“I do not know, but I intend to find out.” He shifted closer, listened to her talking again, then turned once more to his friend. “I want you to find Alberto. His cousin, Candelaria, works in thehaciendaat Rancho del Robles. She has helped us before. Ask him to see what she can discover about our guest.”
Pedro nodded. “In the meantime, I will send Florentia in to watch—”
“I am staying here.”
“But you need your rest. You must—”
“Por favor,Pedro, do as I ask. Tell Alberto we need to know as quickly as we can.”
Sanchez merely nodded. Arguing would do no good; Ramon intended to stay. “I will do as you wish.”
Four days passed. Long, sleepless days for Ramon de la Guerra, but Carly’s condition only worsened. Her breathing turned ragged, shallow, the way his brother had sounded near the end. It made the knife of remorse twist harder inside him.
The Indian woman came the second day. Trah-ush-nah, Blue Jay, was her name. The Californios called her Lena, her mission name. She was thin and dark skinned, with long straight blackhair and bangs cut over her forehead, the style worn by most of the local Indians, but her features were softer, more refined. She was young, a woman in her twenties, a shaman by family tradition.
She ignored him as she worked. Using a mortar and pestle, she ground dried lemon balm leaves into powder, stirred them into a broth over the fire, then spooned them into the girl. She made a tea from birch bark, and forced her patient to drink it every few hours. She rubbed Carly’s chest with an ointment made of lard, pulverized redmaid seeds, and roasted kernels of buttercup, and waved a fan made of eagle feathers over her pale face. Ramon didn’t care what she did, as long as the girl got better.
By the fourth day, he had almost given up hope. The Indian woman had returned to the village, telling him she had done all she could. If Carly’s condition didn’t improve by the morrow, the priest was next to be called.
It was two in the morning, yet a lamp still burned on the small roughhewn table beside the old iron bed. Ramon could not sleep. He had barely been able to eat. The thought of another death on his conscience made his stomach roll with nausea. That it was a woman, that she was so young, that he was the man responsible made a hot ache rise in his throat.
Madre de Dios,he had never meant for this to happen! If only he hadn’t been so caught up in his grief. If only he had been able to think, been able to block the pain.
If only he had left her at Rancho del Robles.
His heart unbearably heavy, weary clear to his bones, Ramon sat forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. Lacing his long, dark fingers together, he lowered his forehead against his hands and softly began to pray.
***
Someone was calling her. Carly could barely hear the quietly spoken words but they were sweet and plaintive, the sound incredibly beautiful. The voice was deep, husky, melodious. It called to the Virgin Mary, it called to Saint John, it called to the heavenly angels. Please, the soft voice said, let the little one live.
She wet her dry lips and stirred, drawn to the beauty of the voice, the sensual rhythm of the words. The language was Spanish, she realized vaguely, the deep sensuous vibrations rolling through her in soft caressing waves. It moved something inside her, made her want to open her eyes, to see where the silvery, lyrical phrases came from.
She listened to the rich male cadence, demanding one moment, pleading the next, its masculine timbre a balm to her weary soul. She wanted to see the face behind such a voice, to see if it could be nearly as achingly beautiful.
Rousing herself, she opened her eyes to see a black-haired man praying softly beside the bed. His face was all that she had envisioned: perfect winged black brows, slim straight nose, high carved cheekbones, a strong jaw, and sensuous lips. Double rows of thick black lashes swept the skin beneath his tightly closed eyes. His head hung forward, his hair falling over his brow, and there were tears on his cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” she said in his same soft language. “You’re… too beautiful… to cry.”
His head snapped up. For a moment he said nothing. Then the Spanish rolled out, so rapid she didn’t catch the words, but his wide bright smile made her smile at him in return.
“Chica,”he said softly. “At last you have returned to us.”
She studied him for long moments more, mesmerized by the warmth and strength in his face. “I’m… so tired,” she whispered, wetting her lips as she gazed up at him. “And I’m hungry. Could I please have something to eat?”
He stood up from his chair, tall and lean and broad-shouldered. “Si,of course you can. I will see to it myself.” He felt her forehead, breathed a sigh of relief, then reached over and squeezed her hand. “Do not move. I promise I will only be gone for a moment.”
Smiling, she snuggled down into the covers. She was glad the man was there to watch over her. When she woke up again, he was certain to have something good to fill her empty stomach.
***
By the time Ramon returned with a bowl of warm broth, Caralee McConnell was once more asleep. But the fever had broken. His prayers had been answered. He felt sure the girl would live.
Relief made him suddenly weary. He set the tray of food down on the dresser, settled himself in the chair and allowed himself to sleep for a while, until Pedro knocked on the door. Dawn grayed the windows. The chill of night still hovered in the room. He got up from the chair and stretched his aching muscles, then knelt to freshen the low-burning fire.
“Her fever has broken,” he said as his friend walked in. “I think she is going to be fine.”
Pedro crossed himself. “Thank the Blessed Virgin.”