by Vella Munn
Or maybe what she was doing was proof of her madness.
* * *
Sick to the point of nausea, Margarita paced from one end of the tiny room to the other. It seemed as if the night had already lasted for half of her life and no amount of prayer would make it morning.
Her daughter was gone! When she'd first woken, Margarita had told herself that Lucita was either in the chapel seeking peace for her heart or busying her hands and body by working in the infirmary, but she'd checked both of those places and then the garden, the various animal corrals, even tiptoed around the girls' quarters.
"Where are you?" she moaned aloud. "My God, my God, where are you?"
She'd come back inside because she was afraid Sebastian would see her wandering about, but now she was discovering that the fear of discovery was less than the need to go on looking. After once again dropping to her knees and uttering another prayer for her daughter's safety and guidance for herself, she pushed open the heavy door and stepped outside. The air out here was cleaner and cooler and might help clear her head. Was there anywhere she hadn't checked? Maybe the chapel again.
As she turned in that direction, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and froze. A cold sense of dread clamped around her as her husband walked toward her.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Her mouth flopped open, but nothing came out.
"What kind of a fool do you think I am!"
"I never—"
"Enough!" he bellowed. "I swear, if I had known that marriage to you would be like this, I would have never bowed before God with you."
"Sebastian!"
"Sebastian what?" he challenged but didn't give her time to respond. "You forget something, Wife. You married a soldier. And a soldier learns to listen and look and observe or he dies. You've been searching for her for well over an hour, but you haven't found her, have you?"
The last, she knew, wasn't a question but a challenge. Sebastian had never struck her; he didn't need to because she'd always cowered before his size and strength and temper. If that temper was ever unleashed on Lucita—
"What are you going to do?" she managed.
"Disown her."
"What? No! Please, she—"
"Don't try to make excuses for her, wife." He made it sound like a curse. "And don't try to tell me she doesn't know what she's doing. She's run off."
Hearing him say that brought yet another wave of nausea. "Find her, please," she begged. "She might—there are wild animals out there."
"And savages," he pointed out unnecessarily. "No, I'm not going to disown her." He spoke so calmly and quietly that for a half-second she let down her guard. "She is much too valuable to me for that."
Because he saw her as goods to be sold to the highest bidder.
"When she returns—and she will return once she gets a taste of the wilderness—I will teach her obedience."
"Sebastian!"
"Sebastian, Sebastian. Is that all you can say? Your daughter has shamed and disobeyed me for the last time, Margarita. She is a wild horse who needs to be broken to ride. As soon as I have accomplished that, I intend to turn her over to a man who will keep her on a short rein. A man who will pay me handsomely for the pleasure."
I hate you. I hate you. "Then you aren't going to look for her?"
"Why should I?" he asked and laughed that heart-chilling laugh of his. "Trust me on this, wife. She will be back as soon as her belly knots in hunger."
* * *
Point Conception
Drinking in the taste and sound and feel and energy of the ocean, Lucita finally allowed her mare to stop. What little remained of night still embraced her, the moon not strong or full enough to bathe her surroundings in silver light. There might be wild animals out there, bears and cougars, wolves. Still, she hugged this darkness for the simple reason that she had chosen it instead of having it thrust on her.
Dismounting, she gave the mare its head so it could graze but held onto the reins because without the horse, she would be utterly alone.
Alone.
For the first time in her life, truly and completely alone.
"You aren't afraid, are you?" she asked, her voice thin and small and high. The horse chewed, vigorous crunching easily heard above the sounds of unseen waves.
"No, of course you aren't because you accept whatever happens; you do not question. Night or day makes no difference."
The mare sucked in a noisy breath as if testing the grass's quality before taking another bite.
"How simple it is for you. You eat and sleep and suffer people on your back, but you do not think, do you? You do not question or doubt. You don't even care why I made you walk all those hours. Why? Why did I?"
Unnerved by the near-hysterical tone in her voice, she pressed a throbbing hand over her throat and told herself that the mare would surely warn her if a dangerous animal approached.
"Black Wolf." His name whispered from her. "I was so afraid for him. I thought—I must have thought I could find him out here and warn him...."
For a moment she wondered if she'd said everything she needed to, but then: "The other day Father Joseph told me we weren't that far from the sea and that there was a decent trail leading to it. That's why we're here, not just because we found the trail but because I love the ocean. It makes me feel peaceful, and I need that now. Do you understand? I need peace more than I do human company."
When the mare gave no indication it had heard or cared, Lucita ceased her useless talk. The sea rushing back and forth along the coast had always filled her with a sense of restless energy, but tonight she was too tired to be caught up in it. Leading the mare, she made her way to a cliff that overlooked the bay and sat cross-legged on damp grass and sand.
"Listen," she told the mare. "It's a lullaby. The sea is singing to the world, and the moon and stars are here because they want to hear the song. We are blessed, you and I, because we are part of it."
Blessed? At the word, her thoughts tangled and tumbled. She wanted to tell herself, to believe, that peace and understanding would soon fill her and the awful turmoil inside would be over, but she couldn't.
"I don't know him! He calls himself my father, but he's a stranger to me." She ran her fingers over her upper arm, feeling torn fabric and a long welt but no longer pain. "Maybe... maybe he's a stranger to himself."
Once again she fell silent, overwhelmed by the possibility that Cpl. Sebastian Rodriguez might be or had ever been anything but sure of his place in the world. The simple truth, at least the one she'd always believed, was that he allowed nothing, or no one, to stand in the way of his determination to fulfill his mission in life. She—his daughter—had dared to resist his authority, and he'd proven himself capable of and determined to squash her. More than that, he would do whatever he decided was necessary to destroy Black Wolf.
Point Concepcion? She wondered who had named it that, whether ships ever docked here, whether the Indians who lived with Black Wolf fished in the surf. Then, because she couldn't stop the questions, she wondered if Black Wolf himself had ever stood on this spot and what he thought about when he heard the churning sea and lonely-sounding birds.
* * *
Lucita dozed off as it was getting light. Every time she tried to stir herself enough to seek a more comfortable place to stretch out, exhaustion reached out to claim her, and she didn't care enough to fight. She couldn't lie on her side because that position increased the aching in her shoulders, but it didn't matter because there were other positions she could assume and the dreams that washed over her took her somewhere safe. They weren't really dreams, more like snatches of thought and emotion, endless questions about the rest of her life.
Finally daylight pressed against her eyelids and brought her to a sitting position. After a moment of confusion, she faced reality. Although she'd tied the mare's reins to a bush, either her knot had been clumsy or the mare determined to free itself. Either way, Lucita was alone.
Hunge
r gnawed at her and she berated herself for not having brought something to eat, but she'd been so desperate to put everything the mission represented behind her that she hadn't.
Only now—now she would have to return because otherwise she'd starve.
How helpless she was, how useless! The savages, as the padres called them, could sustain themselves forever in the wilderness. They knew how to take from the land, build shelters, raise families, survive, flourish even, while she...
"I am sorry," she whispered as an image of her mother returned. "I do not want to worry you. Please believe me, I wasn't running from you. I should have told you what I was doing. Next time..."
Shaken by the thought, she tried to tell herself there would be no next time. If she managed to get back to the mission with its food and water and walls and roof, she'd remain where the soldiers' weapons could protect her and she wouldn't starve. However, she only had to look at her purple and swollen wrists to know she might not be able to keep that promise.
Looking around, she spotted the trail and walked over to it. Not yet acknowledging what she was doing, she began backtracking. Aware of the need for both caution and vigilance, she kept her eyes on what she could see of the horizon and fought the sense of loneliness that was no longer her friend. Once she spotted a distant deer and her features relaxed because the deer represented the freedom she'd so desperately sought yesterday, Twice quail scattered as she came close to where they'd been feeding, their reaction to her presence reminding her of the always nervous neophytes. Going back; she was going back. No matter how much she hurried, it would take most of the day to return to the mission on foot. Her father either had already sent his men but to look for her or was searching for her himself. When, not if, she saw him again, she would have to face his wrath, try to explain herself when she didn't understand.
She could remain here, hide from him for the rest of her life—her short, hard life.
Lord, please look after me. Guide my feet and decisions, listen...
What was the merchant's name? Senor Portola. He was expected any day, wasn't he? Could she marry a man she didn't know yet? Would he want her?
If she remained alive, did she have any other choice?
A high whistling sound sent shock waves through her, instantly pulling her away from her disjointed thoughts. Balanced on her toes, she tried to make sense of what she'd heard but couldn't remember enough of what it had sounded like.
There, on a slight rise to her left, form and movement. More than a little afraid, she faced whatever it was and waited, because there was no alternative. As a result of the sun's position, it was impossible for her to make out more than a large four-legged shadow.
Four-legged? Her horse?
Stepping closer, she realized she was right, but what else she saw quickly stripped her of her sense of relief. A nearly naked Indian had hold of the mare's reins and was staring at her as if he could command her with nothing more than the look in his eyes.
Black Wolf's eyes—even though she hadn't seen him in daylight before, she had no doubt that it was him. If he'd followed her here, taken her horse, and decided to confront her, she should be afraid, shouldn't she? But her emotions around the man—she would never call him a savage—weren't that simple. He represented a wild courage she'd never known existed, and instead of feeling overwhelmed or inadequate, she hungered for what he took for granted.
Step by step, she closed the distance between them, and although she was still trying to make sense of the fact that he was here, it seemed right. She remained aware of her empty belly, her aching body, questions about the rest of her life, but dismissed those things because at this moment Black Wolf was everything.
"It is you," he said when he was close enough that she could see his chest slowly rise and fall. "I was not sure."
"You—how long have you been here?" she asked.
"Not long. I traveled through the night."
"Why?"
"Because Humqaq is here."
"Humqaq?"
"It is a sacred place."
"Sacred?"
"To my people. To yours it means nothing."
It wouldn't be like that if you'd tell me. "I... I did not mean to disturb—I'm on my way back..." She couldn't make herself say the word home, not with him looking part and parcel of his surroundings, now that she could finally see him in the daylight. He seemed larger somehow, his eyes so dark that they took her back into the night. She could see what was on the thong around his neck and wondered at the meaning behind what to her seemed nothing more than a small polished stone.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"I—it doesn't matter." She couldn't meet his eyes.
"To you it does." His voice was soft yet probing. "Your body speaks of the battles inside you."
"Battles?" she murmured. "How did you..."
When her words faded, Black Wolf slid his hand down the mare's rein and then pulled up, forcing the animal to stop eating. "She should not feed with a bit in her mouth," he said.
Thank you for not pushing me. "I know. I should have taken it off her, but I was afraid she would get away if I had nothing to hold onto."
"She did anyway."
Black Wolf couldn't possibly concern himself with the way she cared for her mount, and, for now at least, neither did she.
"Thank you for bringing her to me,"-she said as he handed her the reins. The mare shoved a warm nose against her shoulder; the contact jarred her still-swollen right wrist, and she held it against her middle in a self-protective gesture.
Black Wolf pointed. "What is that?"
"I, ah, I hurt myself."
Without asking permission, he took hold of her forearm and brought her hand close to him. Next his eyes went to the slashed sleeve and he frowned. "Not you. Someone who sought to injure you. Who?"
"Please, don't ask. I..." There was a mark of some kind on the back of his forearm, not a scar and yet not something he'd been born with, but she couldn't concentrate on it.
He touched her wrist with fingers so gentle she easily imagined them caressing a newborn. Still, she shivered, torn between her need for tenderness and the desire to break free. Her mother had always warned her not to let a man touch her in an intimate way, but was this what she meant?
"Who did this?" he repeated.
"My... father." She frantically searched for® way to take back the answer, but it was too late.
Mouth tight, he leveled his dark-eyed gaze at her until she felt compelled to return it. Although he remained silent, she sensed his question and knew she would give him the truth.
"I tried to stop him from beating a neophyte to death," she said.
"He killed—"
"Yes!" she blurted. "Black Wolf?" With no idea of what she was going to say, she placed her hand on his forearm.
"Tell me," he pressed.
"My father..." No, she couldn't be a coward, especially when Black Wolf's life might depend on his knowing everything. "He believed the neophyte knew more about you than he was telling."
"Me?"
"Yes. Oh, God, I don't know how, but somehow he found out you're the one responsible for wounding that soldier. He's vowed to make you pay."
Chapter 11
His thoughts firmly on the untold ways his people's lives had changed since horses had been brought here, Black Wolf slipped off the mare's bridle. Before releasing it to feed, he whispered into its ear, smiling despite himself at the way the mare kept twitching it.
"What were you doing?" Lucita asked.
"Letting her know of me and you so she will not forget and wander off."
He could tell she didn't know whether to believe him but didn't try to explain because if they remained here, she would see the truth of his words.
In all honesty, he wanted to turn his back on this young woman with her bright eyes and sober mouth and, most of all, what she'd just told him, but if he did, a river would always remain between them, and they'd already come so far.
"I know," she whispered. "I shouldn't be—I was getting ready to leave when I saw you."
"I do not understand. No one knows where you are?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I wasn't thinking; I saw things I couldn't handle; it was as if I was going to shatter and all I could think about was getting away. But..." Face now buried in her hands, she went on. "No matter what happens, I have to go back."
Although that was her world, he wished she could remain near Humqaq forever, learn of its sacredness. "You are certain it is me your father searches for?" he asked.
"Yes. He knows your name."
Not a neophyte but a man had died yesterday because of him. It was possible the man hadn't known anything and simply hadn't been able to convince the corporal of that, but that didn't lessen Black Wolf's sense of responsibility and regret.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, and he wondered how long he'd been silent.
"Thinking?" Drawing in a deep breath, he made the decision to open a part of himself to her. "When I was learning to become a man, my grandfather warned me not to allow myself to be ruled by emotion and instinct, but it happened when I saw a leatherjacket attacking one of my people. Now I must live the rest of my life with the consequences of what I did."
"So must I, Black. Wolf. So must I."
She was talking about what had caused her to flee the mission, but although he needed to know everything she could tell him, he wasn't ready to hear yesterday's details yet.
"You have not asked how I learned your language," he said instead.
"I... I wondered, but... you are right; I didn't."
"It was forced upon me."
"Forced?"
"I was too young to fight, a child, when the padres who came before the ones who are here now captured me."
She clenched her teeth at the word captured but didn't drop her gaze from his, and he again admired her courage.
"Leatherjackets attacked my village." The memory took him into himself, forced him to relive the nightmare. "The padres will say they came so the Chumash could be baptized, but that is not the truth of it. Some of our warriors were killed, my father among them."
