LITMIR.BIZ

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made a pact not to tell Abuela about their stepfather. Afraid if they told, their stepfather would make them move again.

      She and Byron were used to keeping secrets. The first time her stepfather hurt Byron, she walked all the way by herself to the church and told the priest. The priest’s Anglo face had whitened, and he’d turned away. He told her to go home and stop speaking lies about her father.

      Byron fussed when she returned to the trailer on the rez. Scared the priest would tell their stepfather and next time it’d be worse. Though she wasn’t sure it could get worse.

      Mainly, though, Byron was ashamed. He didn’t want anyone to know what happened when their stepfather started drinking. During the workweek, their stepfather was a model employee. Organized, efficient, hardworking.

      On the weekends, he drank. Not enough to get drunk. Just enough to let loose the mean, Byron said. To forget, Pilar realized as she grew older, what had been done to him as a boy, shipped off in another day and age to the Indian boarding school. A threat he hung over her and Byron’s heads. A taunt at how lucky they were to have him instead of being sent away to the mercy of Anglo strangers.

      By the age of ten, she also understood something else. There was no mercy. No grace like the priest talked about on Sunday mornings. No goodness. Only secrets.

      And survival.

      “We’re going to get out of here,” Byron whispered as she bandaged the cuts their stepfather had made with his fists. “We’re going to leave this godforsaken rez and make something of ourselves. You and me.”

      He bit off a groan.

      Pilar’s tears fell onto his bruised cheek.

      “Stop that, Sister.” He wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “Apaches don’t cry. We get even.”

      And because it was Byron’s secret to tell, she kept silent. How could she not when every night Byron stood between her and the sickness that drove their stepfather?

      Her mama had been dead a month the first time their stepfather came for her.

      “Run.” Byron shoved Pilar toward her bedroom. “Lock the door. No matter what you hear, don’t open it until I tell you.”

      And then Byron offered himself in her place.

      Making a bargain with the devil.

      “I won’t let him hurt you, Sister. I’ll keep you safe. I’m not going to let him take away your chance.”

      But the second summer after Alex came, when she was fourteen, her time finally came. Her stepfather watched her when he believed no one was looking. And Byron became increasingly desperate to protect her.

      They never told a soul as the tension grew thick. Not Abuela. Not any of the Anglo, Latino, or Apache cowboys Abuela employed on the Torres spread. Certainly not Byron’s best friend, Alex.

      Byron would rather die than have Alex know what happened at the foreman’s house after the sun went down. Die before Alex learned what Byron endured to protect Pilar.

      And one June night while Alex visited cousins in Texas, time ran out for Pilar.

      “Run, Sister.” Byron’s voice choked with fear. “Go. Now.”

      He pushed her inside her bedroom and slammed the door shut. “Lock it, Sister. Push the dresser in front,” he called from the other side.

      She grabbed the iron skillet she’d hidden underneath her bed. Reining in the sobs as Byron taught her, she held the heavy frying pan aloft with both hands. She listened at the sounds coming from the living room.

      Byron’s low-voiced responses to their stepfather’s enraged shouts. But Byron was unable this time to divert their stepfather. Unable to quench the fire in their stepfather’s gullet.

      When he finished with Byron, she heard his heavy tread coming down the hall. She tensed. Somehow, Byron got between their stepfather and her door.

      This time Byron fought. This time he stood his ground.

      But the burly Apache was stronger than the sixteen-year-old boy. And Pilar couldn’t stand it any longer. She couldn’t stand being afraid. She was tired of running and cowering.

      Grunting with each blow to Byron’s midsection, her stepfather didn’t hear her unlock the door.

      He didn’t hear the door squeak as she flung it wide.

      The man never looked up from beating Byron until she swung the skillet against the back of his head with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed.

      Staggering, her stepfather collapsed against the wall.

      His eyes widened at the sight of the skillet she gripped, traces of his blood and hair matted to the black surface. Maddened, his face transformed with pure rage. Snarling, he lunged.

      She swung again.

      With one last blow, in a sickening crunch of bone, the metal made contact with his face.

      He landed not far from where Byron lay in a pool of blood. Wheezing noises came from what had once been her stepfather’s nose. Blood gurgled between his lips.

      She slumped against the wall. The skillet slipped from her hand and clanged against the floor. Her chest heaving, she sucked in a breath of oxygen.

      Byron moaned.

      Her eyes flicked from him to their stepfather.

      Pilar surged over their prostrate forms and toward the phone in the kitchen. Abuela would know what to do, how to help Byron. Pilar would go to jail for what she’d done, but she’d saved Byron.

      She wasn’t sure what she said after Abuela answered on the first ring. But Isabel Torres, her long, silver hair unbound and streaming down her back, arrived not five minutes later. Backed against the wall between Byron and her stepfather, Pilar squatted in the narrow hallway, her chin propped on her knees.

      Isabel’s breath hitched. In a glance, Abuela took in the situation. Comprehension dawned in Abuela’s dark eyes. She spoke to someone over her shoulder.

      For the first time, Pilar noticed the Apache cowboy at Isabel’s side. He was dark, darker than her or Byron. And despite the spectacle she and Byron presented, his face reflected neither surprise nor anything else. She’d seen him around the ranch before.

      Mostly evenings on the veranda with Abuela. Or riding far, far away toward the horizon. He came and went according to whim. Returning to work when he ran out of money. Leaving for his own pursuits when flush with cash.

      Abuela gestured toward Pilar’s stepfather, coughing blood. “These children are under my protection, Segundo.”

      Segundo? Her second?

      At the sight of the Apache’s fearsome face—mapped like the canyonlands, full of scars and chasms—Pilar squeezed her arms around her drawn knees.

      The Apache surveyed the battered form of her stepfather. “Understood, Doña.” His slightly skewed right eye went dull as a winter’s day. “It will be taken care of.”

      Pilar shivered as if something cold and dreadful had walked over her grave.

      “We must all adapt or die.” Abuela extended her hand to Pilar. “Come, child. Let me help you.”

      Her gaze ping-ponging between the sinister-looking cowboy and her dear abuela, Pilar inched up the wall.

      The Apache reached for the skillet at her feet.

      Hissing, Pilar snatched it from the floor and cradled it against her chest.

      One corner of the Apache’s mouth lifted into what may have passed for a smile.

      To Pilar, it more likely resembled a grimace.

      But with great deliberation, the Apache offered his hand.

      “Pilar?” Isabel coaxed.

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