Somehow, this situation felt very different. He raised the spoon and blew a little more. “Now, let’s see how you like my cooking.”
“I no baby.” Indignation darkened her already jet-black eyes so much that he couldn’t distinguish the iris from the pupil. Her jaw tightened, and he actually feared for her teeth.
“I know you are not a baby, but you can’t move your right arm. Nana tied it to your side, and the soup is too hot for you to manage one-handed.” The furrows in her forehead didn’t relax, but she opened her mouth when he lifted the spoon. Sitting back, he waited for her verdict. It wasn’t long in coming.
“No tiene sabor.” She wrinkled her nose at the food but opened her mouth again for more.
“Is there something wrong with my soup?” Chris asked. He had never bothered to learn to cook until this last year when Nana’s arthritis started to act up so bad that some mornings she couldn’t even get out of bed. To Chris, making soup consisted of chopping up meat, a few carrots and maybe some potatoes and letting it all boil throughout the day while he saw to his chores. It might not have been as appetizing as something Nana would have made, but it kept spirit and body together for another day. Nana Ruth had never complained, but perhaps that was because of the guilt she felt for not being able to work anymore.
Using the edge of the towel that had kept his poorly aimed attempts at feeding the girl from soaking her, he wiped her chin where some soup had trickled down. Almost as quickly as Vicky had finished off her soup, she fell back to sleep. Thankfully, this time she seemed to rest peacefully. How young and vulnerable she looked as she slept.
He suddenly felt a surprising desire to protect her, and it caught him off guard. He stood up quickly, nearly upending his chair. He’d felt a need to protect others before, and it had never worked out well for him. In fact, it had caused him nothing but pain. The last thing he wanted to do was go down that path again. But he wasn’t about to abandon this young woman.
“You’ll be safe here, Vicky,” he heard himself say. But who was he to promise such things? He had failed to protect others before, and he knew he shouldn’t let himself get wrapped up in Vicky’s dilemmas. She was better off without his help. If not for saving him, she’d probably be at home, hale and happy and surrounded by those who loved her.
His own baby sister, Nelly, had tumbled right off the porch when they were just tots. His father had taken him to the woodshed for that. He’d been overprotective of her from that day on and so relieved when Matt came along and took the job from him.
The whole reason he’d sold the plantation, left his mother living with Nelly and Matt and sailed months on end around the very southern tip of South America to come to the wilderness territory of Mexico was so that he could be far removed from the horrible way that some humans treated others, be where no one would bother him or depend on him while he built his own farm. He would never again sit around and let the forced labor of others benefit him.
He thought of Ezequiel, one of the younger slaves he’d been so happy to free after his father died. Ezequiel had tried to behave as a free man in a world that wasn’t ready for him to be free, and he’d paid with his life. Chris would probably feel responsible for Ezequiel’s death until his own.
No, the last thing he needed was to have someone under his care. He clearly wasn’t good at it.
Of course, from the start, he had to take care of Nana Ruth and Jebediah because they had nowhere to go when other freed slaves left for the north. They were too old to start over and had no living children who could take care of them in their later years. He had done everything in his power to provide and protect them, but even here, five years after they built the cabins and barn, a trio of outlaws came and killed Jebediah. Chris had managed to fight off the three bandits, but he wasn’t able to save Jebediah.
The old slave had been more of a mentor and father to him than his own father had. Instead of enjoying his last years on earth peacefully living in a small town with someone looking out for him and his wife, he’d spent the last of his strength helping to build the cabin, barn and all the other outbuildings plus working with the livestock. Chris should have settled them somewhere safe, then maybe Nana would still have her beloved husband beside her.
Could he do better for Vicky? Did he have it in him to try?
He’d just see to her safety while she healed and then she’d become someone else’s concern. He’d get her home...somehow. Hopefully the girl would be missed and someone would come looking for her so he wouldn’t have to leave Nana Ruth on her own. Maybe someone would arrive within a few days.
Setting the dirty dishes in the sink, he sat down to nurse his own bowl of soup. The first scalding sip brought his mind back to Vicky’s scrunched-up nose. She’d been right. The soup didn’t have “sabor,” and she hadn’t been shy about telling him that.
For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, the thought of her reaction to his cooking made him smile. He allowed himself to enjoy the image of her in his mind before he forced himself to take another bite of his “soup.”
Vicky blinked to adjust to the soft morning light filtering through the windows of the rustic log cabin. A visual search of the room revealed a pallet next to the large stone fireplace had been pushed to the side and the blankets folded and stacked on a chair leaning against the wall.
The large woman whom Chris called Nana Ruth slumbered on, her snores stopping abruptly and then, after a few snorts, starting up again. Her swollen hands lay on the rough blanket, and Vicky had noticed her rubbing her knuckles and her knees the night before. If only Magda were there, she would make a poultice that would work wonders for the arthritic joints. The washer-woman from the hacienda suffered from swollen joints and would visit the kitchen almost every day for Magda’s remedies and massages.
Careful not to move anything but her head, Vicky took her time studying her surroundings now that daylight flooded the room. The two wooden chests that stood side by side against the wall gleamed a dark chestnut color, and the woodwork would have made Manolo, the hacienda’s carpenter, proud. The table Vicky had taken for rough-hewn the night before was intricately engraved. Glancing at the headboard of the bed she occupied, she saw the same design graced the fine wood there, too. The chair Chris had sat on to feed her also had the beautiful carvings. Who had done the masterful woodwork? Had the Americano brought all this with him when he moved here? The wooden pieces looked like they should occupy a palatial home, not a cabin in the woods. And just how long had he been living in the hills not more than two days’ journey from her own home?
The Americano’s face hovered in her memory. As he fed her the tasteless broth, she’d seen the compassion and concern in his eyes.
Nana Ruth mumbled something as she shifted in her sleep, drawing Vicky’s attention. Pushing up from the pillow sent a bolt of lightning through her and stole her breath away. Tears formed, but she blinked them back.
At least she wasn’t injured for nothing—her shot had found its mark. She could be proud of the way she defended Chris, but if just simple movement stopped her breath, how would she ever manage to ride back to the hacienda? She needed to find Tesoro.
Tesoro, fulfilling her name as Vicky’s only treasure, was the golden horse her father had given to her nearly four years ago, the day she turned fifteen and the entire hacienda had turned out to celebrate. Of course, a few wealthy landowners and some brave vaqueros had attended her Quinceañera with high hopes of winning her
