The Searchers. Kay David

miners better than they know themselves.”

      Eduard was right, but he was also wrong. For years, the family had had free rein over how they treated the workers, but times were changing. They wanted a fair wage and good doctors and schools for their children. Unlike everyone else in their family, Shepard agreed with the Minister of Mines who thought the men deserved more.

      “Have you picked out my casket?”

      Eduard’s question pulled Shepard from his thoughts. He sat down in the chair next to the bed. “No, I haven’t,” he answered. “Should I?”

      “If you listen to that man and do what he says, you’ll kill me,” Eduard replied. “You might as well attend to the details.”

      Shepard’s jaw tightened at Eduard’s drama. His father was a sick man—a sick seventy-year-old man—but he’d attempted, without much success, to manipulate Shepard for years. Thankfully, the door to the bedroom opened before Shepard could answer.

      Shepard’s mother and sister entered the room, the women moving toward the bed as if pulled by a string. An apt analogy, Shepard thought grimly. They were Eduard’s puppets, controlled by love, hate or greed. That’s why Eduard was always so frustrated with Shepard. He didn’t play along.

      Luisa, Shepard’s sister, kissed her father’s forehead then turned to Shepard. When she’d married twelve years ago, Eduard had purchased the home behind his own for her and she resided there with her son, Vincente, who was eleven, and her husband, Esteban.

      “How was your trip?” she asked. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over to see you but I’ve been busy.”

      As she spoke, she raised her hand and a brilliant flash of green pulled Shepard’s gaze. He reached out and stilled her fingers. She had on a new ring—a marquise-shaped emerald surrounded by yellow diamonds. It was gaudy and unattractive but very flashy. Just Luisa’s style.

      “Do you like it?” Her fingers in his, she turned her hand to catch the sun beside Eduard’s bed. “Esteban bought it for me last week.”

      Luisa’s husband had worked in the mines almost as long as Shepard but in direct contrast to Shepard, Esteban did as little as possible while grabbing as much as he could. Shepard looked up at his sister, his expression frozen above the ring. “Did he pay for it or steal it?”

      She snatched her hand from Shepard’s grip. “He bought it,” she said tightly. “You can check the manifests, if you doubt me.”

      “Don’t be so mean to your hermana.” In the soft, nonthreatening voice she always used, his mother, Marisol, scolded Shepard lightly. “She loves you.”

      “And I, her.” Shepard gave his sister an apologetic smile. She caught the sharp end of Marisol’s tongue as much as Shepard caught Eduard’s. Shepard pitied her more than anything. “But Papá pays me to watch the mines. I’m merely being a good businessman.”

      With a frown, his sister moved past him to the other side of the bed, his mother returning her attention to her husband.

      “How do you feel today?” she asked. “Did you drink your tea?”

      Shepard glanced into the cup beside his father’s bed. “Good God, Mother, what is that?”

      “All Heal,” she answered. “I’ve sprinkled it about the room, as well. It will help your father—”

      “The only person that stinking mess helps is Teresa.” Shepard grabbed the mug, then went to the window where he pitched out the pungent-smelling drink. Opening the bedroom door he placed the mug on a table in the corridor. “How much did you pay the witch for that disgusting stuff?”

      His mother crossed herself. “She’s not a witch. She’s a santera. Don’t speak of her like that.”

      Shepard hated the so-called “high priestess” his mother consulted. In his opinion all she did was relieve Marisol of cash and give nothing in return. Like many South Americans, however, Marisol liked to hedge her bets, keeping one foot in the traditional church, and the other with Santeria. Brought to the Americas with the slave trade, the religion was a complicated mixture of Catholic saints and African traditions, led by priests called santeros. All of them were well-versed in herbal remedies, which they claimed had power over everything from evil to insomnia.

      Javier hadn’t shared Shepard’s feelings. In fact, he and the woman had been lovers at one time. As far as Shepard knew, they’d broken up years before but he had no idea why. In his mind, they deserved one another. An unholy alliance.

      Shepard started to argue, but his father waved a weak hand, silencing them all. From the bed, his eyes drilled Shepard. “Let your mother have her silly herbs and your sister, her baubles. If you really want to do something to help me, then forget this ridiculous idea of opening a store and listen to your brother. He has a plan to get rid of that idiot minister. I want you to hear what he has to say.”

      Shepard could feel a muscle in his jaw twitch. Javier’s strategies frequently lay outside the law, which was quite an accomplishment considering almost anything could—and did—happen in Colombia with no one caring one way or the other.

      “That’s right.” A deep voice sounded behind them. “You should listen to your big brother, hermanito. He knows of what he speaks.”

      Marisol and Luisa greeted Javier with kisses but Shepard kept his seat.

      Javier came to Shepard and slapped him on the back. They shared a faint family resemblance but little else. Where Shepard’s weight was muscular and his face sharp, Javier’s features had been blurred by the life he’d led, his body made soft by his indulgences.

      “Was your trip to the States a good one?” His gaze was as steady as a hawk’s watching prey. “Did you find what you sought?”

      “I investigated the market,” Shepard answered casually, “but I’m not sure retail is the way we want to go. You know how complicated it can be.”

      Javier nodded. A countless number of jewelry stores in Bogota sold emeralds but the small shop they had in the upscale area of Bogota was special, mainly because of who they were. Frequented by tourists, the tiny bodega made an incredible amount of money yet the hassles were equally huge. To open a long-distance endeavor would be daunting. Shepard had needed an excuse to go to Houston, though.

      “I’m sure you will have something interesting to tell me, regardless of the outcome,” Javier replied.

      Shepard felt a flicker of unease then told himself he was being ridiculous. Javier couldn’t possibly know anything about Maya Vega. Not at this point, anyway. On the other hand, Javier’s doublespeak often covered up the truth. Shepard tilted his head slightly to indicate his agreement then made a mental note. He’d better check on Maya Vega…just to be sure.

      He didn’t need her blood on his hands, too.

      MAYA HAD SWORN she’d never return to Colombia, but the words of Shepard Reyes continued to disturb her the following week. They burned their way through all logic and common sense and the longer she considered the possibility that her son might be alive, the more urgent it seemed that she investigate the situation personally. The idea in and of itself—that her one offspring could possibly be alive—was almost overwhelming but stepping past that impossible point, was another issue, this one almost as upsetting. She didn’t trust any of the Reyeses. It was a huge leap to go from “Was he alive?” to the next question, but she’d made it quickly. If she was wrong and the boy had survived, what did Shepard want with him? Would he turn him into a Reyes? Teach him all their tricks?

      She’d investigated the family after she’d left Colombia and become successful, and the report had confirmed all she’d witnessed in her earlier years. The family was ruthless when it came to dealing with their workers and even more so with their rivals. Power and profits meant more to them than anything else. Much, much more.

      Renaldo had not been exempt from that attitude but she’d been too young and