She should be used to it by now, the mysterious events and secrecy. But why did Steve still feel he must be so…so furtive!
Ginny barely had time to catch her breath before they were on a steamboat up the Rio Grande to Roma, a town clustered on steep sandstone cliffs above the river. They disembarked, then continued by horseback up the rutted road that ran parallel to the Rio Grande; the twisting river formed the border between Mexico and Texas, shallow enough to walk across in places.
Though the journey was calm and uneventful, there was an element of tension behind Steve’s easy, casual manner that made her wonder why he and Paco had been in such a hurry to disappear once they reached Nuevo Laredo, leaving her alone with no explanation.
I suppose I should be glad that I’m staying in a nice hotel instead of someplace like—like Lilas’s again, she thought with a trace of irritation. Steve seemed to have a penchant for choosing houses of ill repute—where he was far too well-known for her preferences.
The American town of Laredo was just across the thin, sluggish red ribbon of the Rio Grande. Fort McIntosh faced Mexico, perched on the high bluff overlooking the river, a warning and reminder of former conflicts and the current friction. It seemed quiet, with no sign of civil unrest along the border despite the rumors.
Yet uncertainty dogged Ginny as she tried to rouse from the torpor brought on by the lull in their tiring journey. With some of the journey made by boat, it was not as arduous a trek as it once was, but it was still exhausting.
Sunlight seeped through half-shuttered windows in the whitewashed adobe walls to fill the room with heat. Ginny blinked against it, lethargic after her noon meal. She lay on the narrow bed alone. Steve was still gone. He was almost mysterious, evading questions with a careless ease that was infuriating. If she wasn’t so tired, she might have demanded an explanation. But every muscle in her body seemed to ache and she wanted to just lie on the soft feather bed until she could summon the energy to take a hot bath and wash away the trail grime that was no doubt imbedded in her skin forever.
God, how did I ever survive riding for days—weeks—in the dust and heat? It was so long ago now, as if it had been someone else who had ridden—had been forced to ride—at a grueling pace over brush-studded, arid land relieved only by an occasional seep hole. Hot in the deserts, cold in the jagged-toothed mountains that ringed the flat plains, her introduction to Mexico had been less than pleasant.
But now Mexico was so familiar. She remembered the first time she had seen this country, with Michel Remy. They had ridden along the contours of the Rio Grande then, too, but it had been south from El Paso. It had seemed such an adventure at the time, a high drama with gold hidden in the beds of her father’s wagons, gold meant for Maximilian to further his efforts to secure Mexico against the Juaristas—and to further William Brandon’s dream of creating an empire that would straddle the border of the United States and Mexico. She’d believed in her father then, in the dream that he could keep a foot in both camps and emerge unscathed and victorious. Ah, she had been so young, so foolish. And it had all seemed so romantic!
Riding beside the handsome French officer she had first met as a girl in France, it had seemed as if nothing could harm them, for they were accompanied by skilled French soldiers, and, after all, the Juaristas were only a ragtag bunch of guerrillas instead of highly trained soldiers like these picked by Marshal Bazaine himself.
But, in Mexico there were many deceptions, and she had quickly learned—as had Michel—that it was wise not to believe in appearances. The high rocks of a quiet mountain pass had suddenly sprouted menacing armed bandits, led by a blue-eyed bandido draped in crossed gun belts.
And her life had changed forever.
Ginny sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose to cross to the window. She wore only a thin shift of white lawn, loose and cool as it swished around her bare legs. Sunlight pricked her eyes sharply, turning the air to molten gold as she pushed open a shutter to peer out at the street below.
It was quiet during the afternoon siesta, except for a few stragglers on the streets. Thick dust hung in a soft haze on the still air, heat shimmering up in iridescent waves. There were things about Mexico that would never change, even when politics and politicians changed fortunes and lives in the blink of an eye.
It was all so complicated, the tortured convolution of Mexican politics so frustrating and frightening at the same time, that Ginny tried to focus instead on the future—her future with Steve.
There were moments it seemed as if nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. She was so different…and Steve had changed in so many ways. Outwardly, he seemed to be an entirely different man, yet beneath the calm facade she sensed the same violent nature.
But there had been no confrontations between them, no heated arguments, not even when Steve suggested she go to Don Francisco’s hacienda instead of the rancho in the province of Chihuahua that he had purchased from Hearst.
“You can go on to my grandfather’s with the wagons and baggage,” he’d said, but she quickly refused.
“And be separated from you again? No. We’ll stay together and arrive together. Things have a way of happening when we separate.”
Shrugging, he’d only stared at her, amusement glinting in his dark-blue eyes. “Suit yourself, Ginny.”
“Don’t I always?”
Laughing softly, he had pulled her to him and kissed her, a swift, hard kiss that removed any objections she might have thought of.
“You won’t believe me when I say this, but you are so
