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      To Bradley and Audrey Simkins at Booklovers Books…I love coming into the store and seeing gigantic posters of my novels covering the wall. Thanks for hand-selling so many of my novels. Thanks for coming out to any event where I need a bookseller. Thanks for doing the BBQ at my launch party each summer (no one can BBQ like you!). And thanks for constantly reminding me, just because of your own passion, how much I love everything about books.

      Dear Reader,

      It never fails. With each new set of books (I’ve been doing three per summer for a few years now) I seem to choose a favorite hero. One always intrigues me or resonates with me more than the other two, and this summer that’s the hero of this novel, Roderick Guerrero. Rod’s a character who has triumphed over a great deal of adversity. Instead of letting it break him, he’s used it to make himself wiser and stronger. I like people who’ve survived a few bumps. They’re always more textured, more interesting.

      The research for this novel took a little more time than usual, but I was glad of the opportunity. I learned a lot about Arizona and the area along the Mexican border. Although Bordertown is a fictional place, there are many towns similar to it, with lots of atmosphere and challenges. I think challenges make a place more interesting, too.

      I’d like to extend a special thank-you to Debbie Berke and Grant Noyes. Their names show up as characters in this novel because they were generous enough to purchase the privilege to help me support worthy causes such as fundraising for my children’s high school and diabetes research. To me, these are real heroes.

      I love to hear from readers. Please feel free to write me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611, or visit my Web site at www.brendanovak.com, where you can enter to win monthly draws, read samples of other books I’ve written, download a pdf list of all my titles or check out my annual online auction for diabetes research, which includes so many cool things. So far, together with my fans, friends and publishing associates, we’ve raised over $1 million for this cause. My youngest son is a Type 1 diabetic, so I live with it up close. A cure is my fondest dream.

      Love is the key!

      Brenda Novak

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Epilogue

      1

      Racism is man’s gravest threat to man—the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reasons.

      —Abraham J. Heschel, rabbi and philosopher (1907–72)

      Benita Sanchez was almost as afraid of running into a rattlesnake as she was U.S. Customs and Border Protection. The CBP would send her and her husband back to Mexico. But a snake… The way José said she should creep across the ground—always staying low, very low—made her feel so vulnerable. Snakes came out at night, when the temperature cooled. She could easily stumble into one. Maybe they’d hear a brief shake of the rattle, but they’d never see its beady eyes or sharp fangs before it struck. Since they’d lost their coyote, or smuggler, they had only the moon to help them. And it was barely a sliver—a sliver that looked like a tiny rent in a gigantic dome of black velvet, which was slowly turning purple as the night edged toward dawn.

      Although they’d crossed the border with thirty-one other Mexican nationals, they were now alone. Everyone had scattered when the border patrol spotted them more than twenty-four hours ago. Had any of those people made it safely back to Mexico? Or were they in some holding cell? She and José had escaped “La Migra,” but she was no longer sure she considered them lucky. Did José actually know where he was leading her? He said he did. He’d come to America once, but that was five years ago. And their coyote had promised they’d have only a six-hour walk. Even if she deducted for the time they’d spent sleeping, they’d been on their feet for eighteen.

      As they came to a cluster of mobile homes, José whispered to circle wide and crouch lower. He’d once told her it was easy to sneak across la frontera. But it hadn’t been easy at all. Although he’d insisted she wear several layers of clothing, the thorny plants that scrabbled for purchase in the rocky soil still managed to sink sharp spines through the fabric or scratch her somewhere she wasn’t covered. Add to that the hunger, thirst, homesickness and fear—fear of snakes, dogs, drug-runners, thieves, unfriendly Americans, La Migra—and it was almost unbearable. The whole world felt hostile.

      Tears