“Damn you, Steve Morgan, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean! You were with Sam Murdock for a week. Was his gypsy protégée there, or has she remained in England with her viscount?”

“If you mean Concepciόn, as far as I know, she’s still basking in the English countryside. Or as she puts it, ‘molding in the rustic wasteland.”’

“I’m devastated to hear she doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the Cotswolds, but hardly surprised. There aren’t many men there who would appreciate her brand of coarse entertainment.”

“Ah-ah, your forked tongue is showing, Ginny. You and I have never been able to discuss Concepciόn without it degenerating into name calling, so let’s talk about something else for a change.”

“That’s fine with me.” Her hair had come loose, blowing across her face, the wind brisk and smelling of dust and the lemony-sharp scent of sage. She tightened the strings of her hat, a serviceable wide-brimmed sombrero that kept out sun and rain. “Did Murdock mention my father?”

“His name came up.” Steve’s mouth flattened to a grim line. “Stop trying to get information out of me, Ginny.”

“Stop avoiding my questions.”

It’s no use, she thought when he ignored her. He has no intention of answering me.

Philosophically, she accepted momentary defeat. And after all, he was here now, so what did it really matter if she knew why he’d been gone or why she couldn’t go with him?

I must be mellowing with time, she thought with a wry smile that earned her an assessing glance from Steve. Before now I would never have surrendered so easily. But perhaps it shouldn’t matter if I know everything. We’re together finally after having been apart for so long.

The Chihuahua Trail ran through Presidio and Ojinaga, then cut a wide loop through rugged mountain passes to the city of Chihuahua. It was the main route from San Antonio, arid and dry most of the time, except in the rainy season when dried up riverbeds could become raging, dangerous torrents without warning.

In daylight, the sun beat down fiercely, heat shimmering in waves from rocks and hard-packed trail, though at night it could be cold enough for several blankets. For miles, the only sounds were the clopping of hooves, the creak of saddle leather and the jangling of metal bits. Finally they stopped beneath an overhang to let the horses drink.

Ginny dismounted, stretching muscles finally becoming more accustomed to hours in the saddle. She plopped down on a flat rock in the shade of the overhang. The musty smell of damp earth and baking rock was potent.

Paco approached where she sat fanning herself with the wide brim of her hat, and propped his foot against the side of the rock.