Rachel Lee - Defending the Eyewitness

All of a sudden he stuck his hand in his front pocket and put a folded stack of bills in front of her. “Rent,” he said, and went back to making coffee.

“Are you going to miss the tortillas?” she asked, seeking something friendly to say even as her nerves kept coiling tighter.

“Fresh ones? You bet. The beginning and end to every meal. Stacks of them. Usually corn. There was one little stand I frequented and sometimes I just stood there watching that woman’s hands fly. You wouldn’t believe how fast she could roll a ball of dough, flatten it into a near-perfect circle and toss it on the grill for just a short time. Hot and always delicious.”

“A real skill.”

“Definitely. And it wasn’t only her. I just happened to like her stand.” His face darkened a bit as he spoke. Then, “Cups?”

She rose and went to open the cupboard. As she did, she accidentally brushed against him and nearly froze as a sizzle ran along her nerve endings. It was a feeling so rare in her life that it astonished her. She leaped away like a startled rabbit.

“Something wrong?”

Only then did she realize she’d been staring into the cupboard too long, and that he’d stepped away from her. She grabbed two mugs at random, closed the cabinet, then handed him one.

“Nothing,” she managed to answer.

After he filled his mug, he remained standing as if he wondered whether she wanted him to go upstairs or remain. Be friendly, she ordered herself.

“Have a seat if you like,” she invited as she returned to her own with coffee. Just before she sat, she changed her mind and went to get out a tray of raspberry-and-cheese Danish and two plates. She offered him some.

“Thanks. That looks good.”

“It is. One of my friends finally fulfilled her dream of opening a bakery. It’s an awful lot of work, though. Up well before the birds and all that.”

Silence fell again. Apparently he wasn’t in a mood to talk, and she didn’t know what to say to him. Very awkward. Of course, she was used to hanging out with women at the shop or in the classes she hosted, but she knew most of them. Being confronted with a total stranger left her stymied. How in the world did you get past this when you came from such different worlds?

She supposed it didn’t matter. She should just take her coffee into the bedroom and figure out where she had gone wrong on her knitting. Because she was sure she had. Knitting a diamond design into the sweater was not a mindless task.

“Well,” she said, tired of the uncomfortable silence, and wondering what she was doing sitting here with a strange man, anyway, “I’ll just get back to my knitting.”

“Lo siento,” he said, then quickly, “I’m sorry. You’re trying to be friendly. I’m usually a friendly guy. For some reason, I’ve been finding that hard lately.”

She hesitated. “Are you bilingual?”

“From the cradle.”

“That’s very cool. I wish I were.”

At last he cracked a faint smile. “Being bilingual took me places, all right. My dad was from Mexico and my mom lived in San Antonio when they met. She was Anglo. Anyway, I grew up speaking both languages. Don’t ask me how I sorted it all out, but at some point I did.”

She laughed quietly. “Kids seem to be good at that. So, did you grow up in San Antonio?”

“Mostly. I spent some summers in Mexico with my father’s family. They had a large finca. Country estate. Plenty for young boys to do there.”

“What did your parents do?”

“Both of them taught at the university. That’s how they met. What about you? Have you always lived here?”

“I grew up here,” she said, shading the truth a bit. She could barely remember Denver at all.

“And you have your own business, I think Gage said?”

“Yes, it’s kind of a crafts shop for women who like sewing, knitting, that kind of thing.”

“Does it keep you busy?”

“Pleasantly so. I think we’ve become the up-to-date version of the women’s sewing circle. We have all kinds of gatherings and classes.”

“Sounds very friendly.” He managed another smile. As his gaze drifted toward the Danish, she pushed it in his direction. “Help yourself. I can get more.”

“It looks really good,” he said. “I can understand why your friend is successful.”

“I should ask her to make tortillas for you. I’m sure they’d be better than the stuff on the shelf in the store.”

He looked surprised. “Why would she do that? She doesn’t know me, and one person isn’t a whole market.”

“She’d do it because she’s that kind of person.”

This time his smile deepened, and some of the tension around his eyes eased. “Maybe it’s not so different here, after all.”

She wondered what he meant by that but wasn’t sure how to ask. How much was she supposed to know? And she didn’t have even a remote experience with Mexico. All she knew was this town and this county. Rightly or wrongly, she couldn’t imagine a better place.

“Help yourself to anything you like,” she said, rising. It was time to retreat behind her walls. “I know you haven’t had time to go shopping yet.”

He said something that might have been Spanish, leaving her perplexed as she walked down the hall. Then it occurred to her he’d probably been saying some form of good-night. Maybe she’d ask him tomorrow. Or maybe not.

He was a man, after all.

Chapter 2

Austin awoke in the morning considerably refreshed, knowing instantly where he was. He’d acquired that talent during his years as an agent. It was dangerous not to know exactly where you were and exactly what was around you, even when you slept. You never knew what you might wake up to.

He needed to rearrange the room a bit, but even as he sat up with the thought, he realized that would be overkill. He was in a safe little town in Wyoming, as far as he could be from anyone who might want to come after him...and no one should. They never knew his real name, he’d been whisked out of that damn Mexican prison so fast that the most his old compadres could believe was that he had been moved to another prison. Even if they suspected, they’d have no way of tracing him. Besides, by now, the rumor was probably running through the grapevine that he was dead. Killed in an escape attempt, maybe. That was the usual cover story when someone didn’t survive manhandling by the Federales.

So it was needless to think of having another way out of here besides the stairs. He didn’t have to live like that anymore. He repeated the mantra to himself several times. It was over. He didn’t need to live like that anymore.

It should have been reassuring. Comforting. Something. Anything except make him feel utterly at loose ends.

He rose and headed for the bathroom, where he erased the beard he’d worn religiously for six years. Sometimes he’d let it become scruffy, sometimes he’d neatly trimmed it, but it had been like a mask, concealing his real features just enough. He didn’t need concealment anymore, but by the time he got done, he looked at his unfamiliar reflection and could have laughed. The skin beneath the beard hadn’t tanned along with the rest of him, and the paleness almost glowed. His skin had a natural olive tone, but right then, in comparison, it didn’t look like it. He wondered how long it would take to catch up so he didn’t look like a clown.

It was time, he decided, to get the lay of the land around here and figure out what kind of clothes he’d need to fit in. If it didn’t involve a necktie, he’d be happy.

He heard a church bell ringing as he descended the stairs and realized it was Sunday. Hell, what did that mean for shopping around here?

He smelled coffee at the foot of the stairs and hesitated. Maybe he should just keep going and get breakfast somewhere.