Three Wishes (River of Time California Book 1)

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Well, she was not attacking one of your sheep right now,” I said, hands on my hips. “It looked like she was trying to protect me from you.”

  “Nonsense!” He grimaced and grabbed my arm again. “Enough. You shall come with me.”

  I acted without thinking. Two years of the best self-defense training—at my grandmother’s insistence—had given me what I needed. Awareness, assertiveness, technique, my instructor whispered in my mind. I whipped my arm out of his hands and punched him in the gut, and when he bent over, I brought my knee up hard, connecting with his cheek. When he straightened, I brought my knee up again, this time to his groin.

  He fell to the ground, utterly surprised, his breath whooshing from his lungs in a terrible gasp. I raced for his horse and then forced myself to slow as the mare skittered ten feet away, wary of my actions. I edged closer, glancing back to the young man writhing on the sand, his handsome face a mask of pain and fury. Then I dared to go back and grab hold of the golden lamp, just a few feet away from him.

  Again I advanced toward the mare, calmer this time, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the man stumbled after me with sword drawn again. I glanced over my shoulder at him again.

  “¡Detente!” he gasped, reaching toward me, clearly furious. “¡Vuelve acá!” Stop! Come back here!

  Ignoring him, I managed to grab hold of one of the mare’s reins, then the other. I dropped the lamp in a saddlebag, lifted my skirt, put my bare foot in the stirrup, and wrenched myself up and across her back. It had been a couple of years since I’d ridden a horse, and I never was particularly comfortable doing it. I wavered and held on tight to the horn as the mare pranced left and right, whinnying her complaint. She brought us closer to the dude, who now was trying to rise, and my heart tripled its beat. If he got ahold of me again…

  I tightened the reins, clenched my thighs against her sides and then rammed my heels into her flanks. She hesitated a sec and then took off, nearly unseating me. I wished the stirrups weren’t too long for my feet to reach. But I leaned down and tried to catch her rhythm, odd on the sandy beach. I directed her lower, closer to the waves, where the sand was firmer, and fell more into stride with her, churning along the beach, up toward George Point.

  I glanced to my right and saw the wolf, matching our pace. It felt like she was happy, cheering me on, not any sort of threat to me. Just another weird element during my weirdest day ever… I passed the ribs of the shipwreck, startling a nearby flock of seagulls into the sky. But I didn’t pause until I reached the end of the beach. There, I pulled up on the reins and turned back.

  The wolf was gone, sending a pang of strange sorrow through me. The man, tiny in the distance, was up on his feet and running after me, one arm outstretched.

  “Sorry, handsome,” I muttered in English, feeling a little bad now for stealing his horse. “But I don’t know who to trust around here. And I gotta get home.”

  I urged the mare forward, over the black lava rocks that separated one cove from the next. At least this was the same as I remembered.

  But as I rounded the point, the next cove was as foreign as the last. I mean, there were parts that seemed the same, but there were no houses, no people. Nothing. Again I sank my heels into the mare’s flanks and rode to the next point, and then the next, until I reached Bonita Harbor. But when I could at last view that old, wide curve of beach, I paused again, trying to make sense of what I saw.

  The familiar, big pier with the burger restaurant at the end wasn’t there. The only thing visible along the beach was a large adobe building at the center, with an open front and tall roof. Beside it were six rowboats on the sand.

  Moored at the center of the teal-green bay was a ship with three masts, sails furled. On the beach were six men, yanking a rowboat ashore. More were milling higher up, around crates that they were either loading or unloading. Others walked down a steep path, bundles of something tan across their shoulders. It looked like leather…

  “She’s a sight to behold, isn’t she?”

  I whirled, and saw a man emerging from the cliffs behind me. Pirates Cave, I remembered, an old haunt we’d favored as kids. He’d been inside it, hidden from view. I steadied the horse and turned to face him again. He didn’t look like a pirate. Just a tall, average-looking seaman, about twenty-five years old. “You’re a sight to behold too,” he said appreciatively, continuing in English, eyes scanning my bare legs. He switched to Spanish. “But this is hardly the place to be half-dressed. If my men see you… But then perhaps male company is what you seek?”

  I swallowed hard. Behind me, down the beach, were the men he referenced. Now he—and the guy I stole a horse from—blocked the other way. He was armed, with a pistol on one hip and a sword on the other.

  “Isn’t that Javier de la Ventura’s mount?” he asked in Spanish, coming closer.

  “Stay where you are,” I returned, in English.

  His pale brows arched in surprise, and he stopped short. “You speak English.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “And you speak it well,” he said, smiling in admiration. “Forgive me, miss. I mistook you for a woman seeking…masculine companionship.” This, he said in Spanish.

  I blinked. Had he really just said that? “Assume that again,” I began, in Spanish, “and I’ll have to teach you some manners, ” I finished, in English.

  He laughed then, so hard he bent backward and then straightened, chin in hand, looking at me in delight. He had sandy-colored hair that he wore pulled back in a leather band. His eyes were blue, the color of the Pacific, and his skin deeply tanned. “I must say”—he laughed again—“you are the biggest surprise of my voyage so far. And I’ve had many this year.”

  “I could tell you a few stories that would surprise you further,” I returned.

  “Oh?”

  I took in his fine clothes—worn but of good quality. The longer cut of his jacket, his gloves. He, too, was like someone out of a historical film, but there was something about him—his use of English? His Midwest looks?—that made me decide to trust him. After all, if that Javier dude caught up to us, he might slice me to ribbons with his sword. Here before me was the captain of the ship in the cove—a man with the power to protect me, if necessary. Maybe even with the power to take me someplace else, someplace familiar…

  He paused, brought one hand to the lapel of his jacket, and gave me a slight bow. “Perhaps we should begin again. I am Captain John Worthington, hailing from Bangor, Maine, and I am captain of that ship, the Emma Jane. We are here to trade goods and will set sail come morn. And you are?”

  I studied him. “Señorita Zara Ruiz,” I said at last.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Señorita Ruiz,” he said, again with a slight bow. His inquisitive eyes ran down my hair to my cami and skirt, and once again I was aware that I had far too few clothes on to be around a man of any sort in this…time? Place? “And just where do you hail from?” he asked.

  “This is my difficulty, Captain, and a part of the stories I might tell, in time,” I said, trying to match his formal tone and old way of speaking. “But as you noted, I am improperly dressed and in grave distress. I’m a…castaway of sorts. Perhaps in your trading you have clothes that might fit me? A bit of water? I would gladly trade you tales for some of each.”

  “What transpired with your clothes, Miss Ruiz? And why do you ride Javier’s mount? Did that scoundrel—”

  “Tales in exchange for a proper dress,” I interrupted, “and water…and a bit of food if you have it,” I added, suddenly feeling the rumble of my belly as well as my terribly parched throat.

  He squinted at me, and an easy smile broadened across his face. “Most intriguing,” he said. “Fortunately for you, I have access to all, aboard the Emma Jane. Perhaps you can remain here, in this cave, while I go and fetch them? As I said, if my men…”

  I nodded. “Thank you. I’d be grateful for your assistance.” The words rolled off my tongue as if I’d alway
s spoken in his odd, formal manner. But they seemed right. Less foreign, perhaps, to him. Maybe it was the name of the ship, the Emma Jane, that had allowed me to channel my inner Latina Jane Austen. Whatever it was, it seemed to work, and the man strode off down the beach.

  I dismounted and tugged the mare toward the cave, hoping to keep her out of sight in case Javier-what’s-his-name made it closer. But he had to still be a couple of miles behind me now and on foot. Maybe he’d even given up the chase and was hiking home. And how did Captain John know him?

  I secured the mare’s reins around a rock and paced near the cave entrance, waiting for John to return. Now that I knew he was off to fetch food and water, I was all the hungrier and thirstier. And chilly, I thought, rubbing my arms. Abuela’s shawl…I’d left it somewhere back at Tainter Cove. Maybe I can go back and get it at some point.

  After another half hour, John returned to the cave, this time using a rowboat, arriving alone. He bent, grabbed hold of a bundle, and then splashed into the shallow water, hauling the boat higher up on the beach before turning to trudge toward me. “At your service,” he said gallantly, rolling out the bundle. Inside was a deep green and black dress, a cork-topped jug that I assumed was full of water, bread, and a bit of dried meat and fruit. Desperate, I hurriedly lifted the jug, uncorked it, and drank for a long time before I straightened to see he’d been offering me a tin cup.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Sorry?” he repeated.

  “Uh, forgive me,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d brought a cup too.”

  He squinted at me. “Just who saw to your English education, Señorita Ruiz?”

  “I learned it in school,” I said, frowning a little.

  “A Mexican girl who attended school?”

  I paused. This was apparently weird. “It was important to my abuela. My grandmother.”

  “I speak Spanish as well as I do English,” he said, proving his point in Spanish. “So use whichever tongue you choose. But I must say, I have never met a Mexican woman who can do the same. And your accent is…unlike any I’ve ever heard.”

  “As is yours,” I retorted, but then instantly regretted it. I didn’t need to make this guy mad. I needed him to be my new BFF.

  He frowned. “I assure you, I had the finest tutors and instructors in Maine. And I keep company with many fine Castilian families, both here in Alta California and in Mexico.”

  I swallowed another sip of water, this time pouring it first into a cup, thinking about what he’d said. Castilian families—old Spanish families, he meant. And Alta California? The old name for the upper part of the state—not to be confused with Baja California below. “Forgive me. I’m certain they were. Likely far better than my own.”

  He stared at me, clearly trying to discern if I lied or told the truth, then inhaled slowly. “Yes, well, there is time enough to debate educational veracity. For now, you’d likely appreciate a bit more clothing and then some of this food.”

  I nodded and immediately bent to take hold of the huge dress—yards and yards of emerald green silk and black lace. Underneath was another skirt, in ivory silk, obviously worn beneath to poof out the green. A petticoat, I thought they were called. John turned slightly away, his cheek coloring as if embarrassed that we looked upon underclothes together. I huffed a laugh and turned, trudging up and into the cave. Once there, I pulled on the dress over my cami and maxiskirt, thinking I wasn’t ready to give them up. It was a bit big, but that was better than it being a bit small. I played with the neckline, unsure of whether it was supposed to be worn on top of the shoulder or down, electing to take the safe route and leave it up.

  Inside the dress, I’d found a comb that appeared to be made of bone or ivory, each tooth of the comb hand-carved from the bigger object. Apparently, this is Captain John’s hint to fix my hair, I thought. I set about working the comb through my wild curls, feeling bits of sand fall to my shoulders. Then, feeling like a girl in costume, I edged back out into the sunlight.

  John turned, and his face broke out into that easy smile. “Miss Ruiz, you are a vision. And a proper-looking lady now.”

  “Thank you, Captain Worthington,” I said, deciding he might not appreciate my casual use of his first name. I was talking to Captain John. A real-life sea captain. While clothed in what felt like a Halloween costume.

  “Before we sit down, I brought this too,” he said, fishing out a clean strip of white cloth from his jacket pocket. He reached down and lifted the water jug. “I saw that you had injured your hand?”

  “Oh. Yes,” I said, lifting my palm up to see the rough gash from the rocks and a longer, thinner cut from Javier’s sharp blade. In the midst of everything else, I’d forgotten about it—other than to try and keep blood from getting on the new gown. “They look worse than they are.”

  “Yes, well, we don’t want them to fester, do we? Hold still.” He splashed water over my palm and gently washed away the blood. His eyes narrowed as he noted the clean cut of a blade, but he said nothing, just wrapped the strip of cloth around my hand until he reached the end, tucking it into the last loop around my palm. “That should hold you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, touched by his thoughtfulness.

  He gestured toward a cloth, spread across the sand like it was a picnic blanket, and I sank down, aware of how the skirt circled me in an arc. It really was beautiful, with a pretty shimmer that reminded me of the tide pools at twilight. “So…how is it that a sea captain has such a dress aboard his ship? I assume there are only men with you?” I bit into a chunk of stale bread, waiting on his answer.

  He quirked a rueful smile. “It was meant for my younger sister, who wanted ‘something unique’ from Mexico. But I decided I could stop for another upon our return voyage.”

  I felt instantly guilty. “I only need to borrow it, Captain. I can return it just as soon as…just as soon as…” As what? When? Where?

  “Never mind that. It is my good pleasure to come to your aid. It will make this tale better for the telling. And speaking of tales, a strange girl I met on the beach made a certain promise to me…” He lifted one of his light brows, lips in a teasing grin, then raised his hands. “So tell me, Señorita Ruiz, what you must.”

  “I…I…” I swallowed, not sure where to begin. What to say, how much, or whether I should say anything at all. “Captain, please tell me three things, first.” I took a drink of water, forcing down the dry bread and then a bite of the dried meat.

  “That was not our bargain,” he said lightly. “But as I am a gentleman, I shall submit to your request. Ask away.” He waved one hand and reached for his own strip of meat.

  The questions I needed answered would make him think I was crazy, so I tried a story I’d concocted while he was gone. “I believe I fell from a ship,” I said, “and struck my head. My memory is sketchy.”

  “Sketchy?” he repeated with a frown.

  “Spare,” I amended, remembering my Latina Austen. “I actually remember very little, I fear.”

  His frown deepened. He stopped chewing. “That is grave indeed.”

  “Tell me, Captain…what year is it?”

  “1840,” he said soberly. “Do you not remember that?”

  1840.

  He wasn’t joking.

  1840, I thought again, trying to make it sink into my brain, ignoring his question.

  “And…where are we, exactly?”

  His blue eyes did not leave mine, alarm growing behind them. “We are in Alta California, of course. About sixty miles north of Santa Barbara.”

  “Alta California,” I repeated. The name the Spaniards and Mexicans gave this territory before it became a state. 1840…

  “And where is the nearest American government office?” I forced out.

  He blinked slowly and shifted, leaning back, as if trying to be outwardly casual when he felt uneasy within. “There is an embassy in Mexico, as well as in Panama. But the nearest United States g
overnment officials, on their own soil, are likely in Louisiana.”

  “Louisiana,” I muttered. I’d not even driven as far east as Arizona. How far was Louisiana?

  “Louisiana,” he repeated gently, tucking his chin. “You’ve heard of it, yes?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, looking out to sea, and we both stayed silent for a while. What had I been thinking? Did I think government officials could tell me where I was and how to get home to my own time? I cradled my head in my hands.

  “Miss Ruiz, do you remember where your home is?”

  “I do,” I said quickly, but then paused. “Or did.”

  “Did?”

  “I…I used to live just up the hill from that cove, several down,” I said, gesturing southward.

  “That is Rancho Ventura land.” When my expression didn’t change, he tried, “Or perhaps you lived just south of the ranch border, on Vargas land? Were you employed by the Venturas or Vargases?” He was obviously trying to jog my memory. His frown returned. “But you said you were a castaway, I thought. You fell from a ship?”

  “Yes. And I think I hit my head. I cannot remember much of my past.”

  “You must have taken a fearsome blow to your skull, indeed,” he said, instantly nodding, as if now my odd talk about living on Ventura or Vargas land made sense to him. “I’ve seen it once or twice before with sailors. Both had their memories return within a day or two. Perhaps you shall experience the same.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” I said.

  “Which ship were you on? Perhaps I can assist you in getting back to her. The captain could likely tell us more about you.”

  I shook my head as if I couldn’t remember. That Leonardo-DiCaprio-track hadn’t gone well with Javier.

  “Or do you remember the name of your school? Where you received instruction in English? Or who your governess or tutor was? Clearly, you must have been the daughter of a fine Mexican gentleman to command such skills.”