In the Arms of a Hero

by Beverly Barton

  “I found my way down in the dark. There’s a pretty clear path all the way up to El Prado, so unless we run into something unexpected, we should make it to my plane well before noon.”

  As they bypassed the village, circling around behind the weather-beaten cottages, Quinn noticed a dim light shining through the windows of the last house they passed. Odd, he thought, that someone would be up so early. The farther they moved away from the village, the more that oddity bothered him. Over the years he had learned to listen to his gut instincts and right now they were telling him that something was wrong. Bad wrong.

  He grabbed Victoria’s arm to halt her. “We’re going back to the village.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I have a feeling something’s not right. I want to check it out.”

  “What are you talking about?” She ran to keep up with him as he led her back to the village.

  Breathless, she gulped in air when he stopped and pulled her into the shadowed corner of the last cottage. “Stay here and don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Lower your voice. And just do as I say,” he told her. “There shouldn’t be a light coming from that house. I’m going to check it out.”

  “You’re awfully suspicious. Maybe somebody inside there is sick. Or it could be that the family is just getting an early start on the day.”

  “If that’s the case, then fine, we’ll be on our way. But I’m going to make sure. Now stay here!”

  “Yes, sir!” She snapped the words on a whispered breath.

  Quinn crept around the side of the cottage, easing up to the window. Keeping his body flat against the wall, he peered through the dirty, cracked glass pane. A metal coffeepot and a battered fry pan sat atop an old wooden stove in the left corner of the room. An unmade double bed hugged the opposite wall. A kerosene lamp burned brightly where it rested in the center of a rough-hewn wooden table. There, sleeping in a chair, his feet propped up on the table, sat Julio Vargas.

  What the hell was Julio doing here? He was supposed to be up at El Prado guarding the plane! Quinn surveyed the one-room cottage, checking to make sure Julio was alone.

  Quinn made his way back to Victoria, who stood as still as a statue. “Come on. It seems I was right. Something is wrong. Julio’s in there—” he nodded to the cottage “—which means he’s not where he’s supposed to be.”

  “Where’s he supposed to be?”

  “Guarding my new Cessna, about a thousand feet up the mountain,” Quinn said.

  “Does this mean—”

  “I don’t know what it means.” Quinn clutched her hand, then pulled her along with him as he headed for the cottage door. He placed her behind him, then tried the door. It opened instantly. “Stay behind me and keep quiet.”

  Quinn’s silent footsteps carried him into the one-room cottage, without alerting its single occupant. As Quinn approached the sleeping man, Victoria held her breath. Using the butt of the M-16, Quinn knocked Julio’s feet from the table. The man cried out, then jumped to his feet, taking a fighting stance.

  “Señor McCoy!”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Quinn demanded.

  “I knew you would probably return during the night,” Julio spoke rapidly in Spanish. “I left the lamp burning, knowing you would understand that it was a signal for you to stop.”

  “Get to the point.” Quinn glared furiously at Julio. “Why aren’t you up at El Prado keeping an eye on my plane?”

  “Oh, señor, I have very bad news for you.”

  Victoria’s stomach plummeted. She knew that bad news for Quinn ultimately meant bad news for her.

  “Spit it out!” Quinn was fast losing patience.

  “The plane has been confiscated. While I was guarding your plane, rebel soldiers arrived on El Prado. I couldn’t fight that many men, señor. I was barely able to escape with my life. If they had seen me, I would be dead.”

  “So, what did they do with my plane?”

  “I do not know for sure, but I overheard them talking about it. They know now that an outsider flew into Santo Bonisto. This is very bad for you and the señorita. You cannot return to your airplane. There will be soldiers waiting there for you.”

  “Damn!” Quinn knew he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d figured all along that this little rescue operation would turn into a real nightmare. Without the plane, they had no easy escape off the island. And now that the rebel troops were aware of a stranger’s presence on the island, they’d be looking for him. They’d assume only an enemy would land on Mt. Simona and hide the plane.

  “What do we do now?” Victoria asked.

  “Please, Señorita Fortune, sit down,” Julio said. “Allow me to fix you something to eat. You must be hungry and tired after your escape from Palmira. Lucky for you that Señor McCoy rescued you when he did. Otherwise…” He made the sign of the cross and mumbled some sort of prayer.

  “Go ahead and sit,” Quinn told her, then turned to Julio. “Do you have any coffee?”

  “Sí.”

  “Put on a pot. We’ve got plans to make before we leave.” Quinn pulled out a chair, shoved a startled Victoria down onto it and then hung his M-16 on a chair across the table from her and dropped his backpack to the floor. “We have no choice now, but to use my backup plan.”

  “I don’t know what that plan involves,” she said, “but since we apparently aren’t flying out of here today, you could just take me back to Palmira. The rebel troops will probably move on in a day or two, then we could—”

  “For the love of Mike, lady, give it a rest!” Quinn shook his head in disgust.

  “No, señorita!” Julio cried. “You cannot return to Palmira! The rebel troops who found Señor McCoy’s plane were talking about you. They knew that ‘the Fortune woman,’ the rich American lady, was in Palmira. Someone in Palmira told them you had left the town and that you may have gone with the American stranger who showed up yesterday. They said that Captain Esteban had plans for you before he took you to General Xavier. I am sure when they find that you are no longer in Palmira, they will be searching for you.”

  “Great!” Quinn slumped down into a chair. “Now we’ve got rebel soldiers looking for both of us.”

  “You must get Señorita Fortune off of Santo Bonisto as soon as possible,” Julio said. “I will do what I can to help.”

  “Get us that coffee. Then we’ll discuss an alternate plan.”

  Victoria sat quietly, allowing her mind to assimilate the information. People often said she was headstrong, willful and determined. She supposed she was, supposed she always had been. She had wanted to stay in Palmira, and even now, she longed to return and help those who needed her. However, it was plain that she could not go back to Palmira. No one had ever called Victoria Fortune stupid. And she finally realized that staying on Santo Bonisto would be stupid. She had fooled herself, as well as Ernesto and Dolores, into thinking she could keep her true identity a secret from the rebel army. But she couldn’t continue lying to herself, pretending that she would somehow be immune to the violence around her.

  She was smart enough to accept defeat when she knew the cause was hopeless. She’d done all she could do. She’d held on to the bitter end—until Quinn had kidnapped her. And now that the rebel army knew the nurse who had worked at the Palmira clinic was Victoria Fortune, she couldn’t return. If she did, not only would she sign her own death warrant, but that of anyone who tried to protect her.

  “What’s your backup plan?” she asked.

  “We’ll have to go to Gurabo and arrange passage off this island with the U.S. consulate.”

  “How to you propose we get to Gurabo? The capital city is on the other side of the island. Some of the roads leading there have been taken over by the rebel forces.”

  “We won’t take the main roads,” Quinn said. “It’ll take us longer to make the trip, but using the pig trails will be safer.”

  “And just what sort of t
ransportation do you suggest we use?” Victoria asked snidely. “I didn’t notice any cars or trucks or Jeeps in this village. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even notice a corral with any horses.”

  Julio set three earthenware mugs on the table. “There are no horses in Delicias. And no vehicles of any kind.”

  Victoria gave Quinn a see-I-told-you-so look. “Wonder how long it will take us to walk to Gurabo?”

  “No need to walk all the way,” Julio said. “My cousin Fidel has a fine truck and for the right price, he will be happy to sell it to you.”

  “Just where is Cousin Fidel’s truck?” Quinn asked.

  Julio lifted a dented metal pot from the wood-stove, then brought it to the table and poured strong, hot coffee into the mugs.

  “Fidel lives in Luquillo. It is perhaps a one-day journey on foot. I will provide some supplies for the trip. And I will show you, on your map, the safest way to get there from here.”

  Victoria lifted the mug to her lips. The black coffee had a distinctively bitter taste, but it was warm and refreshing. No doubt the caffeine would help her stay awake and at least partially alert. The last thing Quinn needed to deal with today was a woman asleep on her feet.

  “Do you think we’ll encounter any rebel troops between here and Luquillo?” she asked.

  “I do not think so,” Julio replied. “Unless General Xavier dilutes his forces by dividing them yet again and sending soldiers in every direction. There is no guarantee. Just because Luquillo doesn’t lie in the rebel army’s direct path, does not mean it will be spared.”

  “Do you have another gun?” When both Quinn and Julio stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, she explained, “In case we run into enemy soldiers, two guns would be better than one. Right?”

  “What do you know about guns?” Quinn frowned, the gesture tightening his features.

  “I was born and raised in Texas,” she told him. “I grew up on a ranch. I’ve known how to use a rifle since I was a kid. And I’m a pretty good shot, if I do say so myself.”

  Quinn crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back in the chair and eyed her speculatively. “So if you had a weapon, you’d know how to use it?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Got anything, Julio?” Quinn asked.

  “Well, perhaps I have something the señorita can use.” Julio lifted a plank in the wooden floor, revealing a hiding place. “Just a rifle. Nothing too fancy.” He lifted an M-1 carbine, already loaded, then brought it across the room and handed it to Quinn. “I have others. A few handguns, too. Is this too much gun for the señorita?”

  Before Quinn could reply, Victoria lifted the M-1 and inspected it. “I may need a little practice,” she admitted. “But this one will be just fine for me.”

  “That’s a lot of gun for—”

  “For a spoiled, helpless heiress,” she finished Quinn’s sentence.

  “She’ll take it,” he told Julio as he looked directly at Victoria. “I’ll give you a few pointers on using the M-1, before we leave here. For now, let’s eat a bite, look over the map and make our plans.”

  “All right. Whatever you say.” Her steady gaze locked with his.

  Quinn lifted his eyebrows as if doubting her sincerity. “Don’t tell me that you’ve decided to stop fighting me every inch of the way. No more schemes to return to Palmira? No more heart-wrenching pleas to let you go back to the clinic where you’re desperately needed?”

  “Take a flying leap, McCoy!” He was the most infuriating man she’d ever met. He couldn’t even begin to understand how she felt about her job with the World Health Institute or her devotion to the people of Palmira.

  “Touchy on the subject?” He grinned at her.

  Victoria wanted to slap that smug look off his face, but instead she controlled her rage. “From now until we get away from Santo Bonisto, I’m going to cooperate with you one hundred percent. But once we get off this island, I never want to see you again as long as I live.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Quinn held out his hand across the table. “I can’t wait to turn you over to your daddy and get rid of you.”

  Victoria placed her hand in his. He clasped it securely. They glared at each other as they shook hands, the emotional tension between them like a live wire. A strange tightness formed in the pit of her stomach. Fragile little quivers zinged along her nerve endings. What was wrong with her? Why was she reacting this way just because Quinn still held on to her hand?

  There it was again, Quinn thought, that urge to take her over his knee and spank her. Or better yet, wrap his hands around her shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. Victoria Fortune irritated the holy hell out of him. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out exactly why he reacted so strongly to her willful attitude.

  “We must hurry,” Julio said. “I will prepare you something to eat, then you must gather up your things and leave before the villagers wake. It is better for them and for you, if they don’t see you.”

  The path Quinn and Julio had plotted on the map followed the course of the Rio Blanco for about five miles. When dawn spread across the eastern horizon, they crossed a rickety wooden bridge that spanned a deep gorge. Looking down the twenty feet below, they could see the water rippling over a shallow area dotted with dry-topped boulders. A small blue heron took flight and then landed farther down stream. Once across the gully, Quinn adjusted his backpack, then turned and checked hers. Julio had given them enough provisions to last three days.

  “Only a precaution,” he’d said. “In case something happens and you don’t make it to Luquillo or if when you get there, you find that Fidel’s truck is broken down.”

  The path turned toward the woods, winding along the outskirts of the dark, dense, verdant jungle. The narrow roadway they traveled led them farther from civilization. In spots the undergrowth had spread, trying to reclaim the cleared land. On those occasions, Quinn whipped out the machete Julio had provided and adeptly reopened the impassable road.

  Only halfway up in the sky, the sun beat down on them unmercifully. Sweat trickled along Victoria’s spine, dotted her forehead and pooled beneath her breasts. After traveling what seemed like days to her, but in actuality was less than three hours, Quinn suggested they rest. She knew that he had realized she needed a break, even if he didn’t. On top of a ridge, they settled at a lovely spot where corozo palms speared their fronds toward heaven, creating a sun-dappled canopy. Victoria removed the floppy hat Julio had given her, then fanned herself with it as she slumped onto the ground.

  Quinn handed her a canteen, which she opened immediately. The water tasted better than the most expensive champagne. She couldn’t remember when she’d been this thirsty.

  Quinn took the canteen from her, downed a couple of swigs, then returned the canteen to his backpack. “How tired are you?” he asked.

  Worn to a frazzle, she wanted to say, but didn’t. “Not too tired.”

  “You’re lying, princess.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “You’re not a good liar. It shows on your face. So from now on you might as well be totally honest with me.” He sat, crossed his legs beneath him and took out the map of Santo Bonisto. “If we don’t take too many breaks, we’ll reach Luquillo before nightfall. Then once we buy Fidel’s truck, it shouldn’t take us more than four hours to reach the U.S. Consolate in Gurabo.”

  “Then let’s not take any more breaks than necessary.” Victoria shoved her floppy hat down onto her head. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

  He tapped the face of his wristwatch. “We’ll stop every three hours and rest for thirty minutes. We’ll eat lunch around noon and if we’re lucky we can eat again tonight when we reach Luquillo. I’ve noticed you’re in a better mood after you’ve been fed.”

  “Wish I could say the same about you, but food doesn’t seem to help your disposition at all.”

  “Getting Fidel’s truck will improve my disposition.”

  “
It’ll be wonderful to be able to ride the rest of the way to Gurabo,” she admitted. “The heat and humidity really saps my strength.”

  “Why don’t you lie back and relax,” Quinn said. “Use your knapsack as a pillow.”

  “Good idea.”

  He helped her remove the small backpack. She spread out on the cool grass and closed her eyes.

  “Want a snack?” he asked.

  “What?” She opened her eyes and gazed quizzically up at him.

  He picked up a corozo palm nut from the ground, then created a chopping block out of a tree root. With two precise machete chops, he removed one end of the nut and then the other. He handled the big knife with an expertise that implied great familiarity with its use. One final cut severed the nut in two, then he shared it with her.

  Before she took the first bite, Quinn grabbed her and her backpack off the ground. Practically dragging her, he forced her into a thicket several yards from the palm trees. When she opened her mouth to speak, he pressed his index finger against her lips, silencing her. With his arm around her waist, he eased them both down until they were on their knees. She had no idea what was wrong, but his actions frightened her. Quinn wasn’t a man who acted irrationally.

  The jungle hummed all around them. A low, steady heartbeat of insect and animal activity. But over nature’s melody came a louder sound—men’s voices!

  Her gaze met Quinn’s. They exchanged a look of understanding. Who are they? she wanted to ask. We aren’t near a village, are we? But she kept quiet, waiting, as Quinn waited, for people to materialize along the trail.

  Within minutes a ragtag group of soldiers, armed with rifles and machetes, came into view as they cleared the rise. Seven men, ranging in age from teenage boys to one fellow well into his forties, wore dirty, sweat-stained, tattered uniforms. The emblem of the Santo Bonisto Freedom Fighters was emblazoned on their hats and across their shirtsleeves. Rebel troops!

  Quinn gripped her hand, his strength reassuring. She held tightly to him, her breath caught in her throat. What if they saw where Quinn had cut the tree roots to form the chopping block? What if they noticed the split corozo palm nut she had dropped when Quinn rushed her into hiding?