He looked out over the water. “The closest I’ve gotten to crossing something like that was on a river ferry once. Mostly I just splash through on my wagon.”
“Don’t try it here.” She waved at the bay. “Or you’ll meet these face to face.” She held up the crab.
He laughed, then looked back over the water. “Tomorrow we cross. Then what?”
“Then we drive north.”
“How long?”
She considered. “Four hours, maybe three.” The very thought brought her heart rushing to her throat. She looked out across the water. Just north of San Pablo Bay lay her home. Tomorrow they would go there. She wished they could start now! She fairly throbbed with excitement. “Tomorrow we’ll be home.” She squeezed his arm. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
He studied her face, then smiled. “Yes, I do.”
“I don’t care if the whole world can see. I’m going home to Mamma and Papa. To everyone! Mia famiglia.”
He looked down at his hands.
She reached out and grasped them. “And yours.” But the niggling thought returned. What would they think of Quillan? Maybe Father Antoine was right. She should have written. Well, it was too late for that now. And tomorrow . . . tomorrow she’d be home!
The next morning Quillan held the rail of the James M. Donahue steamer. He looked out at the huge expanse of blue salty water that held them afloat. At his side, Carina had become a scintillating creature, as though the sea air or the California shore had quickened some magic in her. Or maybe it was that she would soon be home with her family. He felt singularly unsure of his own place in all of it.
Carina was reluctant to discuss the individuals in her family. She spoke of them all as a group, giving him a broad brush of the whole picture but saying little in particular except that he would see for himself soon. Too soon. Yet she wouldn’t be so eager, so animated if she didn’t believe it would all come right. Would she?
There was that part of her that was remarkably credulous, truly astonished by the ugliness of the world. She’d been protected from it so
well. Crystal had come as a shock, and so had he. But that was before he loved her. Now he would do anything to preserve her innocence. He did not want to be a source of disillusionment. He shook his head. Maybe he had it all wrong, but he had reason to be gun-shy.
After they docked, they would take the wagon road to her home. What happened there remained to be seen, but he’d feel a sight more comfortable if her family knew he was coming. The DeMornays had not been inspiring.
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?