“Three.”
“Armed?”
“Yes.”
“¿Y tunovio?The lawman?”
She nodded, moistening her lips. She was still rattled from the close call. She couldn’t stop trembling. “He’s with her.”
Armando’s eyes traveled down the length of her body. She sensed that he saw her as a desirable woman, just as Ian had suggested. She hadn’t noticed this before, but now it seemed obvious. Maybe Ian was right about Armando’s feelings for her. It didn’t really matter, because Ian was wrong about his motivations. Armando hadn’t saved Maria’s life to gain her favor. He’d done it because he had protective instincts.
Armando turned his gaze toward the hillside. “We’re not friends, him and I.”
“I know.”
“You won’t interfere?”
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes.
The man who’d been chasing her groaned. He might regain consciousness, but he probably wouldn’t feel well enough to fight. Armando didn’t look well, either. His skin had a dusty, grayish cast. There was a bloodstained bandage under his jacket.
He touched her cheek with scratchy fingertips. “Thank you for delivering the letter,” he said. Then he gathered the rifle and climbed up the hill.
She didn’t tell him to go with God. It was too late for that.
—
Armando didn’t expect to stumble upon his enemies.
He figured he’d get picked up by the federal police and hand-delivered to them. Either that or die of exposure. Every step in the blazing desert sun brought him closer to hell. Then he’d heard gunshots, and his heart had stalled in his chest.
Sarai.
She was a skinny girl, fine-boned, but she’d been a fat baby. Alma had been so proud of her. She’d dressed her in cute little outfits and made adoring exclamations.“¡Qué gordita eres!”she’d say. “Look at these chubby legs!”
Armando hadn’t thought about that in years.
He’d jogged toward the sound of gunshots until the ache in his gut made it impossible. Then he’d walked fast. As soon as he saw Maria, he’d felt a resurgence of energy. She was part guardian angel, part good-luck charm. She reminded him of Alma, in the days before Sarai came along. They’d met when she was nineteen and he was twenty-two. She was the most spirited, most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She’d been engaged at the time, to a wealthy Spaniard, but he hadn’t been man enough for her. He hadn’t defied her parents, or lifted her skirts and taken her against the wall in the garden.
Armando had.
As he reached the hilltop, he cleared his mind of everything but the present situation. Here and now. The rifle in his left hand. Beretta 9mm in his right.
This was it.
Three men stood in the canyon below. He recognized Tito Maldives, the brother of Memo Maldives. Armando had killed Memo for his involvement in Alma’s murder. The other two were young men. They had bandannas covering the lower halves of their faces. One was Tito’s son, Benito. The second had light hair. He looked familiar, but Armando couldn’t place him.
Sarai was sitting on the ground next to Agent Foster with her hands bound behind her back. She appeared unharmed. Though small and delicate looking, like Alma, she wore a fierce expression. His chest constricted at the sight of her, all grown up.
“Our guest of honor,” Tito said to Armando. “How nice of you to finally arrive.”
“I brought some friends,” he replied, indicating his weapons.
Tito laughed a big, fake laugh.
“Your brother laughed like that,” Armando said.
Tito went quiet with anger, but the more telling reaction came from the light-haired boy. His entire body tensed. He squinted at Armando with hate-filled eyes. With a start, Armando realized he was Memo’s son. They’d called him Güero. He’d been ten or eleven when Armando killed his father. Now he was a teenager, like Sarai.
