by Renee Simons
Callie nodded.
"A wise decision, Ms. Patterson. We will try to make your stay as comfortable as possible." He patted her shoulder. "Relax and let yourself drift off, if you can. Your body needs rest to heal."
He glanced at his friend. "You can stay if you want."
"I want."
Eddie nodded. "The nurses will do vitals and neuro assessments every hour."
Luc settled himself in a wooden arm chair with cushions covered in fake leather. "Do you mind my staying?"
"It isn't necessary, you know."
He smiled. Her consistency comforted him. "I know."
"I guess that's never stopped you before, has it?" Her voice reached barely above a whisper but she attempted a smile. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? Prop your legs on the bed."
Although he didn't follow her suggestion, he did hitch his chair closer, relieved to be near enough to observe her beneath the subdued light above the bed. The panic that had been so obvious when he'd found her had receded into fatigue, leaving dark smudges beneath her eyes. The pale glow cast her face in shadows, softening the intensity of her bruises.
"Talk to me," she said.
"You heard what Eddie said. You should sleep."
"I will," she said with a sigh. "Just not yet. I want to lie here and get used to being safe again."
"Are you up to telling me what happened?"
Callie had been surprised when the doctor told her what day it was, but it had been dark underground. She’d lost her watch during the fall so she'd had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Three days, it had been. She didn’t remember every detail of that time, but fragments rose to the surface of her mind like foam on a rough sea. She wasn’t ready to ride that particular surf. More particularly, she had no desire to relive the hours alone, the pain of her injuries or the despair of thinking she'd been trapped underground and might die there without anyone knowing.
“I was out exploring when someone came up behind me. He slugged me and threw me down a mine shaft." A shiver coursed through her. "It took me a while after I came around, but eventually I found my way out.”
He took her hand. "It must have been awful."
She welcomed the touch warming her cold fingers. "It wasn't fun."
“You never made it into Albuquerque?”
“I was down there the whole time.”
He shook his head and cursed under his breath.
“What?”
“I came every day looking for you, but nobody'd seen you. Your bike was gone so I figured business kept you away.”
"Gone?" She'd parked it beneath the back steps, never expecting she'd need to protect it from more than the weather. “You looked behind the house?”
“Everywhere, even in that old shed at the corner of the property."
“Maybe whoever attacked me stole it.” She struggled to put down a newly reawakened fear. “He knows where I live.”
"It's probably the same guy who's been doing all the damage." His hold on her hand tightened, though not painfully so. "I think it may be one of Nick's workers."
"Why would one of his men be against a project that's giving him work?"
"I've been doing background checks, checking finger prints, and verifying alibis. I found the can of spray paint the vandal used. When we nail him we'll know why."
He pressed his lips to the back of her good hand. "We worried about you."
She struggled to suppress a smile and failed. "We?"
He answered with a lopsided grin. "Okay. If you have to hear it. I worried."
She took in his words and suddenly didn't feel quite so lousy. She stifled a yawn and closed her eyes for a moment as a wave of sleepiness threatened to claim her exhausted body and mind. The overhead light clicked off, turning the room into an oasis of dark warmth rimmed by the soft light out in the corridor. Anxiety zigzagged through her and she tugged at Luc's arm.
"Calmate," he whispered. "It's all right, querida. I'm here." His weight barely dented the hard mattress as he lay beside her; she nestled against him, letting his body heat envelop her like a featherbed. "You won't be alone tonight, mi vida."
He pressed a kiss on the top of her head. "I wish you'd stay away from the house for a few days. Until we run this guy to ground."
"I'd rather not go back to the hotel."
"Stay with my folks."
"That would be an imposition."
"Are you kidding? My mother would love having someone to take care of again. She's a retired nurse, you know."
"That doesn't mean she wants to be unretired."
"To her it would feel like caring for a family member. She thinks that much of you."
"Nice," Callie said with a sigh. "But I want to be sure. Will you call her first?"
"If you need me to, I will."
So, Callie thought. Dorotea Moreno was a retired nurse. Could she have been the young partera Grandmother had mentioned in her diary? Or the daughter? And did she have the key to the mystery of "C"?
At noon, Eduardo Vega released Callie's wrist with a nod of satisfaction. "I am signing you out, Ms. Patterson, but I want to see you in two weeks. Understood?"
She nodded. "Thank you, doctor."
He scribbled on a prescription pad and held out a single sheet. Callie raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing complicated here. Just some instructions about after-care."
The two men shook hands and left a nurse to prepare her for discharge. She balked at the wheelchair ride to the door but chose it over being carried out by Luc. Although the idea had definite appeal, she thought the wheelchair would attract less attention. In the pickup, he belted them in and started for home.
"My mother's getting a room ready for you. She planned a week's worth of meals to jump start your appetite. I'm angling for an open dinner invitation."
"I should have followed my instinct to go back to The Mansion." She shook her head. "This sounds like too much of an inconvenience for her and for you.”
"Not at all. She's thrilled and I get to stoke up on her cooking." He glanced at her, then turned back to the road. "Be warned, she's an incurable matchmaker and she's got you in her sights."
"For whom?"
"For her only unattached son."
"You."
"None other."
She chuckled despite the blush heating her cheeks. "That must thrill you no end. Considering how opposed you are to getting involved. Or does your opposition apply only to me?"
"Opposed or not, I'm involved up to my eyeballs. Can't you tell?"
"I thought I could last night."
"Nothing's changed."
He touched her hand gently, leaving a trail of warmth where his fingers had been. With her good hand she swiped at unbidden tears that surely had been caused by her weakened state. Too soon to accept his admission as fact, she thought with a sigh of relief. She had time to decide how these new feelings would affect Gram’s dream. As the rugged landscape rolled past she let herself relax into the motion of the four-by-four.
"Who's married?"
"My brothers Tino and Miguel. It's a rough situation for Miguel. He and his wife separated about six months ago. They have a little boy. We're all hoping they can work it out." He cleared his throat. "You'll meet Quique. He's with my folks right now."
"Has their situation scared you away from...." She searched for a word that wouldn't sound too explicit — to either of them.
His low chuckle told her he understood her hesitation. "You can say the word. Marriage."
"Has it?"
"I want to settle down. Have kids."
"But...?"
"The time's not quite right." He went silent for a moment. "But soon, maybe, if things work out."
Callie chose not to press him. The time wasn't quite right for her either.
"Who died in a hospital?" Luc asked after another short silence.
"Two parents and two sets of grandparents, minus one."
"Which one?"
&
nbsp; "Lucinda. She died at home, in bed with an open photo album on her lap." She glanced at his profile for a moment before turning to stare at the tumbled rocks bordering the road. "Gram had a heart attack while looking at pictures of The Mansion. I found that fact a little unsettling."
"I can see why this restoration is so important to you."
"Can you?" Her heart thumped in her chest. Was it possible he might have altered his stance on The Mansion's future? That she wouldn’t have to choose?
"Let’s say you thought the place was the last thing on Lucinda's mind and her dying like that a message. You might feel compelled to grant a last request. She placed quite a burden on your shoulders."
"Restoring The Mansion isn't a burden. It's a labor of love." Callie tried to keep disappointment from her tone.
Apparently his feelings hadn't changed. "And the idea didn't develop out of her death. We dreamed and planned for years."
"Why was it so important to her?"
"It was her girlhood home, a place filled with memories she wanted to bring to life again."
"Happy memories?"
Although she didn't feel able to tell him the whole story, she couldn't lie to him, either. "Some. Not all."
He nodded and seemed oddly satisfied, although she couldn't begin to guess why.
"I'm sorry I've let you down," he said softly.
There didn’t seem to be an adequate response so she offered none, gazing again at the profile that recalled his father's patrician features gentled by his mother's earthy beauty. She glanced at his hands on the wheel and remembered her body’s fevered response to his ministrations. Her skin tingled with the memory, sending an echo to that most intimate of places. She crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to hold herself together in spite of her errant impulses. What a swift recovery, she thought. Broken arm and all, you’d jump the man’s bones, if he’d only give you the word. She held back a giggle. How do you make love with a broken arm?
She turned to look out of the window just as they reached the Moreno ranch. Luc pulled through a stone archway and parked beneath a tree.
"Come," he said. "My mother will be waiting to greet you."
He helped Callie ease out of the vehicle. "What are the men doing with all those lights?" she asked.
"They're getting the place ready for fiesta."
She stiffened. "I don't belong here at such a busy time. Or when your folks are having guests." She felt a flush return to her cheeks. "Please don't insist I stay."
"If my son does not, I will." Dorotea had approached without Callie's notice and now stood beside Luc. "This is a special time for our village, a time steeped in history and tradition. I can think of no better way for you to get to know us than to observe the festivities."
"You mean well, Mrs. Moreno, but, as you can guess, I'm not at my best right now."
"We expect nothing from you except your presence, which would give us pleasure." She took Callie under the elbow and steered her toward the house.
"Your room is upstairs facing away from the courtyard where the noise will not reach you." She pointed to the second story. "And there will be a table and chair, where you can watch the celebration — if you wish. When you become tired you must return to the quiet of your room."
She examined Callie's face. "That is where you should be now." She slipped an arm across her shoulders. "Come. You will rest and later have something to eat."
"It's been a long time since anyone fussed over me."
Dorotea tilted her head to one side. "Is this fussing a good thing?"
Callie smiled through the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her. "It is."
"Bueno." Dorotea tightened her grip and led Callie toward the courtyard. Over her shoulder she addressed Luc. "I'll leave you in charge of getting the table and chair, hijo. From the storage shed. I'll show you where to place it."
"I can probably figure that out for myself, mamacita. Then I have to go to work."
"No lunch?"
"Not today, but I'll try to make it back in time for supper."
* * *
Callie slept soundly in an old iron bed piled high with mattresses and featherbeds. When she woke, she wandered downstairs, glancing through open doorways and rooms warmed with old but sturdy hand-crafter furniture and colorful fabrics.
On the ground floor, the fiery glow of a setting sun drew her into a gallery-like space walled in glass on its western side. An easel stood near the window. Three walls held portraits, some of familiar faces, some not, and landscapes of the local countryside and beyond. Beautifully rendered by a loving hand, they told a story of the strength it had taken to survive in a rugged environment.
She saw herself in two paintings and in a work in progress on the easel that caused her cheeks to flame. The artist had depicted her as she must have appeared to him on that rainy morning when their love-making had been interrupted by the vandal. So, of course, she knew she was looking at Luc’s work and Luc’s emotions at the time – love, longing and passion. She hadn’t been wrong about the way he felt about her. She’d give anything to know why he held back.
* * *
In the darkness that evening, Callie looked down on the patio. After a long nap Dorotea assured her was very much the traditional siesta and a small lunch she enjoyed despite her flagging appetite, Callie had decorated each round table with a colorful striped serape and a votive nestled in a pierced tin lumineria.
Now the lights cast flickering shadows on faces and bathed the scene in shimmering waves of color. Strings of red and yellow bulbs outlined archways and chimneys and ran up the staircase and along the balcony's lower edge. Some might have considered the use of the state colors too deliberate and even a bit naive, but she liked their gentle, festive glow.
A trio of musicians softly strummed guitars in one corner of the patio. Several couples swayed in an area cleared for dancing. The mariachi band sitting on the steps to the second story suggested more spirited dancing yet to come.
As the last musical notes faded, players took center stage. Men in Spanish armor and simple Native American dress, priests in hooded habits and grand colonial ladies in satin gowns began to enact a scene Callie could only guess at until Luc’s soft voice in her ear narrated.
"In 1620, the King of Spain issued a grant of land to Francisco Moreno de Valencia as reward for his efforts to colonize the Valle d'Oro."
A gentle finger on her cheek turned her to face stage left. "The folks you see down there are portraying early settlers and the Indians they found when they got here. Francisco's the muy macho dude in the armor."
She nodded. There are several macho dudes here tonight, she thought. One, in particular, sat so close she found it impossible to relax.
"This grant," he continued, "covered an area of nearly three quarters of a million acres, bordered by two mountain ranges on the east and the west and extending southward through what eventually became the settlement of Blue Sky."
Luc's warm breath on her neck made concentration difficult. She struggled to ignore the wave of heat that sizzled through her and to focus on his words while the actor below spoke with expansive gestures and at great length to a group of "colonists."
“What’s he saying now?” she asked.
"Francisco is explaining that the grant includes several Indian villages and ancient cliff dwellings, much good land and mountains containing vast deposits of gold, silver and copper."
His hand caressing her cheek and his lips whispering against the side of her neck provided irresistible distractions. She pressed a soft kiss against the backs of his fingers as a picture flashed quickly through her mind. She remembered seeing one of those cliff houses, a complex of crumbling stone structures overlooking a deeply blue lake.
"Uh uh, querida. Pay attention to the action."
She sighed. "That's what I'm doing."
He chuckled and she felt his laugh vibrate against her neck. "In the courtyard."
Luc's me
lodious tones hummed through her blood as she watched the play. An actor in native dress cowered at the foot of a nobleman who raised an arm as if to strike him.
"The hacendados exploited the Indians cruelly," he said, "and the friars offered little protection."
Two actors rolled a mockup of a church facade to center stage.
"They were so eager to convert the natives, they forced them to build churches and to forsake their own religions."
She turned to look at him. He lifted his chin, redirecting her attention. In view of a "friar," an Indian prayed before the church. When the priest disappeared behind the door, the native picked up a rattle and addressed the four directions with a quiet chant.
"There you see an Indian who worships in the church on Sunday, yet follows his own religion when the friar turns his back to take inventory of corn and blankets.
"The Pueblo tribes suffered under a system of virtual slavery, paying tribute in crops and labor, tilling the colonists’ fields and tending their cattle."
With his head bowed, Francisco paced the stage, stroking his goatee, pausing to look off into the distance before resuming his walk.
"Señor Francisco broods because he has come to hate the encomienda system of forced labor. So in the twentieth year of his stewardship, he returned most of the lands to the native peoples. He kept only what he thought would support his children and grandchildren through honest toil. And he kept the valley of gold, which had no value to the Pueblos either for its metals or the rocky soil they couldn’t farm."
With a great flourish, the actor portraying Francisco handed over a parchment to three Indians, who expressed gratitude by offering a boldly patterned blanket cradling a harvest of corn, melons and scarlet and yellow cactus flowers.
"Because he'd seen to their education, Francisco knew the Indians would fare better if free to pursue their own lives, under his protection from both the Church and the other colonists.
"This festival marks the day in 1630 when the tribes regained their lands and freedom. In August, we will celebrate the Pueblo Revolt of 1680."