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“Don’t move,” the man ordered in Spanish.

“He says not to move,” I murmured.

“Aye. Got the general idea.”

The stranger’s gaze stayed fixed on Lachlan. “Tell him to lower his gun,” he continued in Spanish.

“He wants you to lower your gun.”

“Tell him we don’t want trouble.”

I repeated Lachlan’s words in Spanish.

The man’s expression hardened. “Then why is he pointing a gun at me?”

I couldn’t fault his logic.

“He wants to know why you’re still pointing a gun at him if we don’t want trouble.”

Lachlan remained perfectly still, his pistol steady on the man.

“Tell him we’re trying to get away from armed men and we need a telephone. Nothing more.”

I did.

The stranger listened without lowering his weapon.

“If you want my help, tell him to lower his gun first.”

“He says if we want his help, you have to lower yours first.”

Lachlan glanced at me.

I knew exactly what he was weighing. We had spent the better part of two days running from men who wanted us dead, and now a stranger had a gun pointed at his chest—but we also needed help.

Slowly, Lachlan lowered his gun until the barrel pointed at the ground.

The man watched him closely.

Lachlan tucked the pistol back into his waistband and kept his hands where the man could see them.

“Tell him that’s as good a peace offering as he’s getting.”

I softened the message when I translated it. “We don’t want trouble. We only need to use a telephone, and then we’ll leave.”

The man kept his gun raised, although his stance eased slightly as he studied us.

“What are you doing on my land?”

“We’re trying to get away from armed men. We didn’t come here intending to cause any trouble.”

His gaze lingered on Lachlan’s bare chest before returning to me.

“Where did you come from?”

There was no believable lie that explained the blood on my clothes or Lachlan’s injuries.

“Finca La Cruzona,” I said.