Bed of Roses Read online

  And dear, dear Azucar. “Oh, Azucar,” Zafiro murmured, another wave of tenderness filling her heart as she contemplated Azucar.

  The woman had seen eighty-two years come and go and had spent a little over twenty of those years as a highly successful harlot. When Ciro had met her, however, age had already stolen her beauty and she’d been but a destitute old woman with an empty belly and a bag full of scanty crimson gowns. Ciro’s big heart had gone out to her, and the gang had taken care of her ever since.

  Special care of her, for Azucar had yet to come to terms with her age. Though her wrinkled skin hung off her limbs in much the same way scraggly moss drooped off thin, dead tree branches, a decrepit woman was not the reflection she saw when she gazed into a mirror.

  In Azucar’s dark and bleary eyes she was still the young and desirable seductress she’d once been. She continued to wear the scarlet satin gowns that had been her strumpet’s garb, and there was nothing she enjoyed more than talking about all the sensual things she would do to the next man who paid for her services.

  Through the years Zafiro had learned a great deal about sexual intimacy while listening to Azucar’s vivid descriptions of lovemaking. Ciro had never told her a thing about what happened in bed between a man and a woman, and she’d never asked. Who better to learn from than a seasoned lady of the evening?

  Yes, indeed, Zafiro mused, her thoughts wandering. When she married she would know exactly what her husband wanted from her on their wedding night. She would know exactly—

  Her daydream ended abruptly. When she married? Save Maclovio, Lorenzo, and Pedro, she didn’t know a single other man. And since it was quite likely that she would be forced to remain hidden away in these mountains for a good many years to come, the chance that she would ever have a sweetheart, much less a husband, was nonexistent.

  “Zafiro?” Sister Carmelita murmured. “Do I see tears in your eyes, my child?”

  “Tears?” The very word dried the moisture that had just begun to sparkle in Zafiro’s eyes. “I do not have time for weeping, Sister. Did you bring the gun?”

  Sister Carmelita slipped her hand into the deep pocket of her habit and withdrew a small pistol. “It belongs to Rudolfo, the farmer who lives near the convent. I promised him I would return it to him. But there is only one bullet in it, Zafiro. Rudolfo, he did not have more to give to me. Poor Rudolfo. He is like many of the other villagers. His livestock have taken sick and died, and his crops do poorly. If I give you this gun you will pray for him?”

  Zafiro shut her eyes. Lord, take care of Rudolfo and us too. Amen.

  She held out her hand, closing her fingers around the gun when Sister Carmelita gave the weapon to her. Staring down at it, she ran her fingers over the cool metal.

  “You do not need more than one bullet anyway,” Sister Carmelita said. “Your men will not remember how to shoot. Do not do this to yourself, my child. Lorenzo, help me dissuade her from trying to do the impossible.”

  In answer Lorenzo let out a snore so loud that it startled the birds from the trees.

  Holding her head so high that her chin nearly pointed to the sky, Zafiro marched away from the edge of the woods and placed the gun in Pedro’s bony lap. “Where is your faith, Sister Carmelita? You are too doubting.”

  “Yes,” Pedro agreed, his gnarled hands caressing the pistol. “You are too doubting, Sister. Just like my good friend Matthew.”

  “Thomas,” Sister Carmelita corrected him. “It was Thomas who doubted.”

  “Thomas is a tax collector,” Pedro argued. “He doubts nothing. Do you know I once saw Thomas bring a dead man back to life? Cain was the dead man’s name, and he had a brother called Noah. Noah lived in the Garden of Eden with Moses, who spent most of his time turning water into wine. Moses was—”

  “Pedro, please,” Zafiro pleaded. “Enough stories. Now, show Sister Carmelita what you remember. Shoot the gun.”

  Pedro lifted the pistol from his lap and raised his arms. Squinting, he pulled the trigger. The resulting explosion knocked him off his rock, and the bullet he fired ricocheted off a tree trunk, shot a hole through the top of Sister Carmelita’s wimple, and finally smashed into the chicken coop. The wooden birdhouse toppled over, its gate swinging wide open. Squawking and flapping their wings, all nine hens raced around the yard.

  “Santa Maria, my chickens!” Knowing the barnyard fowl would disappear into the mountain coves if she didn’t catch them, Zafiro scurried after them, Pedro doing his best to help her.

  With as much dignity as a nun with a bullet hole in her wimple could muster, Sister Carmelita plucked the pistol off the ground and headed toward the hidden exit from La Escondida. “Help her, Lord,” she prayed as she slipped through the secret opening within the rocks and thick brush. “You are the only one who can give her what she needs. A miracle.”

  A week after her talk with Sister Carmelita, Zafiro felt the strong need to visit the convent. Her worries about Luis had increased tenfold, and she knew that while a brief call on the nuns would not completely alleviate her fears, being with the holy women would at least help her to relax for a short time.

  After warning her charges to behave while she was gone, she slipped out of La Escondida. As she turned to make sure the hidden entrance to the hideaway was secure, she noticed her pet cougar, Mariposa, stretched out upon a large, flat rock. The great cat gleamed in the sunlight, and she looked more like a gold statue than a living creature.

  “Take care of La Escondida while I am with the sisters, Mariposa,” Zafiro told the lion. Smiling, she blew a kiss to her pet, then made her way down the craggy slopes. The trip to the convent was much easier and faster upon Rayo’s back, but the burro suffered a bruised hoof.

  If only Coraje would let her mount him, Zafiro mused as she finally left the pebble-strewn ground and walked into the cool shade of an evergreen forest. But the coal-black stallion had never let anyone but Ciro near him. Now, after two years without being ridden, he was wilder than he’d ever been.

  “Five elderly people, a hurt burro, the meanest stallion in Mexico, two lost chickens, and Luis searching the country for you, Zafiro,” she told herself aloud, swiping at low-hanging tree branches as she trudged through the pine-scented glade. “And do not forget that there is no meat, that the fences are falling down, that the roof leaks, or that every rabbit in the mountains thinks you have planted the vegetable garden especially for him!”

  The burden of worry she bore became heavier with each step she took, and by the time the old Spanish mission came into her view, she felt as though she carried on her shoulders one of the Sierras themselves.

  She stopped at the edge of the woods, her gaze missing nothing as she surveyed the area surrounding the convent. She truly enjoyed being with the good sisters, but each time she visited she took the chance of being seen by someone other than the nuns.

  No one could know where she was.

  Finally convinced she was alone, she made her way to the convent door and rang the bell that hung suspended from a rusty hook in the stone wall. The scent of cut grass caught her attention while she waited for one of the nuns to come to the door. She also recognized the smell of freshly dug soil and decided the nuns had been toiling in their flower gardens this morning.

  Other things began to capture her notice as well. The huge statue of the Blessed Mother stood upright in the flower bed. Only last week the granite sculpture had been lying on the ground, too heavy for the nuns to lift. The dead tree was gone too. The one that had been killed by lightning several years ago. Only a smoothly cut stump remained.

  And the nuns’ quaint little pond was prettier than she’d ever seen it. The good sisters loved to sit on the stone benches around the pond, basking in the sun and watching turtles poke their heads out of the shining water. Sometimes they recited the rosary there too.

  Zafiro had made a mental note to help them clean the pond, for the winter months had left the water slimy and filled with leaves and sticks. She was also going
to try to mend the crumbling stones that encircled the pond.

  The stones she saw now, however, were new, and there wasn’t a leaf or twig to be seen upon the glassy surface of the water.

  Baffled, Zafiro turned to ring the bell again.

  The door swung open abruptly. “Zafiro!” Sister Pilar exclaimed. “How good it is to see you, my child.”

  The nun’s warm welcome drew Zafiro into the foyer and straight into Sister Pilar’s arms. Hugging the nun tightly, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply of all the aromas of the convent.

  The perfume of lemon oil swirled around her, as did the hot smell of burning candles and wood smoke. She smelled roses, and the soap Sister Pilar used to wash her habit, and apple cake too, which was Mother Manuela’s favorite dessert.

  The familiar scents were so comforting. The whole convent was, and Zafiro visited as often as she could. To find a bit of serenity. And to hear whatever news about the outside world that the nuns learned from travelers who stopped at the holy house for rest and a bit of food.

  “We’ve been expecting you, Zafiro,” Sister Pilar said.

  “You have?” Zafiro stepped out of the nun’s embrace. “How did you know I was coming?”

  Smiling, Sister Pilar closed the door and headed toward the staircase, which shone with the lemon oil rubbed into the wood. “Sister Carmelita told us about your plans to turn your men back into skilled fighters. We knew that it would not be long before you came to seek the peace you claim to find here in the convent with us.”

  Zafiro was about to argue, but realized the futility of quarreling against the truth. Smiling at how well the nuns knew her, she followed Sister Pilar up the staircase and into a small room on the second floor of the convent.

  There she hugged Sister Carmelita, Sister Inez, and Mother Manuela, who immediately offered her a glass of cool water and a slice of warm apple cake.

  “Where are all the other sisters?” Zafiro asked, her mouth full of the savory cake, which was a rare treat seeing as how food was in such short supply.

  “Some have gone to the village to collect a few supplies that the villagers have for us, some are starting supper, and others are at prayer,” Sister Inez replied. “How are the men? They have practiced their skills?”

  “Maclovio threw a knife and hit the exact center of the front door.”

  Sister Pilar clapped. “Oh, that is good!”

  Zafiro shook her head. “He was aiming for the weather vane on the roof.”

  “Oh, that is bad,” Sister Pilar replied.

  “He was drunk, of course,” Zafiro continued, “and then he got mad. After yanking the knife out of the door, he tore several planks out of the porch and smashed one of the cabin steps. Finally, he passed out in the barn and slept with the cow.”

  The good sisters all made the sign of the cross, silently praying for Maclovio’s deliverance from the evils of alcohol.

  “Your feeling of danger is still with you, my child?” Mother Manuela asked, taking a seat in one of the ornately carved chairs grouped around a small table.

  “It is, Reverend Mother. I try not to think about it, but it is always there. Like a sore that will not heal.” Fear rippling through her, Zafiro rubbed her upper arms vigorously, struggling in vain to tame her troubled emotions.

  “I am so afraid of the unknown thing that is going to happen that I cannot sleep at night.”

  “Pobrecita,” Sister Carmelita murmured. “Poor little girl.” She walked across the room and retrieved a small statue of St. Michael the Archangel from the mantel. Above the mantel hung an ancient sword that she and the other sisters believed was used in the Crusades, when Christian powers battled the Muslims to win the Holy Lands. Sister Carmelita reached up and touched the shining blade reverently before turning back to Zafiro. “Come and sit with us, Zafiro,” she said, placing the statue of St. Michael on the table. “Together we will pray for the answer to your troubles.”

  Zafiro licked a crumb of cake from the corner of her mouth. “I have already prayed, Sister. I have prayed so often and so hard that I am sure God hides when He sees and hears me coming. I have no doubt that He will send me help, but He is sweetly taking His own time.”

  “Sweetly taking His own…” Sister Pilar repeated. “I think it is something about His own sweet time.”

  “However you say it, He is in no hurry.”

  “One cannot hurry heaven, my child,” the Reverend Mother advised, then bowed her head.

  Zafiro listened to the sisters’ whispered pleas for a moment before she began to pace around the room. Her boot heels thudded upon the gleaming wooden floor, and the sound made her think of a drumroll, which, in turn, only increased her nervousness.

  After a short while of ambling from corner to corner, she stopped by one of the barred windows, gazed out at the beautiful mountains, and saw a huge flock of white birds skimming through the sky. Sunlight kissed their feathers, making them iridescent. Zafiro thought they looked like a silver cloud passing over the mountain peaks.

  “A silver cloud,” she murmured, her breath fogging the windowpane. What was that American expression about a silver cloud? “Problems are lined with silver clouds,” she guessed softly. “For every trouble in a cloud, there is a line of silver.”

  Well, however the saying went, it meant that for every difficulty there existed a solution.

  If only she could find the silver cloud to her difficulties, she mused, lowering her gaze and peering down at the garden below. There she saw rows of newly planted vegetables and a mass of well-shaped rosebushes. The marble statues of various saints sparkled in the sunshine as if just washed, and the white pebble walkway that meandered through the garden was clear of all litter. A huge stack of freshly cut firewood lay piled neatly against the stone wall of the stable, and the sisters’ little swinging gate shone with what could only be a new coat of paint.

  Just as she’d noticed in the front yard of the convent, everything Zafiro saw in the garden was clean, tidy, and well done.

  In the next moment she learned the reason why.

  A man walked out from beneath a canopy of oak trees, his arms full of logs. He was shirtless, a black kerchief knotted around his neck, his tight brown breeches hugging every masculine curve he possessed.

  Unnerved by his sudden appearance, Zafiro gasped softly and moved away from the window. A man, she thought, lifting her hand to hold her sapphire. How many years had passed since she’d seen a man younger than fifty?

  A man, she thought again. A man with muscle and energy.

  And youth.

  Intense curiosity urged her back to the window. She stood there spellbound, her eyes and her mind memorizing every magnificent part of the man below.

  His long, thick hair flowed over his broad shoulders like a river of burnished gold. Hard muscle coiled through his sleek back, bulged in his arms and thighs, and rippled down his flat belly.

  He was tall. Taller even than her grandfather had been, and she imagined that if she stood in front of him the top of her head would not even reach his chin.

  Unfamiliar yearnings caught her unaware as she watched him throw the logs to the ground, pick up an ax, and begin to split the wood. His tanned skin gleamed with the sweat of his labor; his back and arms swelled with strength. She wanted to feel those hard muscles beneath her palm, to know what his hair felt like slipping between her fingers. She longed to hear the sound of his voice, see his smile, and learn the color of his eyes.

  She felt drawn to him in a way she couldn’t understand.

  “Zafiro?” Sister Carmelita called softly. “Didn’t you hear me, niña? I asked what you are looking at in the garden below.”

  “What?” Only vaguely did Zafiro hear the nun speak to her. The man in the courtyard below absorbed too much of her attention for her to concentrate on much more than him.

  Still watching him, she felt an almost uncontrollable urge to join him below. “Who is that man down there?”

  Sister Carmelita
sent a small, knowing smile to the other sisters. “Ah, so you noticed him, did you?”

  Mother Manuela rose from her chair, crossed to the window, and looked down. Zafiro, she mused, had not only noticed the man, she’d practically consumed him with her staring.

  The Reverend Mother and the other nuns had tried to impress upon Zafiro the fact that maidens were supposed to be shy and reserved, but the strong-willed girl preferred Azucar’s advice to theirs. Yet one couldn’t blame Zafiro. After all, romantic stories were much more appealing to a young girl’s fancy than stern lectures about proper etiquette. And Zafiro had spent a great deal more time with the old lady of the evening than she had with the holy sisters.

  “Sawyer came to us five days ago, weary and lost,” Mother Manuela explained. “He said he would stay only long enough to rest. In exchange for a room and food he has made numerous repairs, cleaned our pond, and has planted a new garden of vegetables that we pray will thrive.”

  “And he built a new lamp table for my cell,” Sister Inez added. “It does not wobble like the old one.”

  “He has done a great many things for us,” the Reverend Mother said. “In return we have prayed very hard for him.”

  “Why?” Zafiro asked quickly. “Is he in trouble?”

  Mother Manuela looked down at Sawyer again. “When I said that he came to us lost, I meant that he has lost his memories. He remembers nothing but his name —Sawyer Donovan.”

  “He arrived on a mule he calls Mister and had with him only a satchel of clothing and a small, locked trunk,” Sister Pilar elaborated. “And there is something about the trunk… He does not seem to like touching it or looking at it.”

  “What is in the trunk?” Zafiro asked.

  Sister Pilar held up her hands in a gesture of ignorance. “We do not know. There is much about him we do not know. He could not tell us where he was from or what he did for a living. All he said was that he had been traveling for a long time. Wandering, with no destination in mind, no plans…not even a reason why he was wandering.”

  “But he is a nice man?” Zafiro queried.