The Heart of a Stranger by Sheri Whitefeather Page A

“I’m sorry Gunther stole it from you.”
    Her eyes misted. “Cáco thinks this is why you’re here, Juan. Why you ended up at my farm.”
    â€œBecause I was meant to return your cross?”
    â€œYes.” She clutched the heirloom, fisting the silver against her chest. “But she also thinks we were meant to help you. To be here when you needed us.”
    Was it true? Were they destined to meet? To be part of each other’s lives? “This is so—”
    â€œOverwhelming?”
    He nodded. “Is that why you didn’t tell me sooner? Did it confuse you?”
    â€œYes. And it still does.”
    Juan understood. The connection confused him, too. The bond that couldn’t be explained.
    â€œTell me more about the cross.” Everything, he thought. Every detail. He wanted to know the history behind it. The memories that meant so much to her.
    â€œFirst I’ll have to tell you about my mother. About why she named me Lourdes.”
    Yes, Lourdes, he thought. His dream girl with the father from France.
    He moved a little closer, waiting for her to continue.
    â€œMy mother’s name was Gloria. She was beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, gentle and poetic. A quiet Catholic girl who believed in miracles.”
    He tried to picture Gloria, to see her in his mind, to know her in some way.
    â€œShe was fascinated with the grotto in Lourdes, France. With the healing waters in the spring.”
    Juan nodded. He knew the Virgin Mary had appeared to a young girl named Bernadette at the grotto in 1858, telling her to drink and wash in the water. Although there was only a small amount of muddy water to begin with, little by little, a clear spring came forth.
    â€œDid you know there are two exact replicas of the grotto here?” Lourdes asked.
    â€œReally? In this area?”
    â€œThey’re not in Mission Creek, but they’re a drivable distance, a weekend trip. One is north of here, in San Antonio. And the other is south, in Rio Grande City. My mother used to frequent them both.”
    Juan wondered if he’d been to the Texas shrines, ifthat was how he’d acquired detailed knowledge about St. Bernadette.
    Maybe, he thought. Or maybe he’d seen a movie about her, a Hollywood version that remained in his mind.
    â€œEventually my mother went on a pilgrimage to France to see the real grotto.”
    â€œIs that how she met your father?”
    She nodded. “He was a young artist from Lourdes. They had a romantic affair, and on the day she left, he gave her the cross he always wore. But he’d engraved it for her, with a special inscription.”
    â€œTo keep you safe,” Juan said.
    â€œYes. The words were in English, meant for her journey home.”
    And now he knew, he thought. He knew the history, the beauty behind those words. “Did your mother ever see your father again?”
    â€œNo. They kept in touch by letters and by phone, but a month later, he was killed in a fire. She never got the chance to tell him she was pregnant. She didn’t know she was carrying me until after he died.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Lourdes.”
    Tears misted her eyes. “Me, too. I wish I could have known him.”
    â€œWhat was his name?”
    â€œLouis. He was tall and blond. Poetic like my mother. She never got over him.”
    Juan imagined them—Gloria and Louis—young and passionate, conceiving a child in Louis’s hometown, a city that had always lived in Gloria’s heart.
    â€œI can see why she named you Lourdes.”
    â€œShe died when I was ten. She went back to France to visit my father’s grave. I wanted to go with her, butshe told me I had to stay home with my grandpa. That this was something she needed to do alone.”
    â€œDid she die in France?”
    â€œYes. The train she was on derailed.”
    He glanced at the necklace still clutched in Lourdes’s hand. “She didn’t bring