Three Wishes (5 page)

The questions I needed answered would make him think I was crazy, so I tried a story I’d concocted while he was gone. “I believe I fell from a ship,” I said, “and struck my head. My memory is sketchy.”

“Sketchy?” he repeated with a frown.

“Spare,” I amended, remembering my Latina Austen. “I actually remember very little, I fear.”

His frown deepened. He stopped chewing. “That is grave indeed.”

“Tell me, Captain…what year is it?”

“1840,” he said soberly. “Do you not remember that?”

1840
.

He wasn’t joking.

1840
, I thought again, trying to make it sink into my brain, ignoring his question.

“And…where are we, exactly?”

His blue eyes did not leave mine, alarm growing behind them. “We are in Alta California, of course. About sixty miles north of Santa Barbara.”

“Alta California,” I repeated. The name the Spaniards and Mexicans gave this territory before it became a state.
1840
…

“And where is the nearest American government office?” I forced out.

He blinked slowly and shifted, leaning back, as if trying to be outwardly casual when he felt uneasy within. “There is an embassy in Mexico, as well as in Panama. But the nearest United States government officials, on their own soil, are likely in Louisiana.”

“Louisiana,” I muttered. I’d not even driven as far east as Arizona. How far was Louisiana?

“Louisiana,” he repeated gently, tucking his chin. “You’ve heard of it, yes?”

“Yes,” I whispered, looking out to sea, and we both stayed silent for a while. What had I been thinking? Did I think government officials could tell me where I was and how to get home to my own time? I cradled my head in my hands.

“Miss Ruiz, do you remember where your home is?”

“I do,” I said quickly, but then paused. “Or did.”

“Did?”

“I…I used to live just up the hill from that cove, several down,” I said, gesturing southward.

“That is Rancho Ventura land.” When my expression didn’t change, he tried, “Or perhaps you lived just south of the ranch border, on Vargas land? Were you employed by the Venturas or Vargases?” He was obviously trying to jog my memory. His frown returned. “But you said you were a castaway, I thought. You fell from a ship?”

“Yes. And I think I hit my head. I cannot remember much of my past.”

“You must have taken a fearsome blow to your skull, indeed,” he said, instantly nodding, as if now my odd talk about living on Ventura or Vargas land made sense to him. “I’ve seen it once or twice before with sailors. Both had their memories return within a day or two. Perhaps you shall experience the same.”

“Yes, perhaps,” I said.

“Which ship were you on? Perhaps I can assist you in getting back to her. The captain could likely tell us more about you.”

I shook my head as if I couldn’t remember. That Leonardo-DiCaprio-track hadn’t gone well with Javier.

“Or do you remember the name of your school? Where you received instruction in English? Or who your governess or tutor was? Clearly, you must have been the daughter of a fine Mexican gentleman to command such skills.”

That made me giggle. And then laugh. My father a fine Mexican gentleman? I pictured the faceless man—a relative I’d never met—strolling around the yard at San Quentin. Nothing could be farther from the truth. “Forgive me,” I said, gathering myself as I caught his puzzled expression. “No, it wasn’t due to my father. It was due to my grandmother. She gave me…everything.”

Thinking about her made me so sad that I teared up. I swallowed hard, not wanting to cry in front of this man, but failing. Wordlessly, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I had to look away again, his kind gesture making me want to cry all the more. Tears slipped down my cheeks.

“I take it she has…passed?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just—”
What? A hundred-and-eighty-ish years in the future?
“Yesterday.”

“How dreadful for you,” he said gravely, seeming not to notice my odd pause. “But you remember that much. That is a good sign. She must have been traveling with you. Perhaps in your grief, you tripped over something and fell overboard?”

“Perhaps.” I cast him a grateful smile, aware that he was treating me like a kind older brother would.

“Do you remember where your
grandmother
lived?” he asked, trying a different tack. “Rancho Ventura covers that cove and many more, including this one. Perhaps the ship was bringing you and your grandmother home. Do you think you are employed there? Perhaps that is why you have Javier’s mare? Did he lend her to you?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head and blowing my nose loudly, hoping he’d forget about Javier. I crumpled the handkerchief in my hand, embarrassed. What was a girl supposed to do with a handkerchief that had been used? Give it back?

We sat there in companionable silence for a bit, feeling the wind blow over our faces. “Is there more you wish to tell me?” he said at last.

I paused, still not sure of what else to say. What else could I tell him that wouldn’t paint me into a corner? But there was something trustworthy about John, something that told me that he really did look at me as he might his younger sister. I rose and went to the mare, petting her nose and then moved to the saddlebag. I wondered if it was wise to show him the lamp, but I desperately needed another person’s opinion, and he seemed to be a thoughtful kind of guy. Maybe he’d know what it was…and how I might use it to get back to my own time.

I pulled out the lamp and turned back toward him to find he’d followed me. “Señorita Ruiz…if I may,” he said, clearly feeling awkward. “Your neckline…The seamstress showed me the dress on a mannequin when I purchased it, and I believe…Well, I believe that the top is meant to be worn…” He coughed, and I saw the tinge of red at his lower cheeks again.

Oh. Got it
. My earlier question answered at last. I pulled down the edges of the lace at my neck—noticing in relief that it alleviated some cleavage—and then looked to him for approval.

His color deepened, and he looked embarrassed over his own response.

What? Yeah, there was more shoulder-skin visible now, but far less boobage. What was the deal?

“Señorita Ruiz,” he said, his tone suddenly more firm. “We are scheduled to weigh anchor come daybreak. I believe…” His eyes fell on the object in my hands. “What is that?”

“It—it’s something I found on the beach,” I said.

He took it from my hands and shifted it, taking in the circumference, pulling it closer to his eyes to peer at the worn lettering. I waited, holding my breath. I wanted him to tell me he recognized it. Knew what it was and how I might use it to get home.

Instead he reluctantly handed it back to me. “It’s valuable. Clearly gold. Hold on to it. It could purchase you transport or supplies. You found it on the beach?” he added, looking out to sea.

“I did. But about four coves to the south. Do you suppose it came from that old shipwreck?”

He paused, thinking. “Possibly. Most wrecks are thoroughly salvaged, but valuables can always be missed.”

“Hmmm,” I murmured, rolling the lamp around in my hands anew. If I could just make out what the writing had once said…

“Miss Ruiz,” he said, after a pause, “as I was saying, we are poised to weigh anchor come morn. I cannot leave you here, a woman alone, injured. I must take you to friends, where you might find shelter and succor until your memory is fully restored.”

I had no idea what
succor
meant, but I could read his expression. His intent was to find me protection, help.

“Can I…can I not travel with you? To wherever you are going? Or even to…Maine?” He was at once my lifeline, my last hope. The thought of him leaving made my heart triple its beat.

“Ahhh, no,” he said firmly, turning his face toward the
Emma Jane
. “A ship is no place for a woman.”

No place for a woman.
His words registered on several levels. As a woman—
What, I couldn’t go wherever I wanted? Anytime I wanted? Try me
…
—
as a girl lost in time—
should I stay right here, closest to the doorway to my own?—
and as just a normal human…wondering if I should pay attention to his cautious tone.

“You can protect me,” I said, looking up into his face, wanting to bring out that older brother mode again. “Take me with you.”

“No,” he said abruptly, reaching out as if to lay a hand on my shoulder and then thinking better of it when his eyes took in my bare skin. “No,” he said, more softly, shaking his head. “I will take you someplace you will be safe, protected, until your head clears. My friends will watch over you. I know a family. Within their walls, they shall treat you as their own.”

I stared into his blue eyes, feeling his words as a promise.

“All right,” I said, looking up into his face. “I am trusting you.”

“Your trust, Señorita Ruiz,” he said, swallowing visibly, “shall not be misplaced.”

CHAPTER 3

I began to doubt Captain Worthington’s decision as we passed by several doleful vaqueros that evening, watching me with suspicious eyes. It was clear that they recognized my stolen mare, and I saw at last that her brand matched their own.

“Captain,” I said to him in alarm as he rode ahead of me, “you are taking me to Rancho
Ventura
?”

He cast me a soft smile. “We’ve been on their land since we met. Indeed, we’d be hard-pressed to pass
out
of their boundaries. I thought you would be eager to return the mare to them.” He dropped back, letting me catch up. I struggled with riding bareback in the luxurious gown, with my legs to one side, as was apparently the polite way to do it. Javier’s fine saddle was strapped behind John’s. “Trust me, Señorita Ruiz. It is far better for you to find rest at Rancho Ventura, rather than in a town such as Santa Barbara. The priests have abandoned their missions. Mexico does precious little to support the presidios, and what soldiers remain are disreputable. And therefore, all that is left to us…” He took a deep breath. “There are far more women here,” he said, nodding ahead of us, “than you’d find in town. And where there are women, there is civility.”

I swallowed my sarcastic retort.
You’d be surprised.
I’d always gotten along better with boys than girls…

With each hill we crossed between the harbor and where we were going—deeper and deeper into the hills—I paused and looked back, trying to keep track of the way back to the beach. And with each hill we crested, John nodded, as if coaxing me forward.

“This is
all
Ventura land?” I asked, letting my eyes sweep across the hills that seemed to go on for miles.

“Indeed,” John said. “And a good portion of that beach too, including Bonita Harbor. That’s the real prize. The only decent land-approach beach between Santa Barbara and Monterey. Everywhere else we trade along the coast is far more challenging for my men. They have to carry hides and crates of tallow above their heads and through big waves to the boats.”

I absorbed that, but mostly I was trying to keep my mouth from falling open. The rancho was huge. As in humongous-huge. I was pretty sure a hundred subdivisions could fit in it in modern times, and that was only the land I could see. I got the impression that it went on from there.

We passed hundreds upon hundreds of cattle, tended by half-naked, brown-skinned Indian boys atop mules, then followed a serpentine river north and east, toward the mountains in the far distance. After half an hour or so of riding, we at last saw a sprawling, three-story villa, nestled against a bank of rolling hills. In the distance, behind it, the mountains rose. Their familiar presence helped me breathe.

“Javier de la Ventura is the eldest living son of a soldier who helped establish this territory,” John said. “His father secured this tremendous land grant—but then he died a few years later. Javier went to Mexico to study at university. But when his elder brother died last year, he had to return home to see to the rancho. Javier is by turns a rake and an honest man, yet I am honored to call him a friend. But then you likely know that already, on account of the fact that he lent you his horse.”

I rolled his words over in my mind, unsure of what a
rake
was, but pretty sure it was the opposite of an
honest man
.

“My uh…last encounter with Señor de la Ventura didn’t go well,” I said nervously, remembering him writhing on the ground, “despite the fact that he lent me his horse. Are you certain he will welcome me?”

John looked me in the eye, clearly wondering just what had passed between me and Javier and how I ended up with the mare. “All I know is that
Don
de la Ventura will be relieved to have his fine mount back,” he said at last. “He takes great pride in her. Whatever transpired between you, that will buy you a certain amount of grace.”

Don
de la Ventura. As in, The Man. The dude who claimed all of this—I paused to look around again—as his own.