Rescuing The Runaway Bride. Bonnie Navarro
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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 masterful 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