“Now, this just ain’t right, Master Chris.”
“Nana, you’ve had your years of serving, and you’ve done a good job. Now it’s my turn.”
“It ain’t fittin’ for you to be servin’ me, Master Chris.”
“We’re not in South Carolina anymore, Nana, and last I checked, God’s word said to care for our family. You just about raised me from the time I could roll over in my crib.”
Taking two bowls down from the shelves, he partially filled both, set a spoon in each one and then pulled the tea off the hook over the fire, poured it into two tin cups and then added some fresh milk.
“Now, don’t let your mother hear you say such a thing, Master Chris! Why, she’d be mighty upset.”
He set the first bowl and cup on the table next to Nana’s elbow and then returned to the stove. “Good thing she’s not here to find out, isn’t it?” He chuckled as he returned to his guest’s side.
Setting the cup and soup bowl on the chest next to the bed, he sat in the chair facing Vicky.
“You eat and no give me?” Vicky’s astonished expression and the disapproval in her eyes made him chuckle. Did she really think he’d be so rude as to eat in front of her without offering? Little did she know about good old Southern hospitality.
“Of course not, Vicky.” Nana had left some toweling next to the bed, and he draped it over Vicky from shoulder to shoulder. Picking up the bowl, he dipped the spoon into the steaming broth, ladled out some and blew on it like Nana Ruth had done for him as a child. Somehow, this situation felt very different. He raised the spoon and blew a little more. “Now, let’s see how you like my cooking.”
“I no baby.” Indignation darkened her already jet-black eyes so much that he couldn’t distinguish the iris from the pupil. Her jaw tightened, and he actually feared for her teeth.
“I know you are not a baby, but you can’t move your right arm. Nana tied it to your side, and the soup is too hot for you to manage one-handed.” The furrows in her forehead didn’t relax, but she opened her mouth when he lifted the spoon. Sitting back, he waited for her verdict. It wasn’t long in coming.
“No tiene sabor.” She wrinkled her nose at the food but opened her mouth again for more.
“Is there something wrong with my soup?” Chris asked. He had never bothered to learn to cook until this last year when Nana’s arthritis started to act up so bad that some mornings she couldn’t even get out of bed. To Chris, making soup consisted of chopping up meat, a few carrots and maybe some potatoes and letting it all boil throughout the day while he saw to his chores. It might not have been as appetizing as something Nana would have made, but it kept spirit and body together for another day. Nana Ruth had never complained, but perhaps that was because of the guilt she felt for not being able to work anymore.
Using the edge of the towel that had kept his poorly aimed attempts at feeding the girl from soaking her, he wiped her chin where some soup had trickled down. Almost as quickly as Vicky had finished off her soup, she fell back to sleep. Thankfully, this time she seemed to rest peacefully. How young and vulnerable she looked as she slept.
He suddenly felt a surprising desire to protect her, and it caught him off guard. He stood up quickly, nearly upending his chair. He’d felt a need to protect others before, and it had never worked out well for him. In fact, it had caused him nothing but pain. The last thing he wanted to do was go down that path again. But he wasn’t about to abandon this young woman.
“You’ll be safe here, Vicky,” he heard himself say. But who was he to promise such things? He had failed to protect others before, and he knew he shouldn’t let himself get wrapped up in Vicky’s dilemmas. She was better off without his help. If not for saving him, she’d probably be at home, hale and happy and surrounded by those who loved her.
His own baby sister, Nelly, had tumbled right off the porch when they were just tots. His father had taken him to the woodshed for that. He’d been overprotective of her from that day on and so relieved when Matt came along and took the job from him.
The whole reason he’d sold the plantation, left his mother living with Nelly and Matt and sailed months on end around the very southern tip of South America to come to the wilderness territory of Mexico was so that he could be far removed from the horrible way that some humans treated others, be where no one would bother him or depend on him while he built his own farm. He would never again sit around and let the forced labor of others benefit him.
He thought of Ezequiel, one of the younger slaves he’d been so happy to free after his father died. Ezequiel had tried to behave as a free man in a world that wasn’t ready for him to be free, and he’d paid with his life. Chris would probably feel responsible for Ezequiel’s death until his own.
No, the last thing he needed was to have someone under his care. He clearly wasn’t good at it.
Of course, from the start, he had to take care of Nana Ruth and Jebediah because they had nowhere to go when other freed slaves left for the north. They were too old to start over and had no living children who could take care of them in their later years. He had done everything in his power to provide and protect them, but even here, five years after they built the cabins and barn, a trio of outlaws came and killed Jebediah. Chris had managed to fight off the three bandits, but he wasn’t able to save Jebediah.
The old slave had been more of a mentor and father to him than his own father had. Instead of enjoying his last years on earth peacefully living in a small town with someone looking out for him and his wife, he’d spent the last of his strength helping to build the cabin, barn and all the other outbuildings plus working with the livestock. Chris should have settled them somewhere safe, then maybe Nana would still have her beloved husband beside her.
Could he do better for Vicky? Did he have it in him to try?
He’d just see to her safety while she healed and then she’d become someone else’s concern. He’d get her home...somehow. Hopefully the girl would be missed and someone would come looking for her so he wouldn’t have to leave Nana Ruth on her own. Maybe someone would arrive within a few days.
Setting the dirty dishes in the sink, he sat down to nurse his own bowl of soup. The first scalding sip brought his mind back to Vicky’s scrunched-up nose. She’d been right. The soup didn’t have “sabor,” and she hadn’t been shy about telling him that.
For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, the thought of her reaction to his cooking made him smile. He allowed himself to enjoy the image of her in his mind before he forced himself to take another bite of his “soup.”
Chapter Three
Vicky blinked to adjust to the soft morning light filtering through the windows of the rustic log cabin. A visual search of the room revealed a pallet next to the large stone fireplace had been pushed to the side and the blankets folded and stacked on a chair leaning against the wall.
The large woman whom Chris called Nana Ruth slumbered on, her snores stopping abruptly and then, after a few snorts, starting up again. Her swollen hands lay on the rough blanket, and Vicky had noticed her rubbing her knuckles and her knees the night before. If only Magda were there, she would make a poultice that would work wonders for the arthritic joints. The washer-woman from the hacienda suffered from swollen joints and would visit the kitchen almost every day for Magda’s remedies and massages.
Careful not to move anything but her head, Vicky took her time studying her surroundings now that daylight flooded the room. The two wooden chests that stood side by side against the wall gleamed a dark chestnut color, and the woodwork would have made Manolo, the hacienda’s carpenter, proud. The table Vicky had taken for rough-hewn the night before was intricately engraved. Glancing at the headboard of the bed she occupied, she saw the same design graced the fine wood there, too. The chair Chris had sat on to feed her also had the beautiful carvings. Who had done the master
ful woodwork? Had the Americano brought all this with him when he moved here? The wooden pieces looked like they should occupy a palatial home, not a cabin in the woods. And just how long had he been living in the hills not more than two days’ journey from her own home?
The Americano’s face hovered in her memory. As he fed her the tasteless broth, she’d seen the compassion and concern in his eyes.
Nana Ruth mumbled something as she shifted in her sleep, drawing Vicky’s attention. Pushing up from the pillow sent a bolt of lightning through her and stole her breath away. Tears formed, but she blinked them back.
At least she wasn’t injured for nothing—her shot had found its mark. She could be proud of the way she defended Chris, but if just simple movement stopped her breath, how would she ever manage to ride back to the hacienda? She needed to find Tesoro.
Tesoro, fulfilling her name as Vicky’s only treasure, was the golden horse her father had given to her nearly four years ago, the day she turned fifteen and the entire hacienda had turned out to celebrate. Of course, a few wealthy landowners and some brave vaqueros had attended her Quinceañera with high hopes of winning her dowry that night. Why did the Spanish lords think that when a girl turned fifteen, she immediately left childhood behind and longed for a husband and family of her own?
If only everyone would just accept that she did not want to marry! In all fairness, some of the men were quite handsome and a few were kind, but how could she bear to leave her hacienda and all that was dear to her? To never ride a horse astride again? To never be allowed in the barns, or go hunting and fishing with Berto? Unthinkable.
She shook off her musings and focused on the room. She took in the door at the far end of the wall. There was open shelving built into the wall above the waist-high counter, and more shelving down below that ran the length of the wall. A dry sink sat in the corner closest to the fireplace that took up most of the side wall.
What would she find if she made the trek to the dry sink? What kind of ingredients did the Americano and Nana Rut have on hand? Itching to get out of bed and do something, Vicky slowly slid her legs off the bed, letting them hang down as she caught her breath. She pushed off the covers, revealing the long chambray shirt that hung on her like a tent. Even with all her binding around her ribs and the shirt, she still felt exposed. As she swiveled around to look for a dressing robe or something else to put on, the room turned black and she felt lightheaded. Holding completely still until the sensation ebbed away, she gritted her teeth and swallowed hard.
Turning only her head this time, she spied behind her, under the top pillow, what looked like piled-up shirts. After two attempts, she finally came within reach without twisting. Snagging one, the pillow fell to the floor. She followed its progress with her eyes. The distance from the bed to the floor seemed like miles. The shirt she had unearthed had a large tear in one elbow and stains down the front, although it smelled clean. It would have to do.
Struggling into it caused more pain than she had expected, and she sat panting, waiting for the black spots dancing in front of her eyes to go away. Reason argued that she should stay in bed and let the Americano wait on her hand and foot like the hacienda princesa she was, but how long would any man put up with a woman who did not see to the cleaning and cooking? No man would complain on the hacienda since the servants would see to it all, but here, the man was doing all the work, and she doubted that even in his culture it would be expected of him. If she could only stand and get to the kitchen area, maybe she could find something to make for breakfast. Or at least some water to drink for her parched throat.
Head clear, she stood, forcing a breath out. The room spun twice before it righted itself. With her left hand bracing her right rib, she shuffled one step, then another, away from the edge of the bed. A cool draft raced across the floor and skimmed over her bare toes and up her legs. The shirts were long but only reached past her knees. Scandalous! If Mamá ever found out, she’d swoon right on the spot. Three more steps brought her within reach of the table. Her left leg collided with it, and suddenly she couldn’t see anything between the tears of pain and the dancing black spots. A draft of colder air hit her about the same time as she registered the sound of a door opening, then slamming closed.
Seconds later cold arms still smelling of the crisp air outside caught her at the knees and around her back and settled her back in her cocoon. The blankets she had thrown off with such pain were gently tucked back around her, and only then did the room start to reappear, first in the center of her vision and then completely.
“Vicky? Did you need something?” Chris stood hovering above her. He retrieved the pillow from the floor with a frown. “Are you sick? In pain? Dolor?”
Panting let the air in without drawing on the muscles that screamed in agony in her middle. “I...agua.” He shifted the pile of his old shirts, topped it with the pillow and then, with a gentle hand, leaned her back to rest.
“I will get you water.” He said the words slowly, pointing to himself, the water bucket on the floor by the door that hadn’t been there moments ago, and then to her. Nodding, she closed her eyes and waited, afraid to move even the slightest bit and bring on the blinding fire again.
“Here.” His breath brushed across her forehead and stirred her hair. He held the cup in front of her and once again would not let her gulp it down like she wanted but rationed it sip by sip until she finished. Then he poured more from a pitcher he had placed on the chair next to her bed. This time he let her take longer sips. Thirst quenched, she sighed.
“Gracias, thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His deep voice drew her eyes to his. In the light of day his eyes shone like a cloudless summer sky with flecks of gold like sunlight. His skin, even with the kiss of sun, looked shades lighter than hers. Glancing down at her hand, she saw just how dark her skin was compared with his.
You’re a mix between the glorious lords from Europe and the filthy, heathen Indians, Mamá quoted often, reminding her of her father’s own mixed parentage. Vicky’s grandfather, Don Ruiz, had been a lord from Spain while her grandmother was an Indian who had worked as a housekeeper for Don Ruiz before they fell in love and married. Mamá constantly reminded her that blue-blooded Spaniards like her own family would never look twice at Vicky’s Indian skin. What must the Americano think of her? Yet he did not treat Nana Ruth as if she were less human than he. Rather, he had served her a bowl of soup and helped her with the chores.
Was it different where he came from? Did people treat each other without prejudice or concern for their heritage? Slavery had been outlawed about the time she had been born yet not one of the former slaves whom she had met was ever treated as anything other than servant and underling, just like the Indians who also served the noble and not-so-noble-born Spanish. Mestizos were looked upon as more Indian than Spanish because of their mixed bloodlines, and they earned the same disdain from the nobles.
“Are you...?” The next word Chris used was unfamiliar to her. He smiled when she gave him a puzzled look. As he pantomimed eating and then rubbing his stomach, she cocked her head to one side.
“Do you want food?” he asked. This time the words were all familiar. Nodding, she patted her stomach with her left hand, and he grinned. His eyes brightened, and she found herself smiling in return. His grin caused tiny laugh lines around his eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. The dimple looked the right size to poke her index finger into. Silly girl, you’ll never touch his face, much less when he is smiling, she scolded herself silently. After all, as soon as she could stand on her own without blacking out, she needed to find her own clothes and head back to the hacienda. Of course, she’d have to tie herself on Tesoro’s pummel to stay in the saddle but regardless, she couldn’t stay away from the hacienda too much longer.
“I’ll make food,” Chris said as he set the tin cup down on the chair and headed to the sink.
“I make food,” Vicky offered, unwilling to sit still and do nothing, especially if it meant that she would have to choke down more of the insipid soup she had the night before.
“You can’t cook. You can’t even stand.” He shook his head at her. Turning his back, he set a small cauldron onto the counter and then poured water in, adding eggs. He slid the caldron’s handle onto a hook that swung over the fire in the hearth. Then he took a metal bowl out and added ingredients from metal tins he had under the dry sink, and he added water and an egg before rolling the mixture out on the counter and pressing it flat as Vicky would have done with her tortillas. He formed balls with the dough and set them inside a greased frying pan that he covered with a lid and set directly onto the fire.
Bread and boiled eggs would be a bland but filling breakfast. If they had some salt, pepper, tomatoes and chilies, she could make a salsa and give the meal some life. But the thing was, this man was cooking for her. He was taking care of her, when he didn’t owe her anything. He was clearly a kind person, a person of character. He was...different.
* * *
He glanced over his shoulder. Vicky was watching him with obvious skepticism as he made breakfast. Admittedly, he wasn’t the best of cooks, but even he could do biscuits and boiled eggs. He wondered what she usually ate for breakfast. Was she thinking he was crazy for making her such simple fare? He gave her a quick smile. She did not smile back.
From the paleness of her face when he’d entered the cabin a few minutes before, he could tell she had been about to pass out. Questions he still had no answers to circled around in his head like a herd of horses unsettled by something lurking just beyond the corral fence. Perhaps he’d see if he could get some answers.
“So, Miss Vicky, how did you end up here?” he asked.
Her cute nose bunched up as she bit her lip in concentration. “I look for Papá. No want...casar to Don Joaquín.”
Rescuing the Runaway Bride Page 3
