Rescuing the Runaway Bride

by Bonnie Navarro

  Now that “freedom” didn’t seem so freeing. It felt empty. Could it be that he needed more than the woods and his horses for companionship? If he had been living closer to a settlement, he could have already sent word to Vicky’s family. What if being out here someday cost him Nana Ruth, either because he couldn’t get medical care or they came under attack again? The questions started to spin in his head as he stood outside his own door.

  “Lord, I don’t know what you’re up to by bringing Vicky into our lives, but you’ve got me questioning things I thought I had settled. Can’t say that I’m liking it right now, but You’re the boss. Guide me to do Your will, even if I don’t like what it is.” He sighed deeply, knowing God heard his prayer and would answer in His own time. “Amen.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Can I cook?” Vicky asked as Nana Ruth worked at the dry sink. Being a burden on the older woman chafed. Vicky had always been independent—to a fault, according to her mother. Magda’s girls had grown up helping in the kitchen, and Vicky had silently watched with longing for the camaraderie and sense of belonging they had.

  When she was old enough to wield a knife, she attempted to chop her first onion. The experience had caused a lot of tears, both before and after she had cut her finger. Somehow, in the days that followed, Magda’s girls started treating her like their younger sister. When they had married, she felt the loss almost as much as Magda did, and she stepped in to do what they had been doing. Now maybe she could earn her keep in Chris’s cabin.

  “You want to eat now, honey child?” Nana Ruth asked.

  “Sí, I want to eat.” Repeating the words helped her remember them better. “But I cook food?” She stood slowly.

  “Now, settle on down, honey child. I be movin’ slow with this here...” Nana shuffled toward the counter and dry sink.

  “No, Nana no cook. Vicky cook.” Pointing to herself and then the large fireplace, she tried once more. “Nana rest.” She’d heard that word so often from Chris that she hated it.

  “I can’t have you cookin’ for me, child. Bad enough Master Chris seein’ to so much ’round here.”

  Without waiting for permission, Vicky pulled the canister in front of her and peeked in. Excelente! Flour. Looking around, she cataloged the ingredients that she had on hand. No chilies, no tomatoes, no lemons, no cilantro, no garlic, but the stems of an onion stuck up from a basket on the countertop. Flour, water, salt and lard were all that she needed for tortillas.

  Within minutes she had the ingredients for the tortillas assembled, but it hurt to stir it all together. Tears escaped, but she refused to give up.

  “Here, how ’bout I hold this bowl while you mix it up,” Nana offered. She held the bowl firmly while Vicky struggled to pull the fork through the mixture. An eternity later, she stood back and nodded. It wasn’t as perfectly mixed as she would have liked, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

  “Where for cook?” she asked.

  “Skillet’s under there, child.” Nana pointed to the cloth hanging under the wet sink. When Vicky pulled the curtain back, she found three shelves, two stocked with canning jars and the lowest holding an assortment of cooking equipment. Kneeling in front of the shelves, she started to inspect the new treasures she had found. Green beans, jelly and some unidentifiable greens were closest to the front.

  “Que rico!” Tucked in the back corner was a jar that looked like Magda’s salsa. Finally! Something to put a little flavor and spice into the bland foods.

  “What are you doing?” Chris’s question caught Vicky by surprise. She hadn’t even noticed when he arrived. Standing so quickly caused another fire to blaze through her ribs.

  “I...” She paused to find the words again. “I cook for you, honey child.” The words slipped off her tongue easier than they would have just a few days ago. Chris’s eyes opened wide for a moment, and then he laughed. A full belly laugh. Any other time she would stop to listen because she had never heard him laugh like that. But not when he was laughing at her.

  Did he think she had no cooking skills? It was true that she had let them wait on her hand and foot because she had been too injured to see to even the most basic of her needs, but now that she was on the mend, she would show him.

  Nana Ruth laughed, too. Well, she’d prove it to both of them.

  Straightening her spine, she dragged the jar up to the counter and stared at it. Yes, the food would taste better with a touch of salsa and some tortillas, but a small part of her wanted to taste Magda’s cooking again. Living at the Americano’s ranch made her feel as if she were cut off from her life on the hacienda. Holding a jar of Magda’s salsa wasn’t nearly the same thing as getting a hug from her dear friend, but it was the closest she’d come in days.

  “Don’t be mad, Vicky.” Chris set a pail of milk on the counter and then squeezed her arm slightly as if he wanted her to turn around.

  “I cook. I make tortillas,” she barked over her shoulder, unwilling to face either one at the moment. If they laughed in her face, she wasn’t sure she could keep the tears under control.

  “I’m sure you can cook just fine, Vicky. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself by doing too much too soon.”

  “I cook now. Go there.” She pointed to the table next to Nana, still refusing to look at either one.

  “How about if I help?” he offered.

  “I no want.”

  “I know you don’t want help, Vicky, but I have a feeling you still need it.”

  “You no think I cook.” Her statement came out more of an accusation.

  “I believe you are an excellent cook,” he retorted.

  “Oh, sí—excelente! No, you ‘ha, ha, ha, ha’...” she argued, unable to keep her words from spilling out.

  “I laughed? I guess I did, but not about you cooking.” He pulled on her shoulder again. “I laughed that you said ‘honey child’ just like Nana does.”

  “Sí, I learn English. I learn talk Nana.” She thought it sounded very close to Nana’s English. And he had no right to tease her about her English. He had learned only a few phrases of Spanish, and he didn’t use those very often, while every day she conversed with them in English.

  “What’re we gonna do ’bout that girl?” Nana started to laugh again.

  “You certainly learned to ‘talk Nana,’ but some things she says you probably shouldn’t say. She can call me ‘honey child’ because she’s my Nana. She took care of me when I was a boy. But you can’t call me ‘child.’ I’m older than you and...not your honey.” His voice dropped a bit on the last words.

  “What honey?”

  “Honey is sweet, from the bees.” He reached around her, into the cabinet, and came out with a jar with a piece of honeycomb. “This is honey.”

  “Miel—honey. Bien. But why Nana say me honey?” She finally turned to look at him. His closeness mixed her up inside. When he was near, she felt safe and protected and yet nervous at the same time.

  “Because you’re sweet.” He ducked his head and turned to study her work. “What are these?” Chris pointed to the dough she was flattening into tortillas.

  “It masa...dough? For tortilla.”

  “So how do we eat this?” He reached for one and made as if to take a bite.

  “No! Chris, need cook. No eat, Señor.” She put her hand between his mouth and the raw dough.

  “Why do you call me Señor?”

  “You no Señorita.” Nana snorted behind them. At least someone was being entertained.

  “Señorita is what you are, no?” He quirked his left eyebrow, his blue eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Yes, I Señorita. When marry—” she suppressed the urge to shudder at the thought “—I get Señora.”

  “Miss Ruiz to become Mrs.?”

  “I no want Mrs.
” Especially if it meant becoming Joaquín’s wife.

  “Oh, come on, Vicky, a pretty lady like yourself must want to marry and have a home and family of her own.”

  If only he could understand. Of course she wanted to marry if the man would treat her with respect and affection like Berto treated Magda. But that wasn’t her future. A man as kind and handsome as Chris would be a dream to marry. But that was all it was, a dream.

  He may have said she was pretty today, but he couldn’t possibly see her as anything other than a dark-skinned Indian.

  * * *

  Even as the words escaped, he wanted to take them back, silence them forever. Each day it became harder to think of life going back to normal once he returned her to her own people.

  By the time Vicky had children, she would have forgotten all about him and his cabin in the woods. He couldn’t even speak her language, and he certainly couldn’t give her the life she was used to. He’d seen the hacienda’s main home, a small palace really.

  “Vicky,” he said, watching her slow and purposeful movements. She needed to lie down before she jeopardized the progress she had already made.

  She shook her head, knowing what he was going to say. “I cook tor-ti-yahs.” Her words were carefully enunciated as if she were explaining something complex to a child.

  “What are torti-yahs?”

  “Like bread.”

  “So do we need to cook them in the soup for lunch?”

  “No, we cook now, for eat hot with...” She searched for the right word.

  “She wanted to cook something for breakfast, Master Chris. That much I can gather. The rest be a mystery.” Nana gave him a look that said, “Fix this.”

  “So how do we cook the torti-yahs?”

  “On sartan.” With those words she ducked back down and rummaged around until she came back up with the cast-iron frying pan. At least she started to come back up. Between the weight of the pan and her hurt ribs, it looked like she might either drop the pan or pass out, or maybe both. Snatching the frying pan in one hand and wrapping the other arm around her waist, he held her upright, tucked against his side.

  He felt his pulse jump and his longing for solitude dissipate like the morning fog under direct sunlight.

  “This frying pan weighs more than you do. Why don’t you let me take it and you direct?”

  With Vicky distracted, Chris led her to a chair and had her sitting before she noticed.

  Vicky nodded but then quirked a brow at Chris. “I no can cook here.” She pushed against the table.

  “You made the dough, Vicky. Now I will cook it and you tell me what to do,” he offered, standing behind her chair so she couldn’t scoot it back out. “Now, do I fry these in lard?”

  It took only a few minutes for him to have a good idea of what he was doing. The round flat dough went on the dry, hot frying pan until it started to pull away or get dark spots on each side. Once he mastered flipping them over with the edge of a table knife, he started to collect them on a plate. They reminded him of flapjacks, but they didn’t smell nearly as inviting. In quick order all the tortillas were done.

  “No take off.” Vicky ordered him around quite easily. “Now we cook...how call?” She pointed to the eggs she had been carefully cracking in another mixing bowl and had beaten with a fork.

  “Eggs, child,” Nana answered before he could. “Them be eggs.”

  “Eggs. No take off sartan, frying pan?” At his nod of approval she continued. “We cook eggs.”

  Vicky got a spoonful of lard and handed it to him. “On frying pan.” She pointed and he followed her instructions. She added milk from the bucket to the eggs, then salted and peppered her concoction. It almost hurt him physically to not take the fork from her hands, but then she would just take his place at the fireplace, and bending up and down to get to the skillet would cause her a whole lot more pain than a little mixing would.

  “I think I can take it from here.” He stole the bowl from her before she could carry it over. “Go sit down.”

  “No sit down. Salsa.”

  “What’s salsa?”

  “In here.” She held up one of the seven jars of soup Berto had included in their trade last year. Twice he’d tried to heat up the soup and each time, the spicy flavor almost choked both Nana and him. They’d finally left it alone, hoping to never get so hungry as to have to choke more of it down, and now Vicky wanted to heat it up for breakfast? Could she be trying to get revenge on him for his tasteless soups, or did she not know how spicy the stuff was? Or was it an acquired taste? If so, would it be something that reminded her of home?

  If it meant something to her, he’d try to get some of it down.

  “I’ll cook that next,” he promised, hiding his grimace and ignoring Nana’s snort. She must have recognized what Vicky had unearthed.

  “No cook salsa!” The look she gave him declared him crazy. “Salsa for tortilla.”

  “Sure hope the tortilla thingy makes that soup better,” Nana mumbled.

  “No soup, salsa!” Vicky shook her head and returned to the task of trying to open her infamous salsa.

  “Don’t, Vicky. I’ll open it for you.” He swiped up the jar from her. It took two tries, but he heard a click, and the smell of onions, tomatoes, garlic and something else greeted him.

  He set it down on the table and went back to pull the frying pan off the coals.

  “I think it’s ready,” he announced as Vicky set a plate down at the place he normally occupied. She returned for the others, but he cut her off. “Go sit, woman. You’re going to end up back in bed if you don’t take it easy.”

  He set plates in front of her and Nana.

  “No need.”

  Vicky pointed to the cutlery he had brought with him and the cups for breakfast. “No, no need forks.”

  “Well, how you plannin’ on eatin’ your food?”

  “You see.” Her tone was subdued. Was she angry or just worn out? “Chris talk to ‘Good Lord,’” she ordered but kept her eyes on the plate in front of her.

  “You want me to pray?”

  “Sí, say thank you to Dios for food.” At least she had learned that they prayed before meals. Had she learned anything about God as she lived with them? He hoped so. He prayed silently that he could be a godly example of Christian charity to her.

  As soon as he uttered “Amen,” Vicky took a tortilla, laid it flat on her plate and served a small portion of egg right on top. Then she spooned a helping of salsa, folded one end up and rolled up the flat bread into a roll with the eggs and salsa inside. Lifting it to her mouth, she took a bite from the open end, closing her eyes in what seemed to be delight. She beamed at them as soon as she had swallowed. “This how eat tortilla.”

  He held his breath to see how she would react to the horrible burning from the salsa, but she surprised him by taking another bite.

  “Well, I’ll be. Never seen it done quite like that!” Nana Ruth shook her head at the sight but then fixed up her own with just a small dab of salsa.

  “You no like?” Vicky’s worried gaze caught Chris’s.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried them before.” Pulling a piece of torti-yah off, he tossed it into his mouth. Didn’t taste like much of anything. Maybe flour and lard. Not as delectable as fresh-baked bread, but edible. And if it made Vicky feel more at home, for one day he could set his own preferences aside. “No tiene sabor.” He grinned cheekily at her, remembering her words from the first time she ate his soup.

  “No eat like that, Chris,” the girl admonished. “La tortilla no tiene sabor.”

  “You said that about my soup. No tiene sabor.”

  “No have...? What word?”

  “Flavor. It doesn’t have any flavor.”

  “My stars!” Nana Ruth wiped at the ju
ice running down from the side of her mouth. “This here surely does have flavor, Master Chris. Wakes a body up for the mornin’.” She took another large bite and nodded her approval at Vicky.

  Vicky grinned at Nana’s praise, daintily finishing off her roll without anything dripping. Chris’s first roll fell apart as he bit into it. Then on the second try, it drizzled down his hand and arm. Vicky laughed at his struggle, but after a while it didn’t really matter. The food, though messy as all get out, was delicious. Strange how just mixing the right ingredients could create a whole new experience. Something as bland as the flatbread mixed well with the salsa that no one could stomach on its own. Could a hacienda princess ever mix well with a humble American horse breeder?

  Chapter Eight

  With a sigh, Vicky set the knitting down on the table. She was dressed in her own skirt and blouse now, having had a bath the night before. Three pairs of socks, a shirt for Chris and the start of a pair of pants had occupied her hands for the last four days. She had accomplished quite a bit, but she couldn’t make herself sit still any longer.

  Now the sunshine peeked through the cabin windows like a young childhood friend cajoling her to come and romp with the colts. How many times had she snuck out of the house to play with Juan Manuel and José Luis? At first the boys, two years older than her, didn’t want her to follow them at all, but then when the toro almost trampled her, they had begrudgingly let her participate if for no other reason than to keep an eye on her.

  To make it up to them for having to play with a girl, she ran faster, pushed harder, tumbled and fought with as much heart as any boy, and they soon became the three musketeers of the hacienda. Of course, Mamá yelled at her for her unladylike behavior. Even if she had been the most poised, ladylike of all the young señoritas in the area, her skin and hair color upset her mother. She could no more win her mother’s affection or approval than she could change the color of her eyes.

  Lost in her thoughts, it took a minute to realize the door had opened and Chris had entered. When she looked up at him, he grinned. “You have a visitor, Vicky. Would you like to come and see?” he asked from the doorway.