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.
“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
