight height against his own and looked up with mysterious, dark eyes.
He didn’t answer.
She pettishly stepped away. “I wish you had never heard of this woman with the ridiculous name. Joyous. Joyous,” she mocked. Angry flags waved in her white skin. “All you talk of is her. What of me, Dolores Montoya? Do you think I will always listen to your babble about this imposter? My cousin Jessica is dead.”
Brit stood silently, arms crossed, gaze steady.
She caught her lower lip between white teeth and hissed,” Perhaps it is that you love her, not me.”
He started to laugh. Stopped. A bolt from heaven could not have shaken him as much as the view into his own heart that came with her vindictive accusation. All these months while his memory of the Castilian he had put on a pedestal stood before him, had he been leaning toward Joyous, no, Jessica? Her steadfast eyes and innocent face seemed to rise in the air before him and cloud Dolores’s darkening countenance. When it vanished, he felt a veil had lifted, the way Joyous threw aside her veil when she sang the songs of salvation to those who most needed to hear them.
With Dolores, he had idolized and had built in the image of what he wanted his companion and wife to be. In Joyous, everything any man could desire for a lifetime resided in her sturdy body and healthy mind.
“Well, do you love her?” Obviously sure of an impassioned denial, Dolores preened and allowed herself a small smile of triumph, her highest card in a winning hand that never failed to subjugate her slaves.
“Perhaps.” He wanted to shout and sing. He breathed in the fragrance of flowers and of love. Before she could reply, he bowed. “We have both changed, señorita. I thank you for your hospitality.” He moved toward the door into the house feeling as if he’d been hit by a mule and wondering how he could have been so blind.
A low gasp warned him. He turned. Dolores stood where he had left her. Hatred shot from her eyes like a tangible thing. Strong though he was, Brit quaked. He had made an enemy for life. Yet her aristocratic upbringing considered defeat impossible. She turned her head slightly, gave him a condescending smile, and said, “It is well you have found someone to. . .console you. Papa has arranged for a man of great wealth, far more than you and Carlos found, to have my hand in marriage. The wedding will be very soon now.”
He had to admire her resourcefulness, although he’d wager said wealthy suitor had yet to learn of his successful bid. “I wish you happiness with all my heart,” he told her and meant every word of it. How could a man not want everyone else to have joy—when that man intended to find his own Joy and spend the rest of his life, if necessary, convincing her she was the woman God meant to complete his days?
❧
Sadie longed to go with Brit and Carlos in their search for Joy, but her young husband overruled her. “We can go swift like the arrow on Sol and Shamrock,” he said. “We find Señorita Joy in a little minute. Then we return and never again will I leave you.” He bent low and whispered, “You can bring cheer to Papa and Mama, who are so sad.”
“Dolores does not like me,” Sadie told him.
“Dolores likes Dolores.” Carlos smiled in the way that usually got for him what he wanted. Sadie finally reluctantly agreed to remain at the Montoya hacienda.
“First we go to the Millses,” Carlos declared.
“She won’t go there,” Brit disagreed. “Joy knows it’s the first place we will be for looking.”
“Of course.” Carlos’s eyebrows shot skyward. “But Señora Betsy will know the name of the little village where Señor Angus and his daughter lived.”
“Wisha, wisha, but you’re for getting wise,” Brit said admiringly.
Naturally Carlos preened, but Brit insisted that before leaving Monterey, they first approach stage lines and owners of private conveyances for hire. The disheartening answer proved to always be the same. No señorita with eyes like the sea and hair like the sunset had boarded a stage south, or any other direction. Now woman in black with a veiled face had been seen. Brit began to suspect Joyous had remained in Monterey, but a thorough and quiet investigation of each inn and boarding place disclosed nothing.
A full week after reaching the hacienda, Brit threw his hands into the air and gave up. “If she’s hiding here it must be in a crack in the adobe,” he admitted. “Let’s go see the Millses.”
❧
It didn’t take long to reach the humble but pleasant cottage the Millses had found close to a tiny hamlet, little more than a crossroads, where the reverend preached and Mrs. Betsy mothered everyone in the small congregation. After the first glad greetings, Brit and Carlos poured out everything that had happened after the Millses had left Virginia City.
“If I’d known you two would get in such a peck of trouble, I never would have left,” Mrs. Betsy said. “That poor child, losing her pa, then coming all this way and feeling she had to run away. What did you do to her?” She fixed an accusing gaze on Brit.
“I was such a dolt I didn’t realize I loved her,” Brit told them quietly. His feeling lit lamps behind his blue eyes.
“And what about this Dolores woman, Carlos’s sister?” A glance at that young man’s mouth hanging open showed Brit’s revelation was news to him.
Brit smiled a little. “She is affianced to a wealthy hacienda owner. We have both changed.” He left it like that.
“The greatest news, a gift from Dios, is that we are certain Señorita Joyous is my own cousin!” Carlos blurted out.
Mrs. Betsy’s eyes popped and a warm smile creased her face when he explained. “Then I suggest you find her and tell her. . .many things,” she sternly told them.
“We’re hoping you remember the name of the town in southern California that she came from. Perhaps she has gone to the farm.” Brit sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes. He hadn’t slept well since they reached Monterey. “Except how she would get there, I’m not for knowing. No young woman of her description has left Monterey, as far as we can discover.”
“Try looking for a boy, Mrs. Betsy advised shrewdly. “Angus raised her to be canny. ’Twould be just like Joy to disguise herself and slip away.” She thought hard. “Hmmm, if I remember right, that farm’s somewhere down near the San Bernardino Valley. I can’t remember if she ever mentioned the name of the village.”
The next day the search for Joyous-Jessica-McFarlane-Montoya began in earnest when Carlos and Brit bid the Millses good-bye and headed south.
thirteen
The object of the search and joint heir to the Montoya estate along with Carlos and Dolores wearily rode the new Jenny south and east. She avoided towns and villages except when she had to replenish her food supplies. Sometimes when her body grew weary, her heart sad from the events in Monterey, Joyous felt it had all been a jumbled dream and that in a little time she would reach the farm and find Daddy Angus waiting.
Hills and valley, desert and rich farmland knew the steady clip-clop of Jenny’s feet. The new burro resembled so much the faithful Jenny that Joy had left behind in Virginia City that the lonely young woman often wrapped her arms around her new friend and cried. Yet she never felt truly alone. She knew the spirit of her Friend and Master went with her.
Little by little, the two wanderers successfully covered the long trek toward home. The closer they got, the more real the farm became to Joy. Jogging along or walking beside Jenny, she made plans. She had no desire to oust the neighbor who leased the property. If they would simply make her welcome in their home—her home, actually—she would work hard as she had always done. Her few needs could be easily met. Not a sigh escaped her lips for the fortune she had given up. It had seemed the right thing for her to do—it still did.
Joy’s decision to disguise herself as a peon boy proved valuable. No one paid her the slightest attention beyond waiting on her when she timidly approached a store. California had many peon boys riding dusty donkeys. O
ne more left no impression.
The hundreds of miles between Monterey and Los Vista, the village whose name Mrs. Betsy had struggled to remember, also provided time for Joy to think deeply about things eternal. She began to see her homeward journey as a parallel to her whole life’s journey. Happiness and sorrow, mountains to climb, and pleasant valleys to cross matched the experiences she had had and would continue to experience before she reached the home prepared for those who remained faithful.
Gradually, the steady movement forward, no matter how slow, cleared her mind and helped her to understand: the importance in this and life’s journey lay not in what she encountered but the way in which she responded. Many times she looked north and west toward the far-away place where those she loved dwelled. She changed from feeling ashamed at having fallen in love with Brit, who loved Dolores, to a proud acceptance that because of it she had become a better and more understanding person.
Not fifty miles from Los Vista, Joy’s first real setback came. Sure-footed Jenny slipped on a rain-softened hillside and injured her right foreleg. Skilled fingers cared for the little burro’s lame leg with hot compresses made from part of Joy’s shirt tail, and they lost a few days along their journey while Jenny made the most of a well-earned rest. At last they were ready to move on, but Joyous refused to hurry. What difference did a day or so make? No one knew they were coming.
❧
“Somewhere down near the San Bernardino Valley,” Mrs. Betsy had said when she failed to remember the village near the McFarlane farm.
Brit and Carlos grimly decided to find that village if it took until snowfall. Yet the valley held many tiny hamlets and villages! Day after disappointing day they crisscrossed the spreading area, always asking for a prospector named McFarlane and his daughter, Joyous. Always liquid black eyes and negative headshaking accompanied the sympathy in the faces of those questioned. Carlos proved to be invaluable with his ability to talk with those whose language Brit neither spoke nor understood.
“Señorita Joyous must be at her home by now,” Carlos said reassuringly. “She will be glad to see us when we ride in on our good Sol and Shamrock.”
“And if she’s not for being there, what then?” Brit’s face had thinned in their search. Shadows of regret for not knowing his own heart and recognizing Dolores to be vain and shallow darkened his eyes. That uninformed heart now beat fast with every remembrance of the desert girl he had watched grow into womanhood, although according to the dates Señora Montoya gave, Joy had unknowingly passed her eighteenth birthday less than six months before.
A new thought plagued him. At eighteen, Jessica Montoya was an heiress and would be sought after by the true-hearted and fortune-seeking alike. Would she feel a man ten years older was too old for her? The troublesome idea buzzed in his brain like a pesky mosquito. He said nothing to Carlos, who, in his fluent conversation, painted rosy pictures and bright futures for them all.
“Except Dolores.” Carlos scowled until his black brows met. “She will do what Papa says, marry the so rich señor and be petted and spoiled for the rest of her life.” He sighed and real concern for his sister erased his happy expression. “Ah, if only once she could know what it is to love another until that one’s happiness is important, not just your own!” He irrepressibly added, “My Sadie will be waiting. I say gracias to Dios every day of my life for her—and for you, Señor Brit.”
His comrade didn’t speak. He simply held out his hand and friendship flowed between them in the strong clasp.
❧
Before leaving Monterey, Brit and Carlos had mapped out their route so that, if necessary, the Montoyas could send messages to certain points to be picked up when the riders arrived. The two men faithfully checked but not until they reached San Bernardino itself did they find word from home. It contained good news and shocking news. Betsy Mills had finally remembered the name of Joy’s village: Los Vista, just a few hours ride from San Bernardino! The rest of the message read: Find Jessica and return with her immediately. Ramon is very ill.
“It is what we always feared,” Carlos said. “All these years grieving for his lost muchacha has made him frail and weak. That is why Señora Mary looks so sad. Come!” He crammed his wide hat more firmly onto his head. “We must hurry.”
Brit rode with a silent prayer on his lips, a prayer he couldn’t have put into words but knew God heard. A dozen petitions blended and shifted into varying patterns, for Joy and the Montoyas, for himself and Carlos, who showed a deeper interest in hearing more of Jesus Christ than ever, for Sadie and Dolores and the Millses. Yet the seriousness of the news from Monterey couldn’t control his unruly heart. It persisted in bouncing like a tumbleweed and became worse and worse the closer they got to Los Vista.
It took no time at all to find out from the storekeeper the location of the McFarlane farm. The friendly man was inclined to gossip, recalling all the years the prospector and Joy had lived there then been gone. Brit and Carlos finally managed to get away. By mutual unspoken agreement, once headed in the right direction they goaded Sol and Shamrock into a run that ate up the distance to the farm.
Well-tended fields and a trim low house attested to the stewardship of those who had cared for the place during the McFarlane’s absence. A round-faced Mexican and his ample-waisted wife came to the door in answer to the seekers’ knock. Two muchachos peeped from behind their mother’s skirts.
“We wish to see Señorita Joyous McFarlane,” Carlos announced while Brit furiously tried to control his breathing.
“Señorita Joyous is not here. All these many years she and Señor Angus look for gold and silver,” the surprised man told them in good English.
“Si. We hear they find much ore,” his wife added.
Brit felt like Shamrock had unexpectedly given him a swift kick in the stomach. “She left Monterey many days ago,” he said hoarsely. “She must be here!” Disappointment made way for worry. Even traveling slowly, Joy had been ahead of them a good week plus all the time they had wasted looking in the other parts of the valley.
The man looked sympathetic and opened wide the door. “Come in, come in. Señors will remain with us until she comes, si?”
For three days Brit and Carlos tarried, endlessly discussing what to do next. Carlos didn’t want to leave. He felt sure Joyous would come soon. Brit frankly didn’t know what to do. Perhaps the woman he loved never intended to return to the farm. Surely she wouldn’t have set out for Virginia City, with winter lurking in the Sierra Nevadas! God, he prayed again and again, forgive my blindness and help me find her.
Those three days deepened his love. He remembered how his father had advised him to find a wife like his mother. He had been so dazzled by Dolores Montoya’s beauty, he had run ahead of common sense. Now, every hour brought punishment. So did the urgent messages that continued to come from Monterey.
Carlos sent one back: Tell Ramon. It might help. The decision to do this had come after soul searching and the realization his uncle and aunt could suffer even more should they be unable to produce Joyous—and soon.
“If she doesn’t come by tomorrow, I am going back,” Brit grimly said one star-studded evening. He looked at the North Star.
“And then what?” Carlos demanded with the new forcefulness he had developed in the grueling search. “We know she did not go by stage or hired carriage.”
Brit had no answer. He fell asleep only after putting Joyous in their Father’s hands and admitting himself helpless to do more.
Worn out from his broken sleep and nightmares, Brit awakened late. The children had eaten breakfast and played outside the door. Their childish voices floated in his open window. Suddenly one piped in shrill treble, “Papa! Mama! Burrito come.”
Burrito. Burro. Brit leaped from bed, hastily donned shirt and pants, stuffed sockless feet into his boots, and ran through the cool living room and out the door, heart pumping healthy red blood throughout his system and bringing him alive. He paused on the small porch. His spirits
fell to the depths. Only a peon boy on a shaggy donkey, one of dozens he and Carlos had seen. Yet. . .he strained his eyes. Surely the peon’s clothing seemed familiar. The heavy jacket, the battered hat—hadn’t Angus McFarlane worn them even after he possessed enough money to buy anything he wanted? Brit and Carlos used to tease the Scotsman who merely smiled and kept his own counsel.
“Joy?” His clear call straightened the drooping figure on the burro’s back. The reins slipped through weak fingers. The rider swayed from obvious fatigue.
“Joy!” Brit leaped from the porch, ran to the girl whose blue eyes held shock. “Mavourneen, darling, we’ve been so worried.” He caught her as she slid from Jenny.
“No.” She thrust him away, horror filling her eyes and sponging away the radiant look he had seen for a moment. “You forget yourself and Dolores.” She stumbled backward until she pressed against Jenny’s side.
Brit dropped his arms to his sides. His voice rang. “Dolores is affianced to a wealthy hacienda owner. I’m free.”
The quiet words brought a flood of color to her dusty face. “But. . .you love her! You always have.” She warded him off with both hands, the sturdy hands he loved.
He caught them close. “She dazzled me, like a falling star. Not until I returned did I see her as she is and realize the colleen who captured my heart had slipped away in the night.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her upturned face. “God is good, even to a thickheaded Irishman who has to be hit on the head before he knows what’s best for him.”
“Señorita Joyous!” Carlos bounded out of the house and over to them. “Are you not glad? You are my cousin, daughter of Uncle Ramon and his señora, Mary.” He spun her away from Brit, ignoring her protests. “The lace, it told the story.”
Veiled Joy Page 13