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Manila. She sank lower into the tepid soapy water, hoping it would soothe her. Instead, her ribs cried out. She’d forgotten about them, briefly. Earlier, she’d been absolutely sure that every fool one of her corset stays had left permanent indentations on her rib cage.
    Josefina had said the bath would help, and it did. But she couldn’t help but remember the housekeeper’s face when the Yankee toted her home. He had charged like a bull through the wrought-iron gates, across the tiled courtyard, and up the stone steps, which accounted for some of her bruises. Then, instead of knocking like most humans, he’d kicked on the heavy doors until poor, stunned Josefina pulled them open.
    “You’re home,” he’d said and whacked her on the derriere. “All safe and sound.” Then he deposited her in front of a stunned Josefina. “And you’re out of my hair,” he rudely added before he spun around and was out the gates before Eulalie could do more than see straight.
    The little housekeeper had said there were more and more of his type living here since the Spanish relaxed the trade laws. She said she shouldn’t have let Eulalie go off by herself, which prickled. It was just like being at home with her brothers. Now Josefina would probably start watching over her.
    She rose from the tin tub, dried off, and put on her pink ruffled lace dressing gown. Then hairbrush in hand, she brushed her long hair, letting it spill freely down her back to dry. Josefina had brought her a plate of sliced mango, bread, and cheese to tide her over until dinner. The meal was to be delayed until her father’s return.
    Picking up the tray, she sat in a high-backed caned chair and placed the tray in her lap. The silence hit her. It was so quiet. She heard no sounds from the street because the house sat on the back of the property. Her nervousness grew. With five older brothers there was always noise at home. Hickory House was not a quiet place. She tapped her foot on the floor to give the room some sound.
    With knife and fork, she cut the fruit and delicately placed a piece of it in her mouth. Very slowly and carefully she chewed, making sure her lips never parted. She swallowed, then looked around the empty room.
    At home she always had polite dinner conversation with one of her brothers. It was a lady’s tool to kill the time between bites, assuring herself that she wouldn’t overeat. But there was no one to talk to. She took another bite, chewed and swallowed again. The food hit her nervous stomach like a cannonball. She set the tray aside and paced the room, wondering what her father was like.
    Finally bored into action, she went downstairs to his study. She paused outside the double doors, a little nervous, a little excited, a little scared. One deep breath and she went inside, closing the door behind her. She leaned back, the door handle still in her hand, and she took in the room. It was dark, the only catches of light being those that filtered through huge shutters on the wall of windows opposite her. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness she could see well enough to cross the room and open the sliding wood shutters. Light flooded the room, and she turned, hoping the place would give her some insight to her father.
    But the room was not much different from the study at Hickory House. Carved wood bookcases lined two walls, and there were the requisite oxblood leather chairs, the large, flat-topped desk, and a huge but faded carved rug. All the masculine objects and ornaments were there, from the large brass-bordered gun case to the misty odor of tobacco. Nothing special. Nothing that said, “I’m your daddy.” Nothing that helped her. In fact, as she looked around, the excitement and anticipation that had driven her for weeks suddenly faded like the rich colors in that rug.
    She walked over to the desk, hitched her hip on one corner and looked at the globe, remembering how many times as she was growing up she’d looked at the pale