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  “Yes.” Sheila nodded, but somehow her parents’ references to material things and social status didn’t seem important anymore.

  As if her mother sensed her lack of total agreement, she changed the subject. “We can make plans later about what you want to do, Sheila. Right now your father and I are just relieved that you are here.”

  A mist of tears drifted across her vision. “It seems so long since I’ve seen you,” Sheila said.

  “For us, too, baby.” Her father hugged her close, pressing a moist kiss on the top of her head.

  “Ah, Señor and Señora Rogers,” the Mexican officer’s voice intruded on their reunion, “it is good to see your daughter again, is it not?”

  “Very good,” her father answered, releasing Sheila from his embrace. “We can’t thank you enough for finding her, Captain.”

  “It is nothing.” He shrugged. “The prisoners are being fed. Our meal will be ready shortly. If you would care for some coffee—” His arm started to swing toward the campfire in invitation.

  The rest of his words were cut off by a strident American voice. “Son-of-a-bitch, if you expect me to eat this garbage, you’d better untie my hands!” There was a ring of pain in the tone as the same voice repeated the demand in Spanish.

  “Laredo,” Sheila gasped and took an instinctive step toward the sound.

  The officer moved to bar her way. “Señora, I—” He started to deny her passage.

  “Please, he was kind to me,” Sheila explained hurriedly. “May I speak to him for a few minutes?”

  The officer was about to refuse when her father stepped forward to champion her cause. “Surely it wouldn’t do any harm, Captain.”

  The request was considered thoughtfully before the officer acceded. “I will come with you.”

  There was little enough conversation among the prisoners, but when Sheila appeared with the Mexican officer, there was an unearthly silence. Several looked at her with open resentment for associating with the enemy. The others coldly ignored her.

  Laredo’s gaze was deliberately averted as she stopped beside him. He was lying on the ground, partially propped up. The white of a bandage was wrapped around his right thigh. Blood soaked the shirt on his left side. A plate of food was on his lap, but his wrists were shackled.

  “Hello, Laredo,” Sheila finally said in a quest for his attention.

  He looked up, his cold blue eyes briefly glancing at the man with her before focusing on Sheila. “I don’t care for the company you’re keeping, Mrs. Townsend.”

  She knelt beside him, murmuring very low, “Neither do I.” In a louder voice, she asked, “Are you hurt very badly?”

  “They tell me I’ll live.”

  At closer quarters, Sheila could see the grayness beneath his tanned features. “You’re not eating,” she said, observing the untouched food on his plate.

  “I have a little problem with my left arm. I can’t seem to move it,” he explained sarcastically. “So unless they pour this slop down my throat, I guess I’ll have to go hungry.”

  Sheila glanced sideways at the officer. “Can’t you untie his hands long enough to let him eat?” she requested politely.

  There was hesitation before the order was given to one of the soldiers to free Laredo’s hands. Sheila could see it was a tremendous effort for him to eat. After three spoonfuls, he stopped.

  “It certainly doesn’t taste like Consuelo’s cooking.” Laredo smiled wanly.

  “It doesn’t look like it, either.” Sheila picked up the spoon and began feeding him. One of the soldiers from the campfire approached the captain. He stepped to the side to talk to the man.

  As Sheila lifted the spoon to Laredo’s mouth, he murmured lowly, “Was Ráfaga hurt?”

  “No, he got away,” she whispered. “He didn’t have a scratch. Where will he go, Laredo?”

  “Only Ráfaga knows that.” He tried to lift himself higher and winced with pain. “What about you, Sheila?” he asked in the same low tone that couldn’t be overheard. “Where are you going? Back to Texas with your parents?”

  “I don’t know—maybe at least until after the baby is born. Or I might stay here. Maybe I’ll be able to find Rá——” She stopped the statement abruptly, realizing it was Ráfaga the soldiers had hoped to capture.

  If she stayed in Mexico, they would be waiting to see if she contacted him or vice versa. For his sake, she had to leave. If she thought with her head instead of her heart, Sheila knew it would be best if she never came back to Mexico.

  His was an impermanent existence. He could never offer a future for her or their baby. Their unborn child was entitled to some kind of a decent life, the freedom that Ráfaga yearned for and could never have. In America, Sheila could give their child that, plus the advantage of money.

  Perhaps by sacrificing her life for their child, she was discovering the true meaning of love. Was she being noble? Or was she simply scared of running and hiding if she lived the rest of her life with Ráfaga? She was really too confused to know.

  “If you go to the States, would you ...”—there was an odd catch in Laredo’s voice—“... could you take a trip to Alamagordo?”

  Her chin trembled slightly in understanding. “To see your parents?”

  “Their name is Ludlow—Scott Ludlow, Sr. Don’t tell them about me, but—”

  “I will make sure that they are all right and get word back to you somehow,” Sheila promised softly. “In the meantime, I will do what I can for you and the others. I’ve heard money helps.”

  There was only silence as she fed him a few more spoonfuls. Laredo eyed her thoughtfully. When he finally spoke, it was so low that Sheila had to bend closer to hear what he was saying.

  “If you really want to help,” he murmured, “you can start some kind of distraction. Two of the guards watching us are in their teens. There’s a chance we could overpower them and get their guns. Hopefully, in the confusion, a few of us could get away.”

  “You could be killed,” Sheila gasped in protest, but Laredo just looked at her silently. “I’ll try,” she agreed with a reluctant sigh. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she saw the officer concluding his talk with a subordinate. She quickly turned back, asking Laredo, “Where’s Juan? I haven’t seen him with the others.”

  “He’s over there,” Laredo answered with a sideways nod, “under the blanket.” Sheila looked, seeing a long shape wrapped completely in a brightly colored blanket. Her throat constricted painfully. “His wound opened up. He died,” Laredo announced flatly.

  “Señora.” The officer was standing beside her.

  Swallowing to ease the tightness in her throat, Sheila straightened up from Laredo. The plate was empty. She had no more reason to remain with him, and the officer was reminding her of that. She turned away as a soldier put the shackles back on Laredo’s wrists. Her face was pale with the shock of Juan’s death. She kept it averted from the officer’s watchful gaze as they started toward her parents, near the campfire.

  “Thank you for letting me speak to him,” she said, needing to break the silence.

  “You have an affection for this man?” he inquired.

  “He is a friend,” Sheila answered simply. “He was from home, someone I could talk to.”

  “I understand.” He nodded, but she doubted he understood it. “Pardon me, señora, but I could not help observing that you seem a bit upset. Are you not happy to be with your parents?”

  “Of course I am.” Her response was brittle.

  He gave her a brief, quizzical glance, then allowed silence to dominate their walk to the fire. Sheila stopped barely within its circle of light. Her parents were seated off to the side, talking together, as yet unaware of her return. The officer signaled to one of his men to bring them coffee, then turned to contemplate Sheila. She knew she should go to her parents, but she also knew they were talking about her—and Ráfaga and the baby. So she stayed where she was.

  “We rode far today,” the officer comme
nted absently.

  “Yes,” Sheila agreed.

  “I had time to think while we were riding,” he continued. “I am convinced that you are Ráfaga’s woman. Although I cannot prove it, I believe that you belonged to him willingly. Your eyes and your face do not hold the expression of a woman who has been forced to accept a man’s attentions. Sometimes I see your eyes gazing upon the mountains and there is a special glow in them, as if you know he is out there somewhere. Perhaps you think he will come for you.” His eyebrow lifted, light dawning in his eyes. “Yes,” he remarked positively as Sheila stiffened, “yes, he will come for you.”

  The officer turned away, snapping sharp orders to several of the soldiers around the fire. There was instant activity. A complacent smile was on his face when he looked back to Sheila.

  “I am posting extra sentries. We will be ready for him—your Ráfaga—when he comes,” he declared.

  “You are wrong,” Sheila denied desperately. “He won’t come.”

  A shot rang out, then a second and a third. The officer grabbed at Sheila’s arm, shouting to his men. More shots were fired before the soldiers answered with gunfire of their own. Sheila struggled against the hand that restricted her movements.

  Scuffling noises came from where Laredo and the others were held. In the chaos, they were making their bid for freedom. A bullet whined by her ear, striking the officer. His grip loosened instantly and she twisted free.

  “Sheila, over here!” Ráfaga’s achingly familiar voice called to her and she turned toward the sound.

  Her eyes scanned the shadowy darkness of the trees surrounding the camp. She started to run, uncertain of the direction.

  “Sheila, no!” her mother cried. “Don’t go!”

  But her choice was made. There was nothing the civilized world could offer her or their baby that would equal one moment in Ráfaga’s arms, no matter what the circumstances. Ráfaga stepped from behind a tree. The rifle at his hip sprayed a cover-fire for Sheila. She ran to him.

  JANET DAILEY is the author of scores of popular, uniquely American novels, including the bestselling The Glory Game, Silver Wings, Santiago Blue, The Pride of Hannah Wade, and the phenomenal four-volume Calder Saga. Since her first novel was published in 1975, Janet Dailey has become the bestselling female author in America, with more than 130,000,000 copies of her books in print. Her books have been published in 17 languages and are sold in 90 different countries. Janet Dailey’s careful research and her intimate knowledge of America have made her one of the best-loved authors in the country—and around the world.