Rescuing The Runaway Bride

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.

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