Someone to Watch Over Me. Roz Fox Denny

restaurants put triple stars or something on the menu to flag food that’s extra spicy? You need a fire truck painted next to this stuff.” With that, he moved the pitcher and began separating sections of his newspaper. He’d bought it because he wanted to relax over a cup of coffee and take a gander at the real estate section.

      Isabella took the hint, and slipped his bill under the pitcher. After a last worried frown aimed at his bent head, she returned to the kitchen.

      Damn, but his tongue still felt numb. Picking up the fork he’d dropped at the start of his fool’s dance, Gabe prodded the innocent-looking side dish. He wondered about Isabella’s impression of him and decided he must’ve come across as a complete jerk. He grimaced at the thought.

      Gabe dug into his migas with a new determination. If Isabella and her family ate five-alarm stuff like this regularly, he was damn well going to choke it down with a straight face.

      It took him half a pitcher of milk, but in time he cleaned his plate. Well, except for three big chunks of pepper. And boy, had she been right about the ham. Terrific stuff.

      Full and mostly satisfied, Gabe pushed his plate aside. He settled down to read the paper, raising his head only briefly when the outer door opened. Seeing four elderly women, not one of whom he knew, Gabe dismissed them with an impersonal smile.

      They, however, stopped their chatter to scrutinize him curiously.

      But he’d found something interesting in the ads. Reading soon claimed his attention again. Two large farms, plus a ranchette, were listed for sale within the boundaries he’d learned made up the Basque community. The Inn’s clerk had circled the area on Gabe’s map after he’d made a few casual inquires this morning. The lonely clerk loved to talk. She was more than happy to educate him on all the local lore. The primary fact of interest to Gabe was that the richest soil in the area lay within the Basque territory.

      If he bought a farm—although Gabe wasn’t at all sure he should—he’d want it to pay. His friends teased him by calling him the banker. It wasn’t really a joke; his attitude was that of a banker. A successful one. He was financially cautious, always sought as much information as possible and only took judicious risks. Gabe noticed the guys didn’t complain when he’d steered them toward investments that made them rich.

      In the middle of checking the last column of ads, it became apparent to him that Isabella’s customers, who’d been yammering in the background in both English and Basque, had suddenly begun to whisper. Cocking an ear, he soon suspected he was the topic of their hushed conversation. What could they be saying about him?

      Jeez, maybe men didn’t frequent Isabella’s bakery. Afraid he might be breaking some local taboo, he quickly folded his paper and tucked it under one arm. He gave the women huddled around one of the display cases a wide berth as he extracted his wallet. Dropping his cash and the bill next to the cash register, Gabe acknowledged the now-silent group with a nod. Then he beat a hasty retreat.

      QUITE FRANKLY, Isabella was overjoyed to see him leave. She’d grown weary of fending off the questions from her Aunt Carmen’s friends. They weren’t accustomed to finding a strange man seated in her bakery at midmorning when they came in to do their daily shopping. Yet when she started to punch Gabe’s payment into the cash register, she saw he’d left a ten-dollar bill to cover a four-fifty meal. “Wait!” she called to his disappearing back. “Mr. Poston. Gabe…you forgot your change.”

      He stopped, one foot already out the door. “You didn’t bill me for the milk.”

      “Goodness, you didn’t drink anywhere near five dollars’ worth of milk.”

      “Call the remainder a fee for teaching me how to douse a chile fire.” He couldn’t suppress a grin. The doorbell tinkled merrily as he closed it.

      Dolores Santiago, the next-door neighbor of Isabella’s Aunt Carmen, announced, “He’s exactly the way Trini and Sylvia described him to Carmen. Deny it all you want, Bella, the man is clearly smitten with you.”

      “And he’s a big spender,” Nona Baroja pointed out, tapping the ten-dollar bill with a brightly polished fingernail.

      Isabella jerked the money aside with a stern expression as she shoved the cash in the till. “Nonsense.” She slammed the cash drawer closed. “Not five minutes ago you were all ready to sic my brothers on the poor man. None of which is relevant, anyway,” she said, giving a curt wave of her hand. “As I’m sure Aunt Carmen told you, Gabe Poston is employed by the environmental agency responsible for saving Summer’s ranch from a resort developer. He’s only in town for his friend’s wedding. He’ll be gone soon.”

      Nona shook her head so vigorously she loosened the ornate silver clip holding back her gray-streaked hair. “That one’s not leaving anytime soon. Am I the only one with sharp eyes? He was circling real estate ads in the Callanton paper.”

      The bell over the door jingled. They all glanced up guiltily, apparently assuming that the man they were heatedly discussing had for some reason returned. But Isabella’s younger sister breezed in. She carried two bouquets of spring flowers and her face was flushed with excitement.

      “Bella, was the man I just saw pulling away from the bakery your admirer at Summer’s reception?”

      Isabella pursed her lips tightly.

      Dolores answered in a roundabout way. “Nona thinks he’s planning on settling in the valley.”

      “In our valley? Or somewhere near Colt and Summer?” Trini handed her sister the bouquets and watched as Isabella placed them in cans and set them in a nearly empty upright cooler.

      “Nona doesn’t know that he’s buying anything,” Isabella rushed to say. “He was reading the real estate ads. So he happened to open that section. So what?”

      “I saw what I saw,” the short plump woman insisted. “He had a red pen in his hand, and he’d already circled at least two ads. One said acreage for sale.”

      “Interesting,” Trini drawled. “I wonder if he’d like some suggestions on where to find the best land?”

      Two of the shoppers who’d remained silent up to now both pounced on Trini. “You know very well Luisa and Benito want you to marry Paul Cruz,” the elder of the two said. “You wouldn’t catch Paul languishing in a bakery midday.”

      “Paul Cruz is a jerk.”

      “If you don’t trust your elders’ judgment,” the skinny woman sniffed, “ask Claudia Durazo and Teresa Castillo what it’s like trying to fit into a foreigner’s way of life. Our great-grandparents didn’t come all this way to dilute our bloodlines through intermarriage. You should respect your parents’ wishes, Trinidad Lucinda.”

      Isabella saw Trini make gagging motions behind the women’s backs. “Trini shouldn’t marry to please anyone but herself. If she doesn’t love Paul, she needs to keep looking until she does fall in love.”

      “Love can come slowly.” Dolores wagged a finger. “Sometimes you need to live with a man and work shoulder to shoulder with him to appreciate his good qualities.”

      “And sometimes he doesn’t have any good qualities,” Isabella insisted just as doggedly.

      “Bella, Bella,” cried Nona, flapping her work-worn hands. “Don’t judge poor Paul based on your experience with Julian. Even his dear mother said Julian’s mind snapped after you filed for divorce.” Nona didn’t actually say that Isabella bore some responsibility for Julian’s terrible deed, but it was implied all the same.

      The Navarro sisters drifted closer together for support, and Trini immediately came to Isabella’s defense. “Julian was a horse’s patoot long before Bella woke up and decided to dump him.”

      Dolores Santiago muttered and crossed herself. “The Church counsels couples on working through personal problems. It’s common knowledge that Bella stopped going to counseling, while Julian continued on alone for over a month.”

      Few