Chapter Twenty-Four

Four hours after their arrival, Donovan serenely raked a pile of coins toward him while the other men at the table glowered in disgust. "Don't turn your back on this one on the way home," one of them told Gonzales. "He could be planning to murder you in your sleep and you'd never know it."

"And no one would suspect him, either," the other man muttered. "Not even if they found your blood on his hands."

"Hey, why all the talk when all I did was win a couple card games?" Donovan protested. He turned to one of the pretty girls who had been hovering ever since he started winning, and he handed her a few coins. "Get us all another round and be sure to get something for you and your friend." As he said this, he slapped the other girl's hands away from his stash. She was a little too fearless for his taste and had been trying to pull something on him all night. He turned back to the group. "One more game, guys? Win it back?"

The strangers exchanged glances, but it was Gonzales who pushed his chair away from the table. "Count me out, friend. I've been trying to win it back for quite a while and look where it got me. The only money I got left is for liquor and girls, and I ain't giving you a chance at taking that, too."

The other men took their cue from Gonzales and also declined to play any further. After they got their drinks, one disappeared into the dance hall while the other wandered over to the pool tables to see if he would have better luck there. Gonzales pulled one of the girls onto his lap. "I had no idea you were a shark,” he told Donovan.

"A shark? No, I was just lucky tonight."

"Uh-huh." Gonzales agreed in a way that made it clear he didn't agree. "Be careful," he said. "Just 'cause this ain't the city don't mean there's no dangerous characters. And this ain't like in the service either, where there's a CO to keep a man in line if he loses it. This is no-man's land, and if you pull a trick on the wrong guy, there's no telling where it will end."

Donovan forced a smile. "I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, but I'll be more careful, like you say."

Gonzales tossed back the rest of his drink and stood up, still clutching the girl. "So how about it?" he asked her. "You got a room here?"

The girl nodded, but her gaze was on Donovan and the mound of silver coins and federal bills he was scooping into his pockets. Donovan caught her glance and shook his head, so she turned back to Gonzales. "Sure, I got a room.”

As Gonzales and the girl walked away, the other girl looked at him with anticipation, but Donovan had other things on his mind and craned his neck looking for the redhead. It had been awhile since he had seen her last. "Maybe later," he told the little Hispana. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver quarter. "If I'm interested later, I'll find you."

The girl tossed her black curls and walked to another table of card-players where maybe she could do better. Donovan stood and looked around the room. It was unlikely the redhead had left the club, although if she was unaffiliated with the house, it was a possibility. More likely she was in the dance hall.

He walked into the dark room, waiting for his senses to adjust to the dim light and loud music. The brace hindered his ability to move through the crowd, so he stayed near the wall, scanning the room as well as he could. The girl he was looking for was not among the twirling and gyrating dancers. He kept moving, but she wasn't among the people standing at the bar, or one of the ones sitting on the battered sofas watching the dancing. He was about to give up when he noticed a doorway leading to an even darker room. He had a feeling he knew what went on here, but it was worth a try.

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Chapter Twenty-Three

Gonzales and Donovan didn't stay to eat dinner but started toward town as soon as they had concluded their deals for the day. Melinda gave them disapproving looks, but she took what was left of the money and ration books and promised to give them to Amalia when she returned from her errands. "I hope you don't plan to be out late," Melinda said, glaring more at Donovan than Gonzales, who she considered a hopeless case.

"I'm just tagging along to see more of the town and have a real beer, if I can find one. I'll be back early."

Once they got to the main drag, Gonzales hailed a bicycle rickshaw and they were treated to a swift, bouncy ride down the dusty street, then through a few increasingly dismal side streets until they found themselves in a suburban slum of ramshackle huts, abandoned cars and broken mobile homes. Not even weeds seemed willing to grow in this barren moonscape where the hard-packed earth was scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding rock. Scraggly chickens and a few lean mutts poked among the trash at the margins of rusting fences. Dirty children ran up to the rickshaw with their hands out, clamoring for coins. A few sullen men sat in the doorways of their shacks, drinking uncertain homebrews out of old bottles and staring vacantly as the rickshaw clattered past. From inside one of the hovels, a baby shrieked.

After a few more bends in the road, Donovan saw a sprawling concrete block of a building, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It had been designed to mimic native adobe but was now just a cheap architectural abandonment. The exterior glittered with sickly pink lights hung on long strings draped over the walls and around two big windows facing what was left of an asphalt parking lot. Bicycles, horses and a wagon were tied to posts in front and there were a few electric and coal diesel scooters as well. All of these were guarded by two big men with shotguns who strode back and forth casting distinctly suspicious looks on anyone who tried to approach a mode of transport without showing a chit to the greasy-haired teenager who was keeping tabs. As their rickshaw pulled into the driveway, they could hear the crash of frenetic music, vaguely Tejano with a native drumbeat and something else going on that Donovan couldn't place.

"So what do you think?" Gonzales asked as he tipped the driver.

Donovan looked around, excited to find himself in a place where something was happening, no matter how irrational, after so long in the country. He stepped around a young man who even at this early hour was on his knees puking into a patch of yellow weeds. "I think this will work."

They pushed their way through the knot of men hovering around the doorway and entered a large open space that in spite of the promise of the lights at the windows, was dimly lit and of questionable cleanliness. To their right stretched a long bar backed by shelves of bottles of all description, although Donovan knew from experience that most of the bottles probably contained the same thing--local rotgut being passed off as imported liquor.

Scattered around the bar were a few tables where men played cards or engaged in animated discussions with each other and whores, most of whom seemed to be local Hispanic and Indian girls with dusky skin, dark curls, bloody lipstick and brightly colored dresses. On the other side of the room were several pool tables, their felt surfaces in varying states of patching and repair. This area was more brightly lit than the bar and was full of men and garishly painted women tossing back drinks and taking shots at the colored balls, laughing or cursing as the balls ran up against the seams in the poorly repaired felt.

Toward the back was the doorway to the dance hall and Donovan could see people moving around to the chaotic thumping of the music. A rangy redhead stalked out of the room and looked around, sullenly sizing up the crowd. Underneath her heavy makeup, her skin was waxy, tinged with blue around her eyes, collarbone, and the slender joints of her wrists, as if she were bruised. The dim light reflected off the spangles of her dress, only partially disguising its poor cut and drooping hem. She walked over to the bar, found a spot near the bartender's well and said a few words. The bartender, a short dark man with a hook nose, nodded and poured her a double shot.

Clutching her drink, she leaned against a blank spot on the wall, surveying the room from the rim of her glass as she sucked down the harsh brown liquor. Three men, made bold by the local moonshine, approached her, drawn by her unusual coloring and the flame of her waist-length hair, even though her face was too angular, her manner too desultory to be attractive.

Gonzales noticed Donovan wasn't following him to the bar and stopped to see what he was looking at. "She's a strange one," he said. "I noticed her here last night."

"Did you get anywhere with her?" Donovan asked, pretending to turn his interest to his drink options.

"I didn't even try." Gonzales put a foot up on the brass rail and motioned the bartender over. "Bourbon," he said. "House is fine. And whatever he wants." He made a motion with his head to indicate Donovan.

"How about some scotch.”

"You got it." The bartender took a couple more orders and began racking up glassware.

"The scotch is probably the same as the bourbon," Gonzales pointed out. "All of it likely distilled last week from some local farmer's cornfield."

"Yeah, but you got to ask, you know. You never know when you might get lucky." Without intending to, Donovan found his gaze wandering back to the redhead, who was still talking to the men, forcing a smile and sucking on her whiskey with determination.

The look wasn't lost on Gonzales. "If getting lucky is what you're after, I wouldn't bother with her."

"Is she not what I think she is?"

Their drinks arrived and Gonzales tossed the bartender a silver coin. "Oh, she's a whore, all right," he said, taking a gulp of his home-distilled bourbon and grimacing. "And if you like them with an attitude, I guess she's the one for you. But me, I can't do it if they don't seem to want it. I mean, I know none of them do this for kicks, but if they can't at least pretend they like me a little. . ."

"I hear you," Donovan said. "I’m not really interested in her. Just curious. She doesn't fit in."

"I know that's right." Gonzales looked around the room. "But hey, it's too early to be thinking about the girls. They'll be here all night and we ain't even got started yet." He spotted what he was looking for and gave Donovan a grin. "I see there's a game going on over there," he pointed. "You up for some poker?"

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Chapter Twenty-Two

Morning sales were brisk. Carina's remaining pickles and preserves sold out, as did the socks. By midday they had done well enough that Amalia thought it was time to start buying things for the farm. During a lull in traffic past their booth, she handed Donovan a shopping list.

"Could you read it to me?" he asked.

"Can't you read my handwriting?"

"Not very well."

Amalia leaned in close, pointing to each neatly written word and reading it aloud. "On these bigger items, like the fertilizer and the wheat flour," she said, "You just want to make the deal. Make sure they'll be at camp tonight or back here at market in the morning and we'll collect then, when we have our cart and animals. Get a chit for any deal you make, and a receipt if you make a down payment."

"What if I can't find some of these things, or if I can't get good quality?"

"Then we'll have to buy in town on our way out. Be sure to use federal money or offer to trade wherever possible. We try to hold onto our hard currency, like silver, for emergencies."

Donovan was satisfied with these instructions and after pocketing the money and ration books, he moved off into the crowd of shoppers. He found his childhood street smarts returning as he went about his mission, teasing, flattering, sassing and bullying as the situation seemed to warrant, until he got the price he wanted. When he got hungry he indulged himself with a piece of sausage sold by an old woman with a strange accent he couldn't place. He listened to a musician for awhile and tossed a coin into his cup. He bargained for some kerosene and a new water filter to be delivered to their campsite later in the evening, and he found good deals on yeast, oats, lard and sugar. Late in the day, tempted and unable to regulate his habitual urges, he picked another pocket.

He wandered into the bleachers, checking out the offerings of the smaller vendors. At length he ended up at Gonzales' spot, where in spite of his bloodshot eyes, the man was set up neatly and talking a good line. Once his customer had moved on, Donovan sat down. "How are things going?"

"Business is booming, man." Gonzales grinned like a well-fed cat. "The party will be good tonight."

"You mean it wasn't last night?"

"This will be better. Come with me. Melinda ain't going to be distraught if she doesn't have to feed us tonight."

"Where are you going?"

"Tortuga Rosa. It's a bar on the outskirts of town. Just an old warehouse, nothing fancy. Cheap drinks. Cheaper women." He laughed and gave Donovan a playful punch on the shoulder. "Come on, hombre, how long's it been, anyway? A man's got needs, right?"

"Well," Donovan said, "I suppose I could join you for a drink."

"Sure, man. Just a drink, maybe dance with a pretty girl or two. That brace won't slow you down much, and just about every man there is old, crippled or faking it, so you won't stand out. And you don't have to spend a lot of money to have some fun. I bet it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes," Donovan admitted. "It's been pretty damn long, now that you mention it."

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Chapter Twenty-One

Donovan was woken by a rustle of tent flaps, crackling of cooking fires and clatter of pans, as early risers began preparing for the day, murmuring to each other in the chilly darkness before dawn. He stretched inside his bedroll, rolled over and glanced toward the fire. Amalia was already up, filling the coffeepot with real coffee and exchanging whispers with Melinda, who was breaking eggs into a skillet.

He got to his feet and wandered over, grateful for the fire's warmth.

"Good morning," Amalia said. A pair of earrings that had been set out on the Indian blanket for sale the day before glittered in her ears, but her attitude was as commonsense as always. "I'm glad you're up. I was thinking it would be nice to have a little cream for the coffee this morning, but Peterson is out getting more wood for the fire and we hate to wake Diana up so early. No point trying to rouse Gonzales because he's probably hung over. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." Donovan had only just sat down, but stood up again, suppressing a sigh. "I need to bandage my leg up before I put that brace on again, though. I've got raw spots everywhere."

"We've got bandages and ointment in the first aid kit," Melinda said.

"Where's that?"

Amalia set the coffee to boil and stood up. "I'll show you." She led him to a small chest near the tent. The tent was supposed to be for Diana, but she preferred to sleep under the stars like the grownups, so Gonzales was using it instead. Amalia dug through the chest and produced a roll of bandages, some pins and a jar of ointment. "Do you need. . ." she looked at his leg, as if she would help as she had with his injuries of the summer, but then she pressed the items into his hands and said, "Don't take too long. Remember, we have real coffee this morning."

Puzzled by her nervousness, Donovan went inside the tent, trying not to disturb Gonzales. This proved unnecessary since he was sleeping the deep unwakeable sleep of a man just in from a wild night on the town. Donovan tried to ignore the reek of alcohol as he removed his pants, which had stuck to his chafe wounds in the night and were now spotted with blood. The ointment took away some of the pain, and once he had wound bandages around the chafed areas and put on a fresh pair of pants, the brace seemed more bearable than the previous day. Why hadn't he thought to do this before?

When he returned to the fire, he found Diana wrapped in a blanket and sitting on a wooden box blinking sleepily at the flames. The expression on her face was so innocent that he put a hand on her head. "Good morning, sweetheart. You ready to earn that mule today?"

"Hm," she said with a sleepy half-smile.

"She's ready for some breakfast, is what she is," Melinda said, handing the girl a plate of eggs.

Diana took the plate without a quibble and forked a bit of egg into her mouth.

"Did you ladies still want me to find you some cream?"

"Oh," Amalia said, taking the coffeepot off the fire, "Only if someone else really needs it. I thought it would be nice, but it's a little late now. We’ll make sure to trade for some today, instead."

"I'd as soon we didn't spend the money," Melinda said, scooping eggs onto a few more plates and passing them around. "I never could learn to like coffee with cream.”

"I like cream in my coffee when I'm in a certain type of mood," Amalia said as she poured coffee into mugs and handed them out, including to Diana, who took hers eagerly.

"What kind of mood is that?" Donovan asked.

Amalia ducked her head and turned away, muttering something vague about how being in town brought back memories.

"I could use a few less memories, myself," Melinda said, sitting down beside her daughter and starting on her eggs. "This was where they picked Estéban up on a supply run. He was forty-five years old and fat, but they drafted him anyway. I nearly went berserk when I found out, but even though I inquired everywhere I could think of, I haven't seen or heard from him since. My poor little girl doesn't even remember her daddy."

"I'm no poor little girl," Diana protested.

Donovan shot Amalia a worried look. "I thought you said the Feds don't come through here."

"It's been eight years since the last time.”

"Yes," Melinda sniffed. "I think after their last drafting run they took a look at my husband and the others like him and figured this was the bottom of the barrel. Duplicating their drafting efforts around here wasn't going to result in anything better."

Donovan sipped his coffee, only partly reassured. "I would think they could be back any time, then," he said. "To get the young men who were just children eight years ago."

Melinda and Amalia exchanged glances.

"The town has a good warning system," Amalia reminded him.

"All the more reason to keep this brace on, I guess," Donovan sighed. "Maybe it wasn't such a crazy idea, after all."

Everyone ate in silence as the sounds of the camp coming to life continued around them. When they were finished, they put their empty plates in a basket which Diana took to the communal washtubs. Amalia covered the fire and Melinda set a plate of food and cup of coffee in the warm ashes for her father's breakfast. After they finished tidying the campsite and Diana had returned with the clean dishes, they gathered their coins and small valuables and started walking with the other vendors toward the market. The sun was just starting to gild a few wispy clouds in the sky. It was a promising sign of a good day.

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Chapter Twenty

From outside, the restaurant was an unpromising lump of badly plastered and crumbling adobe, but it was nicer on the inside, with tiled floors, fresh paint, and some warped and fading prints of famous paintings. The place was dim and smoky, with most of the light coming from flickering wall sconces, and oil lamps on the mismatched tables. Chairs wobbled on the uneven floor, and dishes, glasses and silverware seemed to have come from any source the proprietor could find. Although it was all clean, nothing matched anything else. The patrons were as mismatched as the décor, with most in casual, if not outright dirty, workaday garb while others were dressed in the finery of decades past, out for a celebratory meal.

Amalia and Donovan found a place to sit, and a teenage girl in a faded dress and clean apron approached their table. She announced the evening's menu, which was dictated by what was available that day. With the offerings limited, they made up their minds on the spot and ordered a carafe of the strong local wine for good measure. As they sipped their first glasses, Donovan tried to keep his conversation directed toward questions he had about the workings of the market and their plans for the rest of their stay in town, but by the time their entrees arrived and they were pouring their second glasses of wine, he was feeling bolder, although not so bold as to ask any direct questions about her and Carina. He cast about for the nearest safe topic. "Tell me about Magda. How did a sweet old lady like Mother Reyes end up with someone as mean as her for a grandchild?"

"No one really knows. Back when my parents were growing up, they would've probably given her a pill for it." Amalia wrapped a bit of quail in a scrap of tortilla. "She got all her notions about life from her grandmother's photo albums and whatever things had been saved in closets and jewelry boxes. She wants to be rich."

"That's silly. No one is rich. No one who is honest, at least."

"That doesn't matter to her, and it doesn't help that her parents and grandparents were better off than a lot of their neighbors. It gave her notions. Like all sensible people, her family pretends to be poor, but Magda prefers to show off."

"Where did Mother Reyes get the money to support these ideas of hers?"

"I'm afraid it wasn't all good. Her husband ran a bank in town. It went under during the bank runs that followed the mortgage loan collapse, but some say he worked out a deal with his parent bank, which was one of the big multinationals." She shrugged and turned back to her meal. "It would explain a lot, since he seemed to be doing better after the crash than before. He died peacefully in his sleep a few years ago."

"Lucky guy."

"Yes, he was lucky, but his daughter wasn't. Regina was my best friend, and her husband had a ranch. Regina wasn’t one for country life, so they lived in town and only used the ranch for vacations. They got word one night that their foreman had armed the ranch hands and declared the property his own. They rode out with the loyal hand who had come to warn them and that jackass shot them in the desert just a little ways east of town."

"And no one did anything about it?"

"What could anyone do? Things were still pretty chaotic at the time. As you can see, it’s better now. Unlike some people, the citizens of Macrina organized themselves, once they realized they could no longer count on the government."

Donovan considered this, moving some of the food around on his plate with his fork. "I guess that was just a lie they told us in the Guard, that ordinary citizens can’t be counted on to work together for the common good. That’s how they justify going after hoarders, you know."

“I know. But how do they think the United States came together in the first place, if not by average people? Short-sighted federal policies have ruptured our country, but we’ve found a way to manage, just like the pioneers. Maybe someday we’ll even be able to get regular gasoline deliveries again.” At the skeptical look in Donovan’s eyes, she added, “Why not? We couldn’t get coffee and chocolate for several years, but the Macrina market has those now.”

Donovan's eyebrows went up. "You’re kidding. Chocolate?"

"Sometimes. If you can pay for it, of course."

"Do you think they have any here?" Before she could answer, Donovan waved the waitress over. "Do you have anything chocolate?"

"We have butter cake with chocolate icing. But there's only one piece left. We've got plenty of apple pie--"

"No, we want chocolate. Bring the cake."

The girl left and Amalia stared. "That's going to be very expensive.”

"Nothing is too good for the woman who saved my life."

Amalia pursed her lips. "It was all Carina's doing. I'd just as soon have shot you, or don't you remember?"

"I remember lots of things."

Amalia sat back in her chair and folded her arms. She pretended great interest in the doings of the diners around her until the waitress brought the cake, set it in front of her and hurried away. Amalia stared at the dessert as if uncertain what to do next.

Donovan had never seen her flustered. "Go on. Don't tell me I've wasted my money."

"Only if you have some, too." She pushed the plate toward the center of the table and waited until he had picked up his fork before tucking into the dessert. "This was a splendid idea," she admitted. "Don't tell Carina, but I do get tired of honey and apples all the time."

"One wouldn't know it."

"There's no point complaining or wishing for things."

"You're right there's no point in complaining, there's no reason to go on living if you're not wishing for something."

Amalia started to shake her head, but when she looked at Donovan again her lips twisted into a wistful smile. "You have no idea how much time I spent wishing," she said. "Until I realized that it only got me into trouble. A person can't take. . . well, there's just no use in. . ."

"I know," Donovan said. He reached across the table to take her hand, but she pulled away. "So," he said, as if nothing had happened, "We were talking before about Magda. I wonder, do you think she'll let me in to see Mother Reyes if I come to town alone? You’ll want me to pick up the ration book, right?"

Amalia pushed the empty dessert plate to one side. "I honestly don't know what Magda will do. When Carina and I talked about having you come to town for us, we thought she would have run off again by now or that Mother Reyes would've been able to answer her own door. This puts things in a different light."

"Maybe I should bring some chocolate with me, wear fancy clothes and pretend to be rich."

"Yes," Amalia said, "She can probably be bribed."

"Give her an old necklace, a pair of earrings…"

"A silk scarf and some bangles…"

"And lots of lipstick!"

Amalia suppressed a giggle. "You’re obviously resourceful. You'll figure out a way."

The waitress brought them their check, and after puzzling over it for a moment, Donovan laid a few coins on the table. Then he stood up and pulled back Amalia’s chair for her, took her arm and led her out the door. "Yes," he said, "I will figure out a way. Trust me."

As they left the restaurant, the chivalrous hand on Amalia’s elbow somehow came to be clasping hers, something they both pretended not to notice as they walked the dark, narrow street back to camp, and as Amalia climbed into her bedroll to sleep, she noted that the earlier haze had vanished and the stars in the clear night sky seemed especially bright and promising.

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Chapter Nineteen

While Amalia and Mother Reyes talked about farm animals and economic matters, Donovan looked around the small bedroom, paying attention to the little things—the rosary and glass of water on the nightstand, the lace runner on the dresser and the little bottles and framed photos that were arranged on top of it. The photos were of a man in the stiff-looking suit and tie of long ago, a pretty, laughing woman, a black-haired little girl with a mischievous smile, and a fuzzy snapshot of two young mothers with their children. This was the picture Donovan wanted to look at more closely, and he stood up.

"Amalia's mother and I were great friends," Mother Reyes said, seeing what had caught his interest. "So were our girls."

"My parents had a summer home just outside of town," Amalia said. Her tone was oddly clipped, as if each word carried a price. "We came here every year during school vacations. Our parents wanted us to get used to the land in case the worst happened. Regina was our best friend and was Magda's mother."

Donovan nodded. Asking what had happened to Regina seemed like dangerous territory. "Your family doesn't have a house in town any more."

"No. My father sold it when the war with Iran began."

"A smart move," Mother Reyes added. "Things were crazy here for awhile. Soldiers, shortages, riots…"

"We were hardly immune," Amalia reminded her. "We still had to come to town for supplies."

"Of course." Mother Reyes patted Amalia's arm and Donovan remembered that Carina had said their father died in a food riot. "But at least your family and your livelihood weren't in daily danger, and that was what your father wanted."

"Yes," Amalia said in a tone that sounded unconvinced. She stretched her arms overhead and pretended to yawn. "I hate to cut this short, Mama, but we're pasturing at Cortina's tonight and we need to go while there's still a chance we can hitch a ride back into town."

"Your letters and ration books are where they always are, love." The woman fumbled with the drawer of her nightstand. Amalia reached over to help. Inside she found a stack of envelopes clipped together and marked with her name. She flipped through them, pulled out the ration books and did a cursory check for missing coupons.

"I apologize for my granddaughter's behavior tonight," Mother Reyes said.

"It's a tough world," Amalia said.

"Not for her, it isn't. I give her everything she needs, and more. The world may be mean, but that doesn't mean she should be. I've told her. . ."

Amalia's face softened and she gave Mother Reyes a hug. "Don't worry about it, Mama. I'm way too old to care what a teenager thinks of me."

Mother Reyes looked away, ashamed nonetheless.

"I’m more worried about you than about her," Amalia went on. "Are you getting everything you need? I wanted to bring you something tonight but I had no idea what you might want."

"You're sweet to offer," Mother Reyes said, clutching Amalia's hand. "But your mother would haunt me from her grave if I took anything more from you. She'll probably haunt me anyway for letting Magda keep Carina's ration books. I should be giving them to the church to help feed and medicate the poor."

"Well, as Regina's comadres, we promised to help look after Magda if anything should happen. You know that."

"Like that little ingrate needs your help. Some days I'm tempted to cut her off entirely, let her see what the world is like when you don't have Grandma and generous comadres to pay for every little whim."

"That's between you and her." Amalia kissed Mother Reyes on her thin cheek. "We've got to get going."

"Will I see you again soon? Next month's market, maybe?"

Amalia exchanged guilty glances with Donovan. "We thought we might send Donovan alone next time," she admitted.

The old woman smiled on Donovan. "If you come, you'll be just as welcome as Amalia and Carina have always been." She fumbled for his hand.

Donovan started to shake her hand, but then gave her frail body a quick embrace instead. "Thank you, Mother Reyes. I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

"And I'm looking forward to seeing you too, young man. Take care of my girls for me, you hear?"

* * *

The road out of town was lit only by a few dim stars on this hazy night. Amalia pulled a small battery-powered light out of her donkey's saddlebag and stuck it through a loop on the animal's bridle that until now Donovan hadn't been able to guess the purpose of. This provided a little shaky light on the path ahead of them. As they rode quietly through the town's outskirts Amalia was silent and Donovan was reluctant to intrude on her private thoughts.

Cortina's place was a ranch on the derelict west side of town. Tonight one of his sons was minding the operation. "I didn't expect you so late, Ms. Channing." He took hold of the bridle so Amalia could dismount.

She swung a leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground. "We had to make a stop and it took longer than we thought."

"Ain't that the way of it?" He handed off the jenny to a little boy, then went to help Donovan. "You'll be wanting a rubdown and pasture tonight for these animals. Anything else? Oats? Alfalfa?"

"No, pasture and grooming is enough.We'll probably leave day after tomorrow."

While the boy took the animals away to be curried, Martin made a few calculations on a piece of ledger paper. After examining it, Amalia nodded and handed him some coins. "Any wagons heading back to town that you know of?"

The man shook his head. "I'm sure if you wait long enough, someone will come by."

They waited at the gate for several minutes before Amalia turned on her flashlight. "Come on," she said. "We'll probably encounter someone along the way." She cast a doubtful look at his leg. "You can still walk a little, can't you?"

"Sure," Donovan said, although he was anything but certain he could hold up the entire way. Luckily after only a quarter of a mile they found a man on the side of the road, digging a stone out of the hoof of one of his mules.

"I can take you into town," the man offered. "But not to the market itself, and only if my mule don't start limping again. I don't want to be unfriendly but. . ."

"Of course not," Amalia said. "We wouldn't want to add to the load of an animal that's hurt."

The man flapped the reins and clucked to his team. The mules pulled against the traces and the wagon jerked forward. Two miles later, he dropped them off in the center of town and went on his creaking way. "Come on," Amalia told Donovan with a tug at his sleeve, but Donovan hesitated, sniffing the air. He was hungry and this time his stomach wouldn't be denied.

"Why don't we get us a bite to eat at that restaurant? My treat." When he saw the hesitation in Amalia's eyes he added, "We haven't eaten since lunch. What are we going to do? Go back to camp and wake everyone up cooking?"

"I had thought we'd just eat leftovers."

"When we can eat a hot meal in a restaurant instead?"

"We're here to make money, not spend it."

"I've got a little cash of my own. Let me treat you. It's the least I can do after all that you've done for me."

Amalia shook her head. "If you want to go in and get something, that's your business. I'll wait out here."

Donovan's stomach growled and he grabbed Amalia's hand. "When was the last time a man asked you out to dinner?"

Amalia was so surprised by this tactic that she had no answer ready.

"That's what I thought." Donovan put a hand on the back of her waist and guided her toward the scent of cooking food.

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Chapter Eighteen

After traversing the center of town, Donovan and Amalia turned onto a residential street. It was peaceful after the bustle of the main drag, but there was something close and mysterious about it, too. The houses were ramshackle, the lights faint and few, the trees too twisted against the darkening sky to make anything about this dirt road with its crumbling sidewalks feel homelike. Shadows darkened and elongated across the road, and by the time they had passed the third house, the darkness had engulfed nearly everything in their path. It was with relief that Donovan saw Amalia turn Goneril in the direction of a gate, hardly distinguishable from the others with its splintering wooden posts. They walked their animals into a dusty courtyard of cracked and missing tiles, almost artistic in its placement of broken planters and dead potted trees.

Amalia swung herself down from her jenny, tossed the reins over a post and helped Donovan off his mount. His brace squeaked as he followed Amalia to the door of the seemingly deserted house. Amalia jerked a string by the side of the door and from somewhere inside, a bell jangled. There was no response at first, then they heard at the door as someone fumbled with the locks, then the door opened a crack.

"Who is it?"

Amalia's lips curled down in annoyance. "It's me, Magda. Amalia Channing."

The door opened a little and Donovan could see a pale face rimmed with a mass of dark hair. "Who's the man with you?"

"His name is Donovan Sloan. He's a friend."

"And how do I know that?"

"Because I'm telling you so. For Christ's sake, let us in. What the hell is that you have on? And where's your grandmother?"

The door swung open to reveal a young woman standing in the dim light of an oil lamp, dressed in a stiff red gown, her neck and arms dripping with gold chains and charms. The dress was too tight for her pudgy body, but she wore it as though the bulges and straining seams were the height of fashion. She stood back to let Amalia and Donovan enter, glaring from under kohl-blackened lids. "My grandmother is resting," she said. "She wasn't expecting you. It's been so long, she was beginning to think the raiders got you." She turned an imperious gaze upon Donovan. "Maybe they have."

"Cut the crap," Amalia said. "All we want is to see Mother Reyes, get my ration books and go. Your grandmother is still alive, right? You haven't suffocated her with a pillow so you can get your inheritance early?"

Magda widened her eyes in mock horror as she shut the heavy door behind them, so many rings glittering on her fingers that she could barely lift her hands. "I don't know how you can say such a thing. I guess being out there in the country dries you up and makes you bitter." Without waiting for a return comment, she led the way across the tiled floor, wobbling in her stilettos, to another heavy door, this one of finely carved oak set in a freshly plastered wall decorated at the top in a blue native design. With a smile that was all confection and pretense, she said, "You'll see for yourself how well I care for Nana."

They entered a sitting room so richly furnished and bright with electric lamps that one didn't notice at first that it was small. The plastered walls were decorated with the same blue trim as in the previous room and a fire blazed in a rounded fireplace in one corner. Paintings and Indian rugs hung on the walls, and thick-pile woven rugs of a strange design lay scattered over the tiled floor. The dark wood and leather furniture looked too stiff to be more than decorative, but in a concession to comfort, there was a mound of tasseled pillows in front of the fireplace. Perched on one of the pillows was a tiny wren of a girl who watched the strangers with glittering eyes.

"Hello, Cruz," Amalia said. Her words were affectionate, even if her tone was not. "You've grown so big since I last saw you."

The girl rose warily and brushed down the skirt of her ruffled dress. Like Magda, she was weighted down with jewelry. She stared silently at Amalia for a moment, then fixed her gaze on Donovan. "Who are you?"

"He's Mrs. Channing's bodyguard," Magda said, crossing the room in quick strides and opening another door. "He's here to make sure Nana doesn’t short Mrs. Channing any of her ration coupons because you know they're terribly poor out there in the country, without a thing to eat but tumbleweeds and cow manure."

"Oh, for God's sake." Amalia sighed and followed her into a hallway with Donovan close behind.

They walked to a door at the end of the hall, which Magda opened after a perfunctory rap. "Nana," she said,"It's that friend of yours." The way she spat the word "friend," she could've been talking about rats. "She seems to have brought a friend of her own with her."

Amalia and Donovan stepped into a bright room full of blond wood furniture and decorated with framed photos and religious pictures. In the bed, looking lost amid the white sheets and colorful quilts, was a white-haired old woman, frail and wan, but with startling blue eyes that lit up at the sight of her guests. "Amalia!" she said, pushing herself up in bed and holding out her gnarled hands. "Come here, dear. I've been so worried."

Amalia took the woman's hands in her own for a moment, but then gave the woman a hug instead. "Mother Reyes, it's so good to see you."

"Good to see you too, mi hijita. Stand back and let me have a look at you."

Amalia submitted to the old woman's clucks and nods as she took in her short hair, boots, heavy work pants, and checked cotton shirt stained with the dirt and sweat of a day working the market. "You still dress and cut your hair too much like a man."

A haughty sniff indicated Magda's approval of this remark.

"But you look healthy. You get enough to eat?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Then you won't need your ration books," Magda grumbled.

The older women ignored her. "Do you still read?" Mother Reyes asked.

"Yes, I'm reading Robinson Crusoe with Carina, and the Bible every night before I go to sleep."

This last surprised Donovan and it must have shown on his face because both women turned toward him. "And who is this nice-looking young man?"

Amalia motioned him forward. "This is Donovan Sloan. He works on our farm now."

Mother Reyes took one of Donovan's hands. "I'm glad to know the girls have a little help. A farm is too much work without a man."

"He can't be much help with that thing on his leg," murmured a voice from the doorway.

"He manages well enough," Amalia said. Her eyes met the old woman's and flashed her a wink so quick that Donovan would've thought he was imagining it if he hadn't caught the slight change in Mother Reyes' tone.

"I bet he does," she said. Before Magda could make another caustic remark, Mother Reyes looked at her. "Magda, dear, I'm sure your daughter could use a little company. You should never leave a child alone with a fire."

Magda pouted. "Cruz is fine. And besides, Laura is out there. Somewhere." She turned on one of her sharp heels and flounced away. Amalia shut the bedroom door behind her. "So how are you really?" she asked, sitting beside the bed. "I can't believe you've put up with her attitude for so long. I thought she would've run away by now, or that you would've kicked her out for the sake of your own sanity."

The old woman put a cautionary finger to her lips and motioned for Donovan to pull up a chair. "Let's talk softly. I don't put it past her to listen at the door."

Amalia took one of Mother Reyes' hands in her own. "Can't you find someone else to take care of you? I know you can afford to pay."

"Yes, I still employ Laura, and I assign her to do most of the cooking and cleaning. Magda doesn't do much at all except go through my closets and jewelry boxes, trying to wear everything at once."

"Will Kevin not take her back? You don't need so much anger and negativity around here."

"Kevin doesn't need it either, I'm afraid." Mother Reyes sighed. "And I can hardly turn my daughter's only child out into the street. She and my great-granddaughter are all I have left."

"You have friends, Mama. Friends can be as good as family."

Mother Reyes winked at Donovan. "Doesn't that sound more like something Carina would say?"

"It sure does." When he saw Amalia bite her lip in annoyance, he added, "She's feeling happy. It was a good day at the market."

Mother Reyes patted Amalia's hands. "We need more good days for you, then. You used to be such a chipper little thing."

"Okay, okay…"

Sensing her embarrassment, the woman changed the subject. "How is your sister? I have a couple letters from Miles for her."

"Good. She'll like that."

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