The day just kept getting stranger and stranger.
“Nana Ruth, you were right about her being a girl.”
“And a right pretty one at that.” She cackled.
“Do you think you can tend to the rest of her care?” he asked as he strode to the front door of the cabin.
“Don’t you worry, Master Chris. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll get her all warmed up and better in no time.”
Chris headed out the door to take care of the horses and give the mystery girl some privacy. A girl! Who would have believed it? He hoped she’d get a chance to explain her reason for being in his woods and who had taught her to shoot like she had. Was it skill or just God guiding the bullet like David and his slingshot?
Setting foot outside again sent a chill through him, and he debated going back in for dry clothes. On second thought, he’d grab some of Jeb’s clothes from the old cabin the couple used to share before Jebediah died and Nana Ruth couldn’t live alone. He’d rather wear tattered hand-me-downs any day than interrupt whatever Nana was doing for the girl. The horses would have to wait a few more minutes. He hustled to the long-abandoned cabin, aware both Comet and the girl’s horse followed on his heels.
It took only a few minutes to get into something warm and dry, and then Chris headed back toward the barn. A snicker from the stranger’s horse was the only warning before the mare nudged him on the shoulder like an old friend. He stopped in his tracks and studied her.
He blinked and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Could it really be?
“Goldenrod! It is you!”
Four years prior he’d sold her to the owner of Hacienda Ruiz a full day and a half east of him. With his broken Spanish and a lot of gestures and hand signaling, he was able to barter a good deal for her and three of the other horses he had trained that year. Goldenrod still looked agile and well fed. Just as he had expected, they had taken good care of her. So why was a peasant girl riding her out in the middle of the wilderness alone? And why was the girl dressed like a boy? “So what brought you back to me, huh, Golden?” he mused, wishing that the horse could tell him where they had come from and who the girl was. He set the small saddlebag to the side before removing the magnificently tooled saddle and thick saddle blanket.
His fingers itched to search the bag for more clues as to the girl’s identity, but chores needed to be done before he could investigate any more.
Taking up the brush, he worked the snarls out of Goldenrod’s mane. After feeding and grooming all the other horses in his barn, he returned for the small saddlebag. Inside he found a skirt of silk and many layers of ruffles, a satin blouse of some sort and a pair of slippers. Not the typical clothing he had seen the local native people wear. The cloth itself was of fine quality and the stitching elaborate.
How old was this sleeping beauty, and why had she ended up alone in the woods with two very different sets of clothes? Was she a pauper who had either bartered or stolen this horse and saddlebag, or was she someone of means traveling in disguise? Again with the questions.
Judging by the sun hanging just over the peaks to the west, two hours had passed. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed out so long, but if Nana had needed him, she could have rung the cowbell he had hung on the overhang by the door. He quietly entered the cabin, his gaze falling on the still form on his bed. The girl’s face, with a long gash across the forehead, was the only visible part of her except for a few wisps of long black hair against the white bedding. Nana Ruth struggled to stand from one of the stout kitchen chairs he had fashioned during their first winter in the woods.
“Soup’s on the stove, Master Chris. You want somethin’ to eat?”
“Sit back, Nana. I want to check on our visitor first.” He crossed the room to stare down at the girl. “Has she woken up yet?”
“No, sir. Just mumbled and thrashed a few times. She’s heatin’ up somethin’ fierce.” Nana shook her head and tsked her tongue.
“She has a fever?”
“Yes, sir. How long was she wet?”
“Less than an hour before we arrived. It’s my fault. She shot a cougar out of the tree above me and saved my life. It fell and knocked her off her horse and into the creek.” Slipping a hand across the girl’s brow, he flinched at the heat coming off her skin. Her cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and yet she shivered. “Poor girl. I wish I knew something about you or where you came from. Maybe I could go fetch your mother to take care of you.”
Of course, that would be nearly impossible. Nana Ruth could no longer be expected to tend to the girl on her own, and leaving two defenseless women in the middle of the woods for more than an afternoon was completely irresponsible. If there was one thing Chris had learned well from his father, it was that he was responsible for everyone at all times. The last thing he needed was one more death on his conscience.
Turning from the child before he could dwell on the past, he summoned a smile for Nana Ruth and set about putting the stew on the table with the cutlery and cups of hot tea.
Once he and Nana Ruth were seated at the table, he wrapped his fingers around Nana’s swollen and disfigured ones. “Father God, thank You for Your protection and providence. Please bless this food we’re about to eat and bless the girl who saved my life. I ask You to heal her and enable us to get her back to her home and family. In Your name, Amen.”
Chapter Two
There was that voice again. As if someone on the shore of the river had thrown her a rope, that voice pulled her toward safety. She’d heard it before and tried to open her eyes, but this time, they obeyed. Her body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of horses. She had no energy to lift her leaden hands and rub her eyes. Blinking in the dim light, she tried to take in her surroundings, but either it was evening or the room had no windows. The only light was given off by a lamp on the table and the glow of fire. Was this a home or a cave?
As her eyes adjusted, details became clearer. The room resembled Berto and Magda’s cabin, made with the same rough-hewn logs instead of the stucco and grand slate stones of her own home. Two wooden chests sat to her left. A smaller bed hugged the far wall, and whoever occupied it snored loudly. The hearth glowed with a dim fire, keeping the winter winds at bay. By the foot of the bed Vicky occupied, a figure sat in a chair with a book. His stocking feet were propped on the side of her bed. It felt strange, and somehow too intimate, that a stranger would be so informal in her bedchamber. But as her foggy mind cleared, she remembered that this was not her bedchamber.
Where was she? Who was he? And how did she get here?
The lamp on the table behind the man left his face shrouded in shadow. She couldn’t determine his age, expressions or even his coloring. From her vantage point he appeared very large, his long legs like tree trunks and his wide shoulders easily twice her width. He continued to read, oblivious of her scrutiny.
She tried to shift to her right, but her arm wouldn’t move. Not only did it feel like it weighed a ton, but it was somehow tangled in her bedding. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Whether it was the sharp pain stabbing her in the right side or fear, she didn’t know. Struggling to sit up, she gasped as the pain became so intense she saw stars. Her movements caught the man’s attention. He sat up, his long legs withdrawing from the bed and settling silently on the floor. He laid the book aside and leaned forward, his face coming into the light. He said something—she only wished she knew what.
Concern showed in his eyes and something else... Kindness. His relaxed posture reassured her.
He got up and reached an arm behind her back, holding her up as he plumped the pillows. Laying her back gently, he readjusted the blankets to cover her shoulders and placed a palm gently against her forehead. She felt his calluses as he smoothed back her hair from her face. His tender touch surprised her. He studied her eyes for a minute, his own gaze full of questions. Then he pul
led his chair closer to the head of the bed and sank back down.
He said something again, and this time she picked out the English words pain, you and something else that sounded familiar, but she was too groggy to try to make sense of things.
“Español. No Ingles.” She tried to remember more but couldn’t.
“My name is Chris.” His Spanish sounded funny. His next words were lost to her since he switched back to English.
“My name is María Victoria Ruiz Torres.” She answered in Spanish, pointed to herself but couldn’t quite stifle a groan, her voice husky and barely audible. Compassion flashed in his eyes.
He pointed to her, but his words blended together, not making any sense. Talking required breathing, and each breath felt like a knife digging into her ribs.
“Pain? Dolor?” he asked.
“Sí, much pain... I...no air.” Gasping, she nodded her head, only making it throb worse.
He leaned over and sat her up straight, holding her by the shoulders, avoiding contact with the most injured parts of her. When he did, she felt the binding around her ribs for the first time. Someone had bound her as if she had a corset on, but it was different. There were no bones and stays digging into her flesh, just soft cloth wrapped around her and holding her right arm to her side. She was still in pain, but at least sitting up she could breathe.
Who had brought her here? The last thing she could remember was stopping at the stream for water and letting Tesoro drink... Tesoro! Where was Tesoro?
“Mi caballo? Tesoro?” she questioned him frantically.
He smiled and said something about “Golden...” Most of the words he used made little sense to her.
“Mi horse?” she tried again, wishing the English she had once learned would come back to her.
“Fine. With my horses,” he answered in his funny accent. She thought he was trying to say that her horse was with his horses. Vicky took a deep breath and closed her eyes to calm herself and drown out the pain.
When she opened her eyes, he was studying her again. Only inches from his face, she could see his eyes. Blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. She had never met anyone with eyes so light before—although they matched her grandfather’s in the portrait in her father’s study. The Americano’s hair color surprised her, as well. Honey mixed with cinnamon that glowed like polished bronze in the firelight. What would it look like in the sun? Then she remembered—he was the Americano who had been by the stream when the puma attacked.
“You two days,” he said in broken Spanish, holding up two fingers and then pretending to lay his head on his hands and close his eyes.
“Two days!” she exclaimed. What would Papá say when she got home? Groaning again, she realized she couldn’t leave tonight anyway. She was too sore, and it looked like it was already dark out.
Who had taken care of her? What would Mamá think? What would she do? Had she even noticed that Vicky hadn’t been back to the hacienda in all this time? Where was this man’s wife, and why didn’t he call her now that Vicky was awake?
Her thoughts raced around and around in her pounding head, and she suddenly felt very tired. Her eyes became heavy even as she tried to remember something of her English lessons.
“Water,” she finally managed.
A tin cup came into view, and he held it for her as she sipped. The cool water soothed her parched throat and quelled the need to cough. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to gulp it down, not take in just a trickle, but he only let her have a sip at a time. “Slowly,” he cautioned. Unable to even lift her arms to tilt the cup, she resigned herself to sipping.
Sleep wanted to claim her again—she could feel it like the undertow in the stream. Chris put a hand to her shoulder and gently leaned her back on the pillows. Frustrated at not being able to communicate her basic wishes, much less get up and get her own water, Vicky turned away from the man. What could she do? She wouldn’t know what to say even if they had both understood the same language. She knew nothing about him—could he be one of the many bandits who roamed the Sierra and plundered those unfortunate enough to have to travel far from home?
No, he couldn’t be a bandit. No man she had ever met would have taken the time to play nursemaid to a sick woman, except for maybe Berto. Her father’s groom, who had helped her own grandfather found the Hacienda Ruiz over forty years earlier, had a gentle hand and soft heart, which is why he was so skilled with the horses. He had risked his own life to save Vicky when she was five years old, and she was forever bonded to him. His wife, Magda, was their housekeeper and cook at the main house, and had been since the days that Papá was a mere boy.
If only she had listened to José Luis and waited for Papá to return, surely Berto could have talked Papá into canceling the wedding. If only she were home. And yet, being home would be worse. She’d be preparing for her wedding with Don Joaquín right now, and he was a horrible man. He had been married several times, and all his wives had died. Vicky was convinced that if Don Joaquín hadn’t killed them himself, they had taken their own lives rather than live with the fiend. The fact that her father would even consider marrying her off to such a monster was more than she could bear.
Letting her head rest against the pillows, she closed her eyes, surrendering once again to her exhaustion.
* * *
Nana Ruth’s clanging the cowbell brought Chris rushing into the cabin the next afternoon. Milk sloshed as he dropped the pail on the table. In three quick strides he drew up next to Nana Ruth as she tried to settle Maria. Once again the girl was thrashing about in the bed, her words colored with fear.
“Did her fever come back?” he asked even as he leaned past Nana to touch the girl’s forehead. Cool skin calmed his racing heartbeat.
“No Wakin!” Maria called out again, attempting to push someone or something away from her. He caught her left arm gently in his hand and smoothed her hair with the other hand.
“Maria, you are safe. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.” He grimaced even as the words left his mouth. Who was he to promise safety? His history was filled with failures to protect the people who depended on him.
She quieted. Her arm went lax in his, and then her eyes fluttered.
He set her arm on the blankets covering her and then waited. After a few more minutes, she settled into a peaceful sleep. When she woke, he had a cup of water ready by her side before she could even ask for it.
Chris watched as Maria tried to down a second cup of water as quickly as she had the first. He studied the emotions that raced across her face as she drank. Confusion when she first woke was quickly replaced with greed for the water and then frustration when he gave her only a little at a time. For a small young lady, she had a fire in her eye. If she weren’t stuck in bed with broken ribs, having fought a fever for a few days and not taken anything solid, he’d bet that she would have demanded that he hurry up with the water.
“Maria?” She was slow to respond to her name. Odd. Had she also hit her head on the stones that broke her ribs? He hadn’t noticed what lay beneath her at the time because he was so focused on getting away from the cougar in case it gave chase. He tapped her shoulder to draw her attention back to his face instead of the now empty cup.
“Why say me Maria?” she asked, her brows scrunching together, creating lines in her otherwise perfectly smooth skin.
Had he misinterpreted their most basic communication? “You said your name was Maria.” Not that he could have pronounced all the words that had come after that.
“Maria name for baby when father at—” She stopped, puzzling out the English words. “When baby new, mamá take to padre for to—” Frustrated, she placed her hands together and bowed her head, closing her eyes as if praying.
“Where was your father when you were a baby?”
“No! No mi father,” she shook her head and then
stopped as if the movement pained her. She pointed to her chest and then to the sky. “Father from Dios, you call God. Father come to hacienda to say to God, ‘be good baby.’”
Unsure what she was trying to say, Chris set the cup back on the table and pondered what to do next. Her English was much better than he had expected, but even so, he wasn’t even sure what her name was now. How would they ever get her back to her people if he didn’t even know her name?
“Master Chris, I heard tell that some people call their minister ‘Father,’” Nana Ruth suggested.
“She’s talking about a minister?”
“Ain’t most babies christened by a minister?” Nana’s question made sense, but then it still left the girl without a name.
Turning back to their patient, he slowly asked, “What is your name?”
“Mi Vic-kee-ta.” She pointed to herself. “Maria Victoria Ruiz Torres. Vic-kee-ta.”
“They call you Vicky?” Her beaming smile completely transformed her face, and for the first time, she looked like a woman, not a young girl. That smile made him want to say the word again just to make her happy.
“So where do you live?”
“Hacienda Ruiz.” Her eyes flashed pride and fear at the same time.
At least he knew where that was. He’d be able to take her back to her people without too much problem, once she was ready to travel—assuming she wanted to return. Something in her eyes made him wonder why she had left the hacienda to begin with.
“How did you end up in the forest all by yourself?” The questions wanted to pour out all at once, but the confusion on her face told him that she hadn’t understood.
“Master Chris, why don’t I get the girl some of that soup you got on the fire. I dare say she’s plum worn out, and a little warm soup might just loosen up her tongue.”
Nana Ruth made to get up off the chair. “Sit back, Nana. I’ll see to this.” He laid a hand on the older woman’s shoulder until he felt her relax into the chair.
Rescuing the Runaway Bride Page 2