Tall, Hard and Trouble

by Cerise DeLand

  Which brought her back to nowhere with Tate. Nowhere good for him. Nowhere wise for her.

  Because I love him.

  She stilled in her seat.

  “Hey, there.” Tate reached across and stroked her long hair over her ear. “We’re here. Come inside with me.” He nodded toward the construction trailer for the foremen and the tent that provided shelter for the laborers. “I want you to see the work to date, too.”

  He nodded up the hill toward the cleared terrain and the pebbled-filled area that would soon be covered with concrete for the foundation.

  “Looks wonderful!” She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and reached for her purse. Eager to focus on something other than her brooding, she knew she’d have to return to the huge admission she’d just made to herself of how dearly she cared for Tate. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  An hour later, she strolled the hillside with Tate and the foreman for the plumbing and foundation. The sun was high in the noon sky and baking into her skin at a muy caliente ninety-five degrees or more. She’d wandered away from Tate to examine the shady terrain where the cistern for rainwater would ultimately stand behind a bank of trees. The whole resort project was to run on green energy, with solar heating and cooling, plus recycling all the water in their pools and hot tubs. They’d even re-filter their grey gray water and use it for the plants in the landscaping wherever they could. She removed her sunglasses to examine the depth of the excavation for the receptacle and the angle of the run-off pipes down to the main level of the spa.

  “Anna Marie?”

  She whirled to face a construction worker, an orange hard-hat on his shaggy dark hair. He filled her vision, a broad-shouldered man with meaty arms and hands.

  “I could never mistake you,” he boasted, a grin on his fleshy face.

  She took a step backward, instinct working when her mind could not. Did she know this man? Did she?

  “I’m sorry,” she managed and retreated one more pace.

  He advanced, his pace relentless, his demeanor friendly. “I haven’t seen you in years. How many?”

  “I think you are mistaken,” she replied, sheathing herself in the cool facade that served her well in such encounters.

  “No, couldn’t be. You’re Kathleen’s daughter all right.”

  Kathleen. My mother’s real name.

  “Don’t you remember me? Jose Alvarez? Albuquerque? I dated your mother for a while back in the nineties. I worked at the home builders where she did the bookkeeping. I came to the house a couple of times. You were ten? Eleven?”

  “You’re mistaken. My mother was—”

  “Kathleen!” He nodded quickly, then froze as if he had forgotten something vital. “Kathleen Sellers! Your hair color and those eyes. They’re the same big cat’s eyes. Wow, it’s like looking at her again. How is she?”

  Anna pulled herself up to a rigid stance, got her footing and stared the man in the eyes. “You’re wrong. I must go. Mr. Ryder is leaving soon.”

  The man wrinkled his brows. “Okay. Sure. But— Whatever.”

  Anna was already ten paces away and climbing down the rock-strewn path toward their rental car. Heart pounding like a kettle drum, she ran to open the door, slid into the front seat and bit her trembling lower lip. She could see Tate examining her from across the site, motioning to the foreman that he was headed for the car.

  “What’s wrong?” Tate asked, when he was seated next to her.

  “He knew me. Knew my mother.”

  “Who?” Tate was scouring the hillside.

  She pretended to search in her purse for something, but her hands shook so much she had to clamp them together. “The one by the cistern. The big dark one.”

  Tate squinted. “Tell me what he said.”

  “He called me by name. Said he’d recognize me anywhere. My hair. My eyes. He thinks my eyes are the same as my mother’s. He knew her name, too. Said he dated her.”

  “Do you know him?”

  She put her head between her knees to stop the rush that flooded her with nausea. “No,” she groaned. “My mother never dated anyone.”

  “Are you certain?” Tate persisted, his hands massaging the back of her neck and shoulders.

  “There were men who asked. She said she never accepted because she was too scared of being found out.” She rose and tears dribbled down her cheeks. “When can we go back to the yacht?”

  “Soon. Stay here.” He opened the car door again. “I’m going to talk to the foreman and find out what he knows about the man.”

  She plucked at Tate’s shirt sleeve. “Tate, be careful.”

  He riveted her with the sternness of his gaze. “I’m good, babe. My foreman is a stand-up guy. We have to know more about this man. If he knew your mother and if he knew you, then perhaps he knew other things about all of you. Perhaps he has friends who needed to know, too.”

  She swallowed hard. “No. Don’t make trouble.”

  “I won’t. I’ll be careful. This has to end, Anna. You can’t run all your life.”

  “I don’t want to,” she told him honestly.

  He reached over and gave her a fast kiss. “Want to stay with me?”

  She nodded, flinging her arms around his neck, yearning to live with him for days and weeks and years of peace. But could she hope for that, when her whole life had been run by someone else’s desires and mistakes?

  Chapter Seven

  Frantic to take get away from the construction site, she fidgeted like a child as he drove them back to Tampico.

  Tate’s persistent investigation of the man who had approached her at the construction site didn’t ease her nerves. After trying to get cell phone coverage repeatedly on the way to town, Tate connected with Grant Warwick and gave him the man’s name and what had happened.

  “Listen, Grant. My foreman says this Jose Alvarez is an American.” Tate gave Grant the man’s Social Security and passport numbers that he gotten from his employee in charge of the construction. “He has a good reputation personally and he’s one of the best plumbers and gasfitters in the southwestern U.S.. That’s why my foreman hired him. And no, Anna says she doesn’t remember him. But Alvarez certainly knew her name and talked about her mother. Yes, okay, I’ll ask her and get back to you. Anything else on the Jeep?”

  Tate hung up. Eyes on the road, he took a glance at her. “Nothing more on finding the car.”

  Anna wrung her hands together at the memory of the guy who rammed into her the other night. She wished she could forget about him. That wasn’t in her future.

  “Grant’s at the International Bridge in Laredo, about to cross into Nuevo Laredo,” Tate said with a look into his rearview mirror. “He’ll be asking around for the forger you used.”

  Nodding, Anna sank into her own misery as they wended their way through traffic.

  “Here’s a restaurant up ahead,” Tate said, pointing toward a roadside establishment that looked reputable. “Let’s get lunch and a cool drink.”

  “Let’s not,” she countered, rubbing her upper arms. Out on the water, she felt safe. “I want to get back to the boat.”

  “I need to stop, honey,” he insisted with another glance into his mirror. “We might have company. No! Don’t look.” He decelerated and flipped open the compartment between the seats.

  Inside, she saw a silver revolver. “Tate?”

  “No worries. I’m a good shot.”

  Her fingers strayed to her purse where her own Sig Sauer rested, fully loaded, safety off. “Who could be following us?” she asked him and herself. “Alvarez?”

  “Sun’s refracting off his windshield. It’s a man all right, but not certain if it’s Alvarez. So we’ll see.” He turned into the access road to the restaurant and slowed as he took the revolver in his right hand and positioned the car perpendicular to the highway.

  This new development spooked her. Fear closed her throat.

  “He didn’t slow,” he said with finality as they came to a stop an
d saw a car whizz past them. “Perhaps it’s a false alarm.”

  She shook her head. “If it wasn’t Alvarez, then who could it be?” she asked, her despair rising with the idea someone else would be interested in her. Someone else she didn’t know. She ran both hands across her stomach. Her stomach churned.

  He took her fingers. “Look at me. We’re going to get a taco and a lemon soda and see if our buddy there in the yellow Camaro comes back. Then we’re driving straight to the dock.”

  * * *

  He worried about her. She couldn’t eat, could only drink a sip or two after he warned her of dehydration in the summer heat. Added to that, she squirmed, as nervous as a cat on a griddle. Tate tried to talk her out of it, but failed. If she needed silence, he could give her that.

  Back on the road, they hadn’t encountered the yellow Camaro again. Nor did they encounter any other cars overly interested in their route to the Tampico yacht club dock.

  He breathed in relief over that.

  About four o’clock, they boarded. Anna volunteered to help him depart, but he sent her below to rest—and to clear his mind to find a new way into hers. He’d never known her to be so withdrawn and her silence coupled with her fear worried him. Was she processing what had happened at the site and at her home in Houston? Or was she hiding something from him? He couldn’t tell. He set to work, the least he could do, and did a speedy job of clearing them for departure with the harbormaster’s crew. By six, he had them headed north-northeast to Galveston.

  About an hour out, he anchored for dinner. He wanted time with Anna. Long minutes unbroken by old memories or fresh anticipations of thugs attacking her. Long minutes when he could refuel her desire for him and he could build a reserve to ensure she never left him.

  He found her in the galley, assembling a tray of appetizers. She was dressed in jeans and teeshirt. Best of all, she looked rested, not so spooked.

  “Looks good,” he told her and dropped a tiny kiss to her lips.

  She gave him a smile and turned back to her task rolling what looked like slices of salmon.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Salmon and caviar.” She lifted the roll and held it to his lips. “And an apology.”

  He wound his arms around her. “I don’t need one.”

  “What you’ve done for me—”

  “Is what I wanted to do.”

  “I know.” She ran a fingertip down the line of his throat. “I’m too used to running. Not standing my ground. I’ve made a promise to myself to be better. Stronger.”

  “You are. You have been all along. Especially when you’ve been standing your ground alone.”

  She nestled against him. “I can’t describe how good it is to have someone to stand with me.”

  The boat rocked.

  Tate smiled, stroked her long hair down her back.

  A thump alongside of the hull had him freezing.

  Anna went to stone. “Tate?”

  Putting a finger to his lips, he cocked his ear.

  Another thump came from the far end of the boat.

  He caught her eye. In a whisper, he said, “Go below.”

  She opened her mouth to object.

  Do it, he mouthed.

  Yanking open a utensil drawer, he sank below the cabinet and fished around to grab two carving knives. Like a crab, he crouched and maneuvered toward the galley steps up to the main deck. From there, he could see out the back to the main deck.

  A glimpse out the rear told him what he had suspected.

  Another boat was attempting to come alongside. It was smaller, older, its engine killed. They were skilled sailors, whoever they were, to creep up on him so quickly, so quietly. But that didn’t matter as much as ensuring the bastards left as quickly as they came.

  How many were there?

  He caught a gander at the boat. It looked like craft half the size of his. Aboard could be as many as ten or twelve men. Shit.

  At that moment, Anna inched round the edge of the counter. In her left hand was his revolver. In her right hand, she sported a handgun. He frowned at her, shocked yet proud and appreciative she had good reason to own a weapon. With a tilt of his head, he narrowed his gaze on her Sig Sauer and wondered if she could use the damn thing. She widened her eyes and shrugged one shoulder as if to say, sure.

  The world was full of surprises.

  Surprise was what he needed most of at this point. But how to get it? Keep it?

  Taking his 45 from her, he motioned for her to keep low and follow him. He had no way out onto the deck other than the one before him. That meant he had to pray that he had enough knives and ammo to waylay them.

  Tate stepped toward the deck.

  The first man came over the side of the back deck, a rope in one hand, a hand gun in the other.

  Peeking above the counter, Tate glanced out the side window just in time to see the top of the head of another intruder rising above the rail. From the corner of his eye, Tate saw Anna. She was biting her lip and shaking. He reached out to squeeze her hand, hoping his own was warm and his grip firm. With his touch, she stilled and he marveled that she could turn in an instant to a serene creature. If he did that for her, he counted his blessings.

  Another noise had him turning back to the first man who clomped around the bridge. Go ahead, asshole. Try to start this puppy. Tate had the boat made to his specifications. The craft’s engine was digitally locked. Only Tate knew the code. Not even Cord had a clue what it might be. So this marauder’s fine intentions to pirate them away was a pipe dream.

  Tate’s head jerked left as he spied a third man at the helm of the smaller craft. He called to his buddies to hurry.

  The first man rumbled down the steps from the bridge. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Frank?” he scolded in a ragged whisper. “Shut up!”

  “Where the hell are they?” the second man persisted, unabashed.

  “That’s what we’re finding out, brainy,” the first man responded. “Get down there and see where they are.”

  “Don’t see you going down there,” Frank taunted.

  “I’m behind you,” assured the first man. “Go!”

  “Behind me,” he muttered and stood tall, then bent as he loped into the low-roofed entrance to the quarters below.

  Tate waited until the third man was within three feet. Then in one fluid zig-zag, he feinted to one side and sprawled to the other side. His decades of catching line drives, firing off passes and being a royal bastard to opposing teams had him focusing in second-by-second frames. He fired the 45 once, at Frank’s guts. Fired again as Frank sank to his knees and clutched his cascading entrails. Fired a third time at the man behind him. That shot clipped that guy in the shoulder. The second one—Tate’s last bullet—ripped open a knee, blood gushing from his leg as he glided to the floor on his remaining good leg.

  Tate’s gun wobbled in his hand.

  The man screamed in agony and anger, then he reached out, his gun poised again at Tate point blank. Anna spun into a cross-legged crouch on the floor, yelled at the intruder and with a two-fisted grip, took her aim and fired at him once, twice, three times. The man jerked with each bullet, mouth working, stunned, as his body crumpled like a house of cards.

  Tate scrambled to the outer deck, around to the side where the deep sea fishing gear was stowed. He could hear the third man attempting to board using the net and grappling hooks they’d employed to come aboard. But this man was clumsy. Out of shape. A landlubber.

  Flat to the deck, Tate snapped open the long compartment—and hauled out his harpoon. Six feet long and two inches in diameter, the weapon was built to bring down sea monsters. Tate and Cord had caught sharks with it. I’ll catch a bigger one today.

  Grunting, he grabbed the harpoon, pushed himself up, and hoisted it high. Running had been his profession. Running now would save his life and Anna’s. He charged toward the deck where the third man was just lifting a leg over the leeward side. Tate estimated his dist
ance, the harpoon’s weight and trajectory. In one long arc, Tate sent the weapon across fifty feet or more to pierce the center of the man’s torso, skewering him through his heart. Impaled, stunned, the interloper looked down in disbelief. He convulsed, then his face went lax, his fingers lifted. He considered Tate, asked him a soundless question and with arms waving in the air to gain a balance he could not find, he sank backward to his own deck with a heavy thud the marked his death.

  Anna ran to the side at the same time Tate did. She gripped the rail and examined the dead man.

  “Tate! That’s Jose Alvarez!”

  She stumbled backwards.

  Tate caught her, buried her head in his shoulder as she trembled. There they stood for long minutes, until they both stopped shaking and the sliver of the blood-red sun dissolved beneath the grey horizon.

  Taking her hand, he led her down to the master cabin and carefully sidestepped the two dead bodies crowding the galley entrance.

  He told her to go shower. “Dress warmly. I’m calling Tampico harbor master and the Mexican Coast Guard to investigate this. We’re still in Mexican waters so the Federales have jurisdiction. Then you and I are calling Grant and deciding what we should do next.”

  Chapter Eight

  Grant Warwick hurried in to the Mexican Coast Guard office the next afternoon.

  Anna recognized Tate’s security consultant whom she’d met a few times before. A huge man with the proportions of a heavy-weight professional body builder, he put Anna in mind of a Norse god who wore a frown. Permanently. Shoving his sunglasses up on his tanned, shaved head, Grant remained true to character as he trained hard silver eyes on her and Tate. With muscles in his jaw jumping, he approached.

  The Mexican police beyond the glass enclosure simply stared at this huge American.

  “Got here as soon as I could,” he told them as he shook Tate’s hand. “I finished up in Nuevo Laredo right after you called last night. Most of the road from there to Tampico is worse than a ditch.”