Frowning, she couldn’t help but notice that Steve had hired a villainous-looking group of men to escort their baggage train to Don Francisco’s hacienda.

“They look like bandits,” she said frankly, but Steve only laughed.

“I’ll be sure to pass on your compliment, Ginny.”

But then, she thought, watching him as he went to meet with the ship’s captain, he looked rather like a bandit himself, wearing his guns again, slung low on his hips and tied to his thighs with leather thongs. It reminded her of all the times she had seen him use those guns, his ruthless proficiency and dangerous reputation as a gunman. He seemed to have reverted once he wore them again, becoming as hard as he looked.

At his insistence, she had packed only a single leather trunk, a small one that held just her necessities, a few gowns and toiletries, for their journey. “I still don’t see why we cannot travel with the baggage,” she’d protested, but Steve was impatient.

“We don’t need anything hindering us, Ginny. Besides, I remember when you used to wear calzόnes and a sombrero and be glad to have them.”

“Yes, I remember that, too, but I’m not as foolish as I used to be,” she’d replied tartly. “And I have no desire to arrive at your grandfather’s hacienda dressed as a peasant.”

“Pack carefully then, because most of your trunks will go with the rest of the baggage. Paco hired dependable men to get it there safely.”

“I don’t understand why we can’t take it with us. It’s not as if it would be that much trouble. And why hire so many men to guard trunks full of clothing and household goods? What else have you got in there, for heaven’s sake?”

“I’d like to be there for my grandfather’s birthday fiesta, and if we have to drag your trunks halfway across the country we’re liable to miss it by a month,” he said in a mocking drawl, ignoring her question about the trunks.

Now curiosity prompted Ginny to inspect the baggage for herself, and she made her way down the docks to the stacks of wooden crates that were being loaded aboard heavy wagons. Long narrow crates that she’d never seen were being loaded, and she moved closer to inspect them.

To her indignant surprise, she was swiftly stopped by one of the guards.

“That’s close enough, ma’am. This is private property.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I am Virginia Morgan, and this is my private property that is being loaded.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know who you are. But I have my orders. No one is allowed near this cargo.”

Irate, she snapped, “What is your name, sir? I want to know just who is keeping me from my own belongings.”