“Buenas tardes, señor,” he said, voice falsely bright. “I am a poor vaquero with a sordid history, and this beautiful woman is the daughter of some rancho’s patrón. What’s that, you ask? Why are we alone in the chaparral, looking very much worse for the wear and clearly running from something? Well, for that I have a perfectly reasonable answer. Vampires, señor. We are running from vampires.”
