“Yeah.” Pilar smiled back at her. “I remember.”

Miguel’s hand descended on Loup’s head, turning her gaze back toward the ring. “No canoodling.”

“What’s canoodling?” Pilar whispered into Loup’s ear.

Loup shivered.

“Ecchevarria!” Miguel raised his voice. “Get your goddamn tongue out of her ear. This is serious business.”

“We’re not gonna see anything new for the rest of this fight, Mig,” Loup said mildly. “Not unless Bob grows an extra set of arms.”

“Shut up and watch.”

She was right. After the first round, Terry Flynn backed off a little, content to treat the match as though it were a workout, not a prizefight, and he was sparring with a mismatched partner. They could see the relief on Bob Reyes’ face, and Loup was glad for him. He lost on points by a huge margin, but he was still standing when the bell signaled the end of the final round. A big grin split his face and Outpost cheered. In the spirit of good sportsmanship, Flynn gave him a one-armed hug.

“Aw, fuck!” Miguel said in disgust. “C’mon. I’ll buy you both a beer. Loup, I wanna know what you think.”

They went to a bar called the Jericho—another small, local place, this one favored by the Garzas and their crew. Miguel picked a secluded corner table that was already occupied.

“Out.”

The occupants deserted it. A bartender hurried over with three bottles of beer.

“Okay.” Miguel sat across from Loup, leaning forward. “Coach said you could predict fights. He said all you had to do was see the fighters to get it right most every time. If you’d seen ’em fight, always.”

“Not always, not exactly.”

“Damn close, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey.” A young guy with a pool cue in his hand approached the table. “Wanna play?” he asked Pilar.

Miguel scowled. “Beat it!”

“Sure, I’ll play,” Pilar said in a good-natured tone. She got up, ruffled Loup’s hair. “I don’t need to listen to boxing talk, baby.”

“Okay.”

“So let me have it,” Miguel said when she was gone. “You know me. You’ve seen the new guy. How’s it gonna play out?”

“Right now?” Loup took a swig of beer. “Outside of conditioning, you’re pretty evenly matched. He doesn’t hit as hard as you do, but he’s a little faster and he’s slippery. You’re a good boxer. So’s he, and he’s fucking fit as hell. If you don’t take him down in the first three or four rounds, he wins. Right now, that’s what I see happening.”

He leaned closer. “So how do I beat him?”

“Jesus, Miguel!” She shook her head. “You want strategy, ask the coach. I’m not a coach.”

“Yeah, but you see things,” he persisted.

Loup sighed. “You want me to say something like, he drops his guard when he throws a left uppercut, right?”

Miguel’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, exactly!”

“He does, but only a little. It’s so quick most people wouldn’t see it. I could tag him, sure. You couldn’t. Mig, I’m sorry. I mean, I can guess what the coach’s gonna say, but so can you.”

He grunted. “Treadmill and bag work.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for trying.” Miguel leaned back, drained half his beer. He gave the bottle a rueful look. “Guess I’m just looking for a shortcut, same as always.” He glanced across the bar. Pilar was leaning over the pool table, lining up a shot. Two guys were jostling each other in an effort to assist her. “Looks like you’ve got some competition there, kid.”

“Nah.” Loup smiled. “She’s just having fun.”

Across the bar, Pilar sank her shot. She straightened, caught Loup’s eye, and blew her a kiss. One of the guys staggered, pretending to clutch at his heart in dismay.

“No wonder you’re all goo-goo eyed,” Miguel said wryly. “You two are about as cute as a box of fuckin’ kittens.”

She laughed.

“You doing okay with it?” His voice softened. “Figuring shit out?”

“Not exactly,” Loup said honestly.

Miguel nodded. “I get that.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Coach Roberts gave Miguel six months to get in shape.

“Six months!” Miguel puffed out his chest in indignation. “Oh, c’mon. I’m not that bad off. I get to call my shot, that’s the deal. Three.”

“You want to call the shots or you want to win, son?”

He acquiesced with ill grace. “Fine. Six months.”

Inside the ring, Miguel pushed himself. He had Loup to help him and he liked fighting. Outside the ring, he struggled.

Loup struggled, too.

Her world was in flux. The Santitos were dwindling, changing. Mr. Ketterling, the bitter teacher who’d hit Tommy with a yardstick, had long since drunk himself to death, replaced by a piecemeal series of volunteers. Father Ramon talked Danny Garza into providing funding to let Jaime teach a special program for some of the brightest kids in Outpost.

“Hey, that’s perfect for you!” T.Y. said enthusiastically when Jaime told them the news. “That’s great!”

“God, you’re an idiot,” Jane muttered.

“He’s just trying to be nice.” Jaime smiled wistfully. “Yeah, T.Y. It’s great.”

“So what would perfect be?” Mack asked.

“College.” Jane answered for him, throwing a textbook across the room with unexpected force. “Graduate school. Jaime ought to be studying biological engineering, not playing teacher. I want to go to medical school.”

“I thought Sister Martha offered you an official position in the dispensary,” C.C. commented.

Jane shot him a withering glance. “And that’s as good as it gets. I’ll be an assistant to an unlicensed, self-taught nurse pretending to be a nun. Someday, God willing, I’ll even inherit the job.”

“At least you’re doing something good with your lives,” Loup offered.

Pilar gave her a troubled look.

“Yeah,” Jaime agreed. “That helps. It really does.”

It wasn’t a lot of money, but together it would be enough to allow them to move out and rent an apartment a block away. There was plenty of space available in Outpost, but precious little that offered electricity and running water.

For that, you had to pay.

Katya found a way, too. In the Outpost tradition that had begun a generation earlier, her Sergeant Buckland had made the offer to keep her in style. She made her announcement the same night, inspired by Jaime and Jane’s.

“And you all called me a gold-digger!” Pilar said with asperity.

T.Y. flushed. “You heard about that?”

She shook her head. “Lucky guess.”

“Yeah, well, that was before you decided to switch teams and run for Dyke of the Year,” Jane said. Genuine concern tempered her usual sharp edge. “Kotch, are you sure?”

Katya defended her choice. “He’s not like the others.”

“Not a dog-killing rapist, you mean?” C.C. drawled.

“Fuck you!”

“Pax Olivia, guys.” Mack silenced them. “Katya, are you sure? I’ve talked to Mike Buckland; he seems like a decent guy. But he’s a soldier. In a year’s time, he’s out of here.”

“Not if he gets promoted to staff sergeant.” Her cheeks were pink—half anger, half nervous defiance. “He says he’ll stay. Extend his tour, get a bonus. He says in another two, three years, they’ll lighten up on the restrictions. And maybe we can get married.”

“Honey, they all say that,” Pilar murmured.

Katya set her jaw. “Michael means it.”

“I hope to hell you’re right,” Mack said quietly.

The church never felt empty; it was the center of too much activity, especially during the day. Even the Santitos who left drifted back for dinner half the time, and sometimes it felt like old times. C.C. and T.Y. stayed, doing their part to keep the church running. Casting nets, trying to figure out what to do with their lives. There was Dondi, still the baby of the family at fifteen, not ready to leave the nest. Mack, living above the garage—a steady presence and a pair of steady hands.

And as always, there was Father Ramon and Sister Martha and Anna, the collective beating heart of Santa Olivia.

But at night it felt emptier.

Which wasn’t all bad.

“Wow,” Pilar said the first night that Jane and Katya were gone. She held the oil lamp aloft, surveying the rows of empty cots, casting angular shadows the length of the narrow room. “Weird. I guess it’s just us now, baby.” She looked sidelong at Loup. “Do you think we oughta—”

“Are you kidding?” Loup was already shoving their cots together and rearranging the sheets. “Hell, yeah.”

“Stupid question,” Pilar agreed. “C’mere.”

They made love for hours that first night, trading positions, experimenting, reveling in the luxury of the time and plenitude of a shared bed and a night to spend in it. Bare skin against skin, a tangle of tongues and desire, bodies sliding together. The lamp burned low, guttered, went out. The sky lightened in the east, pale gray dawn showing in the high-arched windows.

“Loup.” Pilar whispered her name, fingers tangled in her hair. “I love you.”

Loup lifted her head, eyes soft. “I love you, too.”

“I wanted to say it first.” Pilar’s fingers tightened. “Because I’m scared and you’re not.”

“Pilar…”

“Hush.” Pilar kissed her. “Just hush, baby.”

It lay between them, unspoken. At night it almost didn’t matter. There was the bed and solitude and unbroken stretches of time. The novelty showed no signs of wearing off. There was the tenderness of those whispered confessions, the hectic giddiness of those first months growing into something deeper and more solid.