Defending the Eyewitness. Rachel Lee

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      “We’ve got a men’s club here and the members grow their beards every winter. I think it may have started as a lark, but it became a charity fund-raiser. You sign up to support someone and offer to pay so much for each inch they grow. Anyway, everyone around here recognizes that look, so don’t worry about being mistaken for a clown. It’s not that bad, anyway. I was just surprised.”

      He liked her laughter and didn’t at all mind being the butt of it. Smiling easily for the first time in a while, he joined her at the table with his coffee. “I need to go shopping for clothes and food. Recommendations?”

      “Nothing opens until noon today, I’m afraid. And your choices are limited. One grocery store, one department store.”

      “That makes it easy. Assuming they have everything, anyway.”

      “Freitag’s is a good department store. I’m sure the big cities have better, but Freitag’s is enough most of the time. If I need something they don’t have, I order online.”

      He nodded, taking it in, taking her in. He wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was.

      “What’s it like in Mexico?”

      He tilted his head. “It’s a big country. It depends on where you are and what you’re doing.”

      “I sometimes think I’d like to see the pyramids.”

      “Well, you could see some of them, anyway. There are a whole lot of them. The museums in Mexico City are great, too. But to get the most out of it, I would recommend hiring a good guide.”

      “Why?”

      “Because he or she will know where it’s safe for you to go.”

      Her eyes widened, and in spite of himself he grinned. “I could say the same about a lot of places in this country.”

      She flushed faintly. “You’re right, of course. Like I said, this is the only town I know.”

      He sensed something then, and he always trusted his instincts. Something in this woman was locked up tight and for a very good reason. Fear held her caged in this town in the back of beyond.

      He ransacked his brain for something he could talk about to get her mind off whatever disturbed her. Because, by the downward flicker of her eyes, he knew he had reminded her of something unpleasant.

      He decided to return the conversation to Mexico. “The Tarahumara Indians are some people I’d like to help.”

      Her gaze met his again. “Who are they? And why?”

      “They’re some of the world’s greatest runners. Amazing, really. They can run fifty miles without water. They have this game where they kick a ball along a path as they run up and down the mountains of the Sierra Madre. Until recently they managed to survive without the rest of the world, pure subsistence living, but they were making it. Then they gained international attention with their tremendous running abilities. They started having conflicts with people who wanted their land, with logging companies and finally with drug traffickers. They’re poor, and they got even poorer after a drought started killing their measly crops. You can guess what happened.”

      “Tell me.”

      He had her full attention. “Because they’re such great runners, and they’re so close to the border, the drug cartels started offering them money to run backpacks full of drugs across the border.”

      Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

      “Oh, yes. And some of the younger people did it because it was too much money to refuse when they and their families were starving, when they couldn’t find jobs, or at least not jobs that paid enough. I mean, those who manage to find work are paid ten dollars a day.”

      “That’s it?”

      “That’s it. Until recently, the Tarahumara were pretty much the people that Time forgot. They’ve had a really lousy introduction to the modern world.”

      “But what can you do for them?”

      “I don’t know. But now I’ve got some time to think about it, and I’m going to.”

      She was sitting there pondering, but he liked the way she kept nodding her head as if agreeing with what he had said. “I had no idea,” she said finally.

      “Most people don’t.”

      “But you got to know them?”

      “I sure did. Some of the mules make it back, but they’re angry because they didn’t get paid what they were promised. Others come back with tales of being arrested and sent to jail. Those are good cautions, but there are still youngsters who can’t resist the idea of six monthsʼ pay for what they think will be a few easy hours of running with a backpack.”

      “God!” She drummed her fingers. “I’ve heard about all the violence, too. Is that getting any better?”

      “Depends on where you are. Again.”

      “It must have seemed very different from visiting your family’s—what did you call it?”

      “Finca. And yes, it was very different.”

      She looked as if she was about to ask another question, then bit it back. He’d heard some of what Gage had told her about him, but not all of it. “How much did Gage tell you about me?”

      “That you were undercover for six years in the border towns. He didn’t say exactly what you were doing.”

      “Let’s keep it that way.”

      “Fine by me.” She gave him a pale smile. “Get some cereal. You’ve got to be hungry.”

      * * *

      Corey had never had anything to do with drugs, although she was certain some of her friends had indulged. They made no secret of it, really, but this was such an out-of-the-way place that if there was a drug problem it remained relatively small.

      What she had never thought about was the cost of those drugs, not in terms of money, but in terms of human misery. The news had made it clear that there was a lot of violence between the drug cartels in Mexico, but she had heard nothing about the people who got enticed into carrying those drugs over the border. She had always assumed they were members of the cartel, not innocent kids who were being tempted with desperately needed money.

      Until this moment, all of that had seemed far removed from her. Somebody else’s problem. But the way Austin had just described those Tarahumara boys sickened her. Their lives were hard, they loved to run evidently and were being drawn into terrible danger by amounts of money that must look like salvation.

      Austin pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard. “What’s this stuff?”

      She looked at it and had to chuckle at his expression. “I call it my roots and twigs. High fiber. I think guinea pigs get better food.”

      He cracked a laugh. “This from a woman who brings home Danishes from the bakery?”

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