Rescuing The Runaway Bride

“But Master Chris, it’s not right for you to be out of your bed on account o’ no stranger. You can stretch her out on my bed.” She stooped with effort to ready her own bed, but he shook his head.

“You won’t be able to see to his wounds or take care of him on your small bed, and you’d have to bend down all the time. No, Nana, the boy will rest in my bed until we can find out where he came from and how to return him there.”

“If that there’s a boy, he’s about the prettiest boy I ever seen, Master Chris. And I still say you ought not be putting her in your bed.”

Her words stopped Chris in his tracks. Of course the child was a boy. True, even with dirt and blood on his face, he could be considered “pretty.” But this couldn’t be a girl. Preposterous! Not even an Indian girl would be out riding all on her own in the middle of the wilderness. It was true that some of the haciendas enjoyed relative safety because of their numbers and the way the hacienda señors or dons led their communities like feudal lords, but it was still dangerous in the wilderness. Chris himself had discovered his greatest enemy wasn’t the wildlife or even the harsh weather of the higher altitudes but the lawless men who sacked and plundered and then melted back into the forest.

And then there was the shot that killed the cat. No girl could have made that shot. No, their guest had to be a boy, and he hoped to get some answers from the boy if the Good Lord willed the child’s eyes open again.

“Nana. Help me peel this serape off first so we don’t soak the bedding.”

“Poor child, out in that cold all wet.” Nana Ruth’s gnarled fingers fought with the sombrero before it fell away. “I think she’s got a knock on the noggin, Master Chris. There’s a lump back here. Now looky here...” Nana Ruth’s hands came away with hairpins. A braid cascaded down and swung like a pendulum. It wasn’t the first Indian boy Chris had seen who had long hair worn in a single braid.

But he’d never seen a boy pin his braid into a bun.

Misgiving settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

Nana Ruth slid the thick fabric of the serape over the child’s torso and head before Chris adjusted his grip to let the garment fall to the floor.

“Could you put some toweling down on the bed?”

She did his bidding even as she murmured, “We got to get this child warm soon. Look how dark her lips are.”

It might already be too late. The boy was too still. As still as Jeb had been when Chris had finally run off their attackers and carried Jeb back to the cabin the day of the ambush... But he’d do everything he could to keep that from happening to this nameless boy who had saved his life. He couldn’t let another person die. The thought spurred him to act faster.

Chris set the boy down. Nana Ruth tried to get the child’s sweater undone, but her arthritis wouldn’t let her manipulate the small buttons.

“Here, let me get those.” He quickly had the sweater unbuttoned, only to discover a rustic wool shirt covering what was clearly a female figure. He turned away from the bed.

The day just kept getting stranger and stranger.

“Nana Ruth, you were right about her being a girl.”

“And a right pretty one at that.” She cackled.

“Do you think you can tend to the rest of her care?” he asked as he strode to the front door of the cabin.

“Don’t you worry, Master Chris. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll get her all warmed up and better in no time.”

Chris headed out the door to take care of the horses and give the mystery girl some privacy. A girl! Who would have believed it? He hoped she’d get a chance to explain her reason for being in his woods and who had taught her to shoot like she had. Was it skill or just God guiding the bullet like David and his slingshot?

Setting foot outside again sent a chill through him, and he debated going back in for dry clothes. On second thought, he’d grab some of Jeb’s clothes from the old cabin the couple used to share before Jebediah died and Nana Ruth couldn’t live alone. He’d rather wear tattered hand-me-downs any day than interrupt whatever Nana was doing for the girl. The horses would have to wait a few more minutes. He hustled to the long-abandoned cabin, aware both Comet and the girl’s horse followed on his heels.

It took only a few minutes to get into something warm and dry, and then Chris headed back toward the barn. A snicker from the stranger’s horse was the only warning before the mare nudged him on the shoulder like an old friend. He stopped in his tracks and studied her.

He blinked and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Could it really be?

“Goldenrod! It is you!”

Four years prior he’d sold her to the owner of Hacienda Ruiz a full day and a half east of him. With his broken Spanish and a lot of gestures and hand signaling, he was able to barter a good deal for her and three of the other horses he had trained that year. Goldenrod still looked agile and well fed. Just as he had expected, they had taken good care of her. So why was a peasant girl riding her out in the middle of the wilderness alone? And why was the girl dressed like a boy? “So what brought you back to me, huh, Golden?” he mused, wishing that the horse could tell him where they had come from and who the girl was. He set the small saddlebag to the side before removing the magnificently tooled saddle and thick saddle blanket.

His fingers itched to search the bag for more clues as to the girl’s identity, but chores needed to be done before he could investigate any more.

Taking up the brush, he worked the snarls out of Goldenrod’s mane. After feeding and grooming all the other horses in his barn, he returned for the small saddlebag. Inside he found a skirt of silk and many layers of ruffles, a satin blouse of some sort and a pair of slippers. Not the typical clothing he had seen the local native people wear. The cloth itself was of fine quality and the stitching elaborate.

How old was this sleeping beauty, and why had she ended up alone in the woods with two very different sets of clothes? Was she a pauper who had either bartered or stolen this horse and saddlebag, or was she someone of means traveling in disguise? Again with the questions.

Judging by the sun hanging just over the peaks to the west, two hours had passed. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed out so long, but if Nana had needed him, she could have rung the cowbell he had hung on the overhang by the door. He quietly entered the cabin, his gaze falling on the still form on his bed. The girl’s face, with a long gash across the forehead, was the only visible part of her except for a few wisps of long black hair against the white bedding. Nana Ruth struggled to stand from one of the stout kitchen chairs he had fashioned during their first winter in the woods.

“Soup’s on the stove, Master Chris. You want somethin’ to eat?”

“Sit back, Nana. I want to check on our visitor first.” He crossed the room to stare down at the girl. “Has she woken up yet?”

“No, sir. Just mumbled and thrashed a few times. She’s heatin’ up somethin’ fierce.” Nana shook her head and tsked her tongue.

“She has a fever?”

“Yes, sir. How long was she wet?”

“Less than an hour before we arrived. It’s my fault. She shot a cougar out of the tree above me and saved my life. It fell and knocked her off her horse and into the creek.” Slipping a hand across the girl’s brow, he flinched at the heat coming off her skin. Her cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and yet she shivered. “Poor girl. I wish I knew something about you or where you came from. Maybe I could go fetch your mother to take care of you.”

Of course, that would be nearly impossible. Nana Ruth could no longer be expected to tend to the girl on her own, and leaving two defenseless women in the middle of the woods for more than an afternoon was completely irresponsible. If there was one thing Chris had learned well from his father, it was that he was responsible for everyone at all times. The last thing he needed was one more death on his conscience.

Turning from the child before he could dwell on the past, he summoned a smile for Nana Ruth and set about putting the stew on the table with the cutlery and cups of hot tea.

Once he and Nana Ruth were seated at the table, he wrapped his fingers around Nana’s swollen and disfigured ones. “Father God, thank You for Your protection and providence. Please bless this food we’re about to eat and bless the girl who saved my life. I ask You to heal her and enable us to get her back to her home and family. In Your name, Amen.”

Chapter Two (#u600876bd-163f-547a-9600-4268f9a324fb)

There was that voice again. As if someone on the shore of the river had thrown her a rope, that voice pulled her toward safety. She’d heard it before and tried to open her eyes, but this time, they obeyed. Her body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of horses. She had no energy to lift her leaden hands and rub her eyes. Blinking in the dim light, she tried to take in her surroundings, but either it was evening or the room had no windows. The only light was given off by a lamp on the table and the glow of fire. Was this a home or a cave?

As her eyes adjusted, details became clearer. The room resembled Berto and Magda’s cabin, made with the same rough-hewn logs instead of the stucco and grand slate stones of her own home. Two wooden chests sat to her left. A smaller bed hugged the far wall, and whoever occupied it snored loudly. The hearth glowed with a dim fire, keeping the winter winds at bay. By the foot of the bed Vicky occupied, a figure sat in a chair with a book. His stocking feet were propped on the side of her bed. It felt strange, and somehow too intimate, that a stranger would be so informal in her bedchamber. But as her foggy mind cleared, she remembered that this was not her bedchamber.

Where was she? Who was he? And how did she get here?

The lamp on the table behind the man left his face shrouded in shadow. She couldn’t determine his age, expressions or even his coloring. From her vantage point he appeared very large, his long legs like tree trunks and his wide shoulders easily twice her width. He continued to read, oblivious of her scrutiny.

She tried to shift to her right, but her arm wouldn’t move. Not only did it feel like it weighed a ton, but it was somehow tangled in her bedding. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Whether it was the sharp pain stabbing her in the right side or fear, she didn’t know. Struggling to sit up, she gasped as the pain became so intense she saw stars. Her movements caught the man’s attention. He sat up, his long legs withdrawing from the bed and settling silently on the floor. He laid the book aside and leaned forward, his face coming into the light. He said something—she only wished she knew what.

Concern showed in his eyes and something else... Kindness. His relaxed posture reassured her.

He got up and reached an arm behind her back, holding her up as he plumped the pillows. Laying her back gently, he readjusted the blankets to cover her shoulders and placed a palm gently against her forehead. She felt his calluses as he smoothed back her hair from her face. His tender touch surprised her. He studied her eyes for a minute, his own gaze full of questions. Then he pulled his chair closer to the head of the bed and sank back down.

He said something again, and this time she picked out the English words pain, you and something else that sounded familiar, but she was too groggy to try to make sense of things.

“Español. No Ingles.” She tried to remember more but couldn’t.

“My name is Chris.” His Spanish sounded funny. His next words were lost to her since he switched back to English.