any—as to which way it would all go.
In another couple of days, all Mexico would know what was happening—unless General Diego could catch the Americans before they crossed the Rio Grande.
And that must not happen.
Father Lorenzo looked at the mountains and the crimson skies behind them, and breathed a prayer that the Texas Rangers could get Señora Evans and themselves out of Mexico before it was too late.
“Elizabeth, you all right?” Gus called.
Jake hipped around in his saddle. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”
“Looks like the altitude’s getting to her. I feel it some myself,” Gus said.
Jake chided himself. He should’ve been watching her closer. But that morning they’d all been rushing, pushed along by an uneasy sense that time was running out.
When Maria showed up on horseback at San Miguel at the usual time for her class that morning, two monks were waiting for her. They took her horse to the stables and watched the doors while three Rangers and Elizabeth unpacked the saddlebags and reloaded them into the bags on Elizabeth’s new horse, purchased from the monastery a few hours before. Her original little Mexican horse had a brand and a serial number, and would be easily identified if they were stopped. As soon as they were loaded, they left San Miguel and rode all day. Occasionally they broke into a gallop for a change of pace for a mile or two to make up time.
Jake hoped to reach the Rio Grande tomorrow morning and cross over before noon. Now, he dropped back and reined his horse alongside hers. Eyes narrowed, he studied her. Mountain sickness—headache, out of breath—the first signs.
The first time he’d looked at her photograph, he thought he had her pegged. A senator’s daughter, classy and rich and spoiled. Yet he was wrong. She wasn’t spoiled. Not once had she complained about anything.
“You look pale. How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Have a teeny little headache, that’s all.” She let out a breathy laugh.
A week ago, that might have fooled him into thinking she was all right. Now he knew her better. Physically, and probably emotionally as well, she was on the edge. But her pride wouldn’t let her show it. Jake pulled out his canteen and passed it over to her, watching her swallow. She was used to sea level, not riding and working a horse at eight thousand feet elevation. Because she was on the small side, so was her bloodstream, and it simply couldn’t carry enough oxygen to support her.
He regretted that they’d come up to this height so fast, partly because she’d enjoyed those little gallops. She was turning into a decent rider.
Climbing fast was why she was so out of breath and tired.
He stretched and grunted. “We’ve gone far enough for one day. Suppose we look around up here, find some wood and water, and make camp.”
When she gave a sigh of relief and turned away, he knew he’d made the right decision.
They followed a rocky trail that wound around a sheer cliff rising on one side, the face wet with trickles of mountain snowmelt. Jake suddenly reined to a stop and seized her arm.
The men exchanged glances. They all smelled it.
Smoke.
Keeping Elizabeth behind them, the Rangers slowly began walking their horses. Ahead lay a wide clearing, hemmed in by low reddish orange cliffs cut with openings, a honeycomb of caves. A faint haze drifted across the ridgeline. The smoke must have come from cookstoves within the mountain.
“ Gitanos ,” Jake said. Gypsies.
The trail ran through the center of their camp, past the caves. Tents and shacks dotted the area, along with Gypsy vans and decorated wagons— vardos . The men sat in the tent openings and wagon doorways and watched a group of children fighting and playing among themselves. The children rushed around them, begging for money, pulling at their saddlebags. One boy snatched Jake’s hat off, but Jake shot a hand out and snatched it back.
A teenage girl darted in and grabbed the scarf
In another couple of days, all Mexico would know what was happening—unless General Diego could catch the Americans before they crossed the Rio Grande.
And that must not happen.
Father Lorenzo looked at the mountains and the crimson skies behind them, and breathed a prayer that the Texas Rangers could get Señora Evans and themselves out of Mexico before it was too late.
“Elizabeth, you all right?” Gus called.
Jake hipped around in his saddle. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”
“Looks like the altitude’s getting to her. I feel it some myself,” Gus said.
Jake chided himself. He should’ve been watching her closer. But that morning they’d all been rushing, pushed along by an uneasy sense that time was running out.
When Maria showed up on horseback at San Miguel at the usual time for her class that morning, two monks were waiting for her. They took her horse to the stables and watched the doors while three Rangers and Elizabeth unpacked the saddlebags and reloaded them into the bags on Elizabeth’s new horse, purchased from the monastery a few hours before. Her original little Mexican horse had a brand and a serial number, and would be easily identified if they were stopped. As soon as they were loaded, they left San Miguel and rode all day. Occasionally they broke into a gallop for a change of pace for a mile or two to make up time.
Jake hoped to reach the Rio Grande tomorrow morning and cross over before noon. Now, he dropped back and reined his horse alongside hers. Eyes narrowed, he studied her. Mountain sickness—headache, out of breath—the first signs.
The first time he’d looked at her photograph, he thought he had her pegged. A senator’s daughter, classy and rich and spoiled. Yet he was wrong. She wasn’t spoiled. Not once had she complained about anything.
“You look pale. How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Have a teeny little headache, that’s all.” She let out a breathy laugh.
A week ago, that might have fooled him into thinking she was all right. Now he knew her better. Physically, and probably emotionally as well, she was on the edge. But her pride wouldn’t let her show it. Jake pulled out his canteen and passed it over to her, watching her swallow. She was used to sea level, not riding and working a horse at eight thousand feet elevation. Because she was on the small side, so was her bloodstream, and it simply couldn’t carry enough oxygen to support her.
He regretted that they’d come up to this height so fast, partly because she’d enjoyed those little gallops. She was turning into a decent rider.
Climbing fast was why she was so out of breath and tired.
He stretched and grunted. “We’ve gone far enough for one day. Suppose we look around up here, find some wood and water, and make camp.”
When she gave a sigh of relief and turned away, he knew he’d made the right decision.
They followed a rocky trail that wound around a sheer cliff rising on one side, the face wet with trickles of mountain snowmelt. Jake suddenly reined to a stop and seized her arm.
The men exchanged glances. They all smelled it.
Smoke.
Keeping Elizabeth behind them, the Rangers slowly began walking their horses. Ahead lay a wide clearing, hemmed in by low reddish orange cliffs cut with openings, a honeycomb of caves. A faint haze drifted across the ridgeline. The smoke must have come from cookstoves within the mountain.
“ Gitanos ,” Jake said. Gypsies.
The trail ran through the center of their camp, past the caves. Tents and shacks dotted the area, along with Gypsy vans and decorated wagons— vardos . The men sat in the tent openings and wagon doorways and watched a group of children fighting and playing among themselves. The children rushed around them, begging for money, pulling at their saddlebags. One boy snatched Jake’s hat off, but Jake shot a hand out and snatched it back.
A teenage girl darted in and grabbed the scarf
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