Читать книгу Rescuing The Runaway Bride - Bonnie Navarro - Страница 13

Chapter Four

In all her eighteen years, Vicky never stayed indoors, much less in bed, for more than a day or two—even her mother’s disapproval hadn’t kept her from helping in the kitchen with Magda or heading out to the stables to visit Tesoro. She’d now been confined to bed in the small cabin for five days, and she thought she’d go mad. The sun peeked in the windows as if trying to coax her to come out and play. Her right arm was no longer tied to her body, but movement still remained so painful that she didn’t dare try to get up on her own.

“Now, you stop...” Nana Ruth’s words were harder to understand than Chris’s, but her tone was kind and soothing, and she rattled on as if Vicky understood her every word. Today the woman sat on the edge of her bed, though she’d spent most of the last three days in it.

“Nana Ruth?” Vicky interrupted. “You make dress for Chris?”

“Dress for Chris?” The woman’s voice rose in pitch and then she chuckled. “Master Chris is a man, child. Our menfolk don’t wear dresses.”

“You no make?” Vicky pulled one of the shirts from the pile behind her and waved it.

“Yes, I did. But that was—” Nana rubbed her arthritic joints, which explained enough.

“You have for make?” Pantomiming sewing, Vicky waited.

“Sure do.” She hobbled across the room and lifted the lid on one of the chests. The wonders that lay inside almost had Vicky hopping off the bed, pain or no pain. To think she had been lying idly by for the last five days while there were sewing and knitting supplies just a few steps away.

Vicky hated the needlepoint and counted cross-stitch her mother demanded she concentrate on for hours at a time. However, Magda, their housekeeper, had taught her how to knit and mend men’s work clothing. Somehow, that kind of sewing had purpose. Vicky loved to sit with Magda, mending José Luis or Berto’s clothes for hours. She admired the marriage that Berto and Magda had, and even allowed herself to pretend she could be a normal wife with a family to care for and a husband who loved her like Berto loved Magda. But she knew that she would never be loved like that.

Being born of noble blood, even if only half, she would be doomed to marry for money and political arrangements between her father and some other nobleman. But after seeing what that kind of marriage had done to her parents, she would rather live the rest of her life alone, dependent on one of her younger brothers but not trapped in a loveless marriage where husband and wife at best avoided each other and at worst wounded each other.

She could earn her own keep by helping on the hacienda either with the care of the houses or keeping the books. She had learned bookkeeping when she helped Papá from time to time. It would be better than marrying one of the noblemen she didn’t know who had come courting soon after her Quinceañera, or Don Joaquín, who began his courting last year, only a month after his last wife had been laid to rest. Vicky suspected Mamá had encouraged the man despite the many times Vicky had told everyone she would never, ever marry, especially Don Joaquín. He was known for his drinking, cigars and unkempt appearance, but his hacienda had been one of the most extensive of the area, and he had cultivated favor with Mexican officials—mostly by way of extortion and bribery.

The next few hours passed by much more quickly than any since she’d been in the cabin. Once all the worn shirts in the pile were repaired, Nana Ruth arranged some knitting so that Vicky could work without moving her right arm very much while she cast on stitches for a sock for Chris.

“Nana Ruth? You have husband?”

Nana Ruth looked up from her chair at the table, and emotions ran across her ebony features.

“Yes, honey child. I had a good man. His name was Jeb.”

Already worried she’d asked more than she should have, Vicky concentrated on her knitting even though she wanted to ask more.

“We be slaves on Master Chris’s father’s plantation since we were born. We had a good life for slaves. We had four babies. Two die young, before they could even walk. Another one, Daniel, was sold when he reached eighteen. And our Samson, he grew up to be a good man, just like his father. He married but then died a year before Master Chris freed us.”

Vicky glanced up and saw the woman swipe a tear away from her cheek even as she continued her story, a smile brightening her face.

“When Master Chris told us he was gonna move all the way over to Mexico ’cause they had outlawed having slaves, well, Jeb said to me, ‘We gotta go with that boy. He’s gonna get hisself killed out there on his own alone.’ So we came. And Master Chris has been more like a son than a master to us from the day he was born.”

“Where Jeb now?”

“He got killed last summer. Some men attacked him and Master Chris in the field.” Her breath caught, and she cleared her throat before she went on. “Master Chris got hit in the arm, but my poor Jeb didn’t suffer more than a few minutes. Now Master Chris feels like it’s all his fault, but it ain’t, no sir. The Good Lord just needed my Jeb, and his time was done here. But when my day comes, I worry about Master Chris havin’ no one left here to care for him. I do declare that the Good Lord must have sent you for that purpose.”

She couldn’t claim to understand everything that Nana Ruth had said. Did she mean to hint at Vicky staying longer than a few more days? As soon as she was able to ride, she’d be headed back to the hacienda to face her father’s wrath and the arranged marriage that she dreaded more than death.

As Nana Ruth added ingredients to the pot Chris had left over the fire earlier, Vicky found herself thinking about Magda and Berto once again. She wondered what it would be like to look after a husband who hadn’t been forced on her by circumstance, a man she truly loved. Even though she knew it would never be possible for her, some part of her couldn’t help but wonder...

* * *

Chris could tell from the smells coming from the cauldron hanging over the fire that Nana Ruth was up and about and had added dumplings and seasonings, at least. Setting the milk pail on the counter, he shrugged off his coat. “Good evening, ladies.” He bent down and tugged off his boots, setting them below where he’d hung his coat. He stood, rubbed his hands together to get the blood flowing again. The snow had melted, but the temperatures were cool.

“Evening, Master Chris,” Nana Ruth called out.

As he turned around, his attention snagged on Vicky. Her hands seemed to fly as the needles clicked, her concentration keeping her from looking up at him. She was sitting up without the use of the pillows. Closer inspection proved that her cheeks were dusty rose in color, and her dark eyes glittered in the waning sunlight shining through the windows. Delightfully unaware of his scrutiny, her tongue peeked out from a corner of her mouth, and he couldn’t hold back his grin.

“I see you have found a project.” Startled, she dropped the knitting. “Sorry to catch you unawares, Vicky. Looks like you’ve been at it for a while.” A tube about six inches long hung off her needles. Her frown of confusion made him wish once again that he had learned more Spanish on the boat.

Pointing to her hands, he cocked his eyebrow in question. She pointed to his feet where one of his toes poked out of a hole in his sock. Nana had kept up with the darning of socks and mending until the cold weather set in last fall. He’d tried his own hand at it with dismal results. The only reason he had any socks that still held together is he’d sold three horses and a few of the farm goods to the Hacienda Ruiz last spring. In exchange he had brought back sugar, flour, salt and tea as well as some knitted socks for himself, Jeb and Nana.

What would it be like to have a wife who could take care of such things? He had decided to move to Alta California on his own. Completely alone. Admittedly he had been young and unprepared for just how isolated he would find the woods. Their nearest neighbors were a full day’s ride away. But then Nana Ruth and Jeb had needed someone and he had brought them with him, believing they could make it without anyone else. With Jeb gone and Nana feeling the aches and pains of arthritis, the realization hit hard that he was not self-sufficient and there were increasingly more things that he needed that he couldn’t produce for himself.

And what would he do when Nana needed more care? It hadn’t come to that yet, thankfully, but it might sooner than he expected.

“You ’bout ready to eat, Master Chris?” Nana called from the stove.

“Yes, Nana. My belly’s been kissing my backbone for a while now.”

“You always hungry, Master Chris. Been that way since the day you was born.” With a chuckle, she filled bowls with the stew, and he carried them over to the table.

“I eat?” Vicky asked. Chris sent a quick glance at Nana.

“If you could get her to the table, I think she’d be just fine.”

Pulling out a chair so he had a place to set her down, he crossed over to the bedside and took the offered knitting she held out. Setting her handiwork on the chest, he turned away to give her some privacy while she pushed down the covers and straightened out the giant shirt that hung off her slim shoulders.

“Ya.” It was the word he would have used to get a horse to move, but she had just spoken it to him. Seeing as he was to be her beast of burden, at least to the table, it might have been appropriate but a little haughty for a peasant girl. Then again, in the wilds of Alta California, he no longer was the owner of a large plantation and the closest thing to American nobility.

Turning around, he found her bare feet hanging off the side of the bed. His shirt covered her to her calves like an old nightshirt. “Nana, could you come here and help us for a moment?”

Stocking feet were one thing on the rough wooden floors of his cabin, but being barefoot in the winter would send her right back to bed with another fever and, with her ribs already in poor shape, possibly pneumonia this time. When Nana lumbered over, Chris bent down to her and whispered, “I put her stockings over there, with the rest of her clothes after they were washed. Could you help her get her clothing? I’ll just step out while you help her get situated.”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he crossed the room, slipped his feet into his boots and fled. Once the cool air smacked him in the face, he realized he’d forgotten his coat, but he decided he’d rather suffer cold than go in that room for a while. And the slight breeze might rid his cheeks of the telltale heat he’d felt when he’d been close to Vicky. The way his heart beat an extra beat and his pulse jumped in his veins hadn’t happened since he was twelve and had a crush on the new schoolteacher who came for only one semester. As a grown man, he’d believed he had left silly reactions to pretty girls long behind. He would never put a wife or family in the peril of being dependent on him. He would fail them like he’d failed everyone else.

* * *

The cabin door slammed behind Chris just as Nana Ruth hustled to the side of the bed with a glorious gift. Vicky’s own stockings and the peasant pants that she had borrowed from José Luis years ago so she could ride astride. The older woman started to lean down as if to help with the dressing.

“No, Señora, I do.” Extending her left arm, she waited for Nana Ruth to give up her clothes. With just one arm the task wasn’t very easy, but after Vicky scooted back in the bed a little, Nana could help without having to bend down. The pants were more of a struggle, but eventually they were pulled up, and the nightshirt she wore covered them all the way past her knees. Nana Ruth also brought her the first sweater Magda had helped her knit just before her Quinceañera. It was still by far her favorite even though her skill had improved, and she cherished the warmth and softness as if it were a hug from Magda herself.

Would she ever get home to see Magda and Berto again? Did she want to go if it meant marriage to Don Joaquín?

“You all right?” The older woman studied Vicky as if she could read her thoughts.

“Eat?”

Nana Ruth nodded. “Stay, child.” She painstakingly headed to the door and then returned with Chris right behind her. He stepped out of his boots and crossed the room once more. He slipped his arm around her shoulder, careful to not bump her sore side, and then caught her legs up at the knees with his other arm. His movements were slow and steady, but even with his consideration, her breath caught and her eyes teared up. She had to grit her teeth against the pain. He took all of four steps before they were at the table. He set her down as if she were made of porcelain like the dolls her mother had on display in their home.

Funny, for the first time in a long time she remembered that Berto called her muñeca, doll, almost as often as he called her princesa. Fighting a sudden wave of homesickness, she forced her thoughts on pleasant things. Namely, dinner. The smell of food was enticing as she leaned forward and scooped a spoonful from her bowl, blew on it and then sipped it.

The sigh that escaped her as she closed her eyes didn’t sound loud in her own ears, but when she opened her eyes, both Chris and Nana Ruth were sitting across from her, staring wide-eyed as she went after her next spoonful.

“Vicky.” Chris cupped his hand over her own, keeping her spoon still buried in the stew. “We say gracias to God.” He took his time, clearly trying to convey the message.

She dropped her spoon quickly and crossed herself, kissing her index finger as it curled in when she was done. Chris lowered his head, closed his eyes and began speaking, mentioning “Jesus” and “Lord” often. Finally he said “Amen” like the priest did at the end of his prayers, and then both Nana Ruth and Chris picked up their spoons. Only after they had taken their first bite did she pick her own spoon up and savor the thick, rich broth.

If only she could understand more of the words he spoke or know more of what was expected in his home. Working for him as a housekeeper would be a much better alternative than becoming Don Joaquín’s wife. Would the Americano hire her, a mestizo? His treatment of Nana Ruth made her think that maybe he just might.

Chris smiled often while he spoke with Nana Ruth, and even when they didn’t understand each other, he had shown patience with Vicky, something few men on the hacienda would have done. Having been born the daughter of Señor José Manuel Ruiz González, owner of the Hacienda Ruiz deeded from the very king of Spain, everyone expected her to marry a man of noble Spanish descent and take on the role of wife of a nobleman. Riding horses and taking care of livestock were not part of her future, yet it was what she enjoyed more than anything. Many times she was tempted to question God’s plan for her. Why had He given her this life when she could have been content as the wife of a simple ranch hand?

But could it be that God had finally answered her prayers to get away from a forced marriage to Don Joaquín? Surely Chris would soon need more help on his small ranch and with Nana Ruth.

For the first time in weeks, Vicky felt the stirrings of hope in her heart. Maybe God had heard her prayers and had brought her here. Maybe Chris was a priest and could tell her more about the Bible. After all, the only person she had ever met who had a Bible was Padre Pedro. The priest read out of it in Latin when he performed Mass at their chapel each time he visited the hacienda. If she could learn enough English to communicate and show Chris that she could cook, clean and sew, maybe she could convince him to hire her and she would be safe from Don Joaquín. Maybe she could have the life she wanted or at least avoid the life she feared after all.