Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  She questioned again what she had done—destroying the paintings of the bombing and giving the photographs to Walt instead of submitting them herself. Yes, he ’d published the one of the burning church, but what of those that showed the German planes in the sky? Why wouldn’t he print those?

  If she had sent them in herself, she would have known for sure she had done all she could to make certain the truth be told. Turning them over to Walt seemed the right thing to do at the time. It was for her protection, he had insisted. It would help her cover, too. Yet if she ’d had any idea such lies would erupt, she would have thought of another way.

  Now it was too late.

  “Are you okay?” Michael took her hand. “I think it is too much for you to think about, Sophie. Maybe I shouldn’t bring the papers home. Just as in Madrid, you wish to save the world, then feel helpless when you can’t.”

  She met his gaze. “Sí, I wish I could do something—anything—to save lives. I would give my heart to do so.” She jutted out her chin.

  Michael took her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. Then he frowned, searching her eyes with his own. “I have no doubt you would. And I am glad you do not have that opportunity. I could not bear losing you again.”

  Sophie bit her lip, holding back her words, and forced herself to look away lest Michael see her anger at his part in using the wealth of Spain for himself, and not for the people.

  “Maybe you should lie down.” He stood and took her arm, helping her up. Then he drew her to his side, holding her close. “See, the afternoon siesta isn’t so bad after all, is it? At least it gives Spaniards time to rest their minds from all the cares that press so heavily upon them.”

  Sophie gave Michael a quick squeeze; then she slipped from his embrace. Through the window she could see the small group of men congregating on the back patio. She had no doubt they waited to talk about any important information when she was out of earshot. Yet what could she do about that? Michael was right about this one thing—the weight of the world was too much to carry upon her shoulders. She needed space to think. Room to breathe.

  “I’ll see you in a couple of hours then. For dinner?” he said.

  “See you then.” With quick steps she moved to her room, closing the door behind her. Though she lay upon her bed, she could not sleep.

  While the men lounged in the shade of the back patio, enjoying their afternoon conversation, a burden weighed heavily on her chest, as if pressing the air from her lungs. She stared at the whitewashed ceiling, attempting to push the images from the newspaper out of her mind, along with her own captured memories. She tried to forget the caring way Michael looked at her. Tried to forget all Walt had asked her to accomplish. She even tried to forget all the needs she’d seen to day when they’d walked the streets of Bilbao.

  With a heavy sigh, Sophie rolled to her side. She tucked her hands under her cheek. She told herself to close her eyes, rest her mind, try to sleep. Instead, her eyes spotted the Bible. She thought again of the eagerness of the nun as she offered the gift. And she remembered the letters within its pages.

  Sophie sat up and gingerly grasped the book; then she flipped through the pages, looking for the handwritten treasure inside. There were over two dozen letters, and though dated, none of them had been sent. Some even seemed half written, as if the person who wrote them had become distracted and never returned to the task. Sophie flipped through them until she found the one that appeared to be the first written, and she started reading.

  January 3, 1867

  Dear Jeremiah,

  Even though I know I will never see you again, you are never far from my thoughts. I am living in Spain, and I do believe I never will return to the life I once knew. While completing my social work in Paris, I met and married a Spaniard named Mateo, and he is a dear and caring man. So different from the boys I dated back home, yet the same in a way—with similar passions, hopes, and dreams.

  Though the Spanish valleys are beautiful, the tortured geology tells another story. Mateo knows this. He works deep under the surface, where the coal seams are narrow and twisted. It’s been said there are no coal deposits in Europe as irregular as those in Asturias. The veins run from one mountain to another, folding upon each other in the valleys. I thought that would interest you—you have always cared much for nature and all God’s good gifts . . . haven’t you, my friend?

  If someone had told me five years ago I’d be the wife of a Spanish miner, scraping to live as he scrapes out the coal from the narrow veins, I would have laughed. I did not travel to Paris to fall in love, but I did. It is the second time, but this time, I hope, it will last until the end of my days. Yet I find myself needing so much from my husband. I realize this as the minutes pass by through the day and I await his return. I am strong about some things, not about this.

  I’ve left everything behind for good, but I do not regret it. I have my Bible and my paper to write my thoughts now and then. I also have my Lord, and I’m finding He is enough.

  It’s a strange thing, because I realize that with no luxuries and no time spent climbing the social ladder, I have more time for God than ever. This is a very good thing, because my prayers here are not filled with foolish prattling as they used to be, but rather with the heartfelt concerns of a wife . . . and soon-to-be mother. Yes, I will be a mother. I am planning on telling Mateo tonight. And I have a feeling God will continue to draw me closer still, as I will depend on Him so much more from this moment out.

  Love,

  Eleanor

  Sophie folded the letter back up, trying to remember what the nun had told her about the woman who penned these words. She said it was her grandmother’s Bible—her American grandmother who had lived most of her life in Spain.

  Sophie slid the envelope back into its place, feeling a strange yet comfortable connection with the woman who had lived and died as a stranger on foreign soil.

  Though Eleanor’s life turned out differently from what she ’d planned, she didn’t seem to regret her decision. Instead she sought God more than ever. Needed Him more.

  Sophie rose and glanced out the window again, wondering if the person sent to watch over her was still there. She walked to her nightstand and pulled out a brush, running it through her hair.

  Yes, I am fine. I am watched over. She moved the brush in soft strokes from her scalp to the end of the strands, letting the soft waves fall to her shoulders. Thinking about the woman’s words, Sophie realized why she felt so uncertain about everything around her.

  I need God more than ever, but have I sought to fill this need? Have I prayed about Spain’s pain? About Michael? About the gold?

  She thought again about the amazing and unexpected gift of this Bible and the letters inside. Obviously God had a message He wanted to speak to her heart. God had more connections even than Walt to ensure she heard it. He had a plan for her, even in this. He had to. If God wanted her somewhere else, living out another life, He would have found a way to take her there. Instead He had brought her to Spain. And He had brought her to a place where she could not go on without Him—she saw that now.

  “I have a feeling God will continue to draw me closer still,” Sophie said, repeating the stranger’s words. Then she ran her fingers over the Bible ’s worn cover. “Yet I have a feeling that closer doesn’t mean without struggles. Never has, never will.”

  She heard footsteps coming down the hall, and she turned to the door. A soft tap followed. Though Sophie had nothing to hide, she tucked the Bible into her satchel before opening the door. It was a treasure she didn’t want to have to explain, only cherish.

  “Darling, are you ready for dinner? We ’re meeting old friends.”

  “How many old friends do you have?” She took his hand and played the part of the adoring girlfriend, somehow strengthened and refreshed even though she hadn’t slept. “It seems you know half the town.”

  “Well, I did spend every summer rather close to here. Not more than ten kilometers away.�
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  “You mean the house you visited when you were a boy?”

  “The very one. It’s in a small village near here, Portugalete.”

  Sophie squeezed his hand. “Then can we visit? Is your family still around? I can’t believe we are that close. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because I wanted it to be a surprise. But no, my aunt and uncle are in France. They thought it wiser to wait out the war there. We’ll wait and see what happens before I make any promise of visiting. We are protected now, but you never know when Franco’s troops will break through the line and overrun us. In fact, I’ve already planned our way of escape.”

  “You said when. Don’t you mean if they overrun us?”

  “I mean when. News is trickling down the lines that it won’t be long.”

  “Then this may be my only chance, for a while at least, to visit your family’s heritage.”

  He opened his arms and pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. “You are right. If we go, then someday, when we have children, we can tell them that their mother too visited the property of their ancestors.”

  Sophie felt her shoulders stiffen. The thought of future children reminded her again of Maria. More than anything, she wanted to know if the other woman carried his child.

  Michael didn’t seem to notice her mood change. “Besides,” he continued, stepping back. “There is something else I haven’t yet told you—something about my family. A true treasure that is like none other in the world.”

  “You’re talking in a riddle. The town is by the sea, this Portugalete. Did you come from a family of pirates?” Sophie chuckled, pushing Maria’s face out of her mind.

  “Not quite. But don’t try to get it out of me now. I’ve waited over two years to tell you, and you can wait until tomorrow dawns.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  José cast a brief glance back toward Portugalete, the small fishing village lying to the west of Bilbao. Most people wouldn’t look twice at the surrounding hills if it weren’t for the large house located there. Most people came to view the transporter bridge—one of the few of its kind in the world. José had ridden across the bridge more than once himself. Built over forty years ago, the car ferry was suspended by wires from a frame riding on tracks high above the cabin, moving the ferry from Bilbao on one side of the Rio Nervión to Portugalete on the other.

  The bridge could be seen from the hill, but José hardly gave it a second glance as he hurried toward the barn. The house appeared empty, and he imagined the worst. Was his father well? Were the horses?

  Growing up, he ’d heard the horror stories of fine animals used for mere pack beasts or, even more tragically, for food. And though these horses were bred to carry military leaders to the far corners of the earth, he wanted nothing more than to protect them from the little men who attempted to carve out great empires.

  A subconscious impulse made José touch the scar on his neck, remembering that in a strange way he had received the wound attempting to protect everything this place once stood for—honor and duty. Instead he ’d found himself protecting a girl who’d fallen in love with the wrong type of person—someone who worked for the enemy of the people, yet tried to pass himself off as a friend.

  Though Michael had visited this home every summer of his youth, obviously it hadn’t been enough. For if he were truly a son of Spain, he would not have sacrificed this place, these horses, in an effort to line his own pockets.

  “Halt!” a shaking voice cried out, and before José could utter a response, a shot rang through the air.

  José fell to the ground and covered his head. Another shot sounded, and a bullet whizzed over his head, just missing his ear. “Stop, Pepito! Wait—it is I, José! Did you forget your glasses again?”

  “José? What José? I do not know a José. The friend I knew is dead to me after he abandoned his own father.”

  José stood and continued toward the barn, knowing he was no longer in danger. All the anger in the world wouldn’t cause Pepito to harm José, no matter how wronged he felt.

  José scanned the open corral near the barn, then peered into the door of the large barn itself. “Pepito, where are you?”

  “Up here.” The voice came from above him, and José glanced up just in time for a puff of straw to tumble from the open barn window onto his head.

  “Oh, it is a voice from the heavens. Pepito is an angel. I am so sorry to have missed your funeral.” José brushed the straw away and scratched his head. “On second thought, you must be alive, for if you were to end your life on earth, the man I knew would hardly be first choice for an angelic being.”

  “Curses, and you had to return, didn’t you?”

  The voice was more distant now, and José knew that Pepito had headed toward the ladder, coming down to meet him. He leaned against the wall to wait.

  “What are you standing there for, as useless as a statue? Come, hurry, you have arrived just in time.”

  José followed the man’s short steps to the farthest stall, where an old man was holding the head of a dying horse. José acknowledged his father’s gaze, thankful to see he was well, and moved to the beast. The horse bled from the neck, where a nail had pierced through the bridle. He could tell from the flow of blood that the jugular had been severed and nothing could be done in time to save the creature.

  “What happened?” José asked, turning to Pepito.

  Instead his father answered. “I offered to help haul a load of explosives for a friend. There was an accident.”

  José could hear sorrow in his father’s voice, but he ignored it.

  “A load of explosives?” José cursed. “This is not a simple farm beast. He is not bred for hauling loads.”

  Pepito cut in. “You do not know how things are. The house has been empty for months. They’ve gone to France and left us to fend for ourselves. We do what we can to make enough to feed ourselves and our charges. Do you think you can save the horse? If anyone could, it is you. . . .”

  José stood, knowing there was no use in trying. He looked at the horse one more time, but he didn’t answer the question outright. “Where are the other horses?”

  “Two stallions and four mares are all that remain. They’re in the far pasture. Shall we go see them?” Pepito led the way, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “Your father usually watches over them from the rear, and I from the front. But we are worried. We hear reports daily that the Iron Ring is not as strong as they claim. What then? I would rather kill the beasts than turn them over to the enemy.”

  José’s footsteps slowed, and he imagined killing the horses. Impossible. He couldn’t consider it. And that is why he ’d come, to make sure the horses were safe—stayed safe—even if it meant facing those who believed he ’d abandoned them for no good reason.

  He had no choice but to keep the secret from them. Let them believe what they must. How could he explain that keeping track of Michael in Madrid, and discovering the truth, did more to protect them and the horses than anything else? All they knew is that José had abandoned them when they needed him most.

  And the horses were worth protecting. Descended from the same bloodline as the Lipizzaner horse—the highly honored Spanish stallions of Austria—José had spent most of his life learning to train these fine horses. Famous for their ability to perform a style of riding called dressage, the horses’ muscular bodies, arched necks, and long manes and tails were as beautiful as any fine sculpture, even that carved by an artist as great as Michelangelo himself.

  José and Pepito crested the nearest hill to find six horses grazing in the southernmost pasture. Two mares were pure white, and the younger ones brown and dark gray. All horses were born the darker color, and lightened as they grew older. The eight years it took for the color to change was also the time it took to train them. After that, the stallions were used to perform before audiences or in parades under the expert guidance of their riders.

  José balled his fists, again co
nsidering how they’d been used to pull carts and carry loads. Inwardly he knew he couldn’t blame his father. The old man loved the horses as much as José did. More than life itself. Things must be drastic to come to such measures.

  Seeing the horses in the distance reminded José of the days when he commanded their complicated movements with ease. Powerful and graceful, riding them had been like floating on a cloud. Yet he too was forced to do what he must—to leave the horses as well as his father, so that he might protect Spain’s other great treasures.

  As they approached side by side, the farther stallion, Calisto, must have sensed José’s presence. José’s footsteps slowed, and the horse ’s ears perked. Then Calisto lifted his head and tossed his tail in greeting before cantering to José. José reached out his hand and held it there until the horse ’s nose nuzzled his palm. Then, as if sensing the injury, he moved his nose to José’s neck. The thirteen months since he ’d been in Madrid seemed to disappear. Feeling the hot breath from the horse on his neck, José knew he was home.

  “Yes, boy, it is fine. I am well, and I have returned.”

  “Look,” Pepito exclaimed. “It is a miracle. The light has returned to his eyes.”

  José ran his fingers through the horse ’s thick, black mane, nodding and smiling. Yet he did not know if Pepito spoke of his eyes or his horse ’s.

  Petra’s stomach ached—as it always did when guilt weighed on her conscience or when she faced uncertainty over a decision. This time she faced both. She felt horrible for running away from the colored man. She knew he had only tried to help her. Yet she didn’t want help from him, especially since she ’d forgotten her plan and spoken English. What peasant girl would be tutored in such a way?

  This would be only one of many mistakes, she knew. Soon the International soldiers would discover her for who she really was—the daughter of a wealthy landowner. And then she would be their enemy. Just like that, her quest would end, and she ’d never find Edelberto.