Leah Moyes is from Arizona but experienced many parts of the world in thanks to a career in the airlines. Now most of her time, aside from writing, is spent with her family, reading Historical Fiction novels or studying ancient cultures as a student of Archaeology.
She always believed she was born in the wrong time period, but since she doesn’t have access to a time machine she must write and read intriguing stories of the past.
Second Survivor is told in the perspective of 4 different people- Isabel, Miguel, Thomas, and Francisco.
“I must be off. I have several families to visit.”
“Well, I’m sure you have time to say hi to Maria before you go.”
“Maria . . . that’s right. With all the work at the ranch, I had nearly forgotten her plight.”
“She would be delighted to see you.” Anita winked and pointed inside.
“Senyora Contreras . . . ” I gave her a stern brow.
“What?” She threw her hands up, feigning innocence. “Just come say hello,” she huffed.
“She doesn’t know me, Anita, and don’t be conjuring up any tricks.”
“Yet, she somehow remembers you.” Anita’s mouth twisted up in satisfaction as she led me through the front door.
“Of course, I will say hi. It would be rude of me not to.” I entered the kitchen. A young woman sat near the stove with her back toward me. It was nice to see she was no longer bound to her bed. She must be recovering well.
She swung around and faced me, although her tiny nose pulled into a wrinkle. “Ugghh.” She groaned loudly, her fingers fighting the long-pointed tips of knitting needles. Yarn lay tangled in her lap while strings wound all through her fingers. The ball rolled off her knees and thumped to the floor. I chuckled, but when she glanced up, my mouth fell open.
Her eyebrows bent in anger. “Are you laughing at me?” Her tone came sharp, but I barely heard her. My mind whirled at the transformation before me. Images of the swollen, bruised, and broken woman I’d seen a month ago vanished into something else. I couldn’t form words. The large cut on her forehead was now a faint, jagged line, pink tinged her cheeks, and her blond waves flowed easily and cleanly down her back. She wore a simple oversized dress that most likely had been Anita’s at one time, and a torn shawl around her shoulders, but she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
“No,” I choked apologetically, “I’m not laughing . . . I know nothing of knitting.”
Her face softened. “I have no idea why I even try it myself. I’m awful.”
“At least you are trying. I couldn’t even get that far.” I kneeled and picked up the wayward ball. When I handed it back to her, I found myself staring.
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