Another whinny echoed his, then another. Leaping to my feet, I had taken but a few steps to where Tempest was tied when a group of horsemen crashed into the clearing. Surrounded by six stamping horses, I stared up at a mounted Spaniard who looked as astonished to see me as I was to see him. “Thank God we’ve found you!” Besides the Spaniard, a man who appeared little older than me, five vaqueros had gathered around me. My first instinct was that word of my crimes had traveled fast. “You are desperately needed, padre.” Padre? Eh, I was wearing the monk’s robe. “Uh, señor . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “My apologies. I realize you’re a lay brother, not a priest, Brother Juan. But you are much needed at my casa.” “At your casa?” I repeated. What the hell was I into now? I hoped his señora was not having medical problems. My knowledge of female anatomy was restricted to bountiful breasts and other voracious private areas. As we rode, he told me his name was Ruperto Juárez.
