by Beth Ciotta
“Like what?”
She wanted to ask about the bad stuff, except those experiences were connected to these mountains.
In light of their current precarious situation she steered away. “Who’s Atahualpa?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I seriously don’t know—”
“Sun King.”
“What?”
“The Lord of the Inca, descended from the sun, the creator god. Everything—the land, the people, the gold and silver—belonged to the Sun King. In 1527 there was a rivalry between brothers, but Atahualpa…”
“Yes?”
“Believed he was the true Inca king. Five bloody years of battle with his brother Huascar. He believed himself the victor, then Pizarro and a few hundred Spanish conquistadors landed on the coast of Peru.
Then everything went to hell.”
“Go on.”
“River—”
“What happened?” She continued to massage, one eye on the approaching storm as Spenser drank deeply from a water bottle.
After urging her to hydrate as well, he rushed on. “Long story short, Pizarro and his men captured Atahualpa and held him captive in Cajamarca, a small town in Peru. Knowing the Spaniards’ lust for precious metals, the Sun King offered to have his people fill a large room with gold and twice over with silver in exchange for his freedom. An offer he honored. But even that didn’t appease the greedy bastards. Nor did it quell Pizarro’s fear that Atahualpa’s most trusted general, Rumiñahui, would attack in retaliation.”
“This ends badly, doesn’t it?” River shivered in anticipation of something horrible. After all, the ancient kidnapping had spurred a curse. A curse connected with these mountains.
“The conquistadors executed Atahualpa not knowing, at that very instant, a caravan of sixty thousand men protected by twelve thousand armed guards and led by General Rumiñahui were headed for Cajamarca, carrying all the gold from every temple and palace in the empire.”
“Atahualpa’s ransom,” River whispered, entranced by the tale.
“Upon hearing the news of their king’s death,” Spenser said, “Rumiñahui redirected his troops into the Llanganatis.”
River was used to hearing old wives’ tales about marriage. Conditioned to handle problems associated with impending weddings, not ancient executions. She processed Spenser’s information. “So all that gold and silver, sweat of the sun, tears of the moon, is buried…here.”
“Somewhere. Later Rumiñahui was captured and tortured, but he never gave up the location of the buried treasure. The secret died with him.”
Spenser had told her about the buried treasure days before. She’d even considered the possibility that there was truth to the legend. But this was the first time she’d actual y ached to see that treasure for herself. She could feel the chakana burning against her breastbone. What if?
“According to sources,” Spenser said, “Henry claimed contact with Rumiñahui.”
“The Inca general? But he’s been dead for centuries. It’s not possible.” And just like that, her moment of wonder evaporated. So, what? Her father was hallucinating? Lying? Crazy?
“Sources also blame Henry for a guide’s death. Said the professor killed the man in order to protect his secret find.”
River blanched. Yes, she’d blamed her father for her mom’s death. But it’s not like he’d murdered her.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Neither do I. But someone drove a spear through that guide’s heart.”
“A spear?”
The sky crackled. Louder this time. River barely noticed. She was too busy massaging Spenser’s thigh and envisioning Indians with primitive weapons.
Spenser nabbed her wrists and nudged her away. “Get going.”
“What?”
“Push on, River. I’ll catch up.”
She suppressed a flutter of panic. “I’m not going anywhere without you.” It wasn’t solely the fear of being alone in these godforsaken mountains. She couldn’t imagine abandoning someone in need. Ever.
Part of the reason she was here to begin with. No matter her issues with Henry, she couldn’t abandon Spenser to some unknown fate.
“If I start to lose sight of you, I’ll tell you to stop. Meanwhile, it’ll motivate me to move. Mind over matter.”
She tugged off her gloves in order to get a better grip on his thigh, a deeper massage.
“Your hands,” he said, wincing as she dug in. “Getting dirty.”
“Have you taken a good look at me? I’m covered head-to-toe in jungle muck.”
“Germs.”
She got his drift. Normally she would’ve been dousing herself with liquid sanitizer. “I’m more worried about getting zapped.” She glanced at the sparking clouds, then back to Spenser. He was struggling to breathe. “I’m more worried about you.”
His expression softened. His green eyes smoldered. Back anchored against a wall of vegetation, Spenser pulled River into his arms. He kissed her, passionately, and suddenly they were lost in lust, the ground grumbling beneath them and the sky rumbling above.
This is crazy, River’s mind whispered. But she was powerless to break away. Coca tea and Cy’s seeds had nothing on Spenser’s kisses. She burned for this man. It didn’t matter that she suspected his motivations. It didn’t matter that they were making out on a precarious mountainside while a thunderstorm loomed or that they were both flirting with acute altitude sickness. The only thing she was in danger of was falling in love.
That thought hit her like a bucket of ice water.
River reared back—heart pounding, lungs seizing, blinded by…rain. They were drenched in a matter of seconds.
“Shit.” Spenser shifted into a half crouch. “We have to hurry.” River sleeved raindrops from her lashes, watching as he muscled on the heavy pack. He showed no signs of discomfort but she knew he was hurting. “Your leg.”
“It’s fine. Thanks to you.” He cupped the back of her neck, branded her lips with a searing kiss, then urged her up the slick incline. “Grab hold of whatever you can, anchor yourself. Slow and easy, angel.”
“You said we have to hurry!”
“Hurry with caution.”
She tried to channel his calm…and failed. “I don’t know the way,” River said, panic building. Cy was out of sight and she saw no visible path. The rain blurred everything. She pulled her new GPS unit from her jacket pocket, but her thick leather gloves proved a hindrance and she fumbled. The compact gadget fell out of her hands and disappeared somewhere below. “No!”
“Leave it,” Spenser said, but she’d already turned and…
The ground gave way beneath her feet. A scream lodged in River’s throat as she slid on her back several feet in a river of mud, down the cliff face, limbs flailing. She had a brief vision of a scene in Romancing the Stone, when Joan Wilder whooshed down a muddy hill, landing unharmed in a pool of murky water with her hero’s face between her legs. River anticipated no such luck. She anticipated impaling herself on one of the nasty, spiky arrow plants. I’m going to die, she thought, just before she slammed into a jutting tree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SPENSER’S HEART STOPPED beating for the length of time it took him get to River. He cursed himself, cursed fate, and in a moment of bone-deep fury, cursed the ancient Inca legend. “Not this time,” he ground out as he navigated the slick cliff. “Not her.”
His pulse registered when he saw her wedged in a leafy dwarf tree growing out of the cliff. She hadn’t fallen a long distance, but fast and far enough to scare the hell out of him. She looked stunned, but she was alive. Thank you, Jesus. “River.”
“I’m okay. I’m just…I’m afraid to move. If the branches break…”
“It’s okay, baby. Just shift—”
“Can’t.”
“No problem.” She’d frozen in fear. He could see that, sense that, even in the driving rain. “I’m coming, angel. Sit tight.”
&
nbsp; “No problem.”
He smiled. Even though she was scared stiff, she’d retained a sense of humor. His admiration of River Kane tripled. “Take my hand.”
“Can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” She was wedged in the tree with a death grip on the branches. Digging his heels into the soggy, craggy earth, he reached farther down, his fingertips grazing the sleeve of her sodden jacket. “I have faith in you, River. Let go of fear and grab hold of me.” Her gaze locked onto his and jolted his soul with a surge of trust. She let go and grabbed on.
“That’s it, baby. Hold tight.” He hefted her into his arms and eased into a safe position. “It’s okay.
You’re all right,” he soothed as she lapsed into broken sobs. Christ. Ignoring the pounding of his own heart and the inconvenient downpour, he held River close, allowing her time to recover from the shock. Hell, he felt poleaxed himself. If anything had happened to her… He blocked the notion and repressed past issues. He focused on now. On getting River safely to the páramo.
Just then the rain ended as abruptly as it had begun. Not surprising, given the unpredictable weather of the Llanganatis.
River’s sobbing turned to hiccupping laughter. Concerned she was a heartbeat from hysterics, Spenser cupped her face and studied her gaze. Not glassy or shocky, just teary with relief.
She sleeved rain from her face and instead smeared mud. “I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I didn’t mean to lose it. That was just… Wow. Talk about a wild ride!”
Spenser laughed, then indulged in a lingering kiss. It was the second time they’d made out on this cliff.
The second time he’d lost reason to passion. He fought through the sensual haze, desperate for a clear, rational thought. Drugged on relief and River’s addictive kisses, the world had taken on an ethereal quality. He blinked to clear his vision but the misty air still swirled. “Fog.” Spenser said. “Shit.”
“FUCK.” GATOR had a death grip on the dashboard or whatever the hell it was called. The copter was motion less, grounded, but his head still spun like the dying blades.
“Grab the rest of the gear in the rear cabin and get out,” Con ordered. “We’ll have to hoof it from here.”
Gator leered at the man who’d already jumped out and strapped on a massive backpack. How could he look and sound so calm? “We just crashed—”
“Forced landing. Big difference.” Con strapped a machine gun over his shoulder. “Rock and roll, soldier.”
Gator stared as the madman disappeared into a sheet of mist and rain. Even though they’d been forced to land in shitty weather, in the middle of God-knew-where, The Conquistador seemed confident of his surroundings.
Ignoring his own labored breathing and aching body, Gator hurriedly retrieved the remaining gear and followed. He didn’t know which was the greatest motivator—the lure of eight billion dollars or fear of falling victim to a cursed mountain.
“WE HAVE TO HURRY,” River whispered, echoing Spenser’s earlier dictate. First rain, now fog. What next? Hail? Don’t tempt fate. Even though she was still rattled from the mud slide and Spenser’s soul-searing kiss, River gathered her wits. “How’s your leg?”
“I can’t believe you’re worried about me after what you just went through.” He shook his head, squeezed her hand. “Stick close.”
If she could’ve superglued herself to him, she would have. Though shaken and sore, River was determined to get off this damned incline, onto flat ground. Her thoughts blurred as they ascended quickly, trying to beat the encroaching fog. She blocked memories of her adrenaline-charged plummet by focusing on the loss of not one, but two GPS units in less than a week. It’s as if the powers that be didn’t want her to have direction. Although Spenser had mentioned being able to navigate by nature.
Probably by the sun and stars, she thought hazily. Isn’t that how sailors used to do it?
Lost in thought, she lost track of time. She was vaguely aware of the cooling temperature, even though she was sweating due to exertion. She still heard the occasional crack of thunder, though it sounded more distant. At least the storm was passing.
Fog, however, swirled all around her. It wasn’t thick enough to totally obscure her vision, but the effect was haunting. In the back of her mind it occurred to her that she was climbing out of the Amazon into the Andes. Braving an array of threatening circumstances. River Kane, the woman who normally feared leaving her small midwestern town without a map. The woman who feared infection and disease. The woman who famously encountered disaster.
The mud slide was a fluke, she told herself.
I’m not cursed. I’m not compromised. I can do this. I’m not cursed. I’m not compromised. I can do this.
River crawled, grappled, clutched and clawed, grabbing onto anything to anchor herself as the sodden vegetation squished and the fog thickened. She ignored the smelly, slimy muck and the occasional lash and poke of branches, the prickles that scratched and stung. She blocked out the pain when her muscles twinged and her lungs screamed for air. Seed juice, she thought, but she didn’t want to hinder their progress by stopping to “medicate.”
I’m not cursed. I’m not compromised. I can do this. I’m not cursed. I’m not compromised. I can do this.
She repeated that mantra for an hour, maybe two. Then suddenly Spenser disappeared over a ridge.
Her heart stopped, but then she felt his hands around her wrists. Felt him haul her up—again. Only this time he set her to her feet. On flat ground. Soggy, but flat.
Hallelujah!
She would’ve dropped to the ground and kissed the earth, but she’d pretty much been doing that for the last several hours!
Spenser gently cupped her face. “You scared the hell out of me back there.” Worried he might insist on sending her back as soon as they found Cy, she shrugged off the mud slide with a smile. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she rasped, trying to catch her breath. “I’l be Superwoman by the time we find Henry.”
“Don’t tempt the curse, River.”
Her attempt to make light backfired. Touched by the concern in his eyes, she squeezed his hand. “I’m fine. Wet, muddy and sore, but fine.” She looked around his shoulder, squinted at the misty landscape.
“Where are we?”
“The páramo.” Spenser shrugged off his pack and stretched. “I admit, I’m surprised and impressed you made it this far, angel.”
“Me, too,” she gritted out. Her muscles trembled with fatigue. Her body ached to wilt into a puddle, but she was so thrilled to be on level ground, she forced herself to stand and stretch. Through the silvery mist she saw twisted and gnarled trees, thorny shrubs and what looked like fields of prairie grass. The thick jungle canopy had given way to open skies, but because of the fog, visibility was limited.
“I thought I’d be able to see Cerro Hermoso,” she said in between gasps for air.
“You would,” Spenser said. “On a clear day.”
“I have to pee.” She blushed as soon as the words came out. It was just that suddenly, after hours of climbing and drinking water to stay hydrated, her bladder was near to bursting. She looked for the nearest bush big enough to squat behind.
“Don’t go far,” Spenser said. “And talk to me so I know where you are.” She felt ridiculous but at least he was distracted, rooting through his humongous backpack. After grabbing a supply of tissues, River ducked behind a flowery bush just a couple of feet away.
“Talk to me!” he yelled.
What about? The GPS sprang to mind. She felt bad about losing it, especially since he’d refused to allow her to reimburse him. “So that quirk I have about needing to know where I am?” she called out.
“It’s because I got lost once!”
“I figured!”
“It was after my mom died. I wanted to spend time with Henry. To apologize for some ugly things I’d said. He didn’t want me to visit. He was in Mexico, an expedition having to do with Mayan ruins. But I talked him into it and, long s
tory short, I got lost in the jungle. Alone for twelve hours. I freaked out, lost control, ran all over looking for the way back, making it harder for them to find me and…” She trailed off as she flashed on the overwhelming panic. “Let’s just say, I confirmed Henry’s belief that I’m not cut out for the wild.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“I don’t blame you for freaking out.”
“Henry did,” she mumbled to herself. She zipped up her muddy cargo pants and squirted her hands with sanitizer, marveling at her timing. She wasn’t sure why she’d chosen this awkward moment to reveal one of her worst memories. An experience that had saddled her with one of her biggest phobias. “Losing control was the worst part,” she said, more to herself than Spenser, as she stepped out from behind the bush. “The emotional chaos. Can’t go there again. Ever.” She stopped talking, stopped moving and simply stared. The fog had thickened and it was moving in all directions. Swirling. Dancing. Hypnotic. Eerie. Various shades of silver and gray. The twisted trees. The howling wind. She half expected the ghosts of General Rumiñahui and his army to emerge from the rolling fog. Haunting. Captivating. She reached for her camera and remembered.
