“I am old and too much trouble,” Lupe said with a frown.
“Shh. Don’t speak nonsense. Off to bed.”
Lupe hugged her and shuffled off to the back room of the rental house. Miranda watched her go, wondering how she would get more medication without a prescription. Her small stock brought from Mexico had just about run out.
She pushed away from the counter and went into the living room. Spencer hadn’t moved. The only sign of life was his respiration. His smooth blond hair fell into his eyes, his tie was askew, his pant leg shredded. She’d only seen him perfectly groomed before now. Somehow, he seemed more approachable this way. More vulnerable.
And yet, he’s the son of a powerful, affluent man. The vulnerability is all on my side. I have everything to lose, not him.
Miranda remembered the first time she’d seen Spencer. George Meyers had just revealed to her he knew of Lupe’s existence. She’d sat at her desk, boiling over with a consuming hate for her boss, for the way he victimized innocent people. A noise had interrupted her thoughts.
She’d seen a framed photo of Spencer in her boss’s office, had seen him from behind at a few office functions, but never face to face. In her mind, he’d always been the mirror image of his father—cruelty and savagery covered by a thin veneer of civility. She expected arrogance, a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. Like his father.
She’d been unprepared for the open look on Spencer’s face, the apparently genuine smile tipping his mouth. A part of her experienced a stab of intense attraction, but it was quickly drowned by more powerful emotions. She couldn’t remember how she’d acted or anything she said to him—only the bitter contempt she passed from father to son.
His expression showed he’d been startled by whatever he’d seen on her face. Color had stained the lean lines of his classically handsome features. She’d sensed him pulling back emotionally, his eyes flashing with something like regret before his gaze became wary and shuttered.
Regret. It filled Miranda like a noxious fume. She had so many things to regret. Right now, one of them lay on her couch. A suffocating desire to escape made it hard to breathe. She reached over Spencer’s form and tugged a chenille throw from the back of the couch. His eyelids fluttered as she covered him with the blanket, but he soon slipped back to sleep.
Miranda released a labored breath, unsure of what to do next. Fatigue pulled at her like lead weights. She needed sleep, but wondered what Spencer would do if he woke up. She shook her head. She’d have to deal with that later. Right now, she wanted to get cleaned up from her ordeal.
Miranda trudged into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. In her bedroom, she changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans, stuffing her dark clothes, along with the bloody towels, into a plastic bag to be disposed of later. After a moment of indecision, she shoved the gun into the bag as well. Now she really was a thief. But at this point, it was too late to worry over the finer points of crime.
Miranda grabbed her pillow and blanket off the bed and returned to the living room. She pulled an armchair up to the couch. If Spencer awoke and got up, in his condition, he wouldn’t be able to get around the chair without bumping it. Once she was settled, Miranda watched him sleep.
Has he ever known despair or desperation? Or has his life been spent in the idle ease and pleasure of the wealthy? Was he consumed with climbing the corporate ladder like everyone else in the office where he worked?
Miranda remembered comments from others about Spencer’s religious faith. If it was true, did she dare hope he might come to understand her motivations, her reasons for apparent lunacy? She wanted to believe he was different than his father. That he was as kind as rumor led her to believe.
A wave of reckless hope burgeoned within her. Miranda bit back a cry. The unuttered prayer tore from her soul before she could stop it.
God, please help me!
Four
Spencer’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. His groan of pain sounded guttural and raspy. Confusion swirled his already incoherent thoughts, while his leg throbbed with white-hot fire. Dark shadows blanketed the room. A faint orange radiance remained from a fire.
Why is there a fireplace in my bedroom? He blinked and tried to sit up, realizing he was on a couch instead of in his bed. Another grunt of pain escaped him.
A rustling sounded in his ears. He smelled something hot and exotic. Spencer angled his head toward the direction of the sound and started in surprise. An old woman held a cup of liquid under his nose. He pressed himself against the cushions of the couch in alarm. Who is she and why is she in my house? Am I dreaming?
“¡Bebe!”
Spencer jerked away from the cup and stared at the shadows beyond her, willing reality to reveal itself. A soft glow hovered directly in front of him. Spencer fastened his gaze on it, struggling to discern what he saw. After a moment, the shape materialized into a sleeping woman curled up in a chair, the remnant of the fire lighting the curve of her cheek.
Miranda!
He sucked in his breath as the events of the previous evening flooded his brain.
“¡Bebe!” the voice insisted. Spencer heard the words, but didn’t understand the meaning. “Drink! Para el dolor. For the pain.”
Miranda’s mother. Spencer considered asking what she put in the drink. He was unfamiliar with the smell. The liquid was shiny, black, and fathomless—like the woman’s eyes. He swallowed against the dryness of his throat. Deciding he didn’t care whether he lived or died at the moment, he accepted the drink and drained the cup. It smelled better than it tasted.
In the next moment, the woman was gone, making him wonder if he’d imagined her after all. The fleeting bitterness on his tongue told him she’d been real enough. His gaze fell to Miranda. She appeared innocent in sleep, incapable of breaking into his house and shooting him like a common criminal.
Spencer looked beyond her sleeping form to the door on the other side of the room. It was the only solid thing in the flickering shadows, beckoning him to escape. I just need to get up and walk through it. He wondered how he’d get home from there, but dismissed it in light of his first hurdle. He had to get off the couch.
Spencer pushed himself up into a sitting position, gasping at the pain shooting up his leg. With meticulous control, he angled his good leg off the couch. The exertion drained him. Dizziness churned inside his brain. He shut his eyes to collect his strength for the next movement, wondering why his head felt so heavy.
Spencer forced his eyes wide, struggling to focus on the now wavering image of the door. Through sheer force of will, he eased his injured leg off the couch. His breathing sounded as if he’d just finished a race.
Rest. He needed to rest. His eyes drifted closed.
Just for a moment.
When Spencer opened his eyes, he noticed the light in the room was brighter. Outside a dog barked. He glanced at his watch. The movement made his head swim. Five-thirty in the morning! I must’ve fallen asleep after my first escape attempt. How stupid!
He shook his head, angry with himself—and had to clutch it to stop the world from spinning. Of course. Miranda’s mother must’ve put something in that drink to knock me out.
Though everything had come to a stop in front of his eyes, Spencer felt the remaining effects of the drug lulling him to remain on the couch. He fought against it, knowing he had only moments to make his getaway.
As he eased up to a sitting position, he realized the pain in his leg had ebbed from the intensity of hours before. Taking extreme care not to disturb Miranda, Spencer hauled himself to his feet. He clamped his mouth shut against the urge to yell at the renewed pain. So much for improvement.
Holding his breath, he edged his way around Miranda. Step by step, he limped across the room. At the door, he leaned against the jamb for support, more from the woozy effects of the drug than his leg.
Spencer exhaled and took a deep breath, inching the locks on the door to open positions. He paused after each, darti
ng glances at Miranda to see if she heard. He gripped the cold metal doorknob and twisted it. When he’d pushed it ajar a few inches, he slid his body through the opening and closed it silently behind him.
Spencer blinked several times against the dizziness threatening to topple him. He felt like he’d indulged in that tequíla after all. He collapsed against the side of the house and looked around the street.
He didn’t recognize the neighborhood, but the blue and gold pre-dawn light couldn’t conceal the sense of treeless, concrete despair. Small, ramshackle houses had been built close to the edge of the street along cracked and buckled sidewalks. Cars crowded the curbsides, many looking as if they hadn’t moved in years. A pack of dogs knocked over a garbage can on the opposite side of the street and began to paw through the litter. Why would Miranda live in such a neighborhood? If her job is so great, why can’t she afford better?
Spencer spotted a phone booth two blocks down. He lurched down the street to the booth and called a cab.
***
“Querida. Wake up.”
Miranda forced up her eyelids and focused on the figure of her mother before her. She shifted, and her muscles groaned in protest. Her bones felt weighted with concrete.
Wondering why she was in a chair instead of her bed, she rubbed her face, confused by the feeling of dread hovering over her like a black cloud. She squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced. The sight of the couch with a tousled blanket flung over the cushions mocked her.
Miranda stared at the empty couch in horror as the events of the previous evening crashed into her brain. She sucked in a breath and clutched the sides of the chair.
“Where is he? Did you see him go?” Miranda threw off the blanket and stumbled through the living room to the front door. It was unlocked. She yanked it open and erupted onto the sidewalk. The cool air and rough cement bit into her bare feet. She scanned the area, looking for Spencer in the early-morning light. A lone car rumbled along the street. A homeless person poked through trash on the ground near an overturned garbage can. The smell of exhaust and refuse assaulted her nostrils.
There was no sign of Spencer as far as she could see.
She stormed back into the house and slammed the door shut, breathing hard. Her mind raced with the implications of his disappearance. Any moment she expected to hear the condemnatory whine of police sirens.
Miranda circled the room, clenching and unclenching her hands. She stopped at the couch, reaching out to pluck up the blanket she’d spread over Spencer the night before. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled the scent of his cologne and the coppery smell of blood. Terror coursed through her veins. She felt sick.
Will he turn me in? Will my mother be deported? Will I go to jail for harboring an illegal alien? Does any of it matter?
Miranda glanced at her mother, who sat in the corner of the room watching her movements and offered her the most reassuring smile she could muster at the moment.
She turned away, feeling like a wrung out rag. Have I really brought any improvement to my mother’s life by bringing her here? Miranda walked to the window and looked through a part in the curtains.
The neighborhood wasn’t the most salubrious, and she lived in constant fear of discovery. But where else could she go? Smuggling her mother into the country had cost a vast amount of money. She’d downsized her lifestyle, trying to make every dollar stretch as far as possible. The small amount she had left in her savings would go quickly once George Meyers found out about the break-in and fired her.
Obtaining her file had been planned to coincide with her vacation time. That would soon be gone, and she didn’t dare go back to work. No doubt Spencer had already told his father everything.
Why did her every attempt at betterment always end in failure?
Miranda heard her mother’s hacking cough behind her. Medicine. Lupe would run out of medicine in a few days. She closed her eyes as another wave of despair washed over her.
What have I done?
Five
Spencer shut off the annoying drone of the alarm clock. He pulled himself up to rest on his elbows and glanced around the room, noting the heavy antique furnishings and navy blue and gray color scheme.
It felt good to be home. Again. Every morning when he awoke, he half expected to find himself once again in Miranda’s living room. The Goya-esque images of that night fixated in his mind, as disturbing and eerie as the real thing.
At times, he wondered if it was all just a dream. But there was a livid, puckered scar forming on his leg to remind him otherwise. He’d watched it carefully, keeping it clean and aired, and was grateful he didn’t have the complication of an infection to deal with as well.
Spencer stretched, noticing the pain in his leg had lessened quite a bit over the last several days. Luckily, he’d been able to relax at home. After returning from England, his boss had encouraged him to take some time off before coming back to the office. This, however, isn’t exactly how I planned to spend it.
Spencer remembered how the most complex thing in his life once was a sore heart from an unrequited affection. His thoughts, his regrets, over Julia, had been eclipsed by a virago of a woman with a gun.
He eased up from the bed and headed for the shower. Afterwards, Spencer dressed in a navy blue crew neck sweater and dark slacks. He made his bed and straightened the room before descending the stairs for breakfast.
The house remained still in the early morning hour. That would soon change. His parents were due to arrive that afternoon from their vacation in California wine country.
As he sipped his coffee, Spencer wondered what his reaction would be when he faced his father later in the day. The idea that a man he admired, his father, would blackmail his secretary for physical reasons just didn’t jibe with what he knew of him.
Surely if his father had a secret life, his mother would’ve found out by now. Their thirty-five year marriage, at least as far as he could see, was rock-solid. Only the memory of Miranda’s white, pinched face, of her tears, stopped him from dismissing the melodramatic notion entirely.
Spencer separated the slats of the mini-blinds over the kitchen window and looked out. A paperboy rode past on his bike. A woman walked by with a baby in a stroller. Everything looked normal, calm.
Sane.
His mind swung to the other side of the equation. What did he really know of his father’s secretary? What if Miranda were mentally unstable, imagining dark plots where none existed? Maybe she was a drug addict who’d broken into his home to steal something of value in order to support her habit. She could be all these things and a pathological liar to boot.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. God, what am I supposed to think here? Help me out on this, please!
After finishing his coffee, Spencer returned to the study. He’d come to this room every day since the night Miranda had climbed in the window. Over and over in his mind, he replayed the sequence of events.
He remembered the metallic smell of the fired gun, and his utter shock that she had the temerity to shoot him. Spencer walked around the room to make sure no trace of evidence was apparent. He’d replaced the phone cord, sponged up a missed spot of blood on the edge of the rug, and smoothed the jagged ends of the bullet mark in the trim, wanting to erase every bit of her presence.
But why go to the effort?
Spencer walked to the window and looked outside. Wreaths of fog encircled the boles of the trees, lending the landscape with the same dreamlike quality of his encounter with Miranda. He shook his head.
He couldn’t admit the reason for his obsessive checking and rechecking. It was almost as if he couldn’t bear the thought of his father discovering Miranda’s plot. But it didn’t make any sense. If she was guilty of a crime, she should be prosecuted, regardless of any heartbreaking tale she told.
Spencer let out a ragged sigh and went over to the leather chair behind the desk. He sat down, placing his hands behind his head. What was Miranda doing today? Was she back
at the office? Brazenly going on as if nothing untoward had occurred? He couldn’t bring himself to call the office and find out. If he heard her voice on the phone, he’d lose any sympathy he held for her.
Why am I compelled to have any sympathy for her at all? His brain told him one thing; Miranda Adams was a liar and a thief. His heart said—
Spencer closed his eyes. His heart couldn’t be trusted right now. Not after the recent pangs suffered over Julia. Best to depend on his head.
Over the last few days, Spencer had also gone over his memory, searching for any recollection that might impugn his father. George Meyers was on the board of a local community college and was something of a pillar in their little corner of the city. He went to church on Sundays, gave generously to many charities, and had supported Spencer in his decision to quit his job in college administration and join the marketing firm. Where were the shades of transgression?
As far as I’m concerned, there aren’t any.
Spencer thought again of Miranda. There could be no doubt she was an attractive woman. His father would have to be blind not to notice that fact. Could she be imagining sinister overtones when perhaps his father sent lingering glances her way? Maybe she was spoiling for a sexual harassment lawsuit in hopes of easy money. He thought of the Hispanic woman at the house. No, like she said, she had collateral issues at stake.
Spencer pictured Miranda sitting at the front desk of his father’s office, taking a call. He wracked his memory, trying to remember if he ever saw her behave in any way other than strictly professional. He came up blank. Then again, he’d never seen Miranda and his father interact. He couldn’t quite imagine her playing the part of a tease to cause trouble.
So what’s the real story?
Spencer shook his head. Maybe he’d never find the answers. Could he live with that? He glanced at the liquor cabinet, and for the first time, wondered if anything was left inside the safe. Miranda knew the combination. He didn’t.
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 3
