Today she'd joined her "uncle" on his weekly trip to town. He'd planned another elegant dinner party for that evening and invited Sophie to help choose fresh flowers for the event. She made an excuse to wander around the town, with hopes of seeing someone from the mountains. The men often came down to spy within the crowds. Something within her longed for a friendly face. She felt so very alone and playing the part of a self-involved artist was harder than she'd expected.
But there had been no one familiar, and she spotted the flower store ahead. Tomas saw her and waved.
"Eleanor!" he called.
Sophie waved back, recognizing one of the town's high officials standing beside Tomas.
She quickened her steps, and as she was about to pass a small crowd on the sidewalk, an older woman stumbled in front of her, falling hard to the ground. Sophie gasped and looked to Tomas. His gaze widened as if wondering how Sophie would respond. She didn't slow, but instead tilted her chin and continued on.
She knew Eleanor—the selfish person she'd created—would never stop. But as she continued on, Sophie wondered if she would stop even if she had the chance.
It's just one woman. Helping her won't make any difference. I could bend over and pick her up, but then what? I'd become involved in her life. I'd feed her and listen to her. And I'm tired.
Her shoulders sank in weariness. I'm tired of giving and getting nothing in return. Where has reaching out gotten me? I'm alone. I don't know whom to trust. I'm living a lie. I don't even have my own name.
The woman's hand reached out as Sophie passed, and Sophie scooted over so not even the woman's fingertips would touch her skirt. She kept walking.
"Please," the woman called behind her. "Please help me."
Sophie continued on with quickened steps.
She met Tomas, and they walked back to the automobile in silence. Shadows lengthened through the streets, and Sophie's eyes darted to others who mulled around in the crowd. Two children, dressed in rags, begged for pesetas with a tin cup. A man with a curved back and slow limp hobbled by. A young woman carried a crying baby, the infant clutched to her chest.
Among them strolled soldiers in uniform, priests, finely dressed women, men in business suits. It was the weak and feeble who drew her attention.
But with each one she passed, a cool indifference settled in her chest. And after she'd walked halfway to the parking area, she didn't notice them anymore.
They arrived back at the castle as people headed to the dining room for lunch. A net of safety settled over her as she laughed with the wealthy of Granada, and they talked about nothing of importance. Tonight she'd allow herself to be twirled around the dance floor. And she'd enjoy herself as if she lived only for this moment with no cares for tomorrow.
Or so she'd like to think.
* * *
The food, the music, the beautiful people—with so much to enjoy, Sophie dismissed the fact that she hadn't sent word that she wouldn't deliver any information tonight.
A guitar player sat in the corner, strumming lively Spanish music. She swayed from side to side, enjoying the silky feeling of the light blue dress swishing across her legs.
Her eyes moved around the room, and she had a strange feeling that someone was watching her. Sophie turned and paused. Then everything in her told her to run. Her charade was up. Across the room she stared into the eyes of Maria Donita. The woman who had carried, and apparently borne, Michael's child.
An older Spanish man approached and struck up a conversation. Sophie did her best to focus on his words and laugh at the right times. After thirty minutes ticked by, she could wait no longer. She saw Maria Donita head to the balcony, and she followed.
The night air was warm. Maria Donita stood by a balcony overlooking the lion fountain, with the city of Granada beyond that. She turned slightly when Sophie came out.
Sophie shut the glass door behind her. She breathed in deeply as she strolled onto the patio, smelling approaching rain.
"I was wondering if you saw me come out here. I hoped so. I want to talk to you . . . Eleanor. Isn't that what they call you?" Maria's tone was cautious.
Sophie stopped. "I don't understand. If you recognized me, why didn't you turn me in—or point me out?" Sophie cleared her throat.
"I can't do that. You are working for someone. And I need your help. I need you to help me get out."
Maria stepped closer, and desperation marred her face. "I have a son. He is all I live for now. My husband is dead. Killed, most likely, by someone who was angry at him for leaking information to the wrong people. We traveled south with a promise to leave the country; and now I am stuck here, living amongst people whose beliefs I can't adopt. They will win. And I can't . . . imagine what it would be like to live my whole life like this."
"Your son. Tell me about him." More than anything Sophie wanted to ask if the child was Michael's, but as she looked at Maria's face pity washed over Sophie. The pain was clear in Maria's gaze.
"We both fell in love with the same man. I will not deny the fact that I wanted Michael to be mine. And perhaps that could have happened, with more time. If you hadn't arrived."
"Your son . . . is it Michael's child?"
Maria shook her head. "No." She dropped her gaze. "No matter how I wish it was so." She turned again to the view of the moon and the sparkling lights of the city. "I gave everything for love. I would have given my body, too. But he didn't ask that of me. Michael wanted information. He wanted me to get close to a banker. I did what I had to. I did it to gain Michael's approval. In the end, I bore the child of a man I don't love. Michael had the information he needed, and then he was dead. I had no choice but to marry Emilio. I had no one to care for me. To be a single woman in that condition—it just isn't done."
"But I heard your sister at the funeral. She said the child belonged to Michael."
"I told her that because I was ashamed that I gave myself to Emilio. I wished it had been Michael's. I wanted it to be. For a time I thought he shared my affection, but now I know it was only part of his game. And in the end he was faithful to you. It was you he loved."
"I don't know about that. He lied to me, and then left me in the hands of soldiers with full expectations I would be imprisoned and killed. Then he flew off . . . . If a man loves you he doesn't leave you for dead."
"What are you talking about? He had no choice. He was shot."
"You don't know, do you?" Sophie rubbed her forehead. "Of course, you would have no reason to know. You were at the funeral. . . ."
Sophie looked at Maria Donita with a new perspective. Not as someone who had betrayed her, but someone who had also been betrayed.
"What are you saying?" Maria moved to a long stone bench and sat as if she knew the words to come would deeply affect her.
"Michael didn't die that day on the streets of Madrid. It was a setup—to make us believe he had. In order to follow . . ." Sophie paused, deciding to save Maria the burden of the whole story. "In order for him to follow another path."
"The gold . . . that's it. He succeeded. He got what he was after! And I helped him. He lives . . ." Maria broke down and began to cry.
Sophie understood too well the pain the young girl experienced. She approached and placed a hand on Maria's shoulder. "He lives, and he no doubt seeks me. I'm not sure if you want any connection with me—it could bring you even more trouble than you are in now. But I promise you this—when I do find a way out of this country, I'll make sure that you come along. I promise I'll help you and your son find a way to safety. You are as much a victim in this . . . this hunt for treasure as anyone."
The door opened, and a man walked out on the patio with a woman on his arm. Maria Donita quickly wiped her face. "It was so nice to meet you, Señorita Eleanor. I hope we meet again." She spoke loudly for the benefit of the couple. Then she reached down to give Sophie an embrace.
"Meet me tomorrow, at the lion fountain," Maria whispered in Sophie's ear. "We can talk more then." With that, sh
e hurried away.
Sophie sat there a few minutes longer gazing over the mountains and the beautiful shimmer of moonlight upon tree limbs that danced in the breeze.
It was hard to believe that an unseen force could cause so much movement. What from a distance looked like ripples were actually gusts that could push a person any direction the wind desired.
She continued to ponder this as she returned to the fine party, attended by key people who hoped to someday conquer Spain. Though they were beautiful to gaze upon, an invisible death stirred within their souls. She prayed she and Maria could get out before they became the next victims.
Chapter Thirty-Three
They had ridden an entire day on the train from the coast of France. Now Petra stood in the stable on the outskirts of Paris brushing down Erro's side with long strokes. She noted the two marks on his shoulders—his brands that proved his bloodline, and to whom he belonged. The question was, what about her? To whom did she belong?
She had thought about this while they sailed. Many had asked Juan if she was his granddaughter. While he always answered yes, she knew it wasn't the truth.
Fear clung to her as she worried about Edelberto's cousin Michael—the one who'd kidnapped José. The one she'd stolen the horses from. José had insisted that Michael had nothing against her and would do her no harm, but she wasn't sure if she believed it. He'd shot at her, after all. If it hadn't been for Calisto, she'd be dead. What if Michael figured out who she was? Who would protect her?
Edelberto's father was out of town, but when he returned he'd likely welcome his two dedicated stable hands. He would rejoice that his horses were safe and sound—far away from the threats of Spain. But why should he care about her? Especially when she had nothing to offer.
It seemed foolish now that she'd tried to find Edelberto with the hopes of rekindling a friendship they started one afternoon in Madrid. They had only talked face-to-face for a few hours, years ago. So much—everything—had changed since then.
"I'm sorry, Erro, but this must be good-bye. I will never forget you."
The horse's ears flickered as if listening to her words.
"It is not fair to them . . . ."
From behind her, Petra heard someone clear his throat. She turned and noticed Edelberto standing there. Taller than she remembered, and so much more handsome.
"I see the old men taught you well. I remember even as a child going to the stalls and hearing them talk to their horses. Sometimes they talked about nothing of importance, but other times they poured out their hearts to the creatures. It was good for them. It's good for all of us to have someone to talk to."
"Edelberto . . . I didn't expect you here." She ran her fingers through her hair, wishing she'd taken time to look presentable.
"As soon as I heard, I came. Why didn't you come to my home?" He came a few steps closer. "Are you well?"
"Sí, as well as to be expected, I suppose."
"And your family?"
Petra lowered her eyes. She shook her head.
"I am so sorry to hear that. Some have endured so much heartache in Spain. Hopefully, things will be better now that you are in France."
He approached Erro and gave him a firm pat on the neck. "I remember when he was born. It was the first birth I witnessed. He's always been my favorite."
Petra smiled, daring to meet his gaze again. "Yes, mine too."
"So tell me, Petra. The things you spoke to the horse—was it just chitchat or something more?"
She tightened her lips and continued brushing.
"I don't think you have to tell Erro good-bye. You are welcome in my home for a time. But if that is not appropriate, I have many friends in the city. I have talked to a few families, and more than one offered you a place to stay."
"I could not impose on another's graciousness."
"But you wouldn't be imposing," he hurriedly continued. "One friend is a novelist, and she is eager to hear about your adventures in Spain. The other has horses in the country, and she is looking for someone to help care for them."
"Really?"
"Sí, and it will be not far from where Erro, Calisto, and the mares will be, which means I can visit often."
"You would do that? Visit me?"
"Of course. And during our days apart we can write letters. You are a fine letter writer."
Petra blushed. "I don't know about that. I agree to stay on one condition—"
"And what is that?" He came closer, and her heartbeat quickened.
"Promise you won't pity me. I have faced a lot, but if we renew our . . . friendship, I want you to care for me because of who I am, not what I've lived through."
Edelberto smiled. "That sounds wonderful to me. Of course, you have to promise to do the same."
"The same? What could you possibly have faced—safe and protected in France."
Laughter spilled from Edelberto's mouth. "You will see. It just might surprise you, señorita." He reached out for her hand. "Come now. I have someone eager to meet you—a family member who's invited us to lunch. We must not be late."
* * *
Michael reread the piece of paper before him. He'd gone through the stack of letters Philip's father had written him. He'd read the first one weeks ago, and he told himself he shouldn't read more. Yet he couldn't stop. The father's love for his son drew him. He read and reread the words, and as he did, Michael imagined his father had written the letters . . . to him.
The doorknob turned, and Michael quickly tucked the letter back in his pocket, then retrieved the pistol from the desk and stood.
His uncle Adolfo entered and set a briefcase on the floor. He removed his hat and loosened his tie, then he turned—pausing as he noticed Michael and the gun.
"Did I surprise you, uncle?" Michael took a step forward. "Tell me, what surprised you more? Seeing me here . . . or seeing this gun in my hand? It tells you something, doesn't it? Your ruse is up."
Adolfo closed the door behind him. "Put that away. You'll frighten the help." He slowly walked to his desk and sat. Michael followed him with the gun. Adolfo sat with a long sigh. "So . . . tell me, what brings you to this?" He nodded at the gun.
Michael rubbed his chin. "Maybe that I talked to José. He told me who Walt was working for—told me your plan had been to steal the gold from me all along."
Adolfo shrugged. "Yes, well, what else could I do? What type of uncle would I be if I turned you against your own parents? Besides, Walt had a second mission while he was following you . . . and that was to make sure you were safe."
Laughter burst from Michael's lips. "How kind of you! Steal from my nephew, Walt, but don't kill him! Oh, yes, and make sure no one else kills him."
Adolfo leaned back in his chair. "Michael, there is something you should know. Something that might make sense of this—then maybe you will understand my heart. I not only did this for you and for Walt. I did this for our family."
"Really? I love a good story—go ahead." He pulled a chair across from his uncle and sat.
"Michael . . . Walt is your brother. Your father's child, conceived before he met your mother."
Michael would have laughed if it were not for the serious expression on his uncle's face. His mind flashed back to a time in Boston when he was still a teenager. Heaviness settled in his chest as he remembered his mother weeping. When he'd questioned her, she told him to ask his father about it.
Michael's knees trembled. He'd never asked. But now he knew.
"All Walt wanted was a relationship with his family, but he was never given the chance. He was bright and observant, yet lonely. We were a perfect match. We built a friendship and later sought a treasure together. Your mother is a wise woman, but she doesn't have the insight I have. She doesn't have the heart for adventure. My goal was never to steal all the gold—simply seven coins. Would you like to hear the story?"
Michael nodded, and the tale turned into something from a dime novel. When Adolfo finished, Michael lowered his gun. Then he sto
od. "I'm not sure I believe you."
"Ask your mother. She can confirm that Walt is your brother . . . and the rest, I suppose, you'll just have to trust me about."
Laughter from outside met his ears, and Michael looked out the window. It was Edelberto and a young woman, exiting the front doors. They talked and laughed as they walked through the courtyard toward the street. Her laughter reminded Michael of another.
"What do you know about Sophie?" Michael looked to his uncle just in time to see his eyes dart to his briefcase.
His uncle rose. "I know she is well."
Michael lifted the gun again; then he hurried to the briefcase. "Wonderful. I'll take this, thank you."
"Michael, no!"
Michael pointed the gun at his uncle's chest.
Adolfo backed away and then collapsed into the chair. "Please, whatever you do, do not hurt your brother. He . . . Walt did nothing to deserve the heartache your father has given him."
Adolfo took a step forward, and Michael cocked the trigger.
"You wouldn't shoot your uncle, would you?"
"Why not? There is a priest downstairs to give you your last rites . . . and absolve your sins before you pass away." Michael's hands shook, and then he lowered the pistol. "But I will not. I will spare you. But I do recommend you ask the priest if he will take your confession. With that story you've just told, and the mission you've orchestrated, I believe you've broken nearly every one of the commandments." And with the briefcase in his hand, Michael hurried away.
* * *
Michael looked across the room to where his mother sat. She'd come to France for the gold he promised, and remained . . . waiting for him to come through. Michael had come to talk to her, but instead he'd discovered she already had company.
Edelberto was there with the young woman. She was too thin, too young, and trembled like a leaf every time someone looked at her. What did Edelberto see in her?
His mother cast him a simple glance. "Michael, we just finished lunch, but there is more in the kitchen—just ask the help." She offered him a quick hug.
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