Sharon Sala - Rider on Fire & When You Call My Name

While the men were searching, Garcia was forced to lay low. He now knew he had agents on his tail. He’d been assured by Emilio Rojas, the man who’d been his father’s right hand, that not only did the DEA have agents on his trail, but they knew the make, model and tag number of the car he was driving. Once the significance of this news sank in, he felt sick. The only way that could have happened was if he’d been betrayed.

Time and time again, he went over a mental list of people who’d helped get him across the border. There were any number who could have tipped off the DEA, but he kept remembering the man at the airport outside of Houston who’d brought him a car and money and then so abruptly disappeared.

It stood to reason that this man could be the one who betrayed him. But then he would skip to the fact that Jorge Diaz had set everything up. Diaz was entirely responsible for successfully getting Miguel out of Mexico. He would have had access to the same information.

To go there in his mind, Miguel had to accept that Diaz would betray him, and he couldn’t believe it, even though he had been unable to contact Diaz for days.

To be on the safe side, he’d sold his car at a used car dealer in Oklahoma City, bought a four-year-old Jeep from a different car lot, driven thirty minutes east on I-40 to Shawnee, Oklahoma and had the Jeep painted black.

Before he left town, he’d stolen a Native American license plate from a member of the Muscogee Nation while the car was parked outside the Firelake Casino south of Shawnee. He’d driven off with no one the wiser, traveling as far as Tulsa, Oklahoma before going to ground.

There, he’d begun the business of disguising his appearance. He’d shaved his head and mustache, bought himself some Western-style clothes, including a pair of ostrich skin boots and a big black hat. By the time he added a large silver belt buckle to his wardrobe, his own mother would not have recognized him.

Feeling fairly safe about getting back out in the world, he thought about resuming his own search for Sonora, but decided to err on the side of caution. If his men didn’t find her within the week, he was going to go back to Phoenix. Sonora Jordan couldn’t stay gone forever, and he was a patient man.

* * *

Adam had not been to Franklin’s house or seen Sonora since the morning she’d received the news of her old friend’s death. He relived their last moments together in his dreams—holding her close against his body—feeling the thrust of her breasts against his chest as she cried for another man. But in his dreams, her tears somehow turned to passion. They would lie down together beneath the sheltering limbs of the old oak. There would be whispers and promises and an ache so deep that it took Adam’s breath away. What was driving him crazy was that he kept waking up before they could make love. He was sick and tired of cold showers and aches that wouldn’t go away.

She and Franklin didn’t have a lot of time to play catch-up, and he didn’t want to intrude. But he wasn’t a fool. He also didn’t want to lose the small foothold he’d gained with her by staying gone too long. She was a stranger in every way that it mattered, and yet there was a part of him that knew he couldn’t bear to let her go. He didn’t know how much time she would give herself to stay on the mountain, but he wanted his share of it. The way he looked at it, he’d given them a week. His streak of generosity was over.

* * *

Franklin was having a bad day and, after breakfast, had gone back to bed. Sonora had quickly learned that on these days, the best thing she could do for him was give him space and quiet. So when he went back to his room, she took his fishing pole and straw hat and headed for the pond at the back of the property.

She caught a few grasshoppers on the way and put them in a jar to use for bait just like Franklin had shown her. The wide brim on his old hat shaded her face while the sun had its way with the rest of her body. Even though it was hot, she knew she wouldn’t burn. By the time she got to the pond, her T-shirt was stuck to the sweat on her back and she had some kind of weird-looking burrs in her socks. Still, she was happier than she could ever remember being.

On the second day of her arrival, Franklin had saddled up two of his horses and they’d ridden from one corner of the property to the other until she knew where Blue Cat land began and ended. It had given her a sense of identity that she’d never known.

So, today, as she baited her hook, she had the satisfaction of knowing that she was standing on Blue Cat land—about to fish in a Blue Cat pond.

She wrinkled her nose and asked an apology of the poor grasshopper that was still kicking on the hook as she tossed it in the water. The red-and-white bobber bounced a few times within the spreading ripples. After that, it was a case of sit and wait.

For Sonora, it was like living out a dream. As a child, she used to imagine the innocence of a life like this, with people who loved her sitting beside her. There would be a picnic and laughter and playing barefoot in the water. It wouldn’t matter if anyone caught fish because they were together.

The sun was hot. Sonora’s eyelids were drooping. The bobber was riding high in the still water like an empty ship, and she couldn’t bring herself to care that she wasn’t getting any nibbles.

Something tickled her arm. She brushed at it without looking. Then something tickled the back of her neck. She brushed at it as absently as she had her arm.

“If I was a bad guy, you’d be in trouble.”

Sonora choked on a squeak and fell backward. For a second, the sun was in her eyes, and then a tall shadow fell across her face and she could see.

It was Adam.

“Darn you,” she muttered as she sat up, then yanked the pole from the water and flung it on the ground. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said, but he was smiling as he sat down beside her.

“No, you’re not,” she said, and then pointed a finger in his face. “I didn’t even hear you coming. How did you do that?”

“I’m Indian.”

She rolled her eyes and then punched him lightly on the arm.

“You’re full of it, that’s what you are.”

His smile widened. “Well, there is that, too.”

She wanted to stay indignant, but it didn’t work.

Adam brushed his hand against the curve of her cheek. “Forgive me?”

His dark eyes were glittering with laughter and his mouth was curved up in a smile. There was a small bead of sweat at the edge of his hairline as well as a sheen from the heat on his face. He smelled good—like the outdoors with a hint of musk, and the look in his eyes was on the broad side of dangerous.

At that moment, Sonora knew if she let it happen, they would be lovers. Part of her wanted to know him in that way. He was kind and generous. She could only imagine what kind of a lover he would be. But she had to remember there was danger in giving too much of herself away, and danger to whomever she let get too close. Buddy’s death was evidence of that.

Adam watched the playfulness come and go on her face and wondered what she was thinking, although he doubted she was the kind of woman who gave away her secrets.

“Hey,” he said, and playfully bumped his shoulder against hers.

She managed a halfhearted smile and then looked away.

“You’re forgiven,” she said.

She was slipping away from him and he couldn’t let that happen.

“Hey,” he said again, and cupped her face with the palm of his hand, pulling gently until she was looking at him. “What just happened here?”

Sonora met his gaze straight on. “I’m not who you need to be hanging out with.”

He inhaled sharply. She was thinking of Buddy Allen.