She could also see Señor Valdez, across from her at a table with two other men, their glances in her direction a constant irritation. One of the men, tall and swarthy, with a penetrating gaze, never took his eyes from her. Pah! Let them stare and wonder. She did not care what they thought.
Besides, Señor Valdez was involved in the business with Paco and Steve somehow, and she suspected it had something to do with the mysterious shipment of cargo that had been unloaded when they disembarked at Point Isabel. She had not seen the long wooden boxes again. A lingering suspicion that perhaps Steve was bringing in guns and ammunition to fuel the rebellion was a niggling worry.
Despite several discussions on the topic, she had no idea if he favored Lerdo or Díaz as Mexico’s next leader. But when had her opinion ever mattered? Not often. Not when it came to war or political intrigue, both of which she detested as much as Steve seemed to enjoy them.
She sipped wine, the rich, fruity sangria that she found so refreshing, and ate sparingly while she watched the dancers grow more lively as the night progressed. Then the melody changed a bit, from El Chinaco, a song of the Juarista guerrilleros, to La Malaguena, then to the music of the peasants, wild and abandoned, a plaintive melody that soared higher than the leafy branches of the towering oak, a paean to the night sky and lost love. It had been so long since she’d heard the true music of Mexico that she’d almost forgotten how the guitars could sound like a woman’s sobs. Now it was a reminder of her own sobs in those days of marching, apathy and sullen resignation, with only the dancing to make her forget for the moment. The fiery peasant dances of Mexico—the jarabe, corrido and sometimes even the fandango…
It had been the only thing then that allowed her to forget that she had become dirt, lower than the whores who walked the streets of the cities. And she had despised herself then, for continuing to live, for even wanting to survive, to endure.
But that was a long time ago.
There were so many memories in this country; some of them she tried to forget, but never would. Even during the worst times, when she had survived brutality and horror, the music had kept her feeling alive. It was one of the few things from that time that she wanted to remember.
She sipped more sangria, watching and listening, her slippered feet beating a rhythmic tattoo against the tiled floor. Bright skirts were a whirl of color, the men clad in short jackets and snug-fitting pants, heels clicking against stone in the dance steps, the music a hard, driving throb.
“It is too lovely a night for a beautiful woman to sit alone,” a deep male voice murmured. Ginny glanced up to see a handsome young caballero smiling down at her. “I will be happy to show you the steps if you will dance with me, señorita.”
“Yes,” she surprised herself by saying, suddenly reckless, desperate to escape darker memories. “Yes, I would like to dance.”
A combination of sangria and frustration fueled her heedless response. She gave him her hand without hesitating, as the young man swept her into the center of the patio. In the far corner, the musicians played the traditional Jarabe Tapatio, and Ginny turned, her feet swiftly finding the rhythm.
“You know our dances, señorita?” He sounded surprised that a gringa would know the steps, but his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
She answered in a Mexican dialect. “Oh, yes, I have not forgotten how. I used to live here, you see, in Mexico, a long time ago.”
As they joined the circle of dancers, Ginny forgot her surroundings, Steve’s absence and her frustration. She forgot everything but her love of the music and the moment.
Her partner kept up with her, his young, lithe body supple and eager as he smiled at her appreciatively. As the rhythms changed from fast to slow, then back, they danced face-to-face, eyes meeting, movements alternately inviting and then rejecting. She felt free, released, as her feet kept the rhythm, her body a lissome flame in her yellow silk gown, copper hair atop her head slowly coming loose from the careful coils to drift around her face, cling damply to her neck.
Despite the slight chill of the night, it grew hot as she danced, aware, womanlike, of the glances of admiration she received from the men watching, aware of Señor Valdez sitting still in the corner and watching her so intently. Oh, let him watch her. She did not care. It had been so long since she had been in Mexico, much too long since she had allowed herself to dance like this, with the driving tempo of the music filling her body and blotting out everything but the rhythm.
Her partner grew bolder, closer, the edge of his short jacket almost brushing against her breasts as they danced, until she stepped back, whirling away from him. His black eyes reflected hot flames, speculative and admiring.
“¡Caramba! But you are magnificent!”
Ginny smiled distractedly, lost in music and memories of other times, lost in dreams. Night chill was banished by the feverish steps of the dance. Her skirts whirled around her legs, up above her knees, as her feet moved in steps so familiar to her, from one partner to another.
As the circle of dancers widened, the black-eyed youth was replaced by another man, older but with the same hot gaze. Lanterns flickered and bobbed, casting patches of light over the patio and dancers while, beyond the low stone wall that encompassed the courtyard, shadows cloaked the street. A pale sliver of moon snagged
