Scent Of Roses. Kat Martin

      “Sí, that would be good.” Raul rarely slipped into his native language, only when he was angry or nervous. Still, he was smiling. Sometimes nervous could be good.

      “Your sister will be so pleased.”

      His smile broadened. “Maria will be happy for me. Miguel, I think, too.”

      “Yes, I think they will both be very happy you made this decision.”

      They said their farewells to Sam, who promised to give her a personal tour of the farm whenever she had time, and they started back to the car.

      She was feeling extremely pleased with the way the afternoon had gone when she glanced at Raul and saw that his smile had faded.

      “What is it, Raul?”

      “I am nervous. I want to do this right.”

      “You will. You’ve got lots of people to help you.”

      Still, he didn’t relax. She knew he was worried that he would somehow fail. It was the failures, she had learned, that most of these young Hispanics remembered and those failures shaped their lives. But Raul had a number of accomplishments as well. He had stayed drug-free for a year and now he had pledged a year of his life to Teen Vision.

      “Will you be seeing your sister tonight? I know how excited she’ll be.”

      Instead of a smile, Raul frowned. “I will stop by and tell her the news.” He glanced in her direction. “I am worried about her.”

      “Why? She isn’t having trouble with her pregnancy, I hope?” Though Maria was just nineteen, this was her second pregnancy. Last year, she had suffered a miscarriage. Elizabeth knew how much this baby meant to her and Miguel.

      “It isn’t the baby. It is something else. Maria won’t say what.” His black eyes came to rest on her face. “Maybe you could talk to her. If you did, maybe she would tell you what is wrong.”

      She didn’t like the sound of that. Though Maria’s husband was a stereotypical macho Hispanic, convinced the man was the undisputed head of the family, the couple seemed happy. She hoped they weren’t having marital problems.

      “I’d be glad to talk to her, Raul. Tell her to call me at the office and we’ll set up a time.”

      “I will tell her. But I do not think she will call.” Raul said no more.

      As Elizabeth slid behind the wheel of the car, hissing at the heat of the red leather seat against her skin, she cast a last glance at the barn under construction. Only two sides of the building had been framed, but they were making good progress. She studied the group still hammering away, but the dark-haired man was gone.

      Sitting in the passenger side, Raul snapped his seat belt in place and Elizabeth started the engine. As they drove back to town, the boy seemed miles away and she wondered if his thoughts were on the very different future he was about to undertake, or if he was worried about his sister.

      Elizabeth made a mental note to stop by the little yellow house occupied by Miguel Santiago and his pretty young wife. She would speak to Maria, see what was wrong, find out if there was something she could do.

      Two

      The hour was late. The night black as ink, just a fingernail moon casting a thin ray of white into the darkness. The smell of newly mown hay hung in the air, along with the rich musk of freshly tilled soil. Inside the house, Maria Santiago snapped off the small TV that sat on a little wooden table against the wall of her sparsely furnished living room.

      Though the house wasn’t large, just two bedrooms and a bath, it was only four years old and solidly built, with yellow plaster walls outside and a simple asphalt tile roof. The house had been freshly painted just before they moved in and the beige carpet looked almost new.

      Maria had loved the house from the moment she and Miguel had seen it. With its grassy backyard and zinnia-filled flower beds next to the porch out in front, it was the nicest place she had ever lived. Miguel loved it, too, and he was proud of being able to provide such a home for his wife and the baby that was soon to come.

      Miguel wanted a child even more than Maria. Aside from Maria and Raul, he didn’t have much family, at least not nearby. Most of Miguel’s family lived in the San Joaquin Valley farther north, near Modesto. Maria’s mother had died when she was fourteen, and she had never known her father. Her mother once told her he had left when Raul was born and no one had seen him since.

      With her parents gone and no one to care for them, Maria and Raul had moved in with a couple named Hernandez, migratory workers who traveled the agricultural circuit. One of the jobs they had worked had been in the orchards, harvesting almonds for Harcourt Farms, and that was where Maria had met Miguel. She had been not quite fifteen, her brother only thirteen, and Miguel Santiago had been their salvation.

      They had married the day of her fifteenth birthday and when the workers left for their next job, both she and Raul had stayed with Miguel on the farm. Though he earned barely enough to get by, there was plenty to eat, and Raul could go to school. He had attended faithfully for the entire first year, but being so far behind the other kids, in a short time he had rebelled and refused to go.

      He had begun to stay out late, to hang around with a bad element. Eventually, he had gotten into trouble and been sent to a foster home. Finally, he’d wound up in juvenile hall. Recently, he had been released into a halfway house and soon would be living at Teen Vision.

      It seemed a miracle had occurred.

      Another had happened two months ago, when her husband had received a promotion to overseer—one of four on the farm. He had been given a raise and a house to live in as part of his higher salary.

      It was a very nice house, Maria thought again as she untied the sash on her bathrobe and tossed it over a chair. Dressed in a short white nylon nightgown that fanned out over her growing belly, she walked toward the bed, wishing Miguel would get home. But he often worked late in the fields and she had mostly gotten used to it.

      Except that lately, when he didn’t get home and the hour grew late, Maria was afraid.

      She flicked a glance at the bed, her gaze lighting on the comfortable queen-size mattress, bigger than any she had ever slept in before.

      She ached to slide beneath the covers, to rest her head on one of the pillows and drift off to sleep. She was so very tired. Her back ached and her feet hurt. Surely tonight she would sleep and not wake up until Miguel came home. Surely, what had happened to her last week and the week before would not happen again tonight.

      It was after midnight, the house completely quiet as she pulled back the pretty yellow quilt on top of the bed and lay down on the mattress, pulling the sheet up beneath her chin.

      She could hear the crickets in the field and the gentle, rhythmic sound gave her comfort. The pillow felt soft beneath her head. Her long black hair, left unbound the way Miguel liked it, teased her cheek as she shifted on the mattress, and her eyes drifted closed.

      For a while, she dozed peacefully, unaware of the eerie creaks and moans, of the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Then the air grew thicker, denser, and the soothing chirp of the crickets abruptly halted.

      Maria’s eyes snapped open. She was staring up at the ceiling and a heavy weight seemed to be pressing down on her chest. She could hear the eerie moaning, the creaking that wasn’t the wind. In the darkness of the bedroom, the sickening, suffocating smell of roses drifted into her nostrils and the bile rose in her throat.

      The putrid smell enveloped her, seemed to force her down in the mattress, to suck the air from her lungs. She tried to sit up, but she couldn’t move. She tried to cry out, but no sound came from her throat.

      Oh, Madre de Dios! Mother of God, protect me!

      Silently she began to pray, to beg the Virgin Mary to save her, to send the evil away.

      She was so frightened! She didn’t understand what