* * *
As Nana Ruth adjusted Vicky’s bedclothes, Vicky tried to run her fingers through her tangled hair, which made her wince.
“Nana Ruth?” she asked. “Can you hair? Brush?”
“Do you want me to brush your hair, child?”
“Si! Yes.” She nodded, showing Nana the tangles in her hair.
Nana nodded and shuffled over to the cabinet near the sink and came back with an ornate brush. “Turn to face the wall, girl.” The kind woman pointed, and Vicky moved carefully. Nana pulled all Vicky’s hair over her shoulder, but when she tried to pull the brush through, it snagged and then fell to the floor. With a groan the woman bent and then attempted brushing again. After four failed attempts, she sat back. “These here hands don’t serve me for diddly-squat.”
“Diddly-squat?” That was a word the British teacher had never taught her.
“Nothing.”
“No...thing?”
“Not a thing.”
“Hmm...” Before she could confirm the meaning of all the strange words, the door opened and closed with a creak. Cool air drifted across the room as if announcing Chris and his return.
“Master Chris.” The older woman stood up, the chair squeaking as she moved. The two conferred over by the table, but Vicky couldn’t turn enough to see what they were doing. Heavy footsteps crossed the room, and a shiver ran down her body from her head to her toes. She couldn’t imagine what Chris might want with her. Nana had said she was going to help her with her hair. Had he been angered when he saw his slave doing extra work for Vicky?
A hand lifted her hair away from her neck, and she held her breath. She had heard of some men pulling a woman’s hair in a fit of rage, but she had seen no evidence of rage in Chris. He had been nothing but kind to her, and because of her injuries, he treated her like she could break at any second. She told herself to relax.
Without warning the brush started to detangle the ends and then worked its way up slowly. His ministrations were gentle. Even more so than Nana Ruth’s had been. A strange comfort wrapped around her, almost as if Magda had hugged her tight. The only time she had ever seen a man brush hair before had been in the stables as the grooms brushed down the horses. Did Chris see her as a horse that needed to be curried?
The idea stole some of the pleasure from the moment. After all, she didn’t know what he thought about her, or her trespassing on his land. Was he biding his time until he could send her on her way? Would he send her packing on Tesoro tomorrow? She hoped to be better soon, but just having sat through dinner left her feeling worn out. Riding Tesoro for days to get back would be impossible for at least another week. Would the Americano’s patience and hospitality wear out by then? Did he have other reasons for keeping her here?
Did he know Joaquín? If he had sold horses to her father’s hacienda, maybe he had sold animals to others in the area, as well. If he did know him, was he keeping her here until he could get word to Joaquín so that the vile man could come for her? Again she wondered how Papá could ever think that she should spend her life with a man like Don Joaquín. At the very thought, a shudder shook her shoulders.
“Did I hurt you?” His words were soft, and his breath blew across the crown of her head like a warm summer breeze, causing a tingling to spiral down her spine.
“No, no hurt.”
“This next part may be more difficult. You have blood and dirt mixed into your hair. Ca... Which one is it again?”
“Cabello, hair?”
“Sí, ca-bey-yo.”
“I know dirt.” She pointed to the clump of it that had already been knocked loose and lay on the bedspread beside her. “What is ‘blood’?”
“Blood, red water inside you and me.”
“You blood red? Not blue?” Even with the sun-kissed glow on his skin, when he sat at the table she could see the thick blue veins running up and down his muscular arms. The veins were bluer on his wrists, whereas most of the cowboys she had grown up with had dark skin that didn’t show veins. The few people she knew with visible veins had dark purple ones.
“No, Vicky, if I were to get a cut my blood would run red just like yours or Nana Ruth’s. Inside our skin, we are all the same. Now, I’m going to wet your hair here a little.”
“You clean hair?”
“I’m going to wet it with water.” He stood closer to her right side. A wet warmth surprised her as he rubbed a towel into her scalp close to her temple. Turning slightly, she could see only his profile as he concentrated on her head. “Don’t move, Vicky.”
“No jabon?”
He spared her a glance before turning back to his work. “I don’t know what ‘ha-bon’ is, Vicky.”
“Use to make no dirt in hair.”
“Soap?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t want to wash your hair tonight. It’s too late, and you might catch a chill.”
A snarl caught the brush, and he froze as a gasp escaped her. She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her tears of pain. “Sorry, Vicky.” He paused to touch her shoulder before he untangled the brush and started to work at the snarl. The brush moved smoothly through her hair, and she closed her eyes again, trying to relax into the feeling of such gentle care. When had anyone taken time to do a task like this for her in the past years?
The last time Magda had been in her room to brush her hair had been for her Quinceañera. Mamá and Magda had both fretted about her clothes, hair and presentation. Of course, Mamá’s concern was that she look as white and sophisticated as she could so she could catch a Spanish nobleman with money and land, while Magda cooed about how beautiful she had become.
In the end, she had let down both women that night. Her mother never wanted anything for her other than an advantageous marriage, and while there were a few offers the first year after her presentation to society, her penchant for riding astride, helping with the cattle and insisting that she have a say in conversations about the ranch had driven all those would-be suitors on to more delicate, submissive prospects. For almost two years, no suitors had visited the hacienda, and Vicky had relaxed, hopeful that she could stay there, a recluse and old maid but happy with her lot in life. Until last year, when Don Joaquín showed up only a few weeks after his latest wife had died.
And as far as disappointing Magda, Vicky understood she would never be the beautiful girl Magda claimed she saw. Her dark skin would be considered uncivilized and too Indian to be acceptable in the finest society anywhere other than rural Alta California. Not that Vicky necessarily wanted to travel and see bigger cities. Her beloved little villa at the hacienda was all she needed. It was home. Most of the landed families in the area made trips to Mejico every couple of years so that they could keep track of the latest styles and news from Spain and the rest of Europe. But after her parents’ very public fight about her grandmothers when she was just a girl, Papá had declared that he would never take Mamá off the hacienda until she apologized to his mother. The fight had been the culmination of years of insults and feuding between her parents about their mothers.
As a pretty young girl from a Spanish upper-class family in Jalisco, Mamá had set her sights on the landowner nobleman who had come to the city to study for two years without asking too many questions about his parentage. Mamá had all but left Papá when they arrived to the hacienda for the first time. She had treated Papá’s mother like a servant because of her native blood. When Mamá’s mother had come to visit and actually insulted Papá’s mother to her face, Papá had sent his mother-in-law packing, and they had never had contact again. Abuelita had passed away five years ago, and Mamá had never uttered a word to her in all the years Vicky could remember. And true to his word, Papá never took her mother anywhere.
“Vicky, you’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” Chris’s words were whispered close to her ear.
“I no sleep. I
remember.”
He continued to wipe away dried blood and dirt from her head. How awful she must look. Surely Mamá would faint at the embarrassment that a strange man was seeing her like this.
“Were you remembering something good?” Chris set his rag aside and began brushing out the last of her knots.
“Magda brush hair for Quinceañera.” For once not having the words to express herself was a blessing. Only Magda had witnessed how disappointed Mamá had been when Vicky managed to run off the last of the suitors.
Vicky could hear her mother’s words in her mind. You must hate me, Victoria, that you choose to humiliate me in such a way. Not only are you just as black as your grandmother who bewitched your grandfather, but you choose to behave like a heathen Indian. Why did God punish me by sending me here? Why did you live and Angelica die?
With her mother’s words that cold winter day, something inside her had died. The willingness to try to earn her mother’s affection had been slowly waning for years, but that day it was gone. She would never be anything other than a bane to her mother. If only she had been born white like her little sister, Angelica, who had lived only a few hours, she could have made Mamá proud.
“What is Quin-sin-era?”
His pronunciation made her giggle. Counting in her head, she answered, “Quinceañera is when girl have... she turn fifteen.”
“Did you have a party to celebrate your fifteenth birthday?”
“Yes, a party and a misa.”
“Misa?”
“In chapel. Father of church come and say, ‘Dios, God be good to you.’” The brush paused in its downward path.
“They done had a ceremony for her blessin’, Master Chris. Jest like for Miss Nelly.”
“Did you like your Quin-sin-era?” He resumed his brushing. His standing so close, running the brush through her hair, was the nearest thing to being cared for that she had felt in a long time. It took her a moment to realize that all the knots were out, but he was still brushing her hair. She figured he must not have noticed.
“Sí y no. I like food and dance and Tesoro. No like men.”
The brush froze, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “Did a man do something to hurt you, Vicky?” His words sounded slow, and almost forced. Tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago radiated off him like heat from a fire.
“No, no man hurt me. I no let them. I no want leave Hacienda Ruiz. No want leave Tesoro, Magda, Berto.” After a moment, Chris stepped away. Vicky missed the warmth of his hands on her shoulders immediately.
“Is Magda your word for Mother?” Nana Ruth asked. “Are you missin’ your mother, child?”
Vicky took a few careful breaths and then turned her body, leaning on her left arm to support her weight as she readjusted her legs under the quilts. Shifting around hurt but not as bad as it had earlier in the day. She raised her head, and her gaze found Chris across the room. He watched her carefully, his emotions unreadable as he waited for her answer.
“Magda is cook. I miss Magda. I no miss mi mamá. And she no miss me.”
Chris looked surprised. “Vicky, I’m sure that’s not true—”
Vicky raised her chin and cut him off, running a hand through her hair. “Gracias. Hair.”
Then she looked away, hoping he wouldn’t ask her anything else about her mother. She probably couldn’t explain her mother to Chris even if she spoke perfect English. After all, she’d never understood why her mother hated her, so how to explain that to someone else? There was no point in even trying.
Chapter Six
As he looked at Vicky, wondering why she was so reluctant to talk about her mother, he realized his hands were tingling. He rinsed out the cloth and hung it on the back of the dry sink, poured himself a cup of coffee and tried not to think about what had just happened.
He’d picked up the brush thinking that he’d plaited and combed the manes on all of his horses for years. Surely brushing out a woman’s hair would be the same, especially since it was just as tangled as that of some of the wild ponies he had caught when he first came to Alta California.
What a mistake. Her hair slid through his fingers like silk, not at all coarse like a horse’s mane. He’d felt her tense when he first started to fight the snarls into submission, but after a moment she relaxed. How could something as mundane as brushing her hair feel intimate?
Had she been as affected by his closeness as he had been by hers? His reaction when she had said she didn’t like men almost bordered on madness. The party had been four years ago. Even if someone had mistreated her, what would he be able to do about it now? Yet, if she had said yes to his question, he would have tried to avenge her reputation or her pride.
The silence in the room grew awkward. Clearly she didn’t want to talk about her mother. So he’d make other inquiries.
He cleared his throat. “You have brothers or sisters, Vicky?”
“I have two brothers. Juan Marcos y Diego Manuel.” She held up two fingers as if to clarify the number. “I have mi papá, Señor José Manuel Ruiz González.” With all those names, they sounded like a dozen or so, not just three people. After a pause, she added in a sad voice, “Mi brother Juan Manuel no live. He die when I ten. Angelica, mi sister, no live more than three hours.”
“Do you miss your brothers and father, child?” Nana Ruth asked, reminding him that she was still in the room. How could he have forgotten her? Yet while he had talked with Vicky, all else was forgotten.
Nana’s words brought a strange expression to Vicky’s face.
She turned her attention to Nana. Stirring sugar into his cup, he watched their interaction. Not for the first time, he noted that she spoke to Nana like she spoke to him. No air of superiority or discomfort like most young woman of his acquaintance would have had interacting with a Negro woman, slave or free. Were the Mexican people more accepting of others? It had been his greatest hope when they picked up and traveled from South Carolina to come to a new land, one where no man could own another.
“I want be with them, sí. Juanito y Diegito fight and no be good. Papá love horses y vacas—no time for ride with me. I miss Magda y Berto. They miss Vicky.”
“Sure they do, honey child, sure they do.”
Vicky’s response resonated in his heart. Did he miss his family? His father had been dead almost nine years now. Yet the closeness he shared with Jebediah as the older man had taught him how to breed and raise horses, perform carpentry and to take care of tools had been far more influential than any lessons his father might have tried to beat into him.
Did he miss his father? He missed the chance to prove he was just as much of a man if not more so for following through on his beliefs even if it cost him everything. But did he miss the man?
He’d stood over his father’s grave a few weeks after the funeral and prayed that God would allow his father peace, even though the man had never given peace to anyone on this earth. Then he’d shouted to the wind that he had released the slaves and they had all decided to stay on the plantation and work for meager wages. Work that had been accomplished in mere days by freed men and women who wanted to see the plantation prosper far surpassed all the work the foreman with a whip and rod had ever managed to deliver. Of course none of that mattered now. The other plantation owners in the area had forced him to sell out and leave or face being responsible for even more deaths.
He set his mug down on the table and turned to go outdoors. He needed to release some anger, and this cabin—in the presence of two ladies, no matter what walks of life they had come from or how much English they did or didn’t understand—was not the place to let loose. Snagging his coat off its hook, he pulled his boots on and headed out the door. He grabbed an ax out of the barn and lost track of time splitting firewood as he felt the anger slowly draining out of him. When he felt somewhat normal ag
ain, he set the ax back in the barn. Closing the barn door and checking the latch, he walked the edge of the corral with his rifle tucked in the crook of his arm.
The horses had been calm this last week now that the cougar was gone. Amazing what Vicky had done. She looked so fragile and weak. Then again, the first time he saw her he thought she was an Indian boy about to shoot him. He’d not mistake her for a boy ever again, not after the way his fingers tingled with just the touch of her hair. Or the surge of anger and something else, something unnamable, akin to possessiveness that flared to life in his chest when he thought someone had hurt her.
Nope, no mistaking Maria Victoria Ruiz Torres for a boy now. Unfortunately.
Nana Ruth thought that God had brought Vicky to them for a reason. God probably brought her to them for her own protection while her ribs healed.
“Thank You, Lord,” Chris whispered as he headed back toward the dark cabin, the sound of a lone wolf howling high up in the mountains. “If she had died in the woods, I wouldn’t have known her and so wouldn’t be missing her. But someone would be. Despite what she says, I’m sure her whole family is missing her. Please help her to heal quickly so I can get her back to her home and her family.”
The white vapor of his breath rose like a tangible prayer toward the sky speckled with stars. The night sky always made him feel small compared with all of God’s creation. It made him lonely, too. If he walked into the woods tonight and came face-to-face with a bear or another cougar, who would miss him? Nana Ruth and now Vicky. For so long that had been what he had wanted. To just disappear from “civilization” and live without worrying about anyone else or having anyone else worry about him. Prove he didn’t need anyone else to be “successful” or to make money.
Rescuing the Runaway Bride Page 6