Steve heard a faint sound and put up his hand to halt the others, uncertain what had made the noise. Then he heard it again—the treble of a child’s voice.
Ginny had heard it, too. Her head came up, and her eyes focused on the ridge just beyond. Lips parted, she waited, motionless, but the silence stretched unbearably.
Steve gestured for them to dismount. They would go the rest of the way afoot. Boots scraped over rock, dislodged pebbles that slid down the slope in a light patter. The wind blew across the ridge in hot waves, wafting the scent of sage.
“Wait here until you hear gunfire,” he told Paco, his eyes warning Ginny not to protest. She offered no objection, but only nodded, her posture rigid.
“If you need help, amigo, just yell for me.” Paco grinned, but his eyes were strained.
Steve climbed the ridge, his boots sliding slightly on loose gravel as he descended the other side and disappeared from sight.
Alone with Paco, Ginny’s nerves were stretched taut to the breaking point. A hawk soared overhead, its sharp cry drifting down through a searing sky. The smell of sage and dust was sharp and suffocating.
“This is suicide,” she said finally. “They’ll kill him.”
“Maybe. Though I think they’ll be too surprised that he’s walking in alone to think of that at first. I don’t think the senator wants him dead. That would create too many problems.”
Ginny slumped against a rock. The horses tore at clumps of brown grass, teeth grinding loudly.
“I still can’t understand why he would do this. It makes no sense. I’ve never thought the senator was foolish, but this borders on lunacy.”
“Greed and desperation make men do strange, stupid things, Ginny.” Paco pushed his hat back on his head, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I sure as hell hope Steve knows what he’s doing.”
She glanced at him sharply. “You just said he’ll be all right!”
“Yeah.” Paco grimaced. “I know. Sometimes I let my mouth get ahead of me.”
“Should we follow him?”
“I had the same thought. We’ll wait like he said, but closer.”
They made their way to the humped top of the ridge, keeping their heads down. Ginny’s heart pounded furiously. Her mouth was dry and her hands were shaking so violently she knew she would never be able to fire the pistol she wore on her hip like a gunslinger. Belly down, they stretched out to peer down into the arroyo.
Sun-bleached ruins lifted white walls to the sky. An ancient people had built this structure, most of it having long ago tumbled to the ground, but there were still rock walls tucked beneath the overhang of a huge cliff. Clumps of cottonwood trees shaded a small seep, water trickling over rock.
Evidence of habitation was everywhere. Faded blankets hung over gaping windows, and the smoke of a fire curled up from inside one of the buildings. Two men stood guard, their rifles held at the ready.
Steve crossed the arroyo in long, loose strides, casting a short shadow with the sun overhead. Relentless heat shimmered around him, rose in blurred waves from the parched earth. Ginny held her breath as he drew near the guards.
Clearly they had not expected him to walk in so boldly. They glanced uncertainly at each other. They had the flat, broad faces of mestizos, Mexicans with Indian blood.
There was no sign of the children, or of William Brandon. It was eerily quiet.
Beside her, light glinted off Paco’s drawn pistol, the blue-gray of his .45 a deadly gleam. She drew her weapon as well, rather clumsily, her hand shaking as she propped it atop gritty rock, holding the butt with both hands.
“Is that how he taught you to hold a gun?” Paco asked softly, amusement evident in his tone.
Ginny shook her head. “No. But it’s how I’m holding it today.”
Below, Steve was speaking with the guards, and after a moment, they stepped aside. What on earth had he said to convince them to allow him to enter?
Paco was frowning. “They didn’t take his guns. I don’t like this.”
“Maybe they know he won’t start shooting recklessly with the children nearby.”
“Or maybe—”
A sound behind them made the hair stand up on the back of Ginny’s neck, and she heard the unmistakable click of a cartridge being pumped into a rifle chamber.
Paco swore under his breath as a voice said, “Please be so good as to lay down your weapons, amigos.”
45
The sun had begun to slide downward, a great orange ball of fire blazing a vivid trail of yellow and rose above the rocky walls of the arroyo. It was cooler now, the shadows long and deep, reaching into the ruins.
Ginny hugged her children fiercely to her, shushing their frightened sobs with tender firmness as they huddled in a corner under the watchful eye of an armed guard. Tante Celine looked dreadful, her hair more untidy than Ginny had ever seen it, her garments rent in places and caked with dust. But her spine was rigid, her eyes blazing with contemptuous outrage.
“They are animals,” she said in French to her niece, and only a slight quiver betrayed her strain. “But they have not harmed us, though they did drag us across miles of desert. It is him I worry about. He looks ill.”
A nod of her head indicated the man lying on a rough cot nearby. Ginny’s gaze shifted. William Brandon lay listlessly under a tattered blanket. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, and he responded weakly when spoken to by anyone.
“Virginia…” His voice was a grating whisper that she had to strain to hear. “I’m sorry. My fault.”
Moved to pity despite their circumstances, she nodded. “Yes, but save your strength. Don’t try to talk.”
A short, swarthy man Steve had called Delgado returned to the stuffy chamber, grinning at them as he surveyed the
