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handicrafts. They ate the luncheon special, complete with a slice of banana cream pie at Davy’s restaurant. They climbed back on the bus, perhaps wondering how five hundred residents survived in a town founded by silver miners in 1565, where pigs freely roamed the streets and electricity was a fairly recent addition.
    Yes, tourists were as much a part of the landscape as the whitewashed adobe buildings, as common as the red-tiled roofs. Not a threat.
    Until now.
    She scanned the strangers dressed in trendy cruise wear, crisscrossing the square, going in and out of the shops. She wondered which ones were studying her.
    As usual, village boys dogged the tourists, holding out palm-size wooden replicas of Topala buildings that they’d carved. The kids were born salesmen, aggressive, smiling affably as they eased into the bargaining process without batting an eyelash.
    On the far side of the square, where the church steeple rose far above everything, she noticed a handful of tourists heading through the massive doors, cameras in hand. Her heart sank even further. Of course they were always drawn to Iglesia de San José, a baroque beauty finished in 1775, a jewel in the middle of nowhere. But she had so hoped for a respite during the service. How could that happen with a bunch of goggle-eyed, photo-snapping intruders?
    “Sheridan.” Luke stepped in front of her, causing her to halt, and removed his sunglasses.
    She returned his gaze and sensed he wanted to tell her more. “Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t go there.”
    “I’m sorry. I can’t have this between us.”
    “It’s not. I know you came for other reasons that have nothing to do personally with Eliot or me. And you know I know. It’s who you are. Leave it at that.” She took a side step, but he blocked her again.
    “Calissa said I would be interested in what she wants to tell you. For professional reasons.”
    “Fine.” She swept past him and this time he let her go. Her only thought was to get inside the church, tourists or no tourists, Luke or no Luke.
    They reached the bottom of her hill, went by the sculptor’s shop, rounded the wrought-iron bandstand, and entered the square. Despite traces of her mother’s Spanish bloodline in her eyes and complexion, she could never be taken for anything other than American. Her dress labeled her as a local. She most likely appeared to be an American villager. It was an odd combination that invited strangers to speak to her, and so she averted her eyes from them. Most days she totally avoided going down the hill during the busy times.
    Some of the boys approached, their sights on Luke as they loudly greeted her. “Señora maestra!” It usually made her smile, their “teacher” nickname for the woman who took every opportunity to shove an English lesson in their faces.
    Not today. She held up a finger at them in warning. They got the message and went another direction.
    The church bells began ringing. As often happened, the insistent clang set off memories of her mother.
    Ysabel Cole had loved the sound. She would grasp her daughters’ hands and run with them toward the large cathedral in their Chicago suburb. Laughing, her eyes dancing beneath dark wavy hair, she would call out excitedly above the loud peal in her mishmash of English and Spanish. “ Vamos! Hurry! Jesús is calling us, mis niñas ! He is calling us!”
    Sheridan had known her mother for only thirteen years. Not nearly long enough, but it was thirteen solid years of Jesús calling to them in bells, in the bread, in song, in a hug, in beauty.
    After Ysabel’s death, Sheridan gradually lost the ability to sense Jesús calling her. She still found inexplicable solace, though, in the old liturgy. Sometimes she wondered if it was God Himself or if it was simply the memory of a mother’s love.
    Not that it mattered what it was exactly. All that mattered was the promise of a momentary escape from fears that gathered like thunderclouds over her,