only her head this time, she spied behind her, under the top pillow, what looked like piled-up shirts. After two attempts, she finally came within reach without twisting. Snagging one, the pillow fell to the floor. She followed its progress with her eyes. The distance from the bed to the floor seemed like miles. The shirt she had unearthed had a large tear in one elbow and stains down the front, although it smelled clean. It would have to do.
Struggling into it caused more pain than she had expected, and she sat panting, waiting for the black spots dancing in front of her eyes to go away. Reason argued that she should stay in bed and let the Americano wait on her hand and foot like the hacienda princesa she was, but how long would any man put up with a woman who did not see to the cleaning and cooking? No man would complain on the hacienda since the servants would see to it all, but here, the man was doing all the work, and she doubted that even in his culture it would be expected of him. If she could only stand and get to the kitchen area, maybe she could find something to make for breakfast. Or at least some water to drink for her parched throat.
Head clear, she stood, forcing a breath out. The room spun twice before it righted itself. With her left hand bracing her right rib, she shuffled one step, then another, away from the edge of the bed. A cool draft raced across the floor and skimmed over her bare toes and up her legs. The shirts were long but only reached past her knees. Scandalous! If Mamá ever found out, she’d swoon right on the spot. Three more steps brought her within reach of the table. Her left leg collided with it, and suddenly she couldn’t see anything between the tears of pain and the dancing black spots. A draft of colder air hit her about the same time as she registered the sound of a door opening, then slamming closed.
Seconds later cold arms still smelling of the crisp air outside caught her at the knees and around her back and settled her back in her cocoon. The blankets she had thrown off with such pain were gently tucked back around her, and only then did the room start to reappear, first in the center of her vision and then completely.
“Vicky? Did you need something?” Chris stood hovering above her. He retrieved the pillow from the floor with a frown. “Are you sick? In pain? Dolor?”
Panting let the air in without drawing on the muscles that screamed in agony in her middle. “I...agua.” He shifted the pile of his old shirts, topped it with the pillow and then, with a gentle hand, leaned her back to rest.
“I will get you water.” He said the words slowly, pointing to himself, the water bucket on the floor by the door that hadn’t been there moments ago, and then to her. Nodding, she closed her eyes and waited, afraid to move even the slightest bit and bring on the blinding fire again.
“Here.” His breath brushed across her forehead and stirred her hair. He held the cup in front of her and once again would not let her gulp it down like she wanted but rationed it sip by sip until she finished. Then he poured more from a pitcher he had placed on the chair next to her bed. This time he let her take longer sips. Thirst quenched, she sighed.
“Gracias, thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His deep voice drew her eyes to his. In the light of day his eyes shone like a cloudless summer sky with flecks of gold like sunlight. His skin, even with the kiss of sun, looked shades lighter than hers. Glancing down at her hand, she saw just how dark her skin was compared with his.
You’re a mix between the glorious lords from Europe and the filthy, heathen Indians, Mamá quoted often, reminding her of her father’s own mixed parentage. Vicky’s grandfather, Don Ruiz, had been a lord from Spain while her grandmother was an Indian who had worked as a housekeeper for Don Ruiz before they fell in love and married. Mamá constantly reminded her that blue-blooded Spaniards like her own family would never look twice at Vicky’s Indian skin. What must the Americano think of her? Yet he did not treat Nana Ruth as if she were less human than he. Rather, he had served her a bowl of soup and helped her with the chores.
Was it different where he came from? Did people treat each other without prejudice or concern for their heritage? Slavery had been outlawed about the time she had been born yet not one of the former slaves whom she had met was ever treated as anything other than servant and underling, just like the Indians who also served the noble and not-so-noble-born Spanish. Mestizos were looked upon as more Indian than Spanish because of their mixed bloodlines, and they earned the same disdain from the nobles.
“Are you...?” The next word Chris used was unfamiliar to her. He smiled when she gave him a puzzled look. As he pantomimed eating and then rubbing his stomach, she cocked her head to one side.
“Do you want food?” he asked. This time the words were all familiar. Nodding, she patted her stomach with her left hand, and he grinned. His eyes brightened, and she found herself smiling in return. His grin caused tiny laugh lines around his eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. The dimple looked the right size to poke her index finger into. Silly girl, you’ll never touch his face, much less when he is smiling, she scolded herself silently. After all, as soon as she could stand on her own without blacking out, she needed to find her own clothes and head back to the hacienda. Of course, she’d have to tie herself on Tesoro’s pummel to stay in the saddle but regardless, she couldn’t stay away from the hacienda too much longer.
“I’ll make food,” Chris said as he set the tin cup down on the chair and headed to the sink.
“I make food,” Vicky offered, unwilling to sit still and do nothing, especially if it meant that she would have to choke down more of the insipid soup she had the night before.
“You can’t cook. You can’t even stand.” He shook his head at her. Turning his back, he set a small cauldron onto the counter and then poured water in, adding eggs. He slid the caldron’s handle onto a hook that swung over the fire in the hearth. Then he took a metal bowl out and added ingredients from metal tins he had under the dry sink, and he added water and an egg before rolling the mixture out on the counter and pressing it flat as Vicky would have done with her tortillas. He formed balls with the dough and set them inside a greased frying pan that he covered with a lid and set directly onto the fire.
Bread and boiled eggs would be a bland but filling breakfast. If they had some salt, pepper, tomatoes and chilies, she could make a salsa and give the meal some life. But the thing was, this man was cooking for her. He was taking care of her, when he didn’t owe her anything. He was clearly a kind person, a person of character. He was...different.
* * *
He glanced over his shoulder. Vicky was watching him with obvious skepticism as he made breakfast. Admittedly, he wasn’t the best of cooks, but even he could do biscuits and boiled eggs. He wondered what she usually ate for breakfast. Was she thinking he was crazy for making her such simple fare? He gave her a quick smile. She did not smile back.
From the paleness of her face when he’d entered the cabin a few minutes before, he could tell she had been about to pass out. Questions he still had no answers to circled around in his head like a herd of horses unsettled by something lurking just beyond the corral fence. Perhaps he’d see if he could get some answers.
“So, Miss Vicky, how did you end up here?” he asked.
Her cute nose bunched up as she bit her lip in concentration. “I look for Papá. No want...casar to Don Joaquín.”
“You didn’t want to walk?”
“No, casar to Don Joaquín,” she stated. Her chin and shoulders lifted in an air of defiance, but her little gasp of pain revealed how much even the slightest move still hurt.
“No house? Casar house?”
“No,
