THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 21

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket, stuck it into the basin of water, squeezed it and placed it in her hand. His eyes pleaded with her. His tone and the words he spoke threatened.

  The man jerked Daniel by his shoulder. Daniel’s fist clamped shut, but he said nothing.

  “Señora Morelos, we are not unreasonable people.” The man turned his attention to Patricia. “But what you want is for us to kill ourselves in your mines, so you can steal our silver and add to the Morelos empire.” He stood still, his legs almost touching her knees. “Your husband stole from his country with no shame, and now you, who never come to Real to see the conditions in the mines, ask for silver to be taken from them at the cost of many lives.”

  He pounded his open palm with his fist. Patricia braced herself for it to shoot out at her. While he ranted about the thievery of Americans and the poor people of Mexico, she watched Daniel’s back. The muscles beneath his shirt flexed as if readying for a fight. Maybe he was the one who would end up striking her. Every word the man said was in sympathy to Miguel’s views. She had learned that at Tlantaloc. Daniel worked for him. Surely she, and probably Rachel, would be the victim of one of these two.

  She withdrew into the chair until the uneven slats imprinted her legs. She looked at the others and wondered if they would help. She thought that they had not liked the idea that Rachel was being kept from going to St. Francis. Would their beliefs outweigh their politics?

  Garlic-tainted breath brought her attention back to the man. He was leaning into her face. “Tomas Morelos fought who he was. The poor people of Mexico remember.”

  As he bent over her, a heavy gold medallion slipped out of its hiding place inside his shirt and almost hit Patricia in the face. The incongruity of the wealth the man wore and his words did hit Patricia, like a bucket of cold water.

  The sight of the gold steeled her and heated her blood. How dare this hypocrite attack her like this? She seemed to come out of some kind of shock.

  “That’s a nice piece you have on Señor—I don’t think we were ever properly introduced.” She nodded toward the shiny form that the man held clutched in his hands. “The god king Xipe Totec, a replica of the gold mask, I believe?”

  “It is no replica,” the man growled.

  Patricia acted as if she didn’t hear his confession to thievery. “It seems you have a lot of information about me, false though it is. Yet, I don’t even know your name or why you’re here.” Her words at first were fragile, like pieces of new pottery, but a fire blazed within her. The words came out harder and harder. She raised up from the chair until she was barely sitting on the edge.

  The man was caught off guard. His eyes darted to the others in the room, quieting their whispers. “Well, the Señora can speak without crying, I see.” He walked to one of the windows.

  “I am a Mexican.” He pulled aside a curtain and spoke to the dark outside the little house. “My name is Jorge Morelos.”

  Patricia turned in her chair and stared at the back of the man who began to take on another dimension.

  “A familiar name, wouldn’t you say, Señora? My ancestor was a very famous Mexican general. The same ancestor of your husband. I am only a poor primo, a cousin. But still a Morelos. There are many of us who did not shame our ancestor by moving to a foreign land and raping his mother country. It is a famous name.” He squared his shoulders.

  Patricia stood up, flinched when her weight pushed her swollen, bloody feet against the mud-stiffened shoes. “We all have black sheep in our families, Señor Morelos. These’s no need for you to excuse yourself to me. Whatever has been your history, you need only apologize to me for keeping me from my son. I assure you, Señor, I know men who are today’s generals. And if you don’t release me and allow my son to return to the States with me, there will be people to answer to who will make your name infamous.”

  Jorge Morelos glared at her. His eyes narrowed and the crooked tooth glistened beneath his moustache like a weapon loosed from its sheath. Then, in a blink, he wiped the expression away and smiled.

  “We will see who is the most powerful here in Mexico, Señora, when our most illustrious cousin comes and celebrates with the people when they take their silver back from the one who steals it. I think you are acquainted with Señor Miguel Ramirez.” The man threw his head back and laughed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Patricia placed her hand on the back of the chair. The floor beneath her felt like quicksand dragging her under. So Miguel was coming back after all. But not to rescue Max. He was on the side of the miners. Wasn’t that what Cousin Jorge was saying? She slid into the chair and leaned her side against the railed back. She slipped her tortured feet free from her shoes and rubbed one atop the other.

  Jorge barked orders to the men and woman who sat as silent as sleeping cats. The men slipped sarapes over their heads. The woman swathed herself in a long scarf completing her teguana. Daniel waited at the door a moment, they were gone.

  As Jorge followed them, Patricia swallowed her anger and pride and reached out to catch his arm. He stopped just short of her hand.

  “Maybe you have reason to hate Tomas and since I was his wife, to hate me too. But my son has nothing to do with the Morelos mine. Do you know who is holding him?”

  Jorge looked at her without pity.

  “I am asking as a mother, not as Tomas’s wife.”

  The man’s tense muscles settled onto his frame. His eyes clouded

  and for a moment she had hope.

  “Perhaps, Señora, you should go to the women who lost their

  sons, and their husbands in the Morelos mines. See what sympathy

  they have for you.”

  She dropped her hand and lowered her head. “I know that

  they would understand my sorrow, and my need to find my son.” Jorge moved away quickly to the door. Without looking back, he

  said, “The miners do not have your son.” He turned and faced her, jaws slacked, bravado gone. “It is true, your son was to stay with us

  until we got the mines from you.”

  Patricia bristled but held her tongue.

  “We no longer have him, Señora, so your mines are safe from

  us.”

  “You—then where is he? Who has him?” Patricia bore down

  over him.

  He looked up into her face, his eyes tight, as if trying not to see

  her. “The army have taken your son from us, Señora. Men in the

  service of General Ruiz,” he said and opened the door, but she

  moved between him and the dark.

  “Please,” she said. “What will happen to him now?” He sighed and looked beyond her as if searching for words.

  “They say he will be released at the festival. These heroes who

  ‘rescued’ your son, beware Señora. There are those you think are

  friends who would kill your son and take your mines.” Before she could recover from his words, he pushed past her

  into the night.

  She stepped through the doorway and was immediately flanked

  by the two men who had been sitting at the table. One had a rifle

  cradled lightly across his forearm. She stared into intent dark eyes,

  then turned and went back into the cabin. Where could she go

  barefoot and without Rachel?

  How could she hope to escape from the men outside? The

  pressure in her mind that pushed her toward Real grew more intense

  with the thoughts of Jorge’s words. Friends who would want to kill

  Max? Who could it be but Miguel? How could she protect Max?

  She didn’t know, but if the best happened and the people who

  held Max were planning to release him, she knew she had to be

  there when it happened.

  She wasn’t sure she should even believe Jorge, but if he were an

  example of the fervor and hate these people felt, Max was also still
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br />   in danger from the miners, no matter who held him. Despair fell over her like a dark, heavy blanket.

  Rachel. What was she going to do about her? She groaned at

  the picture of the two of them stumbling up the road to Real. One

  blind, one wounded. What choice did they have? Going back now

  was out of the question, for her and for Rachel.

  Rachel had jokingly called her “Jane Bond.” Nothing could be

  further from the truth, so how was she going to help Max? How

  would she protect him from some crazy miner or sympathizer? She

  had to hope that an answer would come. The thing she knew she

  couldn’t do was nothing.

  She sagged into the rickety cane chair, as if she were becoming

  a part of it. Gena was putting a kettle of water on the grate in the

  fireplace.

  “Where did Daniel go?” Patricia asked her. The girl shrugged. Patricia sat alone staring into the fireplace. Rachel leaned against

  the window, as if she stood watch. With the others gone, the girl

  might be the only one to stop them from leaving, Patricia thought. “You’re Miguel’s secretary, aren’t you?” she asked the girl. “Si,” Gena smiled.

  Patricia realized the girl was quite pretty in an exotic way. “Do

  you know where he is?”

  “The Señora see him last.” With that the girl walked over to the

  table and began to play a game with match sticks.

  How had this trip to Real splintered into such strange events?

  And where was Miguel? It had only been twenty four hours since

  she had been snuggled into a happy moment of past and present

  with him. A brief respite from days of torment that threatened now

  to lead to even greater heartache. Suddenly, she was more tired

  than she had ever thought possible. Leaning her head against the

  back of the chair, she shut her eyes, but her mind did not relax.

  Rest had no place in her thoughts.

  “Rachel,” she whispered. Rachel moved slowly away from the

  window. Without speaking, she clasped Patricia’s outstretched hand.

  Patricia drew Rachel’s face close. “I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you.” “What do you mean?” Rachel asked.

  “I should not have trusted Miguel. If I had called Jim earlier like

  you said—”

  Rachel squatted down by Patricia’s side. “Well, as much as I like

  being right, I don’t know that that would have helped. Jim seems to

  have disappeared, absconded. No one knows where. I called Elena,

  Bonnie in D. C., and even that idiot Luis. No one has seen or heard

  from him since Thursday. I left messages everywhere, just in case

  he returns from his ‘vacation’.”

  Patricia felt the blood drain from her face. “That means no one

  will be in Real to help us,” she whispered. Neither one of them

  spoke as they thought about this truth.

  Finally, Patricia spoke, “We have to get out of here. I’ll watch for

  a chance. Okay?” Rachel nodded. “In the meantime maybe you

  should try to rest some.”

  “Me? What about you?”

  “I’m going to indulge in some foot washing first. I need to take

  care of these blisters, then I’ll sleep. We’ll take turns. I don’t think

  either one of us wants to try to sleep on that top bunk.” She squeezed

  Rachel’s hand to stop her protests. Slowly, Rachel made her way to

  the small bed.

  Moments later, above Rachel’s soft snores, Patricia heard the

  door open quietly behind her. A woman swathed in cloths came

  into the room, bringing the smell of the cold night air with her.

  Then she moved to the fireplace, slowly unwrapped and removed a

  dark shawl from her head while keeping her back to the room.

  When she turned and poured steaming water from the kettle into

  a basin on the floor, Patricia caught her breath.

  She had known it was Carmina before she saw her face. Inside

  Patricia was shrinking, but her hand reached out and lifted the

  woman’s chin. Dark eyes met hers. Patricia thought she saw anger,

  then realized it was the deep sadness in Carmina’s eyes that held her

  fast. A sadness she had seen there many years ago and had forgotten.

  So much could be said. Where would she begin? She said nothing. Carmina lowered her face, carefully lifted Patricia’s bloody and

  mud caked feet and eased them into the warm water. “Too hot, Señora?”

  Patricia would not have felt the water if it had been scalding.

  “It—it’s okay,” she winced. She stared at the top of Carmina’s head.

  The light from the fire highlighted gray streaks in the once ebony

  crown.

  She moaned. The wounds on her feet stung and itched. She

  focused on the sensations, bringing her thoughts to the less painful

  present. When she bent to rub the broken skin, Carmina pushed

  her hand away.

  “I am a nurse, Señora. I will see to the blisters.” She submersed

  her hands and rubbed gently.

  “Some of it is more than blisters. The rocks were cutting into

  me when that young man was dragging me up the mountain.” “You do not wear the boots Señor Miguel buy for you. Walking

  to Real is no place for tiny zapatos.”

  “I think somebody intended for me to die with those boots on.” Carmina’s hands stilled. The water that slipped around Patricia’s

  ankles felt charged.

  “Señor Miguel would never harm anyone.” Carmina’s words were

  chiseled.

  Gena had brought a towel to Carmina and held it out for her.

  When Carmina reached for it, Gena held on. The girl stood

  immobile, staring at something.

  The water had cooled and Patricia rested her ankle on her thigh

  to see the damage close up. The light of the fireplace fell full on

  her bare foot.

  Gena leaned over and traced her finger along Patricia’s toes.

  “El dedos del pie de la Señora son palmeando,” she whispered, raising

  her brows and looking at Carmina. “Que piensa?”

  Patricia knew what the girl said. Gena could have been speaking

  Swahili and Patricia would have understood. She stuck her foot

  into the pail, sloshing water, then sat back in her chair and tried to

  shrug off the women’s reactions to the webbing between her toes.

  A gift from her father. When she was a child, her brothers taunted

  her, calling her “quack-quack,” until Pa would take off his big brogan

  boots and proudly display his own webbed toes. He would brag about

  how they helped him swim the marshes when he was a boy in south

  Georgia. Patricia didn’t brag. She had always worn slippers when

  her friends wore sandals or went barefoot. Still there were the

  inevitable moments when someone saw her feet and laughed. She

  wasn’t about to tolerate that ridicule now.

  She lifted her foot out of the water, braced it against the edge

  of the chair and rested her chin on her knee. Splaying her toes

  apart, she defied them to stare again.

  Gena’s eyes sparkled as she looked at Patricia. “Daniel—” “Quieto!” Carmina clamped her hand around Gena’s arm and

  pushed her toward the table.

  Patricia saw a twisted mask of emotions in Carmina’s face and

  thought for a moment that the woman would strike the girl. She was relieved when Carmina turned back
to her and began sprinkling

  her wounds with a white powder from a small bottle.

  “This will heal las ulceras, she said, rubbing in the medicine,

  pulling at the red, raw wounds dotting Patricia’s skin. She winced, but did not withdraw her foot.

  “The pain will stop soon,” Carmina said, keeping her eyes on

  Patricia’s feet as if she were healing them by her sight. The door opened with a loud creak. It was Daniel. Rachel stirred

  at the sound, but stayed on the bed. Playing possum, Patricia

  thought, and rose to join her.

  “No, Señora. We must put more medicine.” Carmina took

  Patricia’s hand and pulled her back into the chair, quickly draping

  the towel across Patricia’s knees.

  Gena hurried to Daniel’s side, put her arms up to embrace him,

  and sent Carmina a side glance of defiance.

  Daniel gave her a quick hug, then went to Carmina. He placed

  his hand on the woman’s shoulder. The touch looked like a blessing.

  Carmina smiled up at him.

  A pain started in the pit of Patricia’s stomach. Her hands moved

  without her willing them from her knees to her foot which she

  drew out from under the towel.

  Her movement caught Daniel’s attention. “Better?” he asked,

  and bent to see for himself.

  “I have something to tell you, Cariño.” Gena was at Daniel’s side,

  smiling into his face.

  “Gena. “Callate!” Carmina hissed.

  “Pasar en silencio!” Daniel said as he held Gena behind him. He

  tilted his head sideways. “Que pasa?” Getting no answer from either

  woman, once again he reached toward Patricia.

  Carmina spoke quickly, as she pulled Daniel away. The words

  sounded harsh, but her lips parted in a curiously coy smile. Her

  hands were shaking as she tried to make Daniel stand. Patricia was not sure what game the two were playing. She

  watched as he took Carmina’s hands from his arm, disengaging

  himself from her. Then he stooped in front of Patricia, and like a

  doctor examined the sores and her splayed, webbed toes. The

  chiseled contours of his face relaxed, then contorted, his eyes wide

  with a kaleidoscope of questions.

  Then Patricia thought she saw amusement. After all, he was