Defending the Eyewitness

Chapter 2

Austin awoke in the morning considerably refreshed, knowing instantly where he was. He’d acquired that talent during his years as an agent. It was dangerous not to know exactly where you were and exactly what was around you, even when you slept. You never knew what you might wake up to.

He needed to rearrange the room a bit, but even as he sat up with the thought, he realized that would be overkill. He was in a safe little town in Wyoming, as far as he could be from anyone who might want to come after him...and no one should. They never knew his real name, he’d been whisked out of that damn Mexican prison so fast that the most his old compadres could believe was that he had been moved to another prison. Even if they suspected, they’d have no way of tracing him. Besides, by now, the rumor was probably running through the grapevine that he was dead. Killed in an escape attempt, maybe. That was the usual cover story when someone didn’t survive manhandling by the Federales.

So it was needless to think of having another way out of here besides the stairs. He didn’t have to live like that anymore. He repeated the mantra to himself several times. It was over. He didn’t need to live like that anymore.

It should have been reassuring. Comforting. Something. Anything except make him feel utterly at loose ends.

He rose and headed for the bathroom, where he erased the beard he’d worn religiously for six years. Sometimes he’d let it become scruffy, sometimes he’d neatly trimmed it, but it had been like a mask, concealing his real features just enough. He didn’t need concealment anymore, but by the time he got done, he looked at his unfamiliar reflection and could have laughed. The skin beneath the beard hadn’t tanned along with the rest of him, and the paleness almost glowed. His skin had a natural olive tone, but right then, in comparison, it didn’t look like it. He wondered how long it would take to catch up so he didn’t look like a clown.

It was time, he decided, to get the lay of the land around here and figure out what kind of clothes he’d need to fit in. If it didn’t involve a necktie, he’d be happy.

He heard a church bell ringing as he descended the stairs and realized it was Sunday. Hell, what did that mean for shopping around here?

He smelled coffee at the foot of the stairs and hesitated. Maybe he should just keep going and get breakfast somewhere.

But then he heard Corey. “I’m in here, Austin. Coffee’s fresh.”

Well, that drew him. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in hands, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Help yourself,” she said pleasantly. “There’s cereal in the cupboard, if you like.”

“I need to go shopping,” he remarked. After the way she had looked at him yesterday, he wondered why she was being so friendly. At first sight, he’d been sure she wanted to send him packing.

She must have looked up as he went to get a mug, because he heard her say, “Oh, my gosh...”

He turned to look at her and she had clapped her hand over her mouth. Her blue eyes seemed to dance. For the first time, he allowed himself to notice what a pretty woman she was. Sort of like a Viking princess, maybe, with her long blond hair, milky skin and brilliant blue eyes. Even a nice figure, as he recalled, although it was invisible now in layers of thick blue terry cloth that seemed to cover a long flannel nightgown. He usually went for darker women, but this one was getting his attention. In the wrong way, considering.

He touched his cheek. “Beard?”

“You can’t exactly call that a shadow.” A laugh trembled in her voice.

“I know. I was thinking I looked like a painted clown.”

A giggle escaped her then. “I’m sorry. Really. It was just so unexpected, but I should be used to it.”

“Why?”

“We’ve got a men’s club here and the members grow their beards every winter. I think it may have started as a lark, but it became a charity fund-raiser. You sign up to support someone and offer to pay so much for each inch they grow. Anyway, everyone around here recognizes that look, so don’t worry about being mistaken for a clown. It’s not that bad, anyway. I was just surprised.”

He liked her laughter and didn’t at all mind being the butt of it. Smiling easily for the first time in a while, he joined her at the table with his coffee. “I need to go shopping for clothes and food. Recommendations?”

“Nothing opens until noon today, I’m afraid. And your choices are limited. One grocery store, one department store.”

“That makes it easy. Assuming they have everything, anyway.”

“Freitag’s is a good department store. I’m sure the big cities have better, but Freitag’s is enough most of the time. If I need something they don’t have, I order online.”

He nodded, taking it in, taking her in. He wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was.

“What’s it like in Mexico?”

He tilted his head. “It’s a big country. It depends on where you are and what you’re doing.”

“I sometimes think I’d like to see the pyramids.”

“Well, you could see some of them, anyway. There are a whole lot of them. The museums in Mexico City are great, too. But to get the most out of it, I would recommend hiring a good guide.”

“Why?”

“Because he or she will know where it’s safe for you to go.”

Her eyes widened, and in spite of himself he grinned. “I could say the same about a lot of places in this country.”

She flushed faintly. “You’re right, of course. Like I said, this is the only town I know.”

He sensed something then, and he always trusted his instincts. Something in this woman was locked up tight and for a very good reason. Fear held her caged in this town in the back of beyond.

He ransacked his brain for something he could talk about to get her mind off whatever disturbed her. Because, by the downward flicker of her eyes, he knew he had reminded her of something unpleasant.

He decided to return the conversation to Mexico. “The Tarahumara Indians are some people I’d like to help.”

Her gaze met his again. “Who are they? And why?”

“They’re some of the world’s greatest runners. Amazing, really. They can run fifty miles without water. They have this game where they kick a ball along a path as they run up and down the mountains of the Sierra Madre. Until recently they managed to survive without the rest of the world, pure subsistence living, but they were making it. Then they gained international attention with their tremendous running abilities. They started having conflicts with people who wanted their land, with logging companies and finally with drug traffickers. They’re poor, and they got even poorer after a drought started killing their measly crops. You can guess what happened.”

“Tell me.”

He had her full attention. “Because they’re such great runners, and they’re so close to the border, the drug cartels started offering them money to run backpacks full of drugs across the border.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. And some of the younger people did it because it was too much money to refuse when they and their families were starving, when they couldn’t find jobs, or at least not jobs that paid enough. I mean, those who manage to find work are paid ten dollars a day.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Until recently, the Tarahumara were pretty much the people that Time forgot. They’ve had a really lousy introduction to the modern world.”

“But what can you do for them?”

“I don’t know. But now I’ve got some time to think about it, and I’m going to.”

She was sitting there pondering, but he liked the way she kept nodding her head as if agreeing with what he had said. “I had no idea,” she said finally.

“Most people don’t.”

“But you got to know them?”

“I sure did. Some of the mules make it back, but they’re angry because they didn’t get paid what they were promised. Others come back with tales of being arrested and sent to jail. Those are good cautions, but there are still youngsters who can’t resist the idea of six monthsʼ pay for what they think will be a few easy hours of running with a backpack.”

“God!” She drummed her fingers. “I’ve heard about all the violence, too. Is that getting any better?”

“Depends on where you are. Again.”

“It must have seemed very different from visiting your family’s—what did you call it?”

“Finca. And yes, it was very different.”

She looked as if she was about to ask another question, then bit it back. He’d heard some of what Gage had told her about him, but not all of it. “How much did Gage tell you about me?”

“That you were undercover for six years in the border towns. He didn’t say exactly what you were doing.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Fine by me.” She gave him a pale smile. “Get some cereal. You’ve got to be hungry.”

* * *

Corey had never had anything to do with drugs, although she was certain some of her friends had indulged. They made no secret of it, really, but this was such an out-of-the-way place that if there was a drug problem it remained relatively small.

What she had never thought about was the cost of those drugs, not in terms of money, but in terms of human misery. The news had made it clear that there was a lot of violence between the drug cartels in Mexico, but she had heard nothing about the people who got enticed into carrying those drugs over the border. She had always assumed they were members of the cartel, not innocent kids who were being tempted with desperately needed money.

Until this moment, all of that had seemed far removed from her. Somebody else’s problem. But the way Austin had just described those Tarahumara boys sickened her. Their lives were hard, they loved to run evidently and were being drawn into terrible danger by amounts of money that must look like salvation.

Austin pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard. “What’s this stuff?”

She looked at it and had to chuckle at his expression. “I call it my roots and twigs. High fiber. I think guinea pigs get better food.”

He cracked a laugh. “This from a woman who brings home Danishes from the bakery?”

“The same. Who said I had to be consistent?”

He poured some into a bowl. “It looks like animal feed.”

“It probably is. I eat it plain, but you might find it easier to swallow with some sugar on it.”

“I can swallow just about anything, trust me. I wasn’t raised on caviar. Thanks for sharing.”

“Tell me that again after you’ve tasted it.” Her tone was wry, and as she heard it, she realized she was becoming a little more comfortable with Austin Mendez. Maybe it had to do with the way he talked about those Indians.

“So, no idea how you could help the Tarahumara?” she said.

“Not yet. I don’t mean to make them sound like the quote-unquote noble savage, because they’re not. They fought the Spanish more than once. They fought the French and they fought us. Mining has long since destroyed a lot of their land, about half the original population simply integrated with the rest of society, and the remainder are not above putting on a good show for tourists. It’s just that—well, I spent some time with them. The pressures on them from every direction are enormous and I’d kind of like to think there’s some way to help them hang on to what’s left rather than see them forced to raise opium poppies or run the border. Probably a pipe dream. Change, for good or ill, seems to be unavoidable.”

She put her chin in her hand. “It probably is,” she agreed. “You can’t go back there, can you?”

He paused, then said, “To that part of Mexico? Not anytime soon. I guess part of what gets to me about them is that they make me think of grist caught between the grinding stones of a huge mill, drug cartels on one side, corporations and developers on the other.”

“And you like them.”

His smile was crooked. “Those I met, most definitely. But enough of that. It’s a problem beyond a single man, there’s another country involved, and I haven’t even got a plan yet. Do you have to open your shop today?”

She nodded. “I’m always open for four hours on Sunday afternoon. When you need something for a project, you need it and you don’t want to have to wait another week because you didn’t discover the lack until Saturday night.”

He flashed a smile. “I can understand that. This cereal is pretty good, by the way. Despite what it looks like.”

“Roots and twigs, like I said.”

So, all right, she thought. Maybe having him around wouldn’t be so bad. She just hoped he didn’t feel like being sociable all the time. She spent so much time being sociable at the shop, and while she enjoyed it, she needed her quiet time, too. Of course, she could always retreat to her room with her knitting or embroidery. It wouldn’t be the first time she needed to hide out.

But Austin didn’t linger much longer. He announced he was going to scope out the town, then go shopping. Ten minutes later, he vanished out the front door.

Her peaceful Sunday morning returned. She bent her attention to the paper again but realized she wasn’t seeing much of it.

Instead, she was seeing Austin, hearing his voice as he’d talked about the Indians. She had no idea what kind of work he’d done in Mexico, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But whatever it had been, it hadn’t hardened him. No, he wanted to help a whole tribe of people.

She couldn’t think of a better recommendation of his character. Or anything that could have made him sexier.

As soon as that thought crossed her mind, she shook it quickly away and went to get dressed. She’d go to the shop early and take care of some busywork. It would be a good distraction, and right now she needed one.

A man had entered her personal space and left her wanting more. She’d think about how stupid that made her later. Right now, she just didn’t want to think about it at all.

* * *

As she was walking to her shop two blocks over, she passed Good Shepherd Church. She hadn’t attended since her grandmother’s death, but before that she’d been in the pews every Sunday. What had changed? She honestly didn’t know, but deep inside she was sure something had. Often enough, someone would invite her to return, and she had pleasant memories of the fellowship there, the potluck dinners, all of it.

It wasn’t as if church had ever been a bad experience for her, but she still had no desire to go back. She glanced at the doors, saw a few stragglers entering and just kept on walking. Evidently, whatever she might feel was lacking in her life wasn’t inside that building.

Not that she really thought anything was lacking. This was the life she had planned out for herself. She’d grow old like her grandmother, running the shop. She hadn’t completely dismissed the idea of a family, but considering her trust issues with men, she didn’t think it was very likely.

Regardless, she enjoyed her work, and that was more than most people could say. To her surprise, an hour before her scheduled opening, Daisy Loden was already waiting for her.

“Bless you!” Daisy cried upon seeing her.

“Me? For what?”

“For coming early. I made a lounging robe for my grandmother, her birthday party is in two hours, and I forgot to buy the buttons!”

Corey laughed and pushed her key into the lock. “I must have felt you calling me.”

“Maybe. I almost went to knock on your door, but I decided that would be rude beyond belief.”

“Next time, knock on my door,” Corey said. “This is an emergency.”

“Well,” said Daisy wryly, “the worst case would have been explaining to Grandma that I still needed to put the buttons on it. I don’t think she’d have been upset.”

Corey knew that Daisy’s grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s and could sometimes be unpredictable. She also knew that caring for the woman was a severe strain on Daisy and her sisters at times, so who needed an upset because Daisy gave her grandmother a robe and then had to take it back? It might be okay, then again... “What kind of buttons?”

“Big ones, because her fingers are arthritic. And red because the whole robe is in the brightest colors I could find. She’s always loved bright colors.”

“I hope I have them.” Corey honestly couldn’t remember. Her shop was full of so many buttons and notions that she sometimes forgot exactly what she had.

“I know you do. You have everything.”

Daisy’s exuberance had always delighted Corey. The woman bubbled nearly all the time, and sometimes Corey envied her that. Daisy had her share of problems, but nothing seemed to squash her enjoyment for long.

Daisy hurried to the back to look at buttons while Corey settled behind the counter. There was a box on the floor at her feet that she hadn’t opened yet, and a stack of mail from yesterday, most of which went straight into the trash. The bills she tucked into a drawer behind her.

Moments later she heard Daisy squeal. “Found them. Perfect.”

She came up to the register holding two packets of scarlet buttons, big enough to go on a clown suit. “She’ll be able to manipulate these,” she said as she put them on the counter and started to pull out her wallet from her purse.

“It’s on the house,” Corey said swiftly. “My birthday present to your grandmother.”

“Aren’t you a sweetie!” Daisy leaned right across the counter and managed to give Corey a hug and a big kiss on the cheek. Then she scooted to the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll bring you a photo of her in the robe.”

The bell over the door rang as she left. It was only then that Corey noticed a man looking in the window. He appeared familiar, a local, so she waved cheerily. There were certainly lovely things in the window to look at. She used them to display the projects her sewing and knitting groups had made. Sometimes people even wanted to buy them, which meant some of the women made a bit of much-needed pin money.

The man didn’t wave back, though. He just looked a moment longer, then sauntered on down the street.

“Well,” she said to the empty store, “I bet he doesn’t sign up for a class.” Then she laughed and got to work.

Sundays were always a slow time, when a few women dropped in to pick up something, or to chat for a couple of minutes. It was a good time for catching up on things that she’d let slide during the week, from neatening her stock, to putting out fresh items, to sweeping floors and cleaning the bathroom. Her back office really needed some work, but she didn’t feel like tackling it yet. She had a theory: once she put something away, she’d never remember where it was. Her stacks were her filing cabinet until she was certain she was done with an item. So far, the only way she’d managed to lose a thing was by putting it away.

Sometimes she thought she needed a highly organized assistant, but the idea of giving over control of so many important things made her hesitate. Then she wouldn’t be able to find anything at all, and what if something went wrong?