Chapters Two and Three

CHAPTER 2

“South Solano,” he read from his notes. Oh yeah, over by NMSU and the deli place. As usual, he chose the long route, ready to reminisce about old times and places. The place still looked about the same, though the town had grown exponentially. Every time Joey had mentioned that the town was growing too fast, he had chalked it up to exaggeration. Up to three years before it had been growing as fast as the sage brush. Then the economy and water problems brought the growth to an abrupt halt.

Man, it’s grown, but … it still looks the same. Can I really come back to this place? Maybe I made a mistake? What’s this in my gut? I did … I did make a mistake. I should just turn around and ask her to move over there. What made me think I could come home, back to what never was? This little piece of … oh, man. Maybe, just maybe … Joey …

“She’s waiting for you,” said a little voice smack in the middle of his countless thoughts.

Waves of competing memories and feelings, present and past, poured in again—hurt, warmth, even some giggles—all muddled together. He couldn’t tell which were real, highly exaggerated, fantasy, or creative adaptations of the past.

After Rico’s adoptive parents’ deaths—which followed some ten years after his natural parents’ deaths—he made firm plans to leave this sorrow-filled town. He had grown up in various foster homes, experiencing some really good and some really bad times. Somehow, he developed a knack for reading. He devoured books of every genre. Specially selected titles offered by a caring teacher gave him the insight with which to mentally construct what his natural parents must have been like. 

Oddly enough, not only did reading serve as a great escape, but it proved a saving grace in helping Rico pass the GED exam on his first try. He had no choice but to take it after he was kicked out of high school in the tenth grade for having better things to do; excessive truancy was the official reason. The lack of effort at offering some guidance, counseling, or alternative discipline let him know instantly where he stood in the administration’s priority and value chart. This gave rise to his first out-and-out explosion of anger—and his first visit to court and jail for vandalism of the school grounds and misdemeanor assault of a vice principal.   

Out of the blue, Rico joined the military on his 17th birthday, forging his guardian’s signature on the waiver. It was a complete surprise to those who knew him; Rico and military discipline were guaranteed to gel about as well as peanut butter and jalapeños, they joked. Nevertheless, he managed to grab a hefty bonus by signing up for the Air Force Security Forces. It was enough of a bonus that he sweet-talked a bank manager to accept it as a down payment and take a risk on him so he could buy his then brand-spanking, almost new, pickup truck. The dealer threw in a camper shell in a moment of patriotism.

Finally, he had escaped the pueblito. Twenty years later, with not too much more in the way of material belongings, he was back. To what and for what he didn’t know.

More than an hour past his intended arrival time, he drove into a parking slot directly in front of the large window to JB Martial Arts Academy. Black belts-to-be were all busy at work. Joey Black taught the disciplines of the legendary Bruce Lee to youngsters and other competitive types. Rico watched through the window. He recognized the techniques, being well-versed in the martial arts himself. Not that he was gung-ho about pursuing belts and such. Navy SEAL instructors had trained his Delta Force detachment on many specific, very effective neutralizing techniques. On these, he focused and mastered because they meant the difference between life and death in the field. Otherwise, he tended toward the lazy side in learning anything extra, bodybuilding notwithstanding.

On the other hand, what Joey taught to her second-degree black belts and above he wouldn’t recognize in the least—if he were to see them working out. For some reason she hadn’t mentioned this other discipline to him, or more likely, he hadn’t paid attention. Either way, she carried out that training more discreetly.

Whatever Joey did, she did to extremes, and in her former military career she had sought out the most effective means of self-defense for combat environments. She became aware of a discipline called Krav Maga and unabashedly pursued a semi-retired Mossad agent to train her. The Mossad, the Israeli intelligence department, developed the world-renowned discipline for close-quarter hand-to-hand, unarmed self-defense techniques for use mainly in combat and high-security environments. Several moves were intended to be lethal. Joey caught on quickly and soon reached Level III B.  

Joey only taught Krav Maga to hand-picked students who were also willing to take an oath to never use it in sport fighting or street fighting, except as a last resort. It was just as well, because the Bruce Lee forms had served them well enough to earn them first place in tournament after tournament.  

Not wanting to interrupt the class, Rico climbed back into his truck to wait. After about an hour—around 2:30 p.m.—he woke up to loud tapping on the window. Joey woke him just in time; the interior temperature had reached nearly 130 degrees. The truck had run out of gas—thanks to Rico’s propensity to test the lower limits of the red zone on the fuel gauge—and, of course, the air conditioner had shut off.

“Jacob, que fregados estas asiendo?” Joey exclaimed as she pulled him out, giving him a concerned hug, or was it a very affectionate one? Loosely translated, “What the heck are you doing?” 

“I, I guess getting overheated … waiting for you. I mean … I, uh … didn’t want to inter…” Rico said. He was trying to remember if he had ever felt Joey’s love for him radiate as it did just then. He was moved, and a little surprised, because he had noticed increasingly less enthusiasm in her voice during their phone chats—or was it his own negativistic feelings?

The truth was Joey had all but given up hope in any long-term relationship with Jacob Rico, especially with all the lavish attention she was receiving from a handsome, wealthy, and refreshingly uncomplicated businessman—a seminary-bound deacon at her church. She had wrestled intensely with her fleshly desires and the promising possibility of a well-off life along with the prospects of a ministry partner. And the spiritual unity promised a tranquil, God-fearing home, maybe with some miracle babies.

But the days of anguish, pondering how to tell Rico about her spiritual and romantic conflicts, had ended days before and given way to peace as God revealed His choice for her. Rico was her assignment—and cross to bear. The Holy Spirit guided her to Hosea, a book she had yet to read. “My ways are not your ways,” God told her.

No kidding, she had thought. The concept of how God telling Hosea to marry a prostitute and telling her to marry Rico related was lost on her. If God was in it, she would make it, she knew … somehow. And besides, Rico still held her heart captive.

“Well, I’m kind of flattered anyway, but I know what you meant,” Joey said in Spanish, her cheeks flushed, mostly from the sun.

“Joey, what’s with the Spanish?” Rico said. And … kind of flattered? he thought with some concern. His thoughts weren’t completely drowned out while Joey continued the small talk in Spanish. They meandered into the studio building arm in arm, she oblivious to the thoughts she had provoked. He forced himself to brush the insecure thinking aside and enjoy the new kind of affection Joey, short for Josefina Erin Ysleta, was showing. She had often complained about what her parents could have possibly been thinking by torturing her with such a name. Rico always had a good time riling her up about it; secretly, he too thought the name dorky. Regardless, she knew how to hug.

“That’s a rude question,” Joey said, a little put-off about the Spanish comment.

They stood in an elegant, but simple, eight-by-ten-foot, greenhouse type of enclosed porch. Apparently, the woman had a green thumb. Another surprise. Joey held the inside lobby door to the dojo open for him.

“Well … last time we got into it about our heritage, you were negative about me calling you a Latina. You were all of an Irish gringa, remember?”

He cringed, waiting for a tart retort as he edged inside. Not that there was anything she could have said to ruin the sweet aroma of fresh-baked, cinnamon dipped buñuelos—a Mexican treat akin to Indian fry bread—nor the equally pungent scent of the freshly chopped, blazing-hot, Mesilla Valley-grown jalapeno peppers. His lady was going all out for him he thought and was glad he rated such efforts.

The truth was he had arrived two days ahead of schedule—truly an aberration—and she was preparing enchilada plates for a church fundraiser. He’d just have to pay like everyone else.

“Yes, I was going through … an identity crisis. And … I didn’t like how you said it anyway,” she said in a near whisper.

“Done Blondie?” Rico asked, still cringing and waiting for a rougher response.

“As a matter of fact, … yes,” she answered calmly, surprising even herself. God’s grace sure is incredible, she thought. “Some people do make changes. It takes time to build castles you know. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Some people? What is she getting at, he thought. “Yes, that’s true,” Rico said. “But normally people only make changes because of a traumatic, life-shaking event … or two. So I’ve read.”

There came his psychobabble. 

He wondered how it was that the two military campaigns they had suffered through could not have accomplished that change—experiences, which by any sane standard of measure would qualify as mind shattering and traumatic. Though they didn’t cross paths in Bosnia-Herzegovina, as they did later in Iraq, they nonetheless experienced the same anguish from what they saw and experienced—he a combatant and she, at that period in her life, a struggling investigative reporter documenting what the combatants inflicted on each other, and innocents, in the killing fields. 

“I, I’ve changed, too,” Rico said.

“Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat,” she mumbled.

“I resemble part of that remark. I’m … a ram,” he said, feigning injury.

“A ram? I see … Still a goat.”

He considered upping the ante on this little game they frequently played. He could brag to her that he was called the Big Shrink back in San Diego. He had tons of stories to tell about numerous well-to-dos, including some celebrity types. On the word of an acquaintance, former Mr. Universe Ty Chandler, some big wigs had given Rico an opportunity to handle their security matters.

Of course, he’d leave out the fact that those who hired him fired him within a week because he told most of them that they suffered from post situational narcissism. A monthly psychology periodical related to security, which Rico read religiously, described the effects worship, adulation and plain gawking had on public personalities over time. PSN would develop over time and cause many formally thoughtful, sharing people to become “Love, Worship, and Serve Me” monstrosities.

 To the amazement of his agents and staff, most of clients that fired him called to rehire him after reflecting on what he had said to them. It shook them that he had had the audacity to say it at the risk of losing a quite generous contract. Rico’s hired guns and the clients’ friends and family noticed amazing changes in those same clients. After news of his special skill made it around the Hollywood circuit, Rico had to turn down offers.

Of course, he didn’t recognize that his outward expression of anger or righteous indignation at these clients had worked out by nothing less than a miracle. Never mind that a certain degree of PSN had sprouted in him. And did he ever call Chandler to thank him for the business, the one person that would likely offer him a Biblical mirror? No. Why would he hang with a man that spoke incessantly about Jesus Christ? 

Either way, right now Joey had him. So, he kept his mouth shut.

Was he just a well dressed goat? He grinned halfheartedly, his mind mulling over the thought all the while racing back to San Diego, Bosnia and other places. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t offering every ounce of resistance. Of course, living in one world is complicated enough for most people; living in two, or more, can be difficult to manage.

Rico, too antsy to stand still even with a beauty in his arms, roamed about while Joey shadowed. He was sure she had a maid; the kitchen in her London flat never looked this tidy.

He strolled into the dojo training room, a very large converted living room with a natural pine polished wood floor. He looked around at the walls expecting to see plaques and her military decorations hanging all about. Instead, he noticed a plexi-glass partition subdividing the room. A small portion was dedicated to what seemed to be a mini museum, the other for violent punching and kicking. Rico wondered whether this was really a karate studio, or an art studio. 

The wall was lined with sculptures of all kinds. Some looked like a beginner created them. He didn’t say anything.

“I see you like variety. These various artists sure make nice contrasts. But I don’t see what your collecting theme is.” 

“A single artist, actually. You just might get to meet her. And the different mediums is her theme.”

Rico just nodded. It was very strange to him not to see her military medals or any other sort of memorabilia anywhere. For some reason the artist, whoever that was, had preeminence.   

“Ah! Still the consummate wanderer, aren’t you?” Joey said softly.

If that’s not the pot calling the kettle black …!  “Yea … as a matter of fact, I’ve been reading very disturbing things lately. Like …”

Joey wouldn’t get a word in for a long time if she let him gain steam. “Wait, I’m sorry,” she interrupted, putting a finger on his lips. “Before we discuss any serious issues, let’s go finish our teas. Then, I’ll tell you about my most recent life-altering event.”

She drew him close as they walked and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“I came all the way from San Diego for that!” he bemoaned in mock heart-brokenness.

Joey smiled, and taking the cue kissed him squarely and firmly on the lips. Rico’s ear-to-ear, little-boy grin told her that even after all this time she was looking at the same gentle-hearted, quirky, mercurial best friend she had learned to love. A bright red blush reappeared on her cheeks.

When they first met, she thought he was a good yarn spinner, like many other British and American military types she had interviewed or otherwise dealt with. After hearing him recount what he had survived to make their meeting possible, she would not hear it from his lips again. Joey, then still a reporter with only an American Hero story interest in him at the time, concluded he had gotten it off his chest once and for all. Very quickly, she could tell he wasn’t a macho man like the others, at least in private conversation. She decided to take a risk and follow the unfamiliar, romantic tug in her heart. The story side of her interest didn’t pan out as well.

And now, here they were. The sense of warmth Rico felt in Joey’s embrace, and the way she pierced deep into his soul with a love he didn’t think possible blew him away. The reunion exceeded his wildest expectations. During the whole trip home, he had verbally talked himself into believing in a great welcome home; there was definitely no let down. The lukewarm, kind-of-nice-to-see-you reception he had subconsciously dreaded never materialized.

Several minutes passed before either soaring heart ventured to speak.

“We’ve got lots to talk over, Joey,” he whispered, squeezing her hand.

“Yes, we do,” she agreed. “But first, I have a surprise for you.”

Joey’s eyes grew wide and her smile broadened. She led Rico to the back of the studio, through a door to the left of the kitchen, and down a short flight of stairs to one of the few basements in all of New Mexico—a former wine cellar. He let himself think for a second that he was going to get lucky again after some three years of involuntary celibacy. Remembering his physical state he nearly panicked; multiple ways to excuse himself raced through his mind.

Once downstairs, Joey opened one of two side-by-side doors that led to two separate spacious bedrooms. Rico noticed the neatness again—a trait that eluded him—and the rustic, Mexican-style furniture. The colors and decor offered a feminine, warm feeling—a direct contrast to the rough and tough woman he remembered; she had changed.

For a second he wondered if that was Joey’s big surprise. Then he noticed something hidden under the blankets on what he thought was her bed; a long lump hinted at a person underneath. Before Rico could hazard a guest, fingers appeared and the cover inched down the person’s face. He was speechless. In front of him was a face the likes of which he had seen before in real life, and then in on-going waking nightmares … memories of real faces in Bosnia. Thoughts of romance vanished immediately.

The person was clearly a woman. Other than that, he pained to see beyond the hollow eyes and wrinkled and sagging skin that revealed the bone structure underneath. He made every effort to disguise the nauseating feeling that had instantly and uncontrollably welled up in his gut. Rico was about to blurt out an excuse to head back upstairs when Joey silenced him, putting a finger on his lips. It was too late. The stranger on the bed had heard them and covered up again.

“Joey, is that you, Sis?” the stranger asked before uncovering her face again.

Sis? Rico wondered.

Before Joey could respond, the woman forced her eyes open and shivered as she stared at Rico.

“Is he here for me? Did they find me?” she cried.

Quickly, Joey sat by her and cuddled her.

“It’s OK, Michelle,” Joey tenderly whispered in her ear. “This is that special man I’ve mentioned.”

Immediately, Michelle gained control of her sobbing and grabbed the tissues Joey offered. After what seemed like a long time to Rico, Michelle said weakly, “So this is your knight in shining armor, Joey?”

Joey was caught by surprise. She thought that her sister had not comprehended the little things she had shared about Jacob … or anything else for that matter.

Joey and Jacob looked at each other with awkward, sheepish looks.

“He sure seems a little shorter then seven feet tall, Joey,” Michelle added.

Joey quickly interjected, “Well, I … I never said he was seven feet tall, Michelle. But … yes, this is the person I’ve mentioned in passing once or twice.

“Michelle, this is Jacob.”

“Jacob this is my … sister … Michelle.”

“Sister?” was all Rico could say, holding his stomach. The face he was looking at had no resemblance to the roundish, freckled, and usually bubbly face of his girlfriend Joey. The inviting full lips were absent as well.

“Jacob,” Michelle said slowly with a labored breath. “You are rather short for a knight.”

Joey looked at Jacob for second and burst out laughing. She had expected a profound, serious comment. Rico’s face softened.

Michelle’s hint of wit and candor, and especially the bright, piercing blue eyes pointed to the two women sharing the same genes. They were identical twins in fact. Many weeks later, a carbon copy of Joey would begin to emerge from the emaciated, near-skeleton now in front of them.

Rico resolved to look past her present appearance and peered deep into her eyes. He immediately determined that she was definitely in Joey’s blood line.

Joey shared how she found the sister she didn’t know she had. Michelle listened intently—though sometimes unable to will her eyelids open—because she hadn’t heard the story of her adventure that landed her in New Mexico, wherever that happened to be. It was in the U.S., she was sure. 

An ambassador friend of Joey’s had been at a London hospital visiting a friend. To his surprise, he saw someone, whom he thought looked like Joey, in the psych ward hallway, being led by an orderly. Because of his diplomatic credentials, hospital officials told him everything they knew, which was basically nothing. She was another Jane Doe among many in the overloaded ward.

He asked them for permission to visit with her because he was sure he knew her. Clearly, this was not his friend Joey, but there was something telling about her; especially when she turned and stared right at him. There was no way it could be Joey, mostly because she wouldn’t risk being caught in dreary London again; and why would she be in the psych ward? But there had to be a connection.

Joey caressed Michelle’s hand as she continued whispering the story to Rico.

That’s when Mark, Joey’s friend and U.S. ambassador to England, contacted her in Las Cruces, asking strange questions. To answer them, Joey had to reach deep into her mind, shuffling past some still-tender memories. She faintly remembered playing frequently with another child when she was little; just a close friend, she was sure.

Mark decided to investigate the matter further anyway, his gut gnawing at him. It occurred to him that Joey didn’t know why he was asking such probing questions; considering that he was sure he knew every detail of her life, why had she seemed so uncomfortable?

According to hospital officials, Jane Doe was an escapee from a mental asylum. They would find out later that she had been at the asylum only six weeks. Some days after her escape from the asylum they found her disoriented and half-starved in an alley. That’s how she ended up in that hospital’s psych ward.

Her medical records stated that during lucid moments she would insist that she was being pursued by Irish and English organized crime gunmen. Doctors considered her a probable schizophrenic and had yet to find relatives to claim her. They proceeded to medicate her pending a scheduled transfer back to the asylum two days later.

Getting her out of that asylum would have been very complicated; and Mark worried that if her delusions weren’t delusions, someone would see to it to make it impossible, one way or another. 

The ambassador bent some rules and broke others to declare her a missing U.S. citizen. He convinced the doctors that he had contact with the sole surviving relative by providing a blood sample from Joey and a certified power of attorney for transport. By virtue of Mark’s claim, a judge ordered the hospital to provide a blood sample from their patient, proving once again that navigating a large bureaucracy is easier with official credentials.    

The ambassador immediately took Michelle on a medivac flight to New York, just in case any discrepancies on a document were discovered. From New York they flew to El Paso. Except for the medics on the flights, no one else had set eyes on her, and then only saw part of her face. Mark had made sure of this because some of the gibberish and apparent nonsense Michelle blurted out while coherent actually mirrored intelligence briefs on European Union organized crime activities he was privy to—information so sensitive that no one outside the British intelligence communities of MI5 and MI6, including the prime minister, knew about. A CIA link to an MI5 mole kept him abreast of serious developments.

Strangely enough, the hospital officials never contacted the ambassador when a pair of interested persons, two Irishmen, seeking information about a patient fitting Michelle’s description showed up two weeks later.

Rico found the recounting very interesting. Not sure of the substance of what Joey had just shared, Rico nonetheless was glad to hear this apparent twin would remain in hiding. He would definitely help keep things under wraps, though not for the most altruistic of reasons. The wicked thought came and went so quickly he didn’t have time to feel guilty about conceiving such a thing; he envisioned using the situation to his advantage later.

“That’s incredible, Joey,” Rico finally interjected.

“Yep. I found my sis. And she’s doing great. Michelle should be out and about in about four to five months. Thanks to two friends, one an RN and one a med student, who dove right in and helped me out.”

Rico barely heard what Joey said. “Michelle,” Rico said in a gentle tone, leaning close to but not looking directly at her, “…about that medication they gave you. Is it out of your system yet? Is there any lasting effect to your mind that you can tell?” He felt embarrassed the moment the words left his mouth.

“Jacob, what kind of question is that?” Joey chastised under her breath.

“No, no Joey. Don’t be upset,” Michelle said, weakly squeezing her hand. “The friend said … that there would probably be some after-effects from the drugs. But with a slow, quiet recovery period I would probably manage well.” She labored to take a deep breath and blinked slowly before continuing.

 “And to answer Jacob’s reasonable question, I would say that I have nightmares. But I think …” She narrowed her eyes as she thought about what she wanted to say, “… that most of what I dream about is based on reality. Somebody was following me. It was almost like they just wanted to scare me for some reason. Then I started getting faint recollections of nasty beatings and dismal places … images flash in front of me when I’m fully awake.”   

Joey and Jacob looked at each other and cringed; how well they could relate.

“I think you two have a lot to talk about,” Rico said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go upstairs and watch some TV. I’ll see you both in a bit.” Rico kissed Joey on the forehead and turned to leave.

“Hey, how about me, Mr. Knight?” Michelle asked.

He hesitated slightly and then kissed her gently on her sunken cheek. His stomach didn’t handle it well.

“She didn’t exaggerate about your kind heart,” Michelle added. “I have a sense about those things. And Joey had it right … about your looks, too.”

“Oh, no … Michelle! Now his head’s not gonna fit through the door!” Joey said.

That was the Joey that Rico remembered. As he went upstairs, he heard a mini spat between the two. Not finding a TV slightly annoyed him. Who doesn’t have a TV? She must be hurting for money, he guessed.

Actually, she was in between sets. The old clunker had just been thrown out, and she was waiting for a good deal on a new one. She was tight on money for sure, but only when it came to spending on material things for herself. Something not typical of the Joey he remembered.

Rico went outside and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator in his truck. After ten minutes he felt uneasy about staying upstairs and reluctantly went back downstairs. Joey still looked a little embarrassed.

“It’s time to go back to the motel,” Rico announced.

“Why? You’re gonna pass up this wonderful place for a hotel?” Joey said in Spanish.

 “Well, I could do the Hispanic thing and camp out like family,” he said, part question, part comment. “But I don’t think you have enough room.”

“Well, I hear Joey has a nice queen-size bed,” Michelle offered without thinking.

“Michelle, hush up!” Joey turned rosy again looking at Rico.

“I see,” Rico said, also in Spanish.

“What?” Michelle asked excitedly, though still groggy.

Joey and Jacob waved the question off. Rico wasn’t necessarily ready to mention that Joey and he had not slept together in almost three years, and then it had been the one and only time. It was a strange coincidence back then when just days after Joey had visited and stayed through the night in his bed she had accepted Christ into her life. He was too busy the whole week to answer one specific message she had left on his machine—one where she mentioned her new faith, and her decision about a solely platonic relationship from then on … if he was still interested.

That was the same week he was told he had brain cancer. Since he was rather put off by the reason she was unilaterally changing their relationship so drastically—just when he had experienced the good life again—it made it easy to use the situation to cover up his health status. She never guessed during the years that followed in their long-distance relationship that his cooler emotional state was actually to protect her. Why expose her to the devastation the cancer was expected to wreak? And the timing of being denied the pleasure of female company, in intimate ways, worked out strangely well.    

“Never mind,” Rico muttered. “A motel will work just fine.”

“What! What’s wrong with my sister, pal? She’s not good enough for you?” an angered sister asked.

Joey and Rico laughed.

“No doubt in my mind any more … she’s definitely a Black,” Rico said. “Well, let’s change the subject … please,” Rico said. “I don’t mind staying here at all … but … hey wait a minute! Michelle you understand Spanish, don’t you?” Rico asked after realizing Joey and he had code switched and had been speaking Spanish.

Michelle nodded with her last ounce of energy and fell soundly asleep, a slight grin on her face.

Rico looked at Joey with some concern, thinking of checking Michelle’s pulse. She motioned that her sister was fine.

“I do have to get my junk from the hotel,” he said. Eager to avoid any more talk about the still tender topic Michelle had brought up, Rico started out the door. Joey grabbed his hand gently.

“Hon, may I tag along?”

Rico couldn’t figure out what gave him goose bumps more: the fact that she wanted to be close again, or her making his standing crystal clear when she called him hon. He tried hiding his grin.

Before that moment Joey hadn’t considered that he harbored any doubts about his standing.

CHAPTER 3

After picking up Rico’s things at the hotel, Rico and Joey—freshly reacquainted—drove to the I-10 rest stop overlooking Las Cruces. In earlier years it had been the Crucens’ version of Lover’s Lane. Like plenty of teenagers of his era, Jacob Rico had a few fond memories of the place.

Since then, improved lighting and frequent patrols had chased off lovers looking for privacy—and the out-of-control drug crowd, too. Now it drew mostly nostalgic middle-aged locals who came for the city lights and the gigantic welded scrap-metal roadrunner sculpture facing the valley below.

Right then Rico had eyes only for Joey. Even the view of the desert town and the awe-inspiring Organ Mountains—part of the Rocky Mountains—couldn’t hold a candle to her. A peculiar twinkle lit her eyes, and he couldn’t place it. It was more than the twin-sister surprise, more than his arrival. Something else was in motion.

He kept staring as they followed the winding, rocky path to a bench. Trying to look charming didn’t help when he stepped on a loose rock, lost his balance, and rolled off the edge of the trail. Luckily, he didn’t crack his head on the rocks lining the arroyo—the Spanish-language equivalent of a rushing-water washout. But the expletives he whimpered on the way down left no doubt how many prickly pear needles had found him.

Joey resisted laughing—until it was clear her honey was, for the most part, all right. She caught her breath. “Jacob, are you all right?”

The cursing drifting up the hill confirmed he wasn’t seriously hurt. It also raised a question: how could someone who claimed to abhor foul language summon it so fluently?

“I’ll be right back with the first-aid kit. I know where you keep it.” He’d clipped his key chain to her belt—handy for once. She jogged to the truck, slid open the passenger door, and grabbed the well-stocked kit from under the seat.

Jacob, you’re either a paramedic, prepared, or paranoid. A defibrillator, survival kit, fire extinguisher, emergency radios—gee whiz! And this … a bag full of prepaid cell phones? She hurried back to Rico, fully intending to ask, but he was already waiting at one of the picnic tables. She set out alcohol, cotton balls, and tweezers. The phones slipped her mind.

“I just had an epiphany,” Rico said, climbing back up the hill. “Now I—”

“Epiphany? My, my—getting sophisticated in your old age,” she teased.

“As I was about to say …” he grumbled. “Now I remember why I left the stinking desert. Everything sticks you in the bu—OW—behind.” He rubbed where she’d tweezed out a shard of cactus. “A teeny, weeny bit gentler, please. You’re more of a pain than the pricks.”

“And you were Special Forces? A baby like you?” Joey said, deadpan.

“I wasn’t really Special Forces. I was attached to Delta Force and went on missions. And I was tough back then. I even got a Purple Heart, I’ll have you know.” Blabbing was a useful distraction.

“For wha—don’t tell me. For the splinter in your thigh after flying into the shepherd’s shack?”

She really was a pain. She made the safe parachute landing he’d pulled off in Iraq sound like a minor inconvenience—never mind that he’d fallen from an aircraft thousands of feet up and been tossed by sixty-plus-mile-per-hour winds. Why, again, did he love this woman?

As for Joey, she didn’t remember seeing a scar on him the last time they went swimming—which was not long after his discharge from the military. The nasty shoulder scar left by the bullet from the San Diego civilian incident didn’t count. At least she pretended that it didn’t mean anything. When she had heard the news she had almost fallen apart with worry, but he didn’t have to know. 

“That time in Iraq must have been the first time out of the office for you, I bet,” she said.

“It’s in a private place … can’t go there.”

“Too bad! I’m done with your back. You can sit on the table then and enjoy the view,” she said, pretending to put away the materials.

“OK … OW!” Rico yelped as the prickly souvenirs on his bottom announced their presence.

“Blasted, sadistic woman,” Rico muttered in Spanish. He leaned on the table, arms locked, and yelped under his breath.

Joey continued extracting prickles until she couldn’t see any more. Fortunately for Rico, the cactus didn’t yet have fruit; the tiny thistles on them were tougher to find and pull.

“Stop laughing, woman. It wasn’t funny.”

“Actually,” she said, tears tracking down her round, sparkling cheeks, “it was really funny.”

Rico murmured, “OK, Joey … but not that funny.”

Joey tried for sympathy; it lasted a split second before she broke again. “Yes, it was!” she managed between breaths.

Rico gave in and they both laughed, hugging and squeezing each other. Joey blew through every tissue in her purse. Still teary, she wiped her face on Rico’s T-shirt sleeve.

“That’s a little weird, Joey. No quiero tus mocos, mujer!” He calmly plucked a few remaining pricks from his arms.

Joey just nodded as she continued drying tears and snot.

“I do hope you plan to wash it for me,” he added seriously. 

Rico gingerly raised himself up to sit atop the concrete table as Joey snuggled closely on the seat below.

They sat quietly and admired the incredible view of the valley and the high-rising mountains.

Rico leaned over and kissed Joey—slow, tender, unhurried. The wholeness he felt didn’t stop the what-ifs. What if I hadn’t left? What if I hadn’t shut people out? What if I’d built something that lasted? The thoughts blurred together, disorienting him. The truth was simpler: he had plenty of real friends. He just kept them at arm’s length.

To Joey he appeared peacefully mesmerized by the green Rio Grande Valley and the majestic, purple-shaded Organ Mountains towering above the horizon. The sun, partially blocked by clouds and dropping closer to the horizon behind them, lit the mountain face so perfectly that postcards could do the view no justice.

Joey felt a surprising vibrancy as she looked out over her adopted city from a newly altered perspective. She hugged the source of it, arms looping around his neck. Las Cruces—dry as a speck, if you were a New Yorker, an Angelino, or a former Londoner—was, to her, peaceful. Almost heavenly.

Her interest in the town—located on a former inland sea and established around 1848—was first piqued years earlier by one of Rico’s early letters, where he mentioned his boyhood hometown in passing. Having seen deserts of different sorts, she had pictured something uninviting at first. But Rico, being part of the equation, added another dimension.

She broke the silence with a whisper in his ear. “Remember when I paid you a visit when you were here visiting too?”

“Yup. I clearly remember the standard ‘What in the hell is this dry, dead, dreary place?’ look on your face. Bet you thought I’d lied to you, huh?”

Joey didn’t answer. Instead, she snuggled closer. “How’s Michael?” she asked softly, anxious to catch up.

“Michael?”

“Prince Michael, silly.”

“Oh, that Michael.” Rico studied her. “We’re getting rather informal, aren’t we?”

“Last time we talked, he asked me to call him Michael. Is that OK?”

Say what? “He’s never told me that. When was this? And I thought you two were still like cats and dogs.”

“Naw. We mended fences almost three years ago. I even paid him a visit.”

Rico eyed her with renewed suspicion. “Didn’t mention that either. I’ll have to chat with that man … soon.”

“So—when’s the last time you talked to him?” she asked, anything to break his stare.

His heart skipped. If he said “days ago,” she’d ask what they talked about. If he claimed it had been forever, and she spoke to Michael soon, she’d learn otherwise.

“Um, two days ago actually.”

“Oh, good! And you guys talked about … ?”

There she went. Was she playing nosy reporter, or nosy girlfriend?

“Doing great, still single. Busy as usual. Didn’t discuss much.”

She smiled at hearing her only English friend was doing well. “It’s been a while … think I’ll call him, maybe this week,” Joey murmured.

“Good … good,” he said. Just great.

Some time passed before another word interrupted the caressing, gently squeezing, and reminiscing couple.

“Hey, handsome, give me a real taste of those lips,” Joey said, breaking the silence again.

“Well, OK. If I have to,” Rico whined, but obliged.

“Mm. I think you ought to check on your sister,” he murmured through the lip-lock.

“Uh, yeah … good idea,” she said, regaining her composure. She’d been sure that, in three years, she’d grown beyond being overwhelmed by certain emotions—or at least learned to manage them. Now she was face-to-face with the whole truth; reading and grasping intellectually is easy. The real-world test—walking upright before God when temptation was right here, wrapped in her arms—was something else. She whispered a prayer of repentance and thanks as she searched her purse for her cell phone.

Michelle answered the phone Joey had taped to the headboard by saying “answer” into it. She said she was doing fine.

Having had time to rebalance, Joey thought it wise to leave. “We’d best head back,” she said in Spanish. Without hesitation, Rico nodded in agreement, making her give him a look.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She walked on in a silent huff. Am I so chunky now that I’m unappealing to you?

What did …? Now I remember why I’m not married. He shook his head and followed in thin-ice silence.

Fortunately, Joey had grown in the forgiving department and soon warmed back into conversation. Rico clocked the night-and-day swing and worried—then told himself to stop diagnosing people in his head. He couldn’t have missed it all these years.

Back at Joey’s place, Rico was quickly distracted. He rolled out his sleeping bag on the dojo floor. They cuddled and talked while traffic slid past the big, unobstructed window—helpful, in its own way, for keeping them well behaved.

Rico asked about the girls who always answered the phone. They were in Albuquerque at a tournament. From there Joey talked nonstop, sharing minute details about them—long after he’d crashed out at nine.

She felt comforted that he seemed interested in them. At least one obstacle to a deeper relationship had been set aside. He lay asleep on his back. Her head rested on his chest, eyes and mind wide awake. Softly, she began humming, then singing, an old-time Gaelic song, Saint Patrick’s Breastplate.

I bind unto myself today
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same
The Three in One and One in Three.

Finished with her anointed singing—having just delivered the long, difficult song from memory, though she’d sung it only once before—the love-struck Joey listened to the steady beat of Rico’s heart. For more than an hour she lay there, absorbing the warmth of him. Since they hadn’t shared the same bed after that one confusing time, she didn’t know that by now a nightmare should have had his heart racing. She felt only peace.

Very tired but happy, she rose to check on Michelle and then prayed fervently for help to stay downstairs and climb into her own bed.