Rescuing The Runaway Bride

Chapter Two

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

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.