by Mimi Milan
She turned, mumbling something more under her breath.
“I’m sorry. What was that?”
Araceli gave him an innocent smile. “Oh, nothing. Whenever you’re ready.”
Miguel shook his head. He knew exactly what she had said about shooting him if she ever needed to. He wasn’t even remotely worried, though. Her bark was obviously worse than her bite. Aside from the fact that he knew how to defend himself plenty, he didn’t have any intention of ever giving her a reason to strike out against him—which was the motive to deciding to remain completely silent regarding their past in El Salvado. What she knew would hurt the both of them… and that was the last thing he wanted. Besides, how important was it really? A short conversation that lasted less than a couple of minutes was all it really amounted to.
Right?
“Well?” She gave him a quizzical look. “Are you going to teach me or not?”
Miguel shook off the fact that he had once again disappeared somewhere inside his troubled mind and quickly withdrew his own pistol, aiming at one of the cans. “Look, here. This is the proper way you hold a gun. Then you aim and… fire!”
His gun went off, perfectly hitting its mark. The can bounced off the post and twirled in the air. It landed on the ground and rolled across the grass.
“Alright. My turn.” She quickly lifted her gun and shot, once again missing.
“Don’t be in such a sure-fire hurry,” Miguel advised.
He walked over, positioning himself right behind her. The heat off his body made the summer day feel even warmer than what it would have normally been. It became scorching hot when he wrapped his muscular arms around her, gently lifting her hands to aim at the cans. His slow, steady breath against the side of her ear made her face flush and her heart race.
“Try now,” he said in a tone so low that it vibrated all the way down to her knees and back up to her elbows, making her legs and arms feel too weak to actually work. She commanded herself to focus and took the shot, still missing the can but doing much better as the bullet lodged itself into the post right beside it.
“That’s not half bad,” Miguel said. “Although, I think that now makes two compliments you owe me.”
She looked over at him, their faces mere inches apart. His shaggy sandy hair hung low, making his hazel eyes look even more intense. They drew her unknowingly closer towards him. He leaned towards her in response—the biggest mistake he could have made.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes narrowed and she straightened back up.
“Uh,” Miguel ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. I was just teaching you how to shoot.”
Araceli lifted the gun and pointed it at one of the cans, focusing her hands and eyes on the target the same way Miguel had shown her. She pulled the trigger and the can popped off the fence. “Looks like you are a good teacher after all.”
Miguel smiled. “I’ll take that compliment… and one more.”
The sound of the sawmill whistle called out for the men to return to work. Araceli grinned at her instructor. “I guess I’ll have to owe you one.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Ms. Arroyo.”
“You might as well call me Chel,” she said. Then she hurriedly added, “Everyone else does. Might seem strange if you were the only one who didn’t.”
“Thank you kindly, Ms. Chel. Would you like me to walk you back?”
“I think I’ll stay and practice a little more.”
“Alright then. Don’t get too good while I’m gone.”
“Afraid the pupil will outrank the teacher?” she playfully asked.
“Naw,” he said. “But what other excuse would I get to stand near you?”
Araceli’s slight gasp prompted him to throw his head back with laughter. He snatched up his hat and plopped it on his head. Then he turned around and headed back off towards the sawmill.
“That was awfully bold,” she cried out.
Miguel spun around but continued to walk, backwards.
“Don’t worry,” he called back. “I’ve seen your paintings. You like bold!”
Surprise registered on her face and he laughed again, facing forward once more and rushing off to work. She continued to stand there in silence.
Most men were interested in her father’s wallet like Caleb Strauss, who saw the mill as a lucrative investment. This was the first man to show real interest in her work… to actually see her. A delicious feeling crawled through her—almost as pleasant as the one that had overtaken her during their shooting practice. She almost felt like running, or dancing or…
Painting.
Yes, that was it! She could paint the world anew, that’s how inspired she felt. In fact, Araceli couldn’t honestly recall the last time such enthusiasm claimed her. She pocketed her six shooter and then rushed over to where she had tossed her satchel upon first arrival, snatching it up. She would capture this moment forever, she determined, and plopped down on the ground in front of the shooting post. She pulled out a sketchbook and piece of charcoal. Her hands created short, jerky movements followed by longer ones as she quickly outlined the tin cans that remained on the post. Then she moved on to the ones on the ground beside the fence. The drawing was nothing fancy—quick and crude in her mind’s eye, but sufficient until she could get home and flesh it out some more.
Home.
Araceli looked around and sighed. That would be quite a walk. Well, she had no one to blame but herself. Hadn’t she been the one to suggest that he teach her to shoot to begin with? Knowing where the cleared sites were, she was also the one to choose where the lesson was held. Well, at least she had one consolation. She had learned to shoot. At least, she was fairly certain she had learned. She stood, the pistol slapping softly against her leg in the hidden skirt pocket. Reaching in, she pulled it out once again and examined it. She aimed at the can and squinted her eye, and then lowered the pistol again. Between the shooting lesson and sketching, her hand had grown tired and crampy. She switched the gun into the other hand to flex her fingers on the tired one. She shook it out and then grabbed hold of the pistol and took aim once more, focusing on her target.
Eso es. Riiight ther—
A loud cry similar to a woman’s shrill scream sounded from behind Araceli. She jumped, her finger slipping off the trigger as she whirled around. There, opposite the clearing, stood a mountain lion. Tail swishing back and forth, it crouched low, strong muscles flexing. It slowly padded out of the brush towards her, large paws mauling the grass beneath it.
“Nice, kitty. Nice…” She gradually backed away from the advancing cat. The beast let out another shriek Araceli raised the gun and, closing her eyes, fired. The animal’s cry forced her eyes open again. She didn’t know where the bullet had gone, but it obviously hadn’t hit the creature snarling at her. If anything, it had only made it angrier. Aware that she had only one bullet left in the chamber, she took aim again, this time much more careful than the last.
POP!
The bullet lodged into the ground right in front of the large cat, dirt spraying up in its face. The animal took a step back and gave Araceli a look that she could have almost sworn was one of irritation or even disgust. Whatever it was didn’t matter, though. The cat twisted away and as easily as it had appeared, it disappeared back into the forest.
Araceli stood, breathless, and stared at the spot where the animal had been. She wasn’t sure what exactly had happened—how she had survived—but she wasn’t waiting around to find answers. Who knew if the mountain lion would decide she wasn’t much of a threat after all and return. Gun now empty, she wouldn’t be much of a threat at all if it did resurface. She turned and jetted across the clearing, into the trees and shrubbery that brought her closer to the safety of the sawmill. It was only once she cleared them that she felt like she could breathe again.
It was also then that she realized she had left behind her satchel of drawing supplies.
“Por toda la mala suerte!”
Of all the b
ad luck in the world, of course the worst of it would fall on her. She let out a small growl, but there was no going back. She would have to find a way to return later.
With more bullets.
She slipped the pistol back into her skirt pocket and headed straight down the path until the all the magnificence of the large mill came into view, looming on the horizon. Along with it, men running around it—much more so than usual. She got closer and their yells finally reached her ears. There was something wrong. She picked up the pace, gathering her skirts and breaking out into a swift stride.
“Auxilio!” one of their workers called out.
The cry for help forced her into a break-neck speed. She raced up to the building and into the mill door. A group of men scrambled about, forming a circle that blocked her vision. She bounced from one foot to the other, standing on the tips of her toes in an attempt to see over the crowd. When that failed, she finally began pushing through them.
“Con permiso… excuse me.”
She broke through the throng of men to find both her father and Miguel laying on the ground. Her father moaned, clutching a hand to his forehead where a deep gash oozed thick blood. Miguel was beside him, a heavy log pinning down his legs.
“What happened?” she screamed, but the men ignored her as they went about helping the injured men. Again, she demanded, “Qué paso?”
“One of the logs broke loose while we were decking it. Rolled right over and almost onto your father, but Michael dove in and knocked him out of the way.”
Men grabbed hold of the log. One counted off, “1, 2, 3…” and the trunk was hoisted up. Two of his co-workers pulled Miguel out while others helped Señor Arroyo stand.
“I’m alright. Get Michael a wagon and someone fetch Doc Edwards,” he commanded. He stumbled over to the young man who had dove into danger for him. He knelt beside him. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I think I’ll be fine. Just mangled up my legs a bit.”
“Can you move them?”
He tried and let out a groan. “Hurts too much.”
“Well, at least you’ve got feeling in them. That’s something.” Señor Arroyo helped him sit up a bit and embraced him. “Thank you, hijo. You saved my life.”
A hard knot formed in Araceli’s throat. She swallowed hard against it. The image of the two men together reminded her of a time when her brothers were still alive. The look on her father’s face was all she needed to know. A former soldier or not, her father needed someone like him.
Maybe she did, too.
A man pushed through the crowd that had formed once again. “Señor Arroyo, we’ve got the wagon.”
A group of men gathered around Miguel and lifted him up into the back of a buckboard.
“And the doctor?” His boss asked.
“Raul went for him. He’ll bring him to the house.”
“Good man. Thank you.” Her father turned to her then. “Go back to the house and prepare anything you think Doc Edwards will need. Then make a nice strong broth for Michael.”
“Sí, papa.”
Araceli sped off to do her father’s bidding, her heart racing as fast as her feet. Worry ebbed through her. Would Michael be alright? What if his legs had been broken—or worse? The logs the men hauled were extremely heavy, and the work was known to carry its own set of dangers. What if Michael’s legs had been so badly mangled that the doctor couldn’t save them?
And why did she suddenly care so much?
She knew the answer and was surprised that it didn’t bother her. In fact, the only thing that was of concern at the moment was what all Doctor Edwards was going to need to do his job correctly. She was thankful that the house and mill were situated so close to one another. It made it easier for her to return home and do as her father requested.
She made it to the front door before the men and set to work, starting a fire and gathering clean cloths. She had just made her way up the stairs to enter the guest room and turn down the bedsheets when she heard the front door open. She stopped at the top of the stairs.
“This way,” she called down to them.
They quickly made their way behind her, their patient grunting in pain, and laid him in the bed.
“I don’t want to make you even more uncomfortable than you already are,” she said, “but I think we should cut away these pants before the doctor arrives.”
He gave her a wayward smile. “I ain’t shy.”
“Neither am I,” she replied ruefully and fetched a pair of scissors. Then she returned and set to work, finishing just as the doctor arrived.
“Good work,” the doctor commended her. “I’ll take it from here.”
She nodded hesitantly, but then made her way to leave. She closed the door to allow them some privacy.
“How is he?” her father, surrounded by some of his men, called from the bottom of the stairs.
Araceli opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Suddenly overwhelmed, she spun on her heels and headed straight to her room—the only private sanctuary that would allow her the opportunity for a good cry.
Chapter 7
Muffled voices were followed by shadowy figures. Why did Miguel feel like his head had been pounded on by a few dozen men?
“My head hurts,” he mumbled.
“It’s the medicine,” a familiar voice explained. “The doctor gave you some laudanum for the pain, and said that we’re to give you another dose should it become unbearable, but no more than six doses in a day.”
“How many have I had today?”
“None.”
“None? But you just said—”
“I know, but that was two days ago. You’ve been asleep ever since.”
“Two days?” Miguel rubbed at his blurry eyes until things came into focus. Araceli stood at his bedside. “Why’d you let me sleep so long?”
“We figured you needed the rest after everything you had been through.”
He tried to sit up. “And what exactly have I been through? What did the doctor say?”
“That you’re very fortunate. There were no breaks, but your legs are still fairly mangled. They were bruised and swollen clear up to your—”
His eyes grew wide. “How would you know what they look like?”
“I don’t. I’m just quoting the doctor,” she admitted. A sly look crossed her face. “Although, I could have sworn a certain someone said he wasn’t shy about such things.”
“I’m not,” Miguel countered. “It’s just that no man wants a woman seeing him at his worst.”
“I don’t think it was your worst,” Araceli offered. She sat down on the bed beside him and gingerly reached out, taking his hand in hers. “In fact, I think you were at your best. My father told me what happened. The other men confirmed his story, too. His not quite in peak form anymore. With his age and physical condition, he probably would have died had that log hit him. Michael, I don’t think I can thank you enough. You saved him. You saved me, too.”
“I did?”
She nodded. “Yes. That day in the woods when you taught me how to shoot? Well, a cougar came shortly after you left.”
“What?” Her words startled Miguel, forcing him into nearly sitting upright. He groaned.
“Cuídate! You’ll hurt yourself again if you’re not careful. Sit up slowly.”
Miguel did as instructed and she quickly snatched up extra blankets she had brought in earlier, placing them behind his head to keep him supported.
“Would you like some more of the laudanum?” she asked.
“Actually, I would prefer something to eat if you’ve got anything. Then I think I’d like to hear exactly what happened.”
“Of course,” she said and excused herself from the room. She returned several minutes later, carrying a tray. “I’ve been making caldo de pollo each day—in case for whenever you awoke. I know some people would not want to eat a hot dish like this on such hot summer days, but my mother always said it was a healing dish.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t mind at all,” Miguel smiled. “I love chicken soup.”
“Then you’ll really love this recipe. It’s one of my special—”
She fell silent.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
A strange look passed over her face. “How did you know it was chicken soup? I told you what I made in Spanish.”
“I… um… I guess I picked it up along the way.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose that would make sense… with the war and all.”
Part of him wanted to tell her she was wrong and that he had picked up the language from the field hands he worked with on his grandfather’s farm—people like his aunt who, after posing some inexplicable threat to her grandparents, were released from their jobs. He couldn’t tell her that, though. He couldn’t admit that half of him was just like her. Then she would never understand why he had fought for the American side. Heck! He wasn’t so sure he understood it himself anymore.
He cleared his throat. “It does smell mighty good. Probably tastes as good as your paintings look.”
She set the tray down on the table beside his bed. “I’m sure it tastes much better than my paintings look—especially the latest ones.”
“Why’s that?” he asked right before she stuck a spoonful of food in his face. He smiled. “You’re going to feed me?”
“If you ever stop talking.”
He chuckled. “Alright. I promise to keep my mouth closed. Well, except for when I open wide for another mouthful. You go on and tell me about that cougar in the woods.”
She did as requested, retelling the same story she had shared with her friend, Maxine, when the woman stopped by to call earlier that morning.
“You didn’t hit it?” Miguel tried to holler around the food in his mouth. He swallowed. “You’re lucky to be alive!”
“My friend said the same thing.” Araceli lifted the spoon once more, but he waved it away. She set the bowl back down on the table. “Maxine couldn’t believe that I was able to scare it off like that, because I didn’t actually hit the animal and cause any pain for it to connect with fear. Why should it have been afraid of me? Yet, I believe it truly was. At the very least, it was wary of me—as if it knew I could harm it.”
