To the Limit (Shadow Heroes Book 3)

by Virginia Kelly

  Not likely. From everything Jean had told her about the man, Daniel Vargas was considered a San Matean national hero, responsible for the rescue of foreign hostages from the same group that eventually killed him. He’d been buried with full honors.

  She sat up and looked at the man she’d nearly made love with, the man she had to remind herself she didn’t know. She was sure of only one thing—if Nick was willing to take responsibility for Daniel Vargas’ son, to claim the child as his own, then it only stood to reason that if Daniel had broken the law, Nick would do everything in his power to keep it from coming to light.

  No matter his offer to help her, or the consequences to Mark.

  ***

  Nick opened heavy eyelids. The disembodied feeling he’d experienced seemed to have passed. Pain, not particularly intense, centered on the two wounds and pulled at him as he reached for the juice on the table beside the cot.

  He grimaced. He was going to have to get up.

  Raising his left arm to shade his eyes against the morning light pouring through the small window, he saw that Mary Beth’s cot was empty, her blanket folded neatly at the foot. He focused on his wristwatch—mid-morning. He’d wasted too much time. Even if he wasn’t completely well, he had to think, plan.

  And believe in Daniel, who’d given him so much. Who’d counted on him. The man he’d let down.

  Daniel couldn’t have been complicit in counterfeiting or gunrunning. His involvement with Mark Williams had to indicate an investigation cut short by his death.

  But that didn’t explain the numbers in both their writing on the paperwork they’d found. And if that wasn’t enough, the two men had been seen together and the dog tag Daniel said he lost had been in Williams’ safe deposit box. That spoke of friendship. Or collusion.

  “You’re awake.” Mary Beth’s voice pierced his thoughts.

  She stood at the door, looking fresh. Beautiful. Memories of how she’d looked at the river raced across his mind, but he pushed them away ruthlessly. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He had nothing beyond a fabricated life to offer her.

  Then there was that other problem. What would he do once he found Mark Williams?

  She gazed at him long and hard, as if she were thinking the same thing.

  Afraid she might see the questions he was still asking himself, he cleared his throat. “I have to get up.”

  “You really shouldn’t. You might tear something.”

  He smiled at her. “But I have to.”

  She stared at him a moment before her expression reflected her understanding. “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.” He rolled to his side, holding his stomach.

  “Jean’s gone.”

  He stopped, hand still on his stomach. “Just help me get there.” He swung his legs off the cot.

  They’d stripped him. He had borrowed boxers on, but his pants were gone. When he stood, the room swayed. Mary Beth placed an arm around him to balance him. He couldn’t help but turn his face and breathe her in. Holding on, he managed to get to the bathroom. Once inside, he braced himself against the wall to keep from falling over.

  The return trip was much worse. By the time he fell back onto the bed, he was cold and sweaty. The room seemed to be spinning in ever faster circles.

  “I made breakfast,” she said, wiping his brow with a cool, damp cloth.

  God, he felt horrible. The thought of food made him nauseous. “Can I have it later?”

  “Sure. Just let me know when you want it.”

  He managed to straighten out and relax, aware that the pain was not bad at all. It was the dizziness that wouldn’t go away.

  She wiped the cloth across his neck and chest. The touch soothed him.

  She was trying to comfort him, while he was the son of a bitch who hadn’t yet decided what he’d do about her brother.

  He wouldn’t be beholden to her. Knowing he was being a bastard, knowing she was only trying to help, he said, “Stop,” and grabbed her hand, yanking the cloth from it.

  She moved away, eyes cool and controlled, turned and walked out.

  Fuck!

  He was swearing in English.

  ***

  Mary Beth squeezed the orange with vengeance. All she wanted to do was make Nick comfortable. Well, she’d forget about his comfort. She’d feed him, make sure he drank enough liquid and let it go at that. It was obvious he didn’t want her to touch him, so she wouldn’t.

  She blew a strand of hair from her forehead.

  She was an idiot for reacting to a wounded man. She had to start acting. Nick wasn’t well. She had to go on. As soon as the road opened, she’d have to take her chances alone. Jean would tell her how to get to Los Desamparados.

  With renewed purpose, she washed her hands and put the orange juice on a tray along with fried bananas, eggs and hot rolls. He’d damn well better eat.

  Prepared to treat him like a stranger, she found him on his side, his face pale. She wanted to cry.

  “The doctor left some ibuprofen,” she offered.

  He shook his head, his dark hair ruffled against the pillow. “I don’t want to even think about drugs,” he said with a humorless laugh. “Besides, I’m not in pain.” He turned toward her. “The Rangers know someone was at the stockade. They’ll search for a wounded man. Once they look around the mission, they’ll come straight to Jean’s.”

  She hadn’t thought of that.

  “Where’s the Land Cruiser?”

  “You can’t move yet. Jean said—”

  “Mary Beth.” His tone sounded a warning.

  “He hid it in some trees. But you need—”

  “To get better. I have today, at least.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’re not well enough—”

  “There’s no choice.” He struggled to sit up.

  With Mary Beth’s help he did, and ate all the food she’d fixed. She hadn’t left the room before he fell asleep again.

  The long day wore on. Nick woke to drink and go to the bathroom. Every time he got up, she was sure he was going to collapse. But he treated his weakness by ruthlessly pushing ahead, like he would a recalcitrant politician who refused to agree to a compromise.

  By late afternoon, when the doctor got back from checking on patients, Nick had convinced himself that he could take a shower. She was only convinced he’d kill himself, and told him so.

  “I am perfectly capable of showering.”

  “You’re perfectly capable of falling down and ripping your stitches out.”

  “You’re not my mother, damn it!”

  She bit back a sharp retort. She shouldn’t argue with him when he’d needed someone to cajole him.

  “Of course she’s not your mother.” Jean stood in the doorway smiling at them. “You have a wonderful mother. Mary Beth is simply trying to follow my instructions.”

  Nick turned to him, holding on to the table for balance. “Which were to keep me in this damn bed until I rot?”

  “No. Which were to keep you still so you don’t destroy my stitches.”

  “Funny,” Nick replied. “They feel like my stitches.”

  The doctor shook his head and gave Mary Beth a look that begged patience. He directed his words toward Nick. “You want a shower?”

  “Yes. I stink.”

  Mary Beth saw the militant glint in Nick’s eyes. He was going to get a shower one way or the other. She hoped the doctor didn’t insist on refusing.

  “For the sake of your pretty nurse, I’m going to help you.” Jean winked at Mary Beth. “She shouldn’t have to put up with your bad temper as well as your smell.”

  Nick released the table and eased back onto the cot. “Thank you.” He gasped as he relaxed. “I think.”

  The doctor laughed, winked at her again and spoke to Nick. “Don’t let the water hit the stitches directly and don’t use soap on them. You’re healing quickly, no point in pushing your luck.”

  Mary Beth left them, and a few moments later, as she busied
herself in the kitchen, she heard the shower running. Jean had brought back a matahambre from one of his patients. The steak roll contained spinach, eggs and carrots and smelled wonderful. She hoped Nick wasn’t too tired from his bath to eat.

  She had just put the matahambre into a pot to warm, when she heard a knock on the door.

  “¡Doctór!” a woman shouted.

  Afraid that it might be the Rangers or Elliot Smith, Mary Beth peeked out the window and saw a woman and child. The doctor couldn’t possibly hear anything in the bathroom. The knocking continued as she went to get him. She stepped into the steamy bathroom and told him.

  “Don’t leave Nick in there more than another minute or two,” Jean said to her. To Nick, he said, “I’m going to answer the door. Mary Beth is here.”

  She heard the door close behind her and turned toward the shower. Behind the yellow vinyl curtain, she could make out the shadow of Nick’s body. He leaned against the wall, his head bent forward, letting water run down his neck and back.

  Moments later, Jean opened the bathroom door and said, “I have to go. There’s been an accident. There are clean bandages in the examining room.” He left, then Mary Beth heard the front door slam.

  A minute passed. She looked back at the shower stall. “Nick?” She hated the awkward sound of her own voice. “Jean had to leave. You have to get out.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Jean left. You have to get out of the shower.”

  A thud resonated through the small bathroom. Muffled mumbling followed. Nick’s silhouette tilted precariously. He tried to push himself upright, away from the wall. She forgot about anything but the possibility that he might fall, and threw open the curtain.

  He listed slightly, both hands on the tiled wall, his side to her. In a single instant, she took in the beautifully sculpted muscles, his dark hair plastered to his head. And the horrible stitches at his waist.

  Reaching out, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, his muscles tense.

  “Turn—off—the water,” he gasped. “Hand me—a towel.”

  She released his shoulder and did as he’d asked.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist, no longer leaning against the wall, and began to fall.

  He didn’t, because she steadied him, balancing his wet, slippery body, by bracing herself as he struggled to stay on his feet.

  With awkward effort, he stepped out of the shower and stumbled down the hall with her, soaking her clothes. Finally in the bedroom, he lurched onto the fresh sheets, pulled up the top one, and closed his eyes.

  “Nick?” she asked, afraid he’d passed out. She reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder.

  “I’m okay,” he mumbled. Rubbing a hand down his face, he added, “I’m getting everything wet.”

  Relieved to hear his voice, Mary Beth looked down at him. The white sheet clung damply to his chest, stomach and thighs, molding to them.

  “I need another towel,” he said.

  She met his gaze, a flush spreading across her face as she realized he’d caught her staring. “I’ll, um—get one.”

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I’m sorry for behaving like a wounded bear. Worse. I would have fallen if you hadn’t been there. I would have bled to death if it hadn’t been for you.”

  His eyes seemed so intense, so open. She pulled away, afraid of what he might say.

  “No, Mary Beth. Wait. Give me a minute.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t think I stopped before, at the river, because I don’t want you. God knows I do.”

  He smiled, but it was such a sad smile, Mary Beth didn’t understand.

  “But sex...” He released a pent-up breath. “It…” He paused, as if searching for words. “What matters is trust.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “Let me finish.” He placed his hand over the damp sheet against his stomach. “I don’t have—”

  “Please don’t—”

  “I don’t have the kind of life you need.” He closed his eyes for a single moment, then opened them, searching her face.

  “I don’t need anything from you but your help to save my brother,” she replied, unwilling to listen to any more.

  “I can’t give you what you should have.” His words came out as a harsh whisper.

  “You can’t know what I should have.”

  His voice gentled. “What’s the most important thing to you?”

  The answer that came to mind surprised her. Love. She’d wanted love from her parents, but they’d been too self-involved and wounded by their marriage to give it. Mark had been the one steadfast person in her life. The yearning for love was something she could no longer deny, but something she would not voice, certainly not to Nick. She couldn’t bear for him to know. Instead, she focused on the mistakes she’d made. She’d wanted love and had been given a pretense. What she should have been given was something else.

  “Honesty,” she said, knowing it would have saved her so much.

  “I can’t give that to you.”

  She turned, refusing to let him see what she so desperately wanted to hide from herself.

  She’d fallen in love with him.

  “I’m sorry.” His words rumbled in the quiet of the room.

  No, she was. Paul Martens never told her he was sorry for the betraying her trust, not that she expected it. She’d hurt the man who’d wanted more from her years ago. She’d lied to him, telling him she’d keep in touch. She hadn’t known how to soften the blow.

  Nick had tried to be kind, to give her some dignity to hold on to. Whether he admitted it or not, he was an honest man.

  “I’ll bring dry sheets.”

  ***

  “How’d Nick make out?” Jean asked when he came back four hours later.

  “Okay. He’s asleep.” Mary Beth closed the days-old newspaper she was reading at the kitchen table. She didn’t want to think about what Nick had said. “Is the road to Los Desamparados open yet?”

  “No. I’m told it will open tomorrow or the next day.” Jean put his black medical bag down on the table. “I’ll pack bandages and antibiotic capsules and put them in the bag where Nick keeps his guns.”

  “Is there anything I should watch for? Signs of infection?”

  “The antibiotics will handle that. He knows how to take the stitches out. You may have to help with his back, but that’s—” Jean looked at her for a long silent moment, then sat down and tented his hands together. “You can trust him. There are few men who deserve trust more.”

  “He warned me not to.”

  Jean shook his head. “You have to understand Nick’s sense of responsibility. He doesn’t let anyone down. I haven’t figured out how he does it without allowing anyone to get close. Daniel was the exception.”

  She wanted to understand this man who had been so important to Nick, who still was. “I know Daniel was stationed in the Río Hermoso Valley, but why did he have a house there? Why not live in Ciudad San Mateo?”

  “Daniel bought the property years ago. Long before that famous hostage rescue that made him a household name in this country. He and Nick used to go fishing there.” Jean stood and poured himself a cup of coffee. “That land was one of the first tangible signs that Daniel wasn’t going to do as his father wanted. The general opposed the purchase and certainly didn’t want Daniel to build the house there. But Daniel was his own man. He managed his life away from his father’s prying eyes.”

  Cristina and young Alex. A secret Daniel never shared with his father, one Nick chose to honor.

  “The general seems to be a difficult man.”

  “The general is a son of a bitch.” Jean’s green eyes seethed with emotion. Anger and something else. Regret, maybe?

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out.”

  “You know him?”

  “Well enough to wonder why in the world Elena allowed her father to tie her to him,” Jean replied. “Of course, Vargas had yet to show her the kind of man he w
as—and is.”

  Jean didn’t call her Doña, Mary Beth noted. “It was an arranged marriage?”

  “Strongly encouraged is probably a better term. The money and influence of the Romeros, the up-and-coming military officer. Elena … was too young to object.”

  “So the general wanted the marriage for the good it would do him politically?”

  “There is nothing the general does that isn’t geared toward that end. He tried to groom Daniel to follow in his footsteps.” Jean grinned. “But Daniel wouldn’t play his game. The general handpicked a girl from a powerful family for Daniel’s wife. Daniel simply refused.”

  Mary Beth wondered if that was why Daniel hadn’t married Cristina. It didn’t seem like much of a reason. “The general must have been very angry.”

  “He was, and he blamed Nick because Nick had always been Daniel’s confidant. But behind that anger is envy, I think. It makes the general furious that Nick was so close to Daniel. It galls him that Nick is so successful, that he’s succeeded at everything he’s ever tried. Have you met Carlos Montoya?”

  Mary Beth shook her head. “I’ve heard Nick to talk him on the phone.”

  “He’s Elena’s nephew, her oldest sister’s son. He influenced Nick more than anyone, other than Elena. When Nick left the army, Carlos introduced him to diplomacy. Nick is very, very good.”

  “I heard nothing but good things about him before I came to San Mateo, but there was only one published story about him.”

  “Very little of what he does gets into the newspapers. Nick’s been sent all over the world for several governments, including yours. The military trust him because he was a soldier, a good one. He’s had more success handling life and death negotiations than anyone. He has always been able to find a compromise. He’s a master at it.”

  “What am I the master of?”

  Mary Beth turned. Nick stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’d put on his washed pants, but he wore no shirt or shoes. The bandage at his waist was the only reminder of why they’d come here. His dark beard seemed to fit now. He looked lean and dangerous, as far from a diplomat as anyone she’d ever met.

  “Compromise,” Jean repeated.

  Nick walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Sometimes compromise is failure.”