Son of a Gun. Joanna Wayne
asked.
Several who’d stayed behind shrugged and shook their heads. Julio climbed into the trailer and turned the young mother over so that she stared at the ceiling with blank, lifeless eyes. “Anybody here with her?”
Emma was about to answer that she was holding the woman’s baby, but a warning stare from the mother who’d nursed the baby silenced her.
“No use to transport the dead.” Julio picked up the body and tossed it off the back of the trailer. “Anyone else feeling sickly?” He smirked at his sick joke.
Belle started to fuss.
Julio turned and stared at Emma as if seeing her for the first time. He leered openly and then smiled as if they shared some private joke. Did he know that the baby in her arms was not hers?
Emma quieted Belle with a gentle rocking movement and avoided eye contact with Julio.
Julio took the gun from the holster at his waist and waved it around, asserting his authority. “The rest of you have five minutes to relieve yourself and stretch. You’ll get food as you climb back into your smelly nests.”
The woman who’d nursed Belle motioned for Emma to follow her into a dense thicket of shrubs, the best they could find in the way of privacy. They took turns holding the babies while the other relieved herself. Emma took her last packaged hand wipe from her pocket, tore it in half and shared it with the woman.
“What will you do with the baby?” the woman asked in Spanish.
“I don’t know.” The enormity of the problem she’d just taken on hit her full force.
“Julio will toss her out like rubbish if he finds out she belongs to the dead woman.”
“But what am I supposed to do with her?”
Suspicion darkened the woman’s eyes. “American?”
Emma shook her head and then shuddered and pulled her colorful rebozo low over her forehead so that only the bangs of her horrid wig showed as she approached the trailer.
Emma had counted on her clothing, the wig and her proficiency with the Spanish language to help her pass for a Mexican national. Otherwise, they would have thought she was an undercover cop or an investigative reporter. Either would have gotten her kicked out.
Julio passed out bottles of water and tortillas filled with bean paste as they reached the truck. Emma took only the water. She had a pocketful of wrapped churros and tortillas she’d bought in the small village where they’d begun their journey. Those would hold her over until she could get to Dallas.
Her other purchases had been made in the city where her escape boat docked. Her first purchase had been the wiry black wig she was wearing. In the same department store, she’d purchased the long colorful skirt, a Mexican-style white shirt, a bra, panties and basic hygiene items.
She’d quickly changed out of the long silk dress she’d been wearing when she escaped the monster. The better she blended in with the populations in the small villages she’d be traveling through, the better her chances of staying alive.
She’d bought the handmade rebozo at the last village for the explicit purpose of covering her head so that little of the wig could be seen beneath the bunched cotton shawl. It was the only protection she had now from the icy wind.
Julio grabbed her arm as she scrambled back into the trailer, forcing her to face him for a few seconds before he released his grip. His leering, lustful stare made her skin crawl.
“Guess we’re ready to roll,” Julio said. He jumped off the back of the trailer and slammed the doors shut.
Minutes later, the engine sputtered back to life and the jerky, bumpy ride began again. Only now Emma held the baby of a dead woman in her arms. How in the world did she ever expect to take care of a helpless infant when she was on the run?
Belle squirmed and balled her tiny hands into fists, swinging them into the air and twisting her lips into a pitiful pout. Emma trailed a finger down the baby’s smooth cheek. Belle seemed soothed by the touch.
A quivery sensation stirred deep inside Emma, as if Belle had latched herself to Emma’s heart.
* * *
WOOD SMOKE CURLED FROM the chimney and filled Damien’s nostrils as he stamped the mud from his feet and climbed onto the back porch of the sprawling ranch house. His brother Durk appeared before he reached the door, carrying an armload of firewood from the nearby shed. Damien held the door for him.
“I wondered when you’d give it up and get out of that sleet,” Durk said.
“Had to move cattle into one of the closer pastures in case that snow they’re promising actually develops.”
“Don’t you have wranglers for that?”
“I had them all working most of the day, too. This is a ranch, not that plush suite of offices you work in, bro.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it. Cows are much easier to deal with than corporate policy and endless regulations.”
Durk was the CEO of Lambert Inc, and spent only his weekends at the ranch. But Damien didn’t let up on him. “Don’t worry, if it snows tonight, you’ll be recruited for ranch-hand duty in the morning,” he said. “When did you get here?”
“About an hour ago. I would have been here sooner, but there was a major traffic jam coming out of Dallas. Bridges and overpasses are already icing over. Not a fit night out for man nor beast, with the exception of polar bears—and there’s not a lot of them wondering around North Texas.”
“It’s awful quiet around here. Where is everybody?”
“Grandma’s back in her suite. Aunt Sybil is in her room watching TV and sipping her afternoon sherry. And Tague is chauffeuring Mother. I told him to be careful driving in this.”
“Where did they go?”
“Just over to the Double R.”
“In this weather? Whatever for?”
“To take Mildred and Hank Ross some of the beef-and-vegetable soup she made this afternoon. Apparently Mildred’s been sick, and you know Mother. She thinks she has to look out for the whole county.”
“When did they leave?”
“Just after I arrived, but they were going to stop off and try to persuade Karen Legasse to come stay with us until the weather improves.”
“That would make for an interesting weekend,” Damien said. “You and your ex-girlfriend snowed in together.”
“Ex is the operative word there,” Durk said. “She’s married now, with a baby. No way am I going near that, even if the sparks hadn’t cooled to ice.”
“It may be over between you two,” Damien said, “but she and Mother are closer than ever. Karen shows up at the Bent Pine almost as often as the mailman.”
Damien went to the coffeepot and filled a mug with the hot brew. “Where is Mark the Magnificent?”
“Apparently dear hubby is in L.A. for a meeting.”
“And missing all the poopy diapers. Those rich investment types know how to suffer.”
Damien lifted the lid off the big pot on the back burner of the range. The heady aroma of onions, stewed tomatoes and spices filled the room. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of his mother’s famous homemade soup.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” Damien said, “unless you need help bringing in logs.” With three fireplaces in the rambling old house—they could burn a lot of wood on a cold weekend.
“I’ve got it covered,” Durk said. “And then I’ll get to those boxes in the attic Mother asked me to bring down.”