After Eli had taken a few sips of his wine, Miranda said, “I still don’t understand why those French thugs went after you instead of your boss. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Lots of things aren’t fair. The Coahuiltecan Indians who once lived along this river probably don’t think it’s fair that white men took over their land. The way blacks and other minorities have been treated doesn’t seem fair either. Look how many years it’s taken us to elect a black president.”
“I wonder how many more it will be before we finally elect a woman.”
As she spoke, Miranda heard the indignation in her voice. A sense of injustice burned in her chest. She thought about the women hanged during the Salem witch hunt, and the women around the world who’d suffered abuse for millennia.
The waiter served their lunch: buffalo burgers and sweet potato fries. Eli ordered a glass of Chateau Pique Caillou Bordeaux.
“Checking out the competition?” she asked.
“I guess you could say that.” He bit into his burger and chewed contemplatively.
After eating in silence for a few minutes, he returned to the subject of Meditrina. “The way I see it, I’ve been targeted because I know more about the day-to-day, hands-on part of the operation than Troy does. He’s a businessman, not a grower. Coyote used to oversee the vineyards. When he left to start Fortuna, I took on most of his responsibilities.”
“Is risking your neck tracking down bad guys part of your job description?”
“No, but I want to see justice done. I intend to do what’s necessary to bring that about.”
Miranda gazed at his handsome face, sea-green eyes, and golden hair.
“Not much, but it was good seeing him and hanging out with winemakers again. I really liked his place, too.” Eli dipped a couple of fries in ketchup and popped them in his mouth.
“Sounds like you had fun.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Something in his tone set off warning signals.
“Of course not.”
“Miranda, are you okay?”
“Fine.”
Eli frowned. “When women say they’re ‘fine’ it usually means just the opposite.”
“How’s the wine?”
“Pretty good,” he said. “You changed the subject. Are you mad at me?”
“I just wanted us to have a good time, but you’ve been in a pissy mood all day.”
Tears stung her eyes. She’d invited him to meet her in San Antonio to celebrate her luck at the roulette table—her treat. However, he didn’t appear to be enjoying the experience as much as she was.
“Sorry,” he said, stroking the back of her hand with his fingertips. “I’m hot and tired and I don’t like crowds. We did the Alamo and the Governor’s Palace this morning, then the River Walk. After we finish lunch, you’re probably going to want to poke around in all these shops and art galleries, right?”
“Well, yes…”
“How about a compromise? While you shop and visit the galleries, I’ll go back to the hotel and relax at the pool. When you’re finished, c’mon back and we’ll have a nice dinner together, wherever you want to go.”
“Can we go dancing, too?”
“That might be pushing it,” Eli said, and chuckled. “Let’s see what condition my feet are in at that point.”
After she showed him her purchases—a tooled tin cross set with colorful stones, an alligator belt studded with conchos, and a hand-painted pottery armadillo—they went downstairs to the Menger Hotel’s famous bar for a drink before dinner. They sat at a cherrywood booth and Eli ordered two of the bar’s legendary mint juleps.
Miranda admired the paneled ceiling and beveled mirrors. “I read that this is a replica of the House of Lords’ Club in London.”
“It’s also where Teddy Roosevelt recruited his Rough Riders to fight in the Spanish-American War,” he said. “I think one of his bullets is still lodged in the wall over there.”
“I wish men would find a way other than fighting to settle their differences.”
“Sometimes there’s no alternative. If a guy tries to move in on your territory and you don’t want to give it up, you have to fight him.”
“Why do people feel they have a right to take somebody else’s property anyway?
Can’t they just be satisfied with what they’ve got?”
“What if a guy doesn’t have enough to provide for his family, or his tribe? He might feel justified taking what he needs from someone who has more.”
“I guess a person can always justify his behavior if it suits his purposes,” she countered. “I bet if women ran the world, we wouldn’t have wars.”
Eli laughed. “Probably not. You’d all be too busy shopping.”
She punched him lightly on the arm. He grabbed her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, then her wrist, slowly working his way up the soft skin of her inner arm.
“Mmmm. You taste good,” he said. “We’d better go to dinner soon, otherwise I’ll have to take you upstairs and eat you instead.”
Even in July, Mi Tierra in San Antonio’s Market Square was festooned with Christmas lights. Eli and Miranda stuffed themselves with Mexican favorites—nachos, chalupas, tamales, enchiladas—then moved to the restaurant’s bar where a Mariachi quartet strolled from table to table, performing traditional music. As they sipped margaritas, a Latin dance band warmed up in the adjoining room.
Several couples were already dancing to the lively beat. Miranda tapped her foot and watched them, marveling at their grace and dexterity.
“How do your feet feel now?” she asked.
“Better,” he said. “I still won’t be much of a partner, though. I can’t salsa or rhumba or whatever it is they’re doing.”
“Well I’m not very good at it either, but I took a few classes at an adult ed center back in Salem. I can show you the basics.”
A strikingly handsome, dark-skinned man with a moustache, who might have been forty or sixty, approached their table. He smiled and nodded at Miranda, then spoke to Eli in Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” she wanted to know.
“I think he’s asking to dance with you. Go ahead. If you want to, that is.”
Miranda accepted the man’s hand and he led her to the dance floor. “No
He shrugged and smiled, as if to say,
