Sidney Sheldon - The sands of time

She stared at him.

"It isn't necessary for you to play it," Ricardo said patiently. "It is only for effect."

He shoved the guitar at her, and she reluctantly took it.

They walked along the winding streets of Segovia under the enormous viaduct built by the Romans centuries earlier.

Ricardo decided to try again. "You see this viaduct,

Sister? There is no cement between the stones. Legend has it that it was built by the devil two thousand years ago, stone piled on stone, with nothing but the devil's magic to hold it together." He looked at her for some reaction.

Nothing.

To hell with her, Ricardo Mellado thought. I give up.

The members of the Guardia Civil were everywhere, and whenever they passed them, Ricardo would pretend to be in earnest conversation with Graciela, always careful to avoid body contact.

The numbers of police and soldiers seemed to be increasing, but Ricardo felt reasonably safe. They would be looking for a nun in robes and a group of Jaime Miró's men,

and they would have no reason to suspect two young tourists carrying guitars.

Ricardo was feeling hungry, and even though Sister

Graciela had said nothing, he was sure that she must be hungry also. They came to a small cafe.

"We'll stop in here and have a bite to eat, Sister."

She stood there, watching him.

He sighed. "Right. Suit yourself."

He walked inside the cafe. A moment later Graciela followed him.

When they were seated, Ricardo asked, "What would you like to order, Sister?"

There was no response. She was infuriating.

Ricardo said to the waitress, "Two gazpachos and two orders of chorizos."

When the soup and sausages came, Graciela ate what was put in front of her. He noticed that she ate automatically,

without enjoyment, as though fulfilling some duty. The men seated at other tables were staring at her, and Ricardo could not blame them. It would take the young Goya to capture her beauty, he thought.

In spite of Graciela's sullen behavior, Ricardo felt a lump in his throat every time he looked at her, and he cursed himself for a romantic fool. She was an enigma, buried behind some kind of impenetrable wall. Ricardo Mellado had known dozens of beautiful women, but none of them had ever affected him this way. There was something almost mystical about her beauty. The irony was that he had absolutely no idea what lay behind the breathtaking facade. Was she intelligent or stupid? Interesting or dull? Cold-blooded or passionate? I hope she's stupid, dull, and cold-blooded, Ricardo thought,

or I won't be able to stand losing her. As though I could ever have her. She belongs to God. He looked away, afraid that she might sense what he was thinking.

When it was time to leave, Ricardo paid the check and they rose. During the journey he had noticed that Sister Graciela was limping slightly. I'll have to get us some kind of transportation, he thought. We still have a long way to go.

They started down the street, and at the far end of town,

on the Manzanares el Real, they came upon a gypsy caravan.

There were four colorfully decorated wagons in the caravan,

pulled by horses. In the backs of the wagons were women and children, all dressed in gypsy costumes.

Ricardo said, "Wait here, Sister. I'm going to try to get us a ride."

He approached the driver of the lead wagon, a burly man in full gypsy regalia, including earrings.

"Buenas tardes, señor. I would consider it a great kindness if you could give my fiancee and me a ride."

The gypsy looked over to where Graciela was standing. "It is possible. Where are you headed?"

"To the Guadarrama mountains."

"I can take you as far as Cerezo de Abajo."

"That would be of great value. Thank you."

Ricardo shook the gypsy's hand and put money in it.

"Get in the last wagon."

"Gracias."

Ricardo returned to where Graciela was waiting. "The gypsies are going to take us as far as Cerezo de Abajo," he told her. "We'll ride in the last wagon."

For an instant he was sure she was going to refuse. She hesitated, then started toward the wagon.

There were half a dozen gypsies inside and they made room for Ricardo and Graciela. As they climbed aboard, Ricardo started to help the sister up, but the moment he touched her arm, she pushed him away with a fierceness that took him by surprise. All right, to hell with you. He caught a glimpse of

Graciela's bare leg as she lifted herself onto the wagon, and he could not help thinking: She has the most beautiful legs

I've ever seen.

They made themselves as comfortable as possible on the hard wooden floor of the wagon and the long journey began.

Graciela sat in a corner, her eyes closed and her lips moving in prayer. Ricardo could not take his eyes off her.

As the day wore on, the sun became a hot furnace beating down on them, baking the earth, and the sky was a deep,

cloudless blue. From time to time as the wagon crossed the plains, huge birds soared overhead. Buitre leonado, Ricardo thought. The lion-colored griffon vultures.

Late in the afternoon the gypsy caravan came to a stop and the leader approached the last wagon.

"This is as far as we can take you," he told Ricardo.

"We're headed for Vinvelas."

Wrong direction. "This is fine," Ricardo assured him.

"Thank you."

He started to reach out a hand for Graciela and quickly thought better of it.

Ricardo turned to the leader of the gypsies. "I would consider it a kindness if you would sell some food to my fiancee and me."

The chief turned to one of the women and said something in a foreign tongue, and a few moments later two packages of food were handed to Ricardo.

"Muchas gracias." He pulled out some money.

The gypsy chief studied him for a moment. "You and the sister have already paid for the food."

You and the sister. So he knew. Yet Ricardo felt no sense of danger. The gypsies were as oppressed by the government as were the Basques and Catalans.

"Vayan con Dios."

Ricardo stood there watching the caravan move out of sight, then turned to Graciela. She was watching him, silent,

impassive.

"You won't have to put up with my company much longer,"

Ricardo assured her. "Soon we will be in Logroño. You'll meet your friends there and you'll be on your way to the convent at Mendavia."

No reaction. He could have been talking to a stone wall. I am talking to a stone wall.

They had been dropped off in a peaceful valley rich with orchards of apple, pear, and fig trees. A few feet away from them was the Duraton River, filled with fat trout. In the past, Ricardo had fished there often. It would have been an ideal place to stay and rest, but there was a long road to travel.

He turned to study the Guadarrama mountains, the range that lay ahead of them. Ricardo knew the area well. There were several trails that wound through the length of the mountains. Cobras, wild mountain goats, and wolves roamed the passages, and Ricardo would have chosen the shortest route had he been traveling alone. But with Sister Graciela at his side, he decided on the safest.

"Well, we'd better get started," Ricardo said. "We have a long climb ahead of us."

He had no intention of missing the rendezvous with the others in Logroño. Let the silent sister become someone else's headache.

Sister Graciela stood there waiting for Ricardo to lead the way. He turned and began to climb. As they started up the steep mountain path, Graciela slipped on some loose pebbles and Ricardo instinctively reached out to help her. She jerked away from his hand and righted herself. Fine, he thought angrily. Break your neck.

They kept moving upward, heading toward the majestic peak high above. The trail started to get steeper and narrower and the chilled air became thinner. They were heading east,