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horror that she was doing it again - thinking of Malone. She threw Luis’s letter into a wastebasket, as she did with all unimportant correspondence, and rose to search for a book to take to bed.
    Perhaps tomorrow she would be more herself.
     

Chapter 2
    Dorotea perched on the edge of Malone’s bed, having made sure the pantry door was completely closed.
    “How are we feeling this morning, Señor?” she asked, reaching down a bold finger to trace the indent of the dimples on either side of his mouth.
    “Give me your hand, and I’ll show you,” was his cool reply, as he captured her fingers and tried to force them down beneath the covers that were bunched around his waist.
    She blushed and jerked her hand away. “I will admit that you’ve made progress. Only two days in bed, and already . . .”
    “Already I want company. How about it sweetheart?”
    His grin displayed teeth that were very white against the darkness of his face, and his eyes, slanted against the sunlight streaking in from a single high window, seemed very blue. Dorotea could feel her heart increase its beat.
    “You embarrass me, Señor. I told you I have a novio.”
    You told me you have three.”
    She laughed, taking care to pitch her volume low. “I must only make a choice, that’s all.”
    “You must take care whom you choose,” he said, meeting her bemused gaze with one of his own that seemed to promise anything. Wanting to touch him, Dorotea reached down to stroke the thick, dark hair away from his forehead.
    “Whomever I pick . . . I want him to look like you.”
    His laughter was soft and mocking. “Then I’d say you’d taken my advice.” He reached his good hand up to her neck, and pulled her face down. His mouth took hers and played with it, going both gentle and biting. When he finally released her, Dorotea nearly had to be pushed upright and held there.
    “That was just a sample, my sweet, of the way a good novio should act. You must keep it in mind.” Before giving her a chance to reply - if indeed she were capable at that moment - he continued smoothly. “Did you locate my things, guerida? My saddlebags - my guns?”
    She wet her red, slightly bruised lips. “Si. They are all in the Patrona’s study. She left them there in a corner. I do not think they have ever been disturbed.
    For the first time since the girl had entered the room, Malone’s smile became genuine.
    *
    Christina stood outside by the pulque distillery, chilled even though the sun beat on her bare head.
    “Tell me exactly what happened.”
    Joacquin shifted his feet, unused to the full concentration of the Patrona’s gaze. “I was sitting by the little creek, Señora, the one that runs by the Indian village. It was late yesterday afternoon - I wanted fish for dinner. Suddenly I looked up and there he was.”
    “You say he was an Indian?
    “Si. But not a local man. This one was very strange. He was tall, with a narrow face and a hooked nose. His hair was cut short, like a white man’s. He wore a poncho over deerskin pantaloons, and a big hat. I did not see a gun - but I am sure he had a knife.”
    “What did he say?” Christina asked.
    “He asked about the Yanqui. If I had seen a Norte Americano, perhaps wounded, about thirty-three years old.”
    “What did you tell him?” she asked, her voice rising in a kind of dismay she fought to keep down.
    “I told him I had seen no Yanquis, wounded or not. And that is the truth.” Yes, Joacquin thought to himself: I have never actually seen the Gringo!
    Christina stared for a few seconds, and Joacquin became scared that she would question him further. But she only thanked him for the information, turned and stalked away, looking much disturbed. Joacquin crossed himself the moment she was out of sight. The Blessed Virgin had saved him twice in two days: once, from the cold-eyed Indian who had frightened him into a babbling speech, and secondly, from the divining mind of the Patrona, who would have guessed