innocently parted, oblivious to this late–night disturbance in his quarters.
The man—the smuggler Geraldo—could he really be the same man who had stood vigil beside the camper in a starlit desert ravine and later talked of killing her as casually as a suburban husband plots the disposal of a pesky gopher? Here in the presence of his wife and child there was none of the vulgar language Julie had heard him use outside the camper window, though he did subject her to a long stare full of speculation as he traded pleasantries with Chayne and waved him jovially to a chair.
The woman—his wife, Rita—did she know what her husband did when he went away to the north in the camper? Or did she only suspect and try to put the dangerous and worrisome thoughts out of her mind? She seemed like any young housewife of Hispanic ancestry in jeans, sandals, flower print cotton blouse and hair cut in an up–to–date style. She might have been about to dash off to a PTA meeting, or to pick up the children from piano lessons.
Reality and fantasy turned topsy–turvy. And Julie was like a child, lost in a nightmare.
She felt a hand on her shoulder pushing her into a chair and sat woodenly, remembering to keep her eyes lowered. While Chayne and Geraldo made meaningless man–talk across her, ignoring her presence, she covertly watched the woman at the stove through her lashes.
What story has she been told to explain me? Or does Señor Chayne often bring home "bedmates"? Will she think me some sort of groupie or camp follower, and hold me in contempt? If she knows the truth, will she hate and fear me as a possible danger to her husband? Or might she, possibly, be a friend? Was it she who sent me the belt? And how will I ever know if I’m not allowed to talk to anyone?
Why shouldn’t I talk to her? What possible harm could it do?
Resentfully, Julie watched the woman move silently between the stove and the table, bringing plates of crisp fried fish and tortillas and bowls of steaming seafood chowder. The loneliness she’d felt earlier in the camper seemed to swamp her; it became desperately important, somehow, that she have a friend in this godforsaken place.
The woman placed Julie’s bowl before her. Quickly, before she could turn back to the stove, Julie touched her hand and said clearly, "Muchas gracias."
For a brief instant the woman’s dark eyes widened and looked directly into hers—a pleasant, open glance—and then she nodded and murmured, "De nada," and turned away.
Julie took a deep, satisfied breath and picked up her spoon. Silence had fallen over the table. She glanced up to find Chayne gazing at her, his eyes flinty, and her heart began to knock against her ribs. She lifted her chin slightly and looked back at him.
"The Señorita is very quiet tonight," Geraldo said with a smirk. "I think she must be tired—from the long journey."
Teeth flashed white in Chayne’s dark face, but the smile didn’t blunt the cold steel in his eyes. "Yes. The Señorita is very tired," he said softly. "So tired I am afraid she has lost her appetite.
Es verdad, Guerita?"
Under the force of his gaze Julie felt her anger and defiance waver. The battle of wills was brief—no contest, really. She swallowed miserably, dropped her eyes and slowly laid her spoon beside her bowl. Fragrant steam rose to her nostrils as she whispered "Sí, Señor," and her stomach rumbled in rude denial.
I hate him.
Geraldo roared with laughter, and Chayne chuckled and picked up his own spoon.
"It sounds as if your appetite is returning," he said pleasantly. "Perhaps by the time Geraldo and I have finished you will have recovered enough to eat. Do you think so,
Guerita mia?
It would be a shame if you could not enjoy this delicious soup. After such an exhausting day you will need to recover your strength."
I really hate him.
Julie felt those terrible eyes on her, and her skin burned hot under his gaze. It burned where his beard had chafed it and where his
The man—the smuggler Geraldo—could he really be the same man who had stood vigil beside the camper in a starlit desert ravine and later talked of killing her as casually as a suburban husband plots the disposal of a pesky gopher? Here in the presence of his wife and child there was none of the vulgar language Julie had heard him use outside the camper window, though he did subject her to a long stare full of speculation as he traded pleasantries with Chayne and waved him jovially to a chair.
The woman—his wife, Rita—did she know what her husband did when he went away to the north in the camper? Or did she only suspect and try to put the dangerous and worrisome thoughts out of her mind? She seemed like any young housewife of Hispanic ancestry in jeans, sandals, flower print cotton blouse and hair cut in an up–to–date style. She might have been about to dash off to a PTA meeting, or to pick up the children from piano lessons.
Reality and fantasy turned topsy–turvy. And Julie was like a child, lost in a nightmare.
She felt a hand on her shoulder pushing her into a chair and sat woodenly, remembering to keep her eyes lowered. While Chayne and Geraldo made meaningless man–talk across her, ignoring her presence, she covertly watched the woman at the stove through her lashes.
What story has she been told to explain me? Or does Señor Chayne often bring home "bedmates"? Will she think me some sort of groupie or camp follower, and hold me in contempt? If she knows the truth, will she hate and fear me as a possible danger to her husband? Or might she, possibly, be a friend? Was it she who sent me the belt? And how will I ever know if I’m not allowed to talk to anyone?
Why shouldn’t I talk to her? What possible harm could it do?
Resentfully, Julie watched the woman move silently between the stove and the table, bringing plates of crisp fried fish and tortillas and bowls of steaming seafood chowder. The loneliness she’d felt earlier in the camper seemed to swamp her; it became desperately important, somehow, that she have a friend in this godforsaken place.
The woman placed Julie’s bowl before her. Quickly, before she could turn back to the stove, Julie touched her hand and said clearly, "Muchas gracias."
For a brief instant the woman’s dark eyes widened and looked directly into hers—a pleasant, open glance—and then she nodded and murmured, "De nada," and turned away.
Julie took a deep, satisfied breath and picked up her spoon. Silence had fallen over the table. She glanced up to find Chayne gazing at her, his eyes flinty, and her heart began to knock against her ribs. She lifted her chin slightly and looked back at him.
"The Señorita is very quiet tonight," Geraldo said with a smirk. "I think she must be tired—from the long journey."
Teeth flashed white in Chayne’s dark face, but the smile didn’t blunt the cold steel in his eyes. "Yes. The Señorita is very tired," he said softly. "So tired I am afraid she has lost her appetite.
Es verdad, Guerita?"
Under the force of his gaze Julie felt her anger and defiance waver. The battle of wills was brief—no contest, really. She swallowed miserably, dropped her eyes and slowly laid her spoon beside her bowl. Fragrant steam rose to her nostrils as she whispered "Sí, Señor," and her stomach rumbled in rude denial.
I hate him.
Geraldo roared with laughter, and Chayne chuckled and picked up his own spoon.
"It sounds as if your appetite is returning," he said pleasantly. "Perhaps by the time Geraldo and I have finished you will have recovered enough to eat. Do you think so,
Guerita mia?
It would be a shame if you could not enjoy this delicious soup. After such an exhausting day you will need to recover your strength."
I really hate him.
Julie felt those terrible eyes on her, and her skin burned hot under his gaze. It burned where his beard had chafed it and where his
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