by Mimi Milan
“Arroyo. Araceli Arroyo.”
She reached out, intending the handshake to be nothing more than a brief courtesy. However, warmth radiated up her arm the moment he touched her, making her breath catch. His eyes widened at her response and she quickly pulled back, drawing her arm close to her body as if she’d been burned. A fleeting glimpse in her peripheral vision drew her attention to Mr. Winslet, who looked like the cat that got the last bit of milk. She wanted to inquire as to what was so humorous but knew better than to sass Mr. Winslet. Not only was he the town founder and her father’s best customer, but he really was a dear old man. In fact, he even gifted her with a new set of paints when they first arrived in town and he learned she enjoyed painting. So, she only gave him a gracious smile.
“Always nice to see the younger folks getting along,” he said with a nod. “Makes me glad to think I’ll be leaving behind a nice legacy one day—a town full of blessings. On that note, we best be getting along. I still need to make a stop at one of the mines today—hopefully with a few new beams I am indeed in need of. I’m praying your father can spare a few to avoid any nasty accidents.”
“Mr. Winslet, you know my father would never turn you away. I’m sure he can accommodate your needs.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said and led the party out to the wagon. He briefly addressed Miguel. “Mr. St. James, my back ain’t what it used to be. Why don’t you help the lady on up?”
“I can help myself, thank you very much.”
Araceli made a show of grabbing up her skirts and hiking them up high enough to show her calves. She didn’t care, though. She would show this soldier just how little she—or her father—were in need of help. She scrambled up into the seat only to realize that she probably should have sat in the back so Mr. Winslet could keep his company. She was about to offer that she climb back down when Miguel boarded beside her.
“Hope you don’t mind. Mr. Winslet suggested I do the driving so I can get a better lay of the land.”
She glanced back at the elderly gent already comfortable in the buckboard. What could she possibly say?
“Suit yourself,” she mumbled.
Miguel snapped the reigns against the horses and rode according to Araceli’s sparse directions, which alternated between pointing and her busy stares at everything and anything she could set her sights on. The caw of a bird flying above, the sound of the wind whipping through trees, the sway of the grass alongside the path…
“You seem a bit preoccupied. Anything wrong?”
Aside from keeping company with the enemy?
“No,” she said, deciding to keep a civil tongue in her head. She might not have cared much for the man, but she knew better than to be ugly towards anyone who never personally caused her harm—especially if that individual was a friend of Atherton Winslet. “I’m sketching my next painting.”
“Sketching? How so? You haven’t got any paper or anything.”
Araceli smirked a little. “Goes to show what you know about an artist’s mind, Mr. Saint James. The work begins before the brush even touches the canvas.”
“Interesting,” he said. “And, please, call me Michael. Everyone else does.”
She only gave him a curt nod and resumed her studies. He cleared his throat.
“So, um, how do you do it exactly?”
“How do I do what?”
“The sketching thing you mentioned. How is it that the work begins before using the brush?”
“Mostly, it’s a matter of looking at the lines and committing them to memory. I study the way a thing is and then reimagine it when it’s time to capture the image on paper or canvas.” She looked around for a moment and then pointed. “See that cloud over there?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
“How would you describe it?”
Miguel shrugged. “I don’t know. Kind of fluffy and white, I guess.”
“Except it’s not just ‘fluffy and white.’ Is it?”
He squinted at the cloud for a moment and then returned his focus to the road. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“What would you say makes it different than, say, that cloud over there?” She pointed to yet another and awaited his assessment.
He shrugged. “It’s kind of wispy at the end and trails off into another cloud following right beside it. The color is a tad different, too.”
“Not bad. Maybe you’d make a good artist.”
He smiled. “Never really thought about clouds like that before. Maybe you can teach me how to see the world differently.”
For some inexplicable reason, the suggestion of them spending time together made her heart skip a beat. However, the use of the word differently reminded her of exactly how much disparity there was between them. She was the “suffering” artist—the one who had lost everything. His kind were the ones who took it all away from her. She refused to say as much, though. Instead, pointing in front of them.
“There, up ahead. That’s where the team is working today.”
Miguel turned down a path that had been carved out, leading into the woods. A short drive in revealed a team of six men chopping and sawing away at several trees.
“Papá!” Araceli called out. Her father waved when he saw them. Slinging the axe he worked over his shoulder, he said something incoherent to his group of men and pulled out a handkerchief. He dabbed at his forehead and neck as he made his way to where Araceli and their guests awaited.
“Hija, what brings you out this way?”
“Señor Winslet is in need of some beams for his mine and was hopeful you would provide them.”
“Of course, Atherton.” He reached out a hand and the men briefly shook. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Thank you kindly, Juan. Perhaps we can talk privately for a moment—about the arrangements for delivery as well as a couple of other things.”
“Sure. Let’s step over here.”
“Papá—”
“I’ll just need to borrow your father for a minute, dear.” The elderly gent gave Araceli a kind smile. “Then I’ll be on my way right quick, because I still need to get up to that mine. Make sure I’m taking care of my men.”
“I’ll only be a minute, Chel. Then you can speak to me about whatever you wish.”
Araceli silently fumed, but knew it was no good to act contrary. Her father took his business very seriously, and rightly so. While he had a rather successful operation running, he had to work hard to maintain it. She quietly watched the two men walk off some ways, actively engaged in a private conversation.
“Chel, is it?”
Startled, she jumped when she heard the sound of the shortened name. There he stood—the soldier—smiling down at her. The grin made her stomach flop in a way she didn’t appreciate at all. Why was he able to make her physically react in such ways? It was quite infuriating!
“That is a familiar name used only by mi familia and friends.”
His smile grew even wider. “Well, I’m kind of new to town. So, I’m in need of some friends.”
She stared at him for a heartbeat and then looked away, concentrating on where her father and Atherton Winslet stood talking, silently willing for them to return. He waited for her to respond, the silence between them growing thicker. He finally pressed on.
“My apologies if I’m stepping out of line here, Miss Arroyo, but I have to ask since you’ve seemed out of sorts ever since we met. To be truthful, since the first time I saw you at the café. Could you please tell me if I’ve done something to offend you?”
She spun back around, ready to give him the sort of tongue lashing her mother would have bestowed if still alive to see her daughter behave so rudely. However, the thought of her mother doing exactly that caused a rare moment of clarity. Perhaps she was wrong for treating this stranger so harshly for his past. Besides, what did she really know of him? It could very well be possible that he served little to no role at all in the war. What if he had been a doctor who never fi
red a shot… or little more than a messenger delivering updates? The expression in his eyes was almost pleading—as if he wanted nothing more than to simply make her acquaintance.
“Let me see your hands,” she finally demanded.
Miguel was momentarily taken aback. “My hands?”
“Yes,” she explained. “I wish to see what kind they are.”
Confused, he hesitated briefly but then thrusted them out with a bit of flair, wiggling his fingers around. “Ta-da! There are two of them—each with five fingers. I have all ten toes, too. Care to see those, too?”
The comment was laced with a speckling of both sarcasm and humor, which brought her some inexplicable relief. The man wasn’t some “barber’s clerk” like Caleb Strauss—conceited, overdressed, and thinking money could buy him everything. She had no intention spending time with a barrel border, but she didn’t want some fancy dandy either. Not that she had any intention of having any man to begin with. However, the looks on the faces of her papá and Mr. Winslet told her this soldier-turned-cowboy was about to become a lumberjack. That meant they would be seeing plenty of one another.
Araceli grabbed hold of his hands and turned them over, revealing tough callouses on both palms. She looked up at him, her breath catching. The intensity in his eyes and something else about them seemed so familiar. She couldn’t quite place it, but…
“Our apologies if we’re interrupting.”
Araceli dropped the newcomer’s hands as if they had just turned into hot irons, her face as heated as such fiery metal. She turned to her father and lifted her chin in defiance.
“Nothing of great importance. I was examining this would-be lumberman.”
Juan Arroyo smiled gamely at his daughter. “Well, I hope he’s met with your approval because he’ll be starting right now if he’s got a mind for it.”
“I sure do,” Miguel eagerly shook hands with the gentleman and introduced himself for the fourth time that day. If things continued going as they were, he could possibly know everyone in town by the end of the week. “Where do you want me, sir?”
“You’ll be working with me. That way I can show you how we do things around here. Then you can come back with the rest of the men for la cena. If you enjoy Mexican food, then you must try my daughter’s cooking. She sets a table as fine as her mother did, God rest her soul.”
“That will be just fine, sir. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Señor Arroyo said and then turned to his daughter. “You can manage one more. Sí?”
Araceli bit back a groan and forced a smile. How could she disagree when her father had compared her cooking to that of her late mama’s marvelous creations? She would rise to the occasion and make all the signature dishes her mother had taught her. “Sí, papa. I can do it. Although, it might be a little later than expected since I didn’t ride out on Inesh.”
“Inesh?” Miguel questioned.
“That is her horse,” her father explained.
“What an interesting name.”
“Yes,” Araceli said. “Papá got him from an Indian man back when we first moved here. The animal was born early and he was sure the creature would not survive. He actually wanted to put it down! Thankfully, his wife said it would be a sin to kill it. She helped do our laundry when we first came. That’s how she knew us and the fact that I wanted a horse of my own. She convinced her husband to give it to me and—when the creature survived—she suggested we give him a name to reflect the strength he obviously had. I thought it only proper that he have a name to reflect his origins.”
“The story is as fascinating as the name you chose.”
“Well, if you like horses maybe you can see him sometime,” her father offered.
“And perhaps the woman who helped save his life.”
Araceli gave her father a measured look, silently informing him that she was keen to his game. He was sorely mistaken if he thought there would ever be a chance of a match with this newfound lumberman.
Señor Arroyo only smiled. “I suppose anything is possible.”
Miguel looked between the two. There was a noticeable change in the air. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he had felt similar tensions before.
“Far be it for me to get between a father and daughter, but I sure would like to get to earning my keep. Where should I begin, Mr. Arroyo?”
“This way,” the man motioned. When Miguel reached his side, Señor Arroyo slapped his back, his voice lowering. “Thanks for saving me.”
Miguel chuckled, quieting as soon as he caught Araceli’s indignant glare. He turned back to his new boss. “I don’t think everyone is too pleased with the idea of me working here… or even being around for that matter.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll come around.”
It was the last bit Araceli heard as the two men walked off into the woods, leaving her to mull over her father’s confident declaration.
“Would you care for a ride back, Miss Chel?”
Araceli spun around, only then remembering Mr. Winslet’s presence. She had a good mind to ask the man why he had to go and suggest this man—who was surely the next best thing to a criminal—work for her father.
“I suppose I must accept since we are to make arrangements for your delivery.”
“Oh, well, your father and I done talked about that. He did me right. I still wouldn’t mind driving you back if you’d like. I know you’re probably wanting to get supper on and all.”
He was right, of course. She did need to get supper on. However, she didn’t care much for him reminding her… or maybe it was that strange smile of his. It was like he knew something she didn’t—like the meal she made was for more than just eating.
“Thank you all the same, but I think I’d prefer to walk.”
“You sure? It’s a good mile back.”
“I’ve walked farther than that before.”
“Alone?”
She patted her skirt to indicate that she was armed.
“I’m never alone.”
Chapter 4
“That was some of the best eating I’ve had in a long time,” Miguel said as he leaned back in his chair. “My compliments to the cook.”
“Gracias,” Araceli said.
“Amen,” Bart Frister agreed. “It’s the kind of meal that’ll make a man settle!”
She gave him a smile she hoped wasn’t too encouraging. Every now and then he picked up work for her father—usually whenever one of the other women in town weren’t showing him the interest he desired and he thought he’d try again with her. She had told him several times that she wasn’t interested, but the word “no” seemed to fall on deaf ears when it came to Bart. Thankfully, it was only a dinner she had to suffer and that was amongst a table full of other workers.
“As I’ve said before,” Señor Arroyo said, “my daughter sets an impressive table. Now, I believe you men all know the routine—except you, Miguel. Where are you staying tonight?”
The other workers who had been invited to dinner began to clear off their places—a rule she was grateful her father had stipulated long ago so that she wouldn’t be stuck with a bucket full of dishes at the end of each night. However, she was less concerned about the dishes at the moment. Curiosity had gotten the better of her. She waited with bated breath to hear Miguel’s response and then silently admonished herself for caring at all.
“Seems like a nice enough evening. I figured I’d unpack my bedroll and see how many stars I could count tonight.”
“Nonsense. We’ve got plenty of room.”
“Thank you, sir, but I couldn’t possibly—”
“He’s right, papa.” Araceli looked appalled. “I mean, we don’t even know him. He could be a criminal.”
“Araceli!” Her father glowered at her. “A woman of your age knows better than to speak to our guests in such manner. Apologize at once.”
A look of mortification crossed her features and Miguel couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “No, your daug
hter’s quite right. Neither of you know anything about me aside from the fact that I’m an old friend of Pete’s. So, who’s to say that I’m not a criminal? I ain’t but you only have my word for that.”
“Which is good enough for us. That and the fact that you are Pete’s friend and Mr. Winslet has taken a liking to you is good enough for me,” Juan Arroyo continued. “I trust his judgement above all others. It has yet to fail us. So, my offer still stands if you’re interested… and you should be. It may be summer, but sometimes there’s still a chill in the night air coming down from the mountains. Besides, you can never tell with the Miwok. They’re relatively friendly—all of us keeping to ourselves. However, there’s been a time or two that a warrior has felt the need for settling a score.”
“Settling a score?”
“You know, for their people being forced off the land. Not that I blame them any. I understand how they feel.”
Miguel wondered what his host could have meant, but he wasn’t about to pry. Besides, the bigger concern was if what he was hearing was true. If so, then sleeping outdoors might not be the best idea. Displeased or not, he wasn’t about to risk his neck simply because the boss man’s daughter didn’t like the idea of him being around. Which was another thing…
What was her problem with him anyway?
He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he was fixing to find out—even if it was against his better judgement. There was something beyond her beauty that demanded further investigation.
Wait. Beauty?
“Well, hijo? Have you made a decision?”
“I’d be much obliged. Thank you, Mr. Arroyo.”
“I’m happy to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure my daughter can show you to your room while I see the other men out.”
Señor Arroyo excused himself, looking pleased with himself as he left the room.
Miguel stood, collecting his plate as he saw the other men do. “Is your father always so generous?”
Araceli stood and began her own cleanup. “Unfortunately.”