Rosa’s frown faded into an expression of concern. “Don’t suppose Dell’s ever thought about the kitchen phone needing all that modern stuff — she knows I don’t like it. Probably was just some wrong number, or someone playing with the phone. Nothing to fuss over.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” he agreed quickly. Rosa didn’t like him, and he couldn’t increase her agitation — or suspicions. “I suppose I was out of line.” He hesitated, trying to come up with something to smooth over his insistent questions. “Guess I’m borrowing trouble. Maribel’s attitude bothers me. I just don’t want her to cause problems for Dell.”
Rosa’s frown deepened. “Well, amen to that! I tried to talk Dell out of opening her home to these — these delinquents, but she just wouldn’t listen. She’s too softhearted to say no, even when she should. Just hope she doesn’t come to grief!” The woman shook her head. “I’ll tell you what, her grandfather would disown her all over again if he knew what she was up to.”
“Disowned?” Jovi cocked his head a little, kept his tone light. “What, she’s an heiress or something?”
“Again, no business of yours, and no, she’s not. The only ones who could leave her a dime wouldn’t. Not that she’d take it if they did.”
Rosa turned to the counter full of leftovers and began straightening up, effectively dismissing him.
“Everything was delicious,” he offered, turning toward the door.
She gave him a brief nod and a forced smile. “Thanks. You did all right with the meat, yourself.”
He nodded politely and went back outside.
The girls seemed to have called it a night; they had disappeared. Dell was fiddling with the dials on the boom box, and after a moment, Jose Luis Perales’ mellow voice drifted out, singing a song Jovi hadn’t heard in ages, ¿Cómo es él? She looked embarrassed when Jovi stopped and smiled at her. “I may be the only person in the world whose favorite singer is Diego Verdaguer,” she admitted. “I can’t help it. I like these songs.” Her smile widened. “My friends call them my grandmotherly songs. The only thing is, their grandmothers are into Ricky Martin.”
He laughed. “There are people our age who discover Sinatra. What can I say?” He sat down on the bench, leaning back against the table. “So, was the evening a success, overall?” He glanced at the empty patio. “The girls disappeared pretty quick.”
“Hmmm. Some to-die for group on the tube. I would have preferred they stay here where I can keep an eye on them, but … ” She shrugged. “I don’t want to be unreasonable. I avoid most censorship.”
They sat a few minutes in silence, the sultry summer night blanketing them. In the rosebushes along the patio fence, a lone firefly flickered through the foliage, only visible when it delved into the shadows, away from the artificial lights. Far, far off, a faint howl echoed; Dell and Jovi both cocked their heads, listening.
“Coyote,” Dell said eventually. “There are undoubtedly some on the ranch. But that one was pretty far off.”
“I couldn’t have told the difference between a coyote and a dog,” Jovi admitted. “In Florida, we didn’t have coyotes, not as far as I know. When I was here, I was a city kid.”
“It sounds funny to hear someone call Laredo a city,” she noted. “I’m so used to thinking of it just as home — the town I drive into for supplies, that kind of thing.”
“And yet they say it’s the fastest growing city in the country, with the trade going through here all the time.” He grinned. “It’s nothing like when I was growing up, that’s for sure. You know, all my cousins would go out to their families’ ranchitos — they knew coyotes, I guess. I just heard dogs barking.”
She turned to regard him thoughtfully. “Why not you?”
He shrugged, fighting down the faint resurgence of old anger and bitterness. “My mom married against her family’s wishes, and then my dad left her when I was five. We were the poor relatives — the church mice. They never forgave her for not doing what she was told, and then, when they might have … ” He sighed. “She has her pride. She wasn’t willing to be ‘forgiven.’” After a moment, he forced a smile. “So I never heard coyotes, except in movies. And of course, I read about them almost daily since I came back to Laredo. The rabid kind, on ranches, and the human kind, too.”
She was silent, ignoring his mention of the smugglers, or coyotes, who brought illegal aliens across the Rio Grande, and she seemed lost in distant thought. The lights overhead fell softly on her face, highlighting her wistful expression. Not wistful, he decided. Pained. He hesitated, torn between speaking and leaving, when abruptly she made a visible effort to refocus her thoughts on him. “Coyotes are a real problem. Webb County has been fighting the rabid coyote population for years. I think there’s some headway — but they’re the only animals I’ve ever shot at. The four-legged kind. The two-legged kind should be shot. They rape and kill the people who pay them for protection for a chance at a new life … I don’t think very much of alien smugglers.”
“You weren’t thinking about coyotes, though,” he said, and saw surprise come and go in her eyes.
“No,” she admitted, “I wasn’t.” She looked off into the darkness. “I was thinking about family.” She didn’t look at him. “My mother married someone against her family’s wishes, too. It cost her more than weekends at family ranches, though.” Color swept through her cheeks when she realized what she’d said, and she turned back to him with embarrassment. “I’m sorry — that sounds so conceited,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to be condescending about what happened to your mother. It’s just — ” She stopped. He wanted to tell her he hadn’t even thought about her words, but didn’t, hoping she would say more.
“My mother is a De Cordova.”
Jovi stared at her, feigning surprise. “The De Cordovas? The Monterrey De Cordovas?”
“My grandfather is Lionel De Cordova Estrada,” she said, her words matter-of-fact but her tone icy. “Or was.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m disinherited — not that I give a damn. I take no pride in claiming that particular part of my heritage.”
“Your mother — ”
“My mother is Lionel’s baby — Erika Claudia De Cordova. She took her name back legally after the divorce from my father — it was the only way he’d take her back, I guess.” Dell’s face was hard, her expression grim. “I haven’t seen my mother since my father’s funeral, nine years ago. Not that she came for that. She came for me. To take me home, she said.”
“To Monterrey?”
“To Monterrey. She suggested if I was really attached to this place” — Dell looked around the patio again — “that I keep it. Land’s always an asset, she said, especially this land, since it’s on the river.”
“But you didn’t go back?”
Dell shrugged, shivering a little with anger. “I was twenty-two. I didn’t have to. I couldn’t believe her nerve — she divorced my father when I was fifteen. She’d been away seven years — then she decided my place was with her!” Dell’s fingers tapped nervously on the table for a moment, her long, slender fingers showing the agitation she was fighting to conceal. When she looked across the table again, the grimness had gone.
“When I said I’d lost more than you, Jovi, I didn’t mean the money,” she explained quietly. “You have a mother. I can’t imagine what it would have been … having a mother. A real mother. When I was little, before my mother decided she was a De Cordova, not a Rosales, and for the year or two when my grandparents played along with her marriage, I’d see friends of mine with their mothers. Real mothers, who’d make tacos and comb their kids’ hair instead of having someone else do it.” Agitated, she slid off the bench and stood, crossing her arms over her chest. “Even in Monterrey, where all the families who visited us had maids and chauffeurs, the mothers were there. They cared. You could tell. For some reason my mother never di
d.” She blinked once, and the faint sheen of tears glistened across her dark eyes. “That’s why I said I lost more — but excuse me for how it must have sounded.”
He stood too, surprising himself, and laid a hand against her cheek. “No one should lose a mother,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
For a brief second, she leaned into the caress, drawing comfort from the warm, strong fingers cupping her face. Just as abruptly she straightened, drawing away from him, drawing her aloofness around her like a cloak.
“Thanks. But it’s late, and I didn’t mean to bore you with old history. If you have time tomorrow morning, I’d like to meet with you about the horses.”
She was back to being unreachable again, moving back at the precise instance tenderness had jolted into sexual awareness. Not the best time, he decided, to ask anything else about the De Cordovas. “You’re the boss,” he drawled. “Good night, Dell.”
He walked into the darkness away from the patio, unsettled and annoyed. He’d worked undercover before, successfully and not much bothered by lies or half-truths. Truth be known, Dell’s distance and remoteness provided protection — against him, and the danger he represented. Truth be known — that was the hell of it. The truth couldn’t be known until much too late to matter.
Chapter Five
Dell stood at the bedroom window watching rain slash against the pane. The storm had come as a shock — there was virtually no mid-summer rain in this arid part of the country. Clouds threatened regularly, and occasionally lightning could be seen in the distance, but storms usually poured out their fury trying to get over the mountains that all but encircled Monterrey, 150 miles to the south. Well, this time, we’re getting the rain, she thought. The conversation with Jovi last night must really have brought back the old hostility, she mused. Here she was, dutifully dredging up every old anti-Monterrey sentiment she’d ever heard expressed, just as if she hadn’t once moved among Monterrey’s elite. Besides it really wasn’t the city that sapped resources from the surrounding areas — the city was blameless.
The culprits were the Lionel De Cordovas, Mexico’s version of the robber barons, the expansionists. They couldn’t move west physically, so they just enriched themselves by every means possible within the limits of their own territory. She walked over to her desk and picked up her brush, dragging it through her hair, wishing away all the errant thoughts. The brush caught momentarily, and she breathed an oath as she jerked it free.
Her fiancé Jeremy had hated the way she’d brushed her hair. She shuddered, remembering his hands on her hair, smoothing the dark length with such care. Except it hadn’t been love at all. Just need. Need for the money she always provided. Need for the safety net when no one else would let him back in. She’d never seen him with drugs, made it clear it was her or the drugs. But she always thought he’d choose her. That he loved her. And in the end … The end didn’t matter. Not any more, she reminded herself angrily. There’d been too many ends in her life, but she could start over. Would. She just needed to focus on changing her immediate world. She reached across the dresser to pick up the heavy, silver-framed photo of her father, holding her and beaming with pride as she reached up to pet his favorite mare on the forehead. Idly she ran a finger over the cold glass.
She loved the horses, but horse ranching was expensive — not really something she could afford anymore. Her father had kept this property in the divorce settlement, although taking anything from the woman who had spurned him had galled him. He had lived his last years in bitterness, seeking some way to win back the woman he never really could have. Dell wondered if he’d ever accepted that her mother no longer loved him. If she ever had. She herself suspected Erika Claudia De Cordova was incapable of love. Her father Samuel had been a summer fling — a rebellious moment in a rich girl’s life. They had married, Dell suspected, because Samuel was in love, and a devout Catholic, and because Erika felt like it — for a few months.
In any event, they were both gone now, and she had herself and the girls to think about. Keeping the horses — at least raising horses — might not be in her best interests. She’d always planned on coming back to the ranch to do that, but with her father. And now that she was providing shelter to girls with family problems, largely at her own expense, she needed time to devote to them. She needed to be home.
Her training in international trade, though, made staying home inconvenient. Out of college, she’d worked as an independent advisor to companies seeking input into trade matters involving Mexican companies. She’d made good money helping American and Canadian companies set up ventures in Mexico — especially Monterrey. That option was out there, but the waters were muddied by the drug wars and her reluctance to leave the ranch again. With so much violence seizing virtually all of Mexico, could she risk her own safety at the girls’ expense? Surely she could find a way to earn a decent income without constant travel …
Thinking about money always dragged her back to her father’s unexpected legacy. How on earth had he accumulated the amount of money he’d left her?
She slapped the photo back in its place. Damn the horses! If they weren’t so tied to everything good in her childhood, she’d sell the whole lot and be done with them. That way she could fire Jovani Treviño and be done with him, too. She paced around the room, still irritated that this morning she’d gone down to the stable to talk to him, only to find out he’d gone into Laredo on business and would call her when he got back and had time. The nerve of the man. She was in charge here, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she made an appointment with him to discuss the horses? The abrupt thought of his hand on her face stopped her in mid-step, and she lifted a hand to touch her own cheek. She was in charge — and she’d better be very certain Jovi Treviño kept his distance.
The absence of rain beating on the window slowly penetrated her consciousness. The storm had pounded itself out and gone, and sun was thrusting through the remaining clouds. She glanced at the clock. Becky probably was waking from her nap right about now. She’d take the toddler down to the stable with her. The little girl loved going, and she was good company. Dell didn’t get quite as much done when the toddler was around, but it was still a good trade-off. Humming to herself, she hurried down the hall.
The door to the girls’ room was open. Selina, Michelle, and Amy all stayed together, although she had offered Amy, who had come after Selina and Michelle, a room of her own. Amy had refused, wanting to stay with the other two. They seemed to draw strength from each other, and Dell was glad they got along so well.
She glanced again at her watch. The four girls should be downstairs now, with the retired teacher who drove out three times a week to give them classes. The door to Maribel’s room was closed, and she knocked once, then pushed the door open. The room was a shambles — the bed linens on a heap in the floor, clothes on the floor, one of the dresser drawers pulled out crookedly. She fought the urge to walk around tidying the room — Maribel needed to do it herself. She sniffed, frowning. There was a faint but undeniable smoke smell in the room. She wondered how the sixteen-year-old had come by cigarettes, which she had been told not to bring. Again she wondered if she should send Maribel back to the juvenile detention center — this had just started as a favor to a friend, after all. She really couldn’t jeopardize everyone’s health for one bull-headed little …
“Dell!” Becky came out of her room, rubbing still-sleepy eyes, and held her arms out to be picked up. Dell laughed and hugged her close, wondering how anyone could have abandoned this sweet-tempered bundle of happiness. Becky was here at the moment as a foster child, but her mother had little interest in reclaiming her. Dell pressed another kiss against her head, breathing her daily prayer to win permanent custody.
“Do you want to help me work?” she asked, and Becky nodded, her curls bouncing.
“Me hep.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” Dell told her. “But you’re also getting so
big. Would you like to walk now? All the way to the barn?”
“Yo camino,” the girl said immediately and slid from Dell’s arms. The quick, Spanish reply was a relief. Becky’s mother spoke only Spanish. Sending Becky home — if, God forbid, that was ever home again — with no ability to communicate would be unfair to everyone.
“Everything’s so complicated,” Dell muttered, sighing, and then she laughed out loud when Becky mimicked her with an exaggerated sigh of her own.
Dell stopped by the kitchen, telling Rosa where they’d be and double-checking that the girls were in fact with their teacher. All the girls had spotty attendance during the regular school year, and wouldn’t catch up without help.
On the way, Becky delighted in jumping into every puddle along the drive. Dell cringed each time the water splashed up, covering those little legs and spotting the pastel plaid playsuit, but she bit back any scolding words. She vividly remembered being forced to be constantly clean and neat as a child, always dressed in frilly, light-colored clothes except when her father smuggled her out of the house to ride. She didn’t want to impose her own abhorrence of mud-spattered clothes on the child. Still, by the time they made it to the barn, she was glad to see Karla Gonzalez walking toward them, leading her daughter Allison on the spotted Shetland pony she boarded here at the ranch.
Becky immediately ran up to her, arms outstretched, and the woman laughed and swept her up, unmindful of the mud as she clasped her close.
“Hi, princesa,” she greeted the little one. She smiled at Dell. “I see Becky discovered mud puddles. Can she come ride with Allison?”
Allison Gonzalez smiled shyly, clinging apprehensively to the saddle horn in front of her. Dell smiled back at the older child and nodded. “Sure. Do you want to borrow Carbón?”
“That poor old pony wouldn’t know what to do with a saddle on his back,” Karla said, shaking her head. “No, the girls can share.” She cast a meaningful glance at her five-year-old. “Everyone needs to share sometimes.”
Unattainable Page 4