Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love)

by Bonnie Blythe

  Somehow an apology didn’t seem right. Especially since he really wasn’t sorry for kissing her. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to repeat what happened last night. But of course, he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

  Spencer grimaced at his reflection and walked to the door. After grabbing the doorknob, he paused and sent up a silent prayer for wisdom.

  Out in the hall, he smiled at a passing chambermaid. Waiting until she disappeared into another room, he went to Miranda’s door and knocked.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, straining to hear sound inside the room. Only his own heartbeat echoed in his ears. After a moment, he knocked again. No response. Spencer checked his watch. It was almost ten in the morning. Maybe she was still asleep. He reached out to try the door.

  “Señor,” said a voice in accented English. “The room empty.”

  Spencer twisted around and saw the chambermaid. “Pardon me?”

  She pointed to the door where he stood. “Empty. I clean next.”

  “Actually, my friend is in here. Since she’s not answering the door, she must still be asleep.”

  The chambermaid gave him a measured look, and after pulling a key from a set at her waist, unlocked the door in front of Spencer. It swung open to—an empty room. No Miranda, no luggage, not a personal item in sight.

  “Your friend check out?”

  Spencer stared into the room with disbelief. When did this happen? Why? He spun around. “Where did she go?”

  The woman shrugged and showed him a piece of paper. “This room on list today.”

  Spencer turned and hurried past her out into the hall. He took the stairs to the lobby two at a time. At the desk, he leaned toward the staff on the other side of the counter. “Where is the woman who was in room 232?”

  A slender man in a dark suit raised a supercilious brow. “Excuse me sir, may I ask your name?”

  “Spencer Meyers. I booked that room.”

  The man tapped with maddening slowness on a computer keyboard while he watched a monitor. Finally, after a series of electronic beeps, he turned toward Spencer.

  “Señorita Adams checked out last night.”

  “Last night?” His voice thundered around the lobby. Spencer became aware of several people staring in his direction. He made a monumental effort to control his tone. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Did someone here call a taxi for her? Did she have her bags sent anywhere?”

  “No.”

  Spencer gripped the edges of the counter before pushing away and stalking to the lobby doors. Outside, he stood unsure of his next move. He looked up at the multi-hued buildings blocking the sun. Chattering groups of people passed around him, oblivious.

  Beyond the spot where he stood, Spencer knew thousands of streets and buildings, millions of cars, and tens of millions of people existed. I’ll never find Miranda. Not in a zillion years.

  He started down the sidewalk, aimless and depressed. He should’ve known Miranda wouldn’t be waiting to hear his hatchet job of an apology. But a part of him was angered by her just leaving without letting him know where she planned to go. Not even a note to tell him to buzz off.

  A note! Maybe she left a note. Spencer spun on his heel and dashed back into the hotel lobby. At the desk, he drummed his fingers on the marble counter top while the same man he’d talked to earlier chatted on the phone. After hanging up, he turned and saw Spencer.

  “Are there any messages for Spencer Meyers, please? Room 234.”

  The man checked the box and shook his head. “I’m sorry, señor, will there be anything else?”

  Spencer mumbled a no and headed back up to his room. Maybe she stuck a note under his door. The entryway of his room proved to be as bare as his hope of finding her. He sank onto the edge of the bed and shut his eyes. Where would she go? There must be a logical place she’d go.

  A thought popped into his head. The hotel where we started the search. Not only would it be familiar, but it was closer to Neza than where he stayed now. That had to be the answer. Not pausing to consider a Plan B if this idea failed, Spencer bolted out the door and down the stairs. Outside he hailed a taxi.

  He could only remember the street name, so for half an hour he had the taxi driver start at one end of the street and go along to the other. Then he spotted the building.

  “Here!” Heart clamoring in his chest, he shoved some money at the driver and bolted from the taxi. He went through the tiny motel door. The same tropical plants blocked the light from the same upper window. It was as dim and dreary as he remembered, which flooded him with relief.

  He saw the woman behind the desk and couldn’t be sure if she was the one here before. “Is Miranda Adams here?” At the woman’s blank smile, he foraged in his mind for the right Spanish word. “Miranda Adams aquí?”

  The velador nodded her head. “Sí.”

  Spencer released a pent up breath. “Uh…¿dondé?”

  The woman rattled off something in Spanish.

  Panic stabbed him. He hoped the words referred to numbers. He motioned writing. “Can you write it down, por favor?” Luckily, numbers written out were the same as in English.

  Without missing a beat, the velador calmly wrote a number on a piece of scrap paper. She handed it to him. Spencer saw it and smiled. Room 311. “Gracias!”

  He bounded up the stairs, and hurried along the short hall of doors until he found room 311. He raised his hand to bang on the door, but stayed the action at the last second. What would he say? He hadn’t thought through that part yet.

  An overwhelming need to see her had him knocking on the door anyway.

  After a moment, he heard her voice. “¿Quién anda ahí?”

  Spencer suddenly wished he knew how to say room service in Spanish. It could’ve bought him another minute to get a speech ready. He shook his head. “It’s me.”

  For several moments he heard nothing. Spencer looked at the door. It was a worn out flimsy thing. He considered breaking it down if she refused to see him. In the next instant, he knew he’d do no such thing. He clamped his mouth shut, stifled the urge to yell hurry!

  Miranda rested her forehead on the door panel and closed her eyes. This is too soon. I’m not ready to face Spencer yet. How did he find me? She winced at the thought, knowing it was unforgivable that she’d left without leaving a note.

  “Miranda?”

  The gentleness of his tone drained away her resistance. Besides, it was only a matter of time before they talked. Might as well get it over with. She opened the door.

  Spencer stood on the other side of the threshold, with his hands in his pockets and a hesitant smile on his face. When she saw the strained lines of his features, her heart lurched.

  She gripped the edge of the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Miranda saw a hotel guest walking past Spencer in the hall. “Do you want to come in?”

  He nodded and stepped into the room as Miranda stood to the side. She closed the door and leaned against it, wondering what to say.

  Spencer stood with his back to her. “Why did you leave?”

  How could I have stayed? The shame of the previous evening still burned deep, especially after a sleepless night. Yet she wanted nothing more than to return to the sanctuary of his arms.

  He turned around to face her. “Why, Miranda?”

  She shrugged, hoping to look nonchalant while her palms grew clammy. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  Miranda blinked. He wasn’t making this easy. “About the—” She waved her hands. “About everything, I guess.”

  Spencer walked toward her. She pressed herself flat against the door. He stopped just a step away and studied her face. She could smell his aftershave, could sense the warmth from his body.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Miranda. Sorry for putting you in that positio
n.”

  “What position?” she squeaked.

  He lowered his gaze. A lock of his blond hair fell forward. When he looked back up at her, the warmth in his eyes took her breath away.

  “Bottom line, Miranda, I care about you. Never doubt that.”

  Miranda thought of the surfeit of good deeds he’d done for her since the day her mom died. If actions spoke louder than words, then what he said was true.

  What have I offered in return? Nothing. She’d been a drain on him in every way, contributing nothing and frustrating him in the process.

  “Do you understand why I had to leave last night?”

  His words made her break out in a sweat. She swallowed. “I’m so sorry—”

  He put out his hand. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath and looked straight at her. “I’m not entirely sorry. Like I said, I care about you. I enjoyed…holding you.”

  I’m going to faint.

  His features softened. “But, I couldn’t stay because you’re not mine. I don’t have that right. Understand?”

  She nodded dumbly, wondering why she was still conscious. He didn’t despise her? He didn’t regret everything that ever happened between them? Incredible.

  Spencer stepped closer and ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “No matter what,” he whispered. “Never doubt my…affection for you.”

  Miranda wanted to blurt out her true feelings but she kept silent. I don’t deserve him. Not one little bit.

  Spencer deposited a light kiss on her lips. It was over almost before she realized he’d done it.

  She had no idea how she was able to restrain herself from imprisoning him in her arms. Despite her deepest longing, she remained passive to avoid spoiling the sweetness of the moment.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and followed him out the door.

  Twenty-Six

  Miranda went with Spencer out onto the street, into the bright morning light. She squinted against the glare. When her eyes adjusted, she realized two women stood nearby, getting pan dulce from a street vendor. They wore tight red dresses and high heels. Dark makeup circled their eyes and their expression registered a world-weariness that went to the soul. It was obvious what their profession was.

  Miranda shot a horrified glance at Spencer, and realized he noticed them, too. They gave him a long, lingering look. When his gaze met hers, she felt her face turn as fiery red as their dresses.

  He took her hand and led her away. Miranda had difficulty forcing air into her lungs.

  She darted glances at him, wishing she could read his mind. Well, maybe not. What if he meant nothing he said? It was hard to believe him when she had no merit with which to compel such feelings.

  “We should go back to my hotel and get the provisions for the boy’s family,” Spencer said, jolting her from her dismal thoughts. “I forgot them in all the rush this morning.”

  Ugh. As if I need to be reminded. “I’m sorry, Spencer. I should’ve left a note or something. It was beyond thoughtless—”

  He tugged on her hand. “I understand, okay? Neither of us was thinking much last night.”

  And what can I say to that?

  After a tedious trip through the usual traffic, they arrived at the hotel. In the lobby, she noticed the man behind the desk give Spencer a knowing look. She wondered what it meant.

  They retrieved the baskets of goods and took another taxi back to the neighborhood that led toward Neza. A short time later, they arrived at the place where Jesús had agreed to meet them.

  “What time is it?”

  Spencer looked at his watch. “Nearly eleven. What time did he say he’d be here?”

  “Sometime around noon. But he was a little vague.”

  He looked around their immediate vicinity. Miranda followed his gaze and saw that there was no real place to linger. No benches or nearby cafés where they could wile away the time until the little boy appeared. She backed up against the building behind her, feeling the rough concrete bite through the thin fabric of her clothing. She blew out a weary breath.

  Spencer joined her, nudging the bags behind his feet, and shoving his hands in his pockets. Miranda peered up at him from under her lashes, memorizing every line of his face. Soon all she’d have of him was memories. She noticed the muscle in his jaw jump, and quelled an urge to ask him what was the matter.

  Despite her lengthy sleep the day before, fatigue pulled at her. She looked around the street and saw a woman nursing her baby, leaning up against a chipped corner of what once must’ve been an ornate building. The woman regarded the movements around her with a blank stare. Miranda slid her gaze away, and looked up at Spencer.

  He held up his wrist. “Eleven thirty.”

  “How long should we wait?” She shook her head.

  “As long as it takes, I guess.” He pointed to the candy store across the street where he’d bought the sugar calaveras. “Maybe we should have a bag of those handy.”

  “Okay.”

  They trooped across the street and purchased a large bag stuffed with an assortment of candy. A moment later, they returned to the spot where they’d begun their vigil.

  “Well, that burned about ten minutes,” Spencer said, leaning against the concrete wall.

  Miranda groaned. “I hate waiting.”

  He quirked a smile at her. “Really? I never would’ve guessed.”

  She lowered her gaze, feeling her face heat. That could have several meanings. Her mind skittered from the more shameful ones. Once again, the enormity of her behavior washed over her, leaving her trembling.

  “Spencer, about last night—”

  He shook his head. “Not right now. I know we both probably have a lot we’d like to explain, but I think we should wait for a better time.” His glance flicked to the colorful stream of humanity passing by. “I’m sure we’re not the only ones who speak English, and we don’t want anyone to entertained at our expense again.”

  Miranda smiled at his teasing tone, noting the gentleness of his expression. How could she ever have compared him to his father? Even when she’d placed him in a sticky situation last night, he’d behaved amazingly. That’s Spencer. Ever the gentleman. A title his father can never lay claim to.

  Just thinking of Spencer’s conduct made her regret hers all the more. He deserved to share his kisses with someone more worthy than herself. She was only a burden on him, dragging him down to her level.

  Miranda blinked and looked away, surprised at the ferocity of the notion. But it was true, wasn’t it? Before she considered him an anathema. Now, she wasn’t fit to be in his company. She was everything he looked down on, everything opposite of what he was.

  What a crummy time to fall in love with the man!

  Miranda’s stomach knotted at the awareness. She closed her eyes against the reality burgeoning within her. She loved Spencer, and…it was a stupid thing to do. They had no future, no hope. It was pointless. A complete waste of emotional energy.

  She looked up at him and caught him regarding her with a concerned expression on his face. Miranda bit her lip to stop from confessing her secret. Just one more to add to her growing list of hidden things.

  Besides, to speak of it would only burden Spencer further. If she loved him—really loved him—she couldn’t do that. She had to stop thinking only of herself.

  “Are you okay?” he asked in an undertone.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Miranda clasped her hands together and averted her gaze from Spencer, needing to look anywhere but at him. His kindness would be her undoing.

  He stepped in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Miranda, you look like you’re about to faint.” His features softened. “Maybe all the street food has finally caught up with you, and you really are unwell.”

  Food. That could be a distraction. “Actually, I am hungry. I didn’t eat breakfast.” She saw a vendor with a floppy straw hat frying taquitos in oil. Her stomach heaved at
the heavy smell. Maybe he also sold plain tortillas.

  Spencer gave her a pleading look after seeing the vendor. Then he shrugged. “Okay. It’s your stomach.”

  They each grabbed one of the bags for Jesús and headed toward the man in the hat. Miranda was pleased to find he sold plain tortillas. She ordered two and ate them rolled up, followed by a bottle of orange soda pop. Spencer politely refrained from eating anything, and they returned to their previous spot.

  “Twelve o’clock on the button,” he announced without much enthusiasm.

  Miranda scanned the crowds, looking in vain for a little boy running to meet them.

  “What if he never comes?” she said, half to herself. She turned to Spencer. “I mean it. What if he never shows up? Wouldn’t he at least want the food even if his family had no information?” Panic seized her by the throat.

  Spencer reached out and drew her against him. “Of course, that’s a possibility,” he said in a calm voice. “But let’s not dwell on it. I’m interested more in hearing about your childhood. You seemed to have had unusual experiences.”

  Miranda knew he was humoring her, probably worried she’d make a scene in a public place. But she appreciated the gesture. And it felt wonderful to lean against him. His nearness took the edge off her panic.

  She considered what parts of her life to reveal. She knew he’d frown on most of it. “Well,” she began after a moment. “I wish I had glowing memories of an idyllic childhood to feed you, but for whatever reason, that’s not my perception. Not that I’m not thankful,” she added quickly. “I know I was adopted out of a life of certain poverty and hardship.”

  Miranda allowed her mind to drift back to her days spent in Veracruz. “My parents were very busy with their missionary work, and I spent most of my childhood in various boarding schools. Some kids excelled and enjoyed their experience. I can’t remember anything bad happening to me there, but for whatever reason, I hated it. I got into trouble all the time, without even consciously making the effort.” She sighed, ashamed at the problems she’d put her family through.

  “My actions caused a lot of embarrassment for my parents. It caused a rift to grow between us. I chafed at every limit, and they responded by hedging me in even more. For years they never knew of the nights I was gone from home, exploring the streets, seeing a side of life they’d tried to protect me from. And church seemed so boring in comparison to the exciting music and movement of the street scene.”