The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(65)

Why hadn’t Carina written? Surely a woman as close to her family as she was would want them to know she had married. Yes, she had spent months fraught with uncertainty. But she’d been steadfast in her commitment, never entertaining his offers of divorce. Thank God. Yet her family knew nothing of it. He frowned, felt her nudge on his elbow, and turned.

“How can you look so dour with the sun gleaming on the water and the shore drawing nigh? Why are you frowning?”

“Carina . . .” But then the whistle shrilled three times, drowning out his question.

“Look! There’s Sonoma landing.” Carina gripped his arm. “Oh, Quillan, soon!”

He sighed. Why spoil her excitement? Maybe it would be all right. Maybe it was his own experience that made him doubt where nothing warranted doubt. After all, she knew her family.

The steamer chugged up to the wharf. One of the huge paddle wheels reversed and brought the boat alongside. Men rushed to toss ropes as the steamer eased to a stop and the boilers were shut down. The black smoke stopped belching from the stacks.

Quillan watched as the gangplank was stretched across the gap of water, then turned to Carina. “Go on ashore while I oversee the wagon and team.”

She nodded, half oblivious to him already. He had loaded all their gear into the wagon before it was loaded onto the steamer, so she carried nothing but her lace parasol and a small valise. She had exchanged her brown woolen coat for a violet duster she purchased in San Francisco with money from her own pouch. How much had she actually made running that restaurant of hers?

Carina looked elegant and fresh, with such color to her cheeks he wanted to kiss them. But he refrained. As he watched her cross the gangplank and go ashore, he felt a fierce pride. He went down and helped the sweating black man take his balking horses ashore, pulling the wagon behind. On the wharf, he inspected the wagon and found everything in order.

He lifted Carina to the spring seat. It seemed a waste now that they hadn’t ridden all the way from Crystal. But he was glad for the springs once they started along the road. The deep mud ruts had hardened, and the wheels jolted unmercifully. Carina would not have stood it long, though to look at her you’d never know she had recently been battered.

She breathed deeply, hands clasped at her breast, and murmured, “Come bella.”

It was a lovely scene: gently swelling hills just starting to green with patches of bare oaks. Here and there a stand of redwoods, and along the creeks grew rust-colored willows and bushes that he guessed would berry. At rare distances, they passed farmhouses. All about, cattle grazed—white, black, brown, and marbled. There were flocks of sheep and geese and goats. A pastoral landscape. If ever a land was of milk and honey, this was it.

Quillan felt something stir inside. This was a place to settle, to put down roots. Hadn’t Cain said every man needed roots? Was it possible? An ache started in his throat. Did he dare hope to find a home, to make a home? He could live here with Carina. He felt it.

Though the air on the bay had been chilled with wind, it now waxed warm with a balmy scent. As they rode farther from the shore and deeper into the hills, the sun warmed the land, and him with it. Farming. He had never considered it. He’d been fleet of foot and restless, never trusting one place to stand him for long. Now . . .

Lord, is this it? What you planned for me? A home, land, a family?

Carina pointed out properties and landmarks, saying many of the words in Italian. Did she realize . . . ? But he committed them to memory as she talked. Some of the land was quilted with what looked like dark gnarled stalks tied to wooden crosses with arms reaching out, between them a froth of bright yellow.

Carina caught his gaze. “Those are the grapes. They’ve had winter pruning but no buds yet. The fava beans are in bloom.”

“Beans between the grapes?” Then the tough dark stumps must be the grapevines. They looked dead compared to the bright yellow of the bean plants.

She nodded. “Fava, orchard grass, clover—to hold the soil against the winter rains.”

Fog clung in the low areas over the creeks, though the hills were bright with sunshine and breeze-tossed grasses. Quillan realized how little he knew about such a life. Was he dreaming? Could he settle down and learn?

“And there.” Carina pointed. “You can just see Sonoma.”

Ahead, a cluster of buildings stood closer together than the farms, but still orderly. The road went straight into what seemed a large central square. Quillan eyed it with curiosity. They were coming in at mid-afternoon, but the town seemed sleepy even so.

“That’s the plaza. General Vallejo laid it out and plotted the streets around it. Cattle used to graze there along a white picket fence. Now with the train through, it’s not pretty anymore.”

Quillan eyed the dirt square, gauging it some six square acres or more. The tracks ran along one side, lined by stores and businesses and ending in a turntable at one corner of the plaza. He said, “Who’s General Vallejo?”

“Mariano Vallejo. He was sent here by the Mexican president. A great man for the community and a friend of Papa’s. He gave us our fountain.”

“Fountain?”

“In the courtyard. You’ll see it. A lovely white swan.”

Quillan’s belly tightened. A fountained courtyard. High connections. What did he know about any of that?

Carina motioned. “Turn here.”