by Vella Munn
But not this afternoon, she reminded herself as she left the infirmary and started toward the kitchen for a late lunch. Once she'd eaten—
"You heathen! How dare you defy me!"
Stifling a scream, Lucita lifted her skirts off the ground and ran to the back of the small monastery building. She'd recognized her father's furious voice but had no idea who he was yelling at or why.
A horse's excited whinny sliced through the air, making it impossible for her to hear anything else. As her gaze settled on the activity around the prancing animal, she saw that her father held his sword at the throat of a nearly naked Indian. The Indian jerked away but abruptly stopped. He couldn't escape because his arms were lashed behind him and a rope had been tied around his neck. Cpl. Sebastian Rodriguez held the end of the rope, and as she watched, horrified, her father yanked, pulling his captive within a hair's width of the deadly point.
"Father, no!"
She didn't remember starting to run and had no idea what she was going to do once she reached them, but she couldn't let her father kill a helpless prisoner; she couldn't!
Ignoring her, Sebastian held the rope as if he were a vaquero controlling a wild horse. "Savage!" he bellowed. "How dare you defy me!"
Features hard, he increased the tension on the rope. Desperate to escape the sword point, the Indian threw himself to one side, but as he did, her father yanked down, pulling the Indian off balance.
"No!" she screamed. Reaching her father, she tried to grab his wrist, but he first drew his hand away and then shoved her, hard knuckles grinding into her throat. Gasping, she staggered back.
"Do not interfere, Lucita!"
A thin ribbon of red welled on the Indian's throat. For a terrified instant she feared the captive was Black Wolf, but this poor creature lacked Black Wolf's height and musculature. "What has he done? My God, what are you doing?"
"Done? I issued an order. Instead of obeying, he tried to run away. Now I will teach him a lesson the others will never forget!"
Kicking out, her father delivered a blow between the Indian's legs. The captive doubled over, and as he did, her father brought his fist down on the back of the man's neck. The neophyte sprawled onto the ground and struggled to turn onto his side, but her father placed his boot on the exposed neck.
Her throat throbbed from where she'd been pushed, but it couldn't possibly be as painful as what the prisoner was experiencing. To her horror, her father pulled a short length of rope off his belt. Woven into the rope were a number of small rocks.
"Don't! My God, I beg of you, don't!"
"Silence!"
His older struck her with as much force as the unexpected blow had. Still, because the Indian's life might depend on her, she refused to retreat from the fury in her father's eyes.
"You might kill him."
"Good! Then all of these miserable beasts will know my power."
Black Wolf had run, had escaped, and now lived far from the mission's influence. If he was ever recaptured, his punishment would equal or be worse than what faced the bound man.
"You have already hurt him." She explored. "Surely he understands—"
"Silence."
Her father was back under control, as witnessed by the restraint in his order, only that could be even more dangerous than his earlier fury. Reining in her own emotions, she locked her hands by her sides and forced herself to wait. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, she realized their argument had drawn attention. Both padres were striding toward them; her mother hurried to catch up with them. Two of the soldiers stood maybe twenty feet away, prompting Lucita to wonder why she hadn't noticed them before. By contrast, the neophytes had retreated and were clustered together, their voices low and yet harsh.
His movement slow and deliberate, her father lifted his arm and brought the whip down on the exposed back. The Indian shuddered and gasped, his breath going on and on. Again the whip struck him, this time leaving several red welts. The second gasp ended in a sob.
"Stop it!" Her legs numb, she staggered forward and tried to intercept the whip. Despite her attempt, it again connected with vulnerable flesh, and this time the Indian screamed. The sound hadn't ended before the other neophytes took up the cry, reminding her of frightened puppies.
"Leave me!" her father ordered. He'd raised his hand, the whip aimed at her. "Leave me or suffer the consequences."
Run. Hide. You can't help—But what if this were Black Wolf?
"He's bleeding, Father. My God, you'll kill him."
Unbelieving, she saw the rock-weighted rope coming toward her, the movement both swift and yet so slow she should have had time to escape, and yet suddenly her arm felt on fire. He'd struck her! In front of the priests and her mother and the other soldiers, her father had taken a whip to her!
"Sebastian, I beg of you!"
Not understanding how her mother had managed to wrap her arms around her without her knowing she was going to do it, Lucita could only gape and struggle to make sense of the nightmare. Instead of reducing her to tears, her injury instantly hardened her. She felt herself tremble but knew her reaction came from something far different from fear.
"Lock her up!" Sebastian ordered, his eyes locked on hers, hatred arcing between them. "She is not to step outside until I give my word."
"You can't—," Lucita began, but her mother silenced her by clamping her hand over her mouth.
"She means no disrespect, Sebastian." Margarita's voice had taken on the defeated tone Lucita hated and would have destroyed if only she'd known how. "She is overwrought. She—"
"Get her out of my sight!"
Sobbing, Margarita wrapped her arms even tighter around Lucita's waist and began dragging her away. Everything in Lucita screamed at her to stay and do what she could to try to save the captive's life, to let her father know he'd destroyed something between them, but would risking being struck again accomplish anything?
Her mother could barely speak for her sobs. "Please, please, he did not mean—"
"Yes, he did."
Her voice had been stripped of emotion, and in the few minutes it took for her mother to half-guide, half-drag her to the storehouse her father had pointed at, Lucita accepted that whatever love or respect or admiration she might once have had for her father had died today.
"I hate him," she hissed as the door closed behind her and the shadows took over.
"No. You cannot. He gave you life, kept a roof over your head."
But she could.
Chapter 9
The heavy wooden door slammed behind her. Unable to face it, Lucita forced herself to concentrate on her surroundings, but there was no window in the grain-filled room. Darkness pressed around her, trapped her in her thoughts, and made it impossible to ignore her throbbing arm.
If she were free, she wouldn't rest until her father had been forced to acknowledge her outrage, her wrath, her hatred of him. In her mind, she saw herself pounding his chest, clawing his flesh, screaming like some demented creature. The image gave her a small measure of pleasure until she remembered how easily and totally he'd dismissed her.
Her father cared nothing about her emotions, her heart, even the condition of her flesh. It mattered not at all to him that she'd been appalled and horrified by his treatment of the runaway, but then why should it?
Her father didn't understand her any more than she understood him. They were strangers, two people united by blood and precious little else; she'd been a fool to think it might be otherwise.
Moving about by feel, she found a bulging burlap sack that smelled of grain and sat on it. Suddenly weak and half-sick, she leaned forward and rested her head in her hands, breathing deeply until her mind cleared. His lash had torn a furrow in her upper arm, and although it would soon stop bleeding and eventually heal, she'd carry the scar to her grave.
She'd been in windowless rooms before; it wasn't as if such an existence were foreign to her. And yet...
Unable to lie to herself, she face
d her fear's source. Never before had she been locked up and denied the simple act of walking about free. Darkness wasn't terrifying when a way to freedom remained, but when escape depended on the whim and will of someone else, someone who might even now be denying her existence—
"Mother." She whispered the word. "You don't want this for me; I know you don't. Why do you allow him..."
Her mother wasn't here, and it did no good to ask questions of the stifling air. Besides, Margarita would never oppose her husband. Lucita had been saved from having to marry Ermano not because her mother had successfully pleaded her case to her father, but because Sebastian believed he could secure a more advantageous—for him—marriage for his only child. In the meantime, he was determined to keep her near him, to protect his property.
Desperate for something to put her mind to other than her situation, she mentally placed herself outside. Instead of settling her attention on the mission, she went beyond, not just to the mistletoe-laden oaks, rabbit burrows, and aggressive blue jays, but to Black Wolf. Wherever he was, the warrior could look up at the sky, embrace the breeze, inhale the scent of the wilderness. Maybe he was with his wife and child, holding—
"Aarg!"
Jumping to her feet, she staggered about, stopping only when she hit her shin against something that refused to give. Ignoring the new discomfort, she held her breath until what she'd heard made horrible sense. A man was screaming, each agony-filled cry punctuated by the sharp sound of a whip against flesh.
The shrieks went on and on, sometimes little more than an exhausted whimper, too often high and sharp and inhuman. Sobbing and shaking, she clamped her hands over her ears and struggled to deny the pain in her arm, but the sound penetrated her mind and soul and her wound pulsed.
Her father was capable of beating a man to death, relished his control over life and death. If he so desired, nothing would stop him until no beating heart remained in the helpless, hapless neophyte. Sick to the point of nausea, she dropped to her knees and began praying, but her words made little sense and she couldn't complete a single sentence.
The unnatural night encompassed her, trapping her as surely as that poor creature had been trapped. Waves of something that might be fear and might be anger but probably was a tangled combination of the two sliced into her and stopped the useless prayers.
God, her God, wasn't going to stop the beating any more than he would lead her out of this prison. Salvation, for her, lay in waiting for someone else to unlock the door. As for the neophyte—
"Let him die quickly. Please, let it be over for him!"
Horrified by what she'd just said, she nevertheless repeated her plea, but all too soon her mouth clamped shut. Barely breathing now, hating what she was doing and yet having no choice, she listened. Her tears, which had died along with her prayers, began again. Either the Indian had fallen unconscious or her father had exhausted himself.
There was another possibility, that her stupid, hated, and yet necessary words had been answered and a life had ended. Wondering if she could ever make herself pray again or ever want to, she waited and waited, but the world beyond her remained silent.
Careful this time, she began a slow and deliberate search of her surroundings, because the alternative was to do nothing and her body, her soul even, demanded action. When her fingers found nothing new, she rested her head against a wall, the cool adobe penetrating her cheek and cooling a little of the heat left behind by her tears. She wanted to do the same with her arm, but just touching it made pain shudder through her. She was now thankful she couldn't see and that her mother had brought her here, because that way she hadn't had to watch.
"Lucita?"
Startled, she straightened. The voice was male, but with so much adobe between her and whoever had spoken, she wasn't sure of the speaker's identity.
"Lucita."
Father Patricio. "What?" she asked, surprised by how hard it was to form the word.
"It is over."
Over. "Is he dead?"
"Yes. Not that it matters."
Not that it matters! Rage boiled up from deep inside her, but she forced herself to remain silent.
"Do not waste your energy mourning the neophyte, Lucita. He was destined to sacrifice himself so the others better understand the consequences of trying to defy the corporal."
"Destined?" She could barely believe what she'd heard. "My father killed him. That is not a sacrifice."
"You question God's law? Do you not remember Job's words? 'As it hath pleased the Lord, so is it done. Blessed be the name of the Lord.'"
"God didn't make that whip. My father did. He decided to strike and strike and go on striking—"
"Your father has a mission here; you know that. What do you want, for Senor Turi's attacker to go unpunished?"
Was the padre talking about the wounded soldier? "He didn't; the neophyte wasn't—"
"Listen to me. We believe that creature had knowledge of where Black Wolf is. It was his duty to reveal that location, but he didn't. He knew the consequences."
"Black Wolf?"
His head cocked to one side, Father Patricio concentrated on the tone of Lucita's voice. She'd said the savage's name so quickly that he couldn't help wondering if she'd heard or even spoken it before. The possibility confused him and he debated whether he should tell her father, but that would wait. In the meantime, it was just him and the striking young woman with the unbelievably alive eyes.
"We have discovered the identity of Tori's attacker," he said. "Your father is committed to seeing him punished."
"By... by murdering a man?"
"Not a man," he corrected. "Never forget that they are heathens, Lucita, even those who have been baptized and profess to have abandoned their primitive gods. I know Black Wolf; both Father Joseph and I do. He grew up here." Believing he'd said enough, he fell silent.
"What—this Black Wolf?" Her voice sounded muffled. "If my father captures him, what will he do to him?"
"That is not for me to say," he expanded as an image of Black Wolf just beginning his growth into manhood filled his mind. If he could go back to that time, have Black Wolf again—"The corporal spoke of exacting on the savage what was done to his victim, for beginnings."
"No!"
"Lucita!" Pressing his hand against the wall, he imagined being able to touch her. "How dare you question the will of God! Do you not believe the words of the Scriptures? 'An eye for an eye.'"
"My father is behind this—God had nothing to do with it."
"Lucita! The Lord's hand is in all things. Surely you do not question that. Are you listening to me?" he demanded when she didn't respond.
"Did my father send you?"
"No. I came here on my own."
Forcing himself to concentrate on something beside Lucita, he looked around, but the neophytes had retreated to their quarters, the corporal had left to meet with his soldiers, and Father Joseph hadn't yet appeared to pray over the neophyte's body.
Assured that they wouldn't be disturbed, Father Patricio spoke again. "My child, I sense confusion inside you, and it pains me. I fear you have been touched by the devil. Surely it is he who placed those thoughts in your head, he who turned you from the path of belief and uniformity with God's will. It is my duty to lead you back into the fold."
"Please, leave me alone."
"I cannot do that." Such a ripe creature, untouched and pure, deeply troubled. "Lucita, get down on your knees. Pray. Pray for forgiveness and light."
"I—"
"Down! Clasp your hands in surrender and humility. Bow your head so the Lord knows you are repentant. Only then can you begin to hope for salvation."
"Father, I—"
"Lucita! There is only one way you will be released from this darkness, and that is by turning your soul back over to God."
"How?"
Nothing she could have said would have pleased him more. "By accepting my outstretched hand, my child," he replied. "By allowing me to guide you. You ar
e not the first. There have been many, many who needed me to show them the way."
* * *
Lucita couldn't say how long Father Patricio had stood outside her prison. He'd gone on and on about humility and God's will and the necessity of begging for forgiveness while she'd tried to shut out his words, tried not to think or be. Now he was gone, but although she was grateful for the silence, she continued to struggle to remain above the fear that lapped at her.
The room was both too small and too large. She felt lost in it, small and insignificant. At the same time, she half-believed she'd become a giant in danger of being squeezed to death in the confining space.
Whenever the walls pressed in too tightly, she fastened her thoughts on Black Wolf and imagined him running free through the woods. He would stop to slake his thirst at a clear-running stream. There would be fish and frogs and plants that thrive surrounded by water, one after another of them catching his attention.
Because he understood that world that seemed so strange to her, Black Wolf knew which animals fed on what plant life and where to find deer, elk, even wolves and cougars. He could look at a cloud and know whether it carried rain and how hard the wind would blow and if—
A scraping sound jerked her out of her thoughts. Scrambling to her feet, she faced in the direction the sound was coming from and waited.
As daylight flooded her cavernlike world, she made out a large shadowy figure. The man stood motionless, arms folded over his broad chest, breathing loudly.
"Come here, now!"
Obeying her father, she stepped closer, stopping shy of the opening only because her eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the loss of darkness.
"Did you hear me? Come here!"
Lifting her hand to shield her eyes, she took another few steps. Once again she stopped while she was still out of her father's reach.
