Off the Rails

by Jill Sorenson

  The glimmer turned out to be the front window on a dusty green pickup truck. She almost fainted with relief when she saw it. There was a man working on a rusted piece of machinery in a nearby field. She jogged the last quarter mile, and was out of breath when she reached him.

  “¿Qué pasa, muchacha?” he asked with a friendly smile.

  “I need help,” she said in the same language. “My husband is sick.”

  “Where?”

  “In an old barn.” She pointed the opposite direction.

  “Ándale, pues,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

  They walked to his truck and she climbed in the passenger side. He had a gallon of water, which he shared. She drank inelegantly, rivulets running down her neck. On the way to the barn, she made up a story about getting lost on a hike and caught in the rain.

  He arched a brow at this explanation. “There aren’t any trails around here.”

  “No wonder we couldn’t find it.”

  If he found her story hard to believe, he didn’t say so. She gave him her best smile, which made him blink a few times. “I’m José.”

  She stuck out her hand to shake. “Maria.”

  José drove past the end of the road and over the lumpy ground. He parked as close to the barn as possible. They had to walk the rest of the way. Ian was in the same place she’d left him, but he’d thrown off the blanket. He was shirtless and semiconscious, fever-flushed.

  “Can he stand up?” José asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  She gathered Ian’s things, taking care to hide his gun holster, and helped José lift him to his feet. Ian didn’t fight, but he didn’t really cooperate either. They each took a side of his body. They had to sort of drag him along, and it was slow going.

  “Wait,” José said.

  She stopped to rest, breathing hard.

  He bent down and boosted Ian over his shoulder, carrying him the rest of the way. José was short, but powerfully compact. He grunted at her to open the tailgate. She did, helping him put Ian in the back of the truck. Then she climbed inside with him and cradled his head on her lap. It was a rocky ride. The jostling motions seemed to nauseate him. He rolled over and vomited weakly, coughing up about a handful of stringy bile.

  She grimaced and rubbed his shoulders. Pobrecito.

  “Where are we?” he rasped.

  “In a farmworker’s truck.”

  He closed his eyes, nodding. Ten minutes later, they were at the rancho. He was alert enough to walk now, with help. José took him to a guest room and laid him down on a single bed. The accommodations were basic, but comfortable. Ian passed out again immediately.

  The house belonged to a woman named Doña Cristina, who seemed delighted to have interesting guests. Maria told her that Ian was from Argentina, a country known for tall, European-looking men. Then she asked if there was a doctor nearby.

  “I can bring the curandera,” José offered. “She lives just down the road.”

  Maria agreed, thanking him for his help. She didn’t want to involve a doctor or hospital unless she had to. A medicine woman could evaluate Ian’s condition and let her know how serious it was. For the next hour, she waited at Ian’s bedside, holding his hand.

  The curandera came at dusk. She was a plump woman in a flowered dress. She said her name was Xochilt. First she did a routine sort of exam, palpating different areas of Ian’s body and checking his throat. Then she took out a feathered, yarn-wrapped staff and moved it over his prone form from head to toe. Bracelets jangled on her wrist as she worked.

  “Does he have any wounds?” she asked Maria.

  “On his thigh.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Maria stepped forward to unbuckle his belt, blushing a little. Doña Cristina watched the proceedings with interest. Xochilt shooed the other woman out and closed the door behind her. Maria lowered his pants to the knees, exposing his wounded thigh. And everything else, because he was naked beneath the fabric. Xochilt removed the bandage carefully. The skin around the wound was red and puffy, the stitches wet with seepage.

  “What happened here?”

  “He um, fell on a sharp branch. Hiking.”

  “Hmm,” Xochilt said. “I will make a poultice to draw out the infection.” She helped Maria take his pants off completely. Then she tossed a blanket over him and went to work. After she found the right ingredients in her bag, she mixed them in a pot on the stove. The end result looked like hot green tar. “You have to hold him.”

  Maria held Ian’s hand, nervous.

  “No, m’ija. He is a large man. Put your weight on him.”

  She stretched out across his upper torso as the curandera applied the poultice. Just as she’d anticipated, Ian almost bucked off the bed. He hollered words that blistered her ears. Then he quieted, breathing heavily.

  Xochilt smiled at the strong reaction. She covered his thigh with a square of muslin and returned to her bag, removing a syringe and a vial of clear liquid.

  “What’s that?” Maria asked.

  “Antibiotic,” the woman answered with a chuckle. Apparently she believed in modern medicine, in addition to natural remedies. She gave him the shot in the right buttock. He flinched at the sting. “Your man is young and strong. His fever-sickness should pass soon. If he’s not better tomorrow, send José for me.”

  Maria paid Xochilt for her services, pleased with the diagnosis. They left the room together. Doña Cristina said she was happy to host them while Ian recovered.

  “Why was he hiking with this injury?” Xochilt asked on her way out.

  Maria didn’t have an answer for that.

  “Keep him in bed, m’ija. He needs rest.”

  She nodded and looked down at her feet, embarrassed about their activities the previous night. She shouldn’t have been so amorous. He’d reinjured himself pleasuring her.

  “What a problem to have, with a man like that,” Xochilt said to Doña Cristina. The two older women laughed together.

  After Xochilt left, Doña Cristina warmed up a plate of food for Maria. She ate quickly, eager to get back to Ian. She was grateful for the woman’s kindness and generosity, but concerned about overstaying their welcome. What if the police knocked on the door? Maria couldn’t risk telling Doña Cristina the truth about Ian, so she prayed for a safe, quiet visit.

  Doña Cristina chatted nonstop during the meal. She was a widow with four grown children who didn’t come home often enough. Her only son was in the Mexican army’s special forces. Her three daughters had moved away with their husbands.

  “Where did you meet your husband?” she asked.

  “In Mexico City. I was a tour guide at Teotihuacan.”

  “Smart girl,” she said approvingly. It was hard to get a job at the famous archeological site, and women in the tourist industry were more likely to meet wealthy foreigners. “Let me guess. He saw your beautiful face and fell in love at first sight.”

  Maria finished her last bite, hiding a smile. When Ian found her on the dunes, she’d been unconscious, her face swollen and misshapen. He hadn’t saved her because she was pretty. He hadn’t come to the hospital every day to admire her bruises. Kindness and concern had driven his actions. Perhaps he’d have lost interest if she’d been ugly, but the same could be said of her. He’d been young, handsome, and caring. Of course that combination had appealed to her.

  Maria wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Forgive me. I must check in on him.”

  Doña Cristina waved her away.

  She spent the rest of the evening at Ian’s side. Doña Cristina brought her a nightgown to wear and a chaise cushion to sleep on. She took a shower in the adjoining bathroom before she went to bed. Around midnight, she awoke to the sound of a disturbance. Ian was yelling and thrashing around again. She stood watch as he struggled against the villain of his dreams.

  “Get the fuck off me,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Get out of my room!”

  She crossed her arms over her ch
est, her stomach tight. She suspected that his nightmares were based on an awful memory from his childhood. After a few minutes, he went quiet. She replaced his blanket, which had fallen to the floor, and touched his forehead. He was soaked in sweat, but cooler now. Maybe his fever had broken. She curled up on the cushion, concerned for the man he was, heart aching for the boy he’d been.

  —

  Ian woke up in a strange place, wracked by thirst.

  He found a glass of water at his bedside and drank it in big gulps. Dim light filtered in through the window, suggesting it was near dawn. Maria was asleep on the ground beside him. He was buck naked in a bed that barely fit him. He threw back the blanket and found a piece of cloth on his thigh. The sticky green mess underneath looked like barfed-up grass, but damned if it didn’t feel good. He vaguely remembered the searing heat of its application.

  Rising from the bed, he strode into the bathroom to take a piss. The green goo peeled off easily, revealing the pink of healing flesh. He had a dull, throbbing headache and his entire body was sore. He glanced into the mirror over the sink and saw every flaw, exaggerated. Shadows under his eyes, sharp cheekbones, and beard stubble that crept down his too-long neck. He needed to gain some weight. His torso was all ropey veins and lean muscle.

  God. He looked like hell.

  At least his mustache had filled in a little. Once he shaved his beard, it would appear even more distinct. He touched his upper lip, struck by a memory of using his mouth on Maria. She’d been melting underneath his tongue, slippery-hot. He smirked at his reflection, pleased with himself. Then he bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face.

  She was awake when he emerged from the bathroom. Her gaze slipped down to his cock, which had thickened enough to bob around as he walked.

  He wasn’t too skinny there. She’d told him so.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. Her cheeks were rosy and her dark hair was mussed. She was wearing a sleeveless white nightgown, demure and angelic. Except that he could see her dusky nipples through the fabric.

  “Better.” He found his clothes folded on top of a chair, freshly washed. He pulled on his pants. “Where’s my gun?”

  She reached under the bed for a tote bag. His holster and credentials were inside.

  “Whose house is this?”

  “It belongs to a lady named Doña Cristina.”

  “How many people know we’re here?”

  “Three, at least.”

  “We have to go.”

  “They don’t know who we are.”

  “They know I’m American.”

  “No. I said you were from Argentina, and we got lost hiking.”

  He felt dizzy, so he sat down on the bed.

  “You need to rest. The curandera said so.”

  “I can’t stay here all day.”

  She stood, placing a cool hand on his forehead. “You can stay for breakfast, yes?”

  His stomach growled at the suggestion. He was hungry, and weak, and he had a headache. But he still wanted to dive under her nightgown and bury his face between her thighs. He lay back on the mattress and tucked his hands behind his head. “Whatever.”

  She left the room and returned with some items from the kitchen. Soda, crackers, and beef jerky. He filled his empty belly, grateful.

  “Does this lady have a phone?”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “How did we get here?”

  “A farmworker gave us a ride. You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember your bad dreams?”

  His chest tightened with unease. “No, why?”

  “You almost hit me in your sleep.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head.

  “I haven’t done that since I was a kid,” he said, chagrined. “I gave Adam a black eye once when he tried to wake me up from a nightmare.”

  “What was the nightmare about?”

  He paused, reluctant to go into detail.

  “Maybe if you tell me, you won’t have that dream anymore.”

  His mouth twisted with cynicism. It was a disturbing story, and he doubted talking about it would help, but he felt guilty for taking a swing at her. Maybe she deserved an explanation. “I’ll have to give you some background first.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest. “I’m listening.”

  “My mom wasn’t always a drug addict. She was sober for almost five years after I was born. When I was about nine, she hit a rough patch and started using meth again. She partied with strange men a lot. One of her friends took an interest in me. He’d play video games, toss me the football, stuff like that. I was really into sports, and my mom wasn’t. This guy noticed that I was a good athlete. He paid attention to me.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, as if this was the saddest thing she’d ever heard.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “Anyway, he started doing weird stuff, like bringing me dirty magazines. I didn’t realize it was wrong because my entire life was wrong at that point. But then he came into my room when I was sleeping one night.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He held me down and masturbated on me. I wasn’t sure what he was doing at first, but I couldn’t move. I was too scared to fight. He said he’d kill my mother if I told anyone.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not for a long time. I told Adam when I was older.”

  “You never told your mother?”

  “No. I blamed her for it. I blamed myself too, because I hadn’t seen the warning signs. I thought I’d attracted him somehow. But I also thought my mom should have protected me. She shouldn’t have been so trusting of strangers.” He felt a sharp twist in his chest, remembering how angry he’d been. He’d bought a lock for his bedroom door, and he’d slept in his closet most nights. When Ian was in high school, he’d heard that the guy had died of a drug overdose. Only then had he told Adam what he’d done.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” she whispered.

  “Are you sorry you asked?”

  “No. I want to know all about your life.”

  He nodded his understanding because he felt the same way. Maybe they connected on a deeper level because of his experience. It didn’t really compare to the rape and beating she’d suffered, but it had made an impact on his life. He was more sympathetic to sexual assault victims. The ugly acts of other people didn’t define them.

  She curled up beside him on the bed. It was a tight fit, but they managed. He put his arm around her and held her, enjoying the feel of her body next to his. He liked everything about her. The way she looked at the world, the way she looked at him. Her smile, her accent, the smell of her hair.

  “I like your chin,” he said.

  “My shin?”

  “Chin.” He touched the smooth place underneath her chin. It was a perfect angle, with a slight depression in the middle. He traced his fingertip from there to the other triangle at the base of her throat. “This whole area is sexy as hell.”

  She laughed, pushing his hand away. “That tickles,” she said in Spanish.

  And then he knew: He was in love with her.

  It hit him like a bolt of lightning. He’d been halfway there for almost four years. Since he’d reunited with her, he’d been right on the edge, ready to tip over.

  He tipped.

  He tipped hard.

  Instead of basking in the glory of this realization, he panicked. His feelings shouldn’t have come as such a big surprise, considering how long he’d been working up to them, but he felt blindsided. He wasn’t ready to be in love love. Maria was supposed to be the one that got away. She was his fantasy woman, a red-hot affair. His first love, destined to fail.

  This was a disaster.

  He’d fucked up the sequence of events too. He’d fallen in love with her after he’d asked her to marry him. They were doomed.

  He scrambled out of bed so fast he almost lost his footing. She gave him a
strange look as he fumbled for his shoulder holster and put on his T-shirt. “We have to go,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He knew his emotions were written all over his face.

  “What about breakfast?”

  “Let’s skip it.”

  “You can hardly walk,” she pointed out.

  “We’ll hitchhike.”

  She rose from the bed and gathered her clothes. Instead of retreating to the bathroom to change, she pulled the nightgown over her head and stood there in her full naked glory. Then she bent over to put on her panties, one leg at a time.

  Well. This was what he deserved for strutting around with his dick out earlier, wasn’t it? He peeled his eyes off her luscious ass and focused on his boots. She was upset with him for not resting long enough. He’d been very ill yesterday, and he was still tired, but they weren’t safe here. They had to put more distance between them and El Limbo. He didn’t know how to do an Argentinian accent, either. He’d probably sound like Enrique Iglesias if he tried.

  Maria insisted on writing a thank-you note before they left. The tote bags they’d been carrying weren’t suited for travel, so she borrowed an old canvas backpack from the closet. Then they crept down the hall and walked out the front door.

  He paused outside to study the remote landscape. The rugged, mountainous terrain to the east offered no hint of civilization. That was the direction they’d come from. There was only one other way to go, down a long dirt road that led west. They might have to walk ten miles before they saw a vehicle. He was about to rethink his plans when a truck barreled toward them, tires kicking up dust.

  “That’s José,” she said. “We should ask him for a ride.”

  Ian nodded his agreement.

  The man in the truck pulled into the driveway. He smiled at Maria the way all men did, tipping his cowboy hat.

  “Can you give us a lift?” she asked.

  “I would be happy to, but I should warn you that there is a police barricade at the end of the road. They’re looking for a norteamericano.”

  Ian swore under his breath. So much for escaping El Limbo.

  Chapter 18

  Ian didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t the North American in question.

  José might have accepted Maria’s story about getting lost in the wilderness before, but now he knew better. The good news was that he hadn’t told the police anything. If he had, they would have been here to arrest him already.