by DiAnn Mills
Perhaps my mind has grown ill with this turmoil. Papa could right this ugliness, but would he?
Chapter 6
Manuel and Rosa Garcia’s thatched hut reminded Marianne of the familiar surroundings at Juan and Carmita’s home. But unlike the lively dwelling at the hacienda, which resounded in love and laughter and the antics of six children, these walls imprisoned Marianne. No warmth radiated from the meager furnishings, even though within this room sat the same simple pottery, and the smells of cooking wafted through the air. In the corner were stacked red, blue, yellow, and orange blankets, and on a small table sat a crucifix—common in the homes of those practicing Catholicism.
Marianne’s gaze rested on the carving of Jesus on the cross, a reminder of the many times Mama had told her how He had died for her sins. Juan repeated the same story to his children with the same passionate love for the Lord. The crucifix caused her to ache for home and those she loved. Granted, these people’s ways of worship were different, but they prayed to the same God and knew His Son. The quandary of doctrine and the right way to worship, whether Catholic or Protestant, had entered Marianne’s thoughts on more than one occasion. How did God decide whose prayers to answer?
God had spoken to her heart two separate times since the kidnapping and assured her of His presence and His peace. Surely He did care for all of His children.
Marianne twisted against the leather knots binding her hands. Her shoulders ached, but not her wrists. When Rosa complained about being alone with Señor Phillips’s daughter while Armando and Manuel talked with the men of the village, Armando had pushed Marianne into a chair and tied her to the wooden back. Now her shoulders ached from the awkward position, but he had not bound her too tightly. Odd, how some concessions became small miracles.
Hunger had given her a headache. Typically, people ate in the hottest part of the afternoon, and today would be no exception. She smelled vegetables and chicken stewing together, and her stomach growled. Armando had given her a cool cup of water before he and Manuel had left, but the drink did not satisfy the empty space inside her—or the fear.
Rosa waved a wooden spoon in front of Marianne’s face. “Are you hungry, señorita? I may let you eat after we are finished.” The old woman tilted her silver head and studied her. “You’re young, perhaps too young to be a part of such evil.”
Marianne wanted to talk to Rosa, tell her she hoped the villagers were able to remain in their valley, but she dared not. What good would it do to sympathize with the peasants of La Flor if her knowledge of their language got her killed? With a heavy sigh, Marianne gazed into the deep brown pools of Rosa Garcia’s eyes, a reflection of Armando.
The old woman wobbled closer to her and bent down to peer into Marianne’s face. “You are frightened. I, too, señorita. We women suffer much for the affairs of our men.” With those words, she returned to her stew, muttering complaints against the Spanish rule, Weston Phillips, and the hard peasant life.
Observing Rosa helped to occupy Marianne’s weary, anxious mind, and the worries surrounding the next minute, hour, or day temporarily subsided. Rosa reminded Marianne of a mother hen, fussing over this and that. Her body toddled back and forth when she walked as though her legs might give way. If Marianne were not a captive, the entire scene would have been amusing.
When Armando and Manuel finally returned, they were in high spirits. They talked of music and singing that evening and took turns pulling Rosa into their arms for an imaginary dance.
Celebrating a victory that will never be theirs. I wish they did hold some power over Papa. Then I might be able to dwell on freedom from this. I’m so grateful that Mama is not in my place.
While they ate, Armando fixed his gaze directly at Marianne, but he refrained from any comments.
“She’s hungry,” Rosa said. “Untie her so she can have something to eat.”
Armando pressed his lips together, visibly annoyed at his tia’s suggestion. He stood and untied the leather straps binding her. “Remember where you are.” How strange his words were, as if he knew she understood what he was saying.
“Does she speak our language?” Manuel asked. His lean, narrow face held fewer lines than Rosa’s, but his shoulders stooped as though he’d given up holding onto his youth.
“No, Tio. She has expressed her anger more than once and has always spoken in English.” He dragged the chair to the table and motioned for her to sit.
Once seated, she watched Rosa fill a warm tortilla with the chicken and vegetables. She laid it in a chipped bowl and placed it before Marianne.
“Gracias,” Marianne said.
“Well, at least the señorita knows her manners,” Rosa said. Since the men had returned, her animosity toward Marianne had resurfaced.
Marianne kept her focus on the bowl before her. The food tasted wonderful with the blend of spices she’d grown to love. She chewed slowly, savoring every bite. As it disappeared, she noticed the chip in the pottery had formed a jagged, cracked line all the way to the other side.
Broken, but still useable. She felt the same way.
Armando set a cup of water before her, and it too refreshed her.
“Gracias.”
Armando chuckled. “This is the second kind word I’ve heard from her.”
Manuel joined in the mirth. “What did you expect as her captor?” He picked up a knife and studied it closely. “Given the chance, she might try to use this on you. Be careful that she doesn’t use kindness as a means to escape.”
Marianne felt their eyes upon her, and her cheeks warmed. They viewed her with such curiosity. Perhaps in better circumstances, they might have been friends.
With the meal complete, Armando wasted no time in tying Marianne to the chair once again. Her shoulder muscles hurt the moment he wrapped the bindings around her wrists, pulling the rope tighter than before. Fighting the tears threatening to betray her, she fixed her gaze on the earthen floor.
But Armando must have sensed the suppressed emotions, for he cupped her chin and met her gaze. “Such a pretty señorita should not be so unhappy.” He hesitated and loosened her wrists, as he’d done the previous evening.
Marianne didn’t want his pity, and she battled the urge to spit into his face. Let him charm the señoritas with his dashing looks, but to her he resembled Satan.
“I see the anger in your eyes, stormy with flashes of lightning. Relampago, much like your father…Such unfairness for the innocent.” His voice softened. “I regret the unpleasantness between us. You are a precious gem, and I hope for your sake Señor Phillips yields to our demands.” Armando breathed deeply. “It is good you do not comprehend my words.”
A few hours later, when the sun had dipped behind the hills, Rosa, Manuel, and Armando made ready for the village celebration.
Armando had stepped behind a partitioned corner of the hut and changed into a clean white shirt and black calzoneras—fitted trousers that were wide-legged at the bottom when left unbuttoned. He stepped from the partition and snatched up a bright red sash and tied it about his slender waist before donning a short, black jacket, trimmed in blue and red. The jacket’s delicate needlework across the back and silver studding down the front distinguished him as a vaquero. Armando was handsome, yet Marianne believed his heart to be as black as a crow’s feathers. After all, he allowed Felipe to dictate her demise. The great Armando. Huh! The great coward. He proclaimed himself a leader, but he didn’t have the courage to set her free when he believed her kidnapping was wrong.
“And what of her?” Manuel nodded his white head toward Marianne. “Shall we leave the cautivo here?”
“She shall go with us and stay within my eyesight.”
“And how will you dance?” A bit of luster sparkled in Manuel’s brown eyes.
Rosa offered a near toothless smile. “The señoritas will be disappointed. So many are vying for your attention.”
Armando placed a quick kiss upon his tia’s cheek and picked up a black sombrero, trimmed
in bright purple braid. “Next week I will join the merriment. Tonight is for me to relax and enjoy.” He pointed to Marianne. “And I already have a pretty señorita to keep me company.”
You could untie these wretched ropes.
A wayward lock of hair fell onto her forehead, and Marianne shook her head to drive it away. Utterly miserable, she wished for a basin of water to wash her face and a brush to smooth her tangled mass of hair. Catching sight of her soiled dress, she surmised a clean frock was also in order.
Most of all, she desired to flee from this place and its stench of impending death. She feared the morrow and the next, while these people anticipated music and merrymaking.
Oh, God, my strength is waning, and I want to break down and cry until there are no more tears. If I have placed all of my faith and trust in You, then why am I tormented and afraid?
Immediately she regretted her impetuous words. Please forgive me, Father. I know You are here.
Armando untied her to walk with him to the center of the village. His aunt and uncle had gone on ahead, leaving them alone in the twilight. Marianne wished the walk took them past the corral and Diablo, but the lively sounds came from the opposite direction. The throng of high-spirited people and singing guitars seemed to beckon Armando, for he urged her to walk briskly.
“This is in my honor and to celebrate your captivity.” She detected a note of melancholy. “Ah, I wish another led this poor band of farmers instead of me. The responsibility and the weight of my people’s expectations burden my waking and sleeping hours.” He turned to her in the shadows, and a glimmer of a smile tugged at his lips. “When you are gone, to whom will I pour out my heart? I will miss your quiet, yet comforting spirit.”
Marianne kept her gaze straight ahead. She dug her fingers into her palms to keep from screaming at him. She was not his amiga, friend. He held the power to set her free, and her destiny lay in his hands. How could he speak as though he had no choice?
“My people,” he said, “mean more to me than my life, but shedding innocent blood is not the answer—not their blood or yours.”
Her heart pounded against her chest. A few times before he’d relayed regret, but now she heard remorse. She already knew he wasn’t assured of the wisdom in her kidnapping. Now he’d confirmed that he thought it foolish…even a mistake, perhaps. Armando Garcia did not take his position lightly. His people and their welfare were his lifeblood. This revelation startled her, and Marianne wondered if she must reconsider her evaluation of him. She feared what it might mean to be held hostage by a man that she might learn to respect.
A vivacious young woman lifted her bright green skirts and raced toward Armando. Her large, brown eyes, veiled with long, black lashes, sparkled at the sight of him. “Armando, would you dance with me?” Her full lips pursed into a smile. “Por favor, please. I have turned down the others while waiting for you.”
Armando shook his head. “No, Isabella. I have come only to watch the festivities tonight. My joy is to see my people happy.”
Isabella tilted her head and pouted prettily. “Such sacrifice, except I am one of your people, too. Por favor, a single dance to begin the celebration.”
He gathered her slender hand into his. “If I choose to dance this evening, I will look for you.” He winked at her. “Perhaps you will be in the arms of another vaquero by then.”
“Never. I shall wait for you.” She glanced at Marianne. Her eyes changed from glimmering jewels to daggers. “Tell me, is this Señor Phillips’s daughter?”
“Si. She is our gold.” Armando’s stare fixed on the young Mexican woman’s flushed face.
“When this is all over and we have no need to worry about La Flor, will you find time for me?” Isabella asked.
“We shall see. No one knows what tomorrow will bring.” He brought her hands to his lips. “Isabella, you could dance for me. No other señorita can make her body whirl to a guitar like you.”
Isabella laughed. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I will dance with eyes only for our héroe, Armando.”
Swinging away from him, she rushed to the man strumming a guitar. Armando hooked his arm into Marianne’s and pulled her to a spot away from the circle of others.
“I won’t tie your hands.” He chuckled. “Unless you try to fight me.”
Pretending indifference to his warnings, the only way she knew how to exhibit her rebellion, Marianne studied the fire. The clamor of music and laughter from the others prompted her attention to Isabella, who circled the fire and twirled her skirts in perfect rhythm to the guitar. As she had promised, her gaze captured Armando’s, leaving no mistake as to her thoughts.
The strum of the strings quickened, and the dancer hastened her pace. Faster, even faster. Her body moved gracefully, like the lithe vine of a young tree. Raven hair whipped across her face and cast a seductive aura above the cheering crowd. The excitement that erupted moments before suddenly hushed to a breathless lull. Spellbound, the onlookers fell under the hypnotic trance until Isabella collapsed in front of Armando at the last note.
Silence continued over the crowd as though the passion in every man must quiet. Ceremoniously, Armando rose to his feet and applauded. He stepped to take Isabella by the hands and helped the breathless young woman to her feet. Others joined in the clapping, severing the dance’s bewitchment.
“Well done,” Armando said. “Who shall take the beautiful Isabella for a cool drink?” Glancing about, he pointed to his men gathered near the guitar player. “Emilio, Isabella needs a handsome man to tend to her.”
Emilio emerged wearing a wide grin. He offered the young woman his arm and led her through the crowd.
Armando moved closer to the fire. He appeared to struggle with the right words, as though this was not the time or place to challenge Felipe. “While I have your attention, I want to say how proud I am of my men’s loyalty.” The crowd roared with enthusiasm. When they quieted, he continued. He looked at his men grouped together, all but Emilio. “Each time Señor Phillips and his foreman order us from our valley, you stand behind me and act bravely. No general could ask for more. I want to thank you. The danger is not over yet, but soon we will rejoice that La Flor is still our valley. Show these valiente men the praise they deserve.” When the cheers subsided, Armando waved to them all.
“El Dios bless Armando,” someone in the crowd said. Another repeated the cry. Soon shouts rang over the village, resounding like mission bells. “El Dios bendice a Armando.” God bless Armando.
Marianne shivered. Please Lord, must I die for this cause?
Chapter 7
Armando nodded at the circle of faces lit by the fire. He forced a smile. Praise. Shouts of jubilation. He detested this part of leadership. Chants about his heroism rang across the night air and praises for the blessings from God echoed around him. Some even declared him a saint. Too many times they entwined his name with deity.
How wrong of his dear friends, especially if they knew how he defied Dios.
Do you not see? I covet the end of tyranny and injustice—not fame or glory. I am only one man seeking to help my people keep their homes. I offer you little but a strong will, and the education I received from the padres. And what if I fail? What will your chants be then?
If he were to die in the midst of this battle for La Flor, who would lead them? Emilio shared in Armando’s vision for his people, but Armando feared his friend’s devotion to Dios weakened his determination. And Felipe. He cared only for himself.
There had to be a way to return the señorita and still keep La Flor.
The visit earlier this afternoon from Juan Torres caused Armando even more turmoil. He remembered every word and the agonizing grief on Juan’s face as he pled for the señorita.
“I have come to talk to you about Señorita Phillips,” Juan had stated, interrupting Armando’s instructions to his men about leaving at daybreak.
Armando glanced up, surprised to see the head stableman of his enemy’
s hacienda. It was too soon to receive word from Phillips. “I have nothing to discuss. You know our purpose.”
“Can we talk in privacy?” Juan asked, his tone respectful yet forceful.
“I’m busy.” Armando sighed. “I have more important things to do.”
Emilio stood beside his brother. “Por favor, for the sake of our friendship, listen to what my brother has to say.”
Armando felt the scrutiny of his men. They respected Emilio and often looked to him for guidance. Armando studied Juan’s face and saw the telltale signs of worry etched around his eyes. Although the man had refused to spy on Señor Phillips, Armando knew him to be as stalwart as Emilio.
Kicking his boot into the dirt, Armando deliberated a moment more. “Let’s take a walk, and I’ll listen.”
Together the two men headed away from the ears of the villagers. Juan kept pace with Armando, not allowing his crippled leg to slow them down. At first they spoke of an early spring, mustang herds beyond their valley, and the increasing amount of sheep and cattle around them.
“My friend, I am ready to hear what you have to say,” Armando said. “I apologize for my rudeness earlier.”
Juan nodded, and they ambled toward the winding path leading to the hills away from the valley. Both men wiped perspiration from their faces in the heat of the afternoon.
“Your prisonera is like a daughter to me.” Confidence laced Juan’s words. “For me to ignore what is happening is to desert one of my children. We both know Señor Phillips may not be found in time to bring word to you.”