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classroom as he had read her poem, and she had seen him throw back his head and laugh, just as she had hoped he would. The other boys demanded to know what was so funny, and one of the eldest—dark-haired John Barclay, who had taunted her and knocked her books from her arms years before—had dared to take it from Lars’s hand, but Lars snatched it back again before John could read a single word. Then Lars’s eyes met hers, and he smiled, and suddenly she knew that he would never have any valentine sweetheart but her. Warmth flooded her heart and spilled over until it filled every part of her from her eyes to her fingertips, and although she had never kissed Lars and was a little afraid to, she longed to kiss him then.
    As soon as she arrived home from school, Rosa hid the flower in her bedroom, but Carlos, not meaning any harm, told their mother about it. With half-truths and red-faced silences,Rosa evaded her mother’s questions about who had given her the carnation, guilt and disappointment stinging her with equal sharpness. She ought to be able to share her joy with her mother, her joy
and
her uncertainties, but her mother hated Lars—or rather, not Lars but the idea of Lars, and for that reason alone Rosa was forced to lie and to pretend that the happiest day of her life had been as ordinary and undistinguished as any other.
    In the darkness of the cave, Rosa shivered and held her children close. Now the sweetness of first love was only a distant memory, and the man her childhood sweetheart had become had not called her his Spanish Rose in many years. He might, at that moment, be dead at her husband’s hands.
    Whimpering, Miguel eventually dropped off to sleep, and Ana and Lupita soon drifted off too, leaning against each other. Marta inched closer to Rosa and rested her head on her shoulder. “What are we going to do, Mamá?”
    It was a question that Rosa had asked herself over and over as dusk stole over the canyon. “We’ll sleep here tonight.”
    “And tomorrow?”
    “We’ll load up the wagon and leave the valley.” It was the only choice.
    Twilight descended, and as the cave grew colder and slipped into darkness, a gray, misty light lingered near the mouth of the cave. Despite the cold, Rosa was thankful for the cover of night. John would never brave the canyon after sunset, not with its steep paths and mountain lions. She shivered and wished again for dry wood. She wondered where John was now. Had he found Lars? Killed him? Had he returned to the adobe and ransacked it in a rage when he discovered she had taken the children away? Had he gone after Carlos, demandingto know where they were? What about Elizabeth? She knew where they had fled. What if John forced the truth from her?
    Suddenly Marta stiffened. “What was that?”
    Rosa heard nothing but the fall of the rain and the younger children’s gentle breathing. “What was what?”
    Marta sat up straight, staring into the darkness outside the cave. “I heard something. A scraping sound. Rocks falling. Not big rocks. Little rocks, like the ones on the path.”
    Rosa held perfectly still, every sense alert. She waited, and listened, and heard nothing. “I think it’s your imagination,
mija
.” The words had barely left her mouth when she heard the distant sound of a boot grinding gravel underfoot. A heartbeat later, a thin shaft of light illuminated the mouth of the cave.
    Marta clutched her arm. “He’s out there.”
    Rosa’s heart was in her throat. “Stay here.” Without a sound, she climbed out from beneath the quilts.
    Marta seized her skirt “Mamá—”
    Rosa hushed her with a quick gesture. Marta reluctantly released her and scooted deeper into the cave, closer to her sleeping brother and sisters, until she disappeared into the darkness. Rosa crept across the cold, pebble-strewn ground to the wall of the cave where she had left their belongings. She heard the scrape of leather on rock again just as she stumbled into her sewing