He slunk to the edge of the pasture like a wolf. There were perhaps fifteen or twenty sheep mowing the grass, their coats half-grown from a spring shearing, belled to make them easier to track. No shepherd. No dog that he could see, although that didn't mean there wasn't one napping in the shade of the pole barn.
A fox skull hung beside the hayloft door. Facing him. He almost turned and retraced his steps, but he was a man, and a man didn't run from a woman. He emerged from the underbrush and headed for the barn. Maybe she had news of Octavio. Maybe she wanted the gun and the money back. Maybe she needed his help again. Maybe she found herself thinking of him in the quiet moments of the day, pausing at the sight of hay in the cow barn, drifting away when the men discussed their women back home…
He jerked himself into the moment. The knife handle was slippery in his hand. He ought to stab himself in the thigh. Perhaps that would keep him focused. He reached the door. Hauled himself up over the lip. Heard her whisper, "Amado?"
For a split second, he worried about a trap, but then she bounded across the bales toward him, arms outstretched, hair streaming behind her like a pennant. She flung herself at him, arms wide, and all he could do was embrace her, teetering, and then he lost his balance and the two of them toppled backward onto the hay.
She was speaking, a torrent of English like choppy water pouring over him, and he could hear relief and fear and apology in her voice. He rolled to one side, letting her slip off him, and the motion seemed to make her aware of where they were, chest to chest, arm by arm, legs entangled. She said something, fast and low, and scrambled out of range. When she turned again, her cheeks were pale pink.
He sat up. Marshaled his thoughts. He couldn't afford to let sentiment mess up his judgment. "Your brothers," he said, "take Octavio." He rose to his feet. He wasn't any taller than she, but he was strong. Very strong. "Where?" he demanded.
She shrank back. He felt like a slug, but he continued to glare at her. "Where?"
"Octavio?" Another flood of English, this time questions.
He held up one hand. He didn't want her to know the relationship between Octavio and himself. Anything she knew, her brother might beat out of her. "Octavio work at"-he sketched a cross in the air-"la iglesia."
"The church?"
"The church, yes. Your brothers take him."
"Mi familia," she said, "no take him. No." She spread her hands open. "I ask. They no take him. Yo promesa."
"You promise? You promise?" He spat on the hay next to his work boot. "Your brothers lie."
"No." She should have been offended or angry, but instead her face softened. She stepped toward him, tentatively, as if he might snap and slap her like her abusive brute of a brother.
Mother of God. What sort of man was he, frightening a woman who had learned to expect the side of a hand? He reached out to her. "Isobel," he said. She came to him, no reluctance now, and he held her as he would hold a child, his anger and misery leaching away as he murmured, "Lo siento. I am sorry. Lo siento."
After a few moments, she pushed away from him. He released her instantly. She faced him, her lips pressed firm, her eyebrows knitted, the face of someone trying to put something complex into simple, understandable words. "La policia ask for…"-she frowned-"Octavio?"
"Octavio."
"La policia ask my brothers." She mimed a burly man, arms akimbo, holding out one arm in a sign to stop. "No here," she said in a gruff voice. "No Octavio." She reverted to her own voice. "I ask my brothers. They-" She held her belly and faked a deep laugh. "Ha-ha-ha!"
"Risa."
"¿Risa? Laugh?" She nodded. "My brothers"-she enacted the big man again, complete with deep voice-"El hombre de la iglesia? Pffft." She made an elaborate show of who cares? She shifted back to herself. "I ask, me promesa? My brothers"-she dropped her voice again-"Okay. Promesa."
She came to a standstill. "Lo siento, Amado." He could hear the truth in her words. A cautious voice inside him whispered, She may be a brilliant liar, but one thing he had learned, traveling through a strange land, is that sometimes you have to trust. And believe. He wanted to believe in Isobel. He wanted that very much.
He reached for her hand. The price of belief was losing his only hope of recovering Octavio. Because if the Christies didn't have him, who did? How could he ever find him?
He let her draw him to where the old quilt had been spread over loose hay. He sat, then flopped backward, tired of dread and rage and suspicion. Tired of the patron relying on him and the men looking to him and the weight, the immovable, unchangeable weight of responsibility, to his brother in this country and to their family at home.
Isobel perched beside him, as if uncertain where she was allowed to be. He opened his arms, and after a moment she lay down snug against him. She rested her hand on his chest. He drew his fingers through the ends of her hair. He found himself talking about his parents. About his family's home. About his fears that he was the cause of Octavio's disappearance. He opened up his mouth and let every sad, mad, bad thing in his head out, named them all, and let them fly up into the shadows like the swallows nesting above. Finally, he looked at her, into her grave, patient eyes, and confessed his own foolish heart.
She lay beside him, her hand smoothing across the front of his shirt, until he ran out of words.
"Amado." Her lips were a little chapped. He wondered how they would feel. "Te amo."
He raised his eyes back to hers. "Isobel?" He hadn't taught her that. Do you know what that means?
She sat up. Began unbuttoning her shirt. Her fingers were shaking, but she never took her eyes from his. He lay still, afraid that if he moved he would frighten her off. Make her think he didn't want her.
Her shirt fell away. She unhooked her bra. In the rich shadows of the haymow, her skin glowed. She took his hand. Placed it on her breast.
Now he was shaking. It was insane. He didn't know this woman. If she brought him home, her brothers would murder him. If he brought her home, his mother would cry. They didn't even speak the same language. How could he love someone who wouldn't understand him when he proposed?
"Te amo," she repeated, sounding scared and determined. "¿Tu?"
He could have resisted her bare skin, but her naked faith broke him. He surrendered, gathering her to him, rolling her onto the quilt, stroking her hair away from her face as he whispered, "Querida, mi Isobel, mi corazón. Yes. I love you too."