The water was warm, but blessedly wet. She swished it around in her mouth and spit over the guardrail.
The ranger cleared his throat. “I guess I should consider myself lucky.”
Without meaning to, she raised her head. He had a way of making her forget her intentions, like her vow not to let him see her pain—or her temper—in the chapel.
“Lucky?” she said.
“You have good reason to hate me.” He raised one solemn eyebrows. “And I am within spitting distance.”
The weakness in her body must have weakened her mind, too, because it took her seconds to put together his meaning. By the time she had, her stomach had rolled from her throat to the floor of her abdomen. “Perhaps you will not feel so lucky when you look more closely at your car.”
“Good thing I paid the extra hundred bucks for Scotchgard, then.”
Thanks to more than eight years of foreign language classes, Elisa’s English was good—better than most native speakers, since she’d learned classroom grammar, not street slang. She prided herself on her extensive vocabulary—but she did not know this thing, Scotchgard. An inborn sense of curiosity almost made her ask, but the question was lost in a gasp. She pressed the heel of her hand against her navel, hoping to stem the rising tide of nausea.
This time, she was almost grateful for the distraction the sickness provided. She knew better than to ask questions of him. He was a Texas Ranger.
“Are you all right?” Squatting beside her, the ranger steadied her with a hand under her elbow.
She nodded toward the ground at his feet. “Do you also pay extra to Scotchgard those?”
He followed her gaze down. “My boots? No.”
Ostrich, she guessed. Expensive. “Then perhaps you should get them out of ‘spitting distance.’”
He quickly shuffled behind her—without letting go of her arm. Within seconds another swell of sickness rolled through her. Her back bowed, crested and then went limp. Her head hung over the gritty metal rail. She tried focusing on the ditch below for stability, but the very earth pitched like the sea. A cry escaped her, and a surge of shame followed as the ranger watched the final purging of her stomach.
A moment later the ground went still again. She opened her eyes as the ranger dug a pack of gum from his shirt pocket, pulled a piece from its paper wrapper, folded the silver foil halfway back and extended it out to her, holding it by the still-wrapped end.
How was he continually able to offer her the one thing she couldn’t refuse at the time? Practically snarling, she snapped the gum from his hand. A moment later, with sugar and spearmint sweetening her tongue, she propped her back against the guardrail and drew her knees to her chest. The roiling cauldron in her stomach settled to a slow simmer, but her strength had yet to reappear.
The ranger watched her, muscled thighs straining the seams of his dress slacks as he squatted. “Have you been sick like this much?”
She tipped her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. “Every day. They call it morning sickness, no? But for me it comes in the afternoon.”
“How far along are you?”
“Over four months. It should have passed by now.” Her voice wobbled. This weakness left her defenseless against the worry she’d been pushing back since she’d learned of her pregnancy. Worry that she didn’t know how to have a baby.
“You’re not showing much for almost five months. But it’s different for everyone,” he told her, his words gentle, reassuring.
“You have children?” she couldn’t resist asking.
“No. But I lived out in the country as a kid. My grandmother was a midwife for half the babies born in Van Zandt county. I grew up listening to her stories.”
Memories of Oleda, the eccentric old midwife from Elisa’s village, flashed through her mind like a favorite movie. She had not asked Oleda about the sickness before leaving San Ynez; she had not been able to risk it.
She would not risk it when she returned, either. She would bear this baby alone, if she lived to bear it at all. Despite his gentle voice, this ranger was responsible for that.
She looked up at him. His wide shoulders bunched and released under his sports jacket. The light scent of soap and sandalwood wafted to her on a puff of a breeze. The corners of his mouth angled up hopefully, as if he wanted to smile at the newfound peace between them. She had never seen his smile, but could imagine it—warm and beguiling, pulling a matching grin from whomever it fell on. His would be the kind of smile women trusted. The kind they depended on. Wanted to wake up next to.
Suddenly he was too close, too male, too alive. All the things Eduardo had been and was no more.
Once again the ranger had made her forget her intentions. Made her forget who she was, and who he was—policía. Untouchable.
Dredging up the energy from deep inside, she rose on rubbery legs. He rose with her, still steadying her. She held the half-full water bottle out to him. He shook his head. “Keep it. You’re probably dehydrated.”
She dropped the bottle next to his expensive boots, and the smile that had been so close to breaking, died, unborn. His eyes hardened, as did his voice. “Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll drop you off and not bother you anymore.”
“I will go no further with you.”
“I just want to help you.”
“I do not need your help.” She shook free of his grip, took two steps down the road.
In one agile move, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way again. Containing a heavy sigh, she stopped short of plowing into him. Just short. They stood nearly nose to nose, close enough for her to see the beginnings of the stubble that would shadow his jaw in a few hours. Close enough for her to see the shadows in his eyes, too, though their source was less clear to her.
“Bull,” he said.
She tilted her chin up. “You are certainly acting like one.”
“Only because you’re being unreasonable.”
“Because I don’t wish to be helped by a man with my fiancé’s blood on his hands?”
The ranger’s face blanched, and at that moment she knew the source of the shadows in his eyes. Pain. Guilt. Shame. She would not have thought a policía capable of these emotions.
“You don’t want my help?” he said. “Give me the number of someone to call for you. A name. Anything.”
“No.”
“No, you won’t? Or no, you can’t? There isn’t anyone to call, is there? You have no one.”
Her face heated. “That is none of your concern.”
“Lady, right now that is my only concern. Because until I know you have someone to go to, I’m stuck with you. And you’re stuck with me.”
Sensing the turmoil in him, she could almost feel sorry for him. Almost, if the seedling sympathy sprouting inside her had not been quickly trampled by the stronger emotions she felt. Rage. Fear.
Hate.
She held on to the hate. It was the only emotion capable of keeping her on her feet. It gave her the strength to shoulder past him and start again down the blistering blacktop.
Behind her, his footfalls kept pace with her own. “Eduardo’s place has been sealed since the shooting. Where have you been staying?”
She ignored him.
“When was the last time you had a decent meal?” he called to her.
At the mention of food,