Rescuing The Runaway Bride
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
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.”