The Last Honorable Man by Vickie Taylor Page A

the ignition. “I can’t do that.”
    â€œWhy? What do you want from me?”
    â€œNothing. Except to help you.”
    â€œSo that you can clear your conscience?”
    His eyes turned cold. “Lady, it’s going to take a lot more than you to clear my conscience.”
    â€œThen let me go.”
    â€œGo where? San Ynez?”
    Her anger flared to match his. Her hands clenched around the steering wheel. “No. I can’t go back there.” Going home meant certain death. She couldn’t escape the soldiers with a baby.
    â€œWhere, then?”
    â€œI will find a place.” She could take care of herself. She’d been taking care of herself—and a lot of other people—for eight years now.
    â€œOn the street? What kind of life is that?”
    â€œIs it worse than starving in San Ynez? Being huntedby military police who protect the coca fields and massacre their own people?” She forced herself to take a deep breath. “I will survive.”
    â€œAnd your baby?”
    Elisa’s cramped stomach muscles fluttered, reminding her of the child within. She could take care of herself, she was sure of that. But a baby? She could stitch an open wound with a sewing needle, defuse an antipersonnel land mine with a screwdriver and a stick. But she knew nothing about babies. Delivering them or caring for them.
    He had a way of striking at the core of her fears, this ranger.
    â€œAt least he will have a chance,” she said, laying her hand protectively over her middle. Del followed the movement with his eyes, his lips tightening.
    â€œThere is another way. For both of you.”
    She didn’t want to ask how. Wouldn’t trust him even when he answered, despite that dependable-looking face and the sincerity in his expression. But how could she keep silent with all she had at stake? “What way?”
    â€œThere are immigration lawyers. They can appeal your case to the INS.”
    â€œSo that La Migra knows right where to find me when they’re ready to throw me out? No.”
    â€œGene Randolph has contacts in the State Department. He might be able to push something through. A hardship application or political asylum.”
    Elisa laughed in disbelief. “Put my fate in the hands of Immigration and a politician?”
    â€œGive the system a chance. No one wants you to suffer because of what happened to Eduardo.”
    To her horror, her eyes suddenly warmed, watered. Despising the weakness, and blaming it on hormones,she blinked back the tears. “I trusted the system once, in my country,” she said, when she was sure her voice wouldn’t shake. “I went to the university and studied economics and English. I worked within our government to build industry and commerce. I spoke to student groups about making our country stronger, improving trade relations with America and Europe. I was giving this speech when a colonel in the army of San Ynez, Colonel Sanchez, decided he should run the country, not the elected president. With the troops behind him, he overran the presidential palace. Presidente Herrerra was taken to sea and killed, and Sanchez became our new leader. I was thrown in jail, chained and interrogated as a dissident for three days before I escaped with my brothers. So forgive me if I do not easily trust the system.”
    She expected the ranger to be shocked, then to argue that that was San Ynez. This was America. The great, infallible America.
    He surprised her. His expression warmed, not with anger, but with understanding. His mouth almost smiled, as if a weight had been lifted from the corners with the making of some great decision. He covered her hand on the steering wheel with his, lifted it, held her fingers lightly. His hands weren’t smooth; she knew that from other times he’d touched her. But for the first time, she realized she liked their coarseness. Roughened hands were a sign of strength. A symbol of a