Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love)

by Bonnie Blythe

  She gave him a guileless look. “Well, what I remember from Sunday School classes as a kid was all those animal sacrifices in the Old Testament. And then there’s Christ on the cross. Everywhere you look, especially here in Mexico City, are gruesome crucifixes with a bleeding Christ. What’s the difference?”

  Spencer stared at her. “You must be joking! You can’t compare God with a bunch of deceived Aztecs involved in demonic behavior.”

  She tugged on his arm, her chin set at a stubborn angle. “Why can’t you answer an honest question? Do you have an answer that isn’t along some denominational party line?”

  Spencer sucked in a breath, wondering how to explain the difference in a way that would satisfy her. But his thinking was muddled, as if the very smog of the city had crept into his mind and soul. Concepts that had once been clear became hazy and hard to grasp.

  He looked out over the plaza, toward the soaring cathedral as if for inspiration. His silent prayer for wisdom seemed hampered by the darkness shrouding the city.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  Spencer cleared his throat. “You’re right that God did require blood sacrifice. But only to atone for sins. He could handle the rising of the sun on His own. Besides, what happened in the Old Testament was a kind of symbol for the true sacrifice that was to come.”

  “Why? Why such a bloody requirement?”

  “I think God was trying to make a point that the cost of sin was so high, that only innocent blood could wash it away.”

  “So, how is that different from what the Aztecs did? I mean, it seems to me they were on the right track.”

  He stifled a stab of impatience at her persistence. “God never required human sacrifice of us. In fact, when Israelites began to copy the customs of ungodly nations by sacrificing their children to fire, the Bible says such a thing had never entered His mind.”

  She studied his face for a moment. “And yet He required Jesus to die.”

  Spencer looked across the square. The lights shining on the buildings wavered in a gust of wind. He directed his attention back to Miranda. “Yes and no. God required innocent blood to atone, or pay, for sins, but Jesus gave himself up willingly. He took our place. Just like the animals were innocent of the sin they cleansed, so the Lamb of God, Christ, had to be sinless, to take away the sins of the world.”

  She looked away. “Are you sure? Because historically, Christians didn’t seem to think so. The influences of the Spanish Inquisition and their auto-da-fé, or act of faith, once held sway here in the Zócalo. So-called heretics were burned at the stake here.”

  “A lot of evil things have been done in the name of God,” he murmured, feeling a vague sense of shame.

  “Those that weren’t condemned to death by burning,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “were required to wear a garment called a sanbenito in public for the rest of their lives, to show guilt and humiliation for their sins. It was marked with their name and sin, and even after the wearer died, the sanbenito was hung in church as a continuous reminder for future generations. When the garment decayed with age, new ones were made and displayed. There was no mercy, no forgiveness of sins in that.”

  Spencer bristled at her tone. “You know as well as I do that then, religion was about power and controlling the masses. As soon as more and more people learned to read the Bible for themselves, there was reformation and such practices were stopped.”

  “Religion is still about power and control.”

  “Religion, yes. Biblical Christianity, no.”

  “Who can ever know for sure?” Miranda kicked at a loose stone. “We all tend to believe whatever we’re raised with. You say one thing, someone else says another. You can spend your whole life striving to serve, placate, and please God, and in the end, it might be the wrong thing and you die condemned. Condemned just for trying.”

  Spencer wondered if they were still talking about history. “Well, it’s true our efforts at salvation are futile. For salvation there must be a cleansing of sins. The Bible is clear that we’re powerless to do that. Only the sinless can die for the sinner. Now, by Christ’s blood, we can obtain salvation.”

  She squeezed his arm hard, making it go numb. “Just like that? That’s it?”

  Spencer furrowed his brows, wondering how she could be raised in a Christian home and not know this. “Of course. You just have to accept it for yourself. You know, repent and all that.” He glanced at her. “Didn’t you get all this growing up?”

  She shrugged, appearing to lose interest. But the light caught a glint of moisture on her cheek. His breath hitched in his throat. “Hey, are you okay?”

  The sound of an approaching guitar player drew his attention to the direction of the music. Facing away from him, she nodded her head before releasing his arm and walking to where the man had stopped to play for a gathering crowd. Spencer followed her, worried that he’d somehow failed her.

  When he stood behind her, he wondered if he imagined the stiff set to her shoulders. Did I say something offensive? She brought up the subject, after all. Spencer closed his eyes for a brief moment, wishing he could think straight. Before arriving here, he thought he had everything figured out. He was comfortable with himself and his understanding of God.

  And why shouldn’t I be? I read my Bible and participate in study on a regular basis. I go to church on Sunday and serve God to the best of my ability. Yet for Miranda, it apparently wasn’t enough. He knew she viewed him as some kind of crusty, stuck up religious prig.

  What does she expect? She insists on looking at everything from a skewed angle! And it doesn’t help that she’s so fascinated by the deep, dark superstitions of past cultures. That’s the problem with places like this. They try to mix in the bad with the good, trying to appease everyone and only ending up confusing more than enlightening.

  Spencer experienced a twinge of guilt at the thought. Of course, that happened everywhere and in all situations, even his church at home, if he was brutally honest. He rubbed his face in an effort to snap out of whatever funk he was in, and forced himself to listen to the music.

  The dirge-like, plaintive notes of the guitar flowed over him, stirring him up in a different way. Even though he didn’t understand the words, there was no doubt it was a melancholy song about heartache and loss. The rapt, sad expression of people in the crowd attested to the fact. It seemed an appropriate choice on a mournful night like this.

  Spencer had to stifle an urge to put his arm around Miranda. He wondered what she was thinking about. He edged closer to her and peered down at the side of her face. She seemed unaware of his presence.

  At length, the song ended. Miranda was one of many who added pesos to the open guitar case. When she turned and looked up at him, he detected a film of tears in her eyes. What’s making her sad? Our discussion? The song? Will I ever really understand what makes her tick?

  “Are you done here?” she said gruffly. “I’m starved.”

  Spencer offered her a small smile, noting the shine of lights on her soft curls. No, I doubt I’ll ever understand her at all.

  Miranda walked on ahead of Spencer, away from the square. She needed a little distance from him in more ways than one. She knew he didn’t understand her need for answers. Just because her parents were missionaries didn’t automatically make her eligible to receive an honorary doctorate from some seminary. Why were questions a crime?

  Her parents weren’t perfect. She’d even go so far as to say they'd made a lot of mistakes. Miranda felt a stab of guilt at her thoughts. Of course she was thankful to be adopted out of a life of poverty and hardship, but she wished they hadn’t been quite so protective.

  Maybe if she’d been allowed to think for herself a bit more, she wouldn’t be so spiritually stunted. Every time she’d question their concept of Christianity, they were offended, consequently making her feel ashamed of her curiosity.

  Their attitude backfired when she became a teenager. When Miranda remembered her horrendous b
ehavior, she felt a wave of pity for her parents. After a lifetime of hearing Christians don’t do this or that, she had the temerity to ask just what good religion was if it didn’t do anything.

  And once she tasted freedom when she realized boys found her attractive, she never looked back. How was that for thanks? God probably had some special punishment reserved for children who didn’t appreciate the sacrifices their adoptive parents made.

  Miranda hugged her arms about herself. This line of thinking made her feel depressed. After walking a block, she spotted a street vendor selling a version of hot dogs. With Spencer in tow, she bought a couple of exquisitos and handed him one. He shook his head, looking embarrassed.

  While she ate, he was silent, for which Miranda was grateful. Lately, she’d done enough introspection to last a lifetime. Here she stood, in one of the most exciting cities in the world, and she had to wrestle with her conscience every step of the way on a journey to right a wrong. Some day, I’ll return and enjoy myself to the fullest.

  “Have you finished?” Spencer asked.

  She nodded and together they walked slowly back to the motel. As they passed the velador nodding off next to the snowy-screened TV, Miranda realized she didn’t want to say goodnight to Spencer so soon. Despite his tendency to prose on and on in his patronizing manner, she knew she’d feel bereft the moment she went into her room alone.

  But it was after ten and he was undoubtedly exhausted from his ordeal with turista. When they arrived at their doors, she couldn’t help herself.

  “Are you feeling up to a bit more company?” When he raised his brows, she put out her hand. “If you’re too tired, I understand—”

  Spencer unlocked his door and opened it wide. “Come on in.”

  Miranda preceded him into the room. She looked around with interest, noting it was clean and orderly. She suppressed a sigh. Surely there had to be a dark side to the man. Perhaps he pulled out cat whiskers or sang off-key.

  Miranda turned around when she heard the door close behind her. She smiled. “Nice place you got here.” He returned her smile and, all at once, she was glad she suggested a longer visit.

  “Are you thirsty? I have some bottled water on ice in the bathroom.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Miranda walked further into the room. It was identical to hers, except of course for the lack of mess. She saw the balcony doors and decided to go out to see the city from Spencer’s point of view.

  She unlocked the door and stepped out onto the balcony, hoping the glittering night scene would capture her imagination like it used to. From this vantage point, she could see the glow of lights from the Zócalo, though not the buildings of the square itself.

  “Miranda?”

  She turned toward Spencer’s voice, stepping back to lean against the railing.

  Except it wasn’t there.

  Fifteen

  Miranda gasped, clawing the air, desperate to grab at anything.

  Spencer erupted out onto the balcony. Miranda’s fingers brushed a portion of the iron railing as she pin-wheeled backward. She missed and started over the edge. Everything took on a hazy aspect.

  She saw Spencer surge forward. He swiped at her arm. His fingers grasped her wrist and held tight. Miranda closed her eyes as she felt his warm strength beneath her fingers. Safe!

  “Hold on, Miranda!”

  With horror she realized she was still heading downward.

  The ground, three stories below, rushed up to meet her. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stop the scream tearing from her throat.

  The feeling of weightlessness suddenly ended with a violent snap. Her arm felt ripped from her shoulder. A buzzing sounded in her ears. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  “Hang on!”

  Spencer’s voice sent a shock wave through her body. She forced her eyes open and gripped his wrist with all her remaining strength. Lights from the city swirled in her field of vision. Chancing a look down, she saw she was dangling over the heads of frantic, pointing onlookers below. Bile rose in her throat.

  Miranda eased her head back and realized that Spencer was over the edge as well, hanging onto a portion of railing above with one hand. His ashen face and wild eyes told her all she needed to know—any moment, especially weakened from his illness, he’d lose his grip and they’d both splatter onto the sidewalk below. I can’t die! Oh, please!

  Spencer’s grip, wet with sweat, tightened on her wrist. Miranda was certain her bones would snap from the force. Tears blurred her surroundings.

  “Miranda! You have to climb up my body and get your arms around my neck. I need both hands to pull us back up.”

  Sobs tore at her frame. The sighing wind seemed to sap her body of strength. “I can’t!”

  “You can!”

  Miranda yearned for the haven and solidity of her motel bed. This is all so stupid! She looked up at Spencer’s white, pinched face, at his eyes imploring her to obey. She took a deep breath of the hot air, determined at least not to allow him to perish.

  Spencer began to pull her up by her wrist. She felt his arm muscles bunch beneath her fingers while hers stretched like taffy. Miranda cried out in pain. Sweat stung her eyes. She swung out her free arm, reaching up against the gravity dragging her downward.

  At the second attempt, her fingertips touched his belt. She curled her fingers around it and held fast. The instant she pulled with that arm, Spencer released her other hand. He scooped her around the waist, pulling her tight against him.

  From there, he hoisted her higher up the length of his body. As soon as she was able, she reached up to encircle his neck with her arms. Miranda pressed her face against his throat, clenching her teeth against the need to cry. Spencer swung his free hand up and caught the railing.

  As safety seemed more certain, Miranda became aware of noise beyond the commotion of her own breathing. She heard rapid Spanish above her. She glimpsed up and saw three men on the balcony coordinating an effort to get them onto the balcony ledge. They grabbed hold of Spencer’s arms and heaved. Within moments, she and Spencer were pulled up and over the edge.

  The men dragged them away from the perimeter, firing questions in a dissonance of sound that made Miranda’s head spin. From their disjointed, excited sentences, she understood they’d seen them from below and rushed into the motel to help.

  Miranda sat in a heap on the balcony floor, still tangled up with Spencer. She rested her forehead on his shoulder.

  “Miranda.”

  She reluctantly lifted her head.

  “Are you okay?” Spencer asked, his fingers tight on her upper arms, his expression rigid.

  “You saved my life,” she whispered. His features softened, and he continued to stare at her, breathing hard.

  “Can you tell the men we’re okay and thank them for their help?”

  Spencer reached up to them and shook their hands as she offered her thanks as well. “¡Salvaste nuestras vidas! ¡Muchísimas gracias!” She shook their outstretched hands as well, trying not to cry. The men went to the edge of the balcony and passed on the information that all was well. A ragged cheer went up from the crowd below.

  Beaming and patting each other on the back, the three men bid them adios and filed through the balcony door back into the room. Spencer eased to his feet and helped her up. Together they stumbled across the balcony, over to the side of the building.

  Wilting against the stuccoed wall, he slid to a sitting position, bringing her down with him. Miranda sagged against him and dissolved into tears.

  Spencer wrapped his arms around her. “I feel like crying, too,” he said against her hair.

  Like a video stuck alternately on rewind and fast-forward, the tumble over the edge of the balcony played over in her mind. Despite her doubts that God could hear her, Miranda silently gave thanks for the preservation of Spencer’s life. For her life. “We were almost killed,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I can’t believe we almost died.”

  “That sett
les it. We’re moving to a new hotel!”

  Miranda stared at him, then let out a giggle that ended with a hiccup at the injured tone of his voice. “Did you know the railing was gone?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know you’d go out or I would’ve warned you.”

  She felt like an idiot. “I’m an awful lot of trouble.”

  He laughed softly.

  She rested her head against his chest, hearing the pounding of his heart. Things could’ve been a lot worse. Miranda tried to swallow back her tears, and failed.

  Spencer squeezed her shoulders. “Hey, the worst is over. We made it.”

  Miranda rubbed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome,” she said, trying to lighten up. It didn’t work.

  Spencer’s arms tightened around her. “Tell me the words to that song we heard in the square tonight.”

  Miranda knew he was trying to distract her, but even the words of the song were enough to make her weep all the more. She sniffed and took a shaky breath. “It was about sorrow and betrayal. Kinda depressing.”

  “Oops. My plan backfired. I was trying to cheer you up.”

  Miranda leaned back and looked at him. “I know,” she whispered.

  Spencer smiled and regarded her in a way that made her breathless. He traced his fingers down her cheek. Her heart reacted to his touch, but her brain couldn't comprehend his kindness after all she'd put him through. His gaze dropped to her lips. Oh, my—

  A pounding on the door made Miranda jump.

  “Señor! Señor! Está aquí?”

  She glanced at Spencer. Whatever she saw in his eyes had disappeared. He released her and rose, helping her up. Miranda struggled to her feet, surprised she still shook so badly.

  He led her all the way inside the room before leaving her long enough to answer the door. The little velador, clasping her hands together in obvious distress, rushed into the room exclaiming about the balcony incident. She promised to get the railing fixed right away.