‘But it’s so remote down that road!’ she persists. ‘You must dread those endless evenings.’

‘Oh there’s always something to do,’ I murmur. Now, when night closes in and the moon rises, when the children have fallen asleep and Benjamín takes up position outside their bedroom, Duval comes to the cabin. Through the window I watch for him to step out of the shadows, the reins of the horses in his hand, and then we ride out to the flap of a bird’s wing, the swishing of tails and the tap dance of hooves on rock . . .

‘We must get you more involved in our social life,’ Helen is saying. ‘In fact why don’t you come to my pot-luck dinner next Thursday?’

‘You’re very kind,’ I thank her, wondering what fresh hell a pot-luck dinner might be, ‘but there’s always masses to do, climbing, hiking . . .’

‘Not around Temerosa!’ Helen’s agitation jiggles the rhinestones on her tracksuit top. ‘Not so close to the border! Tell her, Jeff, please!’

‘It would be extremely foolish,’ Hogan says thickly. ‘Now that the weather’s so much warmer, the number of crossings will rise with every passing day.’

‘First thing tomorrow I’m signing you up for the Happy Hikers club.’ Helen pats my knee. ‘It’s all women. We use only well-marked trails. It’s wonderful exercise.’ She gives my leg an extra squeeze. ‘I told Jeff it wasn’t right, what if something should happen to you? What if you should meet one of those Mexicans face to face? These people are desperate. There’s no saying what might happen.’

‘It’s time you and the kids came under the protection of Ranch Rights,’ Jeff says. ‘All of us here are members and there are like-minded people signing up with us all the time. Let us patrol Temerosa and the land surrounding it. If we come across anyone who shouldn’t be there, you can be sure we’ll catch ’em.’

‘And then what?’ I ask.

‘We turn them over to the proper authorities.’ Hogan clears his throat. ‘Of course.’

‘Hold on now, Jeff,’ Helen says. ‘Mrs Coleman’s not comfortable with this, I can tell.’ She makes a grab for my hand and clasps it between hers. ‘I can see you’re a compassionate person, same ways I am. Hell, I understand what you’re thinking. Sometimes I sit and look at these people through Jeff’s binoculars and I feel so sorry for them. They don’t have a damn thing. We have our sympathies, we find it heartbreaking. Believe me, I want to take them all home and give them fried chicken, I want to give them my guest room.’

‘But . . .’ I ease my hand out of hers, ‘you don’t.’