“I can’t shoot it.”
“I can.”
“Your arm is broken.”
He stared at his right hand, as if willing it to work. The best he could do was bend his fingers. They were swollen and stiff. “I’ll use my left.”
She dismissed this idea as teen-boy foolishness and looked around for a miracle. To her astonishment, she found one. There was a man standing underneath a gnarled smoke tree about fifty yards away. He was wearing jeans and a suit jacket with no shirt. Though his face was in shadow, she’d recognize it anywhere.
Armando Villarreal.
She’d bet her last peso that he could shoot the tail off a lizard with that rifle. It was lying on the hilltop, easy to grab.
“Wait here,” she told Hugo, and went for it.
She dashed up the hill, her heart pounding with adrenaline. She didn’t like guns. She’d rather pick up a rattlesnake than a rifle. But she grabbed it all the same. Her head and shoulders were exposed for a split second before she ducked down again. As she navigated the rocky slope, descending quickly, she heard the telltale sound of rocks shifting behind her.
Uh-oh.
Hugo shouted a warning. She didn’t turn to see who was coming after her. She just started running down the hill. She almost lost her footing at the edge of the slope. Catching herself, she hit the flat ground and headed right, toward the smoke tree and away from Hugo. Armando ducked behind the tree trunk, vanishing as if he’d never been there. She felt the ground thunder as her pursuer closed in. The tree wavered like a mirage on the horizon.
She wasn’t going to make it.
?Chingado! She shouldn’t have gone for the rifle. She should have listened to Ian. She should have stayed with Hugo.
Before she reached the tree, she got caught by the hair and yanked off her feet. Her head snapped backward and her arms flew out. She couldn’t hang on to the rifle. It slipped from her hands as she hit the ground. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs.
Crack!
The man chasing her went down too. He released his grip on her hair as he fell. She sat up, gasping for breath.
Armando loomed over her with a grapefruit-sized rock. He tossed the blunt weapon aside casually. She stared at him with a mixture of gratitude and fear. He stared back at her in his usual fashion. No emotion, no expression.
She’d described him once to Kari as cara de cuero, or leather face. This was not a flattering comment, but it fit. He was weathered and unmoving.
“Where’s my daughter?”
She gestured over the hill with a shaking hand.
“Is she hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who’s that?” Armando asked, glancing at Hugo. He was walking toward them slowly. He stopped to rest, wincing in pain.
“My brother.”
“How many men are guarding Sarai?”
“Three.”
“Armed?”
“Yes.”
“?Y tu novio? The lawman?”
She nodded, moistening her lips. She was still rattled from the close call. She couldn’t stop trembling. “He’s with her.”
Armando’s eyes traveled down the length of her body. She sensed that he saw her as a desirable woman, just as Ian had suggested. She hadn’t noticed this before, but now it seemed obvious. Maybe Ian was right about Armando’s feelings for her. It didn’t really matter, because Ian was wrong about his motivations. Armando hadn’t saved Maria’s life to gain her favor. He’d done it because he had protective instincts.
Armando turned his gaze toward the hillside. “We’re not friends, him and I.”
“I know.”
“You won’t interfere?”
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes.
The man who’d been chasing her groaned. He might regain consciousness, but he probably wouldn’t feel well enough to fight. Armando didn’t look well, either. His skin had a dusty, grayish cast. There was a bloodstained bandage under his jacket.
He touched her cheek with scratchy fingertips. “Thank you for delivering the letter,” he said. Then he gathered the rifle and climbed up the hill.
She didn’t tell him to go with God. It was too late for that.
—
Armando didn’t expect to stumble upon his enemies.
He figured he’d get picked up by the federal police and hand-delivered to them. Either that or die of exposure. Every step in the blazing desert sun brought him closer to hell. Then he’d heard gunshots, and his heart had stalled in his chest.
Sarai.
She was a skinny girl, fine-boned, but she’d been a fat baby. Alma had been so proud of her. She’d dressed her in cute little outfits and made adoring exclamations. “?Qué gordita eres!” she’d say. “Look at these chubby legs!”
Armando hadn’t thought about that in years.
He’d jogged toward the sound of gunshots until the ache in his gut made it impossible. Then he’d walked fast. As soon as he saw Maria, he’d felt a resurgence of energy. She was part guardian angel, part good-luck charm. She reminded him of Alma, in the days before Sarai came along. They’d met when she was nineteen and he was twenty-two. She was the most spirited, most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She’d been engaged at the time, to a wealthy Spaniard, but he hadn’t been man enough for her. He hadn’t defied her parents, or lifted her skirts and taken her against the wall in the garden.
Armando had.
As he reached the hilltop, he cleared his mind of everything but the present situation. Here and now. The rifle in his left hand. Beretta 9mm in his right.
This was it.
Three men stood in the canyon below. He recognized Tito Maldives, the brother of Memo Maldives. Armando had killed Memo for his involvement in Alma’s murder. The other two were young men. They had bandannas covering the lower halves of their faces. One was Tito’s son, Benito. The second had light hair. He looked familiar, but Armando couldn’t place him.
Sarai was sitting on the ground next to Agent Foster with her hands bound behind her back. She appeared unharmed. Though small and delicate looking, like Alma, she wore a fierce expression. His chest constricted at the sight of her, all grown up.