by DiAnn Mills
Armando led her beyond the site to a remote area several feet away. He pointed to a heavy growth of brush and rock jutting from the cliff.
“Do not try to run away, señorita,” he said. “I know this land far better than you.”
For the second time, Marianne realized she did not need to understand his language to conceive what he meant. His tone had spoken fathoms. She slipped behind the heavy undergrowth while humiliation flushed hot in her cheeks.
She vowed to be grateful for all God’s blessings. He was beside her on this perilous journey. He held her hand and guided her with His presence. She had prayed most earnestly for deliverance, but this might not be in God’s plan.
A few moments later she emerged from the brush.
“I’m sure your father loves you very much,” Armando said, as if she understood. “You have more courage than any woman I have ever known.”
I am not brave at all. I am terribly frightened. I must cling to God and hope He remembers me in my time of need.
Back in the hut, Armando left her alone. He closed the door behind him and imprisoned her in the dark. She wanted a glimmer of sunlight. Was this how she must spend the next five days while they waited for Papa’s answer?
He returned shortly carrying a small plate of stew, a tortilla, and a cup of water. Armando watched her eat with a curious frown upon his face. Avoiding his scrutiny, she concentrated on the food, a bit watery with few vegetables, but filling. Her next meal might be a long time from now.
“We leave for La Flor in an hour,” he said. “My lovely prisionera, I hope the people of La Flor see that nothing will be gained by Felipe’s foolishness. Perhaps we shall see how your father reacts to our demands.”
Marianne watched Diablo pace the perimeters of the stonewalled corral in search of an escape. The stallion caught sight of his mistress and stopped abruptly, his stance proud and erect. His ears lay back flat, and he tossed his head, snorting his disapproval. She held her breath as the stallion lifted his forefeet and slashed the air. Diablo sensed her danger and could scale the gate if provoked. Envy nudged at her. Oh, to be free from these horrid rebels. Marianne grieved with Diablo’s distress. She knew the same frustration as her beloved horse. She stepped forward, but Armando clutched her arm.
“Wait to see if my men can calm him,” he said in Spanish.
Enraged with his hands upon her and exhausted from the night’s ordeal, Marianne attempted to pull herself from her abductor’s grasp. How she loathed this man. And these poor people looked to him for leadership? One of the decorated combs that Josefa had skillfully placed the evening before slipped to the ground, sending a lock of hair across her forehead.
“I have done nothing to warrant this treatment.” She challenged him with an angry gaze. “And you are sadly mistaken if you think my father will give up his demands for La Flor in exchange for me. I matter nothing to him. Nothing.” Immediately, caution sealed her lips, for the consequences of inciting Armando could be deadly. One of his men might speak English. Then Armando, Felipe, and the others would know that she understood their every word.
Marianne took a ragged breath and swallowed the rash words threatening to erupt. She ceased to struggle against him and forced herself to relax. With her free hand, she lifted the remaining combs from her hair and released her thick tresses to fall about her shoulders. Her defiant glare shifted to the ground where a fat, black spider crawled across the tip of her slipper. Captured in a tangled web of power.
Marianne knew that impetuous actions could get her killed, and logic demanded that she dispel her indignation. She raised her head to meet Armando’s dark scrutiny, but found amusement lingering in his eyes. Oh, how the frustration battling inside her longed to be unleashed.
Instead, Marianne focused her attention on the men retrieving their mounts. Armando’s horse stood poised while a man whom she recognized from the evening before saddled the animal. But the men assigned to Diablo made no progress. She observed their futile efforts and basked in the satisfaction that her stallion refused to allow any man to approach him.
“Is no vaquero brave enough to bridle the señorita’s white stallion?” Armando chuckled.
“You can ride him,” Emilio said to Marianne, leading the dun to Armando. “We value our heads.”
Armando threw back his head and laughed. “I agree. We will insist our captive prepare her own horse and ride the devil.”
Marianne listened to the men banter and tease. Their leader obviously had a strong following; he knew when to become one of them and when to issue orders. Yet she questioned why Armando chose to live among these people when his light skin, an obvious marker of his Spanish blood, could have gained him a higher social status.
Once Diablo was ready, Armando’s gaze captured hers. She attempted to appear unafraid, but her trembling body would not still. He beckoned her, but she refused to move. He lifted his chin and silently demanded her presence.
Obey the man.
But Lord, he is evil.
Obey him.
God did know best. Didn’t He? Marianne patted the stallion’s neck. “Stay here, Diablo.” Every step in submission to her captor left an uneasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Armando removed his bandanna. “You cannot see where we are going, señorita.” He whirled her around and tied the cloth firmly over her eyes.
The nearness of him, his hands upon her flesh, and his scent reminded her of the horrors that possibly lay ahead. She shivered. How could she trust God with these vile men surrounding her? And with her eyes covered, how could she ever find her way back home?
Throughout the morning, Marianne rode alongside Armando, but not at the maddening pace of the previous night with Felipe. She recognized the rebel leader’s deep, resonant tone as he talked with his men. At one point, he sang a song she remembered hearing from Juan.
“My heart dwells with a pretty young maiden
A maiden fair who loves me not.
She cast her dark eyes upon another
And left me weeping—alone, and lost.”
Marianne thought it was a sad song, especially the way Armando sang it. She decided he must feel about La Flor the way the song depicted lost love. For certain, he knew not the meaning of compassion, or he would have returned her to Mama’s arms the preceding night.
Grasping Diablo’s mane and reins, she tried to ignore the thought of toppling over her stallion’s head at any unexpected drop along the trail.
How desperate Mama must be. But Carmita loved Mama, too. Her tia helped Marianne the night Mama labored with the baby and comforted her when she cried in the loss and wanted to die with him. Papa was gone that night, too. Certainly, God granted provision for one faithful woman who knew not the destiny of her only daughter.
I am always with My children.
Once again, God had spoken to her, or had she gone mad?
I am here with you.
Marianne startled. The whisper had draped a protective cocoon around her heart.
Lord, thank You for Your holy presence. Hope inched across her heart. A portion of Psalm 23 came to mind. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me. Marianne took a deep breath. With God, she could endure anything.
I have always been here for you.
How she treasured the soft whisper. Gentle as the spring rain and soft as a flower petal. Her eyes moistened, and she quickly blinked back tears. The Lord of the heavens now surrounded her with His love more completely than her mother’s arms.
Oh, God, I do love You, and I do ask Your forgiveness for all those times I have not been faithful, yes, even stubborn and rebellious. Calm Mama’s heart as You have calmed mine.
Marianne heard not another sound except the beating of her heart, the men conversing, and the rhythmic gait of the horses. No matter what the future held, she was not alone.
Chapter 5
Armando halted his gelding to view the valley of La Flo
r breaking forth in green and bright colors. He loved this time of year, when the cold of winter was forgotten in anticipation of new life. He sensed a strange peacefulness. This seldom happened in his tumultuous life, and he took note for those times when the pressures of his leadership left him restless and unsure of his decisions.
La Flor stretched out in small thatched roof huts. Beyond the village, sheep, cattle, donkeys, and a few horses grazed. Lush fields ripe with newly planted corn, beans, squash, tomatoes, and peppers insured the people of plenty now and provisions for next winter. He longed for the laughing children, crowing roosters, and barking dogs. He envisioned women grinding corn for tortillas, and pretty señoritas seeking reasons to stroll near the center of town. Old men recounted days of youth, while the young dreamed of heroic deeds. He inhaled the aroma of cooking pots filled with simmering chili peppers, and he drank in the delicate perfume drifting from the flowers growing around the huts.
Here, the water had a different taste, as though it held a magic potion for happiness—sweet, like droplets of honey. Yes, La Flor was Armando’s home. He had been born in the sleepy village, and he would most likely die defending it.
Armando reached over to untie Marianne’s bandanna. She recoiled at his touch and lifted her chin in defiance. After blinking several times, she peered out at the enchanting scene.
“La Flor.” A hint of recognition settled in her blue-gray eyes. But, when he drew closer, her stallion leaped in protest.
“Calm your steed.” He gestured to show exactly what he intended, and she obeyed.
The mere gentle words from her lips eased the stallion’s anger. Armando stood in awe of this young woman. He studied her delicate features and looked to find fault in her appearance. She was exquisite even with a smudge on her cheek and her tousled hair. The elegant pale green gown displayed patches of dirt, and the hem had frayed about the edges.
Frustrated with his straying thoughts, he jerked his gelding down the winding path to the valley. There he would show his allegiance to the people and decide what to do about Felipe’s rebellion and the fate of the señorita.
Soon the shouts of the villagers rang about them—excited, cheering voices beckoning the heroes to enter and make merry. As the band entered the town, Armando waved and feigned a broad smile. He should feel victorious, but instead he faced the truth. He had handed them more trouble.
Emilio rode up beside him. “They are happy to see us, my amigo.”
Armando nodded grimly. “They believe I wanted this kidnapping. Felipe has succeeded in manipulating me for now.”
All traces of joy vanished from the young man’s round face. “I agree that Felipe has done a bad thing. But Dios is with you. I can feel it. The gringo will leave our valley to us now that we have his daughter.”
Armando stared into his friend’s face and noted Emilio’s familiar seriousness. “I hope so, for if he refuses, I’m afraid I must kill her.”
“No father would willingly have his daughter murdered,” Emilio said. “When he returns to his hacienda, he’ll gladly find other grazing pastures for his cattle, far from us.”
“Of course.” If only he shared the same confidence as Emilio. “But we cannot keep her here. Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we must ride back to the campsite, for it is too dangerous to remain among our people. Señora Phillips could send spies to La Flor while awaiting her husband’s arrival.”
“Who would dare spy on us?” Emilio’s face reddened. “Surely not my brother Juan?”
Armando shook his head. “None would willingly, not Juan or the others working at the American’s hacienda. Understand this, my friend, the gringo could threaten them with their families’ lives, as we have done with his daughter…something I’m sure Felipe has not considered.”
Emilio set his jaw. “Si, a vicious circle.” After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his gaze to the cloudless sapphire heavens. “I pray we have Dios on our side.”
Armando chose not to expound on his disbelief in God. After all, the affairs of men were governed by flesh and blood, not an invisible spirit sought after by frightened men and fragile-minded women. Unfortunately, his mother, as much as he loved her, believed Dios watched over them all. She died not knowing he had renounced the faith of the padres.
The two men rode silently on each side of Marianne, while laughter and cheer rippled behind and before them.
“Where are you going to keep the señorita while we are here?” Emilio asked.
Raising a brow, Armando glanced at his friend, but quickly discarded his distrust. He could trust Emilio with his life. “She will stay with me,” he said a moment later. “And she’ll not escape.”
“Unless she gets to her devil stallion before we can stop her.” Emilio pointed back at Diablo.
Armando chuckled. “I have no intentions of letting Diablo carry her away. She will not be out of my sight.”
“Do you think your tia and tio will object to having her at their home?”
“Probably, but I must keep the señorita with me. No harm can come to her, unless I’m forced to do it myself.”
“You speak wisely. I have heard some of the men talk.”
“And?”
His friend sighed and glanced at Marianne. “She is beautiful.”
Armando’s thoughts had also been consumed with the beauty of the young woman and he wondered about the temptation of his men. Something he’d never do nor allow to be done.
“We are, above all, men of honor,” Armando said. “If her father does not value his daughter, then circumstances may change. Listen to my words. None of you will have the blood guilt on your hands.” It is not what I want. There has to be a better way.
Emilio observed the girl between them. “My brother thinks highly of her. The señorita and Señora Phillips are the only reasons Juan and Carmita have remained at the Phillips Hacienda and not joined us in La Flor.”
“Why?” Armando wondered why this information had not been passed on to him before now.
“Señor Phillips is not a good husband or father.” Emilio paused before continuing. “I have ignored that fact since the kidnapping. But both women have been good to our people, offering gifts of food and clothing in his absence.”
“I know of the things the Phillips women have done—good things, which cause me to regret Felipe’s impetuous actions.”
“The señora has been ill for some time, and she asked my brother and his wife to look after the señorita as a hija, daughter, even to bring her here rather than to have her under the care of her father.”
The news of Juan and Carmita caring for the señorita frustrated Armando. The more he learned about the situation at the Phillips Hacienda, the more he was determined to free the young woman. Armando had promised to keep the valley from Weston Phillips, but if the man did not care for his daughter, her death would mean nothing.
“When did you learn of this?”
“The last time my brother and I talked. I should have told you this last evening. I, too, wanted this to be our opportunity to save our valley.”
Armando stared into the dark eyes of his friend. “What is your allegiance?”
“To you and you alone,” Emilio replied without a trace of hesitation. “I told my brother I must follow you. You know what is best for our people.”
Armando breathed an inward sigh of relief. Above all, he needed his men’s loyalty—even death if necessary. “Gracias.” He glanced back at his captive. It made no difference if she were innocent of her father’s greed. The mere color of her skin and her name sealed her fate. Still, regret stabbed at his heart. Like himself, she suffered because of her padre.
For a moment, Marianne wished she didn’t understand Spanish. Ignorance of her dire situation could easily be interpreted as a blessing. The ways of men frightened her—Papa, Clay, Felipe, and Armando—except for Juan, dear Tio Juan. He endured Papa’s ill moods and incessant demands because of Mama and her. She loved him and Carmita. Sometimes she wished Me
xican blood flowed through her veins. Too many times she felt responsible for the difficult plight of the Mexicans because of the color of her skin.
As the voices from the people rose and fell, dread swept over her. She recalled Armando’s words that he planned to keep her with him, and he obviously lived with his relatives. Marianne desperately wanted her captor to have a wife and children. With a family, he had more to lose by killing her. Just when she felt a glimpse of hope, she plunged deeper into the nightmare. She sighed and held her head high.
They rode to the center of the village. Armando nodded to passers-by, but he didn’t join in the gaiety. He reined in his horse in front of a small hut and dismounted. An elderly woman stood on her toes to embrace him.
“La Flor’s héroe has returned.” The woman touched his cheek. “I prayed for your safe return.”
“The most beautiful señora in all of the valley.” Armando lifted her off her feet.
“Nonsense.” She appeared to scold, but Marianne saw the smile playing on her lips.
Armando whispered something in the woman’s ear. She scowled and wagged her finger at him.
“No. Take your captive somewhere else.” Her wrinkled mouth pierced to a bird-like beak. “With the horses, perhaps?”
Armando laughed. “No, Tia Rosa. I have to keep her with me. It’s only until mañana, then we move back into seclusion.”
“That soon?” All traces of agitation slipped from her leathered face. “Your Tio Manuel and I looked forward to your coming home.”
He took her veined hand into his. “Just a few more days. This time next week, we’ll be rejoicing.”
“I hope so. Violence frightens me. I’m an old woman, and I want my husband, my home, my handsome nephew, and no worries about Señor Phillips taking our valley.”
“Patience,” he said. “I will not let my people lose their homes or their lives.”
Marianne studied the delicate carvings of Diablo’s saddle as she listened to the conversation. The orange and yellow paint glistened in the sun. Oddly enough, she felt a strange kinship to these people. They wanted to keep their homes for their families; she wanted a family to make a home. As much as she hated Armando, she sympathized at least with his cause. Not enough to die for it, but enough to understand. The compassion she’d felt for the people of La Flor had not changed. Her confusion must come from exhaustion. How could she respect Armando and despise him in the same breath?