hospital floor. Just as she mounted the first step, a dark blur of motion dashed out from under the stairway. The large mud-colored mongrel bounded toward her with its teeth bared, a rumbling growl in its throat.
“No!” she cried out, teetering on the brink of losing her balance as the dog dove into her skirt and between her legs. “No! Eyiee!” Hot soup sloshed out from under the kettle’s lid and over the edge to burn her fingers. She would lose it all if she dropped it!
Suddenly a strong hand gripped the kettle and then grasped her elbow, steadying her. She looked up into a face that hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a razor in weeks. His beard was the color of rich coffee but it couldn’t hide the handsome contours beneath. Anglo, she reasoned. Easy to spot with the dark hair, streaked blond by the sun, and cobalt-blue eyes. His body tensed as he held tight to a ruff of fur at the dog’s neck and pulled it away from her skirt. “Guess the smell of that soup was more than the poor mutt could take. You got that now?”
“Gracias,” she said, gripping the kettle to her like a shield. Juan had warned her against being too familiar with the soldiers, saying they saw few women and were as uncouth a lot as he’d ever known. She sniffed. This man reeked of horse and sweat and days on the trail—not exactly a heady combination.
He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jake. Jake Dumont.”
“Gracias,” she said again.
He was blocking her path. She started to sidestep to go around him but then he sidestepped and was in front of her again.
His eyes narrowed under his dark brows. “You don’t speak English? A shame.” His gaze slid over her, moving from the heavy blue cloak that covered her head all the way down to the base of her gray skirt where the tips of her boots peeked out. Angry heat flushed through her. He had nerve, this Anglo!
She raised her chin and gave him the haughtiest look she could muster under the circumstances. Repositioning her grip on the kettle, she started up the stairs, surprised when the man shoved the dog purposely to the side and followed her. She stopped and turned, putting the hot soup between them. If he thought to annoy her, she had plenty of protection.
He glanced at the soup and then back up at her. A devilish look came into his eyes. “You think that would stop me?”
She tipped the kettle in warning. A drop of hot liquid splashed onto his pants.
Faster than lightning, he grasped her wrist. “Careful woman. There may come a day you won’t want that part of me scalded.”
Oh! He was a wicked man!
“Look. Let’s not start a battle where there doesn’t need to be one. I’m just going in the same direction as you—to see the doctor.”
“You are sick?” He seemed like the last man on earth who’d be ill. His firm grip revealed only quick reflexes and crushing strength. Too late she realized her ruse was up. She’d spoken her thoughts out loud—in English.
He smiled slowly, his gaze knowing. “No. But my horse is.”
Captured momentarily by the deep blue of his eyes, her heart thudded in her chest. He was different from anyone she’d known before and so sure of himself. Was this an American trait? She wasn’t sure she liked it. It bordered on rudeness. They had not been properly introduced and here he was still touching her wrist.
As if he read her thoughts, he released her arm and took the kettle from her hands. “Relax, miss. Although you are the prettiest señorita I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.” Then he passed by and continued up the stairs giving her a disconcerting view of his worn buckskin backside.
She frowned. She hadn’t expected him to suddenly turn charming. Drawing up the hem of her skirt, she followed.
He crossed the room in half the number of strides it took her and set the kettle on a nearby table. Sick and injured men on pallets lined the interior walls. As she approached, the doctor looked up from his desk.
“Señorita Torrez. Thank you for thinking of my men again.”
“They may all eat?” she asked. At his nod, she added, “There is plenty for you, too.” By her count, the two open rooms that served as the hospital held nineteen patients. The aroma of onions and chicken filled the room as she ladled the soup into small bowls on the counter.
She felt the bearded man watching her. All these Anglos had such scruffy beards. They reminded her more of beasts or bears than men. The ones who were sick, she could understand, but the Mexicans she knew in Laredo kept theirs neatly trimmed or did not wear facial hair at all.
She sat down near the soldier on the end pallet and started spooning the food into his mouth, relieved to note the blue-eyed man turned away and started up a conversation with the doctor.
She didn’t mean to listen, but couldn’t help noticing the rich timbre of his voice. So pleasant and soothing. It called to her—resonating deep inside her. He had a slow and easy accent unfamiliar to her, and different from the other Anglos who lived here. But he was too cocky for his own good. He wasn’t to be trusted. A man like that usually took what he wanted and didn’t worry about anyone else’s feelings.
Still, she caught bits and pieces of their talk. He needed something for his horse. Something was infected. Well, at least he’d been telling her the truth about that.
She moved to the next patient, a man with his hands bandaged.
“Pssst!”
Startled, Victoria dribbled hot soup over the man’s chest. “Oh! Pardon me!” She dabbed at the liquid with her apron before looking up from her work to find a woman motioning to her from the doorway of the room. “Sí?”
The woman glanced at the line of bedridden soldiers and at the doctor. She shook her head and made the sign of the cross over her breast.
“Excuse me,” Victoria said to the man she’d been helping, and walked over to the door.
“Señorita,” the woman said in Spanish. “Capitán Seguín is asking for you at the house.”
“Did Diego return?”
“Si.”
Victoria’s stomach clenched. This couldn’t be good. She nodded to the woman. “Gracias. I will come immediately.”
The woman left quickly, and Victoria turned back to the soldier on the pallet. She would not be able to finish helping him. The large Anglo had stopped talking to the doctor and watched her. Suspicion clouded his eyes. Just how much Spanish did he know? Had he understood the woman’s words?
“Doctor Pollard? I am sorry to have to excuse myself. I have been called back to the house. I will come for the kettle later.”
The doctor nodded to her and she turned and headed down the stairs, all the while feeling the other man’s gaze on her. He filled the room with his rough presence and made her feel as though jumping beans were bouncing in her stomach. Not at all a pleasant sensation.
She crossed the small footbridge over the San Antonio River on her way back into town, drawing her cloak close about her shoulders. Loud voices came from inside the small general store as the
