TWICE A HERO

by Susan Krinard

You overestimate me, Homer. I'm not cut out for playing God.

  With an explosive breath Mac jumped to her feet. She couldn't just sit here thinking in circles—

  "Change your mind yet?"

  Mac thought she'd never been so grateful to hear an irksome voice in all her life. Liam sauntered into the dim aura of light, cocking a supercilious brow. "I have a fire going," he said. "You might as well join me. There isn't much food, but you won't starve."

  Starve. Mac tried to remember the last time she'd eaten. Her stomach chose that juncture to loudly second Liam's suggestion. She slapped her hand under her ribs to silence it.

  "I suggest you make up your mind quickly," he said. "It'll be pitch dark in a few minutes."

  Mac glanced at her wrist, remembering belatedly that Liam had commandeered her watch.

  Still she hesitated. You're not afraid of him, are you?

  She didn't like the answer she came up with. The only men she'd been around for the past ten years had been academics and students, most of them buried in studies of one kind or another. Liam O'Shea was utterly different. She'd known that from the photograph. She'd been attracted to that quality while it was safely confined to a printed image.

  Now it was almost overwhelming. Just because he's handsome and sarcastic and thinks you're a female joke . . .

  Forget that. She wasn't going to let any man, from any era, determine her actions. Whatever his motive for offering help, be it curiosity or self-interest or something else entirely, she didn't have a whole lot of choice. The sensible thing to do was follow his advice—for now. Go back to his camp, eat, rest. Tomorrow she could tackle the tunnel again.

  She lifted her chin and met Liam's hooded gaze. "All right. I'll, uh… be glad of your hospitality. Thanks."

  He gave an ironic bow and turned back for the jungle.

  She pulled on her backpack and followed him. Sure enough, the last of the sun had vanished save for a faint patina to the west. Even the birds and monkeys were winding down. The mosquitoes, however, had not yet retired for the evening.

  "Some things never change," she said.

  Liam slowed his pace to match hers, lifting a brow in an unspoken question.

  "Mosquitoes," she clarified. "We still haven't figured out how to get rid of them."

  He slapped idly at several specimens perched on his bare forearm. "They're nothing to botflies and scorpions. But perhaps you haven't met our other eight-legged neighbors? It should be an interesting introduction."

  Mac made a firm resolution not to let him witness her discomfort by so much as a single scratch, and vowed to douse herself with repellant at the first opportunity.

  Liam led her along a recently cut path into the jungle, heading away from Tikal. "So, Mac—do the women of your time often travel alone in the wilderness?"

  "Some do."

  "And their men permit it?"

  "It's not a matter of permission. We do what we like and take our own risks."

  "Then your men don't even protect their own."

  Ah. She kept forgetting the kind of women he was probably used to dealing with. In 1884, feminism was still waiting to be born.

  "In my time," she said, "women aren't owned by men. A lot of women don't need them at all."

  "Oh?" In the dimness she could see the angry set of his jaw. "And are you an example, wandering in this jungle alone, like a lamb going to slaughter?"

  "I'm—" She choked back her retort. "I admit that things didn't turn out quite as I expected. But—"

  "But it's fortunate for you," he said, "that I'm not one of these men of yours who leave women to fend for themselves."

  "For your information, it's not every day that people walk through a time tunnel into the past. Men or women."

  His scathing "ha" told her he didn't believe in her time travel. Had she expected it to be easy?

  "Don't worry," she said. "You aren't responsible for me. I'm not asking—"

  He cast her a look so ferocious that she forgot what she'd been about to say. "Nor am I. You'll do as you're told and be grateful I don't toss you back where I found you."

  She hastily considered the best stinging comment to make in reply, but she had no time to put it into effect. One instant Liam was beside her, the next striding ahead to meet a man who'd suddenly materialized on the path before them.

  "Fernando!" Liam said, his unexpected grin dazzling in the extreme. It was aimed at the short, dark, lithe man in a pale shirt and loose trousers, who returned the greeting more solemnly in Spanish. He was recognizably Maya Indian, like the guide who had brought her to the ruins.

  The two men exchanged a low-voiced conversation in Spanish and halting English. At the end of it Fernando nodded to Liam, glanced with open curiosity at Mac, and retreated the way he had come.

  Liam turned to Mac. "Fernando," he said. "One of my muleteers. I didn't expect him to come back, but I underestimated his loyalty."

  "Come back?"

  "They all left yesterday morning," he said, bitterness twisting his smile. "They must have been paid well. But Fernando preferred me to Perry as an employer."

  All left. Paid well. Mac closed her eyes briefly. "I left hint in the jungle." Perry's words. They were burned into her mind.

  She summoned up an aspect of mild curiosity. "Someone paid your assistants to leave you alone in the jungle? That's pretty rotten."

  "Yes. My partner—my friend—Peregrine Sinclair."

  He was watching her. He knew she knew of Perry. She'd let that slip, and she had the photograph.

  "I'm sorry to hear that, but I've never met your friend," she said with perfect honesty. "I guess it's not something you expected to happen."

  "Not exactly. Ah, I can smell the coffee from here."

  Mac could, too, and her stomach continued to give a running commentary on its empty state. Fortunately, Liam was too preoccupied to notice, the set of his lips grim and his attention fixed on the trail.

  They reached his camp in less than ten minutes. It was set in a smallish clearing, ringed by tall corozo palms. A pair of palmetto-frond shelters stood at one side, and a medium-sized tent at the other, with a small cooking fire set in front of it. The gray-brown shape of a mule stood tethered close to the tent. It lifted its head and swiveled large ears in their direction.

  Fernando was crouched over the fire, stirring the contents of a large dented pot suspended over the low flames. Liam rattled off some command in Spanish and strode toward the tent, leaving Mac to her own devices.

  She nodded to Fernando. "Hola. Pleased to meet you."

  He was unnervingly quiet for some time, studying her with keen concentration. When he spoke it was in musical, rapid Spanish she couldn't follow.

  "Sorry—no comprendo," she said haltingly. "I don't speak much Spanish."

  Fernando nodded and spoke again, more deliberately. Mac wished she'd taken the time to learn more Spanish before she'd come to Guatemala. "No puedo hablar español—"

  "He asked what you're doing here in the jungle."

  Liam appeared faintly amused—at her expense. He squatted beside the fire, a pair of dented tin cups hooked by their handles around his thumb. "Fernando has guessed you're a woman under those clothes."

  "Bright man."

  Liam inhaled the steam emerging from a second lidded pot. His hard face took on a blissful expression. He wrapped a piece of cloth around the handle and poured himself a cup of dark, fragrant liquid. Almost as an afterthought he tossed Mac the other cup. "Help yourself."

  She did, nearly burning her fingers in the process. Apparently Liam had a tongue made of iron. She blew the surface of the scalding coffee, crouching where she was.

  "Well, Mac," Liam said, his gray eyes glowing like molten metal in the light of the fire. "Why don't you tell Fernando what you're doing here, just as you told me? He does understand some English."

  And wouldn't you find that amusing, she thought. It'd been bad enough trying to explain time travel to Liam. She smiled politely at Fe
rnando. "I came to see the ruins."

  Fernando didn't look like the kind of man who'd give much away, but even Mac could see he was dubious. The corner of Liam's mouth twitched. He spoke to his muleteer in the same fluent Spanish he'd exhibited before. One word stood out among the rest: loca.

  "What did you tell him?" Mac demanded. "That I'm crazy?"

  "It's the simplest explanation. Unless you've another you haven't told me." He polished off the rest of his coffee in one gulp. "And, Mac—try not to display too many of your peculiarities. I wouldn't want Fernando to get the wrong notion of American women."

  "I don't think he's the one who needs educating."

  "I agree." But his sardonic glance told her exactly who he thought was in the greater need of instruction. "Fernando will have tortillas and meat and beans ready in a few minutes. In the meantime, I suggest you make yourself a place to sleep. There's room for you in the tent."

  Mac looked at the canvas tent. Close quarters, indeed.

  "Let me reassure you that I have no intention of compromising you, Mac," Liam drawled, setting down his cup.

  "Even if you did have 'intentions,' O'Shea, women of my time know how to defend ourselves from guys with testosterone poisoning."

  Confusion flickered across his face, but he masked it quickly enough. "You seem to have left your weapons behind. Or do you have… skills I haven't seen yet?"

  There was something insinuating in the low rumble of his voice. "Plenty," she said. "Things you probably can't imagine."

  "You don't know my imagination."

  Yes, there was a definite purr in his speech, reminiscent of a large jungle cat playing harmless with potential prey. This was not a side of him she'd seen earlier, and she wasn't sure what to make of it. The open hostility and barely veiled derision had almost been easier to blow off.

  And somehow he'd managed to work his way around the fire to her side of it. Mac made the additional discovery that Fernando had disappeared.

  "So," he said with a mock-lazy grin, "do the women of… what was it?… 1997 aspire to be men entirely? A pity. What made them abandon the role nature intended for them?"

  "And what role is that, pray tell?"

  His gaze drifted to her chest as it had a couple of times earlier that day. "It depends on the woman. For one like you, Mac…" The look he gave her made further speech unnecessary.

  Good grief. Realization struck her like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Was he…

  Was Liam O'Shea actually making a pass at her?

  "Don't tell me," she said coolly, "that you're scared of the idea of women with power, independence, and intelligence who can take care of themselves?"

  Ah. She'd got to him, just a little. His shoulders stiffened. "I've never seen such a creature yet. What frightens me, Mac, is that all women of the future might be like you."

  "And that is?"

  "Where should I begin? Perhaps with your distinct lack of feminine charms or delicacy? Or your crude habits of speech—is it the usual practice where you're from to teach young ladies such language?"

  "You haven't heard the half of it."

  "And your appearance." He gave her another onceover. "Cropped hair. Trousers. A man's shirt—"

  "Come to think of it," she said, "I do remember that men of your time preferred women confined in layers of heavy clothing and figure-shaping devices that twisted their bodies and made it impossible for them to move. Wouldn't want them to get above themselves, now would we?"

  "You should be writing tracts. Do you dislike men because you haven't had any success with them?"

  Mac thought longingly of tossing a few hot coals into his lap. "I don't dislike men. But I can tell you right now that a pair of broad shoulders and a smart mouth don't cut it where I come from. It takes a little more to interest a modern woman."

  "And it takes more than a brazen hussy to interest a man. I see we understand each other."

  Fat chance of that. But she was spared the necessity of replying by Fernando's return to the fireside. She was grateful for the reprieve; Liam was certainly a product of his time. She'd guessed the first time she saw the photograph what kind of man he'd be: the quintessential nineteenth-century male who'd probably never had his ideas challenged by any woman.

  She stood, stretched, switched on the flashlight, and strode for the tent. Mud sucked at her boots, making each footstep awkward and reminding her how desperate she was for a good shower. Preferably a cold one.

  "You can have the cartaret," Liam called.

  Whatever that was—probably some kind of cot. Damned if she'd take any more favors from him, muddy ground or not.

  The tent was sturdy and of good quality, though there were many little indications that it wasn't of the modern type. A small portable desk, folding chair, empty crates, and a stack of supplies took up one corner, a hinged cot with a tent of mosquito netting most of the opposite side. There might be enough room for Mac to stretch out on the ground between, but she wasn't about to risk it.

  After a quick look around she found a sheet of canvas folded over the supplies; at least that would keep the wet from her clothes. And she still had the mosquito netting from Liam's bag, somewhat the worse for wear. One of those palmetto huts would provide shelter from the rain. She'd seen modern Maya use them in the jungle.

  Her stomach gave a mighty protest. All right—she'd have to throw herself on Liam's hospitality at least as far as a good meal went; she'd need her strength from now on. Damn, what she wouldn't give for a Dr Pepper right now. It might be some time before she could indulge that minor addiction.

  Tossing the canvas and netting under the nearer of the shelters, she sauntered back toward the fire, where Fernando was already dishing out tin plates of steaming beans mixed with shredded meat. Hand-shaped tortillas were stacked on a flat stone set beside the fire.

  "Eat," Liam commanded, pushing a plate into her hands. "I won't have you swooning for lack of nourishment."

  Mac was too hungry to resent his patronizing tone. The food was wonderful; her hunger was no gourmet. Even the mystery meat was tender and delicious.

  "What is this?" she asked. "The meat, I mean."

  "Tepeizcuintes," Liam said. "Also known as agouti."

  Mac felt the lump of food stick in her throat. Agoutis were short-eared, long-legged rodents; she'd seen them in nature shows. No worse than rabbit, she thought. She smiled at Fernando and held out her plate. "Gracias. More?"

  When she had finished the second helping she searched for some means of washing her plate.

  "Fernando will take care of it," Liam said. Just as he spoke, large drops of rain began to fall, sizzling in the fire. All too quickly the drops became a downpour. Fernando gathered up the cooking supplies and excess food; Liam got to his feet without haste. "If you want to sleep dry, I suggest you get to shelter."

  A little too late for that. Mac slung water from her bangs and considered the dubious haven of the open palmetto-frond huts. Maybe they'd keep most of the rain out, anyway. She trudged through a growing soup of mud and poked her head under the makeshift roof. A small tree served as one part of the support, a sturdy stripped sapling pole another. The ground was unmistakably damp.

  Mac sighed and toed the canvas sheeting. Her backpack would make a hard pillow…

  "Take this."

  She turned at Liam's voice. He held a bulky bundle of fabric and netting in his arms and was already walking past her, bending low to keep from bumping his head on the roof. "One of the men who deserted left his hammock."

  She watched as he strung the hammock between the pole and the tree. It looked more like a torture device than something to sleep in, but it would get her off the ground.

  "Thanks," she said. "I… appreciate it."

  "Fernando will be in the other champas, should you need anything." he said. "Unless, of course, you'll join me in the tent—"

  "This will be fine."

  He shrugged and strode from the champas into the tent. Fernando was no
where in sight. Only the stolid mule kept her company, head down and inured to the rain.

  Soaked to the skin and hot enough to create her own steam, Mac retreated deeper into the champas. For a while she simply stood and stared out at the torrent, struggling to blank her mind. Gradually the rain subsided and stopped, leaving in its wake a syncopated rhythm of runoff from the jungle canopy above. The dusk wildlife chorus had dwindled to the occasional screech or hoot or unidentifiable cry. The world was plunged into a humid, vibrating darkness.

  Mac poked her head out of the shelter and saw Liam's tent lit from within like a paper lantern. His silhouette was visible, a shadow-shape rising from the desk against the tent wall. Even as she watched he shrugged out of his shirt, muscular arms flexing, and tossed it aside. His body was formed like a sculpture, its clean lines sharply delineated in profile. His hands moved to his waist, fingers working at buttons.

  She turned her back with a soft curse. She had absolutely no interest in watching his unsuspecting striptease. There wasn't any question of changing her own damp, none-too-fragrant clothing; she had no spares, and hadn't thought to ask Liam for any. Not that she'd have wanted to set herself up for his inevitable comments.

  There was nothing else to do but try to sleep. Mac spent the next ten minutes making sense of the hammock and getting into it. Twice it nearly dumped her—undoubtedly in league with Liam O'Shea. In the end she defeated it, worked herself and her backpack into a semblance of stability, and closed the mosquito netting as best she could, flashlight in hand.

  Something rustled in the palmetto fronds above the hammock. She aimed the beam at the source of the noise; a large white cockroachlike bug with long feelers froze in the light. Mac shut off the flashlight and scrunched deep into the hammock.

  Damn Liam O'Shea.

  No. That wasn't completely fair. It was Peregrine Sinclair who had set this whole thing in motion.

  She brooded silently, trying to ignore the forbidding movements in the vegetation of the roof, until she recognized the absurdity of her anger. In her imagination she could see Homer looking down at her from wherever he was, shaking his head.

  For God's sake, Brat. Look what's happened to you.