the damage to his career or fill this great, yawning emptiness inside him. But he could damn well keep Elisa Reyes in the United States where she and her child would be safe.
He stopped, the surety of that one thought gusting through him like a gale-force wind. Whatever it took, he could not let Elisa Reyes be sent back to San Ynez. Whether she wanted his help or not, she would have it. He owed her that much.
And Del Cooper damn well paid his debts.
Elisa hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she’d been so tired. The men’s voices—the politician and the policeman—had droned on. She’d listened, but her eyelids had grown heavy.
Now the night, and her chance to escape, was almost over. According to the clock by the bed, dawn would break in another hour, and she panicked as she remembered last night’s conversations.
She couldn’t go back to San Ynez. She wouldn’t let them send her.
Anger and fear razed her nerves, making her hands shake. She’d come to America to start a new life for her child. Eduardo was gone, but he would want her to stay, to give their child that life even without him. How could a parent not want that?
Silently Elisa rose and found her boots, her bag. She’d seen two cars in the garage the ranger called the carriage house last night. It didn’t take long for her to find the keys hung neatly in a cabinet by the door. Apparently the politician counted on the iron gate around his property and the ranger who lived above his precious cars to protect them. The lock on that cabinet wouldn’t stop anyone.
Inside the convertible with the leaping jaguar on the hood, she fumbled with the keyring. Quietly. She had to be quiet, or the ranger would hear.
Pushing the only key she hadn’t yet tried into the ignition, she dropped the whole ring. Ay, Diós. Then she crossed herself for her transgression. When she bent her head to retrieve the keys, the seat creaked beneath her. The rich smell of leather filled her senses as she groped around the floorboard.
When she finally got a grip on the keys and raised her head, she found the ranger standing just beyond the front bumper. His thick forearms were folded over his broad chest, and the starlight behind him gave his gray eyes a silvery glow, pinning her in place.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
Breaking the eye contact, she shoved the key home and twisted. The engine purred to life. Before she could put it in gear, though, the car dipped and jounced. She jerked her head up. Her eyes widened at the sight of the ranger’s boots clomping across the polished hood. He easily hopped over the windshield and landed in the seat next to her. “Don’t mind if I tag along, do you?” he asked. “Just to make sure Gene gets his car back.”
She flinched at the implication that she was stealing the car. Of course, she was stealing the car. But it was necessary. Her child’s life was at stake. “Let me go,” she said, angling her chin.
Casually he reached over and switched off the ignition. “I can’t do that.”
“Why? What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. Except to help you.”
“So that you can clear your conscience?”
His eyes turned cold. “Lady, it’s going to take a lot more than you to clear my conscience.”
“Then let me go.”
“Go where? San Ynez?”
Her anger flared to match his. Her hands clenched around the steering wheel. “No. I can’t go back there.” Going home meant certain death. She couldn’t escape the soldiers with a baby.
“Where, then?”
“I will find a place.” She could take care of herself. She’d been taking care of herself—and a lot of other people—for eight years now.
“On the street? What kind of life is that?”
“Is it worse than starving in San Ynez? Being hunted by military police who protect the coca fields and massacre their own people?” She forced herself to take a deep breath. “I will survive.”
“And your baby?”
Elisa’s cramped stomach muscles fluttered, reminding her of the child within. She could take care of herself, she was sure of that. But a baby? She could stitch an open wound with a sewing needle, defuse an antipersonnel land mine with a screwdriver and a stick. But she knew nothing about babies. Delivering them or caring for them.
He had a way of striking at the core of her fears, this ranger.
“At least he will have a chance,” she said, laying her hand protectively over her middle. Del followed the movement with his eyes, his lips tightening.
“There is another way. For both of you.”
She didn’t want to ask how. Wouldn’t trust him even when he answered, despite that dependable-looking face and the sincerity in his expression. But how could she keep silent with all she had at stake? “What way?”
“There are immigration lawyers. They can appeal your case to the INS.”
“So that La Migra knows right where to find me when they’re ready to throw me out? No.”
“Gene Randolph has contacts in the State Department. He might be able to push something through. A hardship application or political asylum.”
Elisa laughed in disbelief. “Put my fate in the hands of Immigration and a politician?”
“Give the system a chance. No one wants you to suffer because of what happened to Eduardo.”
To her horror, her eyes suddenly warmed, watered. Despising the weakness, and blaming it on hormones, she blinked back the tears. “I trusted the system once, in my country,” she said, when she was sure her voice wouldn’t shake. “I went to the university and studied economics and English. I worked within our government to build industry and commerce. I spoke to student groups about making our country stronger, improving trade relations with America and Europe. I was giving this speech when a colonel in the army of San Ynez, Colonel Sanchez, decided he should run the country, not the elected president. With the troops behind him, he overran the presidential palace. Presidente Herrerra was taken to sea and killed, and Sanchez became our new leader. I was thrown in jail, chained and interrogated as a dissident for three days before I escaped with my brothers. So forgive me if I do not easily trust the system.”
She expected the ranger to be shocked, then to argue that that was San Ynez. This was America. The great, infallible America.
He surprised her. His expression warmed, not with anger, but with understanding. His mouth almost smiled, as if a weight had been lifted from the corners with the making of some great decision. He covered her hand on the steering wheel with his, lifted it, held her fingers lightly. His hands weren’t smooth; she knew that from other times he’d touched her. But for the first time, she realized she liked their coarseness. Roughened hands were a sign of strength. A symbol of a man’s dedication to a cause, be it chopping wood or plowing fields. She wondered how Ranger Cooper had earned his calluses.
“Okay then, don’t trust the system,” he said,
