He narrowed his eyes and grimaced. “Actually, I do,” he said without mirth. “It hurts like a mother fucker.”
Since he fainted, she’d kept a tight hold on her emotions. If she didn’t, she’d be lost. Her irritation masked concern, but she could tell how much pain he suffered. Sara cupped her hand to his cheek, and he titled his head to lean into her caress. “I’m sorry, mi corazon,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s probably going to hurt a lot more. What should I do now?”
His lips brushed her hand in a swift kiss. “Do you have any antibacterial soap? And some clean towels. Wash it with soap and warm water.”
Sara found a bottle in the bathroom and gathered towels. She put them on the counter and dug into his duffel for first aid supplies. Her fingers closed around the edges of a driver’s license and she pulled it out. Santiago’s picture was displayed, but the name read ‘Javier Morales’. “What’s this?”
“My evil twin – I’ll tell you later, I promise.”
“You’ve been working undercover.” It wasn’t a question but he nodded. She fumbled her efforts to remove his ruined t-shirt and reached into the junk drawer for scissors. Sara snipped it away and ran the water until it heated. With gentle motions, she washed away most of the blood although the wound still seeped a little. Santiago said nothing, stoic as a soldier, but his lips were pressed into a tight line. “I’m sorry I’m hurting you.”
“De nada,” he grunted through gritted teeth. “Just finish, por favor.”
Twenty long minutes later, she’d finished washing it, cleaned it with peroxide, and applied plenty of antibacterial cream. She wrapped the wound with gauze from his bag, following his instructions to first wrap his bicep, then the injured shoulder. Sara wrapped it across his back to hold it in place. “Better?” she asked.
“No.” He tried to flex his arm and went white. “Help me get a clean t-shirt on.”
It didn’t work. The shirt fit too tight to be comfortable so Sara rooted through his things until she found a button-down chambray shirt. Santiago put it on with her help but left it open. He reached for the tequila and downed some more. “I need to sleep,” he said. “So do you.”
“Let me change the sheets first.”
By the time she had, then put away the perishable groceries and slid into bed beside him, Santiago lay on his back asleep. He slept fitful. His body twitched with restless energy and she suspected lingering pain. Once or twice, he mumbled something in Spanish, but she couldn’t quite make out what he said. Sara touched his right arm and stroked it. “Calmarse. Take it easy, Santiago. I’m here with you, mi corazon.”
He calmed a little and shifted into a deeper sleep. Sara closed her eyes, one hand touching him for reassurance he was here. He was safe for now, but she didn’t sleep at all. Her mind whirled with the rapid sequence of events and she replayed them.
Tomorrow loomed unknown and more than a little scary. Fear burned through her, swift and potent. Her chest tightened and her breath caught. Sara sought her mind for the prayers she’d learned in childhood and later in Spanish with Santiago’s help.
“Dios te salve, Maria,” she whispered, so soft she doubted he could hear her even if he awoke. “Llena eres de gracia, El Señor es contigo…” The words of the Hail Mary, the Ave Maria comforted her so she repeated them, alternating from Spanish to English and back. Her repetition leached away some of the tension and fear. And although she failed to sleep, Sara rested a little. After the first light turned the black to gray, she rose and made coffee, reacquainting herself with the kitchen.
While it percolated, Sara opened the front door to greet the morning. Hot, humid air flooded her senses, but the sunlight kissing the tops of the tall trees radiated with brilliant beauty. She listened and heard no sound but the dull roar of the air conditioner in the bedroom. The fresh farm aroma of cut hay wafted on the slight breeze and Sara sighed. For now, they seemed safe. Maybe they could stay that way.
After her first cup of coffee, Sara checked on him. She found him awake and staring at the ceiling. “Cómo estás?”
“Estoy mal,” he said and she believed him. He looked awful. “Me duele la cabeza.”
“I imagine your head hurts from the tequila,” Sara told him. “How’s your shoulder?”
Santiago frowned and rubbed his face. “Sore as a bitch.”
“There’s coffee if you want some.”
He nodded. “Si, por favor, gracias, la muñequita.”
“I’ll pour you a cup. If you’re hungry, I can make breakfast. Would you like some eggs and sausage?”
“No, just coffee.”
She brought it to him. He’d propped up against the headboard, so she sat down on the edge of the bed facing him. “Gracias,” he told her. “I probably should eat, but I don’t want anything. I feel like shit.”
Sara ached to embrace him, but she didn’t want to hurt his shoulder. Instead, she reached for his left hand and wrapped hers around it, gentle and careful not to jar him. “Of course you do. You were shot.” Beneath her touch, his skin baked. “Your hand is hot,” she told him. She put the back of her other hand across his forehead, then her palm. “I think you’re running a temperature.”
He sipped coffee and tried to shrug. It must’ve hurt, because he winced after the brief effort. “Si, I probably have a low grade fever, nothing to worry about.”
But, she did. “Right, macho man, but I’m still concerned. Do you want something to help your headache?”
“How about ibuprofen, maybe some ice?”
“Sure.” As she stood up to fetch both, Santiago swung his legs around and sat up. “What’re you doing?”
He fired a sharp look in her direction. “I gotta piss,” he told her. “And I’m going to the couch. I’m not staying in bed like I’m sick.”
Torn between a desire to kiss him or slap him, Sara shook her head. “No,” she said in a tone dry as crisp toast. “No, you just have a bullet wound through your shoulder. You lost a lot of blood yesterday and you’re running a fever. No reason to stay in bed, none at all.”
Santiago snorted. “Don’t make a big deal, Sarita. I feel bad but I’m okay. Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m going to die or something.”
He could have, though. The sobering thought did what nothing else had, brought tears. As he tottered to his feet, Sara slid an arm around his waist to steady him. The solid bulk of his flesh reassured her irrational fears he could succumb into death, but when he wrapped his uninjured arm around her, she broke. Tears she’d squelched under pressure erupted and she turned her face against his shoulder. She wept, her sobs muffled against his t-shirt as he held her, murmuring words of comfort. “Don’t, la muñequita, don’t cry. I promise I’ll heal. I may not feel so great today, but I’ll be better. Por favor, querida.”
“I thought I lost you once.” She sobbed in response. “I can’t stand to lose you again, especially not forever.”
“Callarse,” he said. “Hush. You never lost me, Sarita, you only thought you did. Te amo, Sara. I always did and I always will. Eres el amor de mi vida.”
She sobbed harder. He was the love of her life too and would be forever. “I love you so much, Santiago,” she said. “I never stopped thinking about you or wishing I’d see you again. I never thought I would, though.”
“If I’d know you wanted me, I would’ve come, no matter what.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let me go piss now, although I’m shakier than I thought. Go get me the ibuprofen, the ice pack, and heat me some soup or something. I’ll make it to the couch without collapsing.”
Sara clung a moment more, unwilling to let go. “All right,” she said and sniffed. “I’m still scared, though.”
“About me? I told you, I’ll be fine.”
“I still worry,” she said, “And I’m frightened. I can tell we’re in terrible danger and I’m so afraid we won’t make it.”
His voice dropped lower and his tone sobered. “I’ll do all I can, la muñequita. We have everything to
live for, now.”
They did, if they could. And in the dilapidated old trailer in the middle of remote woods in the Ozark Mountains, Sara had never loved him more.
Chapter Six
Santiago sprawled on his right side, his long body taking up most of the couch. His head rested on a wedge pillow Sara hauled out of the bedroom. A cold pack for his tequila-induced headache, a little sirloin burger soup in his stomach, and some pain relievers to ease his hurts had done wonders, Sara thought. She found some Mannheim Steamroller CDs in the stack by the seldom used stereo, ones she’d brought long ago. Once, she and Santiago had listened to the eclectic group, marveling at the blend of classical tunes with modern instruments and nature sounds. She put Fresh Air VI into the player and let the sounds of the sea combined with the lilt of music fill the room. A small smile teased his lips as she sat on the floor beside the couch where he reclined.
The music flowed over her, peaceful and soothing to her troubled spirits. How long has it been since I kicked back and listened to Mannheim Steamroller or anything else? Sara had no idea. She gazed around the room and noted the personal touches, most of them Erik’s and his brother’s leavings, a few hers. Remembering what Santiago had said at her apartment, how it lacked any sense of home, she couldn’t deny it. Maybe it was time to try to explain why.
“Santiago?”
His half-slit eyes opened. “Si, Sara?”
“Do you still want to know why my apartment is so bare and lacks personality?”
He rose up on his good elbow. “Of course I do. Why?”
She realized the truth had been difficult, but sharing it with Santiago was even harder. “I didn’t really care,” she said. “I’ve existed without living.”
“I understand that,” he said, voice gentle and soft. “But, why, la muñequita?”
Sara struggled to find words to explain. “I blame myself for Erik’s death, so I suppose there’s guilt. He’s dead so I shouldn’t be able to enjoy life. But I also feel like some kind of failure. I planned to be a teacher and I sell flowers. I wouldn’t even have been able to buy the shop if Erik hadn’t died. My other dreams all faded away to dust a long time ago. I don’t dream about the future or make plans or even hope. I don’t do a lot of the stuff I once did or take pleasure in little things. I came here last year for the fall colors, but I haven’t been anywhere else since. I gave up, Santiago, on life and being happy and everything. Or, I had, until….” Her voice trailed into silence. For a few moments, Sara refused to look at Santiago, afraid to read pity or scorn in his expression.
He touched her cheek and she glanced up. “Sara, tell me.” His eyes met hers, brimming with need and bright with emotion.
In a hoarse whisper, she did. “Until you came.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Santiago nodded. “I understand, so much more than you probably think. I recognized the stark emptiness of your place, because it was like mine. Although, I haven’t had been to my place for almost two years, but as you can see, I travel light.”
He touched his duffel bag and she nodded. Santiago touched her face with his fingers, stroked her cheek. “Tell me how your husband died.”
Sara shivered with a cold chill, more emotional than physical in the warm room. “He drowned,” she said. “He went fishing alone on the lake and he apparently was driving the boat too fast. He hit another boat and the impact knocked him into the water. He’d been drinking, the coroner said, and he drowned.”
She had no tears, no true grief but a terrible, gnawing guilt, the kind eating away at her soul with destructive power. “How is that your fault, querida? You weren’t even there.”
Memory slammed her with force, but she answered him. “He asked me to go with him and I said ‘no’. Instead, I told him I wanted a divorce. By then, I knew I’d made a mistake, and I wanted to go back to LA.”
Understanding flooded his face. “And he didn’t like the idea?”
“He was angry,” Sara said. “He left in a wild rage, upset and cussing me. Witness on the lake said he was reckless before the accident.”
“Why do you think it’s your fault?”
Sara sighed. “He was normally very safety conscious. But he took chances that day because of me. He left me a message on my phone, a long rant and accused me of being unfaithful. Those are the last words he said to me, Santiago. I wasn’t, though.”
“I never thought you would be, la muñequita. Did he have someone in mind?”
If she didn’t say it now, she never would. “You. He suspected you.”
His face shifted into a bland mask and he went still. “Why?”
The single word spoke volumes. Sara closed her eyes for a long moment and then met his gaze. “Because he knew how much I loved you,” she said, misery sharp as a knife in her chest. “And because I told him I was going back to California to see if I could find you again.”
Santiago sat up, slow and easy. He opened his right arm and she moved toward him. He folded her into his embrace. “Oh, Sara,” he said, his voice ragged with emotion. “I wish you had, very much. Things might be so different now. But why didn’t you?”
She hurt too much for tears. “I had so much guilt. I thought I’d killed him and sometimes, I still do. I decided not to go, to leave you alone because maybe I’d bring nothing but pain and hurt with me. And I stopped living until you knocked on my door. God, was it just yesterday?”
“Si.” Sara rested her head against his chest for a moment, then realized he radiated warmth. “You’re still feverish. Lie back down, Santiago. You need to take it easy.”
“Estoy bueno.”
Santiago brought out her smile. “I might believe better, but not good,” she said. “I’ve shared my sad little story. You still need to tell me who’s after you and why. I’m cutting you a little slack since you got hurt, but I need to know.”
He settled back into the position he’d held earlier. “You will, Sara,” he said. “I’ll tell you as soon as we’re both in better shape. Did you sleep last night?”
“No.” Damn, he hadn’t lost the knack for reading her.
“You look tired, Sarita.”
“I am.” Her eyes ached with fatigue.
“Go to bed. You’ll need your strength, too. We can’t stay here forever and I don’t know what may happen next.”
His statement surprised her. “I thought we were hiding here.”
“Si, for now,” Santiago replied. “If I hadn’t been shot, we would’ve done something else.”
Weariness settled over her, heavy as a woolen blanket. “Why?” she asked, thick-headed. “I thought you wanted an out of the way place to hole up for a while.”
“I did. I knew I could last a little while before I got too weak or went into shock so much I couldn’t function. And we made it here, no?”
“Well, yes but how did you manage?” She’d wondered more than once. “You had to be in incredible pain and growing weaker with every mile.”
He started to shrug, then stopped with a grimace. “I did what I had to do, that’s all. Go get some rest. You can’t take care of me if you’re dead on your feet.”
True. And he used the single argument guaranteed to work. “I will if you’ll come back to bed, too.”
His lips twitched into a grin. “La muñequita, you’ll rest better if I stay here. I’m comfortable enough.”
“I need you close.” Sara might be able to shut her eyes with Santiago at her side. The short distance between the couch and the bedroom loomed too great to bear. Although she’d lived a mundane life for too long, her sterile comfort zone had eroded when he walked into her life. Their lovemaking had knocked down the walls she’d built around her emotions, and when her bedroom window shattered from gunfire, the old Sara emerged from the rubble. This Sara lacked the fearlessness she’d once known and the que-sera-sera attitude. She feared what would happen next, and if he wasn’t within her touch, she’d obsess with worry.
Santiago
shook his head slightly. “All right, if that’s what it takes. It’s cooler in the bedroom anyway.”
Unable to sleep in her clothes, Sara undressed and put on the gown she’d brought, a chaste cotton nighty with cap sleeves. Santiago still wore a shirt over his boxers, nothing more. He lay on his back, his injured shoulder on the side away from her and she curled up facing him. Santiago pulled a sheet over them both. Although she hadn’t been sure she could sleep, Sara grew drowsy and yielded to it.
She woke alone around dusk, mouth dry and head thick with sleep cotton. Sara listened and heard nothing over the dull roar of the window air conditioner. She spoke his name into the silence, but when he made no reply, she crawled out of bed to find him. When she didn’t see him, Sara glanced outside and gasped. The pickup truck they’d driven here no longer remained in the yard. She dashed onto the porch, barefooted, and scanned the area, but the truck was gone.
Inner alarm bells shrilled as she wondered where he’d gone – and why. Did something spook him? Was she in danger now? Sara’s finger caught the edge of her nightgown and twisted the fabric, an old nervous habit. When she realized she wore nothing beneath it, she scurried inside and put on her jeans, then a blouse. On her way back to the porch for another gander, Sara saw his duffle beside the couch. Okay so maybe he’s coming back, but where in the hell did he go and why didn’t he tell me?
On impulse, she dropped on one knee and rooted through his bag until she found the Glock. Sara pulled it out and checked. Like she figured, it was loaded. If Santiago left it, he would be back. She replaced the weapon and sat down, face buried in her hands. About the time she thought she knew him to the bone, he did something she failed to anticipate and seemed like a stranger.
Two options loomed. She could sit and stew, maybe cry, or she could sit on the porch steps and wait. Sara considered taking his pistol outside with her and demonstrating what a fine shot she remained, but Santiago wouldn’t be amused. He’d be angry if she tried such a stunt. She grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down on the top step, sipping it as she searched for words to express her outrage. She wanted him to know she didn’t appreciate having her fragile emotions twisted into a knot or being scared to find herself alone. By the time she finished the brew, she’d prepared a rant. Sara planned to chew him out, rag his ass hard, and make sure he understood he couldn’t be loving one minute, then walk the next.
Stranger Danger Page 5
