Page 22 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
Grudgingly, she conceded that Graciela was far more clever than she had believed. And the kid was in far more danger than Jenny could bear to contemplate.
The sweat appearing on her brow had nothing to do with the sun blazing overhead. Her hands started to shake again.
Graciela could step in front of a wagon or a horse and be run down and crippled in the street. She could be dragged into an alley and raped and murdered. She could be abducted and sold to a child brothel; Jenny had heard of such places. A hundred unthinkable horrors could happen to a child alone and lost in a rough mining town of this size.
Trembling with anxiety and frustration, Jenny glared at the dirty little creature wearing Graciela’s fine clothing. There was no point questioning her. The chase ended here, and Jenny knew it.
Swearing beneath her breath, she turned into a café and bought a cup of strong Mexican coffee, which she carried back to the street, sipping while she watched the rhythm of the town unfold, while she fought to control the panic boiling in her stomach.
She felt as helpless as she had felt sitting in her jail cell waiting to be executed.
Then Marguarita had appeared and calmly offered Jenny her life in exchange for a promise. Jenny had given her promise, her solemn word, and Marguarita had died; Marguarita had kept her end of the bargain.
A stream of cusswords blistered her tongue. Marguarita’s part had been easy, all Marguarita had to do was die. Dying was a fricking piece of cake next to dealing with this kid.
A huge sigh lifted Jenny’s chest.
If anything happened to Graciela, she might as well put a gun to her head and pull the trigger. Her life wouldn’t be worth crap if her promise meant nothing, if she failed the woman who had died in her place.
Acid poured into her stomach, and she felt like throwing up. Leaning a hand against the café’s adobe wall, she dropped her head and swallowed repeatedly.
All right. She knew two things. First, there was nothing she could do for the next several hours, nothing at all. Graciela was on her own, in the hands of God or whoever. Jenny had to accept that she was helpless to intervene; there was nothing she could do except hope like hell that the damned kid was lucky. Second, she knew where Graciela would be at seven o’clock tonight. That is, if Graciela continued to be as resourceful as it appeared she was, then Jenny knew where the kid was going. Please God, let the little snot be there at seven o’clock.
Straightening, she drank the rest of her coffee, then tossed the cup to a waiter. She needed food, but her stomach was cramping so badly that she doubted she could hold anything down.
Walking aimlessly, staring at each urchin she passed, she gradually settled her mind into accepting what she could not change. The best plan was to keep busy. Do the things she had planned for today before the fricking kid ran away and made her age ten years. That included buying boy’s clothing for the kid, and a sidearm for herself. These chores would take about an hour.
This was going to be the longest day in her sorry life.
“Now aren’t you the prettiest little thing.”
Even the man’s voice was hot and oily. His breath in her face smelled of chilies and cigars and something sickly-sweet that made Graciela think of liquid flame. His eyes frightened her badly.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered, wiggling beneath the fingers clamping her shoulder. Darting a look toward the street, she realized that no one paid them any attention. Near the door of a leather store, a man backhanded a boy, and the boy shouted in pain. No one glanced in his direction either.
Heart thumping in her chest, she dragged her gaze back to the man kneeling in front of her, blocking her way. One hand gripped her shoulder, the other circled her ankle and slid up her bare leg to her knee.
Shock stiffened her body. No man had ever touched her so intimately, and she knew instinctively that it was very wrong.
“Would you like to come with me,chica?We’ll have some food, something cool to drink.”
“No.” Her mouth was as dry as the desert air.
“Light skin, light eyes.” The man’s fingers inched toward her thighs and Graciela’s stomach lurched. “We’ll make a fortune together.” A speculative gaze dropped to her mouth and he licked his lips.
With sickening clarity Graciela understood the man meant to do something bad to her regardless of her protests. She stared at his thick neck and wide chest and black dots of fear swirled in front of her eyes.
Panicked, she tried to think what to do. What would Jenny do? Jenny wouldn’t meekly give up; Jenny would not let this man put his hot hands on her.
Pretending that she was Jenny, Graciela turned her head and bit down on the man’s forearm. She held on until she tasted blood. At the same time she kicked out with her free leg and felt her heel strike something soft between his thighs. He shouted, and they both fell to the ground, rolling toward the hooves of a burro. In a flash, Graciela sprang to her feet and ran as fast as she could, skidding around a corner then another corner and another until she was gasping for breath and holding her side.
Stopping to breathe, she gripped the bars of an iron gate to hold herself upright and cast a fearful glance behind to see if the man pursued. The quiet street was deserted. Here there were no noisy vendors; no wagons rattled over the cobblestones. Only the distant splash of a fountain disturbed the silence.
Thick adobe walls lined the street, overhung with leafy branches, shielding fine houses from envy and curiosity.
As her heart quieted, Graciela became aware of voices behind the walls and the iron gate, the light voices of servants gossiping and laughing as they attended to their chores.
“Please?” she called. “I need help.” Gripping the iron bars, she peered inside at the statue of a saint guarding the doors to a fine house that reminded her of Aunt Tete’s hacienda.
