“How do you mean?”
He swiftly, gently kissed her on the forehead, although the self-discipline of that chaste move required fat stores of restraint. “I live in hope. Just like the rest of you.”
Before he could learn how that particular sentiment was received, Chris exited the little room. He left because he’d already pushed them further than either could stand. She had her town to run, and Chris had the memories of what happened to women unlucky enough to catch his eye.
The sunshine outside the tavern was a lot harsher than he wanted. He wanted a dark, close, intimate room and Rosa, no matter how dingy the couch. But distance was good. Too bad she followed him out into the sun, making distance an impossible wish. They passed Abigail on her way back inside.
Chris asked, “How do they fare?”
“Not sure, myself. Viv wants extra grain ground up for their meals. Quick as possible.”
Rosa nodded, then gingerly tested her sutures as she and Chris walked toward what might have once been a town hall. Viv and Singer had coaxed the scared girls inside. The building was squat and consisted of only a single room, but that room was big and open. Only two windows and one door offered entrance. How long had Chris been kissing Rosa? Surely not that long. But the modest open space was now equipped with eight separate sleeping areas—a rug, quilt, and pillow for each new woman. Viv and Singer were a wonder of industrious efficiency. Ingrid stood guard with a wicked semiautomatic pistol and a cat-o-nine-tails.
“Viv, status?” Rosa asked.
The petite woman, even smaller than
la jefa
, wiped her hands on a pale blue apron. “Mica and Jolene plundered every house in search of the spare bedding. Singer has water on the boil so we can find them under all the grime. And she’s raiding her supplies to see about new clothes, too.”
Chris peered inside. “How are they, medically?”
“Don’t know yet. We can’t feed them too much. Half look starved to me. Need to start them on small doses of bland food, a little at a time. Right?” She glanced at Chris for confirmation.
“That’s right. And when they’re stronger, I can check for disease or parasites. Maybe we’ll get lucky and I’ll have the right meds to treat them. Who else has had contact with them so far?”
“Me and Singer.”
He considered. “Good. Let’s keep it limited to the four of us until we know if they have any medical problems. Even if the other women want to help out, keep it as you have been: collecting supplies and preparing food.”
Rosa frowned. “A quarantine?”
“Nothing so strict. But lice, TB, venereal disease—no need to take chances.”
“Good.” She still looked fatigued, but the dizziness was long gone. Not to mention the vulnerability—in its place was a hard determination that, for some reason, seemed to have little to do with her regular duties. Looking over the room full of eight debased young women, she was as unreachable as he’d ever seen her.
Was it about her? And her past?
“Now, about the test,” Viv began.
Rosa flinched. “The test . . . ?”
“For skinwalkers.”
An almost comical expression flickered across Rosa’s drawn features. She hadn’t even considered the possibility. These girls, frightened and battered, had slipped past her defenses.
“I suppose when they’re stronger,” she said without conviction.
“Look,” Chris said, “they would’ve changed by now. There isn’t anything you can do to them that’s worse than being locked in that truck. No guarantees, but I’d be shocked if any of these women were skinwalkers.”
Rosa’s shoulders bowed, just slightly.
Relief.
Damn, he hated seeing her so keyed in to their plight. It made her someone he wanted to protect, when she’d never let him.
He resisted the impulse to put an arm around her shoulders. Instead he focused on what she’d want and need: protecting the town. “And Ingrid will be fine by herself, standing guard?”
“To start. Ex will respect any boundaries without question. Jameson too, because of Tilly. Then maybe Brick. He’s not monogamous with Jolene, but he’s honorable and will want to keep an eye on Singer with all the bravos sniffing about.”
“Good. You’re going to need them.”
He nudged her surreptitiously. Rosa took the hint and turned, facing six bravos as they crossed the street toward the town hall. Rio and Lem were among them. Chris didn’t have a bone to pick with either, but Rio was young and Lem was too eager with the women. That Falco took up the rear of the small cadre, however, set Chris on edge.
“We want to see them,” Lem said. He was still armed from the raid. “We
deserve
to see them.”
“Not a chance.” Rosa shored up her stance. “They’re weak and in need of medical care. And then the rules remain. Their choice. No exceptions.”
But Lem protested. “We deserve something. Manuel is dead because of that raid. We could’ve died too. What do you say to that?”
Chris flinched internally. No wonder everyone had been so strained and shaken since the return. Having lost a bravo would shake them up under the best, most successful circumstances. To lose one during a nearly useless raid would only push the limits of Rosa’s control. The mood was turning ugly, but he held his tongue and stayed put. Rosa’s fight, he kept telling himself. But that didn’t make their posturing and threats any easier to stand.
“I say Manuel took the same risks we all did,” Rosa said. “He paid a dear price for our bad luck.”
“Bad call, more like.” Lem jabbed a finger toward her. “
Your
bad call.”
“Watch it,” she said, her voice dark and low. “You’re way out of line.”
Lem took another step, which was about three too many for Chris’s liking. Damn it. Whaling on the guy wouldn’t help Rosa maintain her footing as their leader. Nor would it prevent six very hard-up bravos, if given the chance, from taking advantage of the new women.
Chris wracked his brain for the right solution.
Leadership.
Strength.
Loyalty—
A show of loyalty.
“So you like my find, Lem?” he asked.
The younger man blinked, as if seeing Chris there for the first time. “Sure thing, Doc. Best raid we’ve had in years.”
“We?”
Chris leaned against the side of the town hall, posture negligent, arms over his chest. “I don’t remember offering them to anyone else. What’s that old expression? Finders keepers.”
“Bullshit!”
“Here in
el valle
,” Rio said, his eyes narrowed, “we share everything we grab on raids.”
“Ah, but that’s the catch, isn’t it? I’m not a part of Valle de Bravo.” He lolled his gaze toward Rosa, willing her to trust him. She did the best she could, perhaps, by simply staying quiet. And waiting. She watched him with equal parts curiosity, resentment, and hope. “What does it take,
Jefa
, to become a part of this town?”
“You swear an oath.”
“To whom?” He knew full well, but he liked flirting with her—liked it when everyone else could assume it was still antagonism.
“To me,” she said.
“Swear that you’re the uncontested leader of Valle de Bravo? Then I turn over all my ill-gotten gains?” At Rosa’s nod, he asked, “And what do I get in return?”
“The full loyalty and protection of the town.”
“Let’s do it.” He pushed away from the wall, then stared at each of the six bravos in turn. Lem was easy to intimidate, as was Rio. No surprise that Falco didn’t budge—a fight for another day. “But I won’t turn these women over to just anyone. They deserve the respect Rosa promises to everyone who lives here. So there’s no way in hell I’m signing on if folks want to mess with the way things are run.”
“Just what are you saying?” Falco demanded.
“I’ll swear allegiance to Rosa and free these women. They’ll have the choice of staying.” He paused, letting cold menace flavor his words. “But only if every other man swears again too.”
NINETEEN
Damn him.
His plan was brilliant, and he had to know it.
Pendejo.
In one maneuver he would join Valle, establish his place, and tie the men’s loyalty back to her. Rosa needed the support, no question, but hereafter she’d owe him a debt. He had to see that as well.
Everything was quiet while Falco and his cohorts considered the terms. She gave no sign of her inner turmoil; this was the closest she’d ever come to losing power. The circumstances of her salvation didn’t sit well with her, particularly not with her mouth still tingling from his kisses. Chris didn’t approach like other men, with clumsy innuendoes or cocky assumptions. He had a deeper confidence, probably gained during those long years on his own. And their sexual chemistry was undeniable. But she had no intention of succumbing, even if he’d surprised her with his lips.
Not that he’d want me if he knew the truth.
Predictably, Lem broke first. He was the weakest link in Valle, and the prospect of more women, one of whom might choose him for protection proved too much temptation. Of course, that indicated his word didn’t mean much.
But once he said, “I’ll swear,” the others followed, Falco last of all. He watched her with a steely, speculative look, glancing between Chris and her as if trying to puzzle out the connection. There would be hell to pay if he ever discovered those heated dreams and stolen kisses. This arrangement only worked so long as she was celibate and had no excuse for refusing him. Falco wouldn’t take kindly to another male supplanting what he felt was his rightful place.
Once all the men agreed to Chris’s terms, she said to Singer, “Prepare a gift package and tell Ex to ready his needles.”
She could tell by his expression that Chris hadn’t expected pageantry, but, like all sovereign nations, they had their own pomp and circumstance. The promise held meaning and served to make the citizens of Valle feel as if they belonged to something important. Such tricks might not work with Chris Welsh, but she had to try to turn him into one of her bravos in truth, or all of this would become an empty charade.
“Now?” he asked.
“Why not?”
Chris mashed his lips together. “And the funeral?”
“Dawn,” she said tightly. “We bury the dead at dawn. Now go with Rio to prepare.”
He was mouthing
gift package
when the boy took him off to bathe. Rosa grinned at his confusion. But one couldn’t be solemn while covered in blood and dirt, so she went to make herself ready as well. She took a quick shower—the one she hadn’t gotten that morning—and headed to her house to don the proper vestments. Singer had outdone herself with the costume. It was a long pristine white robe with red embroidery. Rosa wore it for this occasion and for consecrations.
She styled her hair with a touch of oil to make the braids sleek and smooth, then coiled them in a complex coronet to lend height and authority. Rosa had no mirror to check her reflection, merely working on muscle memory. She tucked one item into the sleeve of her robe before hurrying back to the plaza, intent on arriving there first.
With some relief, she saw she was the first on the scene. Rosa ignored her misgivings and faint resentment that her position had become so precarious—and so quickly—that she needed bolstering from a stranger. Only he wasn’t. Not really. Not in her head and not in her dreams. Two weeks had taken the edge of unfamiliar off him, even without their bond. She held to the inexplicable conviction that they knew each other, and that her dark places would not faze him at all.
Ruthlessly, she stifled those feelings and waited for the action to begin. When Singer arrived with the basket, Rosa slipped her secret gift beneath everything else.
Soon enough the bravos returned in their customary garb. As Rosa wore white, they had donned black and red to symbolize the violence they stood ready to do on her behalf. Chris caught her gaze across the crowd, his expression pure puzzlement. But he didn’t laugh at their posturing, which was most important. Smart boy. He needed to appear to take it seriously. Despite the ostentatious trappings, Rosa did. Sometimes she felt this was the only thing in her life that had meaning.
For most people, the Change meant the end of all bright, beautiful things. But it had saved her.
She stood at the end of the plaza, waiting with silent patience. The bravos moved toward her as one. Since Chris was taking his oath for the first time, he led them. That clearly left a sour taste in Falco’s mouth, but he had no grounds for complaint. They stopped one meter away, and she accepted a censer of her bed oil from Singer, who played the part of the maiden. Rosa had cobbled this ritual together from old movies and memories of the shadowy Catholic church where she’d attended Mass with her
abuela
, so long ago.
“Kneel,” she intoned.
The men obeyed. Even Chris, though he didn’t look delighted. But he knew how important this was for her. Something hot twisted in her chest when he didn’t resist. It hurt, but in a good way. An unfamiliar way. No man had ever humbled himself before her—against his will—just because she needed him to. It made her think that her Cristián wasn’t like other men she’d known, that it might be good to learn more about him.