Marshal On A Mission. Ryshia Kennie

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СКАЧАТЬ Chapter Three

      Tara leaned back on the ornate white metal chair that was already well warmed by the morning sun. She was in a small courtyard that faced the main cobbled street where vendors congregated. The courtyard fronted the arched alcove of the heritage building. It was there where she’d rented a tiny apartment. The landlords—Carlos and his wife, Francesca—specialized in housing artistic types from all over the world. Their rates were good, or in better terms cheap. She’d stayed there before on her last visits. But this time around it seemed empty and worn and more than a little sad. Things seemed a little more run-down, like business hadn’t been so good.

      She watched as a stooped and withered woman wheeled a wagon full of red, yellow and blue baskets down the street. The wheel of the barrow bounced on the cobblestones. A young boy ran behind her, dashing to one side and then the other.

      Tara smiled as she leaned forward, watching the scene, taking in the details. She held a sketching pencil in one hand, and a strand of blond hair slipped free of the braid that hung down her back. From the first moment she’d discovered San Miguel de Allende, she’d felt at home. Even now, after all that had happened, she felt safe.

      The place she rented was in the heart of the city. Here, one historic building after another butted against each other. The city was founded in the early-sixteenth century and much of the architecture from that time still existed.

      She glanced over and caught a glimpse of Siobhan O’Riley coming out a side door. Siobhan worked in the small café that was part of the property and run by her landlords. Tara had met her on her first visit to the city and since then, they’d stayed in touch. On that visit, when Tara had left to go home, Siobhan had stayed, putting down roots and swearing that she’d never return to the rains of Ireland.

      “Here’s your coffee,” Siobhan said. “With a touch of milk. Toast. Butter and jam on the side.” She set the breakfast down.

      “Thanks.” Tara closed her sketchbook and put her pencil down.

      “You here for long this time?”

      “I’m not sure,” she said, unable to hide the pensive note she knew was in her voice. She was running on cash and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do when that ran out. There was a lot she didn’t know, like the legalities of working here should she need to. But if staying meant finding a job, whether it was legitimate or under-the-table, she’d do it. She’d do whatever it took.

      The memories of what she’d witnessed haunted her sleep and potentially threatened her life. Money seemed such a small thing in comparison. She had bigger things to worry about, like not being found, possibly changing her name. Eventually, she knew she’d go home and testify. When it was safe, when she was needed, just not now.

      Tara ate her toast as she watched the activity on the street. Sellers’ stalls lined the street for as far as she could see. The smell of cooking food filled the air. She reached down to scratch the ear of her landlords’ small dog. He was a true mutt, so mixed that she wasn’t sure what breed might dominate.

      “Ah, Maxx, if only every man were like you. Adoring and patient,” she said with a laugh and another scratch behind his ears. A door opened. The dog turned.

      She waved at Francesca, who gave her a smile and waved back. She felt safe here, the older couple who owned the rental units were kind, and it made her feel safe to know that Carlos was a retired police inspector.

      “Maxx,” Francesca called. The dog got to his feet and ran toward her.

      Tara had to laugh at the speed the dog moved. She guessed that it might be mealtime. Her smile stayed as her attention went back to the bustle of commerce on the street just below her. For the courtyard was raised above the street level by a flight of stone steps. It was a busy and entertaining sight. The colors alone could keep one’s attention. The awnings over the storefronts and the vendors’ stalls were numerous hues, all of them vibrant. They added to the collage that was only enhanced by the merchandise. Color was the theme reflected everywhere.

      She loved the market. Each of the vendors had their stories if you had time to listen. The first time she’d been here, she’d celebrated her thirtieth birthday. That had been four years ago. The event had felt huge as if her entire life had shifted. Birthdays were about that, but getting out of her twenties had her considering what it was she was dedicating her life to. It was a strange and too-serious thought for a birthday celebrated on a vacation in Mexico.

      Despite the serious thoughts, she’d had fun. It was the youthful fun and her first taste of adventure that had fed her artistic side and made it so easy to bring out a feeling in a painting.

      She’d come back again one year later but that trip had been very different. She’d been recovering from the tragic end to a relationship.

      She should have broken up with Mark months before but he’d been persistent that they were made for each other. She’d never been too sure. Mark had been steady. He had liked to say he was her rock. But he was also dull and for the last months before the car crash that had killed him, she’d flirted with breaking up with him. When he’d died and the ring had been found, she’d known that he was about to propose and that only made the guilt of her true feelings that much more difficult to bear.

      After his death, a trip to San Miguel de Allende had been an escape. In a way it had freed her from the guilt that plagued her. She’d met others like her, some she’d met the year before, all people involved in the arts in some way. It had been the best place to heal and to begin to celebrate life again.

      She took a last swallow of coffee and got up, heading down the street to get a closer look at the vendors’ goods. She could almost trick herself into believing that this was a vacation, that she wasn’t here because she was afraid for her life. She wondered when it would be safe to return and how she would ever know if and when that was.

      She pushed the thoughts away as she checked out a produce vendor and then a number of vendors with handicrafts. She admired a vividly hand-painted bag from another vendor. The vibrancy of the bag and the fact that it was hand done made it almost impossible to resist. But her money situation put that internal debate to rest. She still had a beautiful bag she’d purchased on that first trip four years ago. She left the vendor with a smile of admiration.

      After an hour, she decided to head back to her room, but a block away she sensed something was off. Her intuition had been bang on since she was a child. It was something she’d inherited from her mother, or at least so her mother claimed. She could sense change.

      She could only pray that what she was sensing was a change for the better. She wasn’t sure she could handle worse.

      TRENT HUMMED A popular song he’d heard half a dozen times since he’d landed. Except for getting out of Mexico City’s chaos, it had been an easy drive to San Miguel de Allende. It was a relief to be on the open road without a lot of traffic. After the insanity of a city the size of Mexico’s capital, this was a balm to his soul. He’d bought a Coke midway at a dusty little store on the edges of a village whose name he’d already forgotten. He’d hit the outskirts of San Miguel de Allende shortly after lunch.

      The city was gorgeous even from its outer edges, where the beauty of its historical architecture surpassed everything he could imagine. There wasn’t the usual ugly industrial area or bland box stores fringing the outskirts like one might see in СКАЧАТЬ