She sipped wine, the rich, fruity sangria that she found so refreshing, and ate sparingly while she watched the dancers grow more lively as the night progressed. Then the melody changed a bit, from El Chinaco, a song of the Juarista guerrilleros, to La Malaguena, then to the music of the peasants, wild and abandoned, a plaintive melody that soared higher than the leafy branches of the towering oak, a paean to the night sky and lost love. It had been so long since she’d heard the true music of Mexico that she’d almost forgotten how the guitars could sound like a woman’s sobs. Now it was a reminder of her own sobs in those days of marching, apathy and sullen resignation, with only the dancing to make her forget for the moment. The fiery peasant dances of Mexico—the jarabe, corrido and sometimes even the fandango…

It had been the only thing then that allowed her to forget that she had become dirt, lower than the whores who walked the streets of the cities. And she had despised herself then, for continuing to live, for even wanting to survive, to endure.

But that was a long time ago.

There were so many memories in this country; some of them she tried to forget, but never would. Even during the worst times, when she had survived brutality and horror, the music had kept her feeling alive. It was one of the few things from that time that she wanted to remember.

She sipped more sangria, watching and listening, her slippered feet beating a rhythmic tattoo against the tiled floor. Bright skirts were a whirl of color, the men clad in short jackets and snug-fitting pants, heels clicking against stone in the dance steps, the music a hard, driving throb.

“It is too lovely a night for a beautiful woman to sit alone,” a deep male voice murmured. Ginny glanced up to see a handsome young caballero smiling down at her. “I will be happy to show you the steps if you will dance with me, señorita.”

“Yes,” she surprised herself by saying, suddenly reckless, desperate to escape darker memories. “Yes, I would like to dance.”

A combination of sangria and frustration fueled her heedless response. She gave him her hand without hesitating, as the young man swept her into the center of the patio. In the far corner, the musicians played the traditional Jarabe Tapatio, and Ginny turned, her feet swiftly finding the rhythm.

“You know our dances, señorita?” He sounded surprised that a gringa would know the steps, but his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

She answered in a Mexican dialect. “Oh, yes, I have not forgotten how. I used to live here, you see, in Mexico, a long time ago.”

As they joined the circle of dancers, Ginny forgot her surroundings, Steve’s absence and her frustration. She forgot everything but her love of the music and the moment.