by Ruth Wind
When Lynette answered, she sounded breathless and annoyed. "Hello?"
"Hey, sis," Molly said, smiling. In the background, she heard the sound of her eight-year-old niece howling mournfully. "Rough day?"
A heartfelt sigh. "Two cases of the flu. Are we on for lunch today?"
"Did we have plans? I was going to dry tomatoes."
"I know. You can't blame a girl for trying. I've had about as much as I can stand of kids throwing up. I finally got them both in school full-time, and now this."
Molly chuckled. "Won't be long. Let's make a date for next week, huh?"
"You got it." She spoke in a murmuring aside to one of the children, then asked, "What's up?"
"I thought I heard something last night." A lie, but it might have been true. "Was there trouble at the orchards?"
"A raid," Lynette said. "Josh was there. Said they rounded up about thirty illegals, I guess. Wiley is fit to be tied – says he can't get his crop in without that help."
"Mmm." Molly looked at the man on the couch. His black hair fell over his face and neck like a spill of cloth. "Did they get all of them?"
"Pretty much. Jake Arnott chased one into an arroyo, but he got away, and there were probably a couple of others. You know they never get everybody." A pause. "Why?"
"I was just curious. I thought I heard gunfire."
"They don't shoot them, Moll. Must have been your imagination. I keep telling you to get a dog. Then you wouldn't be so jumpy."
"You're right. Thanks. I just wondered what was going on out there."
A sudden burst of tears sounded on the other end of the line. With another harried sigh, Lynette said, "I gotta go."
"Okay. Don't forget, next week, you'll be free again."
"If I live that long."
Molly chuckled. "You will."
* * *
Alejandro Sosa awakened slowly, an inch of his body at a time. Unfortunately, the painful parts awakened first – the pulled muscles across his chest, the scrape on his face and the roaring in his leg. He struggled to the surface, and found himself making an unmanly noise of pain.
"Easy," said a woman's voice. A hand fell on his shoulder.
He opened his eyes. The woman was the same one who had appeared in the garden. A gentle face with a firm mouth and high cheekbones that gave her an exotic look. Gray eyes. An impression of long hair with brown and yellow stripes weaving through the braid.
She knelt beside him, eyes concerned but not suspicious. "¿Cómo está usted?" she asked.
Abruptly he remembered where he was – and why. He bolted upright, sending waves of agony from his thigh to his gut, and he put a hand to the bolt of pain in his head.
Cursing softly, he willed himself to sit there without showing his pain or the waves of nausea washing over him. To his disgust, his hand trembled. He lowered it and forced himself to speak evenly. "I have to find Josefina," he said in English, so there would be no question of her understanding. "Please. I have to go."
Her hand pushed him – all too easily – back against the soft couch. "You can't even sit up yet." She rocked back on her heels and Alejandro liked the strength in her features, the no-nonsense way she met his eyes. "I might be able to help if you tell me who she is, how I might recognize her."
Could he trust her? He looked at the room behind her, darkened by twilight. It was clean and simply furnished, with plants in groups around the windows and a painting of the mountains over the fireplace. Even that small survey, moving only his eyes, brought fresh waves of dizziness, and he let his head fall into his waiting hands, breathing slow and deep to stall the nausea. "Madre," he whispered.
Her cool hand lit on his forehead, and she swore softly. "Look, I want to move you to a more comfortable bed. Do you think you can walk a little way?"
"No, no." It was dark. He could not bear to think of Josefina out there, alone and afraid, hiding until he could find her. "I must go."
A tightness marked her mouth, and she stepped back. "Go ahead. Give it your best."
Alejandro worked his way to a full sitting position and halted, waiting for the dizziness to subside. He was a strong man. Healthy. He did not drink spirits or weaken himself with tobacco. In all his life, he had never been ill, not even with a cold. In a moment, his head would clear and he would stand up, and though it would hurt, he would leave here and find Josefina.
But he waited, and the dizziness did not abate. He felt his head drifting above his body somewhere, above the dull, steady throb of his leg. Suddenly, nausea flared in his belly and he swayed, feeling cold sweat break on his forehead and down his back. He closed his eyes, fighting it, but found himself resting his face in his hands.
"Señor," she said quietly. "Have a little water."
She pressed a glass into his hand, and to his shame, had to help him lift it to his lips. The taste was cool and sweet against his parched lips, however, and he drank greedily. His stomach settled and he nodded.
The woman put the glass aside and put a strong hand on his elbow. "You have been shot. Was it in the raid last night at Wiley Farms?"
He met her gaze. If she knew that, and still listened to his plea to keep the officials out of it, she was not likely to care if he told the truth now. "Sí."
"There's infection in the wound, which is what is making you so ill. I can get some antibiotics and you'll be better in a couple of days, but in the meantime, you aren't going to be able to walk more than a few feet without falling on your face. Not on an infected, gunshot leg." She paused. "Let me help you."
Even in his present state, he was bewildered by her kindness. "Why?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't really know." Gripping his elbow, she said, "Let's get you settled. Then you can tell me what I need to know to help locate Josefina."
He had no choice. He nodded.
"Can you stand up? There is a more comfortable bed in the back room."
He hoped so. Bracing himself, Alejandro gritted his teeth as he leaned on her. Even with her help, it took every shred of his will to move the short distance to a bedroom off the kitchen. He noted windows all around, and a swept wooden floor and a lamp burning warmly in one corner before he eased into the comfort of the clean, fresh-smelling linens. Blackness edged his vision, and he took her hand urgently, to speak before unconsciousness claimed him again.
"Señora," he said urgently, and paused to gather the English words.
"I'm here." Her hand was strong. Reliable, somehow.
She bent over him in that way of caretakers, moving into his view so he did not have to even turn his head. As he gathered his words, he saw that she had a face like a saint, that smooth white skin, and heaven-soft eyes, and a long rope of brown and yellow hair that shone in the light.
"Tell me about Josefina," she said in Spanish, as if realizing what effort it took for him to concentrate.
"I lost her in the raid, and she is ill." He tried to remember what else. "She's … little. Ocho años."
"Su hija?"
"No, no." Blackness crept over him. "My niece … por favor."
"I'll find her," she promised, and squeezed his hand.
Believing her, he let go and blackness swarmed over him, velvety and deep and free of pain.
* * *
Molly felt his grip loosen as he slipped into the fever. She settled his lean dark hand on his belly, then efficiently removed his boots – an act that would have been agonizing for him while he was conscious – then found her scissors and cut away his jeans completely so that he could rest more comfortably. She'd made the bed before she moved him, and now braced the wounded leg between two pillows to help keep it immobile. Though the evening was not cold, she covered him with a light quilt, anticipating the chill a fever sometimes brought with it.
Fever. She needed antibiotics. There were some painkillers in a bottle in the medicine cabinet, left over from dental surgery a few months ago, and when he could eat a little, she'd give him those. But the need for antibiotics was urgent
. His temperature was up, and the leg was burning. The last thing in the world she wanted was to end up with a dead man in her house.
She pulled another light blanket over him, tucking it around him loosely so he'd stay warm but would not feel constrained. Again, the impossible beauty of his face struck her. Wounded and ill as he was, his face was still so astonishing Molly couldn't help staring. Such artful lines.
And not only his face. The body was lean, hard-muscled, tan. She had a weakness for men who worked the land, who spent their days in the sun, touching what grew or roamed on the earth. In her experience, it didn't matter whether it was a lowly field hand or a rancher with hundreds of acres, men of the land were a breed apart. They looked to the sky and tasted the wind and knew they were at the mercy of nature. It lent them humility and dignity.
Her husband had been such a man. For a moment, she thought of the fan of sun lines that had marked Tim's face by the time he was thirty, and waited for a hollow ache such memories usually brought. This time, it did not come. She felt only fondness.
Although her patient would not likely stir for many hours, she left a small pitcher of water on the nightstand, along with a cup. There was a small bathroom across the hall, probably reachable if he held on to walls, and she left the light on to lead the way if he awakened.
Then she set out to see if she could make good on her promise to find Josefina, trying in vain to ignore the pleasure she felt over discovering it was not his wife, but a child, that her patient called for with such devotion.
* * *
Chapter 2
«^»
Josefina knew two things about the world – that people usually liked little girls as long as they were polite, and that she got better results from grandmothers. She had been hiding all day, waiting for her uncle to come find her, but as the sun set, she got hungrier and hungrier, and finally decided to take a chance.
It was good for her that she did not look so different from many of the girls in this town. They were dark, like her, and skinny, and some of them even spoke their English in the same way she did. The teachers liked it crisper – a teacher in camp last summer had said that, crisper, and Josefina had loved the sound of it. Like lettuce, she had said with a laugh, and the teacher had laughed with her. So now she tried to remember to break the words like lettuce, but sometimes she forgot.
Tonight, she had on her good blue sweater, because it had been chilly last night, and a pair of jeans with the shirt that had a big sunflower on it that Tío had bought her for her birthday.
There weren't so many people out, but Josefina halted outside the pool of light near the dairy bar, looking for more bad men. She didn't see any. Mostly there were teenagers, who scared her a little with their loud laughing and flat eyes. Sometimes they were nice, but mostly they looked through her.
In her pocket, she had ten dollars. She always had it, just in case, Tío said, and he'd made her think about how to buy things and get the right change so many times she felt confident walking up to the window now to get herself some supper. Soberly, she thought of her choices. They had hot dogs and ice-cream cones on special for $1.75, and she ordered that, then carefully counted the change and tucked it back in her pocket, coughing a little.
Then a lot. The cough doubled her over for a minute, and she felt tiny stabbing pains in her chest. It wouldn't go away. It was always worse in the nighttime. The people at the clinic said it was asthma, and had given her a little thing to breathe with. She took it out of her pocket and used it, and it helped a little. The lady behind the counter frowned a little and asked her if she was sick.
"I'm okay," Josefina assured her. "Just asthma."
She couldn't carry the food all the way back to the orchard, so she took a chance and found a dark corner behind the dairy bar to sit and eat. Nobody bothered her. Nobody probably even saw her, except a little dog with raggedy fur who was so polite about begging that she saved the last bit of hot dog, then the last bite of ice cream, and gave them both to him. She was happy when he followed her.
He was warm next to her when she went back to the deserted part of the orchard where she'd slept the night before. And she didn't feel so scared with him sleeping along her stomach. Once he growled softly, and that made her happiest of all. He'd wake her up barking if the bad men came back.
In the morning, surely Tío would find her.
* * *
Molly knew she wasn't a good liar. There had never been much need for subterfuge in her life, after all, and it took practice to be good at something. Still, she thought as she approached the café, she needed a good excuse to ask the questions she had to ask, so she made up a story.
The Navajo Café had started as a dark little hole in the wall catering to bus passengers who had a meal stop in Vallejos. Over the years, the restaurant had doubled, then tripled its original size. A cowbell over the door rang as Molly went in, and she waved to several friendly faces as she made her way to the counter. "Hi, Maureen," she said to the waitress as she sat down. "Coffee, please."
"Special today is black-bean burritos," Maureen said, turning over a heavy ceramic cup. "Soup is corn chowder."
"Soup, please." She glanced around casually. "Not too busy tonight, is it?" Across the room, she saw a familiar face, bent over a stack of papers, his blond hair tousled, as if he'd had his hands in it again. His regulation tie was loose. "Take it to my brother's table," she said, swinging off the stool.
"Will do, hon."
Josh, absorbed in whatever paperwork he had stacked up, didn't notice her, and for a minute, Molly was torn over the reality of what she was about to do. He looked exhausted, and that made her feel guilty. Unfortunately, she also knew he brought a lot of exhaustion on himself. Three years younger than she, twenty-seven to her thirty, he was honorable and loving, but also dogmatic and hard to live with sometimes. She kept hoping he'd grow into a little compassion, but it hadn't happened yet. He followed the straight and narrow, and expected the rest of the world to follow suit.
"Hi, stranger," she said, sliding into the booth.
He looked up, taking a minute to focus on her face. "Molly!" He scrambled to move some of the forms to give her room. "What's going on? Everything okay?"
"Fine." She helped him stack some of the papers into a pile. "Why are you still working so late?"
He put his hand in his hair, leaving it sticking up on top. "Can't seem to catch up."
Molly reached over the table and smoothed the pointy lock back down. "You should be home with Lynette by now."
"I can't get anything done there. I called her." His blue eyes lowered. "I feel bad, but the kids are just wired at night."
Molly almost offered to baby-sit so they could go out alone together this weekend, then remembered the secret asleep in her back room. "Hang in there, kiddo," she said. "They'll be asking for the keys to the car any minute."
He tossed the pencil down. "Don't remind me."
"Have you eaten?"
"Nah. Just wanted to spend an hour away from all the distractions to see if I could make some progress here." He gestured toward the pile in front of him. "This is paperwork from that raid last night. I don't know why the hell we had to process every–" He gave her a rueful smile. "Never mind."
"I'll buy you some supper," she said, carefully not looking at the papers. Whatever she discovered had to be pure gossip between siblings. "A steak?"
"I can't let you do that, Molly."
"Don't be silly." He was supporting a family of four on the mediocre salary of a deputy sheriff. Molly not only had her job at the hospital as a floor nurse, but a sizable insurance settlement from Tim's death. He'd left her, if not rich, at least moderately well-to-do.
But she still had to bully her brother into taking so much as a quarter from her. When Maureen brought her coffee, Molly said, "Bring Josh the New York steak, please, and put it on my check."
"Got it." She took out her green ticket book and scribbled the order.
When the wait
ress left, Molly decided to get business out of the way first. "I'm glad to see you here, actually. I was going to call you later. Maybe you'll know about a little girl."
He frowned. "What?"
Molly took a deep breath, wondering what people did with their eyes when they weren't lying. The edges of her mouth felt stiff, but she said, "There was a little girl who used to come see me every morning, from the orchards."
He still looked puzzled. "What about her?"
"Did you guys pick her up last night? She didn't come to see me this morning." The lie was feeling a little less troublesome now. In her imagination, Molly could see a skinny eight-year-old with long black hair sitting in her garden. "I'm worried about her."
"You should know better than to get attached to those kids."
She nodded, smiling apologetically. "I know, but she's pretty cute. About eight. Her name is Josefina." She stirred her coffee. "Ring any bells?"
And just before he answered, Molly panicked. What if he asked what she looked like? She had no idea. Her heart actually pinched, and a ripple of radiating pain spread out from the spot.
Oh, she was not good at this.
"There were some kids," Josh said. "But none that age group. There were two really little, and some young teens, but that's it." He shook his head in disgust. "Somebody tipped them off. Probably old Wiley himself."
Molly nodded noncommittally. "Well, if you hear anything about this little girl, let me know, will you?"
"She's probably two hundred miles away by now, Moll."
"You're right." Glad to have that done, she changed the subject. "So, how do you like that new truck?"
* * *
She called her doctor at home from a pay phone at the grocery store. "Hi, Dr. Harris," she said. "I have that sore throat again. Would you phone in a prescription for me?"
