The Heart of a Stranger. Sheri WhiteFeather
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room with a plate of food, she moved forward and took a chair.
“Look, Mama.” Nina pushed a coloring book toward her. “Juan made the lady’s hair green.”
He defended himself with his crooked smile. “You told me to,” he said to the child. “And you, you little rascal.” He turned to the other twin. “You told me to color her hands purple and her feet pink.”
Paige didn’t deny his claim. Instead she looked up at him with big doe eyes.
Her quiet daughter had already developed a crush on him, Lourdes realized. Paige, the observer, was smitten.
That made two of them. Only Paige’s crush didn’t seem nearly as consuming as the one Lourdes battled. But how could it? Paige was only four years old, with an attention span that flitted like a butterfly.
“That’s quite a picture,” Lourdes told the three amigos who’d created it. “A true masterpiece. A collaboration worth framing.”
“We think so.” Juan took the coloring book back. And for a moment their eyes met and held.
“I’m surprised to see you up and about,” she said to him.
“Staying in bed all the time was making me stir-crazy. Besides, I’m feeling better. I’m not seeing double anymore.” He shifted to look at each twin. “Then again…”
The girls giggled, and Lourdes admired his easy manner with her kids.
Maybe he had a few little ones of his own.
And a loyal wife who missed him terribly.
Defending herself, she took a bite of her sandwich. So she was attracted to him? So what? Even if he were single, she wouldn’t get involved with him. Lourdes didn’t do affairs.
She wouldn’t be doing Juan.
Amy, who’d been silent up until now, closed her sketchbook and rose. “I’m going to get some pudding and watch TV.”
“Can we get pudding and watch TV?” Nina chirped. She always spoke for her sister, making plans for both of them. Today they wore matching T-shirts and identical ponytails. They insisted on being groomed with the same clothes, the same shoes, the same accessories. If Nina sported a red hair ribbon, Paige did, too. If Paige picked a lavender dress from the mall, Nina decided lavender was her new favorite color, as well.
Lourdes granted them permission to follow Amy, and the trio scattered, leaving her and Juan alone.
Silence drifted between them.
Awkward silence.
Lourdes tasted the pasta salad, then wished she hadn’t. Suddenly she felt self-conscious chewing in front of him.
He began gathering crayons and dumping them into the plastic container in which the twins kept them.
She glanced at the cross around his neck. As usual, it dangled near his heart, shining like a memory.
Should she say something? Tell him it had once belonged to her?
No, she couldn’t. Not now. Not this soon. She wasn’t ready to spill her emotions. Or to explain that Cáco thought his arrival at the ranch was fate.
“Have you had lunch?” she asked instead.
“Cáco made soup and sandwiches. I ate with her and the girls.” He studied a broken crayon, a waxy, worn-down shade of blue. “I’m sorry if I said some strange things.”
She tried for a casual air. “Strange things?”
“When my brain was bumbled.”
“You didn’t.” But he did, she thought. He’d said plenty of strange things. Sexy, she-was-his-dream things. “I mean, it’s okay. You were confused.” But he seemed focused today, completely aware of his surroundings. He still appeared tired, though, as if he needed a nap.
“Are you ready to talk to the police?” she asked.
He shuffled the broken pieces of the blue crayon. “To question them about missing persons in the area? No, I’m not. I’d prefer to regain my memory first. Cáco is convinced my amnesia is only temporary.”
“Juan, someone is probably worried about you, wondering where you are. Surely you have family somewhere.” Dare she say it? “A wife. Children.”
“I’m not married,” he responded quickly.
Too quickly? she wondered.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I can feel things about myself. And I know I’m not married. There’s no one special in my life. Nor do I have children.”
He made a troubled face, and she suspected some of the things he “felt” about himself made him uncomfortable.
“Cáco says I need some time to adjust.”
She picked at her sandwich. Was he avoiding his real identity on purpose? Hiding from mysterious shadows? From dimly lit corners? Or was he simply trying to make peace with his empty mind?
Now wasn’t the time to ask.
She would let him adjust, and then she would question him.
Because Lourdes Quinterez had the right to know what kind of man Juan Guapo truly was.
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