Rescuing The Runaway Bride

“My name is María Victoria Ruiz Torres.” She answered in Spanish, pointed to herself but couldn’t quite stifle a groan, her voice husky and barely audible. Compassion flashed in his eyes.

He pointed to her, but his words blended together, not making any sense. Talking required breathing, and each breath felt like a knife digging into her ribs.

“Pain? Dolor?” he asked.

“Sí, much pain... I...no air.” Gasping, she nodded her head, only making it throb worse.

He leaned over and sat her up straight, holding her by the shoulders, avoiding contact with the most injured parts of her. When he did, she felt the binding around her ribs for the first time. Someone had bound her as if she had a corset on, but it was different. There were no bones and stays digging into her flesh, just soft cloth wrapped around her and holding her right arm to her side. She was still in pain, but at least sitting up she could breathe.

Who had brought her here? The last thing she could remember was stopping at the stream for water and letting Tesoro drink... Tesoro! Where was Tesoro?

“Mi caballo? Tesoro?” she questioned him frantically.

He smiled and said something about “Golden...” Most of the words he used made little sense to her.

“Mi horse?” she tried again, wishing the English she had once learned would come back to her.

“Fine. With my horses,” he answered in his funny accent. She thought he was trying to say that her horse was with his horses. Vicky took a deep breath and closed her eyes to calm herself and drown out the pain.

When she opened her eyes, he was studying her again. Only inches from his face, she could see his eyes. Blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. She had never met anyone with eyes so light before—although they matched her grandfather’s in the portrait in her father’s study. The Americano’s hair color surprised her, as well. Honey mixed with cinnamon that glowed like polished bronze in the firelight. What would it look like in the sun? Then she remembered—he was the Americano who had been by the stream when the puma attacked.

“You two days,” he said in broken Spanish, holding up two fingers and then pretending to lay his head on his hands and close his eyes.

“Two days!” she exclaimed. What would Papá say when she got home? Groaning again, she realized she couldn’t leave tonight anyway. She was too sore, and it looked like it was already dark out.

Who had taken care of her? What would Mamá think? What would she do? Had she even noticed that Vicky hadn’t been back to the hacienda in all this time? Where was this man’s wife, and why didn’t he call her now that Vicky was awake?

Her thoughts raced around and around in her pounding head, and she suddenly felt very tired. Her eyes became heavy even as she tried to remember something of her English lessons.

“Water,” she finally managed.

A tin cup came into view, and he held it for her as she sipped. The cool water soothed her parched throat and quelled the need to cough. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to gulp it down, not take in just a trickle, but he only let her have a sip at a time. “Slowly,” he cautioned. Unable to even lift her arms to tilt the cup, she resigned herself to sipping.

Sleep wanted to claim her again—she could feel it like the undertow in the stream. Chris put a hand to her shoulder and gently leaned her back on the pillows. Frustrated at not being able to communicate her basic wishes, much less get up and get her own water, Vicky turned away from the man. What could she do? She wouldn’t know what to say even if they had both understood the same language. She knew nothing about him—could he be one of the many bandits who roamed the Sierra and plundered those unfortunate enough to have to travel far from home?

No, he couldn’t be a bandit. No man she had ever met would have taken the time to play nursemaid to a sick woman, except for maybe Berto. Her father’s groom, who had helped her own grandfather found the Hacienda Ruiz over forty years earlier, had a gentle hand and soft heart, which is why he was so skilled with the horses. He had risked his own life to save Vicky when she was five years old, and she was forever bonded to him. His wife, Magda, was their housekeeper and cook at the main house, and had been since the days that Papá was a mere boy.

If only she had listened to José Luis and waited for Papá to return, surely Berto could have talked Papá into canceling the wedding. If only she were home. And yet, being home would be worse. She’d be preparing for her wedding with Don Joaquín right now, and he was a horrible man. He had been married several times, and all his wives had died. Vicky was convinced that if Don Joaquín hadn’t killed them himself, they had taken their own lives rather than live with the fiend. The fact that her father would even consider marrying her off to such a monster was more than she could bear.

Letting her head rest against the pillows, she closed her eyes, surrendering once again to her exhaustion.

* * *

Nana Ruth’s clanging the cowbell brought Chris rushing into the cabin the next afternoon. Milk sloshed as he dropped the pail on the table. In three quick strides he drew up next to Nana Ruth as she tried to settle Maria. Once again the girl was thrashing about in the bed, her words colored with fear.

“Did her fever come back?” he asked even as he leaned past Nana to touch the girl’s forehead. Cool skin calmed his racing heartbeat.

“No Wakin!” Maria called out again, attempting to push someone or something away from her. He caught her left arm gently in his hand and smoothed her hair with the other hand.

“Maria, you are safe. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.” He grimaced even as the words left his mouth. Who was he to promise safety? His history was filled with failures to protect the people who depended on him.

She quieted. Her arm went lax in his, and then her eyes fluttered.

He set her arm on the blankets covering her and then waited. After a few more minutes, she settled into a peaceful sleep. When she woke, he had a cup of water ready by her side before she could even ask for it.

Chris watched as Maria tried to down a second cup of water as quickly as she had the first. He studied the emotions that raced across her face as she drank. Confusion when she first woke was quickly replaced with greed for the water and then frustration when he gave her only a little at a time. For a small young lady, she had a fire in her eye. If she weren’t stuck in bed with broken ribs, having fought a fever for a few days and not taken anything solid, he’d bet that she would have demanded that he hurry up with the water.

“Maria?” She was slow to respond to her name. Odd. Had she also hit her head on the stones that broke her ribs? He hadn’t noticed what lay beneath her at the time because he was so focused on getting away from the cougar in case it gave chase. He tapped her shoulder to draw her attention back to his face instead of the now empty cup.

“Why say me Maria?” she asked, her brows scrunching together, creating lines in her otherwise perfectly smooth skin.

Had he misinterpreted their most basic communication? “You said your name was Maria.” Not that he could have pronounced all the words that had come after that.

“Maria name for baby when father at—” She stopped, puzzling out the English words. “When baby new, mamá take to padre for to—” Frustrated, she placed her hands together and bowed her head, closing her eyes as if praying.

“Where was your father when you were a baby?”

“No! No mi father,” she shook her head and then stopped as if the movement pained her. She pointed to her chest and then to the sky. “Father from Dios, you call God. Father come to hacienda to say to God, ‘be good baby.’”

Unsure what she was trying to say, Chris set the cup back on the table and pondered what to do next. Her English was much better than he had expected, but even so, he wasn’t even sure what her name was now. How would they ever get her back to her people if he didn’t even know her name?

“Master Chris, I heard tell that some people call their minister ‘Father,’” Nana Ruth suggested.

“She’s talking about a minister?”

“Ain’t most babies christened by a minister?” Nana’s question made sense, but then it still left the girl without a name.

Turning back to their patient, he slowly asked, “What is your name?”

“Mi Vic-kee-ta.” She pointed to herself. “Maria Victoria Ruiz Torres. Vic-kee-ta.”

“They call you Vicky?” Her beaming smile completely transformed her face, and for the first time, she looked like a woman, not a young girl. That smile made him want to say the word again just to make her happy.

“So where do you live?”

“Hacienda Ruiz.” Her eyes flashed pride and fear at the same time.

At least he knew where that was. He’d be able to take her back to her people without too much problem, once she was ready to travel—assuming she wanted to return. Something in her eyes made him wonder why she had left the hacienda to begin with.

“How did you end up in the forest all by yourself?” The questions wanted to pour out all at once, but the confusion on her face told him that she hadn’t understood.

“Master Chris, why don’t I get the girl some of that soup you got on the fire. I dare say she’s plum worn out, and a little warm soup might just loosen up her tongue.”

Nana Ruth made to get up off the chair. “Sit back, Nana. I’ll see to this.” He laid a hand on the older woman’s shoulder until he felt her relax into the chair.

“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.”