Guarding Gaby Page 7

  Not that he cared one whit to have her protection, it appeared.

  But she had unanswered questions.

  “Gaby?”

  “What? Sorry.” She summoned a smile. “I guess I’m a little tired.”

  “I asked if you’d let me take you to dinner tonight.”

  She had other plans, not that she could tell Chad.

  But if she were wrong, and Eli had killed her father?

  No. He was different, harder, but she could not believe that of him.

  Oh, I was involved, all right, but I didn’t kill him.

  She didn’t need Chad becoming suspicious.

  Placing one hand on his arm, she smiled up at him. “A raincheck, maybe? I’m so tired I wouldn’t be good company. I’m going to make an early night of it.”

  “All right.” He lifted one hand to her hair. “You’re worth waiting for.”

  “Thank you, Chad.” Part of her squirmed with guilt for her subterfuge, but she still felt a strong urge to shield Eli, however little the grown man resembled the boy.

  To ease her conscience at the lie, she rose to her toes and kissed Chad’s cheek.

  His heated gaze spoke of wanting more from her, and he bent closer.

  Keenly aware of Eli’s presence in the barn, she hastily stepped back. “Thank you for worrying about me. I swear I’ll be fine.”

  “Waiting doesn’t come real naturally to me, Gabriela.”

  She smiled but didn’t speak.

  Chad touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll call you.” Then he stepped into his truck and drove off.

  Gaby was careful to remain in place until he was out of sight.

  Then she pivoted and returned the way she’d come.

  “Eli,” she called out as she entered the barn. “If you don’t come to me, I’ll be out there looking for you.”

  She heard no answer. Searched the entire structure.

  Already knowing Eli would be gone.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  But it was he who was damned—by the force of longing he didn’t welcome. Watching her with Chad, seeing her touch him, recognizing the hunger in Chad because he had his own.

  He wanted to pound the bastard.

  Instead, he circled behind the barn, then past the rear of Gaby’s truck and slipped into the morning shade cast by the far side of her house. The high desert afforded few obvious hiding places until you reached the foothills of the Davis Mountains, but even desert landscapes were not perfectly flat. The land, however sere and barren to city eyes, still possessed secrets for a man with patience.

  If only he felt patient right now. He shook his entire body as if to cast away his need for her the way a dog sheds water.

  Years’ worth of hurt had made him rough with her, yet she’d stood up to him. His insides were a tangle of anger and lost hope, of longing to forget everything but him and her.

  One simple touch had shattered his defenses. Pierced the lid over his emotions, a seal he’d believed to be steel-strong, only to discover that it could be rent as easily as a tissue paper.

  The Eli I knew had a gentle heart.

  The bond between him and Gaby had been almost supernatural, but she had been only a girl, naïve and virginal, however valiant.

  The Gaby he’d met today was not the same person. She’d found her world, the one he’d always known he’d lose her to. She didn’t need him.

  Or want him.

  Which was fine. Good.

  But damned if it didn’t still hurt. And the notion of her with Chad enraged him.

  I’m more stubborn than before. I’ll come looking for you.

  Eli reached the mouth of his cave and didn’t stifle a rueful smile. She’d do it, too. He had to stop her. Convince her to go.

  He couldn’t allow her to venture into the seamy tangle he was trying to unravel to prove his innocence. She might think she was tough, but there were forces at work she couldn’t imagine. The responsibility was his to uncover a means—and quickly so—to send her racing back to the life she had wanted.

  Away from him…and the danger he had always posed to her.

  He shook his hand and tried again to erase the feel of her from a mind that craved only to cradle it close.

  Chapter Seven

  She was tired and confused. Hurt and angry. She yearned to lie down and give up. Return to New York and stop all this anguish.

  But giving up wasn’t in her, so, too agitated to wait around and skeptical that Eli would do as she’d asked, Gaby took action. She drove down a dusty, one-lane road, keeping herself alert for the mailbox belonging to a reclusive old woman, Juanita Alvarez, a friend of Eli’s mother. She was reputed to be a bruja, a witch. Gaby had asked Eli about her once, but he’d cut short any sort of discussion.

  Would the old woman know where Eli was staying? Was she in touch with him? Or was she even still alive?

  The mailbox had always been a source of interest, both outraged and amused, in Chamizal. Señora Alvarez was seldom seen about in town, but her mailbox often sported displays that people said bore curses or spells, odd concoctions of flowers and bird feathers, of dried seed pods and unnamed plant stems, often woven with bits of colorful ribbons. Some remained there for weeks or even months, but others were replaced in a matter of days. A young Gaby had once attempted to decipher them via books she checked out from the bookmobile.

  Other than refining Gaby’s recognition of plants and flowers, however, the search did little to clear up her questions.

  As she neared the mailbox, she saw that the display looked fresh, the purple ribbon bright and the marigold petals plump as if just picked.

  She turned down the road that led to the bruja’s house, reminding herself that she was an educated woman currently living in one of the most sophisticated cities in the world. Brujas were a superstition out of her culture’s past and had no place in the present, however sinister their connotation.

  A half-mile or so down this dusty excuse for a road lay a small adobe cottage. Gaby had, like most local children, crept down this path at night on a dare, scalp prickling with equal parts thrill and terror. It was a rite of passage to risk touching the witch’s mailbox display, then make the walk under the light of a full moon, trembling each step, to lay a flower as close as you dared to the old woman’s front door.

  Gaby had decried the practice to Linda and two other friends, dismissing it as pure nonsense, but in the end, she’d gone along and even led the procession.

  The others had chickened out at the bruja’s front gate, but Gaby had tiptoed all the way to the front porch, her heart pounding nearly out of her chest, to lay her own offering, one of her mother’s roses.

  She’d thought she’d seen a twitch of the front curtains, and at the last minute, she’d been terrified that the witch would curse her family. Gaby had snatched the rose back and run all the way home, enduring the jeering of her companions without ever explaining her actions.

  A few months later, Gaby’s mother had died. Consumed by shock and grief, Gaby had not remembered the escapade at first.

  But in the inescapable chain of questioning—what could I have done to prevent this?—that accompanies a loss, that night had popped into Gaby’s mind and refused to budge. Too scared and consumed by guilt, she never told anyone about her premonition and, she saw now, only cemented more in her own mind that she had played a part in killing her mother.

  A child’s superstition, the adult Gaby understood, one easily banished in the clear light of reason. But for an instant, she stared through the windshield at the weathered structure and could feel the earth beneath her smaller feet, could smell the mingled scents of the old woman’s garden and her own mother’s rose, could hear her heartbeat unnaturally loud in the menacing darkness as she ran and ran and ran—

  Then the front door of the little house opened, and Gaby snapped back into the present.

  Two women emerged, one smaller than the other, both bearing the marks of time’s passage in thei
r frames. They stood and simply looked at her as though waiting with endless patience, what she could see of their faces from here only mildly curious and kind.

  Somehow, driving forward seemed presumptuous, rude even, so she shut off the engine and emerged from the cab of the old pickup. She began to walk toward them, reminding the child inside her that brujas were like unicorns, a flight of fancy only. She searched in her mind for a proper greeting, a way to begin the conversation, but the stillness of the two women seemed to drain every last thought from her head.

  She came to a halt before them and studied them as they were regarding her. Both were Latinas, one taller than Gaby and one so diminutive she seemed almost elfin. Gaby was not tall herself, a matter of chagrin since she had discovered long ago that people too often treated small women differently, attributing childlike status to them.

  The tall woman was fierce, with eyes like a hawk’s; the tiny woman radiated peace so vividly that Gaby’s defenses abruptly weakened.

  She was so exhausted. So confused, about Eli and Chad and her father. About her life in New York and the visceral pull of this place, the memories around every corner—

  She found herself longing to sink to her knees and rest her head against the tiny woman’s skirts.

  The small woman smiled and extended a hand. “Come, child. Have tea with us.”

  Gaby was startled. “Tea?” She darted a glance at the taller woman. A witch’s tea? Inevitable comparisons to Alice dining with the Red Queen raced through her head.

  The small woman laughed. “Stop glowering, Juanita. You’re frightening the child.”

  “You’re Frank’s daughter,” the tall woman who must be Juanita Alvarez said. Her tone wasn’t welcoming.

  “Yes.” Gaby refused to back down, however much accusation was in the woman’s voice.

  The tiny woman clasped Gaby’s hand, and Gaby was instantly suffused with a calm that overrode everything else. “I am Rosaria Sandoval, Juanita’s friend. I am visiting from La Paloma.”

  La Paloma was another village nearer to Alpine. “I’m Gaby—Gabriela Navarro,” she said. “And I’m interrupting. I’ll just go now.”

  But Rosaria did not release her hand. “You must have tea with us first,” she insisted. “I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man.”

  “You knew him?” Gaby was as startled by that statement as by her illogical reaction to this woman.

  “I did. He and Juanita were close friends.”

  “He and—” Gaby’s gaze was immediately drawn to the unsmiling woman as she tried to absorb the notion that both her father and Eli had been connected to Juanita Alvarez. “How long did you know him?” she asked the taller woman.

  “He came to me after your mother died.”

  “Why?”

  “Why would you care? You left him.”

  “Juanita,” Señora Sandoval cautioned. “Take her hand. Feel for yourself the depth of her grief. She loves him.”

  Gaby clenched her free hand at her waist and snatched the other one from Señora Sandoval’s grip, as well. “What do you mean, feel for yourself?” She glanced at Señora Alvarez. “Brujas are a superstition of the ignorant.”

  The two women exchanged looks. Then Señora Sandoval sighed. “She is not a bruja, though she enjoys the freedom that reputation grants her.” Mischief sparked in the tiny woman’s eyes. “I would not advise you to be so quick to dismiss centuries of tradition. The Anglo world puts you at war with your heritage, does it not?” She shook her head. “I understand. My grandsons have fought this battle. Rafael has made his peace and found a way to incorporate his Western medical training with his destiny as a curandero. Alejandro’s struggle between his former career in law enforcement and his immense talent as an artist has not been so easy.”

  “A curandero?” Gaby stifled the urge to roll her eyes. “That’s another superstition. There are quacks everywhere trying to cash in on herbal medicine.”

  “Oh, child.” Señora Sandoval clucked her tongue. “You have strayed so far from your culture. Do you think me fearsome or corrupt?”

  Gaby’s eyes widened. “You’re a curandera?”

  “All my life,” the woman said. “As is Juanita. It is a long and honorable tradition.”

  Gaby’s mouth dropped open. “You?” she said to the taller woman. Her mind darted back to the tiny bouquets her mother had placed all over the house after yet another miscarriage. Do not disturb them, mijita. They are prayers for the baby’s soul. Offerings, that the next one will stay with us in this world.

  Little altars her mother had tucked into this corner and that. No Día de los Muertos celebrations for babies who never breathed, but her mother had created her own memorials.

  But no parties. No mole. No marigolds.

  “The small bouquets in our house each time she lost a baby.” Gaby stared at Juanita Alvarez. “That was you?”

  “Sí.”

  “She always believed that the next baby would stay.” A lump crowded Gaby’s throat. “You told her that. You took advantage—”

  Señora Sandoval laid one gentle hand on her arm. “Easy, mija. Did the herbs help?”

  Gaby shook her off. “She cried. Over and over. She thought I didn’t see. My father wanted a son, and she was determined to give him one because I—” Wasn’t enough. Was only a girl. “You killed her,” Gaby said through gritted teeth, understanding even then how absurd the charge was. Fast in the grip of bitterness and loss she’d thought she was over, she wanted someone else to hurt as much as she was. “You kept her hope alive, and she continued to try for the son my father craved until she was too weak to fight off a simple flu. You helped that happen—”

  Black dots danced. White sparks showered, obscured her vision. Gaby bent double, clutching her middle, and a sliver of the howl that had been lacerating her insides for days slipped through her lips. The room swirled around her, and an awful wind rushed through her head, a sirocco that screamed until she was deaf—

  Hands held her, soothed her. Buttressed her as the floor rose to meet her—

  But Gaby was lost in old grief and new grief and the endless pain she’d pushed down and down and down—

  Until she’d had enough. And grief became all that she was.

  She came to on a small bed. In a room both spare and beautiful.

  Incense, rich and sweet, curled in the air around her. A soft murmur twined with it, a dance that soothed. Succored. Past her feet, the warm glow of candles cast out the shadows of oncoming night.

  Gaby drew in a quick breath, girding herself to rise.

  A fingertip, only one, pressed to the space between her eyebrows. Warmth flowed deep inside her.

  “Your heart is weary, child. Breathe, only breathe, for now. Give your heart rest.” The strong voice. The taller woman who had—

  Hurt Mama. But in that moment, Gaby couldn’t summon the will to resist. She ached, clear to her bones. She craved more of the peace that flowed into her at the touch of this woman’s hands.

  As if she’d spoken aloud, the finger tapped lightly between her brows, three times. Chants as solemn as prayers spilled over her, covering her with an invisible cloak, sealing in warmth, shoving back the cold that had claimed squatter’s rights in her chest.

  “Tired,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure her lips had moved. Her eyelids could not.

  “Rest. Let go,” said the other voice, the soft one that made her want to lie down for a hundred years.

  The air over her body stirred. On the wings of a faint breeze, she smelled something…

  Romero. Rosemary. Drifting, perfuming…sweeping in arcs down the length of her, outward from shoulder to shoulder in the shape of a cross, accompanied, ever and always, by first one voice, then two, a melody of comfort, a symphony of ease. Gaby had a fleeting thought to resist…in a minute…in a little…

  “Nothing can harm you here, niña,” said the soft voice.

  “You are safe,” intoned the stronger one.

/>   The small, frightened creature inside Gaby released a slow breath…curled up—

  And, for the first time in longer than she could remember, sank into a place of peace.

  And slept. Sweetly, simply…slept.

  When Gaby awoke again, dawn was pearling the sky, that faint lightening of darkest navy hovering at the edge of the horizon. She stretched, feeling—

  She frowned, not certain exactly what she did feel. Slightly sore, in a pleasant manner, the way you do after a good massage works out muscles that have been cramped and strained for too long.

  Lighter, as well, though she was equally unable to put a finger on exactly what had changed.

  She stretched, and a delicious shiver went through her. She felt…stronger, that was it. Refreshed after the best slumber she could recall in…ever.

  She smiled and opened her eyes.

  Then sat up fast.

  This was not her apartment. Not her room at…home.

  The tiny space, barely larger than a monk’s cell, was a place she’d never been. Whitewashed walls relieved only by an altar across from the single bed on which she’d slept. A cross, of course, but not a crucifix. Two figures, the Virgin Mary and the Virgin of Guadalupe. Candles, many of them, in blue and red and only one white.

  And stems of rosemary.

  Gaby blinked. Noted the light outside. Oh, no. Morning. If Eli had come last night as she’d asked—

  She shoved from the bed and nearly tripped on the hem of her—

  Nightgown?

  “Buenas días.”

  Her head whipped in the direction of the door. Juanita Alvarez stood there with a solemn expression.

  But kind eyes.

  Gaby frowned. Looked past her.

  “Rosaria is brewing tea.”

  Gaby plucked at the white cotton that covered her. She had the thought that she should be angry.

  But she felt too good. Still—

  “What did you do to me?” she demanded.

  Juanita sighed and shook her head. Held out a hand. “I told Rosaria I was the wrong one to see you first. Come with me.”