by Mimi Milan
“Very much so. More than I care to admit, I’m afraid. My life has been a bit… complicated.”
“Yes, I know about the accusations you face regarding the murder of a bartender there. Your friend, Pete, has been quietly seeing to that matter.”
“He has?”
“Asi es.”
It was a lot to take in at once—the fact that Juan Arroyo had always known who he was and that Miguel’s name might be cleared without facing any real consequences. Now if only winning Araceli would be as simple.
As if the concern were painted on his face, Juan Arroyo advised him. “Perhaps if you would be as honest with my daughter as you have been with me, then things would not seem so impossible.”
“You don’t think it would be better if you spoke with her instead?”
“No. There are certain affairs a man must see to himself.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Besides,” Señor Arroyo continued, “there seems to be a problem down at the mill. The logs aren’t flowing down the river the way they usually do.”
“Probably a beaver built a dam further down, or maybe some other brush got caught up.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too. That’s why I’ll leave it to you to sort things out with mi hija while I go find the source of our production problem. I’ll let you know what I find out when I return.”
“Hopefully, you’ll have some good news.”
“Espero que si... let’s pray we both do.”
Miguel momentarily felt confident that Señor Arroyo was right as the old man assuredly strolled out of the room. He turned back and studied himself in the mirror, deciding Araceli’s father was right. The scraggly mountain man staring back at him wasn’t about to win over her heart. It was as plain as the beard on his face that he was in hiding—literally.
He ambled over towards his satchel and pulled out a razor that was still sharp only because it had never been used before. Then he returned to the mirror with it, the wash bowl and a bar of soap. He lathered up the soap and rubbed it into the beard until it was completely covered in suds. Then he brought the blade to his face and down again, removing a fair deal of his former self. He repeated the process, the smooth strokes somewhat reminding him of Araceli and the way she painted. This was his canvas, though. He would shape it just as artistically as she did hers with paints and charcoals.
Miguel carefully trimmed along the edges of his generous lips. Satisfied with the results, he set the razor down and washed the remaining soap of his face.
That’s more like it.
He had to admit that even he was surprised by the man staring back at him. It was a man who could proudly present himself to a woman who could find the beauty in almost anything.
He just hoped she would be able to find it in him.
Chapter 9
“So, tell me. What else is he like? Surely you’ve got more than that to share.”
Araceli laughed at Maxine’s enthusiasm. She continued perusing the current fabrics Edward Mosier offered in his mercantile. “I’m not sure what more you’re looking for. Favorite color and foods and some places he’s seen… I’ve told you most everything he’s shared with me—everything I can remember leastways.”
“But that’s not what I want to know,” Maxine insisted. “Not that there’s anything wrong with all that, of course. I’m more interested in knowing how you feel about those things, though. What is he like to you?”
Excitement rose at the idea of how she personally felt about Michael, but she quickly squelched any thought that it meant more than a passing fancy. She shrugged. “Why should I feel anything at all?”
Her friend grasped her hand with a subdued squeal. Several matrons looked up from their own purchases to give them pointed stares. The two young women grew serious until the women walked away. Subdued snorts escaped with their laughter as they rushed off into the opposite direction. Maxine pulled Araceli into an empty aisle of sewing notions.
“I knew it! You like him.”
Araceli wanted to deny it, but she didn’t condone lies. “Oh, alright. Perhaps I’m slightly intrigued.”
Her friend clapped. “Well, it’s about time someone finally turned your head.”
“Ha! You’re a fine one to speak. When are you going to give Bart Frister a chance?”
“Absolutely never… and don’t try to change the subject.”
“Which was?”
“You and mister soldier boy.” Maxine gasped at the reference she made. “I’m sorry, Araceli. I forgot. You don’t mind, though, do you? I mean, you’ve gotten past that. Right?”
The past two weeks had seen too many restless nights as Araceli contended with the same question. Each day Michael healed was one more day for her to really examine how she felt about him. It was interesting how quickly she had adjusted to the idea of him once being a soldier who fought against her own people. It should have remained a sore subject for her. Instead, it faded into the background as if truly unimportant. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was due to the fact that she was getting to know him better, or the feeling she couldn’t shake that they were intimately connected. It reminded her of the story of Xóchitl and Huitzilin crossing all obstacles to remain together through the sands of time.
“To be honest, there are greater worries in life,” she finally answered.
Her friend smiled approvingly. “I’m glad you’re beginning to realize that.”
They went up to the counter to pay for their purchases where the owner, Ed Mosier, sifted through a pile of newly arrived mail that his son had brought back along with other supplies on his monthly trip from Sacramento.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mosier. Any good news?”
“Just the usual.” The elderly gent’s eyes worked over the mail. He handed a single sheet of paper to his son. “Would you hang this up outside, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man disappeared outside while his father added up first Maxine’s purchase and then Araceli’s basket of goods. She handed over the money and bid the owner a good day.
“Well, I better get on home. Thank you for the afternoon tea,” Maxine said.
“I enjoyed it. Nos vemos.”
“Wait! I know that one… Um… See you later?”
“Eso es.”
“I know what that means, too.” Maxine held her head up a little higher. “Take care, amiga.”
The two women briefly embraced. Araceli stood on the steps of the storefront, watching her friend head off further into town. She glanced around the busy Main Street and noted the normality of people promenading down it, lost in their daily routines of competitive commerce with weighed down wagons kicking up dust. Filtered conversations drifted on the air. She turned the opposite direction to return home, halting when she noticed the paper Mr. Mosier’s son had hung out front. She grabbed hold of it and snatched it down.
Wanted
Mike “The Saint” James
$500
Blood rushed to Araceli’s head. Her pulsed raced uncontrollably—much like her horse, Inesh, when he was trying to prove himself to one of the mares.
It was Michael… but it wasn’t. The beard was gone; the face a touch more slender and younger. It was a familiar one… a face she had briefly seen years ago, masked by shadows in her darkest memories of El Salvado and the hacienda they once owned.
She read the wanted poster several times, as if a new name or different image would suddenly appear.
“Everything alright, Ms. Chel?” Mr. Mosier called from behind.
Araceli quickly stuffed the paper into the bottom of her basket. She turned to the store owner, still standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir. Everything is fine.”
“Are you sure? You look a little peaked.”
She waved his concern away. “It’s just this summer heat. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get out of it.”
“Alright. You take care of yourself now, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.
You have a blessed day.”
“You, too, Ms. Chel.”
Araceli secured her basket of goods to the back of Inesh’s saddle. Then she took the rein in hand, hiked up her skirts and mounted him. She urged him into a steady walk, picking up the pace as she made her way to the end of Main Street, cutting down the path with choices veering off left, towards the mines, and right, to the sawmill. She rode past the men hard at work, barely nodding an acknowledgement as they lumbered around the yard, but noting that her father wasn’t there. She hardly questioned why, though. Her mind was filled with too many thoughts and more emotions than she cared to admit. She knew this face on the poster. She remembered clearly now. How did she not recognize him before as the soldier from El Salvado? For weeks he had been right under her nose, parading around like some innocent pariah who came to town all down and out on his luck. Well, he most certainly was out of it now. He obviously thought her family was easy pickings—perhaps somehow learned of her father’s success in California.
That’s it!
They still kept in contact with friends and extended family in El Salvado. Someone must have mentioned all they accomplished in Blessings, and figured they would be easy pickings. Well, he had another thing coming if he believed that! She had every intention of settling the score with a man associated with those who had not only ran her family off their land, but murdered two of her brothers.
She would kill him.
No, she would allow her father that honor.
De veras, Araceli?
Truthfully, though. What foolish thoughts! Who was she trying to convince? She didn’t have it in her to do something like that. Neither did her father.
Sure as the day was long on a summer of no rain, they could run him out of town, though. They could notify the proper authorities, too. In fact, Pete could take him in. He would do it even if the two of them were friends. She was sure of it. After all, the law was the law and this man was just as the poster stated—wanted for murder.
Araceli rode up to the house and was so angry hot that she abandoned both Inesh and her basket of goods, pausing only long enough to grab the poster out of the carrier. She strode up to the house, reached into her skirt, pulled out the six shooter and threw open the door, stepping inside with the gun raised at eye level. She should have saved the grand entrance, though. Despite knowing that her “charge” was once again ambulatory, he was nowhere to be found.
Bang!
She jumped at the sound of something clanging in the kitchen. She followed the noise, lowering the gun to her side to press against the wall and peer through the crack of the partially opened kitchen door. She wasn’t able to see much, but it sounded like someone was cooking.
“Ooow!”
Miguel’s howl sounded from the other side of the door, forcing Araceli out of her hiding spot. The man briefly waved a hand around in the air before sticking it in the bucket they used for drinking water.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He pulled his hand out of the bucket. “Uh, I was trying to cook. I forgot to use a towel before grabbing the skillet, though.”
Araceli looked around the kitchen, evidence of his cooking skills everywhere. Half the place was a terrible mess with flour powdering the floor and sticky chicken parts dripping off the counter, vegetable scrapings stuck to them like feathers to tar. However, a delicious smell wafted through the air, and the table was set with a basket of freshly picked flowers.
“I know they aren’t quite your favorite, but I couldn’t find any Cempasuchil. I hope you’ll like these enough not to shoot me.”
He motioned and Araceli looked down to the gun she still gripped in her hand.
“I… I…” She was so overwhelmed that she didn’t know what to say. “I thought it was someone else.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. This was the last thing she would expect from a man wanted by the law for murder. She squeezed the poster, making it crumble in her hand.
“Here. Allow me.”
Oblivious to the paper, he guided her to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She sat, further surprised when he pulled out yet another flower—from where she did not know—and placed it in front of her.
“This was the prettiest one in the field… and it still pales in comparison to your beauty.”
Araceli’s breath caught. Oh, there had been the occasional shared look before—moments that communicated that perhaps there was something between them. So, this wasn’t the first time he had surprised her, but it was definitely a departure from the way he usually spoke. Never before had he straight out said that she was beautiful.
He set a plate of fried chicken down in front of her, boiled potatoes and biscuits accompanying it. In spite of the mess surrounding them, the plate actually looked quite pleasant.
So did he.
His gaze bored into her, making his eyes seem even more piercing…
Like the ones in the poster.
She gave her head a strong shake. “This won’t do. It just won’t.”
His expression fell flat as if all the excitement in him had been a raging fire she effectively doused out with one single statement.
“I’m sorry. Is it the chicken? I could have sworn you said you liked chicken. Maybe it’s the way it’s cooked. You never did specify what kind. I can remember that for next time, though. I mean, if there is a next time. So, does that mean you like boiled instead?” he blathered on. “Perhaps roasted—”
“No,” she said emphatically, waving away the incessant chatter. She stared at him. “The way you look…”
“Do you like it? Your father suggested it might be more suitable.”
Her eyes shot hellfire out of them.
“My father?” Had they been available, she would have thrown every one of her glass jars of paint at him. “How dare you even mention him.”
“What?” he asked, confused. “Why? He was the one who thought you might appreciate it if I cleaned up a bit. I’ll be honest… I don’t mind saying that I enjoy it. I’m kind of feeling like my old self.”
Her accent grew thick. “Your old self? Oh, please, tell me about your old self.”
Araceli pulled out the crumpled paper and unwrinkled it the best she could. She angrily threw it across the table, but it defied her, softly floating back onto the table and landing neatly in front of him. He stared at it, his face filled with a strange mixture that she couldn’t quite peg. Ignorance? Regret? Fear? She couldn’t quite say.
“I can explain.”
She snorted. “Save your lies for someone with enough fare to buy them. I know who you are. You’re that filthy… no good…”
A string of Spanish flew from her lips.
“… American soldier from El Salvado. That’s what you are.”
“Like I said, if you would just let me explain—”
“What is there that you could possibly say that I don’t already know? You’re him, are you not? You are the man in the poster… who is wanted for murder. Sí o no?”
“Alright. Yes, I’m the man in the poster, but—”
“Murderer.”
“I’m not, though. I’ve never—”
“Murderer.”
“Would you stop saying that?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not true!”
“Ha! Now you’re going to tell me I didn’t see what I saw? You weren’t in El Salvado?”
“That’s not what I meant. Of course, you saw me. I was there. I just meant that things aren’t always as they seem.”
“Seems to me you’re like any other American soldier who only cared to kill our people so you could steal our land.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sí, tu ere—”
“I’m not even American!”
Araceli stilled, her jaw heavy with shock. She snapped her mouth shut. “What did you just say?”
“I said I’m n
ot American.” Araceli’s brows shot up with surprise. She looked about ready to say something when Miguel cut her off, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s not entirely true, though. I mean, I am American. I was born here in this country—same as you. However, my father was from Mexico. I can’t right say where since I never had the chance to know him, but maybe now you can see I’m not so different from you.”
Araceli’s eyes fluttered shut. She tapped the blunted tip of the paintbrush against her temple, considering what he had revealed. Her eyes finally popped open again and she squinted at him, disbelief shining in her bright orbs.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she pointed the brush accusingly at him, “that you fought against your own people… tú raza?”
“Uh… I was hoping you wouldn’t see it like that.”
Araceli’s head shook with astonishment. “Why would I not? Seriously. How could I see it any other way? You’ve been quietly going along, trying to gain our trust when all this time you’ve been carrying secrets. Can I believe anything you say now, Michael? I mean, is that even your real name?”
“Of course, that’s my real name. Well, it is in English anyway. My grandparents insisted on calling me that instead of Miguel… and don’t go trying to act all innocent. It’s not like I’m the only one keeping secrets around here.”
“What are you talking about?” Araceli asked, her voice vexed. “I’m not hiding any secrets!”
“What do you call sneaking out in the middle of the night—dressed like a boy no less? That’s how I first met you. Let’s not forget how you went back to the forest for those paints, too… Oh, yes. I know you returned by yourself even though I asked you to wait because of the danger involved.”
“How do you know I went back? Have you been spying on me?”
“What? How could I have done that while I was laid up in bed this whole time?”
“I don’t know. Soldiers have sneaky ways.”
Miguel let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s not true… and stop trying to fall back on the argument of me being a soldier. I’m not anymore. That was in the past—a past that even your father accepts.”