Bed of Roses (3 page)

“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.

“He is very nice to us,” Sister Carmelita answered. “His quick wit and gentle teasing have made us laugh many times.”

“But other times there is pain in his eyes,” Mother Manuela said softly. “A sorrow he carries in his very soul. After a while the pain passes and he is again the man who makes us smile, but his struggle to force his pain away is a sad thing to see. And I think it must be very frustrating for him to know he has lost a whole lifetime. It is my suspicion that whatever terrible thing caused such torment inside him also took away his memory. He does not remember because to remember would be to relive the terrible thing.”

“He remembers nothing at all?” Zafiro asked.

“He has retained many skills,” Mother Manuela replied. “It is obvious that he has had a great deal of experience with plants, so perhaps he is a farmer. But he builds as well, so it could be that he has also done carpentry work.”

“And he is good with the few animals we have left,” Sister Pilar added. “So we know that he has been around livestock. But it is so sad that we do not know more about him. If we did, we could help him.”

Compassion for the golden-haired stranger passed over Zafiro like the caress of an unseen hand. What must it be like to have no memories? If Sawyer had a family he could not remember their faces or their love. He could not reminisce about special things that had happened to him, happy things that made him laugh and feel good.

“Stay and have supper with us, Zafiro,” Sister Carmelita said. “We have only some bread and a bit of potato soup, but we would love to share our meal with you. And if you stay you can meet and talk to Sawyer.”

“Meet him.” Zafiro wondered what it would be like to be near the strong, handsome man named Sawyer. “I…”

In the next instant, hard, cold reality erased every tender and timid emotion she’d felt. “Meet him? Do you forget that I am in hiding? I can meet no one!” She scurried away from the window, suddenly angry with herself.

What was the matter with her? How could she have forgotten to take care? On the contrary, she’d stood right in front of the window for a full five minutes in plain view.

“What if this Sawyer Donovan is one of Luis’s men?” she asked. “Or what if he—”

“Zafiro,” the Reverend Mother said, reaching out for the trembling girl. “He—”

“He has lost his memory,” Zafiro pointed out. “Before he lost it he might have been a cruel man. Maybe he has only forgotten how to be evil. He could find his memories again at any time! When they come back to him, he could be a man who knows Luis. Or a lawman who knows my men are still wanted. I will not take any chances with this Sawyer! He—”

She stopped speaking as the familiar, sickening dread came over her, drying her mouth, pounding through her heart, and causing her to struggle for her next breath. Her stomach coiling into knots, she held her belly as if she would soon double over with pain. “Sis-sisters, he—
Santa
Maria, he
is the danger that I have known would come! He must be!”

“You do not know that, Zafiro!” Sister Carmelita exclaimed, hating the look of utter terror in the girl’s eyes. “You cannot be certain—”

Before the sister could finish, Zafiro raced out of the room and sped down the dim hall. She took two steps at a time while descending the staircase and quickly crossed through the foyer. Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, she snatched the door open…

And ran straight into a solid mass of muscle.

Gold eyes like a lion’s seemed to penetrate her very soul. The man was huge, his form radiating such awesome power that Zafiro felt the insane urge to bow before him.

She backed away from him.

He stepped toward her, then stopped, his stance wide, his shadow falling over her, making her feel tiny, vulnerable.

For a moment terror immobilized her, but in the next second the same terror forced her out of the convent. She fled through the yard and disappeared into the cool darkness of the evergreen glade.

The man with no memory followed. She could hear his footsteps crashing through the brittle pine needles. Imagining his piercing gaze stabbing through her back, she could almost feel his might overcome her.

Santa
Maria,
he was stalking her through the woods just like the lion she’d compared him to.

Her panic intensified, streaming through her body like liquid strength. She ran faster, flying through the forest as if carried by the angels themselves. Finally the edge of the woods came into view, the sunlight a beacon of hope for escape. Lunging forward, she fairly threw herself toward the pebbled ground around the base of the foothills.

But she didn’t make it.

Large, powerful hands suddenly encircled her waist, pulling her back into the shadows…plucking her off the ground as if she weighed no more than a baby’s sigh.

And at that moment, Zafiro knew in her heart that her leonine captor—whoever he was—would change her life forever.

Chapter Two

T
he girl’s scream echoed through
the hills, sounding like a thousand women being tortured by a slew of savages. Sawyer clamped his hand over her mouth, still holding her tightly with his other arm, still wondering what she’d been doing sneaking around in the convent.