by DiAnn Mills
Armando sought to change the conversation and chose to stand and stretch. His body ached, even if his mind refused to rest. Too many nights robbed of sleep had begun to take his strength. In the starless night, he spotted a man carrying a torch up to the ridge. “Your relief is here. We can walk back together and get some rest before mañana.”
“And you, mi amigo. Will you sleep this night, or will you roam the hills with the problems before us?”
Armando chuckled. “I am glad you are not my enemy, for you know me too well.”
Chapter 12
Mounted on Diablo, Marianne galloped across the plains of her father’s vast estate. Familiar landmarks and the joy of returning home should have elated her, but instead she grappled with the plight of the people in La Flor and her strange reaction to their leader.
Marianne had seen this man become transparent with his feelings. She’d sensed his pain for the circumstances plaguing his people, and she’d witnessed his devotion to those destined to lose their homes unless her father abandoned his selfish desires.
Oh, Lord, I feel so wretched. I am grateful for deliverance, but shall I never see Armando or the people of La Flor again?
Digging her heels into Diablo’s flanks, Marianne fretted that her father might send soldiers to crush the rebels of La Flor. She must arrive before he took such action. Even so, she knew her return would not quell his desire to have the fertile valley. Papa would still wage his own war against Armando, just as he’d done in the past.
Too many burdens fought for priority in her mind. Marianne recognized the need to see her mother and have her comforting arms soothe the perils of the past few days. More importantly, Marianne longed to tell her about her own renewed faith in the midst of the turmoil, the times that God whispered to her of His love and His presence. She felt certain her mother had prayed for her liberation, and so had Juan and Carmita. They must be properly thanked. But she dared not disclose all the happenings to Mama without admitting her understanding of Spanish and her sympathies for her abductors. So much must be kept hidden, even from Juan and Carmita. She could not involve any of her precious family. Most of all, no one could ever learn of her reaction to Papa’s enemy.
The thought of spending the rest of her life with Don Lorenzo, a man she did not love, now seemed more distasteful than ever before. Marianne swiped at a tear trickling over her cheek. But she had given Mama her word.
Hope gave rise to another possibility. Perhaps with the trauma of her kidnapping, all plans for the wedding might be postponed. But extending the date didn’t stop the inevitable.
In the far distance, the faint outlines of the casa and barns came into view. A mixture of apprehension and dread took form: the unpredictable nature of her father. Until now, she hadn’t wanted to consider that he might prefer her gone from his life…except that he would lose a share in the elderly Don Lorenzo’s estate.
Evening had settled about her by the time she rode alongside the stable. She spied Thomas, Juan and Carmita’s eldest son. He shouted a greeting, then quickly disappeared inside the stable. Her heart swelled that her first welcome came from her adopted family.
Moments later, Juan pushed open the stable door. “Señorita Marianne.” His voice rose as he limped toward her.
She wished she could see his face in the twilight, but the sound of his voice was enough to fill her with joy. “Tio Juan.” Marianne jumped from Diablo and ran into his outstretched arms.
“You’re not hurt?” he asked in English, his words filled with emotion.
“I’m fine. Armando let me go,” she said as he released his embrace. “I feared I would never see you and Carmita again.”
“We prayed for you.” Juan swiped at his cheeks.
“I know you did.” She lowered her voice. “And I know you came to La Flor to plead for me.”
“Armando told you?” Bewilderment soared from his words. “I may have been wrong about him.” He cocked his head. “You spoke Spanish to your captor?”
Marianne held her breath. “Not until I knew for certain he planned to release me. I told him this afternoon.”
“Ah, my sweet child. He could have hurt you with that knowledge.”
“I felt at least one Phillips should be straightforward with him,” she said. “Are you angry?”
In the shadows, she could see his smile. “How could I be angry? You are home. Our prayers are answered.”
Marianne glanced at the house. “Is mi madre all right?”
Juan grasped her hands, and she felt the strength of his spirit sustaining her. “The señora is very sad. She needs to see you at once. Go to her now, and I will take care of Diablo.”
Marianne’s heart quickened. “Yes, I have missed her. Tell Carmita and the others gracias for their prayers. Tomorrow I will come and thank them properly.”
She turned around and peered at the impressive adobe house in the ever-increasing darkness. Her home should have represented security and familiarity, instead of the mixed emotions that rippled through her. Most likely nothing had changed with Papa, but how wonderful to think he might have worried about her.
She made her way up the tiled entryway, brushing past the thick-leafed palms and envisioning spring’s fragrant display of colorful flowers. She pushed open the door. The thought of announcing her arrival crossed her mind, but instead she walked through the candlelit reception room and down the hallway to her mother’s bedroom. The sights and smells were the same, but something different seized her. Lifting her chin, she realized she’d been the one to change—in her relationship with Jesus and in the awakening of the world around her. No longer could she consider herself a girl. Her experience had made her a woman.
Out of respect, she paused in the doorway of her mother’s room and did not rush inside. The sight of Mama’s beloved face moved her to a fresh onslaught of tears. She looked so frail beneath the blanket covering her weakened body, her pale face matching the bed linens.
Her mother’s eyelids fluttered, and she reached out to Marianne. “Am I dreaming? Are you standing before me?”
“Mama.” Marianne hurried to her and slipped into her mother’s outstretched arms. “I’m home. I’ve been set free unharmed.”
Her mother stroked Marianne’s head. The soft scent of rose surrounded her and the bed clothes. Marianne had forgotten the solace the fragrance invoked upon her.
“I feared you were gone from me forever,” her mother whispered. “I could not bear to spend another day without you. What caused that wretched man to let you go?”
“I’m not sure.” Guilt riddled Marianne for the half truth. “Maybe he feared what Papa would do.” She raised her head to gaze into her mother’s face. “I worried so, with no one to care for you.”
Her mother wept. “Me? But you were the one in the clutches of an insane rebel. How like you to concern yourself with me. God has answered my prayers.”
Marianne sobered and brushed back an errant lock of light brown hair from her mother’s forehead. “Mine, too, Mama. He gave me strength when I wanted to give up. He became my hope and strength. He sent me home to you.”
Her mother pulled Marianne close to her bosom. “My beautiful child. He’s always been with you.”
“It took the fear of losing my life to realize His everlasting love. And Jesus kept me safe as though I dwelled in the palm of His hand.” Biting her lip to cease another flow of tears, Marianne attempted to sound light. “But I’m not beautiful, Mama. I desperately need a bath.”
Her mother laughed and ran her fingers through Marianne’s tangled tresses.
“What goes on here?”
Marianne instantly turned to view her father towering in the doorway. “Marianne,” he said, and she thought she saw a flicker of tenderness in his blue-gray eyes. With a slight prodding, she would have gladly flown into his arms. A moment later, his glare flashed with cold regard. “Garcia released you?”
She stood up from Mama’s bed to offer him her respect. Her legs shook f
rom the old familiar fear of him. “Yes, Papa, he let me go.”
“What changed his mind? Did he fear I would track him down like the animal he is?”
“I don’t know.” Marianne stiffened. She desired to defend Armando and his people. What he had allowed in her abduction was a terrible wrong, nothing changed that. But she understood his reasons. Her mother slipped her clammy hand into Marianne’s.
“Your clothes, what happened to the gown you were wearing the night you were taken?” her mother asked, no doubt attempting to soften her father’s questioning.
Marianne glanced back at her but faced her father before she replied. “Burned.”
“Burned?” His face reddened. “They set fire to your dress?”
She shook her head. “No, Papa. A fire broke out in the village, and I was trapped inside a hut.”
Her mother gasped, and Marianne squeezed her hand to reassure her. “I was pulled from the flames, but the house and my clothing were destroyed. The women gave me these to wear.”
“So La Flor had a little fire. The whole place should have been burned to the ground with all of those blasted Mexicans in it.”
Marianne’s cheeks grew hot.
“But our daughter is home safe.” Mama lifted her head from the pillow. “We thought our daughter was gone from this world. Let us rejoice in her deliverance.”
Oppressive silence followed.
“The matter is not finished. Now that you are here, I will make a trip to the governor and see about ridding La Flor of all those thieving, treacherous Mexicans.”
Marianne caught her breath at the thought of tragedy befalling the villagers. “Papa, it’s not necessary. I’m home safe.”
She saw anger storm across his features. “Are you defending those animals? Makes me wonder what you did to have Garcia return you.”
“Weston!” Never had Marianne seen her mother in this temperament. “How could you suggest such a detestable thing from our daughter?”
Marianne sensed the color draining from her own face, first from shock then indignation. “Papa,” she said through a ragged breath. Marianne sank onto her mother’s bed, dazed by his implications. “I could never…No, Papa, please don’t think I’d ever do such a thing. I simply meant there are innocent women and children in the village.”
“Slaughter them all.” He rubbed his chest, a mannerism she’d seen of late when he was angry. “I meant to have their valley before Garcia ordered his men to break into my home, and I still intend to have it. And him dead along with it.”
“Remember our guest,” her mother said.
Marianne gazed questioningly at her mother.
“Don Lorenzo is here.” Mama glared at Papa. “He was kind enough to ride back with your father when they received word of your kidnapping.”
Papa shook his fist at Marianne. “And you’d better not have done anything to jeopardize your marriage to the don.”
Marianne tried to swallow the rising fury coursing through her body. She clenched her fists and dug her fingernails into her palms. “Of course not, Papa. I know how important your land is to you, and acquiring more of it is your greatest love.”
He lifted his hand, and for a moment she feared he would strike her. Never had she openly defied him with such intensity.
“Weston, Marianne is exhausted from this ordeal,” her mother said.
His eyes narrowed before he turned from the room. His footsteps thundered down the hall, shaking the candle by Mama’s bedside.
All he cares about is himself. Land and power. No matter what the cost. I’m afraid he’ll soon have his wish.
“Please calm yourself.” Mama seemed to read her thoughts. “He doesn’t mean what he says.”
Marianne could not bring herself to look into her mother’s face. “Yes, he does. You know it’s true.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Remorse washed over her fury. “I’m sorry, Mama. God forgive me for what I’m thinking about Papa.”
“God understands our trials and pain.”
“I know, but it hurts to realize Papa does not love you or me. Some days I think I would do anything to gain his approval, and other days I don’t care any longer.”
“Oh, but he loves you.” Her mother lay back onto the pillow. “Your father simply doesn’t know how to express his feelings.” In the candlelight, Mama’s blue eyes were warm and gentle.
How can she defend Papa? How can she love him? “He surely has no problem in demonstrating his disapproval or anger.” She stared at her mother’s hand still encircling hers.
“Those are the easy emotions,” her mother said. “Admitting love means giving of yourself with no assurance of receiving anything in return.”
“But that is the way Jesus instructed us,” Marianne said. “I believe my death would have grieved him only because he could not add more land from the don.”
“You must love your papa unconditionally no matter what happens. This is the true test of love for our Lord.”
Marianne leaned into the shelter of her mother’s embrace. “I will pray for Papa and try to be more obedient.”
“Good,” her mother said. “You are much like him. It frustrates your papa to see an image of himself in you.”
“Me?” She shuddered.
“Where do you think you get your independent mind? Or your love for horses? When I see you two battle wits, I see the same fire in your blue-gray eyes and the same stubborn stance. Yes, you are your father’s daughter. I firmly believe it will be you who brings him to the Lord, not me.”
“I think not, Mama. Perhaps you merely want it to be so, but I’ll pray for him no matter how difficult it may be.”
Her mother planted a kiss on her cheek. “We shall see. Right now, you need to recover from the turmoil over the past three days. It needs to be forgotten. Go on to bed now and bathe in the morning.”
Marianne wearily agreed. Much had occurred, and her mind spun with all the events. Armando. The people of La Flor. Don Lorenzo. Mama’s unconditional love for Papa. And her new attempts to understand Papa. Tomorrow things had to be better. She could sort through it all then with better understanding.
Chapter 13
After tossing all night like a man plagued with fever, Armando rose and packed what few items he would need for the journey to the San José Mission. Seven years had passed since he’d walked along those stone walls. The Spanish referred to its structure as impregnable, beautiful, and a model for other missions. In days gone by, when hostile Indians successfully raided the horses and cattle, none were able to scale the walls to get inside. The inhabitants fired guns through the holes in the thick, stone confines to defend their family and homes.
The people worked hard tending the herds of livestock and utilizing the fertile soil to grow fruits and vegetables through the help of the extensive aqueduct systems. Some of the mestizos were craftsmen—weavers of cloth, carpenters, blacksmiths, stonecutters, and other unique occupations.
And the mission itself, the place of worship and learning…. Sometimes he thought he could still hear the peal of the three-bell tower and the deep resonant voice of the padre reciting Mass in Latin or offering prayers to the almighty Dios. Back then, Armando had memorized the missal, the book containing all the rites necessary for Mass. He even knew the procedures for how to set up a mission, for once this had been his deep desire. Under the tutelage of Padre José Mariano de Cardenas and Padre Bernardino Vallyo, Armando grew to love the church, only to abandon it after his mother’s death and before taking his vows. With a heavy heart, he remembered the pride in his mother’s eyes when she spoke of her son who studied to be a padre.
Armando drew a restless breath. He needed to sleep. The next few days would be difficult. In fact, he’d rather face Phillips and his foreman Clay Wharton alone without a weapon than the padres at San José.
Hours later, as the sun broke through the horizon in slivers of orange and purple, Emilio, Pepe, and Armando rode from the valley. The three were armed
with guns and daggers made in La Flor, in case they ran into marauding Indians or gringos. The vaqueros working for Phillips had family members living in La Flor, and Armando doubted they would attack the valley or the three men.
Felipe had wanted to come with them this morning, but Armando had put him in charge of the rebuilding. Felipe looked forward to avenging his family’s honor since Wharton had brutally abused his sister. Another good reason for Felipe to stay behind.
Frustrated, Armando wished he had given more thought to their arrival. They’d reach the mission near sundown tomorrow—after Saturday night Mass. Sundays were strictly observed as a day of worship, which meant he would not have an opportunity to speak with Padre Vallyo until Monday. A nudging in his spirit warned him that Phillips may have already gained an audience with the governor.
“Tell me what troubles you,” Pepe asked, when the sun was suspended directly over them.
Armando considered the man’s boyish features. If not for the tiny lines around his eyes, Pepe could pass for a much younger man. “I’m afraid Señor Phillips might have already talked to the presidio at San Antonio de Bejar and alerted the padres to us. We could be walking into a trap.”
Pepe pressed his lips together. “We’ll have to be careful, but I think it’s too soon for us to worry ourselves about the solidats.”
“I hope your thoughts do not come from being too trusting,” Armando said. “The gringo is a clever man. What we’ve done will not sit lightly. He will want us punished, more so me than you.”
“I think Pepe and I should approach the padre while you remain outside the mission, until we see how we are received,” Emilio said.
“I think not,” Armando said. “Your lives will not be risked for this endeavor. I am the man Phillips wants, not you.”
Pepe chuckled. “Perhaps we should tie up this hombre until we return.”
“Excellent idea,” Emilio said. “But seriously, Armando, no one knows us. We’ll be cautious in our dealings.”