Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1) by Paula Scott Page B
Authors: Paula Scott
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village? Had they found Molly’s father? If no other good came of this journey to California—the startling loss of Steven, the uncertain future she now faced married to a stranger—at least Molly and Anne were alive and facing a fresh start in the pretty pueblo town.
There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend. The thought strengthened her as she approached the sala . She wasn’t dying, but marrying someone other than Steven felt like a death.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her father and another man waited near the sala door both extravagantly dressed in short embroidered jackets and fine knee-length, velvet britches favored by California dons. Elaborately stitched deerskin boots adorned the men’s feet. Their conversation ceased as Rachel stepped into the long room designed for entertaining guests. In the corner of the sala, a man slouched in one of her father’s carved mahogany chairs. Dressed like a vaquero, he was in the middle of downing a glass of wine. Recognizing his ebony hair, his startling light eyes in his deeply tanned face, that big, strong body with weapons tucked into his belt, she stopped cold.
The red-haired girl beside him drank wine as well. Up close, she looked younger. And petulant. Again, Rachel was struck by her beauty and boldness, but not nearly as struck as she was by the man sitting beside her.
Roman Vasquez .
His long legs were stretched out before him, his dusty, spur-strapped boots propped on one of her father’s expensive rugs. Rugs were a rarity due to the fleas in California. Her father often had his rugs hauled out of the hacienda and beaten in the yard by the servants to keep them pest free. Beside them sat the older woman Sarita had waved to from the balcony. Short and round like her husband, the older woman smiled when Rachel arrived. She held the hand of the little girl, who smiled too, a bit shyly but with a vivacious sparkle in her eyes. The girl was quite pretty with blue-black hair, dusky skin, and a delicate build, but it was her eyes, a startling crystalline blue, that surprised Rachel. Clearly, the child was of mixed heritage.
“Rachel,” said her father, his voice laced with reproach. “It is well you have finally graced us with your presence.”
The plump Californio gentleman stepped forward to take her hand. “Señorita Tyler, you are well worth the wait. I am Don Pedro, and your beauty has vastly exceeded my expectations. Your hair is the color of Rancho de los Robles’s horses and your eyes as blue as Monterey Bay.” The don’s ample cheeks puffed with his heavy breathing as he kissed the back of her hand.
In the corner, Roman Vasquez slowly clapped his hands, applauding the older man’s introduction. His rudeness startled the sweating don leaning over Rachel’s hand. The redhead laughed, muffling the giggle when the older woman rebuked her with her gaze. The older woman then tapped Roman on the head with the fan she held in her hand. She said something in Spanish that Rachel didn’t understand.
Roman slowly got to his feet, swaying as he rose from his chair. He shoved his empty glass at the redhead and then made his way across the parlor, walking a crooked line that led to Rachel.
“Señor Vasquez,” she said cautiously, confused by his behavior.
“ Chiquita Yanquia . . . like my uncle says . . . you are as beautiful as my horse.” He made a sweeping bow, staggering as he did so.
Both girls giggled; the redhead no longer bothering to stifle her mirth when the older woman glared at her. The blue-eyed girl laughed behind hands cupped over her rosy mouth.
“Roman Miguel Vicente Ramon Vasquez,” Don Pedro said sharply. “You will address your betrothed as Señorita Tyler. And you will cease with this atrocious behavior at once!”
Roman captured Rachel’s hand. His eyes, a startling green in his deeply tanned face, shone unnaturally bright and bloodshot. Instead of kissing the back of her hand as the plump man had, he turned
There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend. The thought strengthened her as she approached the sala . She wasn’t dying, but marrying someone other than Steven felt like a death.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her father and another man waited near the sala door both extravagantly dressed in short embroidered jackets and fine knee-length, velvet britches favored by California dons. Elaborately stitched deerskin boots adorned the men’s feet. Their conversation ceased as Rachel stepped into the long room designed for entertaining guests. In the corner of the sala, a man slouched in one of her father’s carved mahogany chairs. Dressed like a vaquero, he was in the middle of downing a glass of wine. Recognizing his ebony hair, his startling light eyes in his deeply tanned face, that big, strong body with weapons tucked into his belt, she stopped cold.
The red-haired girl beside him drank wine as well. Up close, she looked younger. And petulant. Again, Rachel was struck by her beauty and boldness, but not nearly as struck as she was by the man sitting beside her.
Roman Vasquez .
His long legs were stretched out before him, his dusty, spur-strapped boots propped on one of her father’s expensive rugs. Rugs were a rarity due to the fleas in California. Her father often had his rugs hauled out of the hacienda and beaten in the yard by the servants to keep them pest free. Beside them sat the older woman Sarita had waved to from the balcony. Short and round like her husband, the older woman smiled when Rachel arrived. She held the hand of the little girl, who smiled too, a bit shyly but with a vivacious sparkle in her eyes. The girl was quite pretty with blue-black hair, dusky skin, and a delicate build, but it was her eyes, a startling crystalline blue, that surprised Rachel. Clearly, the child was of mixed heritage.
“Rachel,” said her father, his voice laced with reproach. “It is well you have finally graced us with your presence.”
The plump Californio gentleman stepped forward to take her hand. “Señorita Tyler, you are well worth the wait. I am Don Pedro, and your beauty has vastly exceeded my expectations. Your hair is the color of Rancho de los Robles’s horses and your eyes as blue as Monterey Bay.” The don’s ample cheeks puffed with his heavy breathing as he kissed the back of her hand.
In the corner, Roman Vasquez slowly clapped his hands, applauding the older man’s introduction. His rudeness startled the sweating don leaning over Rachel’s hand. The redhead laughed, muffling the giggle when the older woman rebuked her with her gaze. The older woman then tapped Roman on the head with the fan she held in her hand. She said something in Spanish that Rachel didn’t understand.
Roman slowly got to his feet, swaying as he rose from his chair. He shoved his empty glass at the redhead and then made his way across the parlor, walking a crooked line that led to Rachel.
“Señor Vasquez,” she said cautiously, confused by his behavior.
“ Chiquita Yanquia . . . like my uncle says . . . you are as beautiful as my horse.” He made a sweeping bow, staggering as he did so.
Both girls giggled; the redhead no longer bothering to stifle her mirth when the older woman glared at her. The blue-eyed girl laughed behind hands cupped over her rosy mouth.
“Roman Miguel Vicente Ramon Vasquez,” Don Pedro said sharply. “You will address your betrothed as Señorita Tyler. And you will cease with this atrocious behavior at once!”
Roman captured Rachel’s hand. His eyes, a startling green in his deeply tanned face, shone unnaturally bright and bloodshot. Instead of kissing the back of her hand as the plump man had, he turned
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