The Forever Tree Read online

  Dominic had begun by telling the story Santana knew well, of how he had escaped the war in Mexico nearly forty years ago.

  “My parents were very wealthy,” Dominic said. “They and my brother and sister were killed in the revolution. At sixteen I was forced to flee Mexico or risk being executed myself. Your mother was only four years old. Her family and my family had always been close. Your mother’s family and I escaped Mexico together, and we did so only because of one man, Hugo’s father, Julio Miguel Martinez Juaquin. He had been a good friend of both our families, and he had left Mexico years earlier to live in California. He came back to convince our families to leave, and he got caught up in the war. When he saw we had no choice but to flee, he helped us, hiding us in the bottom of a supply wagon he had purchased in Arizona, pretending to have come to Mexico to sell tobacco, cloth, even guns, to the revolutionaries. We escaped to California. Your mother’s parents promised her to me because they had been so close to my own mother and father. Years later, when Rosa and I married, we were very happy. Your mother learned to love me, and I her. And it was all thanks to Julio Juaquin bringing us to this beautiful land.”

  Dominic then raised his glass in a toast and announced that his daughter, Santana, had been promised to Julio Juaquin’s son, Hugo Bolivar, and that they would wed in two years. Santana stared in shock at Hugo—whom she had never liked—then at her father. His story about how her own mother’s marriage had been arranged and that she had learned to love Dominic did not ease her dread in the least. After all, Hugo was nothing like her father.

  Hugo Bolivar was a man who basked in his wealth and power. Her father, and Hugo’s own father, who was now dead, were true Californios, gracious and mannerly, kind and considerate, men who did not flaunt their wealth. Her father treasured his friendships, and he had been a loving husband and father. Santana loved him, hated disappointing him or doing anything to hurt his pride and honor. Yet from the moment he had announced her betrothal, she had continually contemplated ways of backing out of this marriage to Hugo, even if it meant bringing shame to her father.

  How she wished she had more say in leading her own life, but Don Dominic Alcala believed that a sixteen-year-old daughter’s place was to tend to her Spanish and English lessons, learn how to manage the household staff, and spend her free time pursuing whatever hobbies interested her. For Santana, those hobbies were painting and horseback riding, but she wanted to do more, to play a bigger role in helping run her father’s sprawling hacienda, not just the household. After all, it was her home too. But it seemed the men in her world had all the power.

  And one man would soon have all power over her. She shivered, remembering the conversation over dinner the night before, the way Hugo’s black gaze had raked over her as he spoke endlessly of business and money.

  “You will see how much wealthier I become by the time we are married,” he had said at one point, as though he thought he could win her trust and love with money. “I know how to take advantage of the Americanos, much as I despise them. They have much money in their pockets, and I know how to get that money. I do not like California being a state now, but it is to our advantage. And when we are husband and wife, with your father’s produce, his fine Palomino horses, and his beef, there will be no limit to how wealthy we can become. Together with my own ranchero and my holdings, we will increase our fortune many times!”

  I do not care if you become the richest man in the world, Santana thought. I will never be happy being married to you.

  “My own father was afraid to try new things, but I am not,” Hugo continued. “I will take advantage of being a part of the United States, and rob the stupid Americans who come here looking for gold and who pay ridiculous prices for beef and horses and potatoes. In some mining towns, men pay a whole dollar for one potato!” Hugo laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that always sounded wicked to Santana. He stabbed at a piece of meat he had just cut. “Your father should plant potatoes,” he said, directing his dark gaze to Santana again. “I have tried to tell him that. Someday I will help him run La Estancia de Alcala, and he will see the mistakes he has made.”

  “Father has always done well. He is a very successful man,” Santana argued. “He simply does not care about riches in the way that you do.”

  Hugo frowned, his eyes piercing her. “And what does that mean, my sweet?”

  The words were said with a sneer that chilled her blood. She suspected that once they were married, Hugo would try to cheat her father and brother out of everything they owned—their beautiful hacienda, the thousands of acres of grazing land, the thick woods, the many magnificent Palominos raised by Dominic and Hernando.

  “To you, riches are everything,” she had answered boldly, “more important even than loved ones. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Santana could still remember Hugo’s wicked smile, the way his gaze drifted over her, lingering on her breasts. Santana had felt like covering her breasts with her hands, as though she were naked. She felt sick to her stomach, as she always did at the thought of Hugo having the right to take her to his bed. In her mind, he was an old man at thirty-five, but it was not his age that repulsed her. It was his overbearing attitude toward women, his arrogance. She knew in her heart he would not be gentle with her, in spite of her virginity and her ignorance of such matters.

  “You do not know me so well yet, Santana,” he had said. “I would never choose riches over you, my beloved.”

  The words were so hollow and obviously meaningless that Santana had almost laughed, but there was a warning in his dark eyes…a look that told her this man would not tolerate disrespect or insults from her once she was his wife. She supposed Hugo Bolivar was handsome enough to some older women, but his domineering manner made him ugly to her. And how dare he suggest he knew more about running a ranch than Dominic Fernando Chavez Alcala! Her father was known in Santa Rosa, Napa, even as far south as here in San Francisco, for his magnificent Palominos—and for the simple fact that he was one of the biggest landowners in the state to have survived having some of his land stolen away by the hated Americanos when they came and took California from them.

  The discovery of gold five years earlier had made him even richer, from selling horses and food to miners. Hugo had also become richer from selling fruit, wheat, and potatoes from his ranch, but she could not respect him for his wealth. He had not worked hard for it like her father. He had inherited his wealth from his father, and he had no appreciation for what it took to build something from the ground up.

  Sighing, Santana left the balcony and reentered the guest room. At least this day with Hugo should be more enjoyable than most. He was taking her to the docks again, which she had visited on her previous trip to San Francisco.

  In spite of the near-terrifying experience that had been—Hugo always traveled there with mounted armed guards—it had also been exciting. The distraction of the wharves would at least help get her mind off how much she hated having to come here and put up with Hugo. She could even fantasize about boarding one of those ships and sailing away forever, never to set eyes on Hugo Bolivar again, never to have to marry the man. Maybe it would be better to be carried off by some pirate or drunken sailor than to be Hugo’s wife.

  Her maid, Louisa, came into her room then to help her get ready. Santana knew Louisa thought her the luckiest woman in California, and she had given up trying to explain to the older woman that she wanted nothing of this marriage.

  “Come and sit down and I will fix your hair,” Louisa said. “It must be an adventure going to the docks. There must be many gringos there, and I hear some bad men, and bad women.”

  Both of them laughed. “Yes, there are many gringos,” Santana said. “It seems that California is filling up with them now, ever since that American navy man, John Fremont, invaded and claimed California for the United States.” She pouted. “Everything has changed so. I have even seen some of those Orientals. They look strange. I was not aware of so many different kinds of people
until I visited the docks that first time.”

  Louisa twisted and pinned Santana’s thick black hair. “Why does Senor Bolivar go there?”

  “To do business. He meets ships coming in to see if they have anything he wants to buy and store in his warehouses. He is very puffed up when he goes there, behaving as the important businessman. His arrogance embarrasses me, but I will put up with it because the sooner we do all the things Hugo has planned for us, the sooner I can go home again.”

  Louisa sighed. “You always miss La Estancia de Alcala, don’t you?”

  “Always. I never want to live here permanently, Louisa.”

  Louisa only shook her head, knowing it was useless to argue. She had to agree that Hugo Bolivar did not seem the most lovable man, but she could not help being impressed by his wealth and importance. She finished Santana’s hair and helped her dress, then left the room. Santana decided to wait there until Hugo was ready to leave, choosing not to join him for breakfast. She had no appetite; she seldom did until she was home again.

  She walked back to the balcony to get another glimpse of the harbor far in the distance, trying to count the tall masts, wondering what she would see this time. One thing she had to admit, some of the strong-muscled gringos who arrived on those ships were indeed fascinating. Some were even quite handsome in a rugged sort of way, the younger ones certainly more attractive than Hugo. Again she considered what her fate might be if she simply ran off with one of them, but she knew that was a foolish thought. She was trapped in her father’s promise, trapped in Hugo’s possessive claim to her, and some day she would be trapped in this cold mansion.

  Three

  Will marveled at the packed bay area of San Francisco, where buyers from gold towns and local merchants swarmed to meet the new ships coming in. The Dutchess Dianna had landed just before dawn, and already he’d had offers from several prospective buyers without even having left the ship. The need for lumber was so desperate, and the hunger for real New England maple syrup so keen, he decided he would simply write down names and how to contact buyers and wait for the highest bid.

  The harbors at Portland back in Maine were busy, but never had he seen anything like the chaos in this wild gold town. He had heard that before the gold rush, San Francisco was merely a small, quiet Spanish settlement. For as far as he could see, the city was now a sprawling mass of buildings—some made of stucco, a few of brick, most of wood—structures that rose upward from the docks along a series of steep hills. Practically everywhere he looked the hills were covered with buildings, most of them with graduated foundations to follow the inclines. It crossed his mind that none of them would be very safe in case of an earthquake, although he had never experienced such an act of nature. Apparently San Francisco was growing so fast, little considerations had been given to planning the city in any logical manner. The result was a confused maze of hastily built businesses and homes.

  “It doesn’t happen often,” Derek had told him when Will asked about earthquakes. “I’m never here long enough to feel a thing. They say those who stay get used to it, like you get used to the snow and winter winds in Maine. Besides, the beautiful weather in California makes up for having to put up with the ground shaking once in a while. It is a paradise, except it’s not so pretty here in San Francisco. This is a city growing too fast for its own good.”

  Will could see that now, and he thought of how easily he could make a fortune here if he could log the vast forests that supposedly lay in the mountains and hills to the north. Thousands of men had landed here in the past few years, streaming through the city on their way to those mountains to look for gold, and San Francisco had become the supply center for all those prospectors and the smaller gold towns they populated. Those who did the supplying surely made more money than anyone who went to the mountains. Captain Eastman had explained over supper the night before that the city was also becoming the financial center for the gold taken out of the mountains and for the men who owned the mines.

  Will scanned the nearby hills, wondering which one was Nob Hill, where the captain had told him only the wealthiest lived. His biggest curiosity, though, was for the forests farther north. It was impossible to spot any of the enormous trees he’d been told about, but the prospect of finding and logging them excited him more than the activity at the docks or seeing this wild new city.

  “Tonight we do some gambling and whoring, huh?” Derek said as he helped Will untie the ropes around the barrels of syrup. “We will celebrate walking on solid ground, and celebrate my new job.”

  Will grinned. “I don’t know about the whoring. I don’t want to get some dreaded disease and die before I can get my mill going.”

  Derek laughed heartily. “I can show you the clean whorehouses. They have the prettiest girls there anyway.”

  “I have a feeling after I’m through dealing today and helping unload this cargo, I’ll be too tired for anything. I need to find someone to warehouse this stuff, so I can get it off Captain Eastman’s ship and keep it somewhere until the buyers pick it up. I can’t believe that in the six hours since we landed, I’ve had offers for every last board of lumber and barrel of syrup. It’s only noon, and I haven’t even been off the ship yet.”

  “I told you you would have no trouble selling your lumber, and for prices much higher than you would get anyplace else. The buyers from the mining towns are crazy. They’re desperate for supplies, and their pockets are so full of gold, they will pay anything.”

  Will had to concentrate to hear everything the man said because of the noise. Horses, mules, supply wagons, and people of all colors mingled everywhere, with dogs, pigs, and chickens adding to the confusion. He could not help noticing the Orientals especially. He had never seen a Chinese person before, and was surprised at how small most of them were. He’d been told they were hard workers, but he could not imagine that any of them could be loggers. They simply were not built for it, but he supposed he could hire a few to cook and do laundry for his crew.

  Derek helped him lift down a barrel of syrup. “I’ll probably sell this to that last man who came by.” Will pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his black cotton pants. “His name was Hector Munoz. He claims to buy for a Hugo Bolivar. Supposed to be one of the richest Spanish merchants in San Francisco. At the least, Bolivar owns several warehouses, and I could store my lumber and syrup with him.”

  “I’ve heard of him.” Derek took a pouch of tobacco tied to his belt and pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket. “There aren’t many rich Spaniards. They don’t understand American business. I don’t doubt that in a few years San Francisco won’t even be thought of as Spanish anymore. Americans will take it over. Already have, I’d say. I don’t know much else about Bolivar, don’t ever stay here long enough to learn about people living here. I guess now I’ll have time to learn more than the hearsay on the docks.”

  Will stopped working to take in more of the sights and to study the constantly moving mass of people. As he did, he noticed a fancy carriage making its way along the docks, a carriage that looked much too elegant to be in such a place. He took a moment to light his own pipe while he watched, enjoying the feel of the California sun on his shoulders. It felt good to be warm and to have reached his destination at last. The trip here was one he would never forget, and one he did not care to repeat. He decided that when he wrote his brother, he would tell him that if and when the time was right for Gerald to sell everything in Maine and move his family to California, he’d better travel cross-country by wagon, or perhaps try Panama. Maybe the railroad that was being built across the isthmus would be finished by then.

  “Say,” Derek said, “look at that shiny black carriage and those fine white horses. No American would come down here in something that fancy. I’ll bet it’s one of those rich Spaniards we were talking about. They like to show off their wealth.”

  Will noticed that four other Spaniards wearing guns on their hips were trotting behind the carriage on sleek black horses. It was
obvious someone important rode in the carriage, and he spotted the buyer, Hector Munoz, walking beside it, talking to someone inside. Munoz pointed to the Dutchess Dianna and to Will himself.

  “Must be the man’s boss,” Will said. “Hugo Bolivar.”

  “I don’t know why he would be down here himself,” Derek said. “Most of the wealthy, Americans and Spaniards alike, send buyers in their place. They don’t like mixing with the rabble.”

  Will frowned. “I’m not rabble.”

  “Not you.” Derek chuckled. “But look at all those sailors out there, and the whores parading around, let alone the thieves who will pounce on any man for his watch and jewels.”

  “This man is prepared. He’s brought his own guards.”

  Both men watched the carriage pull up and stop in front of the Dutchess Dianna. A tall, slender man with dark hair and a mustache emerged from the coach, then turned and held out his hand. The hand and arm of a woman appeared, then came the woman herself.

  “Would you look at that,” Will muttered. Even from up on deck he could see she was young and beautiful. She exited the carriage and looked around, her dark eyes wide at the sight of the Dianna’s rigging. The tall Spaniard, dressed in tight-fitting black pants with a gold embroidered design down the outside of the legs, and a short-waisted jacket that matched the pants, approached the plank leading up to the ship’s deck. He wore a black hat, and Will thought how the man reminded him of pictures he had seen of bullfighters. There was an arrogant air about him, and he looked much older than the woman on his arm. Was she his daughter?

  The moment he let his gaze rest on the young woman, Will was enamored with her. Back in New England, stories of Spanish life in California seemed a bit romantic and unreal, as did talk of how beautiful Spanish women were. Those stories were no exaggeration when it came to this one’s beauty. As far as he was concerned, there were no proper words to describe her. Her yellow ruffled lace dress fell just off her shoulders, shoulders that showed dark skin that reminded him of creamed coffee and looked as though they would feel like satin if touched. Her full lips perfectly fit the elegant lines of her face, and her most beautiful attribute was her wide-set dark eyes, eyes that were full of curiosity as she boarded the ship. Her near-black hair was worn in a pile of curls on top of her head, with some of it hanging in longer curls at the back. Yellow lace was entwined throughout her hair, and she carried a matching yellow-lace fan, which she opened across her face the moment she caught him staring at her. Only those dark eyes could be seen above the fan…eyes that held his own for several seconds before she looked away.