Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Strangely enough, Sophie ’s perspective on herself had changed, too. As she noted her every action and reaction, she realized how often in the past she ’d let her emotions affect her. Now she was forced to do just the opposite—unless an emotional outburst was the best response.

  Her cheeks grew red every time she considered the way she ’d reacted in front of the men that afternoon. It had worked for her advantage, this time. Once she was caught listening, it helped her cover to act like a lovesick girl. But from now on, she had to be more careful. Sophie knew she could display no emotion until she concluded it was the best one.

  Even though she regretted looking so childish in front of the group, she knew the information Michael allowed to slip was of vital importance. Maria had married a banker—who worked perhaps at the very bank that had previously held the gold.

  If the gold were moved, those inside the bank would be involved. And when a simple man, even a key bank employee, was in love with a beautiful woman like Maria Donita, any secrets he knew would be hers. In the Bible, Sophie knew, Samson had given away his secret to an alluring woman who confessed her love. Would a Spanish banker be any stronger?

  Still, she didn’t understand why Maria’s sister would lie about Maria’s pregnancy. Unless it wasn’t a lie at all. And marrying the banker was simply another way for Maria to cover up the truth . . . and get the information she needed for Michael.

  Petra sat under the shady tree watching José work with the horses. She had dozed off for just a minute, and awoke with almost a sweet taste in her mouth . . . as if she eaten the sweet images and digested them into her soul. She didn’t dream of a handsome lover, but of a handsome land. A land under cultivation, with earth and sky, leaves and stalks, olives, orange groves, creeks and ditches. And she knew forgetting would never be possible.

  Her family’s large house in La Mancha had overlooked the hills, a winding river, and the small white walls and thatched roofs of the workers’ houses. In her dreams, the sights mingled with the scents. She even dreamt of the friendly greetings of peasant men and women as they ambled over the land they knew so well. It was a pleasant dream.

  Such images were commonplace growing up, but she no longer took them for granted. Instead, she carried them like a photograph inside a pocket in her mind. Yet she hoped that as time went on, like any photos they would fade, grow thin, and crack. Maybe then the pain would ease.

  The images visited her too easily. The eggplants in straw baskets. The clusters of red tomatoes. The braids of garlic hanging in the pantry. Her family in their fine clothes gathered around the table.

  Yet some things had already slipped away, and as she sat under the tree, she realized she’d missed the first Sunday of May. If she had been home, she would have watched the peasants whitewash their houses, as they did every year. To them, it was a tangible vision of renewed life in Christ. It was as if the white radiating from their homes would somehow make up for all the dark sins they carried in their hearts.

  Not that she was any better. The only difference was that Petra did no whitewashing. Instead she covered all her frailties and insecurities with a smile.

  Every day as she walked to school, Petra had smiled at everyone she passed. The villagers often asked how her father was and told her to give him their regards. She always replied the same, “Oh, thank you. My father is well.” Then she relayed their messages and watched his face light up in a smile.

  Not that the people had truly cared. They’d killed her father at the first opportunity. But maybe it was her smile that had saved her life. They could have searched for her and found her. Yet for some reason they hadn’t seemed as intent on killing her as they had the others.

  She glanced down at the simple skirt and dark blue blouse she wore to protect her secret. She felt safe with these men, but what about the others she would encounter? What would happen if they learned her identity?

  She studied José and again was reminded of the man who cared for the horses at her father’s estate, in his trim suit and smart leather gloves. The man back home seemed to be the same age as José, in his late twenties or early thirties. But José had lines around his eyes that told her he had seen much for his age. Amazingly, those lines softened around the horses, as if they helped him to forget.

  Today José wore a cap that reminded her of a Hollywood gangster.

  “Is everything going well?” he called to her, noting she had awakened.

  “Sí. It is well.” She crossed her legs and spread her tattered skirt over the ground. Though José hadn’t apologized, she could tell by the way he looked at her he was sorry for yesterday’s events.

  He approached and squatted down before her. “I am going to Bilbao today. I need to find my wife, make sure she is well, and see if she will go into the mountains with us.”

  “Your wife?” Petra sat up straighter.

  “Yes . . . Ramona. She is a nurse. I will be back before nightfall.”

  “And if you aren’t?”

  “If I don’t return, it means the Nationalists have broken through the lines. In that case, take Erro and ride into the mountains. Untie Rafa and Lope. I think they will follow without straying. Hide until I come to you.”

  “What about Calisto?”

  José shook his head. “No, he is too strong willed. Too stubborn.”

  “Oh, so he needs someone more like himself to ride him to safety.” Petra grinned.

  “Sí, that is right. Exactly.” And with a smile and nod, José strode away.

  Ramona glanced up from the hospital bed, expecting to see more aid workers carrying men on stretchers. With the front lines nearing, there were no field stations, and medics brought the injured soldiers directly to the hospital. Overworked and exhausted nurses and doctors now worked on patients who would have died if the hospital were any farther back. Worse yet, the medical staff lacked critical supplies to care for the men—most of whom were terribly wounded, all in severe shock.

  Instead of seeing another stretcher, Ramona sucked in a breath as she saw her husband standing in the doorway. He looked sun-kissed and healthy compared to the dozens of white-faced men lining the walls. She bolted to his arms, and José wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her close. He was strong again—fully recovered from his injuries.

  She pulled back and studied his face. She wanted to tell him a hundred different things—share her heart concerning the war, confess her love, tell José how much she missed him and longed for him—but other words spilled out first.

  “How are the horses, José? Are they well?”

  His face fell, and he glanced away. “Then you knew where I went?”

  “I knew from the first minute you said you wouldn’t be traveling to Bilbao with me . . . though you have been very close this whole time, have you not?”

  José’s eyes darted to hers, then to the injured men again, as if it was easier to look upon their pain than hers. “Yes, the property is not too far from here. That is why I have come. To make sure you are well. And to take you with me. I have found a way out of this valley, into the mountains. We will be safe there.”

  “Oh, José.” She glanced into his face and saw such hope there. “You think those horses will save you? Save us? Is that your excuse for going there . . . for doing all you can to save them? They are animals. When will you understand that?” She waved her hand around the room, motioning to the injured soldiers. “How can I leave these men to help four-legged creatures?”

  Ramona made the sign of the cross. “Heaven forbid I ever leave the duties our Lord has called me to.”

  “It is not only the horses I worry about.” José’s voice was sharp. “I have come to take you to safety.”

  “Oh, dear man.” She patted his cheek, smiling into his dark gaze. “I know you care. And I will not compare. But I just cannot do it. I cannot go.”

  José took her hand and pulled her to a side room that held surgical equipment. He pushed her softly against the wall, then placed bot
h hands on her face. “Look at me, Ramona. I know there are injured men. But there will always be more. Let others care for them. Before long this town will not be safe. You are my wife. It is my duty to care for you. I have found a way to safety for us. When the Nationalists break through—”

  “If they break through,” she interrupted, “then I will worry about that. I am sorry, José. I love you, but I cannot leave. And if you truly knew the woman you married, you would not ask this of me.”

  “And if you knew my heart, and trusted it, you would know what I plan is for the good of all.” José shrugged. “Although I have to say I am not surprised. I just wanted to give you a chance. Give us a chance to be together.”

  Ramona pulled back from his touch. “I cared for your injuries. I helped you heal. How could I deny that to others?”

  “I suppose you cannot. But I hate leaving you like this.”

  “And I hate being left.” Ramona wrapped her arms around herself as if giving herself courage for the words she was about to say. “But I suppose we have come to an impasse. We both have a calling, José. How can we turn our backs on those things . . . the things we care for the most?” Ramona tried to hide the pain in her voice. But from the look in José’s eyes, she could tell he was not fooled. And she saw the same heartache she felt reflected in his look.

  Sophie glanced into the backyard where a tangled but fascinating garden needed rescuing. Who knew how many generations ago it had been planted? But judging from the daisies that grew in every direction, leggy and untamed, they had taken over and ruled this patch of dirt for some time. Ivy crept along the back wall of the house and wrapped around the trunks of olive trees. The trees stretched out a protective canopy over the flowers, like a lover spreading a blanket of tranquility over his bride.

  The strange thing was that instead of having the urge to paint the scene, Sophie had an unimaginable desire to tame it. Everything in her life was out of control—her duties, her thoughts, her emotions. She had information she needed to get out, and no idea how to do that either. She needed to feel some measure of control—to put something in order.

  She noted a small shed in the back corner of the yard. From the look of the rusty hinges, the door hadn’t been opened in years. The door gave a squeak of protest as she tugged it open and peeked inside. Everything was covered by a layer of dust and cobwebs. Noting a small bucket of tools on the ground, she poked around until she found a pair of pruning shears. They were slightly rusty, but they’d do the trick.

  First she attacked the dead twigs on the trees. If only Spain’s wayward ideals and power-hungry rulers could be tamed as easily as dead branches and leggy shoots. Only then could the new, fresh life grow.

  As she worked, she thought of home. Only a block from where her father managed one of the finest hotels in Boston, the park of Boston Commons had been like a second home to her. She loved exploring the grounds and hearing how the land had been donated so that everyone in the city, from the mayor to the lowest servant, could raise livestock for his own use. If only Spain could grasp that freedom and equality.

  Those thoughts propelled her attack on the overgrown plants. Sophie didn’t know how many hours had passed, but by the time the sun was lowering in the sky, she was sweaty and dirty, and her whole body ached from her unaccustomed stooping, stretching, pulling, and hacking. Wiping her brow with the sleeve of her blouse, she stepped back and appraised her work. A smile spread across her face as she took in the look of new life that she had breathed into the old garden.

  Tucking the pruning shears under her arm, she hobbled over to the shed, rubbing a sore spot on her back. She opened the door again, noticing how the afternoon light now beamed directly into the room. Sophie moved to put the shears back into the bucket, and then paused. A large wooden box with a lid sat on the left side of a shelf in front of her. Although it looked as old as the others on the shelves, there was no layer of dust. Looking closer, with the added light, she also noted the faintest footprints across the ground toward it.

  Sophie stepped into the shed and reached for the box. Glancing behind her, she made sure no one was there. Still, she shut the door slightly, giving herself just enough light. Sophie pulled the box from the shelf, placed it at her feet, opened the lid, and gasped.

  Inside were stacks of photos, obviously Michael’s. The one on top was of a ship in the harbor. Underneath that was a picture of a young man Sophie didn’t know. She moved to look at yet another.

  She stopped herself, noting the haphazard way they’d been laid out in the box. To the common observer it would seem as if someone had just tossed them in. Yet she knew Michael too well. Michael did not toss anything. She remembered again how Walt had showed her how to place a piece of thread across the zipper of her satchel to tell if it had been disturbed. These photos, she had no doubt, had been laid out in this pattern for that very reason.

  Sophie bit her lip and returned the top two photos exactly as she found them, then returned the lid and placed the box back on the shelf as close to its original position as she could remember. Then she backed up and retraced her steps, hoping she had not left any marks.

  Walt had told her more than once that it wasn’t her job to dig through any information or leads she found. Instead, she just needed to inform her contact where it was. Sophie just hoped her eagerness hadn’t messed things up.

  She readjusted the shears in the bucket and left the shed. And this time as she glanced at the garden she saw something else— clear evidence that she had ventured where she didn’t belong, and touched and seen what she had no right to know.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Petra sat on the corral rail watching Erro prance about and laughing at his antics. It wasn’t until she heard a man’s laughter merge with hers that she realized Pepito had walked up beside her.

  “It seems he has a crush on you. He is showing off.”

  Petra tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sí, I like him, too. I always wanted a horse of my own.”

  “Oh, so you think he is yours now?” Pepito lifted one bushy, gray eyebrow and peered up at her.

  “No, but I still like to imagine it.” She hopped off the rail and plucked a long blade of grass growing near the fence post, twirling it in her fingers. “I have also decided that once this war is over I will follow in José’s footsteps and train horses.”

  “Really, now? The training of a stallion requires long and careful planning. Highly bred and intelligent horses make great demands on the skill and understanding of their trainers. They require abundant patience and careful treatment.”

  Petra smirked. “Are you saying I am not patient?”

  Pepito glanced at the saddle perched on the fence rail. “Going somewhere?”

  “Well, I did get things ready. Just in case. You never know when the enemy will break through the lines.” She shrugged.

  “Yes, that could happen. But does the horse trust you?” Pepito asked. “You can saddle him, but do you truly believe he will let you lead him far from all he knows? The more he understands your character, the more likely Erro will follow your lead.”

  Pepito whistled between his teeth, and the stallion’s ears pricked up. Then with a happy trot, the horse approached the older man.

  “Let him know you’re not upset due to yesterday’s tumble,” encouraged Pepito. “Give him a pat on the neck and show him you are friendly.”

  Petra did, smiling at the warmth of the horse ’s muscular neck under her hand.

  Pepito walked to a nearby tree and pulled at the stalks of tall grass growing around its base. He approached the horse and held out a handful. Erro tugged the strands of green alfalfa from the old man’s hands.

  “Sí, I can tell by the look in his eyes that he understands all is forgiven,” he commented.

  Petra walked to the tree and pulled two large handfuls. Returning to the corral, she held them out to Erro. His black lips eagerly gathered the next mouthful. He finished all she had pulled and whinnied a
s if asking for more.

  Petra opened her palms, showing him she had none, and Erro nuzzled them. He then neighed with a shake of his head. Finally, he struck the ground with an impatient hoof.

  Petra looked to Pepito. “Shall I get more?”

  He shook his head. “No, not yet. Just wait.”

  Petra watched, and the horse locked eyes with her; then he stepped backward a couple of paces and bowed down on his knees. Petra sucked in a breath. Then laughter spilled from her lips.

  “Sí, now you can give him more.” Pepito clapped his hands, and Erro stood to all fours. “And I encourage you to continue to feed him, pet him, and stay a constant presence. War horses are trained to dedicate themselves to their riders, and someday you may need him to do just that.”

  eee

  Sophie stared at her plate of baked fish and fresh tomatoes, forcing herself to take a bite even though her stomach knotted at what she must do next. Seldom a day passed when a group of five or six men didn’t meet in the back patio after dinner. And Sophie counted on that happening this evening.

  No one ever invited her to this gathering, and Michael had explained once that these men helped him with his work. She figured it had more to do with the theft of gold than with his duties at the newspaper.

  She needed to talk to her contact about her suspicion. To tell him about Maria’s husband and Michael’s connection with them both. To tell him about the photographs in the shed.