Bishop had played his latest game against himself so it was difficult to take much glory in the victory. He rolled the black king between his palms, looking around the room at the things he’d come to think of as his. But they weren’t. He’d been at this hacienda longer than any other and had grown accustomed to its comforts in spite of its remote location. Not much would be packed and taken to his next house. Even the chess boards would stay here. Resetting the intricately carved pieces for another round, he was interrupted by a timid knock and forced to change the direction of his thinking. He clenched the white rook. If he hadn’t valued and respected the craftsmanship so much, he’d throw the piece into the bookcases. One game would go unfinished. Its pieces had grown dusty since his stupid-ass opponent had been caught so easily by the Americans while trying to get their guns into Mexico.
