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Luke stamped down with his boot, and after a moment she stepped forward and gave a tentative stamp with a small, bare foot. It left a perfect imprint in the dark mountain earth. She stared at it for a moment, and her face quivered with some fleeting emotion.
    She glanced up and saw him watching; then, with an air of defiance, she stamped again. And again. And again.
    Like dancing on the grave, only angry, vengeful. It was probably the wrong thing entirely to do with her. Encouraging a very young lady to stamp on a grave in her bare feet was something he was pretty sure would horrify his mother, but his mother had never faced the kind of thing this girl had. Anger was better than self-blame. Anger scalded, then healed.
    Finally it was done. In a few months the grass would obliterate all sign of what had happened here. All outward sign.
    Luke went to the stream and washed the dirt from himself. He scooped the clear, cool water in his hands and drank.
    Behind him he heard a click. A pistol being cocked. He turned and faced his fierce little hatchling chick.
    “And now,
señor
, no more delays. Catch your horse. We must leave.”
    “Put that thing away. I don’t respond to threats.” He pulled out his penknife and began to clean his nails, whistling softly under his breath.
    After a moment, she made a small frustrated sound, stamped her foot, then put the pistol carefully away. “There!”
    He smiled, put his penknife back in his pocket, and, puttinghis fingers to his mouth, gave a shrill whistle. Brutus lifted his head and trotted toward them. “Can you ride?” Luke asked her.
    “Since I could walk.”
    “Astride?”
    She snorted. “Of course.”
    Interesting. Well-bred young ladies did not ride astride. She was a bundle of contradictions. Luke pulled a pair of cotton drawers from his saddlebag and handed them to her. “Put these on.”
    She gave him a dubious look.
    “They’re clean,” he told her. “And they’ll stop your thighs from chafing.”
    She pulled his drawers on, screwing her face up in irritation as she tried to find a way to make them stay up. Luke fished a length of twine from his saddlebag and handed it to her. She scowled as she knotted it around her waist. “I hope those pigs burn in hell for cutting up my clothes.”
    Luke frowned. “
Those
pigs? There was more than one?”
    “
Sí
. Two of them. They knew my escort.”
    “Escort?”
    She gave him a haughty look; some feat, given the state of her face. “Naturally my father sent an escort. And I would have brought my duenna, only Marta is too fat to ride. Papa sent three of his most trusted men: Esteban, Diego, and Javier. But that swine and his friend, they knew them. They had served with my father, too.” She spat in the dust. Another thing a well-bred young lady would never do. “Deserters, but we did not know that at the time. They said Papa had sent them with a message, and when we stopped, suspecting nothing, they killed Esteban, Diego, and Javier.” She gave him a guilty look. “At first I escaped—at the first shot Javier told me to flee—but my horse went lame and they caught me.”
    Luke scrutinized the clearing. There was no sign of any other man, dead or alive. “What happened to the second man?”
    “They quarreled, and he ran off with my horse and all my belongings.”
    “You mean with the jewels?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Not you, too. How often must I say there were
no jewels
! As if I would ride through bandit country carrying jewels! That’s why my clothes are ruined. The fools thought I had jewels sewn into my clothes.” She muttered something under her breath.
    “Where did they get the idea?” Luke asked curiously. Her attacker had spoken very particularly about jewels, not money or other riches.
    “Who knows where fools get such notions?” she said, but her gaze slipped sideways. She knew more than she was saying, but Luke just wanted to get the girl to safety and return to headquarters in good