Dearest Enemy (3 page)

The sheriff arched one raven-dark eyebrow as he faced Callie. "Depends on a person’s idea of what’s right."

She took no comfort from the response and Dexter grimaced as he glanced at her. "Looks like you got one big mountain to climb." He stubbed out his cigar. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a discussion waitin’."

Callie nodded and went outside where the day had faded into dusk. She hadn't achieved everything she'd hoped for, but she'd made a start and knew what her next move would have to be. That felt good. As she reached down to retrieve her helmet from the back of the bike a silky voice sounded from behind her.

"Your idea's a good one, but it's been done," Luc Moreno said.

Her senses throbbed with an emotion she chose to call anger. She turned and answered calmly, "Has it?"

"There's a place up north like the colony you described, but with a bronze foundry, a glass works and a gallery."

"I've been there. It's wonderful, especially the sculpture garden, but we need something for people down here who are producing other forms of art. And we ought to make them accessible to the public."

"'Accessible' meaning affordable?"

"Exactly.
By keeping our overhead lower we could feature high end, low end and everything in between."

"That sure is practical."

Callie caught a gleam of admiration in his dark eyes.
Probably just my imagination
, she thought. But the same smile that had turned up the corners of his sensual mouth … she stifled the thought. When had arrogant become sensual? She took a deep breath and regrouped.

"The practical approach has always worked for me in my business. Why can't it work here? Folks just need a willingness to make adjustments."

He shook his head. A lock of thick dark hair fell forward and covered one equally dark eyebrow. Was he as unaware of the rakish effect as he seemed?

"I don't know if you'd get the artists to go along. Once they factor in the cost of materials and the time it takes to produce a saleable creation, they may not want to cut as fine a line as you might like."

"I've been a freelance designer for most of my professional life,” Callie said. “If anyone can factor and still make a profit, I can. I'd be happy to pass along what I've learned."

"So, you're an artist?"

"A graphics designer."

He grinned, an echoing smile lighting the eyes that had turned soft and velvety as melting chocolate. Callie's heart fluttered erratically. Apparently, charm and inflexibility could exist in the same handsome package, making caution doubly important.

"An artist by any other name is still an artist," he insisted.

"What do you have against artists?"

"
Nada
, nothing, but we're not talking art here. We're talking business. I have doubts about this venture you're so eager to introduce to our sleeping
pueblo
."

"Doesn’t the fact that I've run my own firm for five years carry any weight?"

"You have experience, no doubt, but things are different where you come from. What works back there may not out here. Our folks don't respond to eastern high pressure tactics."

Callie felt her cheeks grow hot as both her temper and temperature began to rise. She tried to remain calm. "Apparently, the board doesn't see anything I've proposed as being ‘high pressure’. Maybe listening to another opinion would prove worthwhile?"

"Maybe."

She would get nowhere with this man today, Callie realized. She climbed aboard the bike. "I'd better get back to Albuquerque."

Luc eyed the Harley with obvious concern. He shook his head. "Don't know if that's such a good idea."

"I appreciate your concern, Sheriff, but remember — I rode cross country by myself." She waved goodbye and took off down the road.

Luc watched her ride away. She'd gotten off easy at the meeting. As the opposition intensified, she would come to see that.

He shrugged and climbed into his four-by-four for the ride to his parents'
rancho
. No matter that his old bed was too short by six inches. His mother had promised him an old fashioned breakfast if he stayed over. His mouth watered in anticipation.

He could barely make out the receding tail light shining in his rear view mirror. Dimly aware that a few short weeks ago a perfect red circle would have glowed brightly at this close range, he headed in the opposite direction.

In the moment between realizing he was awake and opening his eyes, Luc felt a gentle weight on his chest and a faint, warm, orange-scented breath against his nose. Grinning, he reached up and clasped the slight body, lifting it high above him. He opened his eyes to the delighted giggle of his youngest nephew, two-year-old Enrique, who squirmed in his hands and flapped his arms like a
volantón
, a fledgling taking his first practice flight out of the nest.

Luc lowered his arms and hugged Quique to him, enjoying his warmth and the glint of happiness in the child's dark eyes.
Time to think of having kids of your own.
The vision problem would have to be resolved and his parents' future settled to his satisfaction. Then he would give his own future the attention it deserved. An image of the attractive newcomer flashed before him.
No way
, he thought.
Not this time
.

"
No 'más', niño
.
Not now." Luc swung his long legs to the floor, hitched up his sweat pants and tucked the toddler under one arm as he opened the door of the bedroom that had once been enormous but now seemed to squeeze tight around his shoulders.

Apparently, riding against his hip was nearly as much fun as "up" had been. Quique's laughter accompanied Luc down the hallway until he deposited the child outside the bathroom door and patted him on his rear end.

"Scoot, kiddo. I got business in here."

Chortling impishly behind his chubby hand, Quique "scooted" down the short flight of steps to await his favorite uncle's arrival at the breakfast table. When Luc joined him a few minutes later, the child was wrapped in a dish towel from chin to waist, clumsily spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Luc leaned over. "Want some help?" he asked.

"Me eat," he said, with a shake of his head that left no doubt he considered himself fully capable of doing the job on his own, mess or no mess.

Luc went to his mother who stood at the stove finishing his eggs and slipped his arms around her waist.
"Morning,
madrecita
."
He nuzzled her cheek. "Mmm, you smell good."

She laughed and swiped at his arm. "Ahh
sí
, I smell like salsa picante."

"Like I said, 'you smell good'." He grabbed a hand-made flour tortilla from the warming basket, rolled it into a cylinder, folded that in half and stuffed it into his mouth. "I'm starved," he said between chews.

"Do not talk with a full mouth," his mother scolded. "Have you not yet learned manners?
A full-grown man like you?
You should be ashamed."

"Can't help it," he said after gulping down the last mouthful. "Love your cooking too much to be polite."

"You should find a good woman,
hijo
.” She set a full plate in front of him and kissed the top of his head. "Then you would not be so hungry for my cooking and I would not have to work so hard to keep you fed."

Luc heard the laughter in her voice, felt her warm kiss and gave her another hug. "C'mon, tell the truth. If I didn't show up on your door step at least once a week, you'd miss me like hell. "

She sighed. "Better you showed up with a wife and, someday soon, children. Then I would know you were happy."

He chuckled. "'Married' doesn't necessarily mean 'happy.' Just ask Mike."

"Your brother Miguel would be the first to admit that true happiness takes work, a thing he and that wife of his had no stomach for. I think you would not be so foolish and at least you would not be alone." She went to the stove, filled two cups and carried them back to the table. Easing into a chair across from him, she sipped at the cinnamon-laced coffee with its frothy topping of boiled milk. "Sometimes I wish you had settled down with that pale-skinned
Americana
."

When he remained silent, his mother touched his arm.
"
Lo siento
.
I am sorry. I should not have mentioned her."

"You recall, leaving was her idea.
Anyway, it's all right, Mamá. She's a thing of the past."

"You are certain?"

He kissed her hand.
"
Sí
."
Shaking off his momentary depression, he noticed his mother's cup. "No breakfast?" he asked.

"I ate earlier, with Papá."

Luc noticed the furrow between her eyebrows.
"He okay?"

She shrugged. "He is getting too old to work the sheep. He should be retired by now."

"Retirement would kill him, you know that. He’s got to keep busy."

"Perhaps, but he does too much. I worry about him."

Luc took a healthy mound of eggs with their onion and chile spiked tomato sauce and wrapped them in a tortilla. "Want me to talk to him? I'll ask him to slow down a little." He took a bite and chewed, waiting for her reply.

After several moments, she nodded. "Only be careful what you say. You know how proud he is.
And how stubborn."

He sipped the strong coffee. Proud and stubborn, that sure described the old man. Those same traits had caused no end of trouble during Luc’s youth. And nothing about his father had changed with age.

 
After he'd helped his mother clean up the kitchen and had played with Enrique until the little guy nodded off, Luc went out to look for his father. He knew where the old man would be this time of morning. Sure enough, he spotted him watching the flock from the shade of his favorite tree.

He sat with his back against the trunk and his walking stick across his lap. A fine plume of smoke curled from the bowl of his pipe. His hawk-like profile showed no expression but Luc knew his gaze traveled over the animals, watching that the lambs came to no harm, that the rams steered clear of each other, that the slow movement of the grazing animals kept them within sight and away from danger.

Luc sat beside his father. "
Qué tal
,Popi
?"

"It goes well, Lucero. But speak American."

"I speak American all the time. It's the old language I miss. I don't want to lose touch with our heritage."

"Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing." Fernando Moreno examined his pipe, drew on it one more time and knocked out the contents on an exposed tree root.

Luc stared at his father with dread. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Perhaps it is time we put the old culture behind us. It has held us back long enough."

"It hasn't held me back. It enriches my life and inspires my work. Knowing my heritage keeps me grounded."

"Grounded or stuck?"

"Never stuck.
Only when I forget who I am and where I come from do I get into trouble." Luc's worry intensified. "But you
,Popi
, do you feel that way?"

"Time has passed me by. I have made my choices and now must live what is left of my life by them. But you and your brothers are still young enough to change direction." He waved his hand around. "There is a world beyond these hills, a world that offers more opportunity for all of you."

"You were out in the world. You came back. I'd say that's some kind of lesson for us." Several moments passed as Luc waited for his father's answer.

"Yes, there is a lesson. Pick your causes carefully and put no faith in any man, only in what your common sense tells you
is
right."

"What about listening to your heart?"

His father chuckled.
"Never your heart.
It is the heart that gets you into trouble."

Luc felt a sense of hope that the dark moment had passed. "Is that what happened to you?"

"To my deep disgust."
Smiling softly, he turned to face Luc. His eyes sparkled.
"And more than once.
So take care. Of all my sons you are the most like me, and the most likely to get that heart of yours broken."

Luc smiled at his father. "That's already happened. And like you, more than once."

"Ah yes — well, my son, another fair-haired
gringa
will come along to ease the pain caused by the last one."

For the second time today, he'd been reminded of past follies. Luc rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble that always marked his days off duty. "Funny you should mention that...."

"Who is she?"

"Callie Patterson, the new owner of The Mansion. She's talking about restoring it and turning it into a commercial property."