“You need make viha.”
“Viha?”
“Vill-age?” Vicky hesitantly tried to explain.
“Village? You want me to found a town?”
“You give work to three, no, five men with horse, and they build house for they familias. You no live too far away if you have viha.”
“Viha is village?”
“Sí, group of house together.”
“Well, I’ll think on that. It might work. Someday.” But who would be willing to drag their family out to the wilderness and start a village with him? And would he want to give up his solitude? It would defeat the purpose, but maybe his purpose wasn’t quite as noble as he had once thought.
Then again, if he had a village close by, he’d have been able to get word to Vicky’s family that she was safe and recovering in his home. They might have sent someone to tend to her and already managed to transport her back...
It would have solved the problem of how to take her home, but it would have reduced his time with her. Their evening Bible readings, the new foods and stories that she shared with him and Nana. He would have missed out on most of those memories if there had been other families living nearby who could have cared for a young woman.
She may be someone else’s betrothed and leaving in just a few days, but for the meantime, he wanted to learn all he could about her and teach her as much English as she could take in. He’d never seen someone so eager to learn before. If nothing else, she would always remember his English lessons, and maybe she’d remember him, as well. He knew he would never forget her. The laughter and the beauty she brought to his life. The excitement he felt each time he strode toward his cabin where the woman waited for him with dinner would vanish along with her, but he’d always treasure her memory.
* * *
Chris had spread a blanket out for them on the grassy slope near the bubbling creek. The sun peeked between the trees, dancing like gold dust on his hair. Vicky watched where he had told her to wait, and something caught in her chest.
He was so handsome and wonderful, and took such good care of her. What kind of man did that? And why did he choose to live out here, on his own like an outcast, when he had such a good, loving heart? Surely he could do so much for a community if he were to live among people. If he lived closer to her own brothers, she would send them to help him with the horses and to learn how to be real men by watching him.
“All set, now—careful.” He took her hand and helped her walk over the uneven ground to the picnic he had laid out. He had plates, serviettes and cups for both of them. In the basket, the cold chicken that she had fried for them the night before was waiting for them along with slices of bread. Glad she had contributed to their outing, she let him help her settle on the blanket.
As soon as he sat down facing her across the basket, he took both of her hands in his, a now familiar occurrence, bowed his head and thanked God for the beautiful day, good food and the pleasant company.
Alone with Chris, she could forget that Don Joaquín waited for her somewhere and that Papá should have come looking for her weeks ago.
Pushing all thoughts aside except the enjoyment of the day, she glanced back at Chris and found him watching her intently. Her cheeks felt warm, and she wondered if she had something on her face. She swiped her face with the napkin, but it came away clean.
“Do I have food?” she finally questioned, pointing to her face after another attempt came away clean.
“No, you are perfect.” But even as he said the words, he stretched out his arm and ran his thumb up her cheek and then tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.
“Um...” Searching for something to say, she opened her mouth and words rushed past before she could stop the flow. “Why you live here, all alone? Why you and Nana no have family or friends? No villa?”
He leaned back on his arms, looking over to the running water, and the silence ran on. She almost told him not to tell her if he didn’t want to when he finally turned tortured eyes back to her and, with a deep breath, began his story.
“Growing up, my father owned about seventy slaves. All the big plantations in the area owned slaves, and most of the ministers and other leaders considered owning slaves a way white men actually ‘helped Christianize the heathen blacks.’ But I spent more time with Nana Ruth and Jeb than I did with my own family and discovered I couldn’t treat slaves like anything other than people. My father hated the fact that I treated the slaves well. Growing up, I was miserable. The lowest time in my life was when my father sold Nana’s son to a neighbor. He was only a few years older than I was, and I still can remember...” He swallowed and turned back to the stream, clearing his throat before he went on. “I remember Nana crying when she thought I wasn’t there.” He paused for a minute, and she was afraid he would stop talking altogether.
“So when my father died, I freed the slaves. Every single one of them that very day. Drew up their papers and told them they could go with my blessing and some money to start somewhere else. Or they could stay on my plantation and work for wages just like the white men did. Most stayed, and the next year we had the best yield ever.”
She could only stare as he continued, her awe growing as he spoke. She knew he was kind, but he had gone against everyone, even his own father, in defense of slaves—people who were of little consequence to those around him.
He picked up a twig and started ripping it to pieces. She doubted he realized what his hands were doing, but his intensity warned her that whatever was to follow still haunted him.
“Ezequiel, one of the younger slaves who had always had problems with authority, went to town and tried to go into the tavern. They kicked him out, but he forced his way back in and ran his mouth off about how he was as good as any of the white men there, that his money had the same value as theirs. They didn’t take kindly to his words.”
He swallowed hard and wiped his hand down his thigh, but she could see how it shook. She wanted to reach out and reassure him but feared he’d stop talking. “I remember when they brought his body home. They had beaten him and then lynched him. No one, no matter what they had done, should suffer like that.”
“Lynched?”
“Hung from a tree. No trial, no mercy. That night, the threats started. They accused me of inciting rebellion among the county’s slaves by freeing mine. They burned a few of the outbuildings and beat some of my men when they were out in the fields. Finally, I decided to sell the land that had been in the Samuels family for five generations. I sent all my workers to Canada where they could truly be free. I moved here with Jeb and Nana Ruth six years ago.”
He hung his head as if he had failed, but how could that be? He had fought for what was right. Even at great cost to himself and much danger. She laid her hand on top of his arm.
“But he talk for himself. He go where only white man and he black, no?”
“Yes, he went where only white men were welcomed and forced his way in. He said things that made the men very angry. But I can’t help but think if only I had gone into town that night once I heard rumor of what he was up to, maybe I could have kept him from running his mouth off. Or maybe I could have calmed the crowd—”
“Or maybe they put you in tree next to him?” Couldn’t he see what mattered? He’d freed men, women and children—more than seventy human beings who had been held in bondage. One misused his freedom, but Chris had still done a good thing.
“Chris, are you God?” Her words got the reaction she was looking for. He lifted his eyes, wide and dazed, and shook his head vigorously.
“Vicky, no, of course not!”
“You just man, and no man can fix all things.” Some things were just impossible to change—like the color of one’s skin.
“But I was supposed to take care of them. It’s my fault he’s dead.”
She stared
at him, shaking her head. “You make Ezequiel go and say those things?” She cocked her head and watched the wheels spin in his head.
“No, of course not, but I was supposed to protect him.”
“His dead is not your fault.” She wished she could convince him of her words.
“But Vicky, it was my action that freed him. It was my choice to let them stay in the area and work for wages for me, knowing that most stores would not sell to them or even let them set foot on their property. I set him up to be killed.”
“You make him slave or you free him?” she questioned pointedly.
“I freed him, but I didn’t give him the tools—”
“Freed mean you make own choice. You no fault for his death. No, you gave him respect and honor. He not know how white man treat slave? He not know how dangerous his actions?”
“Of course he knew.” Chris sighed deeply and turned away, dislodging her hand. “But I did, too.”
They both fell silent for a time, lost in their own thoughts. She had been enjoying this time with Chris, but now the mood had shattered. Part of her wished she hadn’t voiced her questions, but another part of her wondered if he had ever shared his feelings of guilt with anyone.
How could he? He lived all by himself with only Nana Ruth, who had raised him and had seen him suffer. Maybe he hadn’t believed her words today, but she prayed to the God he believed in that someday her words would echo in his ears and he’d see the truth. He was a good man. The best man she’d ever known.
Vicky took one last look at the beautiful meadow just an hour’s ride from Chris’s stables. From the riding path she had full view of the valley sloping down to the stream and his cabin, stables and other outbuildings sprinkled among the trees on his property up on the plateau way across the valley to the west. She had been only as far as the barn and the outhouse but not to the other buildings.
“Are you all right?” He mounted up next to her on Moonbeam and held the horse in check while he watched her. “Are you going to be able to get back to the house?”
It would have been a ten-or fifteen-minute ride if they could have crossed through the valley, but the stream was still flowing fast from the melting snow, and the other side was almost a sheer cliff. The route they would follow took the better part of an hour, but she didn’t mind. With Chris taking his time to guide the horses, keeping them at a frustratingly slow pace, she didn’t feel much discomfort. But now that she could ride this far, it was only a matter of time before her host turned her out. And occasions like today, a cool early spring day with the sun shining and the birds serenading them as they ate their lunch on the blanket, would be only a memory. When she returned to the hacienda, she would surely be turned over to Don Joaquín, and there would be no picnics with him. There would be no peaceful days outdoors. There would be no peace at all.
“Vicky, what’s wrong?” Chris reached out and tapped her shoulder gently. Ever since the day she had foolishly thrown herself at him when he had first let her ride Tesoro, he had been avoiding any physical contact with her. He no longer brushed her hair as he had the first few weeks or touched her hand except for when they prayed before meals. The only time he touched her now was when he helped her onto Tesoro—until today’s picnic. She had missed the contact.
“No thing is wrong.” She forced the words past her lips even though her heart seemed to break a little at the lie. “I no want leave. This is...” The English words escaped her, and she shook her head.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? But I need to see to the chores, and Nana Ruth has been home all day by herself. I need to check in on her.”
Vicky nodded, not correcting his assumption that she was talking about their picnic site. They traveled a few minutes in silence, both lost in their own thoughts, before he turned troubled eyes on her.
“Vicky, I’m sure you must miss your family, and I want to get you home as soon as you are able to travel...” His words hit her like a punch in her sore ribs. “But I can’t figure out a way to do it.”
He waited as if hoping for her to give him suggestions, but she had none. If she had any solutions she would not have offered them anyway. The longer she could stay in the safety and seclusion of his ranch, the better. Don Joaquín might give her up for dead and turn his sights elsewhere. Then she’d truly be free. If she told Chris everything, would he help free her? Would he see it as freeing another slave? But what if her freedom cost him something later on? Like his own solitude? Because someday, someone would find her there, and then he’d have to defend his innocent actions.
“You ride like you were born in the saddle, but Nana Ruth and horses don’t mix too well.”
“What mix?” He rode ahead so she couldn’t watch his face, but she’d seen him search for meanings of words so often in the last few weeks she could imagine his brows pulling together as if by an invisible string. A double perpendicular line would appear in the middle. How often she wanted to run a finger down the creases and tell him not to try so hard.
“Go together. You mix flour and lard and salt to make your tortillas.”
“Ya entiendo.” As soon as she said the words, he turned to look at her with a bit of irritation crossing his handsome features.
“Vicky, what does ya mean in Spanish?” His tone of voice caught her off guard, and she hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Ya is now. Ya entiendo, now I understand.”
“In English we say ‘Yah’ to the horses to make them move.” He chuckled, and she saw his shoulders relax a bit. “You’ve said ya to me before and I wondered if you...” He didn’t finish the thought, and it took a few moments to understand what he had been saying.
“No! Ya is now. I not talk you like horse!” She might easily confuse Don Joaquín for a beast but never Chris.
“Ya entiendo,” he called over his shoulder with another chuckle.
Chapter Eleven
Five days had passed since their picnic. Each morning he made a conscious decision to travel no more than a few miles from the cabin, and he hadn’t taken another picnic lunch even though the weather held. Doubtlessly Vicky must think he didn’t want to spend time with her, and in some ways that was true. Each time they set back toward the cabin in the late morning, a look of disappointment crossed her face, but she never complained.
He hoped she didn’t guess that his disappointment was as great as hers, but he couldn’t take the risk of getting more attached to her than he already was. When he’d told her about his past, she’d looked up at him with admiration in her eyes. It made him feel ten feet tall. A dangerous thing—thinking he could somehow deserve her approval. She didn’t know everything, though. She didn’t know that he hadn’t been able to find Nana and Jeb’s son. She didn’t know that he hadn’t been good enough to save Jeb, the man who had been more like a father to him than his own. If she did, she would have had a very different opinion about him.
The day after the picnic, he’d suggested hunting, assuming the task would cause her to stay home, but instead she showed as much excitement as when they first took the horses on the trail. She even bagged three rabbits and a turkey using his extra rifle. He’d shot only a pheasant.
That afternoon, Nana had told him that four men came to the ranch and searched the place. She had seen them coming and had hidden, thinking they were looking for valuables or animals to steal. Oddly, they didn’t try to make contact with her and left without taking anything. He’d not been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time since then.
Vicky’s innocent trust in him made his fear grow each day. If he didn’t manage to get her back to her home soon, something would happen to her. After all, she would not have been injured in the first place if she hadn’t come running to his defense against the cougar. He couldn’t afford to let her stay too much longer, but he still had to find a way to get her home without leavin
g Nana Ruth alone. Until he solved that problem, he was stuck in his own fear, fear of what he wanted and fear of what could happen to Vicky if he gave in to his heart’s demands.
As he and Vicky approached the yard, he spotted a trio of horses tied to the corral. He slowed and silently held a hand out behind him to halt Vicky. Pulling his rifle out of the scabbard, he dismounted still in the cover of the trees and turned to hand his reins up to Vicky. Instead, he found her standing next to him, his extra rifle drawn and ready. His blood froze in his veins, and terror stole his breath as he saw the seriousness in her eyes. She could be hurt or even killed if he was unable to defend them both. Then she titled her head to the side and studied the strange horses more closely. A smile spread across her face, and her eyes held an amusement that had been missing these last few days.
“Es Padre Pedro!” she announced, lowering her gun.
“The priest?” Chris studied the horses again and then noticed the third saddle had a red mantle under it with a white cross embroidered on the edges of both sides. He took a full breath as relief filled him. She was right. The last time the traveling priest had come through, Chris had noticed the blanket. But the man always traveled alone before. Had he come on his own power, or had he been attacked and his horse stolen? The men who had ambushed an old black man in the middle of the woods wouldn’t think twice about killing a priest either. Maybe his relief was premature.
“Sí. The priest. He not bad man. Put away rifle.” She sheathed her rifle and started to walk toward the yard, but Chris stopped her with a hand to her wrist. Despite the possibility of danger, he could not ignore the warmth that shot up his arm at the contact.
“Wait. Who do the other horses belong to?”
“I no know. I ask,” she stated simply as she tried to step past him. He held her wrist firmly and didn’t let her go, spinning her around to face him.
Rescuing the Runaway Bride Page 10