Badger's barking interrupted Walt, Philip, and Sophie as they discussed their next steps. Walt peered out the window to see the man and his daughter from the small community down the hill approaching.
"Señors, Señorita," the man said when Philip opened the door. "My daughter and I wondered if you were still here. If you need help or information." He approached the front door with a smile. "Of course, we did not ask the others if they knew. They have no idea you ever stopped here. Your secret is still safe with us."
They stayed the morning, and Sophie enjoyed the female companionship, especially the small talk as they discussed simple things such as gardens and the Moorish outposts in the surrounding hillsides. It was nice not to focus her attention on stolen treasure and their duty to Spain.
They sat in the shade by the creek, enjoying the food Sophie prepared. As Sophie talked and laughed with the young woman, she wished she could tell her about the food cellar, but now wasn't the time. From the way Walt stood and paced, he was counting down the minutes until the visitors left.
Finally, when the sun was high overhead, the two yawned and headed home for their siesta. Only then did Sophie follow Philip and Walt back to the house, where they resumed planning around the table.
Philip spoke first, but from the look on Walt's face he spoke for both men. "If what Walt says is true—and I trust it is—maybe we should escape with the gold coins only."
Sophie opened her mouth to speak, and Philip took her hand. With his free hand he pointed his thumb in the direction of the truck.
"Getting the truck to Barcelona is a long shot. And maybe that's not even the reason we were caught up in this in the first place. I have to agree with Walt—the fact that he found the coins leads me to believe the story is true. I can't even imagine the impact a discovery like that would make."
"I don't know." Sophie rubbed her tired eyes with her free hand. "I think you're missing the point. We're not doing this because we want fame or to make the discovery of the century. We 're doing it for the Spanish people, right?"
She turned to Walt and focused her eyes on his. "That's what you told me when you asked me to return to Michael—you said that national security depended on it." She returned her gaze to Philip. "Weren't you the one who only a week ago talked about David seeing God as bigger than the problem?"
She tried to stand, but Philip refused to let go of her hand. "Yes, I know what I said, but I'm worried—mostly about you, Sophie." He hesitated, weighing his words. "I don't think I could live with myself if somehow we made it out with the gold . . . and not each other."
"I agree," Walt chimed in. "That's why I came back. Even if I pleased Adolfo, impressed my father, and discovered the gold of a lifetime, I'd never be able to live knowing I'd abandoned my friends."
"If you're not going to listen to me, then never mind." Sophie stood and kicked her foot against the dirt floor. Her gut ached and, as if a veil were descending over her eyes, she suddenly didn't want to think anymore—she was tired of carrying the weight of Spain on her shoulders. "Forget it. If this is the fastest way to get out of the country, let's do it."
She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. She thought of her last night in France before entering Spain. The soft bed and fresh, clean sheets. The tub filled with warm, perfumed water. Her hair, clean and styled. Clothes that made her look like a woman.
She thought of waking without worrying that an enemy hid around every corner. Or behind every set of eyes. She considered setting up her easel in a park and painting for the mere joy of it. Oh, to hold a paintbrush in her hands.
She also imagined phoning her parents and hearing their voices for the first time in over a year. Taking a stroll, her hand in Philip's, without a care in the world, except for the desire to know each other better.
Sophie opened her eyes and nodded her head. "Yes, I'm in. Let's figure out how to get those coins out of the country. Then maybe, from the outside, we can find a way to help Spain."
"By getting the coins out, won't we accomplish both?" Philip released her hand and rested his elbows on his knees as he always did when he was deep in thought. "If these few items can lead us to an even greater treasure . . . then we do both. We accomplish much with so little."
"Somehow that sounds too good to be true." Sophie sighed. "Even if Adolfo does take the coins to South America, how will he know what the clues mean? We have to trust him to find the treasure—if it's still there. Plus, will he really give the gold to Spain? And let's not forget that this man betrayed his own family—he took the information Michael gave him in confidence and found a way to steal the gold from his own nephew. He used Walt . . . and risked so many lives for his dream."
As she spoke, the taste she had for all the good things she longed for suddenly soured in her mouth. "There are no easy answers, are there? Either way we are at risk. Who really knows what will benefit the people most? Who really knows if any of it will succeed? Or if we have the right motives? Or . . . if I'm just rambling because I'm tired? I don't know about you, but today I'm taking a siesta."
"And maybe, like Jacob, God will speak to you in a dream?" Philip rubbed his brow.
"Who knows? He can do anything He wants. Maybe we're thinking too far ahead. Maybe we just need to do the one thing He's asked at the present."
Philip looked at her curiously. "And what's that?"
"Trust that no matter how this thing turns out, God still has a plan. His love for the people of Spain, and for us, will never stop. And . . . though it's hard for me to believe sometimes, God can use even my failures for a greater good. So, no matter what tomorrow brings, I can trust—we can trust—we don't have to face it alone."
And with that Sophie made her way to the old bed and fell asleep with the image of God's smiling face filling her mind. His smile was not due to anything she had done or would accomplish, but merely the fact that she was His. For the moment that was enough.
The horse's breath smelled of chewed grass. His coat glistened like newly fallen snow, and Petra wondered how she could fall in love with an animal. But she had, and she was glad. She wiped the dew from Erro's saddle and attempted to hoist it up.
The sound of hoofbeats punctuated the air, and Petra turned with a start. She breathed a sigh of relief to see it was José on Calisto, and not an enemy soldier.
He rode up the narrow path where she stood, then swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion, dropping Calisto's reins. There was no need to tie the stallion up; he had been trained to stay where he was unless José ordered otherwise.
"Here, let me get that for you." José's dark eyes gazed heavily at Petra as he took the saddle from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers.
She put a hand on his arm. "Thank you, but I need to learn to do this, especially with you gone. I was just going to ride around the hill to get my bearings. I'd like to know what's around me—more than just the inside walls of the cave and the path to the creek."
"I'll be back." José's voice was defensive.
"Oh, I have no doubt." She smiled and tilted her head. "It was just . . . never mind. Thank you for helping me." Petra kept her voice light and teasing, but José's frown only deepened, and she wondered what she had done wrong. For as long as she'd known him, José had been kind and sincere. It was hard to see this other side of him—a serious and worried man who seemed to frown at everything she said.
He's just worried about us, Petra told herself. He has a lot on his mind.
Her father had been the same way. It could be the weather or the comment of a local merchant that caused his face to redden and his eyes to narrow. Her mother told her that it was difficult enough to be the head of the family, but her father was also the protector of an entire estate. The people relied on him for harvests, wages, and wisdom. Petra only wished they had understood that. Instead they focused on his heavy hand and his requirements. They didn't realize that what they considered unfair was most of the time for their own good.
She gazed at José, for a second seeing him as he truly was. Not as a hero, but as a man who made mistakes. Her stomach ached as she thought of it. She also thought of what his own pride had cost him—leaving his wife in the valley. Thankfully, his plan was to right the wrong. The idea of José returning with Ramona pleased her, but caused an ache in her heart at the same time. She refused to meet his gaze; instead she stroked Erro's nose.
"Your wife—does she know you're coming?"
"No, she does not."
Petra watched as José cinched Erro's saddle. He glanced at her, and she clearly saw his affection for her—mixed with a tinge of guilt. She could not deny that she wondered how things would be if José were not married. He cared for her, she knew, but he was also a faithful and dedicated man. She appreciated that about him. After all, anyone of lesser character could easily have walked away—especially when Ramona refused to come to the mountains.
"It will be a nice surprise when you show up." Petra took the reins and climbed onto Erro's saddle.
"I hope so." José looked away before Petra could read his reaction. "I just don't know what I'll find when I get there."
"You'll find your heart," Petra commented with a smile. And without waiting for a response, she nudged Erro with her knees, and the horse trotted away. Though the sun beat down on her shoulders, a dark cloud descended over her heart. Petra didn't want to think of what would happen if José didn't return. She also didn't want to think about what he'd do or say when he discovered she'd followed him into the valley.
Deion never appreciated rest as much as he did the day after battle. Many had fallen due to heatstroke. Others reorganized and prepared for their next attack. They also buried thirty dead from among them. And from the crest of Mosquito Ridge, the Nationalists bombed their positions, reminding them they still held the coveted position.
Somewhere in the midst of those days, Deion heard news he never expected.
"They've gone and killed Oliver Law," reported a soldier. His face bore the pinched look of a man suffering from a stomachache.
Deion had hoped that one day he would have the chance to meet the Negro officer who had become the battalion commander after the battles at Jarama, but now he never would. Battle commander Steve Nelson took his place.
While the others cleaned their weapons and packed their supplies to return to battle, Deion gritted his teeth and pretended he didn't want to cry like a woman. And though he kept his lower jaw firmly set, his shoulders quivered like a leaf in the wind. How many days had he been in Spain? How many men had died? The days, the fighting . . . it forced Deion to lose all track of time.
Still time, after all, didn't matter. Survival did. And with every announcement of another soldier's death, Deion knew the odds of his survival narrowed.
He wiped his face and returned to pack his things. The next orders awaited him.