Fearless

by Diana Palmer

  “Oh, dear,” Glory said quietly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so sarcastic toward him.”

  “It rolls off his back,” the woman scoffed. “He works like a tiger. He is never cruel or harsh with the men who work in the fields. He is a cultured man, I think, because he loves to listen to DVDs of opera and classical music. But once, we had a worker get into a fight with another man, and Rodrigo intervened. Nobody saw him move, but in the flash of a light, the aggressor was lying on his back in the dirt with many bruises. The men don’t give Rodrigo any reason to go after them, since that happened. He is very strong.”

  “Rodrigo?” Glory sounded out the name. It had a quiet dignity.

  “Rodrigo Ramirez,” she replied. “He worked on a cattle ranch down in Sonora, he said.”

  “He came from Mexico?”

  “I think he was born there, but he does not speak of his past.”

  “His accent is very slight,” Glory mused. “He speaks Spanish, I guess.”

  “Spanish, French, Danish, Portuguese, German, Italian and, of all things, Apache.”

  Glory was confused. “With a talent like that, he’s managing a truck farm in Texas?”

  Consuelo chuckled. “I, also, made this observation. He led me to believe he once worked as a translator. Where, he did not say.”

  Glory smiled. “Well, at least this is going to be an interesting job.”

  “You know the big boss, Jason Pendleton?”

  Glory nodded. “Well, sort of,” she amended quickly. “I was more friendly with his sister,” she confided.

  “Ah. Gracie.” Consuelo chuckled again. “She came with him once. There was a cat with a broken leg lying beside the road, a stray that hung around here. Gracie picked it up, blood and dirt and all, and made Jason take her to the nearest vet. She was wearing a silk dress that would cost me two months wages, and it didn’t matter. The cat was what mattered.” She smiled. “She should marry. It would be a very lucky man, to have a wife like that.”

  “She doesn’t want to get married,” Glory said. “Her real father was a hell-raiser.”

  “Hers and Jason’s, you mean…”

  Glory shook her head. “You see, Jason and Gracie aren’t related. Her father died when she was in her early teens. Her stepmother married Jason’s father. Then her stepmother died and Jason’s father married again.” She didn’t add that Jason’s stepfather was also her own stepfather. It was complicated.

  Consuelo took off her apron. “I must show you to the guest room.” She turned, and only then noticed the cane, half hidden behind Glory’s jean-clad leg. Her eyebrows met. “You should have told me,” she fussed. “I would never have let you stand like that while I gossiped! It must be painful.”

  “I didn’t notice. Really.”

  “The room is downstairs, at least,” Consuelo said, leading the way past the pantry shelves, into the living room, and through a far door that led to another hall, which ended in a bathroom opening into a small, blue-wallpapered room with white trim.

  “It’s lovely,” Glory told her.

  “It’s small,” Consuelo said. “Rodrigo chose it for himself, but I told him he needed more room than this. He has two computers and several pieces of radio equipment. A hobby, he said. There is a small desk in the study that he uses, but he prefers his bedroom when he’s doing the books.”

  “He’s antisocial?”

  “He has nothing to do with women,” Consuelo replied. She frowned. “Although, there was a pretty blonde woman who came here to see him one day. They seemed very close. I asked. But he ignored the question. He does not talk about himself.”

  “How odd.”

  “You are not married, or engaged?”

  Glory shook her head. “I don’t want to marry. Ever.”

  “You don’t want children?”

  Glory frowned. “I don’t know that I should try to have them,” she said. “I have a…medical problem. It would be dangerous.” She sighed. “But since I don’t trust men very much, it’s probably just as well.”

  Consuelo didn’t ask any more questions, but her manner with Glory was gentle.

  THE TRUCK FARM WAS HUGE. There were many fields, each with a separate crop, and the plantings were staggered so that something was always ready to harvest. The fruit trees were just being picked. Peaches and apricots, nectarines and kiwi fruit were first to harvest. The apple trees were varieties that produced in the fall. In between were berries, dewberries and raspberries and blackberries and strawberries.

  “I’m going to be busy,” Glory exclaimed when Consuelo pointed out the various surrounding fields.

  “We both are,” the older woman replied. “I was thinking about giving up this job. It’s too much for one woman. But two of us, we can manage, I think. The jams and jellies and pickles will add a lot to our revenue if they sell. They’re popular with tourists. We also stock them at the local florist shop, and they’re put in gift baskets. We have a processing plant for the organic vegetables and an online shop that our warehouse operates. They ship orders. But this is early days for our specialty canning. I’ve only managed to do the usual things, fruit preserves and jellies. I would love to do small batches of organic corn and peas and beans as well, but they mostly do those at the processing center in bulk. Besides, those require the pressure cooker to process and more time than I have had since Rodrigo took charge. He is a dynamo, that man.”

  “Pressure cookers make me nervous,” Glory began.

  “We’ve all heard terrible stories about how they can explode,” Consuelo chuckled. “But this is a new age. They all have fail safe controls now a days. Anyway, we won’t use them here. Let me show you what we’re working on. It’s an easy job.”

  EASY. THE WORK WAS. Glory’s hip pained her, and she spent some of her time on a heating pad. But Consuelo found her a stool and she adjusted to the new physical demands of her job.

  Rodrigo, however, was not easy. He seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Glory and was determined to say as little to her as possible in the course of a day.

  He seemed to think she was a useless person. He was impersonally tolerant of her disability, but he often looked at her as if he suspected that her brain was locked away in a fleshy cabinet and was only taken out occasionally to be polished. She wondered what he’d think if he knew what she did for a living and why she was actually down here. It amused her to consider his reaction.

  One day, he brought a new man into the house and told Consuelo that he would be overseeing the men while Rodrigo had to be away over the weekend. Glory didn’t like the newcomer at all. He seemed to never look anyone in the eye. He was small and swarthy and he made a point of staring at Glory’s body when he spoke to her. Already uneasy around men she didn’t know, this one was causing her some real problems.

  Consuelo noticed, and she got between the man and Glory when he became too friendly.

  “I cannot imagine what was in Señor Ramirez’s mind when he hired that Castillo man as an assistant,” Consuelo muttered to Glory when they were alone in the kitchen. “I don’t like having him around here. He’s spent time in jail.”

  “How did you know that?” Glory asked. She knew the answer, but she wondered if Consuelo was just sensing the man’s past or if there was a reason for the remark.

  “The muscles in his arms and torso are huge, and he has tattoos everywhere.” She mentioned one particular tattoo that marked him as a member of one of the more notorious Los Angeles street gangs.

  Glory, who knew about gang members all too well, was surprised and impressed by the woman’s knowledge.

  “What is he doing here?” Glory asked aloud, pondering.

  “I would not dare to ask,” came the solemn reply. “Señor Pendleton should be told, but it would be worth my job to mention it outside the house. We will have to trust that Rodrigo knows what he is doing.”

  “There’s a strange bird,” Glory remarked. “Rodrigo. He’s very cultured and quite intelligent. I’m sure he
could write his own ticket in management anywhere he wanted to work. He seems out of place on a truck farm.”

  Consuelo chuckled. “I would not ask that one anything which was not necessary for the performance of my job,” she replied. “From time to time, something upsets him. He is eloquent with bad words, and he does not tolerate sloppy work or tardiness. One man he scolded for drinking on the job was fired the same day. He is a hard taskmaster.”

  “Yes, I thought he seemed that sort of man. He’s not happy.”

  Consuelo looked at her and nodded. “You are perceptive. No, he is not. And I think that he is not usually a moody person. He must have loved his family very much. I notice how he is with my son, Marco, when he visits me.”

  “You have children, then?” Glory asked gently.

  Consuelo smiled. “Yes, a boy. He has just turned twenty-one. I adore him.”

  “Does he live nearby?”

  Consuelo shook her head. “He lives in Houston. But he comes to see me when he can. Especially when there’s a soccer game on cable—he can’t afford it, but Rodrigo had it put in here so that he doesn’t miss the games.”

  “Soccer?” Glory’s green eyes lit up. “I love soccer!”

  “You do?” Consuelo was excited. “Which team do you like best?”

  Glory smiled sheepishly. “Mexico. I know I should support our own team in this country, but I love the Mexican team. I have a flag of the team that hangs in my living room during the World Cup and the Copita.”

  “I probably should not tell you that I am related to a player on that team.”

  “You are?” Glory exclaimed. “Which one?”

  Before she could answer, Rodrigo walked in. He stopped in the doorway, scowling at Glory’s radiance when she smiled. “What did I interrupt?” he asked curiously.

  “We were talking about soccer,” Consuelo began.

  He glanced at Glory. “Don’t tell me you watch it?”

  “Every chance I get,” she replied.

  He made a sound in his throat, like a subdued chuckle. He turned to Consuelo. “I’m going to be away for the weekend. I’m leaving Castillo in charge. If you have any problems with him, let me know.”

  “He does not…” Consuelo began, glancing at Glory.

  “He doesn’t bother us,” Glory interrupted with a speaking glance.

  “Since you have no contact with him, I can’t imagine why he should,” he told her. “If you need me, you have my cell phone number.”

  “Yes,” Consuelo said.

  He walked out without another word.

  “Why didn’t you let me tell him?” Consuelo asked worriedly.

  “He’d think I was complaining to you,” Glory said simply. “If Castillo gives me any trouble, I’ll take care of him myself.” She smiled gently. “You shouldn’t think that my hip slows me down very much,” she said softly. “I can take care of myself. But thank you for caring.”

  Consuelo hesitated, then she smiled. “Okay. I’ll let you handle it your way.”

  Glory nodded, and went back to work.

  CASTILLO DIDN’T BOTHER them. But he did have a long conversation with a man in a white van. Glory watched covertly from the kitchen window, making sure she wasn’t visible to him. The van was old and beat-up and the man driving it was as muscular and as tattooed as Castillo. She made a mental note of the van’s license plate and wrote it down on a pad, just in case.

  She shouldn’t have been so suspicious of people, she told herself. But she knew a lot about drug smuggling from the cases she’d prosecuted, and she had something of a second sense about the “mules” who transported cocaine and marijuana and methamphetamine from one place to another. Many of the “mules” were in street gangs that also helped distribute the product.

  She and Consuelo were kept busy for the next couple of weeks as the fruit started to come in. They had baskets and baskets of it, picked by the workers and spread around the kitchen. If Glory had wondered why there were two stoves, she didn’t have to ask any longer. Both were going night and day as the sweet smell of preserves and jams and jellies wafted through the house.

  Slowly Glory had become accustomed to seeing Rodrigo in the kitchen at mealtimes. He slept upstairs, so she didn’t see him at night. Sometimes she heard him pacing up there. His room was apparently right over hers.

  She served Rodrigo bacon and eggs and the homemade biscuits she’d made since she was ten, because Consuelo had to go to the store for more canning supplies, including jars and lids. She poured coffee into a cup and put that on the table as well. She’d long since eaten herself, so she went back to peeling a basket of peaches.

  RODRIGO WATCHED HER COVERTLY. She had her hair in its usual braid. She was wearing old blue jeans and a green T-shirt that showed very little skin. She wasn’t a pretty woman. He found her uninteresting. Not that it mattered. Now that Sarina was married, and she and Bernadette were no longer part of his life, not much did matter. He’d hoped that the reappearance of Bernadette’s father, Colby Lane, would make no difference to the close ties he had with the woman and child. But in scant weeks, Colby and Sarina were inseparable. They had been married years ago and it seemed that the marriage was never annulled. It was like death to Rodrigo, who’d been part of Sarina’s family for three years. He couldn’t cope. It was why he’d taken on this assignment. It was both covert and dangerous. He was known to the big drug lords, and his cover was paper thin since he’d helped put away Cara Dominguez, successor to famous, and dead, drug lord Manuel Lopez.

  Rodrigo was an agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration. He and Sarina, a fellow agent, had worked out of the Tucson division for three years. Then they’d been asked to go undercover in Houston to ferret out a smuggling enterprise. They’d been successful. But Colby Lane, who’d helped set up the smugglers, had walked off with Sarina and Bernadette. Rodrigo had been devastated.

  Sarina had promised Colby that she’d give up her DEA job and go to work for Police Chief Cash Grier here in Jacobsville. So Rodrigo had asked for this undercover assignment, to be near her. But Sarina had been persuaded by the DEA to work with Alexander Cobb in the Houston office on another case. Colby hadn’t liked it. Rodrigo had liked it less. She was in Houston, and he was here. Colby had remained at Ritter Oil Corporation in Houston as assistant of security for the firm, while Sarina settled back in with the Houston DEA office. Bernadette was back in Houston finishing out the school year in a familiar place.

  Sarina had come here to tell him the news. It had been painful, seeing her again. She knew how he felt; she was sorry for him. It didn’t help. His life was in pieces. She was concerned that his cover was too flimsy and he stood to be killed if the drug lords found him out. It didn’t matter. There was a price on his head in almost every other country in the world from his days as a professional mercenary. This country was the only place left where he wasn’t in danger of being assassinated. On the other hand, his line of work was likely to get him killed.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” Rodrigo asked the woman peeling peaches beside him.

  She smiled. “Not a lot, no,” she replied.

  “How do you like the job, so far?” he asked.

  “It’s nice,” she replied. “And I like Consuelo.”

  “Everyone does. She has a big heart.”

  She peeled another peach. He finished his coffee and got up to get a refill for himself. She noticed. “I don’t mind doing that,” she said. “It’s part of my job to work in the kitchen.”

  He ignored the comment, added cream to his coffee, and sat back down. “How did you hurt your leg?”

  Her face closed up. She didn’t like remembering. “It was when I was a child,” she said, circumventing the question.

  He was watching her, very closely. “And you don’t talk about it, do you?”

  She looked him in the eye. “No. I don’t.”

  He sipped coffee. His eyes narrowed. “Most women your age are married or involved with someone.”


  “I like my own company,” she told him.

  “You don’t share things,” he replied. “You don’t trust anyone. You keep to yourself, do your job and go home.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Are we doing a psychological profile?”

  He laughed coolly. “I like to know something about the people I work with.”

  “I’m twenty-six years old, I’ve never been arrested, I hate liver, I pay my bills on time and I’ve never cheated on my income tax. Oh,” she added, “and I wear size nine shoes, in case it ever comes up.”

  He chuckled then. His dark eyes were amused, alive, intent on her face. “Do I sound like an interrogator?”

  “Something like that,” she said, smiling.

  “Consuelo says you speak Spanish.”

  “Tengo que hablarlo,” she replied. “Para hacer mi trabajo.”

  “¿Y qué es su trabajo, pues, rubia?” he replied.

  She smiled gently. “You speak it so beautifully,” she said involuntarily. “I was taught Castilian, although I don’t lisp my‘c’s.”

  “You make yourself understood,” he told her. “Are you literate?”

  She nodded. “I love to read in Spanish.”

  “What do you like to read?”

  She bit her lower lip and gave him an odd look. “Well…”

  “Come on.”

  She sighed. “I like to read about Juan Belmonte and Joselito and Manolete.”

  His eyebrows arched toward his hairline. “Bullfighters? You like to read about Spanish bullfighters?”

  She scowled. “Old bullfighters,” she corrected. “Belmonte and Joselito fought bulls in the early part of the twentieth century, and Manolete died in the ring in 1947.”

  “So they did.” He studied her over his coffee mug. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you? Soccer and bullfighting.” He shook his head. “I would have taken you for a woman who liked poetry.”