The officer eyed Benny in a way that made Owen want to clock him. “Déme cincuenta dólares.”
“Fifty dollars?” Owen let go of the harness. Sunflower could have at the guy.
“¿Porqué?” Why? Benny coolly folded her arms.
No Mexican officer would argue directly with a woman if there was a man nearby. The federal flicked a glance at her, then turned to Owen. “Cincuenta dólares,” he repeated. “Por el peaje.”
Sunflower was straddling a pothole the size of a small car and the guy wanted them to pay a toll? Clearly they weren’t going to get away without a donation to the federal’s bank account.
Owen hid a grin and pretended to think. “Cinco,” he finally offered. Five.
“¿Cinco?” The officer frowned, shaking his head. “Treinta.” Thirty.
“Siete.” Owen ignored Benny’s squeak of protest. Seven bucks ought to be enough to get rid of the guy.
Scowling, the officer put his hand on his gun. “Diez.”
“Owen—” Benny grabbed his arm “—give him the money so we can get out of here.”
He stared down at her for a moment, startled by the real fear in her eyes. Maybe she had a point. The guy would remember two Anglos giving him such a hard time. Making himself relax, he reached for his wallet, which contained nine American dollars. He handed it all to the officer. “No tengo más.” I don’t have any more.
Except the three hundred-dollar bills he’d stashed in one of his shoes.
The federal glared for a few seconds, which wasn’t too intimidating since Owen towered over the guy by at least a foot. Finally the man stepped back, waving Owen and Benny on. “Salgan ustedes.” Get out of here. He muttered a few choice phrases about cheap tourists.
For Benny’s sake, Owen ignored him and swung onto the mule’s back. Hoisting Benny up behind him, he kicked their intrepid steed into motion. He could feel the federal’s stare as they trotted down the road.
When they were out of earshot, Benny sighed against his back. “I hope he doesn’t have a radio.”
“Yeah. If somebody’s looking for us, he won’t have any problem describing us.”
“Owen, we’re going to have to split up. I’m the one they want and I can easily make it back to the States by myself. With my coloring I can pass for Hispanic.”
“I’m not leaving you to travel through Mexico by yourself.” The very idea made Owen’s blood pressure rise.
She patted his hand. “You’re such a gentleman, but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’ve traveled to other foreign countries alone, my Spanish is fluent and I’m familiar with the culture. I’ll really be safer without—”
“No, you would not be safer without me!” Owen reined in so hard the mule brayed in protest.
By now they had reached the outer edges of Poza Rica, named “rich hole” because it was Mexico’s largest oil town. Derricks rose like skeletal trees in the eastern distance and the Sierra Madre rippled off to the west. In front of them, the buildings of downtown fell into a pile like blocks dumped out of a toy box. Close by, straggling rows of plywood-and-palm-frond shacks stuck out from the road, intersected by sagging power lines. Children played in the junky, flower-bedecked yards, and old men lounged on cars and trucks parked along the dirt streets.
Mexico in its essence. Not particularly frightening at first glance. But all kinds of danger lay in wait for an unaccompanied woman.
He hooked a leg over the old-fashioned saddle horn and turned sideways. He could see the fragile violet veins at her temples, and long, curly black wisps had come loose from her braid to blow against his cheek. Beautiful and vulnerable.
“Okay, lady, let’s have this out once and for all. You claim to be so good at interpreting men. Did you not see the way that federal was looking at you?” He leaned in, practically nose to nose. “You. Are. Stuck. With. Me. Period.”
She stared up at him, mouth pursed to protest. Then something shifted in her expression and she looked away. “I guess I shouldn’t expect you to say anything else.” She didn’t exactly sound grateful.
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind.” Leaning back a little, she gave him a gentle poke in the side. “Turn around and let’s get going before Señor Federal decides to come after us. We’re going to have to disguise you and find a change of clothes.”
“Disguise me?” Owen nudged Sunflower in the ribs with his heels. “How?”
“You’ll see. Just find a general store.”
Owen cast a look over his shoulder and found Benny’s eyes twinkling. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever you’re cooking up.”
“You want to stay with me, you’re going to have to do this my way.”
Unable to get her to come clean, Owen had to content himself with the full-time task of keeping Sunflower’s attention off the wild onions growing along the side of the road.
He could not wait to trade in this contrary, spavined animal for a vehicle with wheels. Cousin Jorge had better have a decent selection.
“I look like an Elvis impersonator!”
Benny surveyed Owen critically in the wavy, speckled mirror. She thought she’d done a pretty good job, considering she’d never been to cosmetology school and hadn’t dyed her own hair since she was fourteen. Back then she’d gone in for magenta and green streaks or a full-platinum bleach. She wrinkled her nose. Thank goodness those days were over.
On the outskirts of Poza Rica, they’d stopped at the first general-store-cum-tourist-trap they came to. Leaving Owen to tend to the mule, Benny had gone inside to purchase a beach towel, a bottle of hair dye, a hat and a pair of cheap sunglasses.
She’d had to get creative to find a place to effect Owen’s disguise. The restroom in the store was out of the question. Slipping a man of Owen’s height past the clerk would have been impossible, and besides, anybody could walk in on them. So they’d headed toward town until they saw an outhouse in an empty schoolyard. It was relatively clean and contained a sink and mirror—the major requirements for Benny’s impromptu beauty salon. Propping the door open, she’d draped the gaudy towel around Owen’s broad shoulders and got to work.
Now his blond hair and eyebrows were jet black. By contrast, his horrified blue-green eyes looked even more electric. She had to admit, he bore a strong resemblance to the King, whose black-velvet portrait hung over the couch in Roxanne Gonzales’s living room. Every day during her sophomore and junior years of high school, Benny had giggled at that portrait as she walked into the kitchen for breakfast.
She whipped the towel off his shoulders. “Can you do ‘That’s All Right, Mama’?”
Giving her a pained look, he slipped on a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt he’d had stuffed in his backpack and buttoned it up. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Would I do that?” She crammed his discarded T-shirt and the towel into the backpack. Fooling around with Owen’s hair had been an intimacy that left her flustered.
“What are you gonna do with your hair?”
“What do you mean?”
“You ought to cut it.”
“Oh, no you don’t!” She grabbed the braid lying across her shoulder. “If I cut this off I’ll look like a Brillo pad.” Vehemently she plopped on her new straw sun hat. “The hit man saw me wearing a skirt, with my hair down. See? In these jeans, with my head covered,