She burrowed farther underneath the quilt to escape the pounding sound that was dragging her toward consciousness. The creak of footsteps padding across the old wooden floor brought her fully awake. Her senses awoke before her mind did. They were alive with a pulsing awareness of Cam’s nearness even before Malou had time to completely recollect where she was and who was with her. The front door scraped open. Shielded by the high back of the couch, she listened, seeking to learn the identity of the insistent early-morning visitor knocking at the door. “Buenos días, Señor Landell.” Jorge Maldonado. Malou was surprised to hear such respect and deference in Jorge’s usually curt voice. Obviously, he had brought the Mexican peón’s fear of the almighty patrón with him when he crossed the Rio Grande. She was even more surprised though to hear his voice, in any tone, at such an early hour. “Todo es—” “You’ll have to try English, Jorge,” Cam whispered. Haltingly, Jorge began again.
