Книга - Rescuing The Runaway Bride

Rescuing The Runaway Bride
Bonnie Navarro


WRONG GROOM, RIGHT BRIDEWhen the beautiful daughter of a wealthy Mexican land owner is injured saving his life, Christopher Samuels must nurse her back to health. Despite their language barrier, Chris grows close to Vicky Ruiz…but she’s betrothed to another man. Can Chris care for the spirited young woman and find a way to take her home in time for her wedding, without falling for her in the process?Vicky would prefer spinsterhood to her arranged marriage. But while words aren't necessary to express the growing attraction between them, Vicky can’t make Chris understand her reasons for running away. He seems determined to return her “home” to her father’s hacienda. Why can’t Chris see that the only home Vicky wants is with him?







Wrong Groom, Right Bride

When the beautiful daughter of a wealthy Mexican landowner is injured saving his life, Christopher Samuels must nurse her back to health. Despite their language barrier, Chris grows close to Vicky Ruiz...but she’s betrothed to another man. Can Chris care for the spirited young woman and find a way to take her home in time for her wedding, without falling for her in the process?

Vicky would prefer spinsterhood to her arranged marriage. But while words aren’t necessary to express the growing attraction between them, Vicky can’t make Chris understand her reasons for running away. He seems determined to return her “home” to her father’s hacienda. Why can’t Chris see that the only home Vicky wants is with him?


“When go Vicky?”

The question caught him like a kick to his stomach as he cinched the saddle buckle tighter under his horse’s belly. Surely she didn’t expect to ride a full day and a half back to the hacienda if she hadn’t even been in the saddle once since her accident.

“You need to take things easy still, Vicky. If we try to take you back to the hacienda right now, you wouldn’t make it more than an hour or so.”

“I no ready go hacienda. I ready to ride. When Chris make horse take Vicky in corral?”

A breath of relief filled his chest. “You want to ride?”

“Sí!” She clapped her hands together. “Gracias, Chris!” In an instant she had all but thrown herself at him, squeezing him around the middle. His arms caught her and held her without his permission.

She belonged there. Right in his arms. She fit. As if Chris had been made to protect her and hold her within the shelter of his own arms. Of course, that was nonsense. Thinking that way only spelled disaster.

As soon as she healed, he’d take her back.


Dear Reader (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb),

Thank you for coming on this journey with Vicky and Chris. They have a special place in my heart and hopefully in yours now. Growing up, different cultures and languages fascinated me. The church I attended actively supported many missionaries, and I would pepper them with questions about their foods, languages and customs. In high school, I became involved in tutoring students newly arrived to the United States. Charades and a lot of pointing became a way of communication.

When I went to college, I met a man from Peru, and although he spoke English, he promised to help me learn Spanish by speaking only Spanish with me from then on. This June we will celebrate twenty-four years of marriage, and he still speaks “only Spanish” to me. I guess he’s kept his word. There have been times in our marriage where we have had issues with communication, sometimes because of the language, but most often because men and women are wired differently—for which I am extremely grateful.

As I’ve met people from all over the world or right around the block, I am constantly reminded that we are all God’s princes and princesses. And despite our differences we are all so very much the same. We all have fears, we all need to be loved and to love. We need community. We all want a hero who loves us enough to risk his own life to save us. I thank God that He is our hero. He loves each and every one of us regardless of our race, background, language, economic situation or education. And actually, He loves that we are diverse. After all, He designed each and every one of us and declares His creation “Good.”

I’d love to hear what you think about Vicky and Chris’s journey, or you can share your own. You can email me at bonnie12navarro@gmail.com (mailto:bonnie12navarro@gmail.com).

May God keep you and bless you on your journey.

Blessings,

Bonnie Navarro


BONNIE NAVARRO lives in Warrenville, Illinois. She and her husband, Cesar, will celebrate twenty-four years of marriage this year. They have four beautiful children, two still in high school and two college age. Cesar has often called their children Amerikicas—a mix of American and Inca. Bonnie works as a trained medical interpreter for a hospital close to home and when not at work, she is either reading, writing or knitting.


Rescuing the Runaway Bride

Bonnie Navarro






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For if thou altogether holdest thy peace at this time, then shall there enlargement and deliverance arise to the Jews from another place; but thou and thy father’s house shall be destroyed: and who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?

—Ester 4:14 (KJV)


To my own princesas. Liz and Gaby. You make your mother so proud of the beautiful women you are becoming, both inside and out. I pray daily for you.

And let’s not forget my guapos (handsome men). CJ and David, it makes my heart sigh to see God’s hand in your lives.

I stand in awe of the way my babies are all growing up and how blessed I’ve been. May God continue to bless you.

And none of our darling children would exist without my own hero, Cesar. Te amo and thank God that He placed you in my life so many years ago. Your encouragement to learn Spanish and submerging me in the Latino culture has given me a rich life, a career I never dreamed of and fodder for a few more stories... And when you cook dinner and see to the kids so I can write...I realize, how truly blessed I am.


Contents

Cover (#u45df7cfb-d52b-507b-9aaa-85e11f8eb9cd)

Back Cover Text (#u5025f5c0-f1e9-52c8-938f-c25bea63ef0a)

Introduction (#u70d4479e-9f85-59b2-a0a3-32bc0163b6e2)

Dear Reader (#ue2cb5768-71dd-56c9-b9c7-4b1c0b089d9d)

About the Author (#ud1a38cb8-b3a3-5e5d-a025-e0e50e02e582)

Title Page (#u13cc7916-7ac7-54f7-95b8-8ce1f940ec7c)

Bible Verse (#u8262cca1-a567-55dc-a104-ff71306c9e30)

Dedication (#ucbbaf0f1-0b0a-5910-a167-dcbfd2280aa1)

Chapter One (#ua5e39399-86b0-5f68-bbe5-3faaea031cd6)

Chapter Two (#u0fc5669f-f0a8-5b97-a016-07287c65a87f)

Chapter Three (#u9266e219-e637-5c98-9cf9-1b28cd9870bc)

Chapter Four (#u7599f698-cdf6-5db8-9dfd-65dde87b5800)

Chapter Five (#ube86c3ef-bff8-58ab-8ffa-b4158147b110)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb)

Mid-January, 1842

Alta California, Territorio of México

Tightening the strap under her chin, she pushed the old wide sombrero back on her forehead as she looked out over the swift stream. Vicky tried to ignore a growing sense of foreboding. Or at least she attempted to as she refilled her canteen. She had never seen this stream before. The fact that she didn’t recognize it could mean only that she had somehow wandered off Hacienda Ruiz land.

Rubbing a gold crucifix between her numb fingers, she tried to pray once more to a God she wasn’t convinced listened. An icy shiver sent fear up her spine and made her tremble as she hauled herself back onto Tesoro’s back. She’d had the chills most of the morning as she had tried to find her way out of the woods. Papá would be furious with her when he finally made it home, not to mention José Luis, who had made her promise to come back by midday if she didn’t catch up with Papá. But she had bigger concerns at the moment.

She’d chased after Papá, attempting to go with him to the secret meeting of the noblemen of the territory. She had to convince him to stop the plans for her wedding to Don Joaquín on her birthday. But the snow started to fall before she caught up to him and his men, and she was forced to take shelter in one of the rustic cabins on the outskirts of the hacienda, almost a full day’s ride from the main buildings. Somehow her journey brought her here, three days later, off hacienda lands and sick with a fever and no more provisions.

Tesoro, her best friend and true companion, shifted underneath her. “Que pasa, Tesoro?” Vicky asked the horse what she sensed, even as she patted Tesoro’s neck and urged her on downstream a few more feet. When Tesoro stopped and pawed the ground, a shudder passed through her, as well. They were no longer alone. Pulling her rifle out of its scabbard, she listened. Nothing. No sound. No bird singing or squirrels chirping. Utter silence. The wood’s way of warning about danger. Predators. Or strangers.

Then she saw him. An Americano from the looks of his dress and his hair, which she caught a glimpse of just before he shoved his hat back on his head. She’d never seen anyone with such golden hair before except for pictures in books. Even her mother, the fair-complected Crilloya, had dark brown hair. Vicky’s own dark skin came from her father’s native mother instead of his noble father’s lighter hair and skin.

Tesoro snorted and pawed the ground, but she didn’t turn away from the man downstream. Maybe he was lost, as well. Vicky sat straight in the saddle and watched him closely. Was he friend or foe? Considering she was off hacienda lands and not sure how to get back, she didn’t dare make contact.

Should she flee? She wasn’t sure she could stay in the saddle at a gallop. The fatigue she had felt all morning pulled at her like a millstone. She needed to find a place to stay for the night.

Vicky forced her attention back on the stranger. He might not be alone. Searching the area, she didn’t see any movement, but the spooky silence kept her frozen in place.

The man downstream crouched to examine something just as his horse shied away. A branch in the tree right above the man bowed. Crouched and ready to pounce was one of the world’s most magnificent and deadly creatures. Without much thought to her own safety, she dropped the canteen, pulled her rifle up and sighted in a blink of an eye, her knees communicating to Tesoro to get closer even though wisdom would dictate she escape as fast as she could. Her movements caught the predator’s attention, and its orange eyes fixed on her as it made ready to leap.

* * *

Chris couldn’t believe the size of the paw prints on the bank of the creek just to the east of his farm, or ranch, as they called it in Alta California. They were almost as big as his hand. A few years before, he had killed a cougar trying to get into the barn, and its paws had been about the size of this one’s. That beast had weighed about three hundred pounds and taken down a yearling. No wonder the horses had been skittish the past two weeks.

“Thank You, Lord, for Your protection once again,” Chris heard himself say aloud. If the cat had found its way into the barn or come across him or Nana Ruth unsuspecting, it would have been bad—very bad.

Knowing was only half the battle. Last time he and Nana Ruth’s husband, Jebediah, had taken turns watching and caught the cat in the act—returning for a second helping of tender horse flesh. But Jeb had been killed last summer, and now protecting Nana Ruth and the ranch was all on Chris’s shoulders.

Years before, back on the plantation, his father would send the foreman and a hunting party of the slaves out to chase down anything that threatened the well-being of the livestock or the fields. Chris had lived his entire life as the spoiled son of the plantation owner, “preparing” to someday be the future master. He’d learned to do the books, barter the cotton, tobacco and peanuts, and see to a host of other responsibilities, but never did he have to get his hands dirty or risk any physical harm. That’s what the slaves had been for, until his father died and Chris gave them their freedom.

He would never again benefit off the labor of another man held in bondage. Nana Ruth and Jebediah had accepted their freedom but refused to leave him. Instead, they traveled west with him, not that the end result had turned out well for them.

As he bent down to inspect the prints, Comet shied behind him. Chris cocked an ear and noticed the silence was...too silent. In the six years he’d lived in Alta California, he’d learned to read the signs of the woods, and he knew that either his presence—or something else’s—was making the inhabitants of the area uncomfortable. He lifted his rifle and looked around closely.

Suddenly something heavy splashed into the creek. A few hundred feet to his right a young Indian boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, rode into sight on a golden mare. With a fierce determination written across his face, the boy stopped his horse in the icy water and aimed a rifle at Chris. Indecision cost Chris valuable seconds while his mind fought the idea of shooting a boy, even in self-defense.

The decision was made for him when the boy fired. Chris ducked instinctively. It seemed as if time stood still, and he wondered if he were truly ready to meet his maker. His thoughts flew to Nana Ruth as the ground came up to meet his face. How would she survive on the ranch alone?

Just as his body tensed to take the bullet, he heard another sound, as if the tree above him were crashing down. Something large fell from above and knocked the boy off his horse, submerging him in the flowing creek. Chris was on his feet and in the water, his gun ready, before his mind could process what he had seen.

As he stepped closer, his gut twisted at the sight of blood turning the water red as it flowed with the current. Neither the boy nor the cougar came up for air. The mare, prancing close by, neighed in distress but didn’t run off.

Chris kept a careful eye on the cat, its orange eyes unblinking as he moved closer to the boy. Just under the surface, the boy thrashed but the big cat, almost as long as Chris was tall, pinned him down. Chris quickly shoved the cat to the side with his boot while aiming his rifle, should it regain consciousness and come at him. He plunged his arm into the frigid water and pulled the boy away as fast as he could while still keeping watch on the cougar. It was then that he noticed the bullet hole in the chest of the magnificent feline. Awed and humbled at the true shot, he looked down at the boy, who gasped and started to cough.

What was the child doing out in the woods alone? Chris hadn’t heard of any native people living close by. Even the men from the Hacienda Ruiz rarely came anywhere close to his ranch. Had the boy gotten lost or had something happened to the rest of his party? Had they been hunting the cat?

He looked down at the boy and prayed that this young hero hadn’t sacrificed his own life for Chris. With each minute that passed while the boy still didn’t open his eyes, Chris’s unease grew. He needed to get the boy out of the cold. Nana Ruth would know what to do.

He whistled for Comet, but the mare came over instead. Noting the saddle was of the finest leather, he hesitated before mounting up. Something about the horse was familiar, but now was not the time to figure it out. The stirrups were way too short, but he didn’t have time or a hand free to adjust them with the boy in his arms. They needed to get home as soon as possible. The sun still shone in the January sky, but the trees shaded most of the ride, and the wind cut like a knife through his wet clothes. As Chris lifted the boy with him onto the horse, he was surprised to discover that he weighed even less than expected. Maybe ninety pounds at best, an even hundred with the waterlogged serape.

It took less than an hour to get back to the cabin, Chris carrying the boy on the mare with Comet following close behind. As soon as the cabin came into view, Chris started yelling. Nana might be slow moving, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. She’d appreciate the advance warning that they had a guest. Especially since no one had come by in over four months.

“Nana Ruth!” His second shout brought Nana to the door of their wooden cabin just as he rode up.

“Land sakes, child, what’s all the hollerin’ about?” Nana Ruth paused only a second at the threshold, her work-worn hands resting on her ample hips. Her big brown eyes widened, and her ebony skin bunched into a thousand wrinkles crisscrossing her forehead as she hustled out into the yard as fast as her arthritic knees would allow.

“I need your help here, Nana Ruth.”

“Now, just what have we here?” She leaned closer as Chris dismounted with the unconscious boy in his arms.

“I don’t know, but I think we’d better find out. Can you get the door?” Readjusting his hold, he headed toward the cabin. The horses would have to see to themselves for a while.

The interior of the cabin was darker than outside, even with the windows he had built into the walls. He passed Nana’s bed next to the hearth and nodded to his larger bed. “Nana, could you turn down the bedding?”

“But Master Chris, it’s not right for you to be out of your bed on account o’ no stranger. You can stretch her out on my bed.” She stooped with effort to ready her own bed, but he shook his head.

“You won’t be able to see to his wounds or take care of him on your small bed, and you’d have to bend down all the time. No, Nana, the boy will rest in my bed until we can find out where he came from and how to return him there.”

“If that there’s a boy, he’s about the prettiest boy I ever seen, Master Chris. And I still say you ought not be putting her in your bed.”

Her words stopped Chris in his tracks. Of course the child was a boy. True, even with dirt and blood on his face, he could be considered “pretty.” But this couldn’t be a girl. Preposterous! Not even an Indian girl would be out riding all on her own in the middle of the wilderness. It was true that some of the haciendas enjoyed relative safety because of their numbers and the way the hacienda señors or dons led their communities like feudal lords, but it was still dangerous in the wilderness. Chris himself had discovered his greatest enemy wasn’t the wildlife or even the harsh weather of the higher altitudes but the lawless men who sacked and plundered and then melted back into the forest.

And then there was the shot that killed the cat. No girl could have made that shot. No, their guest had to be a boy, and he hoped to get some answers from the boy if the Good Lord willed the child’s eyes open again.

“Nana. Help me peel this serape off first so we don’t soak the bedding.”

“Poor child, out in that cold all wet.” Nana Ruth’s gnarled fingers fought with the sombrero before it fell away. “I think she’s got a knock on the noggin, Master Chris. There’s a lump back here. Now looky here...” Nana Ruth’s hands came away with hairpins. A braid cascaded down and swung like a pendulum. It wasn’t the first Indian boy Chris had seen who had long hair worn in a single braid.

But he’d never seen a boy pin his braid into a bun.

Misgiving settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

Nana Ruth slid the thick fabric of the serape over the child’s torso and head before Chris adjusted his grip to let the garment fall to the floor.

“Could you put some toweling down on the bed?”

She did his bidding even as she murmured, “We got to get this child warm soon. Look how dark her lips are.”

It might already be too late. The boy was too still. As still as Jeb had been when Chris had finally run off their attackers and carried Jeb back to the cabin the day of the ambush... But he’d do everything he could to keep that from happening to this nameless boy who had saved his life. He couldn’t let another person die. The thought spurred him to act faster.

Chris set the boy down. Nana Ruth tried to get the child’s sweater undone, but her arthritis wouldn’t let her manipulate the small buttons.

“Here, let me get those.” He quickly had the sweater unbuttoned, only to discover a rustic wool shirt covering what was clearly a female figure. He turned away from the bed.

The day just kept getting stranger and stranger.

“Nana Ruth, you were right about her being a girl.”

“And a right pretty one at that.” She cackled.

“Do you think you can tend to the rest of her care?” he asked as he strode to the front door of the cabin.

“Don’t you worry, Master Chris. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll get her all warmed up and better in no time.”

Chris headed out the door to take care of the horses and give the mystery girl some privacy. A girl! Who would have believed it? He hoped she’d get a chance to explain her reason for being in his woods and who had taught her to shoot like she had. Was it skill or just God guiding the bullet like David and his slingshot?

Setting foot outside again sent a chill through him, and he debated going back in for dry clothes. On second thought, he’d grab some of Jeb’s clothes from the old cabin the couple used to share before Jebediah died and Nana Ruth couldn’t live alone. He’d rather wear tattered hand-me-downs any day than interrupt whatever Nana was doing for the girl. The horses would have to wait a few more minutes. He hustled to the long-abandoned cabin, aware both Comet and the girl’s horse followed on his heels.

It took only a few minutes to get into something warm and dry, and then Chris headed back toward the barn. A snicker from the stranger’s horse was the only warning before the mare nudged him on the shoulder like an old friend. He stopped in his tracks and studied her.

He blinked and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Could it really be?

“Goldenrod! It is you!”

Four years prior he’d sold her to the owner of Hacienda Ruiz a full day and a half east of him. With his broken Spanish and a lot of gestures and hand signaling, he was able to barter a good deal for her and three of the other horses he had trained that year. Goldenrod still looked agile and well fed. Just as he had expected, they had taken good care of her. So why was a peasant girl riding her out in the middle of the wilderness alone? And why was the girl dressed like a boy? “So what brought you back to me, huh, Golden?” he mused, wishing that the horse could tell him where they had come from and who the girl was. He set the small saddlebag to the side before removing the magnificently tooled saddle and thick saddle blanket.

His fingers itched to search the bag for more clues as to the girl’s identity, but chores needed to be done before he could investigate any more.

Taking up the brush, he worked the snarls out of Goldenrod’s mane. After feeding and grooming all the other horses in his barn, he returned for the small saddlebag. Inside he found a skirt of silk and many layers of ruffles, a satin blouse of some sort and a pair of slippers. Not the typical clothing he had seen the local native people wear. The cloth itself was of fine quality and the stitching elaborate.

How old was this sleeping beauty, and why had she ended up alone in the woods with two very different sets of clothes? Was she a pauper who had either bartered or stolen this horse and saddlebag, or was she someone of means traveling in disguise? Again with the questions.

Judging by the sun hanging just over the peaks to the west, two hours had passed. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed out so long, but if Nana had needed him, she could have rung the cowbell he had hung on the overhang by the door. He quietly entered the cabin, his gaze falling on the still form on his bed. The girl’s face, with a long gash across the forehead, was the only visible part of her except for a few wisps of long black hair against the white bedding. Nana Ruth struggled to stand from one of the stout kitchen chairs he had fashioned during their first winter in the woods.

“Soup’s on the stove, Master Chris. You want somethin’ to eat?”

“Sit back, Nana. I want to check on our visitor first.” He crossed the room to stare down at the girl. “Has she woken up yet?”

“No, sir. Just mumbled and thrashed a few times. She’s heatin’ up somethin’ fierce.” Nana shook her head and tsked her tongue.

“She has a fever?”

“Yes, sir. How long was she wet?”

“Less than an hour before we arrived. It’s my fault. She shot a cougar out of the tree above me and saved my life. It fell and knocked her off her horse and into the creek.” Slipping a hand across the girl’s brow, he flinched at the heat coming off her skin. Her cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and yet she shivered. “Poor girl. I wish I knew something about you or where you came from. Maybe I could go fetch your mother to take care of you.”

Of course, that would be nearly impossible. Nana Ruth could no longer be expected to tend to the girl on her own, and leaving two defenseless women in the middle of the woods for more than an afternoon was completely irresponsible. If there was one thing Chris had learned well from his father, it was that he was responsible for everyone at all times. The last thing he needed was one more death on his conscience.

Turning from the child before he could dwell on the past, he summoned a smile for Nana Ruth and set about putting the stew on the table with the cutlery and cups of hot tea.

Once he and Nana Ruth were seated at the table, he wrapped his fingers around Nana’s swollen and disfigured ones. “Father God, thank You for Your protection and providence. Please bless this food we’re about to eat and bless the girl who saved my life. I ask You to heal her and enable us to get her back to her home and family. In Your name, Amen.”


Chapter Two (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb)

There was that voice again. As if someone on the shore of the river had thrown her a rope, that voice pulled her toward safety. She’d heard it before and tried to open her eyes, but this time, they obeyed. Her body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of horses. She had no energy to lift her leaden hands and rub her eyes. Blinking in the dim light, she tried to take in her surroundings, but either it was evening or the room had no windows. The only light was given off by a lamp on the table and the glow of fire. Was this a home or a cave?

As her eyes adjusted, details became clearer. The room resembled Berto and Magda’s cabin, made with the same rough-hewn logs instead of the stucco and grand slate stones of her own home. Two wooden chests sat to her left. A smaller bed hugged the far wall, and whoever occupied it snored loudly. The hearth glowed with a dim fire, keeping the winter winds at bay. By the foot of the bed Vicky occupied, a figure sat in a chair with a book. His stocking feet were propped on the side of her bed. It felt strange, and somehow too intimate, that a stranger would be so informal in her bedchamber. But as her foggy mind cleared, she remembered that this was not her bedchamber.

Where was she? Who was he? And how did she get here?

The lamp on the table behind the man left his face shrouded in shadow. She couldn’t determine his age, expressions or even his coloring. From her vantage point he appeared very large, his long legs like tree trunks and his wide shoulders easily twice her width. He continued to read, oblivious of her scrutiny.

She tried to shift to her right, but her arm wouldn’t move. Not only did it feel like it weighed a ton, but it was somehow tangled in her bedding. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Whether it was the sharp pain stabbing her in the right side or fear, she didn’t know. Struggling to sit up, she gasped as the pain became so intense she saw stars. Her movements caught the man’s attention. He sat up, his long legs withdrawing from the bed and settling silently on the floor. He laid the book aside and leaned forward, his face coming into the light. He said something—she only wished she knew what.

Concern showed in his eyes and something else... Kindness. His relaxed posture reassured her.

He got up and reached an arm behind her back, holding her up as he plumped the pillows. Laying her back gently, he readjusted the blankets to cover her shoulders and placed a palm gently against her forehead. She felt his calluses as he smoothed back her hair from her face. His tender touch surprised her. He studied her eyes for a minute, his own gaze full of questions. Then he pulled his chair closer to the head of the bed and sank back down.

He said something again, and this time she picked out the English words pain, you and something else that sounded familiar, but she was too groggy to try to make sense of things.

“Español. No Ingles.” She tried to remember more but couldn’t.

“My name is Chris.” His Spanish sounded funny. His next words were lost to her since he switched back to English.

“My name is María Victoria Ruiz Torres.” She answered in Spanish, pointed to herself but couldn’t quite stifle a groan, her voice husky and barely audible. Compassion flashed in his eyes.

He pointed to her, but his words blended together, not making any sense. Talking required breathing, and each breath felt like a knife digging into her ribs.

“Pain? Dolor?” he asked.

“Sí, much pain... I...no air.” Gasping, she nodded her head, only making it throb worse.

He leaned over and sat her up straight, holding her by the shoulders, avoiding contact with the most injured parts of her. When he did, she felt the binding around her ribs for the first time. Someone had bound her as if she had a corset on, but it was different. There were no bones and stays digging into her flesh, just soft cloth wrapped around her and holding her right arm to her side. She was still in pain, but at least sitting up she could breathe.

Who had brought her here? The last thing she could remember was stopping at the stream for water and letting Tesoro drink... Tesoro! Where was Tesoro?

“Mi caballo? Tesoro?” she questioned him frantically.

He smiled and said something about “Golden...” Most of the words he used made little sense to her.

“Mi horse?” she tried again, wishing the English she had once learned would come back to her.

“Fine. With my horses,” he answered in his funny accent. She thought he was trying to say that her horse was with his horses. Vicky took a deep breath and closed her eyes to calm herself and drown out the pain.

When she opened her eyes, he was studying her again. Only inches from his face, she could see his eyes. Blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. She had never met anyone with eyes so light before—although they matched her grandfather’s in the portrait in her father’s study. The Americano’s hair color surprised her, as well. Honey mixed with cinnamon that glowed like polished bronze in the firelight. What would it look like in the sun? Then she remembered—he was the Americano who had been by the stream when the puma attacked.

“You two days,” he said in broken Spanish, holding up two fingers and then pretending to lay his head on his hands and close his eyes.

“Two days!” she exclaimed. What would Papá say when she got home? Groaning again, she realized she couldn’t leave tonight anyway. She was too sore, and it looked like it was already dark out.

Who had taken care of her? What would Mamá think? What would she do? Had she even noticed that Vicky hadn’t been back to the hacienda in all this time? Where was this man’s wife, and why didn’t he call her now that Vicky was awake?

Her thoughts raced around and around in her pounding head, and she suddenly felt very tired. Her eyes became heavy even as she tried to remember something of her English lessons.

“Water,” she finally managed.

A tin cup came into view, and he held it for her as she sipped. The cool water soothed her parched throat and quelled the need to cough. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to gulp it down, not take in just a trickle, but he only let her have a sip at a time. “Slowly,” he cautioned. Unable to even lift her arms to tilt the cup, she resigned herself to sipping.

Sleep wanted to claim her again—she could feel it like the undertow in the stream. Chris put a hand to her shoulder and gently leaned her back on the pillows. Frustrated at not being able to communicate her basic wishes, much less get up and get her own water, Vicky turned away from the man. What could she do? She wouldn’t know what to say even if they had both understood the same language. She knew nothing about him—could he be one of the many bandits who roamed the Sierra and plundered those unfortunate enough to have to travel far from home?

No, he couldn’t be a bandit. No man she had ever met would have taken the time to play nursemaid to a sick woman, except for maybe Berto. Her father’s groom, who had helped her own grandfather found the Hacienda Ruiz over forty years earlier, had a gentle hand and soft heart, which is why he was so skilled with the horses. He had risked his own life to save Vicky when she was five years old, and she was forever bonded to him. His wife, Magda, was their housekeeper and cook at the main house, and had been since the days that Papá was a mere boy.

If only she had listened to José Luis and waited for Papá to return, surely Berto could have talked Papá into canceling the wedding. If only she were home. And yet, being home would be worse. She’d be preparing for her wedding with Don Joaquín right now, and he was a horrible man. He had been married several times, and all his wives had died. Vicky was convinced that if Don Joaquín hadn’t killed them himself, they had taken their own lives rather than live with the fiend. The fact that her father would even consider marrying her off to such a monster was more than she could bear.

Letting her head rest against the pillows, she closed her eyes, surrendering once again to her exhaustion.

* * *

Nana Ruth’s clanging the cowbell brought Chris rushing into the cabin the next afternoon. Milk sloshed as he dropped the pail on the table. In three quick strides he drew up next to Nana Ruth as she tried to settle Maria. Once again the girl was thrashing about in the bed, her words colored with fear.

“Did her fever come back?” he asked even as he leaned past Nana to touch the girl’s forehead. Cool skin calmed his racing heartbeat.

“No Wakin!” Maria called out again, attempting to push someone or something away from her. He caught her left arm gently in his hand and smoothed her hair with the other hand.

“Maria, you are safe. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.” He grimaced even as the words left his mouth. Who was he to promise safety? His history was filled with failures to protect the people who depended on him.

She quieted. Her arm went lax in his, and then her eyes fluttered.

He set her arm on the blankets covering her and then waited. After a few more minutes, she settled into a peaceful sleep. When she woke, he had a cup of water ready by her side before she could even ask for it.

Chris watched as Maria tried to down a second cup of water as quickly as she had the first. He studied the emotions that raced across her face as she drank. Confusion when she first woke was quickly replaced with greed for the water and then frustration when he gave her only a little at a time. For a small young lady, she had a fire in her eye. If she weren’t stuck in bed with broken ribs, having fought a fever for a few days and not taken anything solid, he’d bet that she would have demanded that he hurry up with the water.

“Maria?” She was slow to respond to her name. Odd. Had she also hit her head on the stones that broke her ribs? He hadn’t noticed what lay beneath her at the time because he was so focused on getting away from the cougar in case it gave chase. He tapped her shoulder to draw her attention back to his face instead of the now empty cup.

“Why say me Maria?” she asked, her brows scrunching together, creating lines in her otherwise perfectly smooth skin.

Had he misinterpreted their most basic communication? “You said your name was Maria.” Not that he could have pronounced all the words that had come after that.

“Maria name for baby when father at—” She stopped, puzzling out the English words. “When baby new, mamá take to padre for to—” Frustrated, she placed her hands together and bowed her head, closing her eyes as if praying.

“Where was your father when you were a baby?”

“No! No mi father,” she shook her head and then stopped as if the movement pained her. She pointed to her chest and then to the sky. “Father from Dios, you call God. Father come to hacienda to say to God, ‘be good baby.’”

Unsure what she was trying to say, Chris set the cup back on the table and pondered what to do next. Her English was much better than he had expected, but even so, he wasn’t even sure what her name was now. How would they ever get her back to her people if he didn’t even know her name?

“Master Chris, I heard tell that some people call their minister ‘Father,’” Nana Ruth suggested.

“She’s talking about a minister?”

“Ain’t most babies christened by a minister?” Nana’s question made sense, but then it still left the girl without a name.

Turning back to their patient, he slowly asked, “What is your name?”

“Mi Vic-kee-ta.” She pointed to herself. “Maria Victoria Ruiz Torres. Vic-kee-ta.”

“They call you Vicky?” Her beaming smile completely transformed her face, and for the first time, she looked like a woman, not a young girl. That smile made him want to say the word again just to make her happy.

“So where do you live?”

“Hacienda Ruiz.” Her eyes flashed pride and fear at the same time.

At least he knew where that was. He’d be able to take her back to her people without too much problem, once she was ready to travel—assuming she wanted to return. Something in her eyes made him wonder why she had left the hacienda to begin with.

“How did you end up in the forest all by yourself?” The questions wanted to pour out all at once, but the confusion on her face told him that she hadn’t understood.

“Master Chris, why don’t I get the girl some of that soup you got on the fire. I dare say she’s plum worn out, and a little warm soup might just loosen up her tongue.”

Nana Ruth made to get up off the chair. “Sit back, Nana. I’ll see to this.” He laid a hand on the older woman’s shoulder until he felt her relax into the chair.

“Now, this just ain’t right, Master Chris.”

“Nana, you’ve had your years of serving, and you’ve done a good job. Now it’s my turn.”

“It ain’t fittin’ for you to be servin’ me, Master Chris.”

“We’re not in South Carolina anymore, Nana, and last I checked, God’s word said to care for our family. You just about raised me from the time I could roll over in my crib.”

Taking two bowls down from the shelves, he partially filled both, set a spoon in each one and then pulled the tea off the hook over the fire, poured it into two tin cups and then added some fresh milk.

“Now, don’t let your mother hear you say such a thing, Master Chris! Why, she’d be mighty upset.”

He set the first bowl and cup on the table next to Nana’s elbow and then returned to the stove. “Good thing she’s not here to find out, isn’t it?” He chuckled as he returned to his guest’s side.

Setting the cup and soup bowl on the chest next to the bed, he sat in the chair facing Vicky.

“You eat and no give me?” Vicky’s astonished expression and the disapproval in her eyes made him chuckle. Did she really think he’d be so rude as to eat in front of her without offering? Little did she know about good old Southern hospitality.

“Of course not, Vicky.” Nana had left some toweling next to the bed, and he draped it over Vicky from shoulder to shoulder. Picking up the bowl, he dipped the spoon into the steaming broth, ladled out some and blew on it like Nana Ruth had done for him as a child. Somehow, this situation felt very different. He raised the spoon and blew a little more. “Now, let’s see how you like my cooking.”

“I no baby.” Indignation darkened her already jet-black eyes so much that he couldn’t distinguish the iris from the pupil. Her jaw tightened, and he actually feared for her teeth.

“I know you are not a baby, but you can’t move your right arm. Nana tied it to your side, and the soup is too hot for you to manage one-handed.” The furrows in her forehead didn’t relax, but she opened her mouth when he lifted the spoon. Sitting back, he waited for her verdict. It wasn’t long in coming.

“No tiene sabor.” She wrinkled her nose at the food but opened her mouth again for more.

“Is there something wrong with my soup?” Chris asked. He had never bothered to learn to cook until this last year when Nana’s arthritis started to act up so bad that some mornings she couldn’t even get out of bed. To Chris, making soup consisted of chopping up meat, a few carrots and maybe some potatoes and letting it all boil throughout the day while he saw to his chores. It might not have been as appetizing as something Nana would have made, but it kept spirit and body together for another day. Nana Ruth had never complained, but perhaps that was because of the guilt she felt for not being able to work anymore.

Using the edge of the towel that had kept his poorly aimed attempts at feeding the girl from soaking her, he wiped her chin where some soup had trickled down. Almost as quickly as Vicky had finished off her soup, she fell back to sleep. Thankfully, this time she seemed to rest peacefully. How young and vulnerable she looked as she slept.

He suddenly felt a surprising desire to protect her, and it caught him off guard. He stood up quickly, nearly upending his chair. He’d felt a need to protect others before, and it had never worked out well for him. In fact, it had caused him nothing but pain. The last thing he wanted to do was go down that path again. But he wasn’t about to abandon this young woman.

“You’ll be safe here, Vicky,” he heard himself say. But who was he to promise such things? He had failed to protect others before, and he knew he shouldn’t let himself get wrapped up in Vicky’s dilemmas. She was better off without his help. If not for saving him, she’d probably be at home, hale and happy and surrounded by those who loved her.

His own baby sister, Nelly, had tumbled right off the porch when they were just tots. His father had taken him to the woodshed for that. He’d been overprotective of her from that day on and so relieved when Matt came along and took the job from him.

The whole reason he’d sold the plantation, left his mother living with Nelly and Matt and sailed months on end around the very southern tip of South America to come to the wilderness territory of Mexico was so that he could be far removed from the horrible way that some humans treated others, be where no one would bother him or depend on him while he built his own farm. He would never again sit around and let the forced labor of others benefit him.

He thought of Ezequiel, one of the younger slaves he’d been so happy to free after his father died. Ezequiel had tried to behave as a free man in a world that wasn’t ready for him to be free, and he’d paid with his life. Chris would probably feel responsible for Ezequiel’s death until his own.

No, the last thing he needed was to have someone under his care. He clearly wasn’t good at it.

Of course, from the start, he had to take care of Nana Ruth and Jebediah because they had nowhere to go when other freed slaves left for the north. They were too old to start over and had no living children who could take care of them in their later years. He had done everything in his power to provide and protect them, but even here, five years after they built the cabins and barn, a trio of outlaws came and killed Jebediah. Chris had managed to fight off the three bandits, but he wasn’t able to save Jebediah.

The old slave had been more of a mentor and father to him than his own father had. Instead of enjoying his last years on earth peacefully living in a small town with someone looking out for him and his wife, he’d spent the last of his strength helping to build the cabin, barn and all the other outbuildings plus working with the livestock. Chris should have settled them somewhere safe, then maybe Nana would still have her beloved husband beside her.

Could he do better for Vicky? Did he have it in him to try?

He’d just see to her safety while she healed and then she’d become someone else’s concern. He’d get her home...somehow. Hopefully the girl would be missed and someone would come looking for her so he wouldn’t have to leave Nana Ruth on her own. Maybe someone would arrive within a few days.

Setting the dirty dishes in the sink, he sat down to nurse his own bowl of soup. The first scalding sip brought his mind back to Vicky’s scrunched-up nose. She’d been right. The soup didn’t have “sabor,” and she hadn’t been shy about telling him that.

For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, the thought of her reaction to his cooking made him smile. He allowed himself to enjoy the image of her in his mind before he forced himself to take another bite of his “soup.”


Chapter Three (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb)

Vicky blinked to adjust to the soft morning light filtering through the windows of the rustic log cabin. A visual search of the room revealed a pallet next to the large stone fireplace had been pushed to the side and the blankets folded and stacked on a chair leaning against the wall.

The large woman whom Chris called Nana Ruth slumbered on, her snores stopping abruptly and then, after a few snorts, starting up again. Her swollen hands lay on the rough blanket, and Vicky had noticed her rubbing her knuckles and her knees the night before. If only Magda were there, she would make a poultice that would work wonders for the arthritic joints. The washer-woman from the hacienda suffered from swollen joints and would visit the kitchen almost every day for Magda’s remedies and massages.

Careful not to move anything but her head, Vicky took her time studying her surroundings now that daylight flooded the room. The two wooden chests that stood side by side against the wall gleamed a dark chestnut color, and the woodwork would have made Manolo, the hacienda’s carpenter, proud. The table Vicky had taken for rough-hewn the night before was intricately engraved. Glancing at the headboard of the bed she occupied, she saw the same design graced the fine wood there, too. The chair Chris had sat on to feed her also had the beautiful carvings. Who had done the masterful woodwork? Had the Americano brought all this with him when he moved here? The wooden pieces looked like they should occupy a palatial home, not a cabin in the woods. And just how long had he been living in the hills not more than two days’ journey from her own home?

The Americano’s face hovered in her memory. As he fed her the tasteless broth, she’d seen the compassion and concern in his eyes.

Nana Ruth mumbled something as she shifted in her sleep, drawing Vicky’s attention. Pushing up from the pillow sent a bolt of lightning through her and stole her breath away. Tears formed, but she blinked them back.

At least she wasn’t injured for nothing—her shot had found its mark. She could be proud of the way she defended Chris, but if just simple movement stopped her breath, how would she ever manage to ride back to the hacienda? She needed to find Tesoro.

Tesoro, fulfilling her name as Vicky’s only treasure, was the golden horse her father had given to her nearly four years ago, the day she turned fifteen and the entire hacienda had turned out to celebrate. Of course, a few wealthy landowners and some brave vaqueros had attended her Quinceañera with high hopes of winning her dowry that night. Why did the Spanish lords think that when a girl turned fifteen, she immediately left childhood behind and longed for a husband and family of her own?

If only everyone would just accept that she did not want to marry! In all fairness, some of the men were quite handsome and a few were kind, but how could she bear to leave her hacienda and all that was dear to her? To never ride a horse astride again? To never be allowed in the barns, or go hunting and fishing with Berto? Unthinkable.

She shook off her musings and focused on the room. She took in the door at the far end of the wall. There was open shelving built into the wall above the waist-high counter, and more shelving down below that ran the length of the wall. A dry sink sat in the corner closest to the fireplace that took up most of the side wall.

What would she find if she made the trek to the dry sink? What kind of ingredients did the Americano and Nana Rut have on hand? Itching to get out of bed and do something, Vicky slowly slid her legs off the bed, letting them hang down as she caught her breath. She pushed off the covers, revealing the long chambray shirt that hung on her like a tent. Even with all her binding around her ribs and the shirt, she still felt exposed. As she swiveled around to look for a dressing robe or something else to put on, the room turned black and she felt lightheaded. Holding completely still until the sensation ebbed away, she gritted her teeth and swallowed hard.

Turning only her head this time, she spied behind her, under the top pillow, what looked like piled-up shirts. After two attempts, she finally came within reach without twisting. Snagging one, the pillow fell to the floor. She followed its progress with her eyes. The distance from the bed to the floor seemed like miles. The shirt she had unearthed had a large tear in one elbow and stains down the front, although it smelled clean. It would have to do.

Struggling into it caused more pain than she had expected, and she sat panting, waiting for the black spots dancing in front of her eyes to go away. Reason argued that she should stay in bed and let the Americano wait on her hand and foot like the hacienda princesa she was, but how long would any man put up with a woman who did not see to the cleaning and cooking? No man would complain on the hacienda since the servants would see to it all, but here, the man was doing all the work, and she doubted that even in his culture it would be expected of him. If she could only stand and get to the kitchen area, maybe she could find something to make for breakfast. Or at least some water to drink for her parched throat.

Head clear, she stood, forcing a breath out. The room spun twice before it righted itself. With her left hand bracing her right rib, she shuffled one step, then another, away from the edge of the bed. A cool draft raced across the floor and skimmed over her bare toes and up her legs. The shirts were long but only reached past her knees. Scandalous! If Mamá ever found out, she’d swoon right on the spot. Three more steps brought her within reach of the table. Her left leg collided with it, and suddenly she couldn’t see anything between the tears of pain and the dancing black spots. A draft of colder air hit her about the same time as she registered the sound of a door opening, then slamming closed.

Seconds later cold arms still smelling of the crisp air outside caught her at the knees and around her back and settled her back in her cocoon. The blankets she had thrown off with such pain were gently tucked back around her, and only then did the room start to reappear, first in the center of her vision and then completely.

“Vicky? Did you need something?” Chris stood hovering above her. He retrieved the pillow from the floor with a frown. “Are you sick? In pain? Dolor?”

Panting let the air in without drawing on the muscles that screamed in agony in her middle. “I...agua.” He shifted the pile of his old shirts, topped it with the pillow and then, with a gentle hand, leaned her back to rest.

“I will get you water.” He said the words slowly, pointing to himself, the water bucket on the floor by the door that hadn’t been there moments ago, and then to her. Nodding, she closed her eyes and waited, afraid to move even the slightest bit and bring on the blinding fire again.

“Here.” His breath brushed across her forehead and stirred her hair. He held the cup in front of her and once again would not let her gulp it down like she wanted but rationed it sip by sip until she finished. Then he poured more from a pitcher he had placed on the chair next to her bed. This time he let her take longer sips. Thirst quenched, she sighed.

“Gracias, thank you.”

“You are welcome.” His deep voice drew her eyes to his. In the light of day his eyes shone like a cloudless summer sky with flecks of gold like sunlight. His skin, even with the kiss of sun, looked shades lighter than hers. Glancing down at her hand, she saw just how dark her skin was compared with his.

You’re a mix between the glorious lords from Europe and the filthy, heathen Indians, Mamá quoted often, reminding her of her father’s own mixed parentage. Vicky’s grandfather, Don Ruiz, had been a lord from Spain while her grandmother was an Indian who had worked as a housekeeper for Don Ruiz before they fell in love and married. Mamá constantly reminded her that blue-blooded Spaniards like her own family would never look twice at Vicky’s Indian skin. What must the Americano think of her? Yet he did not treat Nana Ruth as if she were less human than he. Rather, he had served her a bowl of soup and helped her with the chores.

Was it different where he came from? Did people treat each other without prejudice or concern for their heritage? Slavery had been outlawed about the time she had been born yet not one of the former slaves whom she had met was ever treated as anything other than servant and underling, just like the Indians who also served the noble and not-so-noble-born Spanish. Mestizos were looked upon as more Indian than Spanish because of their mixed bloodlines, and they earned the same disdain from the nobles.

“Are you...?” The next word Chris used was unfamiliar to her. He smiled when she gave him a puzzled look. As he pantomimed eating and then rubbing his stomach, she cocked her head to one side.

“Do you want food?” he asked. This time the words were all familiar. Nodding, she patted her stomach with her left hand, and he grinned. His eyes brightened, and she found herself smiling in return. His grin caused tiny laugh lines around his eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. The dimple looked the right size to poke her index finger into. Silly girl, you’ll never touch his face, much less when he is smiling, she scolded herself silently. After all, as soon as she could stand on her own without blacking out, she needed to find her own clothes and head back to the hacienda. Of course, she’d have to tie herself on Tesoro’s pummel to stay in the saddle but regardless, she couldn’t stay away from the hacienda too much longer.

“I’ll make food,” Chris said as he set the tin cup down on the chair and headed to the sink.

“I make food,” Vicky offered, unwilling to sit still and do nothing, especially if it meant that she would have to choke down more of the insipid soup she had the night before.

“You can’t cook. You can’t even stand.” He shook his head at her. Turning his back, he set a small cauldron onto the counter and then poured water in, adding eggs. He slid the caldron’s handle onto a hook that swung over the fire in the hearth. Then he took a metal bowl out and added ingredients from metal tins he had under the dry sink, and he added water and an egg before rolling the mixture out on the counter and pressing it flat as Vicky would have done with her tortillas. He formed balls with the dough and set them inside a greased frying pan that he covered with a lid and set directly onto the fire.

Bread and boiled eggs would be a bland but filling breakfast. If they had some salt, pepper, tomatoes and chilies, she could make a salsa and give the meal some life. But the thing was, this man was cooking for her. He was taking care of her, when he didn’t owe her anything. He was clearly a kind person, a person of character. He was...different.

* * *

He glanced over his shoulder. Vicky was watching him with obvious skepticism as he made breakfast. Admittedly, he wasn’t the best of cooks, but even he could do biscuits and boiled eggs. He wondered what she usually ate for breakfast. Was she thinking he was crazy for making her such simple fare? He gave her a quick smile. She did not smile back.

From the paleness of her face when he’d entered the cabin a few minutes before, he could tell she had been about to pass out. Questions he still had no answers to circled around in his head like a herd of horses unsettled by something lurking just beyond the corral fence. Perhaps he’d see if he could get some answers.

“So, Miss Vicky, how did you end up here?” he asked.

Her cute nose bunched up as she bit her lip in concentration. “I look for Papá. No want...casar to Don Joaquín.”

“You didn’t want to walk?”

“No, casar to Don Joaquín,” she stated. Her chin and shoulders lifted in an air of defiance, but her little gasp of pain revealed how much even the slightest move still hurt.

“No house? Casar house?”

“No, casa is house. Casar is when man make woman...take to house and live. Have family. Bebe?”

She waited while he poured himself a cup of tea, trying to decipher her last statement. “Casar...is to marry?”

“Sí! Casar is to marry.”

“And you were going to get married walking?”

“No, no want marry Don Joaquín de la Vega. Bad man.”

He still didn’t know what she was talking about, but there was something vaguely familiar about her words. “So you were looking for your papá, and then what happened? How did you end up here, away from Hacienda Ruiz land?”

As he quizzed her, he checked the biscuits, feeling more and more uncertain by the minute about this breakfast. He decided the biscuits needed just a few more minutes.

“I look for Papá on hacienda for one day.” She lifted one finger on her left hand to clarify. “He not there. Nieve, white and cold? Come from—” She pointed to the ceiling and wiggled her fingers in a downward movement and cocked an eyebrow as if to test Chris’s ability to play pantomime games.

“Snow?”

“Sí, snow. Snow make stay in cabin two day, no go home.” Two fingers were added to the first. With Chris’s nod of understanding, she continued. “I no know way home. I stop by rio, water run. Puma want eat Master Chris.”

“Puma?” She must mean the cougar. So she remembered saving him. And she was calling him “Master Chris.” She’d picked up Nana’s speech.

The smell of biscuits pulled his attention away. Wrapping a towel around his hand, he pulled the pan off the hot coals and set it down on the counter. He poured some cool water on the eggs and set them aside for a moment.

“I need to thank you, Miss Vicky. You saved my life.” He tried to forget the sight of her small body half submerged under the cougar’s large frame as he pulled three plates and tin cups down from the cabinet. Once the table was set and the image was out of his mind, he turned his attention back to the small slip of a woman. “I was amazed by your shot. Who taught you how to shoot?”

It was clear that most of what he said was lost on her.

“You poor child,” Nana Ruth interjected from her bed. She shook her head. “I thank the Good Lord that He done made your shot true like David and that giant in the Bible.”

Nana Ruth struggled to sit up, and Chris left breakfast at the counter to help her. Once she waved him away, assuring him that she could manage on her own, he turned his back, knowing she would take a few minutes to dress.

“Who David? And who Good Lord, Master Chris?” The girl’s questions froze him in his spot.

“Why, David, the shepherd boy who grew up to be King o’ Israel,” Nana Ruth answered for him, “and the Good Lord, why He be God, honey child. Don’t you know ’bout God?”

“God? Sí, I hear Padre Pedro, um, Father Pedro talk about God when visit hacienda. He have big book. Biblia.”

“I have a feeling she’s talking about the priest who comes through here a couple times a year,” Chris called over his shoulder to help Nana.

“I think our little visitor needs to learn ’bout the Good Lord, and He sent her to us so we can tell her,” Nana Ruth mumbled as she walked past him on her way out the door to see to her most basic needs.

“Master Chris?”

Turning back to his visitor, he found her once again trying to climb out of bed.

“Miss Vicky, stay there, don’t move! You’re going to hurt yourself again!” Tossing down the last of the eggs, he strode across the room and leaned over her, pushing her legs once more under the covers and pulling the sheets up to her chin. She turned her head to the side, her left hand coming up in a defensive move to protect her face. Something in his gut twisted. Did she expect him to hit her?

“Miss Vicky.” He forced his voice to be gentle even as he fought not to get angry with himself. Of course she would be fearful of him. She had never seen him before, and who knows what was expected or allowed in her family? Stepping back so as to not crowd her, he waited for her to open her eyes and turn her head to face him.

She didn’t. She looked toward the door where Nana had left, a deep blush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. “I need—” Suddenly he understood what she needed, but there was no way to get her all the way out to the outhouse.

“Wait, let Nana help you.” With a nod, she settled back against the pillows, though she still wouldn’t look at him. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. He stepped back and studied her from a few feet away. Maybe if he removed the formality in their address. “And Miss Vicky, I’m Chris, just plain Chris. Nana calls me ‘Master’ because she was my parents’ slave and she won’t drop it, but I will never be master to anyone ever again.”

“No master?” Her gaze finally lifted to his, and he wondered what she must think of him and Nana Ruth out here.

“No, no more master. Only Chris.”

“Bien, Chris.”

He turned to go, but she called, “Chris?”

“Yes, Miss Vicky?”

“I no Miss Vicky. Mi amigos, friends, say Vicky.”

“Very well, my friend. I’ll call you Vicky.” With a nod, he forced himself to go back to preparing breakfast.

As soon as Nana returned, he handed her the bedpan and left the cabin without a backward glance. What had happened back there? Why had she flinched as if he were going to raise his hand to her? Did he seem like that kind of man?

His mind busy, his feet took him to the corral. Goldenrod and all the rest of the horses came close, nudging each other out of the way to get some attention and affection from him. If only he could reassure Vicky that she was safe with him, too.

He hated to think that he’d scared her. She was already worried about this “bad man” whom her father wanted her to marry. Actually, it seemed like maybe she didn’t want to marry at all. And if she expected the man she married to hit her, he couldn’t blame her for her lack of interest.


Chapter Four (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb)

In all her eighteen years, Vicky never stayed indoors, much less in bed, for more than a day or two—even her mother’s disapproval hadn’t kept her from helping in the kitchen with Magda or heading out to the stables to visit Tesoro. She’d now been confined to bed in the small cabin for five days, and she thought she’d go mad. The sun peeked in the windows as if trying to coax her to come out and play. Her right arm was no longer tied to her body, but movement still remained so painful that she didn’t dare try to get up on her own.

“Now, you stop...” Nana Ruth’s words were harder to understand than Chris’s, but her tone was kind and soothing, and she rattled on as if Vicky understood her every word. Today the woman sat on the edge of her bed, though she’d spent most of the last three days in it.

“Nana Ruth?” Vicky interrupted. “You make dress for Chris?”

“Dress for Chris?” The woman’s voice rose in pitch and then she chuckled. “Master Chris is a man, child. Our menfolk don’t wear dresses.”

“You no make?” Vicky pulled one of the shirts from the pile behind her and waved it.

“Yes, I did. But that was—” Nana rubbed her arthritic joints, which explained enough.

“You have for make?” Pantomiming sewing, Vicky waited.

“Sure do.” She hobbled across the room and lifted the lid on one of the chests. The wonders that lay inside almost had Vicky hopping off the bed, pain or no pain. To think she had been lying idly by for the last five days while there were sewing and knitting supplies just a few steps away.

Vicky hated the needlepoint and counted cross-stitch her mother demanded she concentrate on for hours at a time. However, Magda, their housekeeper, had taught her how to knit and mend men’s work clothing. Somehow, that kind of sewing had purpose. Vicky loved to sit with Magda, mending José Luis or Berto’s clothes for hours. She admired the marriage that Berto and Magda had, and even allowed herself to pretend she could be a normal wife with a family to care for and a husband who loved her like Berto loved Magda. But she knew that she would never be loved like that.

Being born of noble blood, even if only half, she would be doomed to marry for money and political arrangements between her father and some other nobleman. But after seeing what that kind of marriage had done to her parents, she would rather live the rest of her life alone, dependent on one of her younger brothers but not trapped in a loveless marriage where husband and wife at best avoided each other and at worst wounded each other.

She could earn her own keep by helping on the hacienda either with the care of the houses or keeping the books. She had learned bookkeeping when she helped Papá from time to time. It would be better than marrying one of the noblemen she didn’t know who had come courting soon after her Quinceañera, or Don Joaquín, who began his courting last year, only a month after his last wife had been laid to rest. Vicky suspected Mamá had encouraged the man despite the many times Vicky had told everyone she would never, ever marry, especially Don Joaquín. He was known for his drinking, cigars and unkempt appearance, but his hacienda had been one of the most extensive of the area, and he had cultivated favor with Mexican officials—mostly by way of extortion and bribery.

The next few hours passed by much more quickly than any since she’d been in the cabin. Once all the worn shirts in the pile were repaired, Nana Ruth arranged some knitting so that Vicky could work without moving her right arm very much while she cast on stitches for a sock for Chris.

“Nana Ruth? You have husband?”

Nana Ruth looked up from her chair at the table, and emotions ran across her ebony features.

“Yes, honey child. I had a good man. His name was Jeb.”

Already worried she’d asked more than she should have, Vicky concentrated on her knitting even though she wanted to ask more.

“We be slaves on Master Chris’s father’s plantation since we were born. We had a good life for slaves. We had four babies. Two die young, before they could even walk. Another one, Daniel, was sold when he reached eighteen. And our Samson, he grew up to be a good man, just like his father. He married but then died a year before Master Chris freed us.”

Vicky glanced up and saw the woman swipe a tear away from her cheek even as she continued her story, a smile brightening her face.

“When Master Chris told us he was gonna move all the way over to Mexico ’cause they had outlawed having slaves, well, Jeb said to me, ‘We gotta go with that boy. He’s gonna get hisself killed out there on his own alone.’ So we came. And Master Chris has been more like a son than a master to us from the day he was born.”

“Where Jeb now?”

“He got killed last summer. Some men attacked him and Master Chris in the field.” Her breath caught, and she cleared her throat before she went on. “Master Chris got hit in the arm, but my poor Jeb didn’t suffer more than a few minutes. Now Master Chris feels like it’s all his fault, but it ain’t, no sir. The Good Lord just needed my Jeb, and his time was done here. But when my day comes, I worry about Master Chris havin’ no one left here to care for him. I do declare that the Good Lord must have sent you for that purpose.”

She couldn’t claim to understand everything that Nana Ruth had said. Did she mean to hint at Vicky staying longer than a few more days? As soon as she was able to ride, she’d be headed back to the hacienda to face her father’s wrath and the arranged marriage that she dreaded more than death.

As Nana Ruth added ingredients to the pot Chris had left over the fire earlier, Vicky found herself thinking about Magda and Berto once again. She wondered what it would be like to look after a husband who hadn’t been forced on her by circumstance, a man she truly loved. Even though she knew it would never be possible for her, some part of her couldn’t help but wonder...

* * *

Chris could tell from the smells coming from the cauldron hanging over the fire that Nana Ruth was up and about and had added dumplings and seasonings, at least. Setting the milk pail on the counter, he shrugged off his coat. “Good evening, ladies.” He bent down and tugged off his boots, setting them below where he’d hung his coat. He stood, rubbed his hands together to get the blood flowing again. The snow had melted, but the temperatures were cool.

“Evening, Master Chris,” Nana Ruth called out.

As he turned around, his attention snagged on Vicky. Her hands seemed to fly as the needles clicked, her concentration keeping her from looking up at him. She was sitting up without the use of the pillows. Closer inspection proved that her cheeks were dusty rose in color, and her dark eyes glittered in the waning sunlight shining through the windows. Delightfully unaware of his scrutiny, her tongue peeked out from a corner of her mouth, and he couldn’t hold back his grin.

“I see you have found a project.” Startled, she dropped the knitting. “Sorry to catch you unawares, Vicky. Looks like you’ve been at it for a while.” A tube about six inches long hung off her needles. Her frown of confusion made him wish once again that he had learned more Spanish on the boat.

Pointing to her hands, he cocked his eyebrow in question. She pointed to his feet where one of his toes poked out of a hole in his sock. Nana had kept up with the darning of socks and mending until the cold weather set in last fall. He’d tried his own hand at it with dismal results. The only reason he had any socks that still held together is he’d sold three horses and a few of the farm goods to the Hacienda Ruiz last spring. In exchange he had brought back sugar, flour, salt and tea as well as some knitted socks for himself, Jeb and Nana.

What would it be like to have a wife who could take care of such things? He had decided to move to Alta California on his own. Completely alone. Admittedly he had been young and unprepared for just how isolated he would find the woods. Their nearest neighbors were a full day’s ride away. But then Nana Ruth and Jeb had needed someone and he had brought them with him, believing they could make it without anyone else. With Jeb gone and Nana feeling the aches and pains of arthritis, the realization hit hard that he was not self-sufficient and there were increasingly more things that he needed that he couldn’t produce for himself.

And what would he do when Nana needed more care? It hadn’t come to that yet, thankfully, but it might sooner than he expected.

“You ’bout ready to eat, Master Chris?” Nana called from the stove.

“Yes, Nana. My belly’s been kissing my backbone for a while now.”

“You always hungry, Master Chris. Been that way since the day you was born.” With a chuckle, she filled bowls with the stew, and he carried them over to the table.

“I eat?” Vicky asked. Chris sent a quick glance at Nana.

“If you could get her to the table, I think she’d be just fine.”

Pulling out a chair so he had a place to set her down, he crossed over to the bedside and took the offered knitting she held out. Setting her handiwork on the chest, he turned away to give her some privacy while she pushed down the covers and straightened out the giant shirt that hung off her slim shoulders.

“Ya.” It was the word he would have used to get a horse to move, but she had just spoken it to him. Seeing as he was to be her beast of burden, at least to the table, it might have been appropriate but a little haughty for a peasant girl. Then again, in the wilds of Alta California, he no longer was the owner of a large plantation and the closest thing to American nobility.

Turning around, he found her bare feet hanging off the side of the bed. His shirt covered her to her calves like an old nightshirt. “Nana, could you come here and help us for a moment?”

Stocking feet were one thing on the rough wooden floors of his cabin, but being barefoot in the winter would send her right back to bed with another fever and, with her ribs already in poor shape, possibly pneumonia this time. When Nana lumbered over, Chris bent down to her and whispered, “I put her stockings over there, with the rest of her clothes after they were washed. Could you help her get her clothing? I’ll just step out while you help her get situated.”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he crossed the room, slipped his feet into his boots and fled. Once the cool air smacked him in the face, he realized he’d forgotten his coat, but he decided he’d rather suffer cold than go in that room for a while. And the slight breeze might rid his cheeks of the telltale heat he’d felt when he’d been close to Vicky. The way his heart beat an extra beat and his pulse jumped in his veins hadn’t happened since he was twelve and had a crush on the new schoolteacher who came for only one semester. As a grown man, he’d believed he had left silly reactions to pretty girls long behind. He would never put a wife or family in the peril of being dependent on him. He would fail them like he’d failed everyone else.

* * *

The cabin door slammed behind Chris just as Nana Ruth hustled to the side of the bed with a glorious gift. Vicky’s own stockings and the peasant pants that she had borrowed from José Luis years ago so she could ride astride. The older woman started to lean down as if to help with the dressing.

“No, Señora, I do.” Extending her left arm, she waited for Nana Ruth to give up her clothes. With just one arm the task wasn’t very easy, but after Vicky scooted back in the bed a little, Nana could help without having to bend down. The pants were more of a struggle, but eventually they were pulled up, and the nightshirt she wore covered them all the way past her knees. Nana Ruth also brought her the first sweater Magda had helped her knit just before her Quinceañera. It was still by far her favorite even though her skill had improved, and she cherished the warmth and softness as if it were a hug from Magda herself.

Would she ever get home to see Magda and Berto again? Did she want to go if it meant marriage to Don Joaquín?

“You all right?” The older woman studied Vicky as if she could read her thoughts.

“Eat?”

Nana Ruth nodded. “Stay, child.” She painstakingly headed to the door and then returned with Chris right behind her. He stepped out of his boots and crossed the room once more. He slipped his arm around her shoulder, careful to not bump her sore side, and then caught her legs up at the knees with his other arm. His movements were slow and steady, but even with his consideration, her breath caught and her eyes teared up. She had to grit her teeth against the pain. He took all of four steps before they were at the table. He set her down as if she were made of porcelain like the dolls her mother had on display in their home.

Funny, for the first time in a long time she remembered that Berto called her muñeca, doll, almost as often as he called her princesa. Fighting a sudden wave of homesickness, she forced her thoughts on pleasant things. Namely, dinner. The smell of food was enticing as she leaned forward and scooped a spoonful from her bowl, blew on it and then sipped it.

The sigh that escaped her as she closed her eyes didn’t sound loud in her own ears, but when she opened her eyes, both Chris and Nana Ruth were sitting across from her, staring wide-eyed as she went after her next spoonful.

“Vicky.” Chris cupped his hand over her own, keeping her spoon still buried in the stew. “We say gracias to God.” He took his time, clearly trying to convey the message.

She dropped her spoon quickly and crossed herself, kissing her index finger as it curled in when she was done. Chris lowered his head, closed his eyes and began speaking, mentioning “Jesus” and “Lord” often. Finally he said “Amen” like the priest did at the end of his prayers, and then both Nana Ruth and Chris picked up their spoons. Only after they had taken their first bite did she pick her own spoon up and savor the thick, rich broth.

If only she could understand more of the words he spoke or know more of what was expected in his home. Working for him as a housekeeper would be a much better alternative than becoming Don Joaquín’s wife. Would the Americano hire her, a mestizo? His treatment of Nana Ruth made her think that maybe he just might.

Chris smiled often while he spoke with Nana Ruth, and even when they didn’t understand each other, he had shown patience with Vicky, something few men on the hacienda would have done. Having been born the daughter of Señor José Manuel Ruiz González, owner of the Hacienda Ruiz deeded from the very king of Spain, everyone expected her to marry a man of noble Spanish descent and take on the role of wife of a nobleman. Riding horses and taking care of livestock were not part of her future, yet it was what she enjoyed more than anything. Many times she was tempted to question God’s plan for her. Why had He given her this life when she could have been content as the wife of a simple ranch hand?

But could it be that God had finally answered her prayers to get away from a forced marriage to Don Joaquín? Surely Chris would soon need more help on his small ranch and with Nana Ruth.

For the first time in weeks, Vicky felt the stirrings of hope in her heart. Maybe God had heard her prayers and had brought her here. Maybe Chris was a priest and could tell her more about the Bible. After all, the only person she had ever met who had a Bible was Padre Pedro. The priest read out of it in Latin when he performed Mass at their chapel each time he visited the hacienda. If she could learn enough English to communicate and show Chris that she could cook, clean and sew, maybe she could convince him to hire her and she would be safe from Don Joaquín. Maybe she could have the life she wanted or at least avoid the life she feared after all.


Chapter Five (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb)

Dipping his spoon back into his bowl, Chris studied his houseguest. What must she be thinking? Emotions ran across her face—fear, concern, frustration and then something like hope. He’d never been so frustrated by an inability to communicate with someone in his entire life.

“You feelin’ all right, Master Chris?” Nana Ruth’s gaze bore into him as if she could see what he was thinking. “Was sure you was gonna down that whole bowlful in a blink like you normally do.”

“I’m fine, Nana. I just wonder what she must think of us or how much she understands. How I’m going to get her back with her family.” He plunked his spoon back into his soup with more force than necessary, and some sloshed out the other side. Grabbing his handkerchief, he cleaned up his mess.

“I been thinkin’ ’bout that myself, and I do declare the Good Lord must have had a good reason for sendin’ the poor thing here to us. He’ll let us know when He’s good and ready.” She patted his hand like she had when he was just a kid.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if He’d see fit to show us sooner rather than later.”

“You always was mighty impatient, Master Chris.” She chuckled good-naturedly. Wasn’t the first time she’d made that observation, and he’d stopped trying to deny it long ago. “Of course, the Good Lord just might have sent her along to be your helpmate. Seems to me you could use one.”

His glare was answer enough. She knew exactly what he thought about ever bringing someone else into his life. No way was he going to take the chance with someone else’s welfare—especially not a wife and children. For all the longings in his heart to have children himself, he could not take that risk, or the strain of feeling constantly responsible for their safety. And the idea that he could possibly marry Vicky? Impossible. She was a young girl, still years from marrying.

“Chris?” Her almond-shaped eyes, dark as strong coffee, nearly stopped his breath. Pure foolishness. He would never take a wife. He’d proved that he couldn’t take care of those entrusted to him. Forcing his face to hide the hollowness the last idea had left inside, he ignored Nana’s quiet chuckle and faced Vicky.

“Yes, Vicky?”

“Mas? More soopa?” She tipped her empty bowl so he could see the insides.

“Would you like more soup?” he asked, already assuming the answer but hoping to help her learn some English. He hoped she retained more of his language than he had managed to of hers.

“Yes, please.” She smiled shyly. “More soup.” This time her pronunciation was on target.

“It would be my pleasure.” He stood, bowed gallantly and swept her empty bowl into his hand, turning to refill it from the pot that still hung over the fire, and then set it down in front of her with a flourish. She watched him with wide eyes as Nana made a tsking sound between her teeth.

“That poor girl don’t know if you just plain out of your head or if that’s the way you white people serve the table.” She shook her head once more and then started to laugh.

Chagrined at his silly behavior, Chris sank back into his chair and concentrated on finishing off the rest of his now cool meal. A quick glance at Vicky revealed a wide smile.

“You make Nana Ruth, um...ha, ha, ha?”

“Laugh. Yes. I made her laugh.”

“I like hear laugh.” He had to admit, he liked hearing Nana Ruth laugh, as well. There hadn’t been as much laughter in the cabin in the last year, but since Vicky came, Nana had started to smile more—and he’d found a smile on his face more often, too.

Silence filled the room as they finished eating. With the last spoonful of soup, Chris’s gaze found Vicky’s across the table again. Had she been watching for very long? He noticed that she had eaten very properly, like an elegant young miss from back home, despite having to use her left hand. No slurping or dripping like he had accidently done a time or two. His mother would have cuffed him on the head for his poor table manners. As he looked at her, curiosity shined from those dark expressive eyes. She probably had as many questions about him as he did about her.

“So tell me, Vicky, what do your parents do at Hacienda Ruiz?”

“Mi papá is Don Ruiz, José Manuel Ruiz González de Jacinto, España, son of Don Juan Manuel Ruiz González de Jacinto España, el rey, king of España say to papá of mi papá, he come to América and make new hacienda. Hacienda Ruiz.” Her eyes glowed with pride and her chest rose, her shoulders straight as if she were nobility. Then her words clicked. If he understood her right, that’s exactly what she had just claimed to be—nobility.

“Your father is Don Ruiz? Hacienda Ruiz is your family’s hacienda?”

“Sí, Señor.”

The thought of having a nobleman’s daughter staying in his humble cabin gave him a start. Why hadn’t someone come looking for her already? Surely they had missed her by now. Would they think he had abducted her?

For the last four years he had bartered a couple of horses each year for many of the products they could produce in the hacienda’s village instead of having to go all the way over the mountains to the west and to the nearest port, but he had not ever had anyone visit him. On the first encounter, he indicated that he was not interested in socializing with anyone, and with the exception of the traveling priest and the bandits who had attacked last summer, his lands had been left alone. The closest Indian village was a two-day ride to the north, the Hacienda Ruiz a full day to the east and nothing but mountain peaks to his west for miles. To the south, the next hacienda’s main buildings were three days of winding trails in the foothills away from him.

“Where is your family?”

“Mi papá go talk with dons from haciendas de España. Many do not like Mejico take taxes for presidente but no have vote. The gobernador de Alta California bad man.”

“Your father is meeting with other hacienda owners?”

“Sí.” A shadow passed behind her eyes as if something had frightened her.

“Are you worried about your father? Is the place he is going to dangerous?” Were the noblemen considering revolting? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that was attempted. The Mexican government had forcibly taken the missions over and given them to the natives and peasants. The outcome had not been good from what he had seen during his last visit to the coast—just another reason why he hadn’t made the effort to go a week’s journey there for supplies.

“Worried?” she queried, her brow furrowing in concentration.

Chris turned to Nana for help. How did one explain worry? She shrugged at him. “Worry means you think about something, upset, nervous.”

“Nerviosa.” The frown lines smoothed for a moment as she smiled with the success of understanding, but she said, “Sí, I worried. I nerviosa. I worried mi papá talk with Don Joaquín about marry.”

“But you’re young yet. Surely your father will not make you marry until you have come of age,” Chris reassured. “After all, you can’t be much more than fourteen.”

Nana snorted as if she knew a joke he didn’t.

“I...what?” Vicky said.

“Fourteen. You are fourteen.” He raised all ten fingers and then left four up while he lowered the others.

“Not fourteen.” She counted under her breath until she reached the number she must have been looking for. “I have eighteen.”

“Vicky, you can’t be eighteen. You barely measure five feet.” He started counting again out loud, holding up his fingers as he went. But when he reached fourteen, she continued counting on her own hand until she reached eighteen.

“I have cumpliaños...how you say, day of Santos?”

“What are you asking about?”

“Day baby new. Day I bebe, I get nineteen.”

“She’s talkin’ ’bout her birthday, Master Chris.”

“Birthday. The day you were born?”

“Sí, birthday. I have birthday in six weeks. I get nineteen.”

His gaze skimmed her from her messy hair, still tangled and dirty in places, to her smooth forehead and dark eyes, following the line of her straight flat nose to her lips and then down to that enormous-looking shirt Nana Ruth had put on her, now only half covered by her woolen sweater. The shirt had been too small for him to wear for a few years now. The heavy work of clearing land and then keeping wood chopped for the fire, feeding horses and general farming had bulked up his shoulders and arms to the point that all of his clothes from South Carolina no longer fit him. Returning his gaze to her eyes, he wondered how she could possibly be nineteen.

“You’ll turn nineteen, Vicky. We don’t ‘get’ an age, we are an age in English.”

“I no understand.”

“You say, ‘I will turn nineteen on my birthday.’” To his surprise she repeated his words perfectly.

“And you turn how many on you birthday?” she asked innocently.

“I will be twenty-eight in August.”

The answer gave him pause. How differently his life had turned out from what he had envisioned when he turned nineteen. Most of his schoolmates were married and starting to take over the reins of their family plantations back home now. Even his younger sister, Nelly, had two children already. In fact, Nelly had married at age eighteen after a two-year courtship that had started on her sixteenth birthday when their family had presented her to society. The ball had taken months of preparation, rivaling the effort that went into putting the wedding together two years later. Matthew had swept Nelly off her feet despite his Yankee upbringing. It had taken two years to wear Father down to the point of consenting to the marriage, but they were happy. Chris had seen true affection reflected in Nelly’s and Matt’s eyes. His brother-in-law had been supportive about Chris’s decision to sell the plantation, taking their mother in to live with them. Mother would never have survived the primitive surroundings of the ranch, and Chris could never have left her if Matt hadn’t opened their home to her.

Thinking back to his interactions with Hacienda Ruiz, he suddenly remembered the first year he had sold them four horses from his stock. Goldenrod had been chosen by the foreman who ran the stables for Don Ruiz’s daughter’s birthday party. The girl had been turning fifteen at the time, and they had invited him to come for a celebration. Had that been Vicky’s birthday party?

“Vicky, how did you get Goldenrod?”

A glance at her face forced him to look for another way to ask the question. “Your horse, ca-bey-o?”

She lifted her left hand to her hair and winced. “It need clean.”

“Your horse needs to be cleaned?” Chris was puzzled. He had been taking care of Goldenrod himself and knew that she was well groomed and bedded down for the night in the barn.

“Mi ca-bey-o.” She pulled at her hair. “I need say-pi-yo.” She pantomimed brushing her hair.

“I do declare, watchin’ you young folk sure does make me smile.” Nana Ruth chuckled. “Somehow you got her talkin’ hair instead of horse.”

“We can get you a brush as soon as we clean up from dinner.”

“Brush?”

“Brush. To brush your hair. Ca-bey-yo?”

“Sí, ca-bey-yo.”

“If ca-bey-yo is hair, what is horse?”

“Horse? Ca-buy-yo. Neigh.” She blew air out her cheeks like a horse would.

“She done a right fine imitation, Master Chris. She’s one smart gal if ya ask me.”

“Ca-bey-yo is hair, ca-buy-yo is horse. Well, they are close.” Too close. How was he ever going to keep these new words straight, much less learn more?

“How did you get your horse? Neigh.” He mimicked her, and she giggled. Her laughter made him smile and made all this tedious and sometimes frustrating communication suddenly worth it.

“Tesoro is mi horse. Mi papá y Berto say ‘Feliz birthday’ and give me Tesoro.”

“I sold Goldenrod to Berto. I raised her.”

“What Goldenrod?”

“Goldenrod is Tesoro. I call her Goldenrod and you call her Tesoro.”

“I see Tesoro?” She leaned forward in her chair as if by straining in her seat she would be able to see the horse out the window.

“Tesoro is in the barn for the night.” Chris shook his head. Already Vicky had been up at the table for the better part of an hour. Any more excitement would slow down her recovery.

“When see Tesoro? She eat? She...?” Her words fell away, and he saw the affection the girl had for her horse. He understood. Golden had been one of his favorites, and it was only because he could tell Berto would treat all the animals well that he had been willing to sell her to the hacienda. Now he could see that girl and horse were well matched—kindred spirits.

“Tesoro is good. She’s in the barn with my horses. I fed her and took care of her earlier. As soon as you are able to stand up on your own without too much pain, we can make a visit to the barn to see her.” The blank look on Vicky’s face told him that his words had not been understood. He was about to try again when a yawn caught the girl unaware, and she grimaced when she accidentally tried to move her right arm in an attempt to cover her mouth.

As Nana Ruth stood and picked up the empty bowls, Chris bent to pick up Vicky. “But for now, I think you’ve been out of bed long enough today. Let’s get you tucked back in.”

Lifting Vicky up in his arms, he couldn’t help but notice how little she weighed. She settled against his chest as if trusting him not to hurt her.

Did she feel safe? He suddenly realized he wanted to protect her. The thought materialized with a force that nearly halted his steps. He needed to get her back to her people. His cabin in the middle of the woods could be safe for only so long before someone else showed up and tried to run him off or take what was his. He’d already failed at keeping Jeb safe here. What made him think he could take care of Vicky?

Quickly he set her back on the bed and left the room, feeling the cold air steal her warmth away when he let go of her. The cold felt even colder than it had a few minutes before, penetrating not only his clothing but his skin as well, almost as if it were seeping into his heart. He shut the door behind him and headed off to check the corrals while the women prepared for bed. As he stared up at the night sky, it seemed that he would always be alone with just his land and his horses. For the longest time that had been all he had wanted. Was it still?

* * *

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.





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