Free The Heart of a Stranger by Sheri Whitefeather Page B

well…I…” Lourdes stammered. She hadn’t expected her smitten four-year-old to give her permission to romance the boy they both liked.
    â€œGrown-ups kiss on TV.”
    â€œThis isn’t TV, Paige.”
    â€œYou could marry him. Then he’d be my daddy.” She glanced at her sister, who slept with her own ratty pony. “And Nina’s daddy, too.”
    â€œThings aren’t that simple, honey. Grown-ups don’t just kiss and get married. They have to get to know each other first.” And fall in love, she thought. And make promises they sometimes didn’t keep. “Now, close your eyes and get some sleep.”
    â€œOkay. But don’t forget to give Juan my picture.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    Lourdes turned down the light and carried the drawing into the living room, where she rummaged through her grandfather’s old rolltop desk for a manila envelope.
    She slipped the picture inside and stalled for a moment, more nervous than she’d ever been.
    Should she call Juan first? Warn him that she was on her way?
    Warn him? About what? A gift from a four-year-old?
    â€œLourdes?”
    She turned to the sound of Cáco’s voice. The old woman entered the room wearing a peasant-style dress, her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into her signature bun. A pair of oversize hoops dangled at her ears, making her look a bit like a gypsy.
    â€œAre you going to see Juan?” the old woman asked.
    â€œYes.” Lourdes held up the envelope. “To give him Paige’s picture.”
    Cáco tilted her head. “You didn’t notice how sullen she was at dinner.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t.”
    â€œYour mind was elsewhere.”
    Guilt clawed at her chest. “Does that make me a bad mother?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œThen what does it make me?”
    â€œA woman interested in a man.” Cáco brushed by to straighten up the living room, to organize the magazines on the coffee table and fold the afghan on the couch. “You missed him.”
    Lourdes drew a breath. “So did Paige.”
    â€œAs did we all.” The old woman arranged the pillows beside the hearth. “The house seems empty without him.”
    â€œI know. And that scares me.”
    â€œThen don’t think about it. Just go to him.”
    â€œI am,” Lourdes said.
    Cáco stopped fussing with the pillows. “Giving him Paige’s picture isn’t enough. You need to tell him about the cross. Tell him why he’s here.”
    â€œThat scares me, too.” More than she cared to admit. At times, it seemed as if her family heirloom truly belonged to him now, as if he were meant to have it. Yet she wanted it back. She wanted to lock it in her jewelry box and protect its memory.
    Cáco made a shooing motion. “Go. Do what must be done. If you don’t, it will only get harder.”
    Yes, Lourdes thought. Do what must be done. Tell Juan about the connection they shared.

Six
    J uan answered the door, and Lourdes struggled to find her voice. Suddenly he seemed dark and dangerous again. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, and his hair was combed away from his face, exposing hard angles and sharp, rugged features. The bruises around his eyes had lightened, but the shadows they cast remained, giving him an ominous quality.
    â€œLourdes.”
    She forced herself to breathe. “Hello, Juan.”
    He stepped out onto the porch. She hoped he would invite her in, but he seemed determined to keep a physical distance between them, to stop her from entering his temporary home, from allowing her perfume to linger in the place where he slept. She knew their attraction caused him distress.
    The same distress it caused her. Yet she still wanted to be near him, to touch him, to be part of his life.
    â€œWhy are you here?” he asked.
    Why indeed? The ever-present cross shimmered against his shirt. She suspected he never removed it,