Lucky for him, his father had been a hunter in the Rocky Mountains and had taught him tracking skills as a very young boy. Culver had developed the skill to an art form over the years, though these days his quarry tended to be two-legged enemies rather than some hapless deer or elk. As the sun rose and the light improved, he began watching for other signs—the telltale broken leaf or twig indicating someone had passed hurriedly through an area.
Was Pilar hiding in the jungle? Was she hurt? Bleeding? The image made him wince. It was only then that Culver realized they should still be in radio contact. Kneeling, hidden by the foliage, he pressed his fingers against his throat, where the communication device lay.
“Pilar? Pilar, this is Culver. Come in.”
He waited, his breath suspended. He knew that the state-of-the-art headsets they wore were waterproof. Capable of working under the ocean if they had to.
“Pilar, if you can hear me, say something. Anything…”
Slowly scanning the area, Culver waited tensely. Nothing. His mind ticked off the possibilities. Pilar could be dead, her body hidden by the jungle. She could be unconscious and unable to respond. Or—his heart instantly rejected the final possibility just as strongly—Ramirez’s men had found her, stripped her of her military gear and taken her back to the fortress.
Wiping his smarting eyes, he digested the situation. Day was breaking and the fog was thinning. Lifting his head, Culver spotted a swath of jungle that had obviously been disturbed. Getting up, he eased in that direction, his gaze moving to the soft, moist earth.
His heart slammed into his ribs. He halted. There. Everywhere he looked, the foliage had been torn up, leaves bruised and twigs broken. The soil was marked by numerous bootprints. Bending down, Culver looked closer. His mouth went dry as he saw a small, partial imprint of a bare foot. Pilar. A fight had taken place here, no doubt about it. Looking around, he searched the underbrush for other signs that would confirm Pilar had been here.
Several bullets had gouged into the smooth, gray surface of a thick rubber tree. As Culver eased toward it, something dark on one large, exposed root caught his eye. Stymied, he knelt down, unable to identify the substance in the dim light. Reaching out, he carefully touched it, then lifted his fingers to his nostrils. The metallic odor was distinctive and unmistakable. Blood. His heart started a slow hammering as he bent down and continued to search around the roots. They had caught Pilar, he was certain. But was it her blood or someone else’s?
Getting down on his hands and knees, Culver searched frantically for any other sign that might confirm whether Pilar had been truly captured. Running his fingers beneath some large, broken-off leaves, Culver struck something. Lifting the leaves away, he felt his eyes widened with dismay. It was the black throat collar of the communications device Pilar had worn. Sitting back on his heels, he picked it up and studied it grimly. And then his gaze caught something else. His lips parted as he stared at it for a long moment in disbelief. A sizzling arc of pain moved through his chest as he leaned down and retrieved it.
The small, dark brown bag on a leather thong dangled from his fingers. Pilar’s medicine bag. He would recognize it anywhere. As he slowly turned it over, his breath snagged, and his eyes bulged. The rear of the bag dripped—with blood.
Chapter 12
Forty-eight hours had passed—the most hellish hours in Culver’s entire life. For a long time the jungle had crawled with Ramirez’s men, combing and recombing the area for evidence of more enemies. At least six helicopters had come and gone as Culver lay buried beneath leaves in the hole he’d dug under the roots of a particularly large rubber tree.
He overheard passing guards say that Ramirez had left the fortress and flown to Bogota, Colombia, until things settled down. But what of Pilar? What had he done with her? Culver’s gut felt like he’d swallowed acid, and his heart wanted to explode with frustration and grief. He couldn’t even be certain if Pilar had been wounded. One of the guards could have torn the medicine bag from her neck and let it land in someone else’s blood. What he did know was that this waiting was slowly killing him.
Finally Culver got a lead, though the news was not what he wanted to hear. Some guards walked within fifty feet of his hiding spot and he heard them say that Pilar was wounded and being held in the fortress’s small dispensary. Culver didn’t know how badly she was wounded, but it was enough information for him to proceed with. A blueprint of the fortress was branded in his mind, so he knew the dispensary was next to the guards’ barracks along the north wall.
At three in the morning, Culver made his move. By luck, he’d also heard two guards talking about an entrance to the fortress on the north side of the compound. His heart pounded with fear. If he were caught—if they were caught—it would mean death for both of them, and Culver couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Pilar tortured. His mouth compressed into a thin line. No, if they caught him, too, he’d pull out his pistol and put a bullet in Pilar’s head before turning the weapon on himself and doing the same. They weren’t going to be carrion for Ramirez. Not if he could help it.
Pilar moved her head slowly back and forth on the perspiration-soaked pillow as she moved in and out of consciousness, the fever sucking away at her strength, at her desire to live. Culver’s dark, hard face appeared before her. So close. So real. Pilar blinked to clear the stinging from her eyes. Oh, how many times had she thought of him? Slowly, the tragic events of eight years ago began to unfold in her hazy mind like an old black-and-white film.
“You are pregnant, Señorita Martinez,” Dr. Sanchez said heavily, his brows drawn down in disfavor.
Pilar sat on the gurney, dressed only in a light blue gown. Her thigh where the bullet had grazed her, had taken ten stitches and was throbbing like fire itself. But the pain that gripped her heart as the meaning of his words washed over her erased the ache of the injury.
“What?” she whispered.
He nodded his graying head. “You are two months pregnant. You did not know?”
Oh, Dios! Pilar hung her head in shame as she saw the doctor look significantly at her left hand, where no wedding ring encircled her finger. She saw the accusation in his eyes. She had committed an unpardonable sin as a South American woman, not protecting her virginity for marriage.
“I suggest,” the doctor said abruptly, “that you tell the father of your child and get something done about it legally, señorita.”
With those parting words, Dr. Sanchez turned on his heel, leaving her alone in the coolness of the hospital room. Covering her face, Pilar tried to think. The baby was Culver’s. They had made love only four times in the past two months—moments stolen out of time.
A sob tore from her as she lifted her head and looked toward the door. Culver was in surgery. He could die. He had taken a bullet for her, and she’d watched him go down like a felled ox. Had it not been for the American army advisor with them, Culver would have died in her arms on that damp jungle floor. Instead, they’d called in a helicopter and flown him directly to Lima, fifty miles away.
She loved Culver! She loved him so much that the ache in her heart nearly overwhelmed her. Now, she was pregnant—with his child. Pilar knew he didn’t want children right now. He’d made that clear on several occasions. What was she to do? Pilar couldn’t bear the idea of taking a life that lived within her. As a shamanka in training, her whole focus was on helping people to live.
But what could she do? Even if Culver lived, how could she tell him she was pregnant?
The door to her room opened and closed quietly, and she looked up to see her father’s oldest and dearest friend, Fernando. He was in his sixties, his hair silver. His dark brown eyes traveled to hers.
“Hector Ruiz called me, Pilar. How are you doing, my child? He said you were hurt.” Fernando walked forward with a limp, leaning heavily on his gold-encrusted cane, his hand outstretched, his smile filled with concern.
Pilar hung her head. “Oh, Fernando, I am all right… .” She began to sob.
“I talked to Dr. Sanchez in the hall,” he said, gently patting her slumped shoulders. “He said your leg is injured. Is it bad?”
Tears blinded Pilar as Fernando took her into his arms and very carefully held her. Resting her head wearily against his shoulder, she began to tell him what had happened. Her words came out in torn gasps, until the ugly truth about her pregnancy had been revealed. Fernando, older than her father, had been like a kindly grandfather during her growing-up years. He’d been her father’s inseparable friend, and since his own wife had died in childbirth long ago, he’d made Pilar part of his extended family. As she told him the horrible truth of her condition, Pilar eased out of his arms, trying to scrub the tears from her lashes.
“I don’t know what to do, Fernando,” she quavered. “I am with child. Culver’s child. I—I love him, but I know he’s not interested in having children—and we’ve never talked of marriage.”
Gently, Fernando touched her hair, taming it to one side. “Does he love you?”
Sniffing, Pilar turned her head away. “We have been very close, but he has never said those words to me.”
“Never?”
It hurt to say in a choked voice, “No.”
“I see… .” Fernando sighed.
Pilar felt the terrible weight of responsibility on her shoulders. “I will be castigated, Fernando. Lima society will ostracize me. I will be worse than a mestiza to them now. They will call me a whore. The whore of a Norte Americano.” She shut her eyes tightly. “Oh, Dios, Fernando, I did not mean to get pregnant. I—it just happened. I’m so sorry… .” She hid her facein her hands and began to cry in earnest.
“Hush, hush, my child,” Fernando soothed as he patted her shoulder. “I have a plan. It is a good one. Stop crying and listen to me.”
Pilar tried valiantly to stem her tears. Lifting her chin, she looked into Fernando’s kindly, weather beaten face. Although he was of the Castilian aristocracy and a millionaire, he acted neither part. He’d always been a quiet, kindly shadow in her life, loving her as the daughter he’d never had.
“Wh-what?” she asked in a whisper.
He smiled paternally. “I will marry you, Pilar. You will have my name and my protection. It is the least I can do for your father. He was my best friend, and I know he would feel shame upon his family name if this secret got out. He was a good man. And you are still a child. I do not fault you for what you did. I know how youth can be.” He smiled a little and caressed her hair. “How far along are you?”
“Dr. Sanchez said two months.”
“Ah, good. That is not too far.”
“You would marry me?” she asked, stunned.
“To protect you, your baby and your father’s good name, my child.”
“B-but—”
“You know that I love you as a daughter, Pilar. I will care for you and your child. I will ensure your baby has a name.” He shrugged a little and gave her a gentle smile. “I know I am not long for this world with this old, leaky heart of mine. If I can do this for you, no matter how little time I have left on this earth, then I consider it an honor. I have never told you, but you filled a large hole in my heart by allowing me to be close to you. You loved me as if I were part of your family. This is the least I can do for you.”
Pilar’s mind spun. Her emotions reeled. If only Culver wanted her! But he could die on the operating table. And even if he lived, he no doubt would reject her outright. Fernando’s kind face blurred before her eyes as she struggled with the problem. “I—I have made such a mess of things,” she whispered brokenly. “I love Culver so much, Fernando. He’s lying on the operating table, gravely wounded by a bullet that should have killed me. I know he loves me—he must.”
“But he is Norte Americano, Pilar, and a government agent. He may not survive this operation. What then? You have said he doesn’t want children. He’s never told you he loves you. Those are not good signs, my child. If we marry today, we can still convince people the baby is two months early when it is born seven months from now. But we don’t have much time. No one will suspect your child belongs to Culver, Pilar. He does not need to know.”
Pilar’s heart felt as if it was shattering with pain. Hot tears blinded her. “I have failed so many people,” she sobbed. “I love him, Fernando. He’s the only man I will ever love! I know in my soul he is for me. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he loved me.”
“My child,” Fernando said heavily, “I’m sure Culver cares deeply for you. How could he not? But enough to accept that you are pregnant? Do you think he will marry you in this condition? Even if he lives, he will not want you. What will his family think? Think clearly now, Pilar. You are a South American woman. His family are Norte Americanos. Would they accept you?”
Miserably, Pilar shook her head. “I have sinned so badly, Fernando. Even God will not forgive me for what I have done.” She lifted her head and sniffed. “I do not deserve what you offer me.”
“Your life has been hard, Pilar. I saw you struggle as a young girl growing up. Your mestiza blood has caused you much pain and hardship. I do not wish you to stain your family’s name before the rich and powerful of Lima. Let me marry you. I will never ask for a husband’s rights. You will be a daughter to me, not a wife. My heart has room only for my dear Angelica, who died in childbirth with our baby girl. But I can be your friend. Let me help you… .”
Fernando had married her that very evening in front of a priest at his church. And he had saved her family name and made good on his promise to treat her as his beloved daughter. Pilar knew he had done it for her father, and she was grateful. When Fernando passed on, he’d left a half-million-dollar estate and his name to continue his powerful protection. And no one, outside of Dr. Sanchez, who had never breathed a word and her grandparents, knew the truth.
Pilar tried again to force her eyes open. How many times in her feverish state had she hallucinated that Culver was here to rescue her? She knew the infection of her bullet wound was creating the dream—mingled with her deep longing to see Culver again.
A cooling hand settled on her brow. She opened her eyes. This physical sensation wasn’t a fevered hallucination. The hand—Culver’s large hand—moved caressingly from her sweaty brow to her cheek.
Her dry, cracked lips parting, Pilar watched as Culver leaned closer. His face was smeared with mud to camouflage his white skin. He put a finger to his lips in caution. Pilar gulped and nodded that she understood. How had he gotten here? Her mind gyrated wildly with questions, then suddenly blanked out from the fever. She wanted to laugh hysterically and sob with relief. Sudden fear gutted her: if Culver was here, he was in great danger.
“Pilar,” Culver rasped close to her ear as he crouched down by the cot, his arm moving protectively across her, “I’m going to carry you out of here. Whatever you do, don’t cry out. Just hang on. You hear me? I’ll get you to safety.”
His eyes glittered with a feral quality she’d never seen before. And she saw tears in his eyes, along with blazing anger. Since her capture, Pilar had received no medical attention for the bullet lodged in her left shoulder. Ramirez’s last order before he’d boarded a helicopter for Bogota was to let her lie without antibiotics or medical intervention until she told what she knew of the raid. Pilar had refused to talk, but in some ways felt thankful for her injury. There were many worse ways to die at Ramirez’s hands. So she had lain here, preparing to die… .
Culver left her side and she heard him rummaging around. Then she heard glass breaking, and he was back at her side. He scrubbed the inside of her right arm with an alcohol swab, then she felt the jab of a needle.
“Antibiotics,” he rasped.
Sighing, Pilar felt relief flowing through her. Culver had accurately read the situation. For the first time in days, she allowed herself some hope that she might not die. She closed her eyes.
Pilar felt Culver’s hands sliding beneath her body. She still wore her same clothes, now mud caked and foul smelling. She fe
lt Culver lift her as if she were a feather. Instantly, pain ripped through her shoulder, and Pilar stiffened in his arms. This definitely was no dream. Biting down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, and her face pressed into the side of his neck as he carried her to the door. Pilar wanted to help him somehow, but weakness flooded her. Struggling to keep a hold on consciousness, she focused on remaining quiet. The guards had said she was dying and then had laughed at her. They had stopped coming to check on her, saying that in another twenty-four hours they would carry her out in a body bag.
Now Pilar felt the powerful beat of Culver’s heart against her side. The warm jungle air flowed across her, a welcome contrast to the antiseptic odors of the dispensary. Pilar knew they were still in serious danger of being discovered, but she couldn’t think about it. The last of her reserves had to go toward fighting to maintain a thread of consciousness and to not cry out in pain. Each soundless step Culver took tore at her wound. Pilar heard insects singing. Opening her eyes, she looked up. For once, the fog hadn’t formed above the jungle. Miraculously, she saw stars shining softly in the ebony sky.
Just as quickly, they disappeared as Culver eased her through a door and back into the jungle’s dense foliage. Her energy was leaking away with each step he took, and she felt his sharp, punctuated breath as he moved deeper into the leafy darkness. They still weren’t safe, and Pilar knew it. But with Culver’s arms holding her tightly, she felt beautifully protected, even as the last vestiges of her practical mind told her it was an exaggerated sense of safety.
At one point, Culver stopped and laid her gently against a tree trunk. Pilar watched him through blurred vision as he called Major Houston and asked for a helicopter to meet them at certain coordinates. Pilar struggled to speak, but couldn’t form words.
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