"Onlys raising onlys."

She nodded. "It was one of the many things they had in common. But Glenn and Martha couldn't have even one child. So one day they got me, and here we are."

"Were they pleased that you loved the past as much as they did?"

Carly nibbled some more. She wasn't hungry. She just needed something to do with her hands besides twist a strand of hair around her finger. "I think so. We never talked about it in those terms."

"So what did you talk about, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire?"

She laughed. "We talked about genealogical sources, how to trace female ancestors versus male ancestors, history at the time of their grandparents and the seventh generation in the past. That sort of thing." She leaned toward him eagerly. "I loved that part the best, figuring out what people wore and ate in fifteenth-century England or Italy or Spain. I loved thinking about the consequences to ordinary people of the violent infusions of Viking and Dane blood and culture into a local population, of the Crusades, of the plagues and famines, of the adventurers and colonists and the ones who stayed home, of how the new generations of a family changed and forgot each other, of how much fun it is to find an American's fourth cousin in County Clare, then listen to them when they finally get together and share family photos and memories that bridge time and the ocean."

"Connection," he said.

"Exactly. So many people take it for granted or don't even care that they're an entry on a much larger genealogical chart," she said, spreading her arms, "a chart that could span centuries and countries and weave together the whole of-" She stopped abruptly as her right hand smacked against the wall and sent a piece of tortilla flying.

Dan captured her left hand before it collided with his nose. He laced his fingers through hers and held her hand against his thigh. Safer that way. Felt good, too.

"Sorry," she said, flushing as she bent to pick up the piece of tortilla with her free hand. "I get a little carried away when I talk about my work."

"I like your enthusiasm." He had felt the same way about his work. Once. When he'd quit the State Department and joined St. Kilda Consuiting's affiliation of loose cannons, he'd been enthusiastic again. Then the narcotraficantes who wanted him dead had opened fire in a crowd. Three schoolchildren and a nun had died. He'd survived. He wondered if God was happy with the body count. Dan sure wasn't. "How did Winifred find you?"

"She always has the TV on in the background when she's with Sylvia. One of the yak-yak shows was interviewing me about a family history I'd just published. She was curious enough to call the show. I sent her a clipping from a recent newspaper article, along with the book I'd published for the family I'd just finished working with."

"You do it all yourself, even the publication?"

"Sure. Computers make it easy and the result can look as good as anything you buy in the store. But if my clients want more than, say, two hundred books, I job it out to a printer."

Dan looked at the fingers interlaced with his. "No ring."

"No husband. No fiance."

"Boyfriend?"

She tilted her head and looked at him. "No. How about you?"

"No husbands or boyfriends."

"That's a relief. What about women?"

"I like them."

"Well enough to have one of your very own?"

"Not so far," he said.

The corners of her mouth curved up slightly. She decided to give him some of his own conversational switches right back. "What do you think Sheriff Montoya will do?"

"File and forget."

She laughed. "What would it take to catch you off-balance?"

Dying children and a few slugs from a Kalashnikov. But saying that would start a conversation he didn't want to have.

"Did Winifred ever say how the rest of the family felt about the history she'd commissioned?" Dan asked.

"No. But I figured out real quick that not everyone was on board with the idea."

"The rat on your pillow?"

"Even before that."

His fingers tightened on hers. "What happened?"

"Nothing huge. When I got there, my room wasn't ready, and when it was ready, it wasn't exactly what I'd call the best room in either house. Alma was outright rude to me. Or maybe I'm just being oversensitive. The Senator's death caught everyone by surprise." She waved her free hand. "Whatever, only Winifred seemed glad to see me."

"Anyone else give you a hard time?"

"The governor's son is a jerk, but I don't think it's anything personal. Just his natural style."

"What about Anne Quintrell?" As Dan spoke, he absently ran his thumb up and down Carly's index finger.

"I was introduced to her after the funeral." The feel of Dan's thumb rubbing her skin sent a shiver of sensation over Carly. She swallowed and ignored it. "Anne Quintrell was polite. So was the governor. So was the rest of the staff, except for Alma. Maybe she was having a bad hair week."

Dan closed his eyes and began arranging and rearranging facts, possibilities, scenarios. While he thought fast, his thumb moved slowly back and forth, back and forth on Carly's finger. The lazy rhythm worked its way into her blood, scattering her thoughts.

"If you're trying to distract me, you're succeeding," she said after a minute.

"What?"

She tugged at her hand. "This."

Dan looked at their interlaced fingers. "Too tight?"

She slid her own thumb up and down his, stroking lazily. In the instant before he lowered his eyelids, she saw a flare of desire.

"See what I mean?" she said. "It's distracting."

"That's one word for it." After another slow stroke, he released her hand. "If Montoya tied you to a chair and grilled you like a lamb chop, what would you tell him about me?"

She didn't bother to hide her surprise. "I don't know enough to be worth grilling."

Dan knew he should leave it that way.

And he knew he wasn't going to.

Chapter 22

TAOS

LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON

LUCIA HEARD THE RUMBLE OF HER HUSBAND'S BIG FORD EXPEDITION, THE SLAM OF car doors, and the front door of her own house opening. Armando called to her in Spanish.

"English, my heart," she said, running out of the kitchen to meet him. "Otherwise the children will be left behind in school and you will be stuck with Anglos for lawyers and accountants."

Armando laughed and lifted Lucia in a big hug, enjoying the trim warmth of her against his sturdy body. Although he and his wife didn't agree on his career, they had real affection for one another. He'd had many women and would have many more. Only Lucia was his wife, the mother of his children.

One of Armando's bodyguards appeared at the front door. This man was slender, dressed in black, and carrying a slim black briefcase. Silently Armando gestured for him to enter.

"Come with me," Armando said to his wife.

Puzzled, Lucia followed her husband out of the house to the big black vehicle parked in the front yard a few feet from the front door.

"I can't leave the children," she said.

"You can hear them from here."

At another silent gesture from Armando, the bodyguard opened his briefcase, took out a handheld electronic sweeper, and went to work.

Armando closed the front door and turned to Lucia. "You had visitors last night. Were you with them the whole time?"

"I made coffee. I went to the bedroom to get photos."

He hissed through his teeth.

Shivering from more than the cold outside, Lucia waited for Armando to say something. He just rubbed her arms to warm them and stood with the air of a man waiting for something.

A few minutes later the bodyguard came out of the house. "Es okay," he said to Armando, mixing languages into a common border slang.