Ramona's endless steps brought her to the top of a small rise, her feet aching in the broken-down shoes she'd worn for the past six months. The hot, dry road stretched before her as it had from so many other small rises she'd ascended. When would it end? Not just this stretch of the journey, but the war. Her back ached from leaning over countless war-ravaged casualties—individual human beings who'd looked to her for healing, for hope. Her heart hurt too, but that was nothing new. Nothing she wasn't used to.
Her feet continued moving one in front of the other, linked to her conscious mind only by the pain of each step. Small dust clouds formed with each footfall, rising to join the choking large cloud caused by the thousands of other feet trudging along the side of the paved road. The sun bore down on her without the slightest stirring of air to carry away its heat. She wiped her sweaty brow with the handkerchief, now as rough as sandpaper, and tried to find her way to the edge of the walking mass. Maybe there was a breeze to be found there.
A caravan of trucks had carried the other nurses, but Ramona gave up her place so one of the injured could find a way out. She was young and could walk for a while, she told herself, hoping for another truck to come along. But none came, so she continued on. Just one in a sea of many.
She replayed in her mind the weeks before the fall of Bilbao. She'd carried a tray of food to one of the ill nuns just as the first wave of bombers appeared over the mountains. German planes. Like those that had attacked Guernica. Soon the church bells pealed, but the terrified cries of the people were louder than the bells.
In Guernica, before the bombers came, Ramona thought the war would simply pass, just like the numerous little battles she'd experienced while growing up, and then they'd all get on with normal life. She believed if she worked hard and helped those she could, then she would make a difference. And since those around her worked as hard as she, together they would find victory. The war was hard on all of them, but the fight was worthy. She'd lost any close to her, but the war had also brought José back to her from Madrid.
Instead, food shortages had caused many to grow sick and weak. And though she helped all she could, trucks transported the dead from the front lines, depositing their ghastly cargo in record numbers. It seemed they lost more soldiers than they had time to bury.
Ramona trudged past a small oxcart and nodded to the older man and woman who sat under it, seeking shade and rest before they continued. From somewhere ahead she heard the cry of an infant and wondered if the mother had enough water for herself and the baby—not that she could do anything if they didn't. Ramona had drained her own waterskin over an hour ago.
She thought back to the first time she'd heard that José had returned to Guernica. His injury had reunited them, and in a way she felt it was God's hand—to bring them back together when so much threatened to keep them apart. They could stand anything for a short time, including their most recent separation. They would get past this too, and be reunited. All of Spain would get past this and find the peace they all longed for. Or at least that's what she had hoped.
But the bombers told her differently. First in Guernica, then in Bilbao. It was the bombers that proved to her that the mountains could no longer protect her people. It was the bombers that forced José to return and care for others he felt a responsibility for, both two-legged and four-legged.
She felt guilty for feeling thankful that his injury was bad enough for him to be brought to her care. At least it hadn't damaged him permanently.
And because she firmly believed God had brought José to her, when the bombs fell she had decided to stay at the hospital to help care for the injured who were brought in, instead of leaving with him. Surely if God had saved José once, He'd do so again.
She had heard that tragedy brought people together. Instead it had pulled them apart. José still embraced her, but she could see a distance in his gaze, as if there were a part of him that had died that day . . . something she didn't understand, but that had affected him all the same.
The Germans knew what they were doing. They knew war that killed and injured women and children touched men in a way that battlefield casualties couldn't. And their hellish strategy had worked, changing José because he couldn't protect what he felt responsible for.
While she traveled to Bilbao with the injured, he'd gone another way—back to the place where his father was . . . and the horses. To be with them, to protect them. He'd run to the one place he hoped he could make a difference.
Even though she told him to go, her heart wanted him to stay. And even when she claimed she'd be okay, she wanted more than anything for him to realize how much she needed him. Why couldn't he see that? Why couldn't he fight for her? Protect her?
She'd wanted him to stay because it was in his heart—not because she had asked. But instead he left. He embraced her, turned, and left.
Yes, her body was fine, but Ramona's heart hurt. It felt as if a bomb had exploded across it, shattering it into a million little pieces and then burning what remained.
"But what difference does that make now?" she muttered as she continued on, moving one foot and then the other. "He is gone and I am alone."
She looked down at her nurse’s uniform, now stained and soiled, and then repeated herself, though there was no one close enough to hear. "I am alone. I'm surrounded by strangers, but alone all the same."
The man walked by with a baguette on his shoulder. The whiff of it, the wonderful scent, brought tears to Father Manuel's eyes as he considered the poor and the hungry of Spain. Why should he be healthy and well fed when those God gave him to shepherd lived in hunger, poverty—and now bondage?
The newspaper was spread open before him on the small café table, and he read the headlines as if reading a letter from home, so urgent to his heart was the news. Bilbao had been taken. The city was now in Nationalist control. Most had escaped and moved to the next town, and the next, hoping to stay one step ahead of the troops. But could they? Could they outrun the inevitable?
Feeling the weight of his people on his shoulders, Father Manuel rose from the cast-iron chair by the small café table and strolled down the boulevard. Paris was a beautiful city filled with sharply dressed people attending the World's Fair. Yet he knew if it hadn't been for the kindness of a stranger, that reporter Walt Block, he wouldn’t be here at all. He’d be with the others, running, hiding, hoping for escape. Why had he been plucked from the fire? It was a question he couldn't shake.
And what about Berto? The young man had shown up at the train station the first day Father Manuel had arrived. Many were there that day, all waiting for word from Spain, and when Berto discovered Father Manuel was also from the Basque region, he’d offered help, for which Father Manuel was thankful.
Through their time together, it was clear that Berto’s heart was for the people of Spain. Father Manuel knew that the young man was another evidence of God's provision. It was clear God wanted him here, even though he did not know why.
He considered retreating to his small room, but knew his Lord would take no pleasure from his hiding away there, worrying about events that he could no longer influence. Besides, during the day his room offered him no comfort. In one of the other rooms a guitarist played Spanish music, fast and painful, playing what Father Manuel dared not voice. More than that, if a musical instrument could scold, this one did.
Remember Spain. Do not forget. Fight. Remember. Fight.
He continued walking until he reached the beautiful church he'd noticed from a distance. Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris. Our Lady of Paris.
A hedge circled the small grounds. It was trimmed so perfectly flat it could have served as a table. Most visitors lingered outside, taking in the well-known and admired architecture. People came from all over the world, he'd been told, to view the church. Yet this made little sense to him. How could one care for the elaborate towers and spire but ignore the purpose of its construction? A great cathedral pointed to a great God, did it not?
The church bell tolled three solid rings, and Father Manuel grunted as he walked up the brick steps, as if answering the echoing gong. I'm coming, I'm coming.
He was far from home, but not far from God. And perhaps instead of trying to make sense in his mind as to why he was in France, it was time to ask God's opinion on the matter.
Night had come, and they'd found a place to rest. A meadow that allowed him full view of the truck and a long stretch of the road each direction. Still, Walt's focus wasn't on the road.
He looked to Sophie, curled on her side in a tight little ball. She looked so small, so fragile, lying under the tree. On the other side of her, Philip lay close to the base of the tree, his back to her.
Walt had known many beautiful women in his life, but that was all they were. Just a shell. But Sophie was so much more. Her spirit. Her strength. Her trust. Her trust in him was overwhelming.
Yet she no longer looked brave. Instead she appeared like an injured lamb. Her heart had been broken by Michael's betrayal. And by Philip’s anger. And Walt had no answers, no plan to keep her safe. He knew when he got into this treasure hunt that there was a chance he could lose the gold. But now so much more could be lost.
He let out a sigh and plucked a blade of grass. It had been easy to pull Sophie into the conflict when he didn't know her. Or rather, when he thought she was part of Michael's team. Later, when he knew she was an innocent victim, Walt—for the first time—felt his foundation crumble.
As someone who prided himself on being in control and unemotional, he questioned if his motives were right—and if his plan would succeed. Until today he'd always acted with determination, but it was clear that Sophie and Philip had witnessed the crumbling of his façade. He had the gold, but it was almost worse than not having it. Keeping it, transporting it, was the problem now. And Sophie was again pulled into the middle of the danger.
Oppression bore down on Walt, and he suddenly wondered why he was doing this. His life was entrapped in the middle of a tangled web.
His mind replayed every contact, every idea.
In the past he’d consider all his options, and one would rise to the top. Like a miner in days of old, he would swish the ideas around in his mind, washing away the silt until only a nugget of gold remained.
But not this time. This time his muddled mind wouldn’t process. There was no easy answer. More than that, there were two more people who depended on him. He wasn’t used to this sort of prolonged contact. His modus operandi was in and out of people’s lives. No entanglements, no ties. But, Sophie . . . and now Philip. It was all different.
Weariness overcame him, and suddenly he didn’t want to be in charge anymore. Maybe he'd talk to Philip in the morning and get some ideas. Or maybe he should just walk away. Or take the truck. Risk getting caught by himself. Philip and Sophie would think he’d abandoned them to keep the gold, but it might save their necks. Philip had crossed Spain before; no doubt he could do it again. Sophie would be better in Philip’s hands than Walt’s at this moment.
Because the truth was, there was more to the story than they knew. Yes, he had followed Michael, but not for the gold. For something far more precious.
* * *
Sophie had no blanket. No pillow. But she did her best to find a comfortable place under the trees. For a pillow she used an old shirt that had seen better days. Thankfully the air was warm and smelled of pine, and the grass that grew thick formed her mattress under the tree. She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her.
Not more than ten feet away Philip curled to his side, his back to her. He wore a blue and white jacket and had tucked an identical one under his head. He had other things in his pack that had been useful. A tin they used to heat water over the fire. A waterskin they’d refilled in the creek. He even had some dry crackers to share. That, with the few fish that he’d caught in the small creek, had taken away the hunger pains.
But even as he did his best to make sure Sophie was safe, comfortable, and fed, he’d said little to her. Every time she looked at him guilt stabbed her heart, and she wondered if they'd ever reclaim what they once had. She missed the way they used to talk so easily. The way they laughed and joked. She missed his hand taking hers and the feel of his breath against her neck as they embraced.
During the time she’d known Philip, they’d been apart nearly as much as they’d been together. And now the ten feet separating them seemed like an abyss.
Sophie sighed, rolled to her stomach, and imagined snuggling next to his back. She wanted to know he still cared for her. She wanted his assurance and his warmth.
She heard him stir and hoped he would scoot a few feet closer. Maybe then they could talk in the darkness of the night. Maybe that would be easier, so they wouldn't have to look at the pained expression on each other's face.
Instead, in the light of the moon, Sophie watched as Philip stood and turned in Walt's direction.
"I'm going to sleep in the cab of the truck," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all. If you think it will be more comfortable."
He walked in the direction of the road, and Sophie heard the cab door creak open.
Minutes passed, and the sounds of crickets rose from the nearby creek.
"Do you think he's asleep?" Sophie whispered to Walt.
"I doubt it. I m sure he’s trying to come to grips with all that's happened." Walt had settled on the other side of the clearing, close enough for Sophie to know that he was there if she needed his protection.
She lay for a few more minutes, trying to find shapes and constellations in the stars. "Maybe I'll go talk to him. We need to clear the air."
"I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sophie." Walt’s voice sounded weary. "Leave him alone. Give him some time to sort things out."
"Yeah, well, I hate this tension between us." She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling a small twig caught in it. "Neither of us will be able to sleep unless we talk."
"He doesn't think the same as you. You want to talk so there won't be conflict between you. Philip doesn't want to talk because he already knows there is conflict. He’s not ready to hear what you have to say."
She patted the ground and readjusted the shirt she’d tucked under her cheek. Then she yawned. "Maybe you’re right. Forcing him to talk when we’re both tired and worried wouldn’t be the best idea."
"If you care what I think, hiding in Nationalist territory with a stolen, hunted treasure probably isn’t the best time for two people to talk about their relationship—" Walt’s voice stopped abruptly at a rustling in the bushes near the creek.
Before she knew what was happening, he was on his feet. It was dark, but not too dark to notice the moonlight glinting off the handgun he held pointed toward the noises in the night.