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Authors: Ruth Wind

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BOOK: Rio Grande Wedding
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Josh was the biggest worry. A deputy sheriff who took his job seriously—too seriously for Molly's tastes at times—he would be very upset with her if he discovered she'd done something like this. It wouldn't even be a matter of the legalities involved—he simply saw the world in black-and-white terms, and couldn't understand the gray areas that existed for most people.
The other worry—that the man might be badly injured—she‘ d just alleviated. She could call an ambulance and they'd come and get him, take him to the hospital for a day or two, then ship him home. But they wouldn't be doing anything more for him physically than giving him a clean bed to rest in and some antibiotics to clear the infection.
That left the danger factor. Although he was in no shape to be a threat at the moment, Molly didn't know anything about his character, after all. He could be a murderer or a drug runner or any number of unsavory other things.
Still undecided, she picked up the handset.
As if sensitive to her thoughts, the man stirred and whispered, in a broken, anguished fashion, a single name. “Josefina!”
Molly put the phone down. He was exactly what he appeared to be, a Mexican national migrant worker who'd run from a raid. A man who was anguished over being separated from a beloved other. A man injured enough that he was no threat to her—at least at the moment.
“Oh, really, Molly,” she said aloud. “Be honest.”
It was that face, manifesting right out of her most private imaginings, that halted her. He moved her. Physically, as in hormonal, as in she had forgotten what that sudden, pleasurable swoop of sexual attraction could feel like. He had the long-limbed body she most liked on a man, and the healthy, lean strength that came from working the land. His hair, black as licorice and slightly curly, was a bit too long and a little untamed. Sexy. Such great eyes, too, so dark and deep, full of depths Molly had been amazed to find herself wanting to explore. Even glazed as they'd been with pain and confusion, she had seen the intensity lurking there, a fire and intelligence that was very compelling.
She smiled to herself. Okay, so maybe she wouldn't be so quick to be on his side if he was short and stout. So what?
But even beyond that, she hesitated because of the worry and love she heard in his voice when he called out Josefina's name. In her view, devotion should be rewarded, not punished.
It couldn't hurt to shelter him until he had healed enough to find his lost Josefina. Molly couldn't turn him away or turn him in until then. If things went well enough, her brother would never even have to know what she'd done.
The tension of indecision melted away, and she went to the kitchen to slice tomatoes, forming a plan to resolve the situation before it became troublesome. Later, maybe she'd go to town and have lunch at the Navajo Café. Listen to the gossip—maybe she'd hear a clue. After that, she could swing by the hospital and check on new arrivals.
Later, though. She was a little worried about her patient, and didn't want to leave him alone until he seemed stable.
In the meantime, she called her best friend and Josh's wife, Lynette. To stay abreast of his activities, Lynette kept a scanner on twenty-four hours a day. Molly found it a little gruesome to listen to the conversation of ambulance attendants or the shouts echoing in the background at a domestic-violence call, but she could understand Lynette's need to be sure her husband was safe. She would also know exactly what had happened last night at Wiley Farms.
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 Brst—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.
“Si.”
“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.
BOOK: Rio Grande Wedding
10.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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