The next problem was, I had no idea where I was. We were far enough from any road that I didn't hear traffic, but that could be as close as a half mile or as far away as twenty miles. Since Francois said it was morning, I assumed from the temperature and the cabin's construction we were in the nearby San Jacinto or San Bernardino mountains — the Sierra Nevadas were too far away. Worst of all, I had no shoes on, or even winter clothing. The best I could do was a light sweatshirt and jeans.
Shivering, I grabbed the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders, hoping my kidnappers at least would be kind enough to lend me a jacket or something if they were going to keep me locked in the room. I was just about to knock and ask when the door rattled again, and another man opened the door. Larger and more muscular, maybe a little short of two hundred pounds, it was obvious the two were brothers. They shared the exact same hair color, nose, and jawline.
"We have breakfast for you," he said in the same lightly-accented English. "Come and eat."
I followed the man, if only because I could tell it was warmer in the other room. I followed him out, wincing as my semi-frozen feet crossed the cold boards. In the other room, obviously the main room of the cabin, I saw Francois standing over an older-looking pot belly cast iron stove, nodding and smiling to me. "Are you feeling more refreshed?"
"I couldn’t sleep," I answered, "too much to think about."
"I understand. You look cold. Have a seat in front of the fire with my brother. I’ll have breakfast ready soon."
The fire was small but welcome, and I got as close as I could without burning myself. Francois's brother took a small camp stool nearby, watching me closely as I warmed my hands. "You look cold. Is it cold in there?”
"Considering I've been kidnapped, I don't suppose I have room to complain, but yes it is," I answered. "Think next time you guys could just book us some rooms at the local Motel 6 instead?"
"That wouldn’t have been advisable," the man said. Behind him, Francois chuckled.
"Brother, come on. She’s kidding. It is cold in that bedroom. And I’m glad she has a sense of humor about it, considering the situation we’ve put her in."
The other man turned and glared at Francois before turning back and chuckling. It was the first time I'd seen him smile. It was hidden under a very thick layer of terseness. "Francois is right. I’m sorry, Miss Banks. I’ll make sure you have another blanket when the evening comes around."
"Thank you. I suppose asking for wool socks, a thermal undershirt, and keys to your car are too much?"
"The socks and shirt I can do something about, but I’ll keep the keys to myself," he said. "Although you’ll have to make do with men's size clothes."
"I have a sweatshirt you can borrow," Francois said, "but my only other pair of socks are dirty. What about you, brother?"
"I packed extras, you know that."
As the two brothers jawed back and forth, I gained a sense of the relationship between them. Francois was more playful, and certainly more relaxed than his brother. It wasn't that his brother — I still didn't know his name yet — was cruel or mean, he was just very serious. He was also easily exasperated by his brother's joking tone, yet tolerated it. Francois, for his part, knew exactly how far to push before backing off and acquiescing to him.
True to his word, Francois was ready with breakfast within ten minutes, bringing over bowls of easily identifiable but messy huevos rancheros. "The corn tortillas are but chips, but I think the spirit is still there," he said. “My culinary skills aren’t up to par."
"Considering it is Mexican-American style cooking served in a bowl by a Frenchman, I’m not expecting Michelin stars," I wisecracked, before seeing Francois face. "Sorry."
"She does have you there, though," the other man said with a grin. He dug in with his spoon, taking a bite. “It’s good. What is the red sauce?"
"Just some salsa that I cooked down and added some extra lemon juice to. I had to cannibalize our midday snack for this. So no nachos."
"Okay, that confirms it," I said with a chuckle. I took a bite of the food and thought that Francois was being humble. The food was excellent, considering the things he had to work with. "You may be part French, I can hear that in your voices and in your name, but you two aren't totally French. Do I get to know, or can we play Twenty Guesses to find out?"
"It can't hurt," Francois said to his brother, who nodded. "We are French, yes. But also Roma and American."
"Roma? As in Romania?" I asked. "I thought that was called Romanian."
The other man shook his head. "Not Romanian. Roma. What is commonly referred to as gypsies."
I nodded in understanding, excited that I could place a part of their background.
"We were born in the United States," Francois said, “but we’ve spent our lives living in many places in the world. Fiction distorts many things about our culture, but there are things they get right too.”
"You must have had a very interesting childhood growing up," I said, taking a bite of my breakfast. The avocado added just the right amount of creaminess to offset the salty eggs. “Pretty good,” I admitted.