Three Wishes (3 page)

Cut him off,
I translated in my head.
Divide up. We must kill him before he reaches the rancho border.

Rancho? There hadn’t been ranchos in this part of California for more than a century. I remembered that much from my state history class. Sure, there was Rancho Cucamonga, and Rancho Santa Margarita and Rancho Palos Verdes, but those were just nods to the past…a developer’s romantic name for sprawling subdivisions of suburban houses. Right?

But their Spanish had sounded odd to my ears. Crisp. Formal. Not anything like our slurred, local Spanglish. Not even like the Spanish they spoke down across the border, in Tijuana. More like Spanish-Spanish. Old Spanish.

And they had been in odd clothing too. Tight pants, worn boots, cropped jackets, and trim hats like the vaqueros used to wear. And one had passed near enough for me to take in more finely tooled stirrups and another saddle like I’d never seen—not that I’d seen a ton of variation when I worked at camp one summer and hung out with the girls who ran the trail rides. The saddle hadn’t been as elegant and elaborate as the first man’s, the one they pursued. But old.

Movie. I have to be on a movie set. The director dude is going to be so pissed when he finds me here. They’ll have to crop me out, or shoot this whole scene again
…

But then where were the cameras? The track running alongside the horses to catch the shot? The sound guys with those long sticks and microphones?

On shaking legs, I rose and dared to edge out again, looking up the beach, where the four in pursuit were just urging the horses up the dunes and over the edge, never looking back. I had to figure this out. Maybe I was dreaming.

I gathered up Abuela’s shawl, shook it out, and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was like she was with me now, giving me courage, comfort. I grabbed the golden lamp and, crouching over, scurried away from the rocks and toward the nearest dune. There I hunkered down, panting, my heart thundering in my chest, waiting. But there was no sound other than waves on the shore and wind rustling the summer-dry grasses by my head. Except for…the lowing of cows?

No honking of horns or traffic.

No thunder of a train racing down the tracks that bordered the beach.

Cows
.

I swallowed hard, then forced myself to scurry up the next dune and the next, until I reached the top and peered over toward the PCH.

I gasped and blinked.

There was no Pacific Coast Highway. No buildings. No railroad track. Just miles and miles of grass and trees. A herd of cattle, not too far off.

In the distance, I could see the men, still in pursuit of the other. But now more men were riding toward him, down from another hill, as if to meet them. In battle? To defend the first? Or to finish him off?

I turned in a slow circle, letting the shawl fall, trying to make sense of what was all around me. It felt like home, but it was all so very different.

So wrong. So foreign…and yet so familiar, too.

My knees gave way, and I collapsed to the sand and rocks, cutting my hand as I fell. But I gave it little notice, grabbing hold of the golden lamp and staring furiously at it. Intuitively, I knew that all of
this
…around me…had something to do with
this
, in my hands.

I thought back to the flash of light, the popping of my ears. What I’d been thinking right before that. About Abuela. About what I’d wished for most. A passionate, adventurous life. True love. Family.

And what had I gotten?

Some sort of odd transport to a place that seemed farther from those things than ever before.

CHAPTER 2

I have to get back. Reverse whatever’s happened here.

I forced myself to rise, stumbling back to the rocks below, to the place I’d been when all of this began. Dimly I realized that I was leaving Abuela’s shawl behind, but I was so focused on what was ahead, so driven, that I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I was totally desperate.

Panting, I knelt on the sand between the rocks. No, I’d been sitting. Quickly I shifted, trying to get exactly back in position. Like I’d been before all of this crazy stuff started happening.
My fingers had been holding it like this
…
No, like that
… I shifted the object in my hands, trying to get it right. But nothing felt right. I couldn’t quite remember.

Focus on the familiar, Zara.
I looked outward. To the tide, now receding. Then upward to the clouds I liked to study. Cirrus clouds. Usually forming above 18,000 feet and sometimes called “mare’s tails.” Floating west to east…

It’s all right,
I told myself.
It’s all right. You’re still you. You’re not crazy. Just take a deep breath. Close your eyes. This will all be over in a sec.

But when I opened my eyes, all was the same.

Over and over I tried. Waiting for hours for another flash of light, the popping of my ears. Waited as the cirrus clouds gave way to a brilliant, blue sky and I had to shelter in the shade of the rock. Seeing no one in all that time and getting nowhere in my concentrate-my-way-back scheme, I ventured down the beach and wandered through the bones of the old ship, running my hands over the beams to confirm they were real. I went to the other end, where I’d found the lamp in the tide pools, thinking that if I set it back in the pool among the starfish, then Scotty might beam me back.
That’s it. I’ve landed in some weird Star Trek episode
…

But there were no pools to be found. Just a wide band of sand.

I shielded my eyes and waded partway out, wondering if the pools were here, just covered by the tide. But then I realized, by studying the cliffs, that the pools were buried by a good fifty feet of sand beneath my feet, yet to be exposed by the ravages of time.

I wandered back, feeling oddly separate from myself, distantly thinking that I was probably in some sort of shock. Mostly I felt beat, so tired I had a hard time putting one foot in front of the other, until I reached the sheltering boulders again. It was as if I’d run a marathon or had to stay late at the restaurant, closing after 2 a.m.

Nestling close to the sun-warmed rock and hugging the golden lamp close to my chest, I lay back, praying that if I just slept for a bit, I’d wake up to the familiar.

It’s okay, Zara. You’re just dreaming. That’s why you’re so tired. You’ll just have to give in to this nightmare a bit more, and then you can wake up.

So I allowed it, drifting off in a moment.

I awoke to the prick of a knife at my throat.

“¿Quién es usted?”
a man barked at me.
Who are you?

I blinked, trying to focus, staring up at silhouette of a man, standing against a high-noon sun. I saw first his blade—not a knife, but a long, thin, silver sword. The handle was all ornate, elegant coils and curves around his strong, brown hand. He shifted, and I could see his face better.

It was the first man, the one the others had pursued.

“What is this?” he continued in Spanish, reaching down and grabbing my lamp.

“No!” I cried, pushing away his blade and rising, wincing as I noted how it sliced through the same hand I’d injured earlier. But I was wholly focused on the golden treasure. “Give it back to me!” I shouted in English.

He frowned and brought the tip of his sword toward me again.
“¡Quédate atrás!”
Stay back.
He glanced at the lamp, turning it in his hands a bit, but I seemed to be his main focus.

He looked me over from head to toe, and I felt the spare cami above the long, black maxiskirt that had dried, clinging to my legs. He was movie-star handsome, but that didn’t give him the right to look me over like my abuela used to look at a perfect pork butt before she put it in the pot. I crossed my arms. “Give that back to me,” I said, gesturing toward the lamp.

He frowned again.
“¿Por qué habla inglés?”
he said, taking a turn around me, the sword still between us.
Why are you speaking English?
“You look like a Mexican maiden,” he continued in Spanish, “but your clothing is…foreign.” Was that a hint of a blush in his dark cheeks? The way he’d said
foreign
, and kept his eyes just on my face now, made me feel half-naked. I glanced around for Abuela’s shawl.

“I am a Mexican maiden,” I said, trying to make my Spanish match his in clarity. His accent was so weird.

“A spy,” he said, bringing the tip of his sword below my chin and lifting it, forcing me to look at him again.

“No,” I said, guessing from his tone that that would be the worst. “I…I fell off a ship in the night and washed ashore.”

“Oh?” he said, slowly lowering his sword. “Which ship?”

“The…the
Santa Maria
.” It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. Columbus’s ship.

He squinted at me, and I stared back. About twenty or twenty-one. Over six feet tall. Broad shoulders, accentuated by the tailored, tight jacket. Scruffy, short facial hair around full lips and over his chin and cheeks—like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Shoulder-length, curly black hair, partially covering one eye. Dark lashes lacing steamy eyes that seemed to see far more than I wanted. Almost into me and through my lie.

“The
Santa Maria
,” he repeated dully, tossing my lamp in one hand. I moved to grab it, but he swiftly brought the sword up between us again.

He’s big, but he’s fast,
I decided. But I’d taken on guys this big before in Krav Maga. I lifted my chin and stared back at him, forcing myself to drop my shoulders.

A tiny smile tugged at his lips. “And just who is the…
Santa Maria
’s captain?”

“Capitán DiCaprio,” I said without pause. “
Leonardo
DiCaprio.”

“And from where does she hail?”

“Puerto Vallarta,” I said blithely.

Again, he squinted at me, as if trying to figure me out. “There is no such port in all of Mexico. Nor is there such a ship. About thirty ships pass these shores this time of year, and the
Santa Maria
is not one of them. And I know a hundred seafaring families and merchants who hail from Mexico, and this…
Leonardo DiCaprio
is not one of their captains.” He turned, tossed my lamp to the sand next to his horse, sheathed his sword at his waist, and crossed his arms. “Now you shall tell me the truth, girl. Who are you, really? What are you doing here?”

The truth.
I vacillated. Lay it on him, all of it? Or refuse to speak at all? Tell him I was a mermaid, looking for her man? Maybe that’d make him freak and run off, leaving me to find my way back to my own time.

He stepped forward, and I tensed. “Tell me, girl. Or I will tie you up and take you back to my rancho, keeping you there until you tell me. Were you with those men who gave me chase?”

“Wh-what? No!”

He stepped even closer, taking hold of my arms. “Tell me the truth!”

I was about to take him down when a low growl behind me made us both freeze.

He looked over my shoulder and then slowly pulled me to his side, as if he wished to protect me.

But the wolf seemed to be looking only at him, baring her teeth.

The young man slowly withdrew a pistol from his side, pulled back the hammer, and aimed.

“No!” I cried, pushing up his arm at the last second, finally understanding that he meant to kill the animal. The crack of gunfire made my ears ring.

“Why did you do that, woman?” he asked, turning to face me. He gestured toward the wolf, now tearing up the dunes, running away from us as fast as she could. “Those filthy beasts cost me countless sheep every year!”

“Well, she was not attacking one of your sheep right now,” I said, hands on my hips. “It looked like she was trying to protect me from
you
.”

“Nonsense!” He grimaced and grabbed my arm again. “Enough. You shall come with me.”

I acted without thinking. Two years of the best self-defense training—at my grandmother’s insistence—had given me what I needed.
Awareness, assertiveness, technique,
my instructor whispered in my mind. I whipped my arm out of his hands and punched him in the gut, and when he bent over, I brought my knee up hard, connecting with his cheek. When he straightened, I brought my knee up again, this time to his groin.