by Brenda Novak
“At this point, we’re not sure where she’s from, how she got here or where she belongs,” he called back.
Cierra hadn’t been expecting that. “I am from Las Vegas,” she piped up, but she doubted Gabe could hear her and Ken didn’t pass the information along.
Slinging an arm over the steering wheel, Ken eyed her skeptically. “Is that right?”
“Sí.” She nodded. “Like I told you.”
He suddenly seemed more interested in her than in Gabe. “And what state is Las Vegas in, Cierra?”
His question took her by surprise. “You…don’t know?”
“I’m wondering if you can tell me.”
No one had ever asked her that before. Everyone knew what she meant when she said Las Vegas. Sometimes they even dropped the “Las.” How did you like Vegas…? There’s no place like Vegas…. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, huh?
“Ken…” Brent started to say, as if he’d help her, but Ken motioned for him to remain silent. “You know what state means, don’t you?”
“Sí.” States were similar to “departments” in her country, weren’t they? But she’d never heard the city Charlie lived in connected with any other name. So maybe Ken was trying to trick her. “Vegas is in…Vegas,” she said.
“That’s the state as well as the city?”
Her answer sounded plausible, and not too different from Guatemala City, Guatemala, where her sisters were living and waiting for her to send more money. “Yes.”
Rolling his eyes, he turned back to his stepfather. “See what I mean?”
“What did you say?” Gabe shouted. The storm was too loud. He’d missed it all.
“She doesn’t quite have her story straight,” Ken said. “But we’ll figure out where she belongs.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SEE WHAT I MEAN?
She’d answered wrong, given herself away. The fear that mistake created hung over every move Cierra made for the rest of the evening and the whole of the next day. But she kept a running tally of her debts to her new employer. By midafternoon, she owed Ken Holbrook—he’d finally told her his last name—for three meals, the coat, shelter from the storm and a bed. She also owed him for the toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and soap he’d had Brent deliver to her bathroom last night.
It felt so good to have a few simple belongings, to be able to bathe and wash her clothes and brush her teeth. She was deeply grateful and determined to be fair. She’d stay and work, as promised, until he got settled in but no longer. At that point, he wouldn’t have enough chores for her to do. And as soon as he tired of her, he’d call the INS, if only because he didn’t know what else to do, and she’d be sent back to Guatemala, where she and her sisters would be turned in to the street.
Fortunately Cierra managed not to think about that too much, especially since every thought she had seemed to revolve around the way Ken looked or smelled or laughed. She knew she had no chance of attracting him—she was so different from those women they’d met at the diner—but she was equally certain that she was quickly becoming infatuated with him. Stupido! He’d barely acknowledged her today. She needed to be thinking about how she was going to care for Chantico, Nelli and Xoco instead of daydreaming about the minutes she’d been pressed up against him on that bed yesterday. Her problems would not solve themselves. Even her brother hadn’t been able to provide for the family, not until he’d started augmenting his income with drug money. And without a man to work in the fields, there was no going back to Todos Santos. So, legal or not, she had to make her immigration to America succeed, had to earn money wherever it was possible to earn money and send some of her wages to Guatemala. A little went a long way there. If she could stop mooning over this handsome American, get on her feet and find steady work, they should all be able to survive—
“Something wrong?”
She blinked. Ken had come to the door of the kitchen and caught her staring off into space. After the past few weeks of grabbing sleep and food whenever and wherever she could, and often going without one or both, her strength wasn’t what it used to be. But she went back to polishing the hardwood floor so he wouldn’t think she was lazy. “No, nada.”
Wearing a pair of faded jeans that rode low on his hips and a T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest, he seemed even taller than usual from her vantage point on the floor. Although he’d been working for much of the day, moving boxes around, unpacking, building shelves in the garage, he’d recently showered. Damp tendrils of hair fell against his forehead, and he smelled like the wood he’d used to start a fire. Brent had fixed the furnace, but they’d decided to light a fire for the effect. Cierra liked it, thought it made the place cozier.
“Cierra,” he said as he came toward her.
She rocked back on her haunches. Today, he’d ignored her or had Brent deal with her. Ever since she hadn’t been able to name the state that went with Las Vegas, she’d gotten the impression he didn’t like her. So why was he suddenly showing interest? Did he think she was slacking or doing the floor wrong? “Yes?”
“It’s time to stop.”
“Stop?” She couldn’t stop; she wasn’t finished yet.
“Right. Except for a few hours’ sleep, you’ve been working every minute since we got home last night. This place is coming together in record time. It looks good. That’s enough for one day, okay? Take a break.”
Was he getting impatient for dinner? She’d asked Brent to buy a few things at the store so she could make empanadas, and he’d left for town. But, as far as she knew, he wasn’t back. “Sí. Un momento. I am almost finish.”
When she resumed polishing, he squatted next to her. “Finish tomorrow. Got it?”
“Brent, he is here?” She couldn’t figure out any other reason that letting her continue her work would bother him.
“Not yet.”
“Then…why can I not clean?”
He touched her hand. “Because I want to watch a game, and you’re making me feel guilty. So…go to your room and…relax. Do something else. Get in the Jacuzzi. Read a book. Whatever.”
She set her rag aside, as if she planned to do as he asked, but the moment he walked out and the television went on, she returned to her work. She thought he’d be completely engrossed, that he’d forget about her, the way Charlie used to. But he was back a few minutes later.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
This time she couldn’t meet his eyes. She’d flagrantly disobeyed his orders, and now he was angry.
“Cierra?”
Jumping to her feet, she grabbed her rag and the polish and tried to squeeze past him to go to her room, as he’d requested, but he stepped in front of her, blocking the way.
Assuming he expected an apology or an explanation, she scrambled to offer one. “I—I am sorry. I just want…perfect.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “You comprende?”
He stared at her until her smile wilted and her cheeks began to burn. She’d used a pencil to put up her hair so she could keep it out of her way while she worked. Maybe he thought she’d been presumptuous in taking it from his kitchen drawer without asking.
Pulling it from her hair, she held it out to him. “Is this it? Is this why you are angry?”
“I’m not angry. And why would I care about a pencil?”
When she had no answer, he shook his head and his gaze lowered to her clothes.
Painfully aware that they didn’t fit her very well, especially since she’d lost weight, Cierra bent to dust the dirt off her knees. “I will wash up,” she promised.
Taking her hand, he put back the pencil and closed her fingers around it. “You deserve better,” he said gruffly, and walked to the living room.
THE CABIN SMELLED FANTASTIC, so fantastic Ken couldn’t concentrate on the game. Tony Romo was launching a pretty convincing attack against his former teammates, and yet he cared more about what was going on in the kitchen. And Brent seemed just as restless.
“Hey, can you q
uit it?” Ken asked. “I’m trying to watch the game.”
Looking at the football he’d been tossing back and forth as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it, Brent threw it aside and Ken tried once again to focus on the drive the Cowboys were putting together. They’d already marched down the field to the thirty-yard line; a field goal could win the game. But it was no use. Inevitably, his thoughts wandered back to Cierra.
“Do you think she’s okay in there?” Clearly Brent was preoccupied with the same thing. It’d taken Cierra all of twenty-four hours to win his undying loyalty. But Brent was an easy sell. He always had been. He was Russ’s biggest champion, wasn’t he? The only person Russ hadn’t chased away over the years.
“She’s fine,” Ken said. And it was true—at least while she was here. But how long could he look out for her? She wasn’t like a stray dog. He couldn’t keep her forever. What would happen when he ran out of work for her to do? And how come she was wandering around the mountains of Idaho, penniless and homeless, in the first place?
She was proud, beautiful, capable. It didn’t make sense that a woman like that couldn’t provide for herself…somehow, even if she was an illegal alien. Heck, she could find a man to take care of her if she wanted. What had brought her to America on her own? Had she gotten involved in drugs and wound up homeless? Been tossed out on the street by an abusive husband or father who’d enticed her here? Been kidnapped in Mexico, smuggled into the States and sold into sexual slavery, from which she’d recently escaped?
He recalled her bold assertion that she was no prostitute. He couldn’t imagine a former sex slave coming up with that. But she didn’t seem the type to do drugs—or smuggle them, either.
The wind whistled through the eaves. Brent must’ve heard it, too, because he gazed toward the picture window, which looked out onto the front porch. “Another storm’s coming in.”
“I can hear it.” The impatience in his tone surprised him. But he didn’t want to talk about the weather. He didn’t want to talk at all. “Are you watching this game with me or what?”
Obviously offended by the sharpness of his words, Brent glared at him. “I’m sitting here with you, aren’t I?”
That hardly answered his question, but he had no right to take his bad mood out on his little brother. He wasn’t even sure what had made him so irritable.
Blowing out a sigh, Ken got to his feet. “Right. Yeah. Forget it. I’m just pissed that the Jets are losing. Want a beer?”
Reluctant to forgive him that easily, Brent shrugged. “I guess.”
“I’ll grab one,” he said, and escaped to the kitchen.
Cierra had stopped cleaning, but she was cooking. She’d nearly died from hypothermia yesterday, yet he couldn’t get her to rest. She insisted that she “owed” him so many hours, as if it’d cost him a huge amount to give her a few meals and a place to stay.
She had her back to him when he entered the room. Apparently, she hadn’t heard his approach, which gave him a second to watch her. She was tired, as he’d guessed. She’d dragged a chair over to the stove so she could sit in between stirring whatever she’d put on the burner, and she kept rubbing her temples as if she had a headache.
The floor creaked beneath his weight and she tried to hide her fatigue by jumping to her feet and shoving the chair back under the table. “You are hungry, yes? It is almost finish.” She spoke with more cheer than she could possibly feel, considering her fatigue and the headache.
He walked over to peek into the frying pan, which contained ground beef mixed with onions, eggs and other things he didn’t immediately recognize. “Smells good.”
“Empanadas. You have tried?”
“No.”
“You will like. Soon you will eat.”
Going to the cabinet, where he’d lined up his vitamins, supplements and protein powder only a few hours earlier, he found the Tylenol and shook a couple of tablets into his hand. Following a particularly rough football game, he took four to help with the aches and pains. But she weighed half of what he did.
Together with a glass of water, he handed them to her. “Swallow these. They’ll stop your headache.”
“Oh. Sí. Ouch.” She tapped her skull with one finger and smiled to let him know she understood and appreciated the kindness. “Gracias.”
He’d come in to ask her to level with him, to tell him exactly where she was from and what had brought her to Dundee. But knowing her situation would create a commitment of sorts, which was why he hadn’t insisted on the truth so far. Why get any more involved than he already was? If she was an illegal alien, as he suspected, he’d have a duty to report her. But he didn’t want to do that. It was Christmastime, for crying out loud. And maybe there was a good reason she’d left her own country. He didn’t want to judge.
“Better,” she said, even though the painkiller couldn’t have worked yet, and put the glass in the dishwasher.
“Right. Everything’s fine with you, perfect.” If she could convince him of that maybe he wouldn’t ask questions. Was that what she thought?
He knew she’d correctly interpreted his tone when a hint of wariness entered her eyes. But that only heightened his curiosity. Why was she so cautious, so secretive about her past? What was she afraid of? Deportation? Or was it something worse? He couldn’t say, but she definitely didn’t believe she could trust anyone—including him. “Sí. I am fine,” she said stiffly.
This was getting him nowhere. He couldn’t even decide how hard he should push her, which added to his frustration.
Heading to the fridge, he got the cold beer he’d promised Brent, but didn’t return to the living room. His new housekeeper wasn’t someone life had chewed up and spit out. No doubt she’d hit a rough patch, but she didn’t fit the drug addict/sex slave scenarios he’d concocted. She wasn’t crazy or emotionally broken or undesirable. Just the opposite seemed true. So why was she in her current predicament?
“Cierra?”
No answer. She’d gone back to stirring the food as if it required all of her attention.
“Cierra,” he repeated.
She didn’t face him, but at least she responded. “Yes?”
“Look at me.”
Setting the lid on the pan, she turned but there was no mistaking her reluctance to confront him. “Soon, you will eat.”
Another attempt at diversion. She knew he hadn’t been about to ask for dinner. “Someone, somewhere, must be looking for you,” he said.
Her knuckles whitened on the spatula in her hand but she shook her head. “No. No one.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
He stepped closer, couldn’t help testing her. She’d certainly kept to herself and out of his way so far. But she seemed to understand that he was challenging her and stood resolute, almost defiant, as she stared up at him. It was that fearless quality, along with her stubborn pride and her work ethic, that made him admire her, although she had nothing other than her beauty, not even a decent set of clothes, to suggest she should be admired.
“A woman like you…she doesn’t get forgotten, doesn’t go unnoticed.”
“A woman like me?”
“A woman as beautiful as you.”
She wasn’t flattered; she knew he was merely stating a fact. Her only reaction seemed to be worry. “I will leave. Soon.”
“I’m not asking you to leave. I just want to know who’s looking for you.”
“No one.” She threw her spatula aside. “The man who wanted to marry me is dead, okay?”
Ken was doing exactly what he’d told himself not to do—digging into her past—but what she’d revealed demanded a follow-up. The man who’d wanted to marry her was dead? “When?”
“It has been three weeks.”
Then why did she show so little emotion? Hadn’t she cared for him? “Where? In Vegas?”
“Sí.”
“How’d he die?”
“A…stroke?”
Ken h
ad expected an accident or a gang shooting, the type of death more common to younger men. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard of someone under thirty dying of a stroke. “Was it some…rare disease that caused it?”
“He had a bad heart, and—” she struggled to remember the word “—diabetes?”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How old was he?”
“Seventy-four.”
Ken made no effort to conceal his surprise or his disgust. “No…”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “Sí.”
“You were going to marry a seventy-four-year-old man? What are you, twenty-five? That’s sick!”
Moving toward him instead of away, she lost the demure expression she’d adopted the past twenty-four hours—that of a housekeeper staying in the background, doing her work—and pounded a finger into his chest as if she was every bit his equal. “It is easy to judge when you have always had everything, is it not?” she snapped, and presented her back to him as she once again resumed cooking.
CHAPTER SIX
“WHAT DID YOU DO to her?”
Ken looked over at his brother. They’d eaten dinner and were back in front of the TV, but since the game was over, they were channel-surfing, looking for a movie or some other show to entertain them. “Who?”
“Cierra.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but he did. During dinner, Cierra had been far friendlier to Brent and had positively beamed when he complimented her cooking. But, other than to set a plate in front of Ken, she’d barely acknowledged him.
“I think she’s mad,” Brent explained.
Reclining his chair, Ken crossed his feet at the ankles. “She’s tired. And too proud for her own good.”
Brent punctuated his response with a laugh. “And you’re not?”
Ken clicked to a different station. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Sure it is. And maybe pride is all she has. Did you ever think of that? Why else would she guard it so fiercely?”
For once in his life, Brent had made a profound statement. Ken knew that comments like this stemmed from his little brother’s sympathy for Russ, and his bitterness over the fact that Ken didn’t share that sympathy. But just because he expected people to eventually get control of their lives didn’t mean he had no empathy for their struggles. He was tired of being disappointed, that was all. How many chances did a person deserve? How many had Russ already wasted?