Order (A Romantic Suspense Royal Billionaire Novel)

by Blair Babylon

  As her blouse opened, the woman’s left breast was entirely rotted away by cancer, and the ulcer had infiltrated her torso and ripped open her skin over her ribs.

  Dree did not react.

  After a quick examination to make sure that the gaping, oozing wound was indeed cancer and not something that Dree could cure or even treat, Dree sat on the table beside the woman.

  The woman did not pull away, so Dree opened her hand next to her leg. The woman took her hand and held on.

  Dree told Batsa to say, “I am sorry. I am so sorry. This is very bad, indeed. I am sorry there is nothing I can do to help this, and you should do whatever you need to before the end of your life.”

  She wasn’t sure how to say that the woman should put her affairs in order, and that was the best she could come up with.

  After digging through the bag, Dree found some strong painkillers, which she gave to the woman to take home with instructions through Batsa.

  The rest of the clinic that day was subdued, even though Dree evaluated three perfectly healthy, chubby, and robust babies, whom she inoculated against several deadly childhood diseases that they would now never experience. Usually, even one well-baby patient was enough to make her day, but nothing seemed to lift the soggy weight around her head and heart.

  She did manage to sleep after that day, and the next morning was the usual discussion of a possible construction site for a NICU micro-clinic that should never be built. Then, they headed out on another frigid motorcycle ride to yet another small community desperately in need of far more help than she could give them.

  The dirt roads they traveled clung to the steep faces of the Himalayan mountains, a craggy rock wall on one side of the road, and a sheer cliff that dropped straight toward a dry riverbed on the other.

  Rocks, gravel, and small boulders littered the road in shades of silver, pale umber, tawny yellow, and white.

  The valleys were slashes between the towering mountains, knifed into the earth by water. No trees and few bushes grew on this moonscape that reminded her more of the white gypsum sand dunes in the northern Chihuahuan Desert of New Mexico than any mountain range she’d ever seen.

  One rockfall from the stony heights far above was still so loose that they dismounted and carefully walked their bikes over the least obstructed part. The fallen rocks were limestone, sandstone, and marble, which were more easily eroded than some of the slate and granite farther up the mountain.

  Maybe the prevalence of fallen rocks should have warned them, but they rode on along the road that clung to the side of the cliff, hoping and praying that no large rocks would fall into their path or hit them, until their luck ran out.

  Chapter Eleven

  Crash and Burn

  Maxence

  Maxence didn’t see the jagged stone falling down the side of the mountain until it slammed into the front tire of his motorcycle.

  As usual, he had crowded Dree up in front of him so that she was in the second position behind Batsa. It was just bad luck that Father Booker, Alfonso, and Isaak had also motored ahead of him, and Maxence was in the very last position when a rock bigger than his motorcycle helmet slipped off the cliff face and hit him.

  Before he could swivel or dodge or even change the angle of impact, the black and ivory stone smashed the motorcycle’s front wheel out from under him.

  He skidded sideways.

  The hard fall onto his side slammed through him, and he skidded over the ground.

  The padded black leather of his riding suit shredded on the limestone sand and gravel.

  The bike tumbled behind him, breaking apart.

  One tire went over the edge of the road.

  The rest of the motorcycles disappeared around the next bend in a puff of gasoline-scented exhaust.

  Maxence rolled, the sharp stones and dirt banging on his elbows and knees and hips.

  He tumbled to the edge of the sharp precipice, the upper half of his body dangling precariously over the long drop down to the river at the bottom of the gorge.

  Through the visor of his heavy helmet that pulled him down toward the yellow-gray, barren abyss, he watched his front tire spin, bounce, plummet, and plunge down-down-down the cliff, until it rolled to a stop behind a large rock, still only a third of the way to the bottom far below.

  Maxence scrambled away from the edge and crawled to the other side of the road, collapsing next to the wall.

  His abdomen didn’t feel like anything major had ruptured inside, though he was already sore from deep bruises. He didn’t feel ripped apart, though.

  No sharp pains of broken bones lanced through him, which was astonishing. Father Booker could commend Maxence to the Vatican for sainthood on the strength of that miracle, alone.

  Yeah, no one was going to mistake Maxence for a saint.

  His mind was simultaneously traveling through an emotional fog and making razor-sharp evaluations of his current state, which he concluded must be due to shock and adrenaline racing through his body.

  He gingerly pulled himself into a seated position, resting his back against the granite cliff on that side of the road, although he kept glancing up to make sure no more rocks were falling that might smash him in the head. He wrenched his motorcycle helmet off and unthreaded his arms from the straps of his backpack.

  His helmet appeared undented, though long scratches cut parallel lines into its glittery finish.

  The rear wheel of his motorcycle, still attached to what remained of the body, spun lazily in the late morning sunshine. Other parts lay strewn across the asphalt. A dark gold stain spread under the engine, and gasoline trickled from behind the bike and down the mountain road.

  The faint roar of the other motorcycles echoing off the mountains toward the other end of the valley faded away.

  His choices were to stay where he was and wait for rescue or to walk to the next village, which should be about forty miles farther down the road. The previous town was farther away.

  The road stretched away from him in both directions.

  He wondered how often trucks traveled on this road during the winter. Hours or weeks might pass before the next delivery truck rumbled by on its way to supply the small village stores with flour, sugar, rice, and other staples.

  The rear part of the motorcycle hadn’t gone over the edge of the cliff. His saddlebags contained a few essentials like energy bars that might keep him alive for days. Water was going to be a problem. Very little precipitation fell in Nepal during this time of the year, if any. The villages drew their water either from running rivers or from enormous ice-wells, an evaporation-cooled technology that grew a massive stalagmite of ice during the rainy season that could then be harvested during the dry parts of the year. But he knew there wouldn’t be any ice wells near such a remote stretch of highway.

  Upon further consideration, Maxence believed that he was not gravely injured, and his best option was to walk to the next town, even though he expected it to take at least two days.

  Carefully, he held onto the rock wall and drew himself to his feet, noting that one of his motorcycle boots had taken the brunt of the skid over the rocks and dirt. The part that covered his ankle was shredded, and his boot flapped against the bottom of his foot when he cautiously took a step.

  Maxence was far enough away from a bend on the road that he would have time to make it back to the wall if a truck lumbered around one of the far turns, so he limped across the few feet of dirt road to his decapitated motorcycle.

  The medical and food supplies in the steel boxes over the back tire were mostly unscathed. A few of the protein bars bent at odd angles, and some of the boxes of bandages were banged up. He started moving everything in his saddlebags to his backpack, triaging what supplies were the most important, like vaccines, and which could be purchased again in Chandannath, like dry rice.

  He ripped open a protein bar and ate it because it was easier than stuffing it in his backpack with everything else.

  His teeth all seem
to be firmly planted in his mouth.

  That was a good sign.

  He patted his helmet in thanks.

  He considered his most serious challenges to his survival. The temperature was going to be a problem.

  The nights had been well below freezing for the last week, and even the tent with Dree had gotten quite chilly. His bedroll was strapped to the base of his backpack and seemed to have survived the crash without rips.

  In the saddlebags of the motorcycle, he also found one mirror-shiny thermal blanket, which he could put underneath and around the mummy bag, and several of the chemical hand-warmer packs that Father Moses had sent for Dree.

  Since his alpine-rated mummy-style sleeping bag was intact and he had the other supplies, he stood a decent chance of not freezing to death.

  Not that freezing to death was a bad way to go. You were cold, and then you weren’t, and then you went to sleep.

  Drowning was worse.

  So was starvation.

  Well, if he froze to death in the sleeping bag, then that’s how it was.

  But in the meantime, he could start walking to the next village where he would find supplies and, hopefully, Dree and the guys.

  He replaced his superficially damaged helmet on his head because it would keep both his scalp and face warmer, and it would protect him from any small rocks that fell off the side of the mountain.

  With the most precious of their medical supplies safely stowed in his backpack, Maxence hitched it up around his shoulders and began his forty-mile hike. He didn’t think he had six hours of sunlight left. Most likely, he would need to make camp at least one night, alone, out in the hinterlands of Nepal.

  He had shoved his gloved hands into his pockets for warmth, so he couldn’t pull out his phone to read one of the daytime prayers of the Holy Office. Since he thought that he was probably in mortal danger from hypothermia, the Jewish law of Pikuach Nefesh, which is the principle that saving a specific human life overrides every other tenant of the Torah, applied to his situation. God would probably forgive that he had replaced saying specific Psalms ascribed to the day with ardent prayer because he suspected that even moving his hands from his pocket to hold his phone might cause a drop in his body temperature that might lead to his death.

  He kept to the side of the road with the rock wall. If a supply truck came, there was a good chance he could leap on some rocks to signal them to stop and rescue him, or he could at least keep a large rock between himself and the truck so it wouldn’t run him over.

  If he’d walked on the cliff-side of the road, his choice would have been allowing the truck to run him over or leaping to his probable death down the sheer, rocky face of the mountain.

  He had walked for about five minutes, hiking steadily, when in the far distance, he heard the distinct rumble of an engine.

  Excellent. He’d heard it coming from far enough away that he could find a safe place from which to signal them or to avoid being run over.

  Within a minute, he reached a small pile of fallen rubble, and he climbed upon it to use as a vantage perch.

  The truck’s roar amplified as it neared. The grumbly wail of the engine suggested that it was probably large and diesel, so there was a chance he would be riding in the cab of a delivery truck rather than the bed of a pickup. The wind in a pickup bed might have chilled him too much.

  The truck’s sound intensified. The vehicle must be directly around the corner.

  Maxence readied himself to raise his arms and yell.

  Instead of a truck, five Royal Enfield motorcycles raced around the corner, spraying gravel over the edge of the road into the canyon on the other side.

  A red-and-white-clad figure drove the motorcycle in the lead, her body clinging tightly to the bike for speed.

  As Maxence raised his arms, the lead motorcycle braked hard, nearly laying the bike down. The tiny rider flailed one foot at the kickstand, managing to hook it with her ankle, and then leaped off the motorcycle and barreled into him.

  Her helmet slammed into Maxence’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  He stumbled backward, gasping, and slipped down the back of his rubble pile.

  Dree’s voice sounded tinny from inside her helmet. “Maxence, Maxence! What happened to you? I looked back, and you weren’t there. When I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw three bikes instead of four, and I freaked out and I turned around to come find you.”

  Maxence managed to suck a tiny bit of air into his lungs, and he coughed.

  “I rode as fast as I could, but the stupid dirt roads are so slippery. I almost went over the side one time, but I didn’t slow down. I came to find you as soon as I could. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry we lost you. Oh my God, what happened to you?”

  At that point, Maxence had managed to suck in half a lungful of air, and he told Dree, “I’m all right.”

  Dree yanked off her helmet and dropped it at their feet. She grabbed him around the midsection, hugging him so hard that drawing another breath seemed impossible. “I’m so sorry! What happened?”

  Maxence patted her arm. “I’m okay. Let me breathe.”

  “I looked back and you were gone!” She burst into tears.

  He untangled her arms from around his waist and bent down to eye-level with her. “Dree, chérie. I’m all right.”

  “Tell me what happened to you!”

  “A rock rolled down the side of the mountain and onto the road. It hit my front tire and knocked me over.”

  “Where’s your motorcycle? I kept imagining you at the bottom of that stupid ravine, dead.”

  “The motorcycle is a few minutes down the road, in several pieces. The front tire is in the ravine.”

  She grabbed him with both arms around his chest and buried her face in his shoulder.

  Maxence wrapped his arms around her, cradling her against his chest. Her body was shaking, and he murmured anything he could think of near the pink shell of her ear, assuring her that he was fine, telling her that nothing could ever happen to him or her, and just trying to make it all right.

  Dree stepped back, wiping the tears off her face with her palms.

  Maxence stooped and asked her, “Are you okay now?”

  She nodded. “I should be asking you that. Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention? I’m a frickin’ nurse and I’m supposed to render medical aid, not be a ninny!” She grabbed his collar and began tugging at his coat’s zipper.

  He laughed at her. “I’m fine. I’ll have some bruises, but I don’t think I even broke a rib. I’m just sore.”

  She sighed and braced herself with her hands on her knees, her chest still heaving.

  Maxence looked over her head, where Father Booker was still sitting astride his motorcycle, both his boots planted firmly on the ground. He’d removed his helmet and was watching them with a pensive solemnity in his eyes.

  Priests should not have women throwing themselves at them like this.

  Max took a step backward and settled one hand on Dree’s shoulder, a solidly platonic gesture that also kept her away from him.

  Dree drew one last sigh and looked up at him with her clear blue eyes still swimming with tears. “Your bike is back there somewhere? Why did you leave it?”

  “It’s totaled. Some pieces might be salvaged for parts. The oil and petrol had leaked out of the engine and gas tank. I got most of the important stuff out of the saddlebags, but some rice and other dry goods that I couldn’t carry in my backpack are still in the storage containers.”

  “But you’re okay?” she asked again.

  Maxence showed her the scrape on his helmet and the shredded leather on his thigh. “I had good gear.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that.” She turned to the other guys and spread her arms. “Okay, guys. We have five motorcycles and six people. Who’s going to double up? It seems most efficient if the two lightest people ride on one bike together, which I assume would be me and Batsa.”

  Batsa’s dark eyes widened,
and he looked at each one of the other guys as if he needed someone to defend him. “I am a married man. I do not think my wife would like me to ride on a motorcycle with a young woman. That is not what I signed up for.”

  Isaak and Alfonso began scrutinizing each other, but neither one wanted to be the horny jerk who insisted they wanted to ride with the pretty young woman they’d been eyeballing for weeks.

  Isaak said, “Alfonso, I do not feel comfortable with you lying against my back, as I have said time and time again in our tent.”

  Alfonso sputtered, “I would be driving. You would be against my back, and I’m not comfortable with that, either, for you have smacked me in the face while sleeping more times than I can count.”

  Isaak turned back to Max and Dree. “Maxence should have to double up with someone because he’s the one who crashed his motorcycle. If Maxence and I were on the same bike, it would slow down a great deal. He should ride with someone else.”

  Alfonso said, “Max should not ride with me, either. It would slow us down just as much.”

  Father Booker grumbled, “Don’t look at me. I’m definitely the heaviest one of us.” He patted his slightly thick midsection. “It would make no sense for me to double up with anyone.”

  Batsa said, “I have a wife and children. I do not want anyone lying on top of me.”

  Dree braced her gloved fists on her hips. “Well, he has to ride with one of us. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  Alfonso shifted to one foot and looked at the sky. “I guess he could ride on the back of my bike.”

  “This is nonsense.” Dree rolled her eyes. “If you guys are too insecure in your masculinity to snuggle up with another dude on a bike, Max can ride with me. Besides, I’m the lightest, so it makes sense that I should be one of the two people on a bike.”

  Maxence shrugged. “It makes sense.”

  It made more than good sense to him, and his heart double-timed in his chest.