Page 32 of Wind Called

His expression fell. “So…no hiking?”

Well, at least she could reassure him on that point. “Oh, we’ll still have time to go up to the Devil’s Bridge, since I doubt your grandmother and the other elders will want us on their doorstep at the crack of dawn. If we can meet them at ten, I think the timing will work out okay.”

Instant relief shone in his dark eyes, and he picked up his phone and sent another text. The reply came back immediately, and he nodded as he read it before returning the phone to his pocket.

“My grandmother says ten o’clock is fine.” He paused there, sensual lips curving in a smile. “Exactly how early were you planning on hiking?”

“Six-thirty?” she suggested.

He didn’t even blink, which seemed to tell her that he was used to getting up at o’dark thirty so he could hit the trails before the sun got too warm. “That works. I’ll pick you up then.”

She almost replied that she should do the driving, since she knew where they were going and he didn’t. However, she decided to let it go, mostly because his truck was much better suited for the rough roads heading out to the trails than her little Fiat. Oh, sure, her car did okay as long as you didn’t try to make it go places designed for four-wheel drive, but she’d gotten a flat tire several times from a particularly sharp rock and knew the route wasn’t without its hazards.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

With everything set, they finished the rest of their meal and then headed out to his truck. By that point, it was well past noon, and she knew all the tasting rooms they were planning to visit would be open.

“Where first?” Marc asked as he backed the truck out of its parking space and headed down to the little feeder lane that would lead them to the main road.

“Angel Hill Cellars,” she said promptly. “That’s Angela and Connor’s vineyard, although it’s their friend Tony Rocha who runs the place. It’s a gorgeous piece of property, and I figure it’s better to start there rather than leave it to the end and maybe run out of time.”

Or just decide that they’d drunk enough and needed to quit before they were too impaired. That was probably why the local wine tours were so popular — with someone else driving, you didn’t have to worry so much about that sort of thing — but Bellamy hadn’t wanted their day to be dictated by someone else’s schedule. They could share tastings and be judicious about when they ordered a glass, and if they spaced their visits out enough, they should be fine.

Angel Hill Cellars was located about halfway along Page Springs Road as it wound its way through the canyon. Although Connor and Angela had bought the place some twenty-five years earlier, it had already been a functioning winery when they purchased it, so the vines were well-established and the big barn they used as the tasting room had the mellow feel of a place that had been around for decades and planned to be there for at least that many more.

A few cars were parked in the lot, but not many, telling Bellamy that, while a few people had ventured out to go wine tasting this Monday afternoon, the vast majority of the tourists were now safely back in Phoenix or wherever it was they’d come from.

And there was Sabrina Rocha working behind the counter. She lifted her hand in a wave as Bellamy and Marc came in.

“A friend of yours?” he asked in an undertone.

“That’s Tony and Sydney Rocha’s daughter, Sabrina. She graduated from ASU a couple of years ago, and now she works in the tasting room.”

As she spoke, she couldn’t help sending Marc a surreptitious look to gauge his reaction to the other woman. By any standard, Sabrina was a stunner, with her honey-colored hair and warm-toned skin and green eyes, but it didn’t seem as if he’d noticed. And while Bellamy had never thought of herself as the jealous type, she was still very glad to see the way Marc had barely registered that the other woman was even female.

“I suppose at some point I’ll get used to the way you know everyone around here,” he said as they approached the counter.

Now she couldn’t help smiling. “Hazards of living in a small town, I guess.” She paused there, then asked, “I suppose Tucson isn’t at all like that?”

“Nope,” he said, expression amused. “I mean, there are a lot of de la Pazes and we’ve been there a long time, but still, there are more than a million people who live in Tucson. There’s no way in the world you could ever know all of them.”

That was for sure. Did he like the anonymity that living in a big city provided him, or would he be happier someplace smaller, more intimate?

Bellamy reminded herself that it was far too early to even be thinking such things, and then tried to put it all out of her mind, since they were now at the counter and Sabrina was sliding a couple of tasting menus toward them.

“First time here?” she asked Marc.

Luckily, her expression only showed polite interest and nothing else.

“Yes, I’ve never been to Page Springs before,” he replied.

“Marc’s visiting from Tucson,” Bellamy supplied. “Marc, this is Sabrina Rocha, an old friend of the McAllisters. Sabrina, this is Marc Trujillo.”

Maybe just a flicker in Sabrina’s green eyes, probably noting the way Bellamy had pointed out that she’d known the McAllisters for a long time…and therefore was privy to their secrets.

“You’re from the de la Paz clan?” Sabrina asked.

Marc hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, but my mother’s a McAllister.”

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