DEFENGING THE EYEWITNESS (2 page)

Because only scarcity provided safety, and he’d been working without a net for far too long. He’d been initially relieved when they had pulled him out, but that was before he realized he didn’t fit here as well as he had in the border towns. Here he had to be a different person than there. He had memories of being someone else, but in between lay six years of working himself into a position of familiarity and friendship with people he had never really wanted to know or become friends with.

The irony didn’t escape him.

Nor did the way he had been treated after they’d pulled him out. A thank-you for all the intelligence he had given them, an endless debriefing, a pat on the shoulder, then “Get out of here and take some time for yourself.”

They didn’t know what to do with him, either, now. Hell, he’d been buried so deep that two of his fellow agents had beaten him up once, and another time one had shot at him.

Then when the joint task force rolled up the operation, they’d dragged him in just like all the rest of the bad guys, and the Federales had tap-danced all over him for days, leaving him with some broken ribs and other injuries before his own guys pulled him out in an ostensible “prison transfer.”

Good for his cover, but he was quite sure all of that made his own team uncomfortable.

Well, he hadn’t liked it, either, and frankly he never wanted to do it again. Job completed, time to move on. He just didn’t know where yet.

He was still on payroll. They’d told him to take as much time as he needed. Even suggested a therapist, if he found the transition too difficult. He hadn’t been back long enough to know if it was going to be too difficult. The only thing he knew for sure was that he could no longer stand a necktie.

He unpacked the few things he had brought with him and put them in the drawers of an empty dresser. He’d left behind the clothes in storage. The one suit he’d pulled out to wear to his debriefings had shown him that not only did he hate neckties now, but his body had changed. He was leaner now, his muscles in different places and shapes.

So that left him with his undercover garb and little else. He supposed he needed to do some shopping. If he wanted, he could fit in here pretty quickly. That was his gift.

And his curse.

* * *

Corey listened to the sounds of the stranger upstairs. He’d been gone a long time, but now he was back. Unpacking? She thought she heard the dresser move a bit. Then the unmistakable sounds of the shower upstairs.

She was having a serious problem with herself. She had been close to rude with a stranger, in defiance of everything she believed to be right. Strangers were to be welcomed, and while keeping a reasonable distance at first was okay until you knew them, you shouldn’t be inhospitable. She’d come very close to that at the door, and now she was hiding in her bedroom as if her house had been invaded by some kind of freak.

She couldn’t help her reactions to men. Eighteen years ago, one had killed her mother before her very eyes when she was seven and they were living in Denver. She knew she’d been there because of police reports. She even knew some of the awful details, again because of police reports. The man had never been caught. There’d never been a clue to his identity.

So whoever he was, he probably still roamed the world somewhere, and her memory of the incident was a total blank. It was a mercy, she supposed, that she didn’t remember, and having been brought home to Conard County to live with her aunt and grandmother had given her stability and a loving home.

But she was still uneasy with men. Especially men she didn’t know. That uneasiness had prevented her from going to college, except for some classes she had lately taken here, and prevented her from ever leaving this area. She knew almost everyone by sight, and she needed that.

But still, the guy upstairs had done nothing wrong, and the more she thought about it, the more she believed that the last thing he needed was to be treated like a pariah. Simple kindness required better of her.

It wasn’t as if she needed to spend much time with him. Just some courtesy and an occasional smile. If there was one thing life had taught her, everyone had their own problems, and his, well, his might even be a private hell.

She noticed her knitting needles were clicking more rapidly than usual and that she’d stopped counting stitches at some point. Darn it, she was probably making a mess of this sweater. Sighing, she put the knitting on the bed and rose from her chair, wondering how she could handle this situation better. How she could make this man feel a little more welcome.

He must feel like a fish totally out of water. She could barely remember that feeling, she’d been ensconced here so long. She had to remember the days when the police had taken her to a social worker and then to a foster family, where she had waited for her grandmother to come. Had to remember how strange living here had seemed, how far from home it had felt.

A long time ago, but those feelings lived on. This man was no child, as she had been, but she had possibly found a point of connection with Austin. Fish out of water.

Gage had said that the man couldn’t pick up his old relationships just yet, and she wondered what that meant. Might someone dangerous still come after him? Bringing trouble right to her front door?

She caught herself as her old suspicions started to rise up. Enough. The past was past, a very old past. There were limits to how much she could allow it to run her life.

She heard him come downstairs. Biting her lip, she hesitated, then unlocked her bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. Light spilled from upstairs and out of the kitchen door. She made her steps a little noisier as she approached. Startling this man struck her as unwise.

He was facing her as she entered the room, and she could see the tension in him. Okay, he was
not
feeling safe. She froze on the threshold.

His body softened a little. He was wearing a black T-shirt and old jeans and walking barefoot. “I thought I’d make some coffee. Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay. Are you hungry, too?”

“I ate at the diner.” Then he gave her a crooked smile. “No tortillas.”

“No...” Then she got it and smiled. “No, no tortillas, but you can get them at the grocery. Want me to make the coffee?”

“I make it strong.”

“That’s the way I like it.” She gathered he wanted to do it himself, so she sat at the table.

All of a sudden he stuck his hand in his front pocket and put a folded stack of bills in front of her. “Rent,” he said, and went back to making coffee.

“Are you going to miss the tortillas?” she asked, seeking something friendly to say even as her nerves kept coiling tighter.

“Fresh ones? You bet. The beginning and end to every meal. Stacks of them. Usually corn. There was one little stand I frequented and sometimes I just stood there watching that woman’s hands fly. You wouldn’t believe how fast she could roll a ball of dough, flatten it into a near-perfect circle and toss it on the grill for just a short time. Hot and always delicious.”

“A real skill.”

“Definitely. And it wasn’t only her. I just happened to like her stand.” His face darkened a bit as he spoke. Then, “Cups?”

She rose and went to open the cupboard. As she did, she accidentally brushed against him and nearly froze as a sizzle ran along her nerve endings. It was a feeling so rare in her life that it astonished her. She leaped away like a startled rabbit.

“Something wrong?”

Only then did she realize she’d been staring into the cupboard too long, and that he’d stepped away from her. She grabbed two mugs at random, closed the cabinet, then handed him one.

“Nothing,” she managed to answer.

After he filled his mug, he remained standing as if he wondered whether she wanted him to go upstairs or remain. Be friendly, she ordered herself.

“Have a seat if you like,” she invited as she returned to her own with coffee. Just before she sat, she changed her mind and went to get out a tray of raspberry-and-cheese Danish and two plates. She offered him some.

“Thanks. That looks good.”

“It is. One of my friends finally fulfilled her dream of opening a bakery. It’s an awful lot of work, though. Up well before the birds and all that.”

Silence fell again. Apparently he wasn’t in a mood to talk, and she didn’t know what to say to him. Very awkward. Of course, she was used to hanging out with women at the shop or in the classes she hosted, but she knew most of them. Being confronted with a total stranger left her stymied. How in the world did you get past this when you came from such different worlds?

She supposed it didn’t matter. She should just take her coffee into the bedroom and figure out where she had gone wrong on her knitting. Because she was sure she had. Knitting a diamond design into the sweater was not a mindless task.

“Well,” she said, tired of the uncomfortable silence, and wondering what she was doing sitting here with a strange man, anyway, “I’ll just get back to my knitting.”

“Lo siento,”
he said, then quickly, “I’m sorry. You’re trying to be friendly. I’m usually a friendly guy. For some reason, I’ve been finding that hard lately.”

She hesitated. “Are you bilingual?”

“From the cradle.”

“That’s very cool. I wish I were.”

At last he cracked a faint smile. “Being bilingual took me places, all right. My dad was from Mexico and my mom lived in San Antonio when they met. She was Anglo. Anyway, I grew up speaking both languages. Don’t ask me how I sorted it all out, but at some point I did.”

She laughed quietly. “Kids seem to be good at that. So, did you grow up in San Antonio?”

“Mostly. I spent some summers in Mexico with my father’s family. They had a large
finca.
Country estate. Plenty for young boys to do there.”

“What did your parents do?”

“Both of them taught at the university. That’s how they met. What about you? Have you always lived here?”

“I grew up here,” she said, shading the truth a bit. She could barely remember Denver at all.

“And you have your own business, I think Gage said?”

“Yes, it’s kind of a crafts shop for women who like sewing, knitting, that kind of thing.”

“Does it keep you busy?”

“Pleasantly so. I think we’ve become the up-to-date version of the women’s sewing circle. We have all kinds of gatherings and classes.”

“Sounds very friendly.” He managed another smile. As his gaze drifted toward the Danish, she pushed it in his direction. “Help yourself. I can get more.”

“It looks really good,” he said. “I can understand why your friend is successful.”

“I should ask her to make tortillas for you. I’m sure they’d be better than the stuff on the shelf in the store.”

He looked surprised. “Why would she do that? She doesn’t know me, and one person isn’t a whole market.”

“She’d do it because she’s that kind of person.”

This time his smile deepened, and some of the tension around his eyes eased. “Maybe it’s not so different here, after all.”

She wondered what he meant by that but wasn’t sure how to ask. How much was she supposed to know? And she didn’t have even a remote experience with Mexico. All she knew was this town and this county. Rightly or wrongly, she couldn’t imagine a better place.

“Help yourself to anything you like,” she said, rising. It was time to retreat behind her walls. “I know you haven’t had time to go shopping yet.”

He said something that might have been Spanish, leaving her perplexed as she walked down the hall. Then it occurred to her he’d probably been saying some form of good-night. Maybe she’d ask him tomorrow. Or maybe not.

He was a man, after all.

Chapter 2

A
ustin awoke in the morning considerably refreshed, knowing instantly where he was. He’d acquired that talent during his years as an agent. It was dangerous not to know exactly where you were and exactly what was around you, even when you slept. You never knew what you might wake up to.

He needed to rearrange the room a bit, but even as he sat up with the thought, he realized that would be overkill. He was in a safe little town in Wyoming, as far as he could be from anyone who might want to come after him...and no one should. They never knew his real name, he’d been whisked out of that damn Mexican prison so fast that the most his old compadres could believe was that he had been moved to another prison. Even if they suspected, they’d have no way of tracing him. Besides, by now, the rumor was probably running through the grapevine that he was dead. Killed in an escape attempt, maybe. That was the usual cover story when someone didn’t survive manhandling by the Federales.

So it was needless to think of having another way out of here besides the stairs. He didn’t have to live like that anymore. He repeated the mantra to himself several times. It was over. He didn’t need to live like that anymore.

It should have been reassuring. Comforting. Something. Anything except make him feel utterly at loose ends.

He rose and headed for the bathroom, where he erased the beard he’d worn religiously for six years. Sometimes he’d let it become scruffy, sometimes he’d neatly trimmed it, but it had been like a mask, concealing his real features just enough. He didn’t need concealment anymore, but by the time he got done, he looked at his unfamiliar reflection and could have laughed. The skin beneath the beard hadn’t tanned along with the rest of him, and the paleness almost glowed. His skin had a natural olive tone, but right then, in comparison, it didn’t look like it. He wondered how long it would take to catch up so he didn’t look like a clown.

It was time, he decided, to get the lay of the land around here and figure out what kind of clothes he’d need to fit in. If it didn’t involve a necktie, he’d be happy.

He heard a church bell ringing as he descended the stairs and realized it was Sunday. Hell, what did that mean for shopping around here?

He smelled coffee at the foot of the stairs and hesitated. Maybe he should just keep going and get breakfast somewhere.

But then he heard Corey. “I’m in here, Austin. Coffee’s fresh.”

Well, that drew him. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in hands, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Help yourself,” she said pleasantly. “There’s cereal in the cupboard, if you like.”

“I need to go shopping,” he remarked. After the way she had looked at him yesterday, he wondered why she was being so friendly. At first sight, he’d been sure she wanted to send him packing.

She must have looked up as he went to get a mug, because he heard her say, “Oh, my gosh...”

He turned to look at her and she had clapped her hand over her mouth. Her blue eyes seemed to dance. For the first time, he allowed himself to notice what a pretty woman she was. Sort of like a Viking princess, maybe, with her long blond hair, milky skin and brilliant blue eyes. Even a nice figure, as he recalled, although it was invisible now in layers of thick blue terry cloth that seemed to cover a long flannel nightgown. He usually went for darker women, but this one was getting his attention. In the wrong way, considering.

He touched his cheek. “Beard?”

“You can’t exactly call that a shadow.” A laugh trembled in her voice.

“I know. I was thinking I looked like a painted clown.”

A giggle escaped her then. “I’m sorry. Really. It was just so unexpected, but I should be used to it.”

“Why?”

“We’ve got a men’s club here and the members grow their beards every winter. I think it may have started as a lark, but it became a charity fund-raiser. You sign up to support someone and offer to pay so much for each inch they grow. Anyway, everyone around here recognizes that look, so don’t worry about being mistaken for a clown. It’s not that bad, anyway. I was just surprised.”

He liked her laughter and didn’t at all mind being the butt of it. Smiling easily for the first time in a while, he joined her at the table with his coffee. “I need to go shopping for clothes and food. Recommendations?”

“Nothing opens until noon today, I’m afraid. And your choices are limited. One grocery store, one department store.”

“That makes it easy. Assuming they have everything, anyway.”

“Freitag’s is a good department store. I’m sure the big cities have better, but Freitag’s is enough most of the time. If I need something they don’t have, I order online.”

He nodded, taking it in, taking her in. He wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was.

“What’s it like in Mexico?”

He tilted his head. “It’s a big country. It depends on where you are and what you’re doing.”

“I sometimes think I’d like to see the pyramids.”

“Well, you could see some of them, anyway. There are a whole lot of them. The museums in Mexico City are great, too. But to get the most out of it, I would recommend hiring a good guide.”

“Why?”

“Because he or she will know where it’s safe for you to go.”

Her eyes widened, and in spite of himself he grinned. “I could say the same about a lot of places in this country.”

She flushed faintly. “You’re right, of course. Like I said, this is the only town I know.”

He sensed something then, and he always trusted his instincts. Something in this woman was locked up tight and for a very good reason. Fear held her caged in this town in the back of beyond.

He ransacked his brain for something he
could
talk about to get her mind off whatever disturbed her. Because, by the downward flicker of her eyes, he knew he had reminded her of something unpleasant.

He decided to return the conversation to Mexico. “The Tarahumara Indians are some people I’d like to help.”

Her gaze met his again. “Who are they? And why?”

“They’re some of the world’s greatest runners. Amazing, really. They can run fifty miles without water. They have this game where they kick a ball along a path as they run up and down the mountains of the Sierra Madre. Until recently they managed to survive without the rest of the world, pure subsistence living, but they were making it. Then they gained international attention with their tremendous running abilities. They started having conflicts with people who wanted their land, with logging companies and finally with drug traffickers. They’re poor, and they got even poorer after a drought started killing their measly crops. You can guess what happened.”

“Tell me.”

He had her full attention. “Because they’re such great runners, and they’re so close to the border, the drug cartels started offering them money to run backpacks full of drugs across the border.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. And some of the younger people did it because it was too much money to refuse when they and their families were starving, when they couldn’t find jobs, or at least not jobs that paid enough. I mean, those who manage to find work are paid ten dollars a day.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Until recently, the Tarahumara were pretty much the people that Time forgot. They’ve had a really lousy introduction to the modern world.”

“But what can you do for them?”

“I don’t know. But now I’ve got some time to think about it, and I’m going to.”

She was sitting there pondering, but he liked the way she kept nodding her head as if agreeing with what he had said. “I had no idea,” she said finally.

“Most people don’t.”

“But you got to know them?”

“I sure did. Some of the mules make it back, but they’re angry because they didn’t get paid what they were promised. Others come back with tales of being arrested and sent to jail. Those are good cautions, but there are still youngsters who can’t resist the idea of six monthsʼ pay for what they think will be a few easy hours of running with a backpack.”

“God!” She drummed her fingers. “I’ve heard about all the violence, too. Is that getting any better?”

“Depends on where you are. Again.”

“It must have seemed very different from visiting your family’s—what did you call it?”

“
Finca.
And yes, it was very different.”

She looked as if she was about to ask another question, then bit it back. He’d heard some of what Gage had told her about him, but not all of it. “How much did Gage tell you about me?”

“That you were undercover for six years in the border towns. He didn’t say exactly what you were doing.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Fine by me.” She gave him a pale smile. “Get some cereal. You’ve got to be hungry.”

* * *

Corey had never had anything to do with drugs, although she was certain some of her friends had indulged. They made no secret of it, really, but this was such an out-of-the-way place that if there was a drug problem it remained relatively small.

What she had never thought about was the cost of those drugs, not in terms of money, but in terms of human misery. The news had made it clear that there was a lot of violence between the drug cartels in Mexico, but she had heard nothing about the people who got enticed into carrying those drugs over the border. She had always assumed they were members of the cartel, not innocent kids who were being tempted with desperately needed money.

Until this moment, all of that had seemed far removed from her. Somebody else’s problem. But the way Austin had just described those Tarahumara boys sickened her. Their lives were hard, they loved to run evidently and were being drawn into terrible danger by amounts of money that must look like salvation.

Austin pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard. “What’s this stuff?”

She looked at it and had to chuckle at his expression. “I call it my roots and twigs. High fiber. I think guinea pigs get better food.”

He cracked a laugh. “This from a woman who brings home Danishes from the bakery?”

“The same. Who said I had to be consistent?”

He poured some into a bowl. “It looks like animal feed.”

“It probably is. I eat it plain, but you might find it easier to swallow with some sugar on it.”

“I can swallow just about anything, trust me. I wasn’t raised on caviar. Thanks for sharing.”

“Tell me that again after you’ve tasted it.” Her tone was wry, and as she heard it, she realized she was becoming a little more comfortable with Austin Mendez. Maybe it had to do with the way he talked about those Indians.

“So, no idea how you could help the Tarahumara?” she said.

“Not yet. I don’t mean to make them sound like the quote-unquote noble savage, because they’re not. They fought the Spanish more than once. They fought the French and they fought us. Mining has long since destroyed a lot of their land, about half the original population simply integrated with the rest of society, and the remainder are not above putting on a good show for tourists. It’s just that—well, I spent some time with them. The pressures on them from every direction are enormous and I’d kind of like to think there’s some way to help them hang on to what’s left rather than see them forced to raise opium poppies or run the border. Probably a pipe dream. Change, for good or ill, seems to be unavoidable.”

She put her chin in her hand. “It probably is,” she agreed. “You can’t go back there, can you?”

He paused, then said, “To that part of Mexico? Not anytime soon. I guess part of what gets to me about them is that they make me think of grist caught between the grinding stones of a huge mill, drug cartels on one side, corporations and developers on the other.”

“And you like them.”

His smile was crooked. “Those I met, most definitely. But enough of that. It’s a problem beyond a single man, there’s another country involved, and I haven’t even got a plan yet. Do you have to open your shop today?”

She nodded. “I’m always open for four hours on Sunday afternoon. When you need something for a project, you need it and you don’t want to have to wait another week because you didn’t discover the lack until Saturday night.”

He flashed a smile. “I can understand that. This cereal is pretty good, by the way. Despite what it looks like.”

“Roots and twigs, like I said.”

So, all right, she thought. Maybe having him around wouldn’t be so bad. She just hoped he didn’t feel like being sociable all the time. She spent so much time being sociable at the shop, and while she enjoyed it, she needed her quiet time, too. Of course, she could always retreat to her room with her knitting or embroidery. It wouldn’t be the first time she needed to hide out.

But Austin didn’t linger much longer. He announced he was going to scope out the town, then go shopping. Ten minutes later, he vanished out the front door.

Her peaceful Sunday morning returned. She bent her attention to the paper again but realized she wasn’t seeing much of it.

Instead, she was seeing Austin, hearing his voice as he’d talked about the Indians. She had no idea what kind of work he’d done in Mexico, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But whatever it had been, it hadn’t hardened him. No, he wanted to help a whole tribe of people.

She couldn’t think of a better recommendation of his character. Or anything that could have made him sexier.

As soon as that thought crossed her mind, she shook it quickly away and went to get dressed. She’d go to the shop early and take care of some busywork. It would be a good distraction, and right now she needed one.

A man had entered her personal space and left her wanting more. She’d think about how stupid that made her later. Right now, she just didn’t want to think about it at all.

* * *

As she was walking to her shop two blocks over, she passed Good Shepherd Church. She hadn’t attended since her grandmother’s death, but before that she’d been in the pews every Sunday. What had changed? She honestly didn’t know, but deep inside she was sure something had. Often enough, someone would invite her to return, and she had pleasant memories of the fellowship there, the potluck dinners, all of it.