Roz Fox - Someone to Watch Over Me

He exploded into Isabella’s kitchen, which sent the swinging doors crashing into the walls. One hand was outstretched; the other he’d wrapped around his throat.

The minute she caught sight of his red face and bulging eyes, she dropped the carving knife with which she’d been cutting thick slices of home-baked bread. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Are you choking?” She reached for the wall phone.

“H…ot!” Gabe managed to get a word past his blistered vocal cords. He stood there dancing from foot to foot, pointing repeatedly at her sink. Isabella finally got the message. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, reached into the fridge and poured him a tall glass of milk. “Here, drink this. Slowly. It’ll coat the inside of your mouth and throat.”

Once he’d done that and the pain had subsided, letting his tense features relax, Isabella chewed nervously on her lower lip. “I’m really sorry. We Basques throw Rocoto chiles into practically everything. They’re not even at the top of the chile heat scale. You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he croaked. But he downed the rest of the milk and held out his glass for more. She filled it again, this time in full control of her shaking hands.

“I think you fed me a ball of fire on purpose.”

“No. I swear.” She frowned faintly. “I didn’t know what was wrong with you. But if you could’ve seen the look on your face…” She broke off, tightly hugging the gallon milk container.

In a remote portion of his brain, it registered with Gabe that he’d finally broken through her shell. He’d probably presented quite a sight barreling through the swinging doors like a lunatic.

Conciliatory again, Isabella waved a hand toward the door. “Go on back and eat before your food gets cold. I’ll bring a pitcher of milk to your table.”

“Somehow I doubt that stuff’s gonna get cold anytime soon,” Gabe muttered. “So, milk is better than water to put out the fire?”

“According to chile tests, yes. Although the burning sensation rarely lasts more than a minute.”

“Says you. Seemed a lot longer.” At the moment Gabe wasn’t up to sparring with her on the subject of chiles. He retreated with his glass of milk and as much dignity as he could scrape together. He said nothing when she arrived at his table bearing milk and more information he didn’t care about.

“The Rocotos are the small, dark-red pieces in the migas. You should have no trouble picking them out. Habanero and Santaka chiles are several times hotter,” she said, setting the cut-glass milk pitcher on top of his newspaper.

Gabe shook his head. “Don’t most restaurants put triple stars or something on the menu to flag food that’s extra spicy? You need a fire truck painted next to this stuff.” With that, he moved the pitcher and began separating sections of his newspaper. He’d bought it because he wanted to relax over a cup of coffee and take a gander at the real estate section.

Isabella took the hint, and slipped his bill under the pitcher. After a last worried frown aimed at his bent head, she returned to the kitchen.

Damn, but his tongue still felt numb. Picking up the fork he’d dropped at the start of his fool’s dance, Gabe prodded the innocent-looking side dish. He wondered about Isabella’s impression of him and decided he must’ve come across as a complete jerk. He grimaced at the thought.

Gabe dug into his migas with a new determination. If Isabella and her family ate five-alarm stuff like this regularly, he was damn well going to choke it down with a straight face.

It took him half a pitcher of milk, but in time he cleaned his plate. Well, except for three big chunks of pepper. And boy, had she been right about the ham. Terrific stuff.

Full and mostly satisfied, Gabe pushed his plate aside. He settled down to read the paper, raising his head only briefly when the outer door opened. Seeing four elderly women, not one of whom he knew, Gabe dismissed them with an impersonal smile.

They, however, stopped their chatter to scrutinize him curiously.

But he’d found something interesting in the ads. Reading soon claimed his attention again. Two large farms, plus a ranchette, were listed for sale within the boundaries he’d learned made up the Basque community. The Inn’s clerk had circled the area on Gabe’s map after he’d made a few casual inquires this morning. The lonely clerk loved to talk. She was more than happy to educate him on all the local lore. The primary fact of interest to Gabe was that the richest soil in the area lay within the Basque territory.

If he bought a farm—although Gabe wasn’t at all sure he should—he’d want it to pay. His friends teased him by calling him the banker. It wasn’t really a joke; his attitude was that of a banker. A successful one. He was financially cautious, always sought as much information as possible and only took judicious risks. Gabe noticed the guys didn’t complain when he’d steered them toward investments that made them rich.

In the middle of checking the last column of ads, it became apparent to him that Isabella’s customers, who’d been yammering in the background in both English and Basque, had suddenly begun to whisper. Cocking an ear, he soon suspected he was the topic of their hushed conversation. What could they be saying about him?

Jeez, maybe men didn’t frequent Isabella’s bakery. Afraid he might be breaking some local taboo, he quickly folded his paper and tucked it under one arm. He gave the women huddled around one of the display cases a wide berth as he extracted his wallet. Dropping his cash and the bill next to the cash register, Gabe acknowledged the now-silent group with a nod. Then he beat a hasty retreat.

QUITE FRANKLY, Isabella was overjoyed to see him leave. She’d grown weary of fending off the questions from her Aunt Carmen’s friends. They weren’t accustomed to finding a strange man seated in her bakery at midmorning when they came in to do their daily shopping. Yet when she started to punch Gabe’s payment into the cash register, she saw he’d left a ten-dollar bill to cover a four-fifty meal. “Wait!” she called to his disappearing back. “Mr. Poston. Gabe…you forgot your change.”

He stopped, one foot already out the door. “You didn’t bill me for the milk.”

“Goodness, you didn’t drink anywhere near five dollars’ worth of milk.”

“Call the remainder a fee for teaching me how to douse a chile fire.” He couldn’t suppress a grin. The doorbell tinkled merrily as he closed it.

Dolores Santiago, the next-door neighbor of Isabella’s Aunt Carmen, announced, “He’s exactly the way Trini and Sylvia described him to Carmen. Deny it all you want, Bella, the man is clearly smitten with you.”

“And he’s a big spender,” Nona Baroja pointed out, tapping the ten-dollar bill with a brightly polished fingernail.

Isabella jerked the money aside with a stern expression as she shoved the cash in the till. “Nonsense.” She slammed the cash drawer closed. “Not five minutes ago you were all ready to sic my brothers on the poor man. None of which is relevant, anyway,” she said, giving a curt wave of her hand. “As I’m sure Aunt Carmen told you, Gabe Poston is employed by the environmental agency responsible for saving Summer’s ranch from a resort developer. He’s only in town for his friend’s wedding. He’ll be gone soon.”

Nona shook her head so vigorously she loosened the ornate silver clip holding back her gray-streaked hair. “That one’s not leaving anytime soon. Am I the only one with sharp eyes? He was circling real estate ads in the Callanton paper.”

The bell over the door jingled. They all glanced up guiltily, apparently assuming that the man they were heatedly discussing had for some reason returned. But Isabella’s younger sister breezed in. She carried two bouquets of spring flowers and her face was flushed with excitement.