To the Limit

by Virginia Kelly

  Nick would do anything to protect his family.

  The unspoken hung between them as they began the trip down. Nick knew why she'd insisted on coming. He would have if he'd been in her position. It didn't make him feel particularly proud of himself to admit that she was right. He didn't know what he'd do once they learned what had gone on between Daniel and Mark Williams.

  But that wasn't the only reason he didn't want to bring her. The physical demands of the effort were too much. But Mary Beth didn't make it harder for him, at least not physically.

  This daughter of privilege had guts and strength reinforced by determination. Nick admired her tenacity. She didn't like the height, so she didn't look beyond her own feet. They'd been on the downward descent for a little more than half an hour, slipping and sliding down the treacherous cliffside.

  He didn't know when he'd learn to handle his fear that she would slip and fall and tumble to her death. Every time she grabbed a vine that broke, his heart stopped.

  "Let's rest here," he said, standing on the first piece of flat ground they'd encountered. It was a ledge of sorts, firm because of the vegetation and rocks that anchored the rich earth.

  She came down the steep grade and joined him, covered in mud. He'd insisted she wear work gloves they'd gotten from Dona Inez to protect her hands from the bite of the vines. She hadn't argued with anything he'd asked of her from the moment he'd agreed to let her come. Now her cheeks were smeared with drying mud and her hair had come loose of the pins she'd used to hold it away from her face. With shaking fingers, she removed the gloves and lay them aside carefully. Pulling the pins out, she held them between her teeth as she readjusted her hair before again using them.

  "Water?" he asked, holding out the canteen.

  "Please," she replied with her pristine manners.

  Nick smiled. Mary Beth Williams had crept into his heart, and his heart was having a hell of a time dealing with her. She was all polished manners and perseverance and loyalty.

  "It's not as steep as I thought it would be," she said after taking a sip. "There's actually a path."

  "Years ago, people took mules down this way. There have been too many landslides for that."

  "How long do you think it'll take us from here?"

  "Another couple of hours, at least." But he knew it would take longer. She was trying, but he wasn't going as fast as he would by himself. "How are you doing?"

  "I'm tired," she admitted.

  "Me, too." The stitches on his stomach pulled and burned.

  He should have removed them before attempting the descent, but that was hindsight.

  She stretched her arms high, then moved her neck around, loosening overworked muscles.

  God, she was beautiful. And he wanted her for himself, as that one something that was his and only his. Not something that came to him by way of the name he used, not something that had been touched by the truth of his paternity.

  They rested, then continued. The midday sun broke through the mists, warming the air. Perspiration plastered Nick's shirt to his back and mud caked his jeans. Mary Beth fared no better, but she never complained. They stopped again and ate the bread and cheese he had in a backpack.

  "Which way?" she asked when they'd finished.

  Nick looked down, then from side to side. He'd followed the route he had taken years before, but from this point on, a landslide had taken away everything he recognized. He'd have to scout ahead to see which way to go.

  "I'm going this way to see if we can get down. You stay here."

  "If you don't know which way to go, why don't we split up? It'll save time."

  She was right, of course, but the thought of her alone frightened him. He didn't like the feeling at all. To prove to himself he wasn't as vulnerable as he feared, he agreed.

  A half hour later, with Mary Beth hidden by thick vegetation and boulders, Nick knew he'd made a huge mistake.

  He'd lost sight of her.

  It wasn't that steep, Mary Beth repeated to herself for the umpteenth time. Not steep at all. But it was still too frightening, the wet earth barely anchored in places by overgrown greenery. She followed along a barely perceptible path, leaning to her left, her weight against the mountainside, both hands grabbing bushes and vines, wishing desperately that she'd stayed with Nick.

  She saw it then. A better way. Slightly up and to the right. Taking one step back, she turned, reached up and grasped a sturdy vine. Pulling on it gently before committing her weight to it, she stepped up, pleased when she realized how much more level this path was. Confident now that this was it, she moved forward, needing no handhold, intent on seeing if this did indeed promise a route down.

  It gave way to nothingness in a heartbeat.

  She struggled for a toehold on the muddy incline, her gloved hands tearing down the length of a sturdy vine as she slid down fifty feet or more before stopping.

  Praying the vine held, she scrambled to her right, intent on reaching a more level area that would see her clear. Then she'd go back and find Nick. She wished she hadn't been in such a rush that she'd failed to watch where she stepped.

  Then she heard it—someone breathing hard, a rustling in the vegetation below. "Nick," she called tentatively.

  Frightening moments later, the vine began to break free. Mary Beth felt the ripping and dug her toes deeper into the mud. Reaching out with her right hand, she grabbed a bush and pulled, testing its ability to hold her. It fell away. She dropped another foot as the vine continued to give way.

  Surprisingly clearheaded, she clung to the cliffside, her eyes scanning for anything she might use for support.

  She identified sounds. Breathing. Clumps of mud tripping down the incline.

  The vine ripped from its mooring and she slid, her hands clutching for a firm hold, her legs churning for support. Panic lurched in her heart.

  Suddenly she stopped. Something had caught her right arm, stopping her downward descent. Looking up to where her arm was trapped, she saw a large male hand grasping her.

  Mary Beth peered up and froze at the sight of the coarse features of the man who held her, a salacious grin on his face. The one soldier Nick hadn't shot. The one named Wyatt.

  "Gotcha!" he said.

  Mary Beth struggled to pull free of his grasp, but he dragged her up toward him and held her down on somewhat even ground, pinning her arms to the muddy earth.

  "Let go!"

  "There's no need to shout," he replied, his fingers biting into her arms.

  "Where's Smith?"

  Wyatt smiled. "Looking for you." He raised one leg over her prone body, anchoring her thighs with his own. "He's gonna have to wait."

  Mary Beth saw something mean and ugly settle into Wyatt's eyes. She fought the hold of his hands and tried to scoot out from under him.

  He jerked her arms back down into the mud. "No reason to fight," he said softly.

  But there was a reason. There was no doubt in her mind as to what he planned. "Smith won't like this."

  Wyatt laughed. "I don't think he'll care."

  She was on her own. If she was going to survive this, she had to do something. She twisted beneath him, turning to one side and thrashing her legs—until he settled against her, crushing her into the mud.

  But the mud proved her friend. Wyatt couldn't hold her, as slippery as she was. She twisted, flipped onto her stomach and scrambled away, crawling frantically to escape his clutching hands as he laughed, one hand around her ankle. Her hands grasped handfuls of mud and grass, but she could find nothing to help her. He began inching up one of her legs, pulling her down as she kicked with her other leg. Her hand found a rock about the size of a brick. She hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder and bounced off. Desperate now, she kicked at the hand that held her, kicking herself in the process. He grabbed her free leg, again pinning her to the muddy earth.

  Never before a quitter, Mary Beth feared this time she'd been defeated. She had no more fight in her. The cliff had exhausted her. Thi
s man might do as he wanted. But she'd make him pay a heavy price first.

  With one last effort she jerked her leg, attempting to unbalance him so he'd release her.

  "Let her go." The words, so calm, rose over the sound of her desperate breathing. She barely had time to register Nick's presence before she felt herself freed.

  Choking back sobs, she scrambled away from the detestable man.

  "Take it easy," Wyatt said, sitting back, his arms wide.

  "Where's Smith?" Nick demanded, the gun he carried pointed at the man.

  "In the valley, looking for you. I told him you'd find another way down," Wyatt replied with a smile. The smile faded as Nick's expression hardened.

  "Stand up," Nick ordered.

  "Sure, just take it—"

  "Now."

  Reluctantly, his eyes frozen to Nick's gun, Wyatt did as he was told. "There's no need to play the hero here. I was just having a little fun. It's got nothing to do with you."

  "Pull the pistol from your holster," Nick ordered.

  Mary Beth had missed that. He'd been armed all along. He could just as easily have shot her. But that hadn't been his intention. At least, not until he was through with her.

  She watched the drama unfold, trying to control the trembling she felt spreading through her limbs. She clutched her knees to her chest.

  In the blink of an eye Wyatt pulled the pistol from his hip and swung his arm up toward Nick, just as Nick fired. The man collapsed to the muddy ground.

  Before she could suck in a breath, the slope where Wyatt lay gave way, sending him sliding, tumbling down.

  Mary Beth closed her eyes and heard the sounds of the mud slide, then long moments later, the muffled moment of impact.

  Nick had said he'd been a Ranger, a sharpshooter. But the memory only briefly connected after she realized the shot Nick had taken had landed squarely between Wyatt's eyes.

  She didn't know how long she sat there, the echoes of fear and death screaming around her, when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  "Are you all right?" Nick asked.

  All she could manage was a nod. Despite the heat, she felt cold. Strong arms gathered her close. She turned into the solidity of Nick's body. The sobs she had felt bubbling to the surface burst from her. She buried her face in the welcoming space between his neck and shoulder. His flesh, warm and damp, felt comforting.

  He rubbed his hands up and down her back and rumbled his reassurances. Finally, her nerves soothed by his presence, by his attention, she pulled away marginally and met the intense blue of his gaze.

  "Dios mío," he said, his voice hoarse and raspy.

  She caught a glimpse of something deeper in the emotions he allowed her to see for an instant—in that single instant before he lowered his mouth to hers.

  It wasn't a kiss of passion. It was a kiss of relief. Of overwhelming thankfulness.

  With shaking hands, he held her face, then as if reluctant, he pulled away and took a deep breath. "We're going back up. Smith thinks we're in the valley. He won't look for us in San Vicente." He pushed aside strands of her hair that had come loose.

  She didn't argue. She couldn't.

  How she ever made it back up, she never understood. Nick's strong hands, his own determination and unwavering strength got her back up. She'd turned into a spineless robot, one hand before the other, one foot after the other.

  Late-afternoon mists had drifted back to cover the deep abyss by the time they reached the top.

  The people of San Vicente were taking their afternoon tea,

  Nick explained, so the square was empty as they made their way across. He led her to Doña Inez's house and pulled a key from one colorful pot full of blooming flowers.

  Once inside, they pulled off their muddy shoes, and Mary Beth fell into one of the kitchen chairs as Nick opened the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of cola. Removing the caps, he handed one to her and sat down on the floor next to her. Neither said a word as they drank. The clock ticked over the stove.

  Long minutes passed. Nick removed his holster and put it on the floor beside him. Mary Beth could think of nothing to say. She couldn't formulate logical thought. Finally, the sugar and caffeine from the soda kicked in. She wanted to get up. To move. To feel something besides terror.

  Reaching out her hand, she brushed her fingers against Nick's wet hair. He turned toward her, the bottle halfway to his lips. She tried to look away, tried to turn from the intensity she saw there, but couldn't. He held her with his eyes as he finished the drink. She watched his throat as he swallowed, but couldn't move her hand away. He put the bottle down without breaking eye contact, then reached up and took her hand from his hair and held it pressed to his lips.

  He was filthy, muddy, just as she was. She'd thought before that his beard made him look dangerous. It did. He was, he'd proved that today. Very dangerous, she acknowledged, aware of the male intensity rolling off him. Not the sort of man she had ever thought she'd find herself drawn to, not the sort of man she'd thought he was. Yet he fascinated her. She could deny her feelings until hell froze over but nothing would change them.

  "Mary Beth—"

  "I'm sorry you had to shoot—"

  "Don't talk about that miserable excuse—" He cut himself off, shifting on the floor so that he sat on his heels in front of her, his hands on her knees, over her muddy jeans. "I should not have let you go off alone."

  She couldn't bear not to feel his warm flesh beneath her fingers. Reaching out, she touched his cheek.

  His nostrils flared. "Nothing has changed."

  "Don't. Please don't." She took a jagged breath, her heart pounding out a rhythm that threatened to make her lightheaded. "I don't want to analyze. I just want you."

  He tensed, his gaze pinning her in place. His hands moved from her knees to the arms of the chair. "Are you sure?"

  "I've never been more sure of anything in all my life."

  Nick felt his control slip. She represented something fine and wonderful—hope for himself—and he'd almost lost her. If he'd had the chance he would have shot the bastard on the cliff twenty times. For hurting her. For even looking at something that was his. Clutching the arms of her chair, he tried to tame the savagery he felt trying to surface. He let a moment pass, hoping he wouldn't scare her with his feelings.

  But she took things out of his hands with a simple touch, the pad of her thumb across his lower lip. A soft caress, sliding under his control.

  Sure he was shaking, sure he'd topple them both over, he shifted onto his knees, his hands gripping the chair. "I don't want to hurt you."

  Her eyes darkened to the color of mellow whiskey and she whispered, "You can only hurt me if you stop."

  Blood pounding through him, he leaned toward her, toward her mouth. She watched him, only closing her eyes when his lips touched hers. The heat of her mouth pulled him in. He couldn't get enough. He'd wanted her for so long. Wanted her with more than his body. But it was his body that took over, leaning into the chair, pulling her roughly against him as he plunged his tongue into her mouth.

  She welcomed him, drew him to her, her fingers clutching his head. It felt like coming home, like finding something precious there, something he'd missed with all his being. The scraping of the chair across the tile brought him back to what he was doing. He pulled away, only inches, and watched her.

  Her eyes opened, blinked as if surprised. He'd pushed her chair against the wall. He wanted to slow down, to bring some sort of control to what raged through him, but she did it again.

  She pressed her mouth, open and hot, against his. And he lost it. Lost whatever modicum of sanity he'd been able to maintain from the moment he realized what she was to him. Tearing his mouth from hers, he buried his face in her neck, ravenous for the feel of her flesh against his tongue. He could feel her hands tearing at his back, trying to pull his muddy shirt out of his jeans. He had to feel her against him, couldn't wait.

  Pushing himself away, he pulled at
her shirt, ripping it over her head, then tore his own off, tossing them both to the floor. He felt like he was sliding down a slope, unable to put on the brakes, unable to stop.

  The chair tumbled over and she sprawled onto him, her mouth clinging to his, her teeth bumping against his. He tangled his fingers in her hair, needing more. She moaned, her hands stroking down his chest.

  The feel of her fingers against his nipples made him shake. He pulled the straps of her bra off her shoulders with clumsy haste. She grappled with the single snap of his jeans, her hands trembling against him.

  Their breathing filled the kitchen, ragged gasps that covered the sound of Nick's zipper. But he didn't need air, he needed her. Rolling, he pulled her under himself, his elbows supporting his weight, his hands holding her face for the onslaught of his mouth on hers. Her hands, trapped between them, against his belly, pressed against him. He raised up on one knee, and the feel of the tile brought him back to reality.

  He was tearing at her, prepared to take her on a cold floor with no consideration for her exhaustion. For anything. He almost lost it again when her hands clutched his back as she raised her hips against him. He felt the give of desire but fought it, holding her still, trying to soothe her with quick kisses to her face, gentle touches along her shoulders.

  She stopped moving and stared up at him. Looking down at her, he saw that one breast was exposed. She followed his gaze. "Don't stop," she whispered.

  He touched her, feeling the swell of her breast against his hand. "Not like this. Not on the floor." He pulled her bra up and kissed her, pushing himself up and pulling her with him.

  "Nick," she said, grabbing his hand.

  "Not like this, Mary Beth." He wanted perfection for her, knowing he couldn't give it to her. "A bath, a bed."

  She seemed to relax, seemed to understand.

  He knew he'd never get his zipper up again, not in the condition he was in, so he didn't try. She pulled him out of the kitchen into the living room and up the stairs. At the top, she stopped, turned and kissed him, as if challenging him.