Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1) (36 page)

Roman removed his wet deerskin boots and stripped down to just his pants before joining her on the bed, where she sat amid the pillows in her wedding gown that matched the color of the blush heating her cheeks.

She continued to read, “All night long on my bed, I looked for the one my heart loves.” She glanced up to find him intently watching her. His chest was bare and all muscle. One forearm remained bandaged. Lupe had stitched him up, and he was healing. Her husband was so strong and handsome it stole her breath away.

Roman took the Bible from her trembling hands. “God is no longer between us,
pequeña
. He has made us one flesh now.” He raised the Good Book to his lips and kissed the leather and then placed the Bible back on the bedside table before sweeping her into his embrace.

Monterey, California, 1846

Maria rode into town alongside Joshua Tyler. An army of vaqueros followed in their wake, the sound of hooves like thunder on the street. The moon shone so brightly she could see every ship silhouetted in the harbor. Joshua led them directly to the church. By now, American soldiers had noted their arrival. With guns drawn, the soldiers surrounded them in the churchyard.

“Why are you here?” demanded the leader of the U.S. Army detachment, a large man with long, bushy sideburns.

Joshua stepped down from his horse with an easy smile. “I’ve come to marry my fiancée.” He motioned to Maria, perched in a sidesaddle on her mare. “We’ve ridden a long way today.”

“The padre’s asleep. You’ll have to wait till morning.”

Joshua reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a sack of coins.

The soldiers looked at one another speculatively. “The padre isn’t going to like this. He’s a pious old guy,” said the soldier in charge.

Joshua retrieved a handful of silver coins from the pouch, showing them to the soldiers. “My bride is a gently bred Californiana. Certainly, the good padre will understand the need for vows before we take a room for the night.”

The soldiers stared unabashedly at Maria. She glared back. Her fiery auburn hair tumbled down her back, tangled with dirt and leaves from a fall from her horse while trying to escape after leaving the hacienda.

“Does she understand English?” asked the soldier, thoughtfully stroking his sideburns. “Do you speak English, señorita?” He walked toward Maria, tucking the silver Joshua handed him into the pocket of his uniform.

“She speaks only Spanish.” Joshua gave Maria a warning glare. She reined her horse away from the approaching soldier about the same time one of Joshua’s vaqueros cut him off. The other vaqueros circled Maria with their horses.

“Gavilan, go rouse the good padre,” Joshua told one of his men.

The vaquero with a tall, muscular build stepped down from his mount. He looked more Spanish than Indian, with European features. He’d picked Maria off the ground after her tumble. His big hands had been gentle but unbending as steel. Maria had seen a flash of compassion in his dark eyes as he helped her back onto her horse. She had hoped he would feel sorry enough for her to help her escape. He walked past the soldiers without any fear.

All of Joshua’s men exhibited an absolute disregard for any authority beyond Tyler’s. Several of the soldiers moved to intercept the vaquero, but the soldier in charge waved them off. “Let him go. This is a civilian matter. Return to your posts.”

The soldiers lowered their guns and slowly left the square. Soon it was only Maria, Joshua, and his cowboys waiting for the padre. He never came out of the church. Gavilan returned, shaking his head.

“He refuses to do the ceremony?” Irritation edged Joshua’s words.

“I could not find him.” Gavilan spoke in English without much of an accent, which surprised Maria. “Nobody is in the church or the living quarters in the back.”

Joshua looked at her. She met his eyes, and a triumphant little smile tilted her lips. She would not marry him. Ever. He stepped down from his horse and walked to hers. Gripping her arm, he yanked her down from the saddle. “Find a place to see to your horses and get some sleep,” he told his men. “Gavilan, come with us.”

Leading Maria by the arm, he marched her into the sandstone chapel. Candles burned before an altar of a saint; aside from that, the sanctuary was dark. “Wait for us here,” he told Gavilan, motioning for the vaquero to sit on one of the long benches that seated the congregation. “I’ll find the priest myself.” He handed the vaquero the bag of coins he’d saved for the priest.

Maria attempted to pull away, but Joshua drew her closer to his side. “I realize you are young and unaware of what this war means for your family, but believe me, you will thank me for this marriage one day.”

“I will never thank you.” Maria spit in his face.

Joshua’s mouth tightened into a grim line as he wiped the spittle from his cheek. He pulled her over to the candles in front of the saint and picked one up, then propelled her past the altar and through a door that led to the padre’s private quarters in the back.

The modest chamber was empty. Joshua pushed Maria inside the room and shut the door behind them. He forced her onto the padre’s narrow bunk, and then sat the flickering candle on the little table in the center of the room. “I have wanted you for a long time,” he said while removing his hat and gun belt, then his vest and shirt. He kept his pants on, with his long knife tucked into his waistband.

Maria couldn’t believe this was happening. The last time she’d been in this church, her cousin, Donatella, had been getting married. It had been a lavish affair with laughter and happiness and over a hundred family and friends. Her mother’s and father’s funerals had also been held here. She was too young to really remember her mother’s passing, but her father’s burial she recalled quite well. It was his death that had stolen her freedom. He’d allowed her to accompany him all over the rancho as he worked the cattle and oversaw their vast sheep herds after her mother had died from a fever. Maria’s childhood had been spent in a saddle, a sombrero pulled low on her brow to protect her fair, golden skin from the California sun, a riata in her hand just like the cowboys. Under her skirts, she’d worn pantaloons and boots like her father’s, with spurs strapped on, along with every other man in California. She could rope as well as anyone, and during the
Matanzas
, skinned cattle better than most of her father’s men. That had ended when her padre died during an Indian raid, lanced to the ground when a handful of their golden horses were taken from the field.

“I will not marry you. I have no desire for this union.” She looked around for a way to escape, but only the door he stood in front of offered any kind of exit. What was he thinking? Why was he undressing? Did he have marriage attire he wanted to put on? She didn’t see how this was possible considering they’d carried nothing into the church with them but the bag of coins he’d left with his vaquero.

“Your uncle owes me a lot of money, more than he can ever hope to repay. If you do not marry me, I will take Rancho de los Robles, and your family will be destitute. The United States has run up her flag in every town along the coast. Soon more soldiers will arrive here. Men who have no regard for your welfare. Marrying me is the best thing to do, Maria.”

She did not like the way he said her name. Like an endearment as he removed his spurs and boots. “What are you doing? Will you wear the padre’s robes for our wedding? There are no other clothes here.”

“So you will marry me?” His smile returned.

She had no plans to marry him; she was only trying to discover why he undressed in her presence. Fear had begun to claw in her stomach, rising like a wild thing trying to dig its way out of a very deep hole. She knew little about men, but instinct warned she would need a weapon. She rose from where Joshua had made her sit on the hard, narrow bunk the padre slept on. Perhaps with all these rough American soldiers in town, the padre had headed south. She saw nothing to defend herself with in the sparse, little room and turned her gaze back to him, measuring his size and strength against her own.

In his forties, Joshua was still a handsome man with a lean, hard frame and a thick head of blond hair that waved off his high, tanned forehead. Maria had never liked him, even though he was Rachel’s father.

Joshua had asked for her hand in marriage several years ago, but Tio Pedro had proposed her older cousin Sarita instead. Now Sarita was dead after miscarrying her babe. Even though she was older now, Maria had no desire to marry anyone yet, least of all this high-handed Yankee who’d always made her skin crawl when he looked at her.

“We should find the padre. He will want a confession from both of us before performing the marriage rites.”

Joshua’s lips spread into a smile. “I am planning my confession even now,” he said, stepping toward her.

She realized his intent, and it sickened her. Her suspicion had been growing as he undressed, but she wouldn’t accept it. He was a landowner. She was a daughter of the
gente de razόn.
Things like this did not happen in her world. She could see there would be no vows spoken tonight, but he intended to have her anyway. “I will not marry you, no matter what you do to me.”

“You will change your mind after tonight, my dear.”

When I first began writing
Until the Day Breaks
, I was twenty-four-years-old with a baby on my hip and a baby on the way. This was my second attempt at a novel. My first book was also a historical romance that Harlequin considered acquiring when I was twenty-two years old. In the end, the editor decided my hero was too mean. I had no idea that when an editor was interested in a book, you were supposed to fix the problems they mentioned and then resubmit the story. Instead, I began researching California history and wrote book number two, the first draft of this novel. My husband, Scott, was in the military, and we lived in Germany at the time, and reading about California helped my homesickness.

I wasn’t a born-again believer back then, but I was raised in the Catholic Church and loved my religion. My best friend, Christy, was a Protestant, and we had long talks about the differences and similarities of our faiths. The clash between Catholics and Protestants has always fascinated me, especially since we all worship Jesus. I knew historical romances needed conflict, and putting a Catholic guy with a Protestant girl in an arranged engagement in the middle of a revolution sounded interesting to me. Looking back, what really interested me was God.

I’m a fifth-generation Californian, and I fell in love with California’s beautiful missions when I was a little girl. In high school, I began reading historical romances. I just couldn’t get enough of these exciting books. A high school English teacher, Mrs. Bonnie Newton, my earliest critique partner, took me under her wing and drove me to my first writers’ conference. As Mrs. Newton aged, I drove her to several more conferences. She asked me to call her Bonnie after I graduated high school, but I never could get there. I tried to teach Mrs. Newton how to put gas in her car, but she said she’d never touched a gas pump in her life and never planned on doing so. Her husband always filled her gas tank. I happily pumped the gas on our way to and from the conferences and marveled that a woman in the 1990’s had never put gas in her car. We remained great writing buddies until her death when I was in my thirties.

Along with Mrs. Newton, many special people encouraged me along the way, and I’m so grateful to those who took the time to help me grow as a writer. High school teachers, college professors, and of course, my amazing family. My mom has always been my biggest fan. Her unwavering support has carried me through many long years of writing discouragement. Thanks, Mom!

My dad read my first book and edited it for me too. I was twenty-one years old, the wife of an equally young army lieutenant, and we were flat broke when Scott was in flight school in Alabama. My dad paid me four hundred dollars to write that first historical romance I set in the South. Daddy called it an investment in his future. When the book didn’t sell to Harlequin, I called it a waste of Daddy’s money, but looking back, I see growing up with parents who loved reading books, and who wanted me to become a novelist, set me on this long road to publication. I’m so grateful they never gave up on me. And, of course, my big brother, Patrick. Thank you for believing in me and financing this novel. You’ve always taken care of me, even when we were little and your love for our Savior inspires me. Hoping together we can help World Vision meet the needs of many more precious children in the coming years.

Back to my writing journey, my third book, not a historical romance, a love story set in 1972, landed me a New York literary agent. I am thankful Peter Miller gave me a shot at the big time when I was a young, stupid, starry-eyed writer, but it was really Jennifer Robinson, who worked for Peter, who put the writing wind in my sails when she said, “You have that something special I can’t teach you, so let’s get to work, and I’ll teach you the rest!”

I learned so much from Jennifer with my third novel, and I hope to thank her someday for helping a baby writer learn to walk.

A few years later, I was born again. All of a sudden, I couldn’t write anymore. Actually, I strongly sensed God didn’t want me to write anymore. Laying down writing felt like giving up my legs. Where would I go? How would I walk? Heartsick, I left Peter’s agency and quit writing feature stories for newspapers. I stopped working on my novels, put my laptop away, and planted my first garden.

I also picked up a Bible.

I haven’t put the Bible down since. Each year for the past fifteen years, I’ve read the Bible straight through in a year. One year, I read through the Bible several times. I was pregnant and stuck on bedrest and decided I’d only read the Bible and no other books that year. Talk about eye-opening. The Bible is not a shy book. The Bible rocked my world.

God is very passionate, and he often compares our unfaithfulness to sexual infidelity. True love began with God in the garden where two humans were naked and felt no shame. Don’t be confused, sexuality is very meaningful to God. We are the ones who mess up sex.