LITMIR.BIZ

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knew it.

      Yet, Esperanza was here.

      And someone had shot Ryder.

      Unfortunately, he passed out again before she could ask him any questions about that. Familiar anxiety, one that often stirred without warning these days, tightened her muscles. She worked her breathing to keep those muscles from locking up completely. No big deal. Just an injured man. She wasn’t in the middle of full-out war or anything.

      Rain pelted the windows as she looked into the man’s pale face. He’d be gone, come morning. So would Esperanza. She would drive the woman into town where Esperanza could get back to her people or at least find someone who spoke Spanish.

      Then she would take care of her brother’s remains and go home, Grace decided, and making a decision—an escape plan—relaxed her a little. She’d planned on staying a couple of days, but the peace and solitude she’d come to seek had been shattered. She looked at the urn on the mantel.

      “Nothing ever turns out the way you’d expect,” she told Tommy, and missed his quiet, strong company suddenly with a sharp, heartrending pain.

      RYDER WOKE TO THE SUN shining through the windows and had no idea where he was, which he found less than encouraging. His weapon was gone. Bad news number two. And he didn’t have pants on, which added to his general sense of unease. He looked around the faded living room, at the old, rustic furnishings. He recognized them and the unique fireplace from when he’d peeked through the windows last week. He was at the ranch he’d thought abandoned.

      Female voices captured his attention, an indistinct chatter. There were people in the house with him. Could be good news, or bad. He needed to face the music either way.

      He drank the orange juice left on the rustic side table next to the sofa, then glanced under the bandage on his leg and noted the professional-looking stitches. Obviously, at one point he’d gotten medical help. Yet he didn’t remember a trip to the hospital, or here.

      Ignoring the pain, he quietly pushed to his feet and wrapped the pink-and-purple afghan around his waist—an indignity he couldn’t find a way around. He turned to look for a weapon. Yowza.

      Dizziness hit him so hard, he had to brace his hand against the back of the sofa. He moved slower as he stepped forward and grabbed the poker from the fireplace, then headed toward the voices.

      Two women stood by the kitchen counter, trying to communicate, one in English, the other one in rushed Spanish. Neither noticed him. The Mexican woman looked drawn and scared; the tall, lean Texan seemed exasperated.

      Neither was armed, so he leaned the poker against the wall before he stepped forward. Not so far, of course, that he couldn’t easily reach back for the makeshift weapon.

      All conversation stopped. Sharp tension filled the sudden silence as they turned to him.

      He put a friendly smile on his face. “Ladies.”

      The Texan dashed for him on legs that went on forever. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.” She propped him up, then helped him to a chair by the table. Her dark auburn hair was chin-length, a stubborn wave curled under her ear. Emerald-green eyes shone from her face.

      Something about her body pressed against his felt familiar. He had a sudden flashback of the two of them in the dark, in the rain.

      “Here.” She moved with purposeful efficiency as she settled him on the chair. Her soft hair tickled his jaw for a second before she pulled away. “Let me make you some eggs. You need the protein.”

      He needed a lot of things, his Beretta being at the top of the list. But it didn’t seem polite to demand a handgun when someone just offered to feed you breakfast. “Where am I?”

      “At the Cordero ranch. I’m Grace.”

      She was pretty in a simple sort of way—no overdone makeup or freaky hairdo—her look and gestures natural, if not completely relaxed. She had a lean body that clearly saw regular exercise. She kept casting wary glances his way. “Do you remember me bringing you back here?”

      “Not exactly.” He remembered running into smugglers who shot him. Then he remembered being on the brink of death, getting desperate enough to shoot his gun into the air, risking leading the smugglers back to him. The desperate act of a man who’d run out of choices.

      But Grace had showed instead of the gunmen, apparently.

      Must have been his lucky day.

      Unless, of course, she was somehow connected to the smugglers. But then why would she save him? He decided to trust her for the time being, but moved his chair, anyway, so he’d be within reach of the knife on the counter.

      A rough-looking cat appeared from nowhere and measured him up.

      “Her name is Twinky,” Grace said. “She’s a stray.”

      The cat sauntered closer, rubbed herself against his legs, then sauntered away.

      The Mexican woman kept wringing her hands and talking all through their exchange.

      Grace shot him a helpless, reluctant look. “Do you know what she’s saying?”

      He asked her to slow down a little and focused on the flood of words. “She’s looking for her husband and her kids. Five-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.”

      Grace paled, her gaze flying to the window. “They were out there last night with her?”

      He repeated the question in Spanish, then translated for Grace.

      “They came to the U.S. with her husband two months ago.”

      He asked a couple more questions and got the rest of the story. Didn’t much like it.

      “Her husband got a visa to come and work for the wire mill in Hullett. The whole family was supposed to get papers, but something delayed hers at the last minute. The company representative told her she had to stay behind for a few days, and then she could come after her family once everything was straightened out.”

      The woman was clearly distraught and desperate, wringing her hands as she waited for him to finish translating. He didn’t think she was lying.

      Grace brought him another glass of orange juice, then got a carton of eggs out of the fridge, her attention on him as he continued to translate.

      “She was told the children should go ahead with the husband. School was starting. The representative even got them fully loaded backpacks and everything.”

      His instincts prickled. He asked a few more questions.

      “She says she last saw her family when they crossed the border. Never heard from them again. Never heard from the company representative. She can’t reach him at the phone number he’d given her. She talked to the Mexican police. She even called the Hullett police here. Neither would help her.”

      Grace turned on the stove under the eggs then put a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. The small, sympathetic gesture made tears gather in the woman’s eyes all over again.

      “Did you come across the border last night with a guide?” he asked in Spanish, wanting as much detail as possible.

      She hung her head, her shoulders tensing as she backed away from him. For a second he thought she might make a run for the door. Grace either understood some of his words or she’d guessed them because she positioned herself so she could block him if he made a move. That she thought he might give chase was flattering, but wholly impossible. He could barely put weight on his injured leg.

      Then, peeking from behind Grace, the young woman gave a hesitant nod at last, and rushed to explain.

      “She’s afraid that something terrible happened to her family,” he told Grace. “All she wants is to find them and make sure they’re safe.”

      “I’ll take her to town after breakfast and help her with the authorities,” Grace said immediately. “If you

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