Rescuing The Runaway Bride

“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.

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

Dipping his spoon back into his bowl, Chris studied his houseguest. What must she be thinking? Emotions ran across her face—fear, concern, frustration and then something like hope. He’d never been so frustrated by an inability to communicate with someone in his entire life.

“You feelin’ all right, Master Chris?” Nana Ruth’s gaze bore into him as if she could see what he was thinking. “Was sure you was gonna down that whole bowlful in a blink like you normally do.”

“I’m fine, Nana. I just wonder what she must think of us or how much she understands. How I’m going to get her back with her family.” He plunked his spoon back into his soup with more force than necessary, and some sloshed out the other side. Grabbing his handkerchief, he cleaned up his mess.

“I been thinkin’ ’bout that myself, and I do declare the Good Lord must have had a good reason for sendin’ the poor thing here to us. He’ll let us know when He’s good and ready.” She patted his hand like she had when he was just a kid.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if He’d see fit to show us sooner rather than later.”

“You always was mighty impatient, Master Chris.” She chuckled good-naturedly. Wasn’t the first time she’d made that observation, and he’d stopped trying to deny it long ago. “Of course, the Good Lord just might have sent her along to be your helpmate. Seems to me you could use one.”

His glare was answer enough. She knew exactly what he thought about ever bringing someone else into his life. No way was he going to take the chance with someone else’s welfare—especially not a wife and children. For all the longings in his heart to have children himself, he could not take that risk, or the strain of feeling constantly responsible for their safety. And the idea that he could possibly marry Vicky? Impossible. She was a young girl, still years from marrying.

“Chris?” Her almond-shaped eyes, dark as strong coffee, nearly stopped his breath. Pure foolishness. He would never take a wife. He’d proved that he couldn’t take care of those entrusted to him. Forcing his face to hide the hollowness the last idea had left inside, he ignored Nana’s quiet chuckle and faced Vicky.

“Yes, Vicky?”

“Mas? More soopa?” She tipped her empty bowl so he could see the insides.

“Would you like more soup?” he asked, already assuming the answer but hoping to help her learn some English. He hoped she retained more of his language than he had managed to of hers.

“Yes, please.” She smiled shyly. “More soup.” This time her pronunciation was on target.

“It would be my pleasure.” He stood, bowed gallantly and swept her empty bowl into his hand, turning to refill it from the pot that still hung over the fire, and then set it down in front of her with a flourish. She watched him with wide eyes as Nana made a tsking sound between her teeth.

“That poor girl don’t know if you just plain out of your head or if that’s the way you white people serve the table.” She shook her head once more and then started to laugh.

Chagrined at his silly behavior, Chris sank back into his chair and concentrated on finishing off the rest of his now cool meal. A quick glance at Vicky revealed a wide smile.

“You make Nana Ruth, um...ha, ha, ha?”

“Laugh. Yes. I made her laugh.”

“I like hear laugh.” He had to admit, he liked hearing Nana Ruth laugh, as well. There hadn’t been as much laughter in the cabin in the last year, but since Vicky came, Nana had started to smile more—and he’d found a smile on his face more often, too.

Silence filled the room as they finished eating. With the last spoonful of soup, Chris’s gaze found Vicky’s across the table again. Had she been watching for very long? He noticed that she had eaten very properly, like an elegant young miss from back home, despite having to use her left hand. No slurping or dripping like he had accidently done a time or two. His mother would have cuffed him on the head for his poor table manners. As he looked at her, curiosity shined from those dark expressive eyes. She probably had as many questions about him as he did about her.

“So tell me, Vicky, what do your parents do at Hacienda Ruiz?”

“Mi papá is Don Ruiz, José Manuel Ruiz González de Jacinto, España, son of Don Juan Manuel Ruiz González de Jacinto España, el rey, king of España say to papá of mi papá, he come to América and make new hacienda. Hacienda Ruiz.” Her eyes glowed with pride and her chest rose, her shoulders straight as if she were nobility. Then her words clicked. If he understood her right, that’s exactly what she had just claimed to be—nobility.

“Your father is Don Ruiz? Hacienda Ruiz is your family’s hacienda?”

“Sí, Señor.”

The thought of having a nobleman’s daughter staying in his humble cabin gave him a start. Why hadn’t someone come looking for her already? Surely they had missed her by now. Would they think he had abducted her?

For the last four years he had bartered a couple of horses each year for many of the products they could produce in the hacienda’s village instead of having to go all the way over the mountains to the west and to the nearest port, but he had not ever had anyone visit him. On the first encounter, he indicated that he was not interested in socializing with anyone, and with the exception of the traveling priest and the bandits who had attacked last summer, his lands had been left alone. The closest Indian village was a two-day ride to the north, the Hacienda Ruiz a full day to the east and nothing but mountain peaks to his west for miles. To the south, the next hacienda’s main buildings were three days of winding trails in the foothills away from him.

“Where is your family?”

“Mi papá go talk with dons from haciendas de España. Many do not like Mejico take taxes for presidente but no have vote. The gobernador de Alta California bad man.”

“Your father is meeting with other hacienda owners?”

“Sí.” A shadow passed behind her eyes as if something had frightened her.

“Are you worried about your father? Is the place he is going to dangerous?” Were the noblemen considering revolting? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that was attempted. The Mexican government had forcibly taken the missions over and given them to the natives and peasants. The outcome had not been good from what he had seen during his last visit to the coast—just another reason why he hadn’t made the effort to go a week’s journey there for supplies.

“Worried?” she queried, her brow furrowing in concentration.

Chris turned to Nana for help. How did one explain worry? She shrugged at him. “Worry means you think about something, upset, nervous.”

“Nerviosa.” The frown lines smoothed for a moment as she smiled with the success of understanding, but she said, “Sí, I worried. I nerviosa. I worried mi papá talk with Don Joaquín about marry.”

“But you’re young yet. Surely your father will not make you marry until you have come of age,” Chris reassured. “After all, you can’t be much more than fourteen.”

Nana snorted as if she knew a joke he didn’t.

“I...what?” Vicky said.

“Fourteen. You are fourteen.” He raised all ten fingers and then left four up while he lowered the others.

“Not fourteen.” She counted under her breath until she reached the number she must have been looking for. “I have eighteen.”

“Vicky, you can’t be eighteen. You barely measure five feet.” He started counting again out loud, holding up his fingers as he went. But when he reached fourteen, she continued counting on her own hand until she reached eighteen.

“I have cumpliaños...how you say, day of Santos?”

“What are you asking about?”

“Day baby new. Day I bebe, I get nineteen.”

“She’s talkin’ ’bout her birthday, Master Chris.”