Rainbows and Rapture (47 page)

Lupita hit the wall and crumpled to the floor. For a moment she lay still, disoriented and unable to remember where she was or what had just happened to her.

“Git up!” Russia screamed wildly, hysterical with fear for the dark-haired woman who had tried to save her. “Fer God’s sake, git up and run!” With what little strength she had left, she lunged for Wirt’s legs, intent on pulling him down so as to give the Mexican woman time to escape.

As if she were merely some bothersome nuisance, Wirt kicked her away and scrambled for his knife, located a few yards away. When he had it, he slid the flat side of the blade across the palm of his hand, laughing loudly.

Vaguely, Lupita heard the
Americana s
houting again. A man’s laughter filled the room. She staggered to her feet. Her head pounding, she watched in a daze as the huge man before her raised his hand. Glittering from within his fingers was a dagger. She saw him poised to throw it, then saw it sailing toward her. In the next instant, flames of agonizing pain leaped through her body. She lifted a trembling hand to her blouse, her eyes closing when she realized it was sticky with warm blood.

Overcome with anguish and hopelessness, Russia curled herself into a small, tight ball and shook violently.

Wirt threw back his head and laughed again, his barrellike chest heaving.

A sudden gust of wind blasted through the window.

The threshold filled with a huge black form. Within the dark mass, eyes glittered. Colts gleamed.

Gunfire exploded.

Wirt’s laughter ceased. Excruciating pain shot through his chest. Unable to understand what had happened to him, he raised his head. His pale blue eyes met those of ebony. Death stared back at him.

“She’s mine,” he whispered. “She’s—”

Another bullet smashed into him. He slumped to the floor. Even as death closed them forever, his eyes never left the man who’d killed him.

Santiago dashed into the room. “
Santa Maria
, Russia!” he exclaimed as he arrived by her side. His eyes took in every part of her. Red weals, long, bloody scratches, and dark purple bruises presented a frightening contrast on her alabaster skin. Sucking in a deep breath, he tore off his shirt, bent, and tenderly wrapped it around her. His palms upon her cheeks, he gazed down at her for a long moment, assuring himself that she was alive.

“Russia.
Dios mio, paloma,”
he groaned. “What—What happened? Did Avery—”

“Santiago.” She grabbed at his bare shoulders, trying to pull herself into his arms. The tears came, drenching her face and his thighs, but she ignored them. There was no time to concentrate on her own emotions. “The woman,” she managed to tell him. “Didn’t y’see her? The woman.”

His tortured mind couldn’t grasp her meaning. “Woman? What woman?”

Shaking, Russia pointed to the wall on the opposite side of the room. “She tried to save me. Wirt— The knife. Go git her.”

Scowling, Santiago turned and saw the woman. His eyes widened; his heart swept into his throat. Blood blossomed on her white blouse like a huge scarlet flower growing in the snow. Her dark hand and quivering fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a knife, which protruded from her chest.

“Santiago,” she murmured weakly.

In a daze of horror, Santiago watched his sister sag to the floor.

Dr. Gamoneda closed Lupita’s bedroom door. In the hallway, he rubbed the back of his neck and stretched out his arms before he shuffled into the small front room. There, before the fire, bent over his knees, his head in his hands, sat the man he’d brought into the world some thirty-two years ago. “Santiago.”

Slowly, Santiago opened his eyes and turned toward the threshold. His gaze drilled into the doctor’s. “Lupita.” He said the name softly, brokenly. His voice was full of dread.

“She’s going to live, my boy. The knife missed her heart. She suffers a deep puncture wound in her lower shoulder, but she’ll heal nicely. She’s sleeping now.”

Santiago wouldn’t allow himself to feel relieved. Not yet. He turned back to the fire. “Russia.”

Dr. Gamoneda rubbed his neck again. “Her injuries are no more than cuts and bruises, but what she has inside…her feelings. She would tell me nothing, Santiago. Nothing at all about what happened. And since she is so upset, I did not have the heart to examine her. Go to her now, my boy. Maybe she will tell you.”

Santiago closed his eyes again and let his head fall forward, his chin to his chest. His heart banged against his ribs; his breath quickened.

Two of his prayers had been answered. Lupita and Russia would both live.

But he’d whispered a third prayer as well. Only Russia could tell him if it had been heard.

He rose. As an afterthought, he picked up Nehemiah, who’d been asleep at his feet. His heart still pounding, he walked to the room where Russia lay.

“Russia.” He saw her huddled in the middle of the bed. She was on her stomach, her knees tucked up under her belly, her arms folded beneath her chest, her face buried in her pillow.

She didn’t answer him. He walked to her bedside. There he set down Nehemiah. Instantly, the gray tabby began kneading Russia’s hair. “We’re here, Russia,” Santiago murmured. “Nehemiah and I. We’re here.”

She remained silent, unmoving. He sat beside her on the bed. “Talk to me, Russia.”

She mumbled into her pillow. “Lupita.”

“She’s going to be fine.” He saw her tremble and put his hands around her shoulders, lifting her into his arms. “Russia.”

She looked into his eyes.

He trailed his finger lightly across the mass of dark bruises on her pale face, then gently pulled her night rail off her shoulders, horrified anew when he saw the bruises and welts on her chest and breasts again. “
Santa Maria
, Russia. What did he do to you?”

She tried to moisten her cracked lips. “I thought you was dead. Before you come to the brothel—I thought you was dead. I wanted to die, too.”

“Russia, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there…to help you,” he whispered. “If I’d been there—”

“I know. I ain’t blamin’ you fer nothin’. Not nary a thing, Santiago.”

He reached for a cool, wet cloth lying in a basin by the bed. As tenderly as he knew how, he brought it across her swollen lips. “Do you understand what it is I want to know,
paloma?”

She nodded, feeling his familiar warmth seep into her. “He hit me.”

Santiago forced himself to be patient. “Did he do anything else?”

“Cut me. Here. On my throat.” She raised her hand to her throat, the tip of her finger touching the small cuts there. “And he stepped on me. Here.” Lowering her hand, she laid it across the large bruise between her breasts and stared intently into Santiago’s black eyes.

“I ain’t no scrawny girl no more, Santiago. I fighted better this time. Fighted hard. I was gonna fight the bastard till he killed me, because—because I wanted to die. I—I never thought I’d want to die, but…I couldn’t let him do it, Santiago. I jist couldn’t let him do it again.

“But Wirt—he wouldn’t kill me. I did ever’thing I knowed how to do to git him real furious, but he wouldn’t kill me. I started gittin’ tired. Wondered how much longer I could go on fightin’ him. When Lupita come, Wirt was winnin’ the fight, Santiago. She come jist when he’d got me where he wanted me. And then you come. He—Wirt didn’t rape me, Santiago. He didn’t.”

A soft cry of relief escaped Santiago. “Russia…oh, God…” Cuddling her next to him, he coerced her face to his chest, rocking her as she wept. Even after she’d fallen asleep, he held her for a long while before tenderly laying her back on the bed.

Wirt didn’t rape me, Santiago. He didn’t.

As the words echoed through his mind, he gave silent thanks. His third prayer had been heard.

* * *

Four days passed before Dr. Gamoneda finally gave permission for Santiago to see Lupita. She was lucid now, stronger, and had accepted a bit of food. The knife wound was healing well.

Santiago stood outside her bedroom. Every time he reached for the doorknob, his hand fell away and he began pacing the small house again. He’d done so for hours already.

What would he say to her? How could one close a gap of sixteen years?

He walked to the window in the front room. Outside in the street, Russia played with the orphaned children Lupita cared for. She, too, was healing well. Her appetite was once again voracious, and that, more than anything else, was proof of her well-being.

He watched her pick up a ball and toss it to the little boy called Pablito. Pablito, in turn, threw it to the young girl, Blanca, who rolled it to another young girl, Lourdes. Manuel, a blind infant of three months, lay in a basket near Russia.

She’d taken it upon herself to see to the children. They spoke no English, laughed at her ridiculous Spanish, but all in all, Santiago mused, they got along well. So well that they were rarely in the house, but always off on some outing. Because of that, Santiago had seen very little of Russia.

He hadn’t objected. Though he could tell that being with the children sometimes made her sad, they managed to make her laugh often. She needed to laugh. More than anyone he knew, she deserved to be happy.

His gaze left Russia and alighted upon the big, roomy house across the street. It was an old house, one in which he and his little friends used to play. No one had lived in it for years.

He saw the men he’d hired. They were making repairs on the house. Women, too, were scurrying in and out of it. He’d hired them as well. While the carpenters built, the women cleaned, sewed, painted, and papered. It wouldn’t be long before the house was ready.

The people in Misericordia had explained that Lupita ran a home for unwanted children. Every now and then she received what little aid the Church could give her, but even so, Santiago wondered how his sister managed. From what he’d seen, Lupita barely had enough for herself, much less enough for the four children she’d taken under her wing.

She’d never lack for anything again. He’d bought the big house for her, and vowed to settle money on her for the many years to come.

Turning from the window, he walked to her bedroom again. When he arrived, the toe of his boot scraped the wall.

“Santiago?” Lupita called from within.
“Ven aca.
I hear you there, brother.”

Her voice brought back memories, thousands of memories. He swayed with emotion. What would he say to Lupita?
Santa Maria,
so much time had passed since he’d spoken to her.

Had she heard the terrible stories told about him? Did she believe them? And if she did, how could he convince her they were false?

“Santiago,” she called again. “Come in, or we will not make the taffy today.”

He frowned, then smiled. The old threat, he mused. When he was little, Lupita had used it often to get him to mind her. “Can it—can it be peppermint taffy?” he asked, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips pressed against the door.

“Si, hermanito.
It will be peppermint because that is your favorite.”

Hermanito.
Little brother. Santiago was overcome with deep feelings. He turned the doorknob again. The door swung open, revealing a sight so beautiful to him, he was forced to lean against the doorframe for support.

She lay propped up on white pillows. Her long midnight hair was plaited, and the two braids fell down her shoulders and torso, ending in her lap. Except for a few lines around her eyes, she was the same woman he remembered. The same one whose image he’d carried with him for sixteen long years.

“You have grown, Santiago,” she said softly, smiling at him. “You are a man now.”

Afraid of what his voice would sound like if he spoke, he merely nodded.

Lupita patted her mattress. “Come here, little brother. Let me see you.”

Memories continued to slip through his thoughts. He used to sit in her lap, once upon a time. He’d been a small boy then. She’d held him and sung softly to him.

His nerves stretched tightly, he straightened on the threshold and walked toward her, stopping at her bedside.

Tenderly, he reached out and laid his huge hand upon her tiny face. “Lupita.”

Her eyes, as black as his, devoured the sight of him. Tears of great joy washed down her cheeks, running over his hand. “Sixteen years,” she whispered to him. “For sixteen years I have prayed to see you again.”

He couldn’t answer her. Guilt poured over him.

She recognized the emotions he felt and smiled. “I see there is still a little boy in you, Santiago. You never could hide your shame when you had done something you knew was wrong.”

“You—you always forgave me, Lupita,” he choked.

“And is it my forgiveness that you are asking for now, little brother?”

With his thumb, he wiped away a few of her tears. “I already have it,
hermana.
You never withheld it before, and I know you don’t now, either.”

She curled her fingers around his wrist. “Then what is the request I see in your eyes, brother?” she asked softly.

The years fell away. At that moment, he was a little boy again, and Lupita was his big sister. He looked at her arms, remembering how good it felt to be in them. “Hold me,” he whispered. “Hold me, Lupita.”

When she raised her arms, he lowered himself into them, careful to keep his heavy body well away from her chest, which was wrapped tightly in white bandages.

Here she was, he thought, his face buried in her shoulder. Lupita. His sister, Lupita. Her warmth surged through him.

“You are big, Santiago,” Lupita whispered into his hair. “But not too big for a hug.” She caressed his back, his arms. “Santiago, my brother. My baby brother.” She began to sing a lullaby. One she’d sung to him when he was little.

He closed his eyes and felt wrapped in the snug cocoon of her love. While listening to her sing, he thought of all the things she’d tried to teach him when he was young. The art of compassion. Of gentleness. Of sacrificing for others. She still lived those values. And it wasn’t only the children she’d adopted that made him understand that.