The Spy Wore Spurs

Could be Dylan. She walked to the window, but could see only her own pickup in the driveway through the sheets of rain.

Looking sideways, she could just barely make out a shadow outside her door. Maybe Ryder McKay had a partner out there who was looking for shelter. She hurried to the door and put her hand on the key, but then hesitated. Whoever was outside could just as easily be the one who’d shot McKay.

She ran back to him and pulled the large afghan over his head, covering his entire body. The couch stood in line of sight from the front door. This way, at least he wouldn’t be immediately seen.

The late-night visitor knocked again, even louder and more forcefully.

She strode back to the door, reached for her grandfather’s rifle that she’d hung back up on the peg, then drew a deep breath. “Who is it?”

Chapter Two

The short, plump woman on the other side of the door stood soaked to the skin and poised to flee. She was unarmed and covered in mud—must have slipped a couple of times on her way here. She broke into rapid Spanish.

Grace put away the rifle and motioned her in. “Yo no habla Español. Lo siento.”

She’d forgotten ninety percent of the Spanish she’d learned in high school. And the woman spoke way too fast to even catch individual words, anyway.

But one didn’t have to be bilingual to understand that she was in trouble and ready to drop from exhaustion. Scratches covered her arms, dirt and leaves clung to her wet hair, dark circles rimmed her eyes. She rushed on with her torrent of unintelligible words.

Maybe her car had broken down somewhere. Nothing they could do about that until morning.

“Mañana, all right? We’ll figure this out tomorrow. How about you take a nice hot shower and get some sleep?”

Grace motioned her to the stairs and kept her body between her and the sofa to block the woman’s view of Ryder, barely covered by the afghan. Upstairs, she showed her to the bedroom she’d cleaned for herself earlier, pointing out the bathroom next door.

“Cómo te llamas?” She used one of the few expressions she remembered, as she pulled a dry T-shirt and sweatpants from the bag she’d brought and hadn’t unpacked yet.

The woman put a hand to her chest. “Esperanza.” Then she rushed on with plenty of things to say, unfortunately all in Spanish.

“Okay, Esperanza. Me llamo Grace. “She handed over the clothes. “Take it easy, get some rest.” She pointed to the bed. “You’re safe here.”

Esperanza, barely strong enough to stand, stopped talking and nodded. Her shoulders slumped, tears gathered in her eyes. She looked pitifully, heart-twistingly dejected, but seemed to accept at last that they weren’t going to understand each other. She moved to leave.

“No. You stay here. Mañana, we’ll take care of everything. You can’t go anywhere else tonight.” Grace pointed at the rain lashing the window. “Muy peligroso.” Very dangerous.

The woman paled, then nodded, the fight going out of her. She sank onto the bed.

“I’ll bring you something to eat, okay?” Grace grabbed her bag then left the woman and padded downstairs.

She made two sandwiches for Esperanza and grabbed a bottle of water to take to her. The woman accepted the nourishment, setting everything on the bedcover next to her.

“Good night. Buenas noches. Everything will be better in the morning. You’ll see. Mañana. “Grace gave a big thumbs-up.

But the woman didn’t cheer up in the least. She looked heartbroken beyond words.

Grace went back downstairs and mopped up the mud, exhaustion settling into her bones. She didn’t look forward to having to clean another bedroom before she could go to sleep. But by the time she changed into dry clothing and was ready to head back up the stairs, Ryder was blinking awake. She grabbed the chance and poured some orange juice into him.

“Are you with the team-building people?” In that case, she could call Dylan once her phone decided to work again, and he could get in touch with the rest of the guy’s team. They had to be looking for him.

But after clearing his throat, the man said, “border protection,” his voice hoarse and weak.

She winced, thinking of Esperanza upstairs who might or might not be from the local Hispanic community. Maybe she’d just sneaked across the border. Not something that normally happened on the ranch. The south side of the property was pretty inhospitable terrain, even discounting the impassable ravine. No shade, frequent brush fires, an endless walk and several families of ocelots in the brush were a pretty good deterrent.

There were easier places to cross, and most everybody 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.