Part 9 (1/2)

Then he settled on a stool close by the stove and waited for the boiling, for the steps that would make coffee the way he needed it this morning. He gazed out the window and hoped his saint would come back in time to share a little with him. He hoped she would bring news of Josefina.

Staring out at the blue and dun landscape, he imagined he could see her, his bright, smart niece. He chose to imagine her in a sunny place, calm and thoughtful. A little lonely, but not afraid. He willed her to remember all the things they had practiced for

just such an emergency, and he suddenly realized what a foolish, foolish chance he had taken.

It had to end. It was becoming too dangerous, and would grow worse as she took on the contours of a woman's body and not only when there were raids. The camps were full of young men, away from their homes and the people who knew them. They were lonely.

Josefina would tempt them and then there would be real trouble.

With a breathy exclamation, he shook his head. This was no life for a child. No life for him. He ached with homesickness, ached to go back to the simple farmer's life he'd known before his sister's death. And yet, when he spoke to his uncle rarely, it was plain that life in Mexico was no better. The big farms were eating up the little ones, making it harder and harder to make a living from the land. And there were so many people displaced from that land now that the cities were overcrowded, wages were poor, the neighborhoods where a man could afford to house a family too dangerous. Though everyone said it was different in America, he saw some of the same things here. It was just easier to be poor with three dollars an hour, rather than the three dollars a day he could get for the same work at home.

He did not know what the answer was. It weighed on him every day, thinking of it.

His head ached with the questions, and he put them aside for today. Today, he had to let himself heal. Today, he hoped to find Josefina. When she was found, then he could decide what to do.

Chapter 4.

Molly made a few more stops before she returned home, avoiding her usual haunts in hopes of sidestepping anyone who'd ask about her ”sore throat.” She was lucky. The market was not busy, and she nabbed a few items to tide them over till morning,then got to her car without having to speak to hardly anyone.

When she unlocked the door at her house, an aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled her nose, so rich it made her nearly light-headed. Carrying the bag of groceries into the kitchen, she made a show of inhaling deeply.

”Oh, I must need that coffee! It smells glorious.”

Her patient sat on a kitchen stool by the stove, one hand stirring a pot, the other clasped protectively around his ribs. He lifted his head. ”I hoped you would not mind me taking this liberty, if the coffee was good enough.”

”Not at all. As it happens, I had a yen for some doughnuts, so I stopped at the store.”

She brought out a bag of tender, newly fried doughnuts. ”Do you like them?”

”Yes, I do.” He attempted a smile, and only then did Molly see the white lines of strain around his mouth, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. ”The coffee will be ready in-” he glanced at the clock ”-three minutes.”

Concerned, she crossed the room and with the familiarity of a nurse to her patient, touched his shoulder, bending to look into his eyes. ”Are you all right?”

He ignored her. ”Did you find her?”

Molly sighed. Shook her head. ”Wiley is going to keep an eye out. He said he'll send some men to look for her.” Automatically, she put her hand on his face to check for fever.

She regretted it immediately. Her thumb against his cheekbone was very white, very alien, did not belong anywhere near him. And beneath her fingertips, she felt a delicacy and strength of bone that was powerfully intimate. His eyes, sober and large and still, regarded her steadily.

She took her hand away. ”The fever is back a little. You should have some more medicine and go back to bed.”

”In a little while. First coffee, huh?” He lifted his chin to the bag on the counter.

”And a doughnut or two.” A faint smile edged the wide mouth. ”Or three.”

”Ah, so you're like me a weakness for doughnuts.”

”My mother cooked them. I think of her.”

From the cupboard behind her, Molly took two mugs and set them on the counter. ”I've never seen coffee made this way.”