To the Limit (Shadow Heroes Book 3)

by Virginia Kelly

  “You start now.” Franco opened the door, letting in bright sunlight. “We are building a barn across the river.”

  “What about me?” Mary Beth asked.

  “María, you are the new lavandera, the … washerwoman.”

  ***

  By six o’clock that afternoon, Mary Beth vowed to never wear blue jeans again. They were heavy and hard to wash by hand. Especially since she had to do it while squatting down, ankle deep, in the swift moving river.

  She watched some of the local women work, amazed at their ingenuity. They used low flat boulders as washboards and lay the clothes to dry on larger boulders. Of course, they only had to deal with their own family’s clothes, while she had to wash the clothes worn by the five men who worked at the sawmill. It was one of their perks.

  On the other side of the narrow river, the men were framing in the new barn. Padre Franco directed the effort from below, while two workmen, one of them Nick, hammered in huge cross beams. Men’s calls to lift filled the air as they struggled under the weight of the lumber. Nick fit in as if he were born to the effort.

  Mary Beth stood, rubbed her lower back, then bent again to pull up the eighth pair of jeans she’d washed this afternoon. That’s when she saw the military green Jeep.

  It splashed across the shallowest part of the river. Inside were four men, three of them in camouflage military fatigues. The fourth man looked vaguely familiar, but at this distance, Mary Beth couldn’t see his features, only that he wore khaki slacks and a green shirt. When the driver pulled to a stop next to Padre Franco, the civilian got out of the Jeep to shake his hand. Nick and one other workman continued hammering at an upper beam while the priest and the man talked. One soldier held a short rifle across his lap. Heart in her throat, Mary Beth kept her face down, only taking occasional furtive glances at the men.

  Then as suddenly as they’d come, they left, splashing back across the river, never even glancing her way. She’d grabbed the wet jeans she’d been washing before the silt stirred up by the Jeep could reach her. It took her much too long to wring them out and place them alongside the other seven pairs to dry. She stretched her back muscles again, thankful she’d finished.

  “Need a back rub?” Nick’s voice startled her. Bare footed, with his boots in hand, his jeans wet from the knees down, he raised his sunglasses to his head.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to wash those now. Clothes should be outlawed.”

  He laughed, his eyes flashing, his face shadowed by the stubble of his beard. “Lack of clothes would certainly change a lot of things.”

  He was teasing, of course, but a delicious vision crept into her head anyway. She knew what he looked like beneath his shirt. “That’s not what I mean,” she replied as primly as possible.

  “Come here, niña.”

  He’d never used any term of endearment with her before. The use of “girl” didn’t do much for her, until she realized the tone he’d used. It created a little coil of tension in her stomach. And made her gravitate toward him despite his teasing. He stepped behind her and rubbed her shoulders, gently massaging away the stiffness. Then he anchored her in place by putting one arm across her collarbone before his other hand slipped to her lower back.

  With his breath warm against the back of her neck, the weight of his arm around her, and his fingers working their magic on her overused muscles, she wanted nothing more than to lean against him.

  Minutes later, he stopped, the hand on her back caressed instead of rubbed, and she felt more of his body heat. Then he broke the contact.

  “Come on, let’s go to the house.” His voice sounded rougher than usual.

  It took a moment for Mary Beth to come back to reality. When she did, she remembered what she’d intended to ask. “Who were those men? What did they want?”

  “That was your friend, Elliot Smith, from the American embassy.”

  “The one who wanted me to leave San Mateo?”

  “One and the same.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To find out if Juan Marcos had come back. And to find you.”

  “What does he have to do with Mark?”

  “He claims he’s trying to stop a gunrunning operation.”

  “Does he have the authority to do that? I thought that was the San Matean government’s job.”

  “Normally, yes. But the Americans are very involved in trying to stop the drug trafficking in South America. Part of your war on drugs. Your Army Special Forces, which you said your brother was part of, are involved in that, too. Smith is investigating what he calls a related situation, with soldiers he claims are part of a small advisory U.S. Army unit stationed here.”

  “He claims?”

  “I don’t trust Smith, but there is a Special Forces presence in the country.”

  “When he came to the hotel and asked about Mark he was really checking to see what I knew,” she speculated.

  “Franco said that a San Matean Ranger captain, Francisco Iglesias, is looking for both you and Mark. With Smith here and Iglesias in the Río Hermoso, we are between the two interested parties.”

  “Why aren’t they working together?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Smith shouldn’t be out here without a San Matean escort.”

  “They’re both looking for Mark. Can they have such bad intelligence that they really don’t know about the kidnapping?” What if, in their rush to capture Mark, they caused his death? They had to be stopped. Proof of Mark’s innocence would force them to help her. “Since we can’t go on until the rain lets up and the road opens, we could ask around. See if we can find some information that will clear Mark.”

  “Play investigator?”

  “It’s not a game,” she argued.

  “No, it’s not,” he agreed. “We’ll start in the morning. Let’s go eat.”

  “Wait—my clothes.”

  “It won’t rain tonight. They’ll be safe. You can get them tomorrow.”

  They walked away from the sawmill, past the market and into the woods. Nick seemed to know his way down the small trail that wound next to the river. The sound of rushing water echoed through the thick growth.

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

  “My mother used to bring Daniel and me during school vacations. We lived with the laborers and did what they do.”

  “That must have been rough for two city boys,” Mary Beth said, stepping over a huge tree root.

  Nick held a branch away from her. “We hated it when we were sixteen. We wanted to go to parties—”

  “Meet girls,” she interjected, and immediately regretted her words.

  He looked back at her with a smile. “Yes.” He let go of the branch as she passed. “At the end of two weeks, we were exhausted. It was hard work. We swore we’d never come back, but we did, every year until we finished college.”

  “Where did you go to college?”

  “Boston.”

  At her lifted eyebrow, he added, “Harvard.”

  She should have known. “What about Daniel?”

  “Daniel stayed here.” He stopped, looked up a straight, tall tree, and pointed. “We used to climb up trees like this to see who would get to the top first. I’m surprised we didn’t break our necks.” His gaze traced the length of the tree back down. “University made us grow apart.” He started walking again. “No, it wasn’t that. We made different choices, had different influences.”

  “The general.”

  “Yes, the general.” He sounded tired.

  “And the fact that Daniel became a soldier while you became a peacemaker.”

  “No, that didn’t change anything. We both know—knew—the need for soldiers. Daniel knew how to negotiate. I was a Ranger, too, for a while. A long time ago.”

  So the peacemaker had been a soldier. Mary Beth remembered the crazy idea that he was dangerous when she’d seen him checking out the house close to his aunt’s. Not so crazy. San Matean Rangers, she’d r
ead, were the best of the country’s forces, and often trained with US forces, even in the States.

  The tiny, wood-framed house—a bungalow—sat back about fifty yards from the river. Thick forest surrounded it, isolating it from any passersby. This was where they would spend the night. Inside, the unfinished wooden floor seemed clean and well cared for, as did the living area with its small couch, two chairs and a wooden table draped in red vinyl.

  “Do you know how to light this thing?” she asked, walking toward the kerosene stove in the corner that served as the kitchen.

  “Yes, but I’ll have to go back for food. I don’t think there’s anything in the cabinets.” He opened the cupboard above the sink, revealing cans of vegetables. “How’s your vegetable soup?”

  “Not too good. What else is there?”

  He opened another cabinet. “Nothing. I’ll get some other things. I’ll cook tonight.”

  “What’s the rest of the house like?”

  “There’s a bedroom over here, with an adjoining bath.”

  There was. A single bedroom with one double bed. Mary Beth stood in the doorway, staring at the mosquito netting. “I’ll sleep out here.” She pointed to the rather disreputable-looking two-seater couch.

  “I can—”

  “I insist.” She looked up at Nick. “It’s too small for you.”

  “It’s too small for anybody.”

  ***

  It was too small for a gnat.

  Mary Beth twisted uncomfortably on the monstrous little couch. Her back hurt and the tea she’d had with the dinner Nick had cooked had gone right through her. She had to go to the bathroom.

  The one inside the bedroom where Nick now slept.

  She sat up and stretched, rubbing her lower back. The moon shone through the single window, a silver surge of light in the darkness. She stood and looked out into the night forest. A cool breeze blew around her and she hugged herself, slightly chilled.

  Maybe she could get to the bathroom without waking Nick.

  She retied the closure on a clean, borrowed blouse that hung to her thighs, identical to the one she’d worn all day. With extra care, she tiptoed to the open bedroom door and looked in. Moonlight pooled in a white glow on the bed in the center of the room. Nick lay sprawled on his back, behind the gauze of the mosquito netting, his arms open. Darker shadows centered on his broad chest and beneath his arms. A sheet lay crumpled just below his flat stomach.

  Prepared to leave if he woke, she stepped into the room. Behind the netting, his chest rose and fell with his steady breathing, the white sheet stark against the bronze of his skin.

  She walked past the bed, trying to keep from looking at him, and made her way quietly into the bathroom. Somehow, she managed to close the door without a sound.

  When she came out, he’d moved—rolled to his side toward her, the sheet tangled across his hips, the outline of his legs shadowed in the moonlit room.

  She couldn’t help herself. She stopped and stared.

  His black hair shone blue in the ethereal light. His lashes cast shadows on his angular cheeks. And his chest. Oh, his chest…

  She walked out quickly, eager to push aside temptation.

  She just needed sleep.

  She didn’t need Nick Romero.

  ***

  Nick took a deep breath and tried not to move. She didn’t wear a bra beneath the blouse. At least, not when she slept. The erotic sight of Mary Beth walking out of his room, her body bathed in moonlight, the cotton translucent, went beyond any fantasy he’d ever had.

  What was he going to do about Mary Beth Williams?

  Stay the hell away from her.

  ***

  Mary Beth stretched. Rolling to her side, she adjusted the pillow beneath her head and caught the scent of Nick fresh from his evening’s shower. Sleepily, she remembered how he’d looked beneath the white mosquito netting. She shifted her legs against the cool sheets.

  Cool sheets!

  Her eyes flew open and she cringed at the brightness of the morning. The brightness beyond the mosquito netting of Nick’s bed.

  A surge of adrenaline brought her upright on the mattress. But she was alone in the room, the bed a tousled mess, the netting pushed aside.

  How had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was tossing on the tiny couch, fighting the image of Nick sprawled on the bed.

  Had she crawled into bed with him? Had he left when he’d discovered her next to him?

  She walked to the bedroom window. Nick walked toward the house through the huge trees. Shirtless, he wore the same black jeans and heavy boots he’d worn the day before. His hair was wet, a towel slung over one shoulder. Over the other, he carried a leather holster that held one of the guns he’d brought. His chest, the chest that had so tempted her the night before, glistened with droplets of water. She swallowed. Hard.

  She ran into the living room, grabbed her skirt and pulled it on just as Nick opened the door.

  “You’re awake,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  “Yes.” She buttoned her skirt with stiff fingers.

  “I hoped you’d sleep longer. I can’t believe you were comfortable on the couch.” His eyes lingered on her face before drifting down, leaving a trail of heat over every inch of her skin.

  “Um … no, I wasn’t.” She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other.

  He smiled. “I went down to the river to wash up so I wouldn’t wake you.”

  She nodded and tugged at her blouse. “Thanks.”

  “Are you okay?” He pulled the towel off his shoulder and stared at her, a twinkle in his eyes.

  He had combed his hair back with his hands. With the now days’ growth of beard, he looked older, more powerful. Less civilized.

  A bigger temptation.

  “Mary Beth?”

  “Oh—” she tried to gather her wits “—yes, I’m fine.” Sort of.

  He put the towel down on a chair and stood in front of her. “Do you remember getting into my bed?”

  “I—I got into your bed?” Oh, God. Had she?

  “Not exactly.” Casually, he pushed her hair behind her ear. “I got up and found you mashed to fit the couch, so I transferred you.”

  Her shoulders sagged in relief.

  “You probably had a couple of hours of sleep there.”

  He’d carried her. She hadn’t acted on her desires.

  “There should be hot water in the shower,” he said.

  He wasn’t even aware of her desires.

  ***

  Nick pounded out his frustration on the nails he was driving into the frame of the sawmill. He remembered Mary Beth’s relief when he told her he’d carried her to bed. Did she have any idea what picking her up and putting her on that damn bed had cost him?

  Por Dios. He was increasingly cursing in English.

  Even as he automatically hammered another nail in place, the only things he could see were her long bare legs and the softness of her stomach where the cotton blouse had bunched as he’d lowered her onto white sheets. The way she’d curled to her side, smiling in comfort as her head rested where his had only moments before. He’d been overwhelmed with the need to lie down next to her, gather her close and find relief from the ache that tormented him.

  “You are going to pound a hole in that board.”

  Nick came back to reality with a resounding thump.

  Franco was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and laughter. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well,” he answered, grabbing another nail.

  “You look like hell.”

  “Such an unpriestly thing to say.”

  “She is a beautiful woman.”

  He gave Franco an accusatory look. “Why couldn’t I sleep in her brother’s bunk?”

  “And leave her alone? You know better than that.” Franco smiled broadly. “Who slept in the bed?”

  “I did,” he replied gruffly.

  Franco smiled. “You are
losing your touch, Nicholas.”

  “And you’re not acting like a priest.”

  “Relax, Nick. I can see you—”

  “You can see nothing.”

  “No?” Franco shook his head. “You have feelings for her.”

  “We’re looking for her brother.”

  “What does he have to do with Daniel?”

  He dropped the hammer to his side and looked at the man who’d helped him bury his brother. “I don’t know.”

  “Juan—Mark—is a good man.”

  “How can you be sure he wasn’t involved in something illegal? How sure can you be of any man’s character?”

  “You should know,” Franco said. “You’ve seen the best and the worst.”

  “Most men fall in the middle.” And the scales were tipped by unseen factors. Daniel’s character depended on the ever-present fact that Antonio Vargas was his father.

  As did his own.

  ***

  Mary Beth sat on a dry boulder and turned the wooden figurine of a vicuña in her hands. Padre Franco had given it to her when she’d taken the dry clothes to the bunkhouse he shared with the workers.

  Mark had made this carving. He’d taken time and care to create something beautiful. He’d never shown any indication of an artistic nature. Why had she never known he had this talent? It was fine to tell herself she hadn’t seen him often in the years since they’d left their father’s home, but that didn’t help her figure out what was going on now.

  What did he have to do with Daniel Vargas? Why were all these people looking for him? He wasn’t a gunrunner, no way.

  Was he?

  She remembered how he’d looked the day he’d confronted Paul, Marine embassy guards beside him. A stranger, not her brother. They’d never talked about it, about the things he hadn’t told her about the man she intended to marry. In hindsight, she wondered how he’d discovered the truth about Paul.

  “María,” Rosario, the middle-aged cook, called to her from the edge of the river.

  “¿Sí?” Mary Beth had surprised herself with her ability to speak Spanish again so quickly. She knew she had an accent, but Rosario didn’t question that she was Juan’s sister, come from Argentina to find him.

  “It is time to eat.”