Within Reach Read online

  Within Reach

  by Marilyn Pappano

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  It was quiet in the desert under the midafternoon sun. Its rays beat down unmercifully, sending out shimmering waves of heat to be absorbed by the sandy ground. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze to offer relief, and movement among the desert’s natural inhabitants—snakes, lizards, kangaroo rats—had ceased completely. Only its unnatural inhabitants—men—were out.

  Rafael Contreras was as quiet and still as his surroundings. The baseball cap he wore in place of the usual uniform cowboy hat offered little protection from the heat, but he hardly noticed. His attention was on the six men coming toward him.

  They were young, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty. Unaware that they were being watched by the border-patrol agent, they were talking good-naturedly, calling out to each other in rapid Spanish. One of them was relating the details of his latest encounter with his girlfriend’s disapproving father, bringing bursts of laughter from his friends, when Rafael stepped into view.

  The gaiety disappeared, but none of them made a move to run. They knew the procedure. Their trip to the north had ended within three miles of the border, but they would at least be given a free ride back. There was no reason to run.

  Rafael’s hands hung loosely at his sides. He didn’t consider drawing his revolver from its holster. He knew these six from their previous attempts. They wouldn’t threaten him. They would return to their homes in San Ignacio, and another day, when they were bored or restless, they would make another try. Unlike many of the undocumented aliens, or illegals, apprehended by the border patrol, these six weren’t desperate for the better life offered in the United States.

  Rafael understood all the reasons the illegals had for crossing the border. He knew firsthand what it was like to be poor and hungry, to dream of a better life. Twenty years ago he had made the illegal journey many times himself, but with better luck than the six young men before him now. He had gotten caught only once.

  Some of the people he caught berated him, cursed him for his job, but Rafael didn’t mind. He understood their reasons, but he also understood why the United States couldn’t open its border to all the aliens who wanted to enter. It was his job to stop as many as he could.

  He’d been with the border patrol ten years, the first five in San Diego. The illegals crossing into San Diego County had to deal with their smugglers, corrupt police officials in the Mexican border towns, bandits who prowled the network of canyons on the border, and the patrol. The agents in turn also had to deal with these groups. Assaults, rapes and robberies weren’t uncommon; neither were shootings. It was a tough place to work.

  Now he worked the desert in southern New Mexico. He liked the desert—liked the heat, the barrenness, the quiet. There was a lot of room in which to be alone, and Rafael liked being alone.

  Jim Stone pulled up near the small group in a border-patrol van. “Is this it, Rafe?”

  The casual nickname grated, but he made no comment. Most of the men he worked with spoke only enough Spanish to get by and didn’t care much about their accents. They seemed to have trouble pronouncing all three syllables of his name; it usually came out “Ra-fell.” Rafe was the obvious nickname, one they could handle. The fact that he didn’t like it didn’t matter.

  They loaded the six men into the van. The last one was a cocky sixteen-year-old named Eduardo. He flashed a grin at Rafael. “Haven’t seen you lately.”

  “Often enough.” He picked up Eduardo an average of once every couple of weeks—sometimes as often as twice in one day. It was that way with a lot of them.

  “My English is getting better, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He gestured to the boy to get into the van.

  “Someday I’m going to live in the United States, where I can use it, like you, Contreras,” Eduardo vowed as he took a seat beside his friends. “Only I will enjoy it better than you.”

  Rafael heaved a silent sigh. It was near the end of their shift, and he was looking forward to going home. It was Friday and a long, empty weekend stretched ahead. He liked that kind best. He would see Constancia, do a little work around the house, do some reading. All very boring—except, of course, Constancia. She was…comfortable.

  The van bounced over the rutted trail that passed for a road, but Rafael didn’t notice. He ignored things that irritated him, such as being bounced to death or being called Rafe. He continued his thoughts undisturbed.

  He liked his relationship with Constancia. He felt genuine fondness for her, but he knew it would never become anything stronger. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to want anything more than he could give. They were satisfied with what they had.

  It was another hour before he was able to leave work. He changed from his uniform into jeans and a red shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, then climbed into his black Bronco parked outside the Nueva Vida Border Patrol Station. The parking lot was filled with the cars of agents coming and going with the shift change, and official vehicles—cars, vans, four-wheel drives—all painted in the distinctive white-and-pale green colors of the patrol, and all Dodges. Nueva Vida was a small station; it didn’t rate any of the department’s new Chevy Blazers.

  When he was able to back out of his parking space he did so, intending to go straight home, but the idea of a cold beer to wash away the day’s heat tempted him. By the time he’d driven north through the small town to the Blue Parrot, he was too thirsty to pass it by. He parked in the gravel lot next to a brand-new Mustang and went inside. The bar’s namesake squawked as he walked in the door. Rafael ignored it.

  Jim Stone was already there, two women seated at his table. There were only two other customers at that time of day, one seated at each end of the bar. Rafael walked past Stone’s table, neither man looking at the other, and went to sit at a small table in the back, facing the door.

  “I swear, the temperature drops twenty degrees when that man’s around,” Royce Ann Stone said in a thick Southern drawl. She had moved to Nueva Vida from Georgia twelve years ago, but she had never lost her charming accent. “Does he ever talk, Jim? Why, he walked right by, as if he didn’t even know you.”

  “Unlike some of us, Rafe talks only when he has something to say,” Jim replied dryly. His wife was as well-known for how much she talked as the way she talked.

  “That’s rude.” She pouted. “You are so lucky to still be single, Krista. The men I know just aren’t worth putting up with.”

  The woman across from her smiled fondly. “Neither are the men I know, which is why I’m still single. Who is he, Jim? He couldn’t have lived here before, when I did.”

  “Rafe—Rafael Contreras. He’s one of ours.”

  “One of—oh, you mean he’s with the border patrol.” Krista leaned forward to pick up her Coke, all the while studying Rafael. “I don’t suppose he’s single.”

  “Of course he’s single!” Royce Ann replied, shocked by the question. “Look at him, Krista. What woman in her right mind would have him?”

  Krista was certainly enjoying looking, but she could find no obvious answer to the question. “What woman in her right mind wouldn’t have him? He’s gorgeous. Does he drink? Beat his girlfriends? Mistreat animals? There must be some flaw.”

  Royce Ann leaned cross the table to reply in a low voice. “He doesn’t talk. He never smiles. I don’
t think he knows how to laugh. He’s the most unfriendly, coldest, most inhuman person I’ve ever met. You just wipe that smile off your face right now, Krista. Rafe Contreras is no one you want to know.”

  Krista sat back in her seat, slowly tilting the Coke bottle to her lips. She knew better than to argue with Royce Ann, but she also knew her friend was wrong. Rafael Contreras was most definitely someone she wanted to know. Inhuman or not, he was the most attractive man she’d seen in years. In her lifetime, she amended. He was the man she had dreamed about since she was a girl—dark, handsome and sexy, though he missed out on “tall” by several inches; he was only about five foot ten. And that mustache! He was definitely someone she would like to meet.

  “Does he live in town?”

  “Krista! Don’t tell her, Jim. She’s liable to do something crazy like go to his house.”

  “As a matter of fact, he owns a piece of land out there near your dad. Remember the old Moreno place?”

  She nodded slowly. She remembered it, but only vaguely. She had lived in Nueva Vida only eight years, and six of those had been from birth. She had returned when she was sixteen and left again when she was eighteen. This was her first visit in ten years.

  “That’s where he lives. Runs along the south border of your dad’s place.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  Royce Ann gave a very unladylike snort. “There’s not a woman in town who would let him touch her. He’s spooky.”

  Again Jim offered information. “He sees a woman in San Ignacio, across the border. Really pretty little thing.”

  Rafael had long since finished his beer, but he was still in his chair. He was aware of the blonde’s frequent glances, and he was curious. One look had committed her image to memory, from the blond hair to sky-blue eyes to a gorgeous, sensuous mouth. Though she looked vaguely familiar, he was certain she was new in town; if she’d been around long, he would have seen or heard about her.

  He didn’t care much who she was or why she was there. His curiosity extended to one question: why did she keep looking at him like that? Stone’s wife was probably telling her all the stories about him. Rafael had a tendency not to make friends, and in a small town like this, what the people didn’t know, they suspected and distrusted. This woman was different, though. She openly watched him, when most people were afraid to stare at him for fear of meeting his eyes. This woman didn’t seem to mind when he stared back.

  Krista finished her Coke and set the empty bottle on the table. “Well, guys, I’m going to head home. It’s been nice seeing you, Jim. We’ll get together soon, okay?” She stood up and reached for her purse. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Rafael Contreras was also rising.

  When he left the bar he found her leaning against the Mustang next to his truck. She straightened, moved to stand in front of the door of the Bronco and extended her hand. “Hello.”

  Rafael looked at it as if he had never seen one before and didn’t know what to do with it.

  Her brilliant smile faded. “I’m Krista.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pair of mirrored sunglasses and put them on. Next he drew a set of keys from his jeans pocket and slid his finger through the ring, letting them dangle.

  Though she had purposely omitted her last name, he knew immediately who she was and why she looked familiar. Krista wasn’t exactly a common name. He had come across it, along with an old photo and a note that she would be coming to town for a visit, in one of his files at work just last week: Krista McLaren, age twenty-eight, only child of Art McLaren. Now he knew more about her than he wanted to. Still, he took the hand she offered.

  His hand was warm, the palm callused and rough against the cool smoothness of hers. The small gesture brought her smile back full power. “I understand we’re neighbors.”

  “Are we?”

  She wished he would take the glasses off so she could see his eyes. It was disconcerting to talk facing dual images of herself. “My father owns the property next to yours, according to Jim Stone. You work with Jim, don’t you?” At his brief nod she continued, “He’s a friend of mine from school.”

  “You used to live here?” he asked, his voice low and rough. He knew the answer, of course, but it seemed like the right question to ask.

  “For a while. I’m visiting my dad—Art McLaren. Do you know him?”

  Rafael shook his head. “We’ve never met.” A border-patrol agent wasn’t powerful or influential enough to be included in Art McLaren’s circle of friends.

  He looked down at the hand he still held, and his fingers moved fractionally over it. Her fingers were slender, the nails neatly clipped and painted a pale rose. Her grip held just the right degree of firmness, and her skin was pleasingly soft. He wondered how that softness would feel against him, touching him….

  Abruptly he dropped her hand and took a step back. “Enjoy your visit,” he said brusquely as he reached for the door of the truck.

  Krista moved away and watched him climb inside. “Hey, you didn’t tell me your name.”

  He hesitated. Obviously Stone had already done the honors, but if she wanted to pretend he hadn’t, Rafael could go along. “Rafael.”

  She smiled. “You’ll probably be seeing me around, Rafael.”

  That was what he was afraid of, he thought grimly as he drove away. Art McLaren’s pretty daughter could be a problem. He couldn’t afford any kind of involvement with her, for both personal and professional reasons. Fortunately for him, beautiful, rich women like Krista McLaren lost interest real fast. They weren’t interested in maintaining an honest relationship; their entire lives were a whim, nothing planned, nothing worked for, nothing serious. And Rafael Contreras was nothing if not serious. Nothing on earth could force him to do something he didn’t want to do, and seeing more of Krista definitely fell into that category.

  He could handle her—he hoped.

  Krista’s smile was gone by the time the Bronco disappeared from sight. She walked around the midnight-blue Mustang convertible, slid into the driver’s seat and headed for home.

  Unfriendly, cold and inhuman—the words Royce Ann had used to describe Rafael Contreras. But Krista knew her friend was wrong. There was a difference between not being friendly and being unfriendly. She suspected that Rafael was a very private person, a loner who simply didn’t conform to Royce Ann’s idea of what he should be, and so he got the labels.

  Krista didn’t need labels. She trusted her instincts, and they told her that Rafael was a complex, interesting man—one she was going to enjoy getting to know.

  She pulled into the driveway of her father’s house, circled the fountain out front and stopped directly in front of the double doors. She left the keys in the ignition—one of the servants would put the car away, freshly washed and waxed, until she wanted it again.

  The main part of the house was over eighty years old, authentic adobe with two-foot-thick walls. The additions on either side were only about thirty years old, built by Art McLaren for his new bride Selena. The house was big and beautiful, but Selena hadn’t been happy there. She had never cared for the desert, New Mexico, her husband or her daughter, and she had left them all behind when Krista was barely six.

  Servants were waiting. They opened the heavy, carved door as Krista approached, and one hurried out to move her car. The housekeeper, Juana Morales, took Krista’s purse and asked, “Would you like something cold to drink?”

  Krista gave her a warm smile. “Yes, some tea, please.” She started to go into the living room, then changed direction and followed Juana into the kitchen.

  “Is there something you need, señorita?”

  “Please, Juana, I know it’s been a long time since I’ve been here, but I’m still Krista.” She leaned against the counter and watched the woman who had practically raised her in the few years she had lived there. “Do you know Rafael Contreras?” She pronounced the first name in the same two syllables that made most of his fellow workers fall b
ack on the nickname Rafe.

  “He’s a border-patrol agente.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Juana shook her head. “No one knows Señor Contreras.”

  Krista accepted the tea the woman offered and thanked her. “Did I say it right?” She repeated the name, and Juana shook her head.

  “It’s Rah-fah-el.” She trilled the r and after several tries Krista was able to mimic her perfectly.

  “Hasn’t he been here long? Is that why no one knows him?”

  “Four years, maybe five. He doesn’t want to know anyone. He keeps to himself.” Juana’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you so interested in Rafael Contreras? He isn’t a man your father would welcome into this house.”

  “You mean because he’s with the border patrol?”

  The black eyes seemed fathomless when they studied her. At last Juana decided the younger woman was sincere, and she sighed, shaking her head. “Because he’s Mexican.”

  Krista still didn’t understand. “But so are you—and Marta and Ruben and Luis and just about everyone else who works around here.”

  “Everyone who works here,” Juana repeated with an indulgent smile. “Your father has no objections to hiring us as employees, but do you think he would let his daughter take a Mexican lover? He’d send you back to New York so quickly you wouldn’t know what happened.”

  “Oh, no, Juana. He wouldn’t care. He never cares.”

  “He would care about this,” the housekeeper stubbornly insisted. “You stay away from Rafael Contreras, Krista.”

  She thanked the older woman for her advice without agreeing to follow it. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Rafael interested her, and she had no intention of staying away from him. Too many people, she thought, had already stayed away from him, and she wasn’t going to join the crowd.

  The small house sat at the end of the street, several empty, overgrown lots separating it from the nearest neighbor. Rafael sat on the top step, his back against the porch railing. A can of beer was nearby, next to a hammer and a handful of nails.