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contrast to the gray-blond thatch of curls. Then he grasped the sides of his walker and struggled to his feet, huffing softly with the effort.
    “All right.” He exhaled the words. “Let’s go see what old Traynor has to say and get this over with.”

Chapter 7
    Sheridan and Eliot went out through the French doors of his first-floor bedroom and followed the walkway toward the center of the courtyard. Like in the front, bougainvillea cascaded down rock walls that enclosed the back patio. The house bordered the fourth side. Orange, lemon, and lime trees grew in the dirt yard, fruit burgeoning on their limbs. Other flowering plants thrived in pots.
    Eliot clunked his walker in a steady rhythm along tiles designed with intricate swirls of bright reds and blues. The squares of concrete provided a fairly smooth surface, an important plus in a flood-prone town.
    Luke stood as they approached. His jacket hung on the back of his chair. His long shirtsleeves were rolled up.
    Since calling him a scumbag earlier, Sheridan had avoided him, staying indoors and helping Eliot with his morning routine. Mercedes had seen to Luke’s needs, giving him food and drink, old newspapers, and a tour of the kitchen.
    “Mr. Ambassador.”
    Smiling, Eliot let go of his walker and shook Luke’s outstretched hand. “You always were a charmer, Traynor. I’m just Eliot now. Welcome to casa de Montgomery.”
    As they talked, Sheridan watched Luke’s face closely. She discerned no overt reaction to the radical changes in Eliot that he must certainly be noticing.
    Except for deepened crow’s-feet, her husband’s face at fifty-two remained as youthful in appearance as ever. She’d always been enamored of the attractive blend of teen and maturity in his fresh face. But his body carried the trauma in shuffling feet and hunched shoulders. From a side angle one might guess he was eighty. Even his voice weakened after too much use. He was putting up a strong front at the moment, but he would most likely tire soon. Sometimes his thoughts wandered off and never came back.
    The doctor said it was all to be expected, of course. Eliot’s body had sustained an incredible amount of damage, most of it irreversible. His mind had to make adjustments. The chronic pain and the loss of his work took a toll on his personality, once the most pleasant she had ever met and, unlike Luke’s, genuinely gracious.
    Luke said, “I must say you are looking fit, sir.”
    Eliot chuckled. “Now you’ve crossed that vague line between charming and outright lying.”
    “I disagree. The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed, bruised from head to toe, all but buried under tubes, IV lines, and beeping machines.”
    “Ah, I stand corrected, then. It’s all relative.” He gestured toward the chairs at the table, and the two of them sat. “I can’t recall much from those foggy days of morphine. Did I ever thank you for rescuing my wife?”
    “Yes, you did most definitely. And I said, ‘You’re welcome,’ and then I believe you fell asleep.”
    “Passed out, more likely.” He shook his head. His ghosts were of physical agony and a brain fogged with drugs, not images on a sidewalk. “I’ll ring Mercedes for some iced tea.”
    Sheridan took a step toward the house. “I’ll go in and tell her.”
    “I’ll ring. Please, join us.”
    “No thank you. I need to take a walk. You two can discuss business while—”
    “Sheridan.” Luke’s charming tone turned solemn. “I wanted Eliot in on this because it will impact him. However, the ‘business’ concerns you more directly than it does him.”
    Her husband removed a tiny pewter bell from his shirt pocket and gave it a quick shake. “I feel ridiculous using this thing. At least they don’t make me carry around the cowbell. The house isn’t large enough for either, but I suppose that’s relative too. It seems enormous to me because I can’t easily move through it. I’ve been upstairs only once since we