Rescuing the Runaway Bride

by Bonnie Navarro

“Señor Chris, this is Magda, wife of Berto,” Vicky spoke up as the woman took his handkerchief. It took a moment for her words to sink in. This was their housekeeper not Vicky’s mother. Had he made a cultural misstep?

  “Nice to meet you.” Chris managed to get out the Spanish greeting. The woman smiled, pinched his cheek and then said something to Vicky that made her turn a darker shade of pink. Vicky glanced his way, bit her lip, then looked away. Was that longing he saw in her eyes? What had the woman said? From the grin on the older lady’s face and Vicky’s blush, he could hazard a guess.

  After a moment of awkward silence, Don Ruiz invited Chris to have a seat, and they offered him lemonade and some sweet bread. Vicky began telling the story of what happened to her in Spanish to those gathered around while Chris sat back and watched the interaction of her family.

  True affection shone from Don Ruiz’s eyes as he pulled his chair closer to his daughter’s and patted her shoulder. What did his actions mean?

  Magda came and went, seeing to everyone’s needs. She shooed the boys off their sister’s lap, only for them to return there as soon as Magda left the room until Don Ruiz said a few stern words and both boys settled on the floor at her feet. Vicky’s father asked her question after question. Chris followed some of the conversation, picking up on words here and there.

  Where was Vicky’s mother? She hadn’t come to greet Vicky yet, and surely by now the entire hacienda had to know about her return. Was the woman ill? Bedbound? But if so, why hadn’t Vicky asked to go see her mother?

  “Chris?” Vicky caught him as he pondered her family.

  “Sorry, yes, Vicky?”

  “We go make clean now. We eat in one hour. You go see you room?”

  “That would be fine,” he answered in Spanish even though she had spoken English to him. If he could communicate in their language, he might win more favor.

  Don Ruiz led them all back to the staircase where Don Joaquín had gone before. At the top of the staircase, a balcony ran the length of the foyer with large windows looking out onto the courtyard that sat in the middle of the structure. They went down the left hallway, where Don Joaquín had gone to the right. At least Chris could hope that Vicky would be safe in her room, but then again, she should have been safe in her father’s office with her father, her father’s foreman and her would-be rescuer. They stopped at a door where Vicky and Magda entered. Don Ruiz continued on but Chris faltered. While it wasn’t his place to take care of her or see to her protection at the hacienda, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking of himself as responsible for her. He wondered if that would ever change, no matter how far away she was, or whom she was married to.

  “Señor,” Vicky’s father said over his shoulder, “your room.” He pointed to the door across the hall but still Chris hesitated.

  “Can you see?” He pointed to Vicky’s door, frustrated with his inability to communicate. “No Don Joaquín?” The older man’s eyes lit with understanding and something else. He nodded and returned to the door the women had just shut. Knocking, he entered without letting Chris in behind him, not that Chris would attempt to enter Vicky’s room unless they needed his help ousting an unwanted guest. Quickly the other man returned with a smile.

  “She’s with Magda. They are...” His words were lost on Chris but not the meaning. They were safe and he’d be staying across the hall. He entered a guest bedroom about as big as his whole cabin, with light streaming through the windows overlooking the side yard that led to the stables. A finely appointed double bed, set of dressers and a wooden chest at the foot of the bed with no personal effects except for his saddlebags confirmed this to be a spare room. In the corner was a screen for changing behind, and he could see the corner of a table behind it where he assumed he would be able to clean up.

  “Bath.” Don Ruiz pointed to the tub that sat behind the screen as well, steam curling up from it. At Chris’s nod, the man withdrew from the room. He took a few minutes to soak the travel dust off and wash his hair. He shaved and dressed in the dark blue chambray pants and shirt that Vicky had sewn for him during the weeks while she convalesced. He checked his image once more in the long mirror and sighed. He had once been a genteel Southern gentleman who owned a plantation worth over a hundred thousand dollars, but even so, he had never been of noble blood. Would that be the deciding factor against him?

  “Dear God, I don’t know the language, the customs or even if I stand a chance, but I know nothing is impossible with You. Just like Gideon went into battle with few men against a multitude knowing he would come away the victor because You had promised, help me to see the way I can help Vicky. Protect her from that vile man and use me to do it if it be Your will. Thank You, Father, for bringing us this far and lead us on until we reach home, either here, on earth or with You.”

  He heard movement out in the hall and quickly crossed the room. Swinging the door open, prepared to face either the object of his affections or his new enemy, he surprised Berto, who was about to knock. “Dinner is ready,” the man said slowly, as if coaching Chris to learn.

  “Vicky?”

  “Vicky in room.” He pointed to the door across the hallway.

  “I wait for Vicky,” Chris explained, crossing his arms and standing with his legs spread apart.

  “You good for her.” Berto clapped him on the shoulder and moved away, down the hallway toward the stairs. Chris stood a little straighter and felt his chest rise.

  Berto’s approval of Chris caused hope to grow in his chest. Would Don Ruiz pay any attention to Berto’s opinion of him?

  * * *

  Dressed like she were ready for a ball, Vicky snuck one more glance in the mirror and couldn’t believe it was really her. She had been forced to get dressed up for a few events since her Quinceañera four years before, but she hadn’t been worried about impressing anyone with her appearance. In fact, if she were truly honest, she had intentionally leaned a little too much to one side and slouched, trying to disguise her developing curves. If she had acted like she didn’t have a sane thought in her head and accidentally spilled food down the pure-satin gowns just to have an excuse to leave early, her only defense was that none of those men had ever been kind to her like Chris.

  But tonight, for just tonight, she wanted to be the princess for Chris. If only she had paid attention to Mamá’s lectures about how to attract a man’s attention. Maybe if she had, not only would she be able to impress Chris, but Mamá would have cared that her only daughter had returned. Magda had whispered earlier that Mamá’s head had been pounding terribly so she had taken to bed earlier in the day. She wouldn’t be able to help Vicky get ready for dinner. Not that it was a change from the normal. Mamá hadn’t taken any interest in Vicky in years.

  “Beautiful.” Rosa smiled at Vicky’s reflection in the mirror as she rearranged another curl. Magda had been up and down the stairs a number of times to check on her progress but had not left her alone, insisting that her daughters stay to help her. Rosa and Margarita had helped her to bathe and wash her hair, and then they had helped her into her fitted silk fuchsia bodice with elaborate lace around her low-cut collar and matching skirts with four petticoats underneath.

  She felt more like a fool than a princess. After all, no matter how much she tried to pretend to be beautiful, she was just a half-breed, half Spanish noble and half savage Indian, and her Indian characteristics all but eradicated the Spanish in her features.

  “Thank you, Rosa, Margarita.” She ran a hand down her dress from the neckline to the middle of the skirt and then pulled it out to the side, showing off her petticoats and slippers underneath. She would never be graceful or feminine. No, she should have been born a cowboy, comfortable only in peasant pants and old serapes to hide the girl underneath. She could wish all she wanted to, but she would never be white or tall or beautiful. She would never be elegant like Mamá.

  “
You are our princesa.” Rosa fluffed a flounce and smiled at her in the mirror. “Princesa” had been a nickname Berto had given her. The vaqueros teased her that a princess shouldn’t ride horses or be seen outside of the “palace” without their tiaras. Their teasing had egged her on to try to beat them in roping or jumping competitions that they had while out watching the cattle. Papá or Berto would have skinned her alive to see some of the stunts she had pulled out there, but José Luis had always kept an eye on her mischief and kept her from getting caught.

  “No, I was never a princesa,” she whispered to her reflection. “Princesas are graceful and winsome.”

  “No, Vicky, you are our princesa. And I know someone else who thinks so...” Rosa teased even as Margarita finished pinning her hair into place. Her hair swept up off her head in intricate braids with tendrils hanging down to grace her neck and forehead, she looked at the stranger in the mirror.

  “Don Joaquín,” Margarita answered with a wince. “And he won’t let that Americano steal you from him. He said something about not being able to have a child with you until after nine months so no one confuses an American dog with a noble-born Californiano.”

  “I won’t marry him. I’d rather die than to be wed to that...that pig!” she exclaimed.

  “I don’t blame you, but I don’t know how your papá can back out of an agreement now. Don Joaquín said something about bringing him up on charges of treason.” Rosa shook her head as she helped to put the dressing table to rights.

  “But how could he possibly say that?” Vicky asked, incredulous.

  “He said if your papá allowed you to consort with the enemy then he himself had become an enemy of California.”

  “But Chris is not the enemy of Mejico. He lives here in Alta California and has a wonderful home. He is a good man. He is not the enemy.” Vicky stomped her foot in frustration.

  Rosa smiled knowingly at her. “I see you have fallen in love with the Americano. How well does he kiss?” She raised a brow and studied Vicky closely. Vicky felt the heat color her face, and she looked away from her friends. Picking up the small hand fan that Papá had gifted her a few years before, she fanned her face and shook her head.

  She only wished she knew the answer to that. But he had never kissed her. Never given her any reason to think he saw her as anything other than his temporary charge that he could now turn over to her father.

  “It is time to go to dinner,” she announced, unwilling to say anything more about Chris.

  “Must have been some kiss!” Margarita stage-whispered to Rosa with a wink. “Either that or it was boring.”

  “What was boring?” Magda came charging back into the room just in time to save her from having to respond to Margarita’s taunts.

  “Kissing the Americano,” Rosa answered her mother with a shrug. “Vicky doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, so it must have been a horrible experience.”

  Magda chuckled as she came up and surveyed the work Rosa and Margarita had done. Placing a kiss on Vicky’s forehead, she smiled down on her. “I suspect it was just the opposite. That first kiss of true love is something to be kept private and secret. You don’t go around sharing that with anyone. No, you remember it for when you are waiting for him to come home at night. And when he finally comes in, you remind him again how much he likes to hold you close and kiss you until you both no longer can breathe.”

  “Aye, Mamá!” Margarita scolded. “I don’t want to imagine you and Papá. I was imagining that handsome young Americano.”

  “You have your own husband to run home to and kiss, young lady. I suggest you go there, before you put too many ideas in Vicky’s head.” Magda shooed the others out of the room. “It won’t be too much longer before you’ll be chasing young bucks with their serenades from your own daughters’ windows.”

  Rosa and Margarita fled from the room after groaning at their mother’s warning.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me,” Margarita exclaimed in the hallway. They twittered like birds in a bush. Their giggles carried back into the room, as did Chris’s quiet response to their attention, the cadence sounding like he was attempting to speak Spanish though the words were not clear. They giggled louder this time, just before the door closed and their conversation was cut off.

  “You look lovely, Vicky. Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure between your papá and your handsome Americano, they will work everything out. Neither one wants you to be saddled with that vile man.” She cupped Vicky’s chin and forced her to look at the lady who had been more of a mother to her than her own had.

  “Then why did Papá agree to it in the first place?” Vicky asked the one question that had bothered her most. Why had her father, whom she had always adored, been willing to turn her over to a monster? She would have understood if Mamá had somehow...

  “Your papá and your Americano will take care of this. Don’t you worry.”

  “But how can I not? Don Joaquín is not a strong man who could challenge Chris to a duel or even a fight. No, he would be the one to wait in the bushes and shoot him in the back without warning.”

  “Then your Chris will have to grow eyes in the back of his head and watch the bushes carefully, but it won’t matter to him—he loves you, mi’ja. And nothing but death will keep him from marrying you, Vicky.”

  “Do you really think so?” Hope sparked in her heart at the idea of Chris loving her like she loved him. But Magda’s words struck fear, too. Would it cost him his life or his rancho to defend or even be associated with her?

  “I don’t think so, I know so. Otherwise he wouldn’t be standing outside your door waiting to take you down to dinner.”

  “He just can’t speak the language and feels comfortable with me.” She explained away Magda’s words to keep the seeds of hope from burrowing deeper into her heart.

  “If you don’t believe he loves you, then at least pray to God to protect you. Surely you trust God even if you don’t trust your Chris and your father.”

  “God has never answered any of my prayers before. Why would He listen now?” Vicky replied harshly before she could stop the words.

  Magda shook her head and frowned. “God always listens and always answers. You may not like the answer He gives, but He listens. He cares. He loves. He sent Chris to save you.” She lifted Vicky’s chin once more.

  “Mamá said that God only listens to civilized ladies and gentlemen, and we both know I will never be a lady much less civilized...” Magda placed her fingers over Vicky’s lips, her look stern.

  “Your mamá may be the mistress of this hacienda and so I must show respect, but her tongue and her heart are filled with poison, worse than any serpent. She kills the soul with her words. Mi’ja, God loves all and invites you to talk to Him.”

  “Chris says the same thing. Did you know that he has a Bible in his own language? He read from it to me.”

  “And what did Chris say about prayer? Did he say it was only for the white, civilized rich? What about the slave woman you said lived there? Did she believe in God and pray to Him?”

  Thoughts of Nana Ruth gave Vicky pause. Nana Ruth prayed day and night, talking to “the Good Lord” and “Jesus Christ” and “Father God” all the time, as if He were right in the room and part of the conversation.

  “And you came back with the priest. Have you heard Padre Pedro ever tell anyone that God wouldn’t listen to them because they are ‘dirty Indians’ like your mamá says?”

  Magda’s words set her mind to reeling faster than a spindle when they were spinning wool into yarn. All this time she had feared to trust God because He hadn’t listened to her prayers. But if He had heard her prayers, why had He let Angelica die and left her to listen to her mother’s words of rejection time and time again? Why had He let Juan Manuel die and leave her without her older brother whom she adored? Why had God let her fi
nd out what it felt to be loved only to bring her back to the hacienda and be forced to marry Don Joaquín so that Chris would be safe?

  Yet, could she do it? Could she find the strength to marry that beast? Only God could give her that kind of courage. Bracing against the feeling of impending doom, she straightened her spine and hugged Magda for a long moment, cherishing the feel of safety and love. If she ended up married to Don Joaquín, she might never have the opportunity to do it again. Would she survive a marriage to such a man? Other women before her had not. What would make her any different?

  “Te quiero, Magda, mi vida.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek and then pulled away while she still had the strength to do so. Squaring her shoulders, she headed to the door and to her doom.

  “I love you, Vicky. As if you were my very own daughter, Princesa. Do not give up hope.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When the two women left Vicky’s room giggling and blushing as they stole looks at him, he had thought she would be out soon. As the time stretched out, he began to wonder if she was still in there. Maybe she had left before and their laughter had been about him lingering at an empty room. But then he heard the soft voices inside and resumed his patrol of the five feet on each side of her door.

  Surely he looked silly, besotted even, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t been successful in protecting anyone before, but Vicky wasn’t just anyone, she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, share everything with, create a family with, raise children...the possibilities were endless. Of course, they couldn’t start that life together until he found out from her father just what was expected of a suitor, and then he’d need to build a home worthy of her.

  That in itself would take a year or more, and he’d need to hire a number of men to get it done. The stash of money he had brought with him should get him started. Would she wait for him to build them a home? And honestly, with almost a ten-year difference between them, did he even have a chance? Would she even want him to court her? Or did she have a younger man whom she fancied? If she did, what would he do about it?