Rescuing The Runaway Bride

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,

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.

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

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

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

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.