sympathy made her bold. “I know an attorney in San Antonio who specializes in immigration cases,” she began.
He sighed, noting her expression. “And I know one of the federal attorneys,” he replied with resignation. “Okay. I’ll go make some phone calls.”
She beamed up at him. “I knew you were a nice man the minute I saw you.”
“Did you? How?” he asked with real curiosity.
“The ponytail,” she told him. “It has to be a sign of personal courage.” It was overt flattery.
He laughed. “Well! I’ll have to go home and tell Tippy that the secret’s out.”
She grinned.
His expression became solemn. “Castillo is dangerous. Don’t get brave when you’re on your own here.”
“I realized that early on,” she assured him. “He has no respect for women.”
“Or men,” he added. “Watch your back.”
“I will.”
He waved on his way down the steps.
RODRIGO WAS CURIOUS ABOUT the conversation Glory had with Chief Grier. Too curious.
“Did he say anything about the illegal immigrant he’s looking for?” he asked over bowls of soup at the supper table with Consuelo.
Glory hesitated. She didn’t quite know Rodrigo enough to trust him with information of a potentially tragic case.
Consuelo grinned at him. “She’s afraid you might blow the whistle on Angel,” she said in a stage whisper.
Glory flushed and Rodrigo burst out laughing.
“I would never have suspected you of having anarchist leanings,” he chided Glory.
She finished a spoonful of soup before she answered him. “I’m not an anarchist. I just think people make snap decisions without all the facts. I know that immigrants put a strain on our economy.” She put the spoon down and looked at him. “But aren’t we all Americans? I mean, the continent is North America, isn’t it? If you’re from north, central or south America, you’re still an American.”
Rodrigo looked at Consuelo. “She’s a socialist,” he said.
“I am not classifiable,” she argued. “I just think that helping people in desperate need is supposed to be what freedom and democracy are all about. It isn’t as if they want to come here and sit down and let us all support them. They’re some of the hardest working people in the world. You know yourself that you have to force your hired hands to come out of the fields. Hard work is all they know. They’re just happy to live someplace where they don’t have to worry about being shot or run out of their villages by multinational corporations looking for land.”
He hadn’t interrupted her. He was watching her with narrow, intent eyes, unaware that his soup spoon was frozen in midair.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is my mustache on crooked?” she asked mischievously.
He laughed and put the spoon down. “No. I’m impressed by your knowledge of third world communities.”
She wanted so badly to ask about his own knowledge of them, but she was shy of him. The memory of the fervent embrace she’d shared with him made her tingle all over every time she pictured it. He was very strong, and very attractive.
He finished his coffee, glancing at her. “You’re dying to know, aren’t you?” he asked with a bland expression.
“Know what?”
“Where I come from.”
Her cheeks went pink. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry…”
“I was born in Sonora, in northern Mexico,” he told her. He skipped the part about his family and their illustrious connections, including their wealth. He had to remember his concocted history. “My parents worked for a man who ran cattle. I learned the business from the ground up, and eventually managed a ranch.”
She felt strongly that he wasn’t telling the whole story, but she wasn’t going to dig too deeply. It was too soon. “Did you get tired of the ranch?”
He laughed. “The owner did. He sold his holdings to a politician who thought he knew all about cattle ranching from watching reruns of High Chapparel, that old television Western.”
“Did he really know all about it?” she fished.
“He lost the cattle in the first six months to disease because he didn’t believe in preventative medicine, and he lost the land two months after that in a poker game with two supposed friends. No ranch, no job, so I came north looking for work.”
She frowned. Jason Pendleton wasn’t the sort of man who socialized with day laborers, she thought, even though he wasn’t a snob. “How did you meet Jason…I mean, Mr. Pendleton?” she corrected.
He caught the slip, but let it pass. “We were both acquainted with a man who was opening a new restaurant in San Antonio. He introduced us. Jason said that he needed someone to ramrod a truck farm in a little Texas town, and I was looking for work.”
Actually he’d approached Jason, with the help of a mutual friend, and explained that he needed the job temporarily to provide his cover while he tried to shut down Fuentes and his operation. Jason had agreed to go along with it.
Their next conversation, the day Glory arrived, had been about Glory going to work on the truck farm. Jason had told him nothing about Glory, least of all that she was his stepsister, but he hadn’t liked Rodrigo’s remark about Glory being crippled and it was evident. Rodrigo had the feeling that Jason was overly fond of Glory—perhaps they were even lovers. It had been a taut conversation.
Rodrigo was tempted to ask Glory about her relationship with Jason, but he didn’t want to rock the boat.
“Well, your English is a hundred times better than my Spanish,” she sighed, breaking into his thoughts.
“I work hard at it.”
Consuelo was stirring cake batter. She glanced at Rodrigo curiously. “That Castillo man is going to be trouble, you mark my words.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. “We’ve been over this twice already,” he said quietly. “You want your son to work here and take his place. But Marco doesn’t know how to manage people.” He said it in an odd tone, as if he was holding something back.
She glowered at him. “He can so manage people. He’s smart, too. Not book smart, but street smart.”
Rodrigo looked thoughtful. His eyes narrowed. “All right, then. Have him come and talk to me tomorrow.”
Consuelo’s dark eyes lit up. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
“I’ll call him right now!” She put down the bowl of unfinished
