nostrils. But somehow she avoided the next swipe of the rock and kept rolling—straight into the shallows of the river.
Manuela stormed after her, kicking up droplets that glowed red in the sunset. The dog was barking loudly. The boys clapped and encouraged Manuela, who struck for Amanda’s head again.
Amanda grabbed Manuela’s forearm with both hands, jerked it to her mouth and bit. Manuela squealed. Amanda shoved her backward. The stone almost slipped from the younger woman’s grasp, but she caught it.
Soaked and moving slowly because of it, Amanda still managed to get behind the girl and use her own tactic—a yank of the hair. But Manuela was strong, strong enough to slither free and spin, hacking at Amanda’s face with the rock.
Amanda dodged again, laced her hands together, kicked Manuela’s leg. The girl doubled over. Amanda’s locked hands came down on Manuela’s exposed neck with terrific force.
Crying out in real pain, Manuela sprawled face first in the shallows. The stone flew from her fingers, splashed and disappeared under the water. Amanda thought about calling a halt. But if she did, she’d never be safe in the encampment. She had to defeat the Mexican girl completely, decisively—
She gazed around for a weapon. Something Manuela had said came to mind. She darted for the bank, grabbed one of Cordoba’s shirts, dipped it in the water and lashed Manuela’s cheek.
Floundering in the shallows, Manuela cried out. She tried to grab Amanda’s leg. Amanda whipped the girl’s face again. Again. Her eyes were red with the glare of the sunset as she struck—
She laid ten, twelve, fifteen strokes on Manuela’s face, neck and shoulders. When the shirt showed blood, she stopped. Whimpering, Manuela crawled away in the water—
Amanda was shaking. She stumbled up the bank. The boys and Manuela’s companions stared at her in amazement.
She wiped her brow with a soaked sleeve, then stared at the blood from the cut over her eye. She dropped the shirt she’d used as a whip, retrieved the rest of Cordoba’s laundry. Manuela was still on her knees in the water, shaking her head in a groggy way. Amanda hooked a toe beneath the bloody, ruined garment, and kicked it toward Manuela’s three companions.
“Clean her up. And tell her the major has a lot of other shirts.”
Walking as steadily as she could, she moved on down the bank in the stillness.
iii
“God above, what happened to you?” Cordoba exclaimed when she entered the marquee sometime later, the clean laundry bundled under one arm.
She put the laundry on the washstand, her hand none too steady. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m all right.”
Cordoba was bare chested. The black hair below his throat showed glints of sweat in the light of the hanging lantern. At the waist of his trousers, his stomach bulged. He laid a palm over the roll of fat, as if ashamed to have her see.
She sank down on the cot. “I’m afraid I lost one of your best shirts, though.”
Cordoba seemed not to hear. “How did you cut your forehead?”
“It isn’t important.”
“I insist that you answer.” She didn’t. “At least let me find some alcohol—”
“No, I only need to rest a minute.”
“Damn you, woman! Tell me who hurt you and I’ll see him flogged!”
If she hadn’t been so spent, she would have laughed. The major looked furious.
“Not he, ” she said. “It was one of the soldaderas. She won’t bother me again.” Her generous mouth curved in a wry smile. “She had designs on you. She lost her own man, and—well, let’s just say she wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
She lay back. Closed her eyes. She sensed Cordoba crouching down beside her.
“I still want to know the woman’s name. I intend to see her punished.”
“It’s not necessary, Luis—I took care of it.”
“You might have been killed!”
“I wasn’t.”
She studied him. His deep-set eyes seemed unusually dark in the shadows beneath his brows. Teasing, she
Manuela stormed after her, kicking up droplets that glowed red in the sunset. The dog was barking loudly. The boys clapped and encouraged Manuela, who struck for Amanda’s head again.
Amanda grabbed Manuela’s forearm with both hands, jerked it to her mouth and bit. Manuela squealed. Amanda shoved her backward. The stone almost slipped from the younger woman’s grasp, but she caught it.
Soaked and moving slowly because of it, Amanda still managed to get behind the girl and use her own tactic—a yank of the hair. But Manuela was strong, strong enough to slither free and spin, hacking at Amanda’s face with the rock.
Amanda dodged again, laced her hands together, kicked Manuela’s leg. The girl doubled over. Amanda’s locked hands came down on Manuela’s exposed neck with terrific force.
Crying out in real pain, Manuela sprawled face first in the shallows. The stone flew from her fingers, splashed and disappeared under the water. Amanda thought about calling a halt. But if she did, she’d never be safe in the encampment. She had to defeat the Mexican girl completely, decisively—
She gazed around for a weapon. Something Manuela had said came to mind. She darted for the bank, grabbed one of Cordoba’s shirts, dipped it in the water and lashed Manuela’s cheek.
Floundering in the shallows, Manuela cried out. She tried to grab Amanda’s leg. Amanda whipped the girl’s face again. Again. Her eyes were red with the glare of the sunset as she struck—
She laid ten, twelve, fifteen strokes on Manuela’s face, neck and shoulders. When the shirt showed blood, she stopped. Whimpering, Manuela crawled away in the water—
Amanda was shaking. She stumbled up the bank. The boys and Manuela’s companions stared at her in amazement.
She wiped her brow with a soaked sleeve, then stared at the blood from the cut over her eye. She dropped the shirt she’d used as a whip, retrieved the rest of Cordoba’s laundry. Manuela was still on her knees in the water, shaking her head in a groggy way. Amanda hooked a toe beneath the bloody, ruined garment, and kicked it toward Manuela’s three companions.
“Clean her up. And tell her the major has a lot of other shirts.”
Walking as steadily as she could, she moved on down the bank in the stillness.
iii
“God above, what happened to you?” Cordoba exclaimed when she entered the marquee sometime later, the clean laundry bundled under one arm.
She put the laundry on the washstand, her hand none too steady. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m all right.”
Cordoba was bare chested. The black hair below his throat showed glints of sweat in the light of the hanging lantern. At the waist of his trousers, his stomach bulged. He laid a palm over the roll of fat, as if ashamed to have her see.
She sank down on the cot. “I’m afraid I lost one of your best shirts, though.”
Cordoba seemed not to hear. “How did you cut your forehead?”
“It isn’t important.”
“I insist that you answer.” She didn’t. “At least let me find some alcohol—”
“No, I only need to rest a minute.”
“Damn you, woman! Tell me who hurt you and I’ll see him flogged!”
If she hadn’t been so spent, she would have laughed. The major looked furious.
“Not he, ” she said. “It was one of the soldaderas. She won’t bother me again.” Her generous mouth curved in a wry smile. “She had designs on you. She lost her own man, and—well, let’s just say she wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
She lay back. Closed her eyes. She sensed Cordoba crouching down beside her.
“I still want to know the woman’s name. I intend to see her punished.”
“It’s not necessary, Luis—I took care of it.”
“You might have been killed!”
“I wasn’t.”
She studied him. His deep-set eyes seemed unusually dark in the shadows beneath his brows. Teasing, she
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