Petra helped Ramona dismount, and a few seconds later both women were at his side.
"Will he be okay?" Petra stroked his mane.
"Is it a gunshot wound?" Ramona took a closer look at the bullet wound in his shoulder.
"Michael . . ." Petra said. "He saw me leaving with the horses, and he ran out. He aimed the gun at me, but Calisto lifted his front legs and leapt—just as you'd trained him for show. I heard the gunshot, but I didn't know he was hit. I am so sorry, José." She fell to the ground, and silent sobs shook her shoulders.
José reached for her, patting her hair, and from the corner of his eye he noticed Ramona stiffen beside him.
He moved back to Calisto. "If there was any spot where he was hit, this would be the best place. It didn't hit any major arteries or enter his chest cavity." José turned and took his wife's hand. "And do not worry, Petra. My wife is a wonderful nurse."
Ramona's eyes widened. "I work on men, not animals." But her gaze softened as she turned to the horse. "Of course, the wound doesn't appear too deep. I only wish I had some supplies."
Petra lifted her head. "At the caves . . . your father packed bandages, needles. He had a very fine first-aid kit."
"Do you think Calisto can make it that far?" Ramona asked.
"It will take us longer, but I think he can make it if I don't ride him," José said. "You two can ride Erro, and I'll follow, leading the horse."
"Are you sure?" Petra straightened her shoulders. "I could go ahead and get the first-aid kit." She pulled the map out of her pocket. "I have this, remember?"
"Sí, good idea. We'll give Erro a chance to rest and graze before you head out. And then we will find a place nearby to wait. I'd like to stay with Calisto just in case."
Ramona took Petra's face in her hands. "José, why did you not tell me sooner God had provided you with a guardian angel?" She brushed the hair back from Petra's face.
A smile spread over Petra's lips, and she offered Ramona a quick hug. José smiled too.
After twenty-one days of living in dry riverbeds, their orders were to fall out. The action was over. This surprised Deion. During the days that were extremely hot, and the nights that were cold and caused him to wish again for the heat, he didn't expect that they'd ever be called back. This was their big offensive. He supposed they'd press on until they reached the end—wherever that was. Or until he met his end, whichever came first.
With slow steps, the troops marched to their reprieve. The men around Deion collapsed, and he had never ached with so much weariness in all his life. After withdrawing from the heat of the Guadarrama Valley, the Lincoln Bridgade moved to a rest camp at Albares, near enough to Madrid to permit the men to explore the capital.
"I don't think I could walk one more mile, even if they paid me in solid gold," Deion muttered to the man beside him. His back ached. His mind even more.
He had just drifted off to sleep when he awakened to see their commander, Steve Nelson, climbing onto a large rock before them.
A man shouted from somewhere in the crowd, "For Pete's sake, Steve, you're not going to tell us to go back, are you?"
"You know I would not do this if there were any other choice. The Spanish marines are surrounded. You, men, are their only hope. And even if we rest, it won't be for long. Word has it that we are threatened from the rear."
A low murmur moved through the crowd. And then silence, as if each man was weighing his options.
They'd do it fer us, Deion thought. How can we not try to save them?
"You're right!" someone called out.
"It's our duty. This is why we have come," another added.
Deion, with strength he didn't know he possessed, pulled himself from the ground and repacked his supplies—or what remained of them. They lined up for the trip back, but not five hundred yards out, another messenger arrived.
"Men, wait!" Nelson called. "The order has been reversed. Relax. Rest."
And with this announcement they somehow were more strengthened than they had been. Deion looked around at their faces and noticed their pride.
They'd been willing to give everything, to push past their pain. It was a good feeling—one that couldn't be explained.
Deion drifted off to sleep again that night with a feeling of hope.
The next morning came, and with it word that they'd been given ten days' leave in Madrid. Now what was he supposed to do with that? The six months he'd been part of the brigade ran together. He was either fighting, driving, or wounded in the hospital. Deion wondered if he even knew what to do with time to himself. Back pay also caught up with him from the International Brigade offices. He'd forgotten all about the pestas—which totaled a month's wages back home—promised him during training.
The drive toward Madrid was like a drive from death to life. From the barren land the road wound into green fields, and Deion even noted a river full of water. If he could have, he would have jumped into it and washed away the filth of the fight. Washed away the memories, too.
Instead of finding peace on the road, he had a strange feeling as others on the road turned and watched the truck pass. He noticed pointing and wide-eyed gazes, and he realized that perhaps it was the first time many of them had seen a black man.
When he entered Madrid, the first thing Deion thought of was Sophie's paintings of the city. There had been paintings of bombings overhead and people with terrified looks on their faces. It sort of surprised him that today the sky was clear and people walked around. Many buildings were pockmarked by bullet holes and some buildings had been reduced to rubble, but it appeared as if the city had done its best to clean up the mess.
If only it were as easy to clean up one's thoughts—pushing away the rubble. And one's heart, for that matter.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ramona checked Calisto one more time. He seemed to be faring well, considering his injury. She approached José, noticing that his gaze still followed the trail Petra had taken thirty minutes prior.
"They'll be okay," she whispered, slipping up to him and feeling his arm wrap around her. "All of them. You'll see."
They loitered along the creek, and Ramona found a small stick she used to hit the reeds along the shore. A fish floated by, dead and limp. The current carried it away. Ramona empathized with the limp creature. She too was being swept away, not only by her circumstances but by her emotions.
She gazed up at José, knowing she'd do everything within her power to make sure they didn't part again. "I've worked around hospitals long enough to know one thing. Brave men can be reduced to tears. The dark hours are far more frightening than the grave," she whispered. "They cry over nothing and everything. They are alone. Their thoughts strike blows at will. I have come to believe that hope is the greatest treasure on earth. Hope centered on the knowledge that with Christ you are never alone. You are never powerless." She dropped the stick and settled on the grass. "Petra. Your father. Pepito. They are not alone either."
José didn't respond, but he sat by her side, entwining her hand in his.
"As a child I used to visit the nuns," she continued. "They always welcomed me and appreciated my company. They cared for each other with such devotion, and I believe it was from them I learned why Jesus urges us to love each other as we love ourselves. Our joy increases with service. Yet their hope meant little to me when I didn't need it. Just as a banquet means nothing to a person who is not hungry."
A bird sang overhead, and in the distance she heard the rumble of a large gun.
"But when your stomach is empty, even one slice of bread brings a smile. And when I've witnessed so much hopelessness, I realize I wouldn't trade the hope I have in Jesus for anything in the world."
"Not even a greater treasure than you could imagine?" José asked. His gaze held a far-off look.
"Not even that." She opened her arms and wrapped them around her husband's neck, bringing him close.
"Neither would I," he whispered in her ear.
"But
I have to admit, being here with you feels strange. Half of this day has passed, and no one has asked anything from me. I wasn't sought out to bandage or to clean a wound. No one died in my arms or asked for a drink of water."
José took her chin with a soft touch and turned her face toward him. "Oh, dear wife, I am asking everything of you. To love me as a forgiving wife. To come with me into the wilds. In my opinion that is much harder than offering a hundred cups of water, especially for a husband as foolish as I."
She nodded slightly. "Sí, but I never expected you to be perfect. When we married, I knew that there would be things that would force us apart. But we can remember this day . . . mostly by the fact that sweeter is a reunion after a long parting." She leaned up and offered her lips.
José kissed her deeply. "My dear," he whispered, pulling away. "I think you are the poet. The greater thinker."
"And you . . . even when you didn't realize it, were the caregiver—to the old men, the horses, the girl. She is a sweet thing, isn't she? As we rode she told me of your journey into the mountains. She adores Pepito and your father. Maybe someday we will have a daughter like that." Ramona took José's face and turned it toward her. "I understand why you love her. But I know, as much as I know the curve of your lips, that your caring love for her never threatened your love for me, your wife. I loved some of the men I cared for, also. It's hard to keep compassion from turning into intense care. I think our Maker placed that in us. It's good if we both recognize this love for what it is. We offer our care out of God's love, and then . . . we offer our complete selves to each other. That is how we are designed."
As she studied her husband's face, Ramona saw peace settle over his features. They were together, and they understood each other. It was the reunion she'd worried would never happen—but one that turned out to be a perfect gift.
Philip waited in the shadows of the forest. He told the others he wouldn't bother them. He said he'd allow Sophie to pass off the maps and whatever else she found, without interrupting. He'd told himself it would be enough to see her from a distance. That he could watch her without asking anything in return. Yet even as he stood, partly hidden behind a tree, he fought a losing cause. It wasn't enough. Knowing she was there and not being able to be with her would never be enough.
If he would have remained on the front line, he had no doubt he would have run into battle, even a hopeless one, with thoughts of victory and duty. Even now, though his mind didn't understand it, his heart marched on to die. He'd given it to Sophie, even if he could never have her in return.
But his battle wasn't on the front lines. It was a solo fight. The weapon wasn't in his hands, but he knew if he lost it would lead to his destruction. He'd made a fool of himself in his last moments with Sophie, and now he'd do anything to take them back.
"Civilian-fighter," he whispered to himself. "Spanish volunteer. Loser in love." Even now those words defined him.
He waited for Sophie's return, but his waiting was not idle. He'd discovered that his speed was valued among the guerilla fighters. And now it was his job to place the explosives, light the detonators, and run.
How many lives were helped by his acts of destruction? Farmers and weavers. Bricklayers and potters. Still, he doubted it was enough. Though the war raged on, he saw little chance of their victory, and his mind turned to what would happen next.
How would the lives of these people change in the new Spain—the one they had fought off for so long? He thought of some of the Spanish soldiers he'd fought beside, including the friend who'd held Attis's head as he died. The Spaniard had carried a sharpened knife next to his heart, ready to fight to the death for a cause he believed in. Such a man would be hunted and killed in the new Spain. He wouldn't live in submission—just as the mountain fighters did not. Philip knew, Franco knew; it would only be a matter of time before the battles waged once more.
The more Philip thought about this, the more he realized that maybe he wasn't there to fight with them, but instead to urge the men to escape while they could.
He heard footsteps, and he sank deeper into the shadows.
"I have found these—maps and documents. I've discovered that Tomas is very forgetful—just as we planned. He usually leaves doors unlocked . . . and now I know to follow him. Look them over tonight and bring them back in the morning—I need to return them before they are discovered missing. I'll meet you here." Her voice sounded weary. "I hope they are of some use."
Sophie wore a cape. A hood covered most of her face, but in the moonlight Philip noticed the curve of her mouth as she spoke. She looked around, and he wondered if she searched for him. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and then without another word she returned inside the tunnel, no doubt hurrying to the safety of her room.
Philip let out a low sigh. Though he'd at first agreed with Walt, he agreed no longer.
Even though leaving the country without the gold didn't make sense, Philip knew it would be their only chance for survival. He knew that even if Spain fell to Franco there would be hope . . . as long as they lived.
To live in a free country, such as France, would not mean freedom as they saw it. To leave the riches would not bring honor. But it would mean life. And right now that was enough.
Petra had returned as quickly as she could with the two older men, but by the time two more days passed, Calisto was failing. Petra watched as José held the horse's large head in his lap, speaking to him in a low, even tone.
The horse's gaze was wide, fearful. Petra could see the whites of his eyes. Pepito and Juan held the horse's legs steady as Ramona's gentle fingers dug into the incision, searching for the bullet.
Calisto groaned deeply. By tremendous effort he lifted his head. He met Petra's gaze, and she swore she could see compassion there. Forgiveness. She knew he did not blame her for the injury, though she blamed herself. A shudder passed over his bulky frame, and he sank back onto the straw.
A smile filled Ramona's face, and she pulled something from the wound. "I have it. I got the bullet!" For the next fifteen minutes she cleaned the wound as best she could; then she carefully stitched it up. By the time she finished, her hands and arms were covered with blood. There was even a spot on her cheek that José tried to wipe away with his fingers.
"What do you think?" José leaned down and touched the bandage.
"The wound isn't bad, but it's the infection I'm worried about. He should not be moved. I know it's not the safest place, but I think we need to stay here."
José nodded as he looked down into the valley. "It will be fine."
Petra could tell from his tone he was trying to convince himself as well as them.
He stared out at the sea, deep in thought. "Maybe it is better this way. We could not have stayed in the mountains through the fall and winter, anyway. Maybe this will force us to think of another way."
As he glanced over his shoulder, first looking to the older men and then stopping his gaze on Petra, she had a feeling what that meant. They would not return to the mountains. In fact, she had a feeling they would not remain in Spain if José could help it.
Chapter Thirty
José glanced at each face as he looked around the fire pit. He had left them for half a day—journeying down to the docks. Though Ramona had begged him not to go, he knew it was the only way. He must send the others away now, before it was too late.
He motioned Petra off to the side. She followed, eyes wide.
"There is a ship leaving soon, from the village of El Musel. Petra, you need to be on it. I will hear no objection. You must go with Pepito and Father. I need you all to take care of each other. I found passage for the horses as well."
"Yes, I understand." Petra squared her shoulders.
"There is more." He paused, noting how thin she'd become. She'd given so much to help them . . . and now he had a gift for her.
"José, what is it?"
"You came to us looking for Edelberto, remember? Well, that is where I am sending you . . .
to his home. Or more accurately, to that of his father. You will be cared for."
Petra touched her hair, her face. Then she looked down at her clothes. "I am not sure. . . . Things have changed."
"Listen to me." José cupped her face in his hands. "You are beautiful. You are worthy. Any young man would be honored to have you as a friend."
Petra nodded but said nothing. When they returned to the campfire, José explained the plan to the others.
* * *
Pepito and Juan nodded, as if accepting their fate.
Ramona took José's hand. "Parting will be hard, but it will be even harder if we spend the night worrying and fretting. Let's think about other things." She turned to Juan and looked deeply into the older man's eyes. "You are amazing, you know. It was the poultice you made for Calisto that sucked the infection out. You saved him . . . not me."
José turned away, trying to hide his emotion.
"Perhaps I was born to work with God's creatures."
José could hear his father's smile in his words. He closed his eyes and memorized the sound of his father's voice.
When he had first come up with the plan for sending the old men and Petra away, Ramona had told him not to worry—they'd see him again. But José knew differently. His father was old, and José had no plans to leave Spain until they won the war. Until Franco lost.
"I grew up in the hills in which roads did not exist," Juan continued, weaving a story for Ramona with his words. "As a child one of my clearest memories was of the Spanish muleteers who chanted songs and ballads as if they owned the hills. They traveled alone, or in trains. Sometimes I awoke to the bells of the lead mules. Soon it would be joined by the voice of the muleteer, singing or cursing his animal—both with the same wild enthusiasm."
Ramona laughed, and the sound of it filled José's soul.
"It was the animals that impressed me most. The way they descended the precipitous cliffs. They were simple animals, yet they amazed me. And more than anything I wanted to spend my time with them."
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