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“Ciro’s men have brought enough trouble here.” His English was careful, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. “They take harvests. Trucks. Sons when they need drivers. Sometimes daughters when one of them sees a girl he wants.”

A shiver ran through me.

I’d spent my entire life inside Finca La Cruzona without understanding how far Ciro’s cruelty reached beyond its walls.

“I’m sorry.”

The farmer’s attention returned to me.

“You did these things?”

“No. Never.”

“Then do not apologize for him.”

I had no answer to that.

He looked toward the mountain again. “Ciro Delgado is dead. That is good news. His men fighting each other may be even better.”

Only then did his gun finally lower toward the ground.

“My cousin José is a permanent deacon at Capilla Nuestra Señora del Refugio, a few kilometers from here. There is a telephone there, and José will know somewhere you can stay out of sight.”

Relief came so suddenly that I had to swallow before I could answer. A telephone meant Lachlan could finally make contact with Lucian and the men searching for him. Since yesterday, we’d been running and hiding with no way to tell anyone where we were. Now we finally could—and hope they could find a way to get us out.

The farmer glanced toward the fading light. “If we’re going to reach the chapel before it’s fully dark, we need to move.”

His attention shifted to Lachlan. “The guns stay where they are. If you reach for one, I shoot.”

Lachlan nodded once. “Fair.”

The farmer motioned with his pistol. “You walk in front of me. Both of you. Stay on the path, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Understood,” Lachlan said.

Lachlan moved beside me, and we started down the path the farmer had indicated. He followed several paces behind us, directing us whenever the path divided, his gun still in his hand. He had agreed to help, but he clearly hadn’t decided to trust us. I couldn’t blame him.

We followed a series of narrow paths through the farmland while the sun sank behind the mountain. The golden light faded quickly beneath the trees, and by the time a small white chapel appeared ahead, evening had settled over the area.

A modest house stood across from it, warm light glowing through its windows. The smell of onions, fresh tortillas, and something savory simmering on the stove reached us before we made it to the front porch.

My stomach grumbled loud enough to remind me how little we had eaten.

A dog began barking somewhere near the front of the house as we approached.

The door opened, and a moment later, another man stepped outside, looking toward the sound. Silver threaded his dark hair, and a pair of reading glasses rested on top of his head.

“José,” the farmer called.

The man’s attention shifted from the dog to us, and his expression changed immediately.

José’s gaze swept over us, then dropped to the pistol the farmer still held.

“What’s going on, Miguel?”

Miguel gave him the short version in rapid Spanish, explaining that we had escaped La Cruzona, Ciro Delgado was dead, and we needed a telephone to contact those who were searching for us.

José listened without interrupting, his face tightening as Miguel spoke.