Perhaps she’d found an ally. She leaned close and whispered, “You remind me of a friend’s horse. Would you take me away from this place if I asked?”
The horse blew through his nostrils and pressed his head against her. Rebekah smiled and gave him another pat. She reluctantly moved away from the corral. She needed to keep looking for allies.
She circled a casita. To her amazement, the laughter of children met her ears. As she came around the corner, she found a backyard where a boy and girl played with a white puppy, taking turns chasing it and it chasing them. A woman sat on the back stoop, mending, while a man worked a round stone, sharpening a knife blade. Several knives lay on a table beside him, along with three hoes and a machete, as though it was his job to sharpen everything in the village.
The children halted and gaped at Rebekah. The woman looked up, along with the man. The family stared at her, silent.
Rebekah backed away. What sort of place was this that could hold her hostage while children played carefree?
She continued her slow trek through the village, imprinting the sporadic roadways and buildings in her mind. It didn’t appear to have any sort of master design, just pieces added when they were needed for who knew how long.
Though Rebekah appeared to be wandering, she did have a final destination in mind. She was getting as close to freedom as she could.
She reached the bottom of the road that led out of the valley and stared up it.
The road appeared built by engineers who knew what they were doing. She guessed it was 300 yards, and there were no brush or boulders along the way to make a clandestine trip to the top. No shadows to hide in, nor a trench to crawl through. The right side of the road was sheer rock face while the left was a steep drop into the valley.
The dappled gray horse could gallop it in under a minute—which was ample time for someone with moderate shooting skills to get in several deadly shots at her.
“You must not think such thoughts, Señorita.”
Rebekah swirled at the sound of a gravelly voice speaking the Spanish words behind her. A whisper of an old man stood there, looking as though he had existed in that spot for ages, like a stone statue from another era.
He wore a wide sombrero and a faded wool poncho despite the warming morning. A wood cane in his hand looked like an extension of his body, a third limb that kept him upright. His face, the color of stained oak, appeared carved from the earth, reminding Rebekah of the Indian elders in her life. Her heart stung with a longing for home.
The old man gestured toward the road behind her. “You must not think such thoughts. Those who try to reach the top without leave always fail.”
Rebekah felt her tense shoulders go slack, unable to hold back the feeling of defeat. Anyone who had seen her staring at the road knew what she was thinking, but it didn’t matter. It was impossible to escape by simply riding up the road.
The old man held up a gnarled finger and crooked it at her. “Come, you should have a cool drink of water and a siesta. You are very, very tired.”
This old man was very, very right. Despite days of rest, the hard ride through the Chihuahuan Desert and all she had endured in the weeks before were catching up to Rebekah. It started with the Baxter brothers holding her at their ranch near the Palo Duro Canyon and escaping from there with Jimmy.
But really, she could trace her fatigue to before that—working long hours at the hospital in Amarillo; before that, her work in Indian Territory; her mission before that; and before that, and before that.
When was the last time she truly rested? Even on her last visit to Doctor McKinnon’s ranch, she hadn’t relaxed in her spirit. Her soul was as restless as her body. It had been since she’d been driven off the Omaha Indian Reservation.
And now, there she was at Los Abrigos, the shelter for bandits, a place she certainly couldn’t rest.
The old man began shuffle-walking back toward the village. Rebekah joined him, taking half steps to match his pace. She asked, “What is your name, Señor?”
“My name is Gabino Fuentes.”
A jolt went through Rebekah and she glanced at him. He was slightly shorter than her when walking hunched over his cane.
“That is the same last name as the two sisters who work in the Grande Colina Hacienda,” she said. “They have cared for me well.”
The old man kept his steady pace. “I know this. Antonia has told me stories of who you are, though she knows very little. Antonia and Carmelita are my granddaughters. I am not glad for them to work at the hacienda. Only their father, Martín, is.”
They reached his casita and the shade of its dirt porch, the overhang supported by rough-cut posts.
Gabino Fuentes pointed to two chairs situated outside the open front door. “I will bring water.”
Rebekah took a seat in one of the chairs, aware that she was in full view of much of the village activities. People went about their business, though she noticed glances her way. What kind of power, if any, did this old man hold among these people? Was he as evil as the Guerras? It was possible, but Rebekah sensed a different spirit in him.
Gabino Fuentes returned with a wooden tray shaking in his hand. Rebekah quickly stood and took the tray, noting the two pottery glasses of water and the pitahayas—fist-sized flaming pink and green fruit harvested from cactus.
“Gracias,” the old man said. Relieved of his burden, he shuffled a few more steps and sank into the other chair. Rebekah set the tray on a small table as she reseated herself. She handed him a water and took a long drink from hers.
She needed to find a canteen and keep it with her. In fact, she needed many supplies. If by some miracle she made it to the top of the road and past the three sets of guards, she would need supplies to see her to the border, or to the nearest town.
But what if the closest towns were under the Guerras’ control? Rebekah’s best chance was to head north for the border.
Rebekah settled in to the hard chair and remained quiet as she peeled a pitahaya, slowly revealing the white flesh inside.
She knew only a little of the Mexican culture, but if the elders were anything like those among her people, she was in for a long sit on the porch in silence.
She finished peeling the pitahaya and handed it to Señor Fuentes before taking up another one to peel.
Gabino Fuentes held his fruit in one arthritic-ridden hand while began speaking. “You are a wise and well brought up young woman. You must have the patience of Job to sit with a boring old man like me.”
Rebekah let her gaze roam the village scene before her, people going about their slow business in this strange setting. “Have you been here all of your life, Señor Fuentes?”
He chuckled. “All of my life and then some, or so it feels. I have lived my life, watched my son Martín live his, and now my granddaughters. Antonia and Carmelita, they have never known the world beyond this one. If I had known that would be the future of the children from my body, I would have run away from this place; from my father and his friend, Señor Thomas Guerra.”
Rebekah resisted the temptation to turn loose her bottled up questions at the speed of a Gatling gun. She took a bite of her peeled pitahaya. The strong flavor set her senses on edge. She felt old Gabino was watching her, but not like the Guerras did. It was as if he was forming his narrative based on who she was—the mark of a true storyteller.
“It was many, many years ago,” Gabino Fuentes went on. “Señor Thomas and my father never intended it to become this bandit-hole. They were angry at the Mexican government and wanted separation from it—a shelter. He and my father worked together. They built this place. My father engineered that road you are contemplating dying on.”
Rebekah closed her eyes briefly then reopened them, watching the village as Gabino Fuentes continued the story of Los Abrigos.
“They made this place impenetrable so that we could live in peace. Señor Thomas and my father, and ten other young families, threw in their lot with us. I was fifteen at
the time. We were all very close, and trusted one another implicitly. But their mistake was in not placing checks and balances in the power structure. They thought the people here knew better than to corrupt this garden of Eden. But there is a serpent in every Eden, sí?
“When my father died in a riding accident—far too young for such a strong man—Señor Thomas Guerra was solely in charge. But he was so busy fortifying this place he did not realize what his young daughter was scheming.”
Rebekah had some trouble following the long narrative in Spanish, but she was certain she understood this part. She swallowed. “That would be Sancho Guerra’s grandmother?”
Gabino Fuentes drew in a deep breath, past the point of lung capacity it seemed to Rebekah. He finally let it out slowly, ending in a puff.
“Sí. Isabel Guerra was my age when we moved here, but quiet, and I paid her little mind. As the years went by and I struggled to make a life here, she was building allegiances among the families. It wasn’t until our hunting party of young men returned with the Mexican army chasing them that we realized what she had done—sent them out to steal a shipment of gold from the government. We defended our young men, making us all wanted criminals. Señor Thomas tried to set the village back to rights, but he was ill and died within a few months. I was preoccupied with raising my own family and didn’t realize how Isabel positioned herself as queen of the village. When she had one of our own people executed for dissidence, and the others allowed it, I realized how complete her control was. She even retained her father’s name when she married. Ah. Her husband. He was a good man—while he lived.” Señor Fuentes sighed. “My own health was failing and my son was starting his family. He wanted peace above all, and convinced me to turn a blind eye to Señora Guerra and her ways. But her ways must end.”
Rebekah held her breath, trying not to show the hope those simple words gave her. During her time of recovery, she thought about how the blow of losing so many men at the mission in New Mexico must have hurt the valley. Were things starting to crack in the village? Was Abuelita Guerra losing control?
Señor Fuentes took a long sip from his water, his hand shaking from fatigue and the many years of his hard life.
Rebekah found herself looking him over with a practiced eye—no longer seeing him as the enemy nor a potential ally, but as an old man who had health conditions she might be able to help with.
She tapped his untouched pitahaya. “Please eat this, Señor. It will give your body a boost.”
He rested the fruit on his leg with a chuckle. “I forget you are a doctor. But please, Señorita, do not waste your medical skills to keep me alive. I would most welcome death.”
To stop her mind from running through the possible remedies she could treat him with, Rebekah let her eyes sweep across the village again.
The sound of clipped footsteps brought her attention to the left to see a tall man striding toward the porch. His right arm was in a sling, his hand bandaged. He had that frightened-angry look that she recognized, similar to many faces Rebekah saw in this place. His eyes went from her to the old man who frowned at the sudden approach.
The tall man spoke rapidly. “Papá, why are you speaking with this woman? She is condemned and will soon die.”
Gabino Fuentes lifted his head higher to look up at his son who towered over him.
“Martín, if she is to die soon, I have had the honor of preparing her last meal.”
Martín Fuentes glared at Rebekah. He waved his hand as if shoeing her away like a horse fly. “Leave. Leave! Leave my family, my daughters. If I hear you are filling Carmelita and Antonia’s minds with nonsense of the outside world, I will kill you myself.”
Rebekah set aside her cup of water and rose. She doubted this man possessed the spine to do her harm, but he was desperate—and desperate men were capable of most anything.
She looked down at Gabino Fuentes. “Thank you for the refreshments, and the story. There is very little in this village for a condemned woman to do.”
Rebekah headed back toward the Grande Colina Hacienda on the hill, away and opposite of Gabino Fuentes’ dwelling. Opposite in every way.
Chapter 8
Rebekah spent the next morning with the sisters and the cook in the Grande Colina Hacienda kitchen, preparing mountains of food. With dinner in Rebekah’s room the evening before, Carmelita informed her that there would be a fiesta, a grand celebration for the safe return of Sancho and Edgardo Guerra.
Rebekah suspected the fiesta was meant to distract grieving families from the men who hadn’t returned. Although, according to Carmelita, many of the bandits had been mercenaries who joined Sancho and weren’t from the valley. But not all.
Carmelita grew quiet at this, and Rebekah wondered how many Carmelita valued were lost in the mission raid that Rebekah helped with. Did the Fuentes sisters hold ill-feelings toward her for it? They didn’t seem to, but then, they were still fascinated by the foreign woman.
The fiesta was likely Abuelita Guerra’s attempt to re-strengthen her power over the disgruntled people who had expected riches to return along with their army. According to Carmelita, the people in the valley worked hard to grow food, make clothing, and raise herds of sheep, cattle, and horses. The Guerra family’s responsibility was to bring in supplies and money.
It seemed Sancho and Edgardo had returned penniless from the raid, which, although people celebrated their return at first, were questioning what the leadership would do to support them now.
Abuelita Guerra would probably make some sort of announcement while everyone’s hearts were merry and gain their recommitment to loyalty and whatever her next scheme was.
Hopefully, whatever Abuelita Guerra had planned to cheer the people up wouldn’t include Rebekah’s execution.
Rebekah held out hope that the people would see her value as a medical doctor. If she could treat enough people in the village, from helping with childbirth to bandaging bullet wounds, she would gain friends there. It would be a long, slow process, but there was no help coming from the outside. Being the doctor of Los Abrigos would give Rebekah time to plan a real escape, one that didn’t involve her getting killed.
Meanwhile, Rebekah decided to make herself useful with helping prepare the generous feast that Abuelita Guerra was going to bestow on her people.
The food, which the hacienda cook started the evening before, was ready by noon. Rebekah went with the Hacienda servants carrying it down to the center of the village where several tables were set up for the feast.
The celebration was getting underway within the horse corral. The horse herd had been removed and temporary chutes built inside, along with grandstands around it. They were having a rodeo.
As Rebekah approached the table with her large bowl of corn, one of the chutes opened and out busted Edgardo, riding a bronc as onlookers whistled. He rode the bucking horse around the corral once before rolling and landing on his feet in a billow of dust.
He removed his sombrero and swirled it in an elaborate bow, grinning as the audience cheered. Rebekah felt a pain in her heart. He looked like the happy young man he should be at his age.
Edgardo took another turn and Rebekah caught the kind smile he cast Carmelita’s way. The girl was standing near the chutes, her blush showing despite her rebozo, a long shawl covering her head.
The moment came and went in Rebekah’s heart when the crowd realized the food was there. She quickly took several steps back as the men converged on the tables.
There was no order to the meal. They grabbed tortillas and made burritos, eating chips and salsa as they moved from table to table, laughing.
It was a blend of people raised by bandits with a semblance of their dignity still intact.
Rebekah thought the fiesta would end before dark, but Abuelita Guerra apparently intended the celebration to go into evening. The woman spent the day seated on a red velvet chair atop a high platform, an awning shading her in the afternoon heat. Antonia stood on one side of the platform, lo
oking frightened as she fanned the queen of the valley.
As darkness fell, children set off fireworks, shrieking and laughing. There was music, tambourines and guitars and shouts throughout the village.
The day before, four of the village men returned from a successful raid in a nearby town. They brought back a few dry good supplies, and two cases of whiskey. Torches lit up the valley as the people indulged in dance and song and drink.
Abuelita Guerra was sealing the cracks in her domain.
Rebekah kept herself away from the excitement as much as possible, opting to stay close to the food tables. It was disheartening to see Carmelita dancing with Edgardo. They looked as happy as young people should, but what kind of future could they have in Los Abrigos?
As the evening continued growing wilder, Rebekah returned to the hacienda with the cook for more food. Rebekah contemplated retiring to her room, knowing where the drinking would ultimately lead.
But the cook insisted she carry a pot of beans down to the tables. Rebekah would slip away after that.
Staying in the shadows of adobe dwellings, Rebekah settled a pot on the table farthest from the drinking.
“Doctor Rebekah.”
She jerked back, looking up to see Sancho Guerra approaching her.
Their eyes met and she knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid him. She reached for a tortilla as though to make herself something to eat.
Sancho pressed his fingertips against the back of her hand, forcing the tortilla back into its container.
“Will you permit me this dance?” he asked.
Rebekah felt like he was choking her again. She gasped for a breath while saying the first thing that came to mind.
“I do not wish to.”
Wrong words. Sancho’s face darkened to that tint he had moments before his hands had gone around her throat.
But now he smiled, amused.
“Doctor Rebekah, when your captor asks you to dance…you accept.”
Sancho walked his fingers across her hand then wrap them around hers. He pulled her around the table that had separated them.
Desert Captive (Doc Beck Westerns Book 4) Page 4