The Soldier and the Baby

by Anne Stuart

  Oddly enough, he had no hesitation about taking them both back. One of them didn’t belong, maybe both of them. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to leave a helpless baby in this war-torn country, not when he had the means to get him out. And whether Carlie had given birth to him or not, she truly loved him. He was sentimental enough to figure that counted for something.

  In the distance he heard the faint scream of a jaguar, deep in the jungle And like a great jungle cat himself, he slipped into the shadows, on the prowl.

  It didn’t take Carlie long to regret her decision to follow Reilly. Even though the old building seemed deserted as she tiptoed downstairs, she could feel eyes watching her. Male eyes, hungry eyes. She’d felt those eyes on her ever since she’d arrived at this place, she admitted to herself.

  The bar downstairs was deserted, thank God, the soldiers gone. She took a good look around through the murky lamplight. Cigarette smoke still hung in the air like a noxious cloud, and she could smell whiskey and chilies. The latter made her stomach growl in longing.

  Surely someone like Dutchy would employ a cook. The Shumi were noted for their cooking as well as their family values—with any luck there’d be someone in the kitchen, eager to feed her.

  Luck, however, was not with her. The kitchen was nothing more than a back shed, the stove was cold, the stores almost negligible. There was a bowl of eggs of doubtful vintage, a hunk of hard cheese, some plantains. And three cans of Campbell’s soup.

  She stared in disbelief. She had forgotten the existence of canned soup. Centuries ago, when she’d lived in the States, it had been a major part of her sustenance. Looking at those red cans, she could suddenly remember her mother—vague, preoccupied, opening a can with the assurance that this would provide a decent meal for a growing girl. She could almost taste the toast and butter.

  It seared through her with a sharp pain. Memory. Grief. Shock. She thought she’d put that all behind her, found a safe new life with the sisters, protected from harsh, unbearable time. And just as easily it came rushing back, simply by looking at a can of soup.

  She was shaking all over. She could smell the blood once more, pooling beneath the beating sun. The screams were gone, but the shouts of the soldiers still echoed. They were searching for her—they knew she was somewhere in that mountain village, and they weren’t about to leave a witness behind, and she’d backed down, curled into a fetal ball, and waited for them to come and finish her.

  But they’d never found her. She’d been brought out safely three days later, that time of horror locked safely away in the back of her brain. It had been so long since she’d even thought about it.

  Until Reilly had dragged her back into life. And the memories came flooding back as well, crushing her.

  She couldn’t let it get to her. With sheer force of will she thrust the panic, the despair away from her. This time she couldn’t curl up in a weeping, helpless ball on the floor, waiting for someone to rescue her. She had made a vow, to Caterina, to the baby, to herself, even if Mother Ignacia wouldn’t let her make her formal one. She would see Timothy safely into his grandparents’ arms, and she would return to the sisters. There the past would safely recede, and she would find peace once more.

  She reached for the can of soup, ignoring the tremor in her hands. It took her a while to find the can opener, longer still to use the old-fashioned contraption. And then she sat on one of the stools, took a spoon and began to eat out of the can, the cold salty stuff a far cry from the warm comfort her mother had provided her so long ago.

  The stale corn bread didn’t taste anything at all like buttered toast, either. And yet she knew the flavors. It felt oddly like a kind of communion. Bread and wine. Cold soup and corn bread. In remembrance of her mother.

  Would Mother Ignacia call it blasphemy? Perhaps. But to Carlie it felt like a sacrament. Remembering. And letting go, just a tiny bit.

  “You eat my soup?” The heavily accented voice was deep with outrage.

  Carlie looked up to see Dutchy standing in the doorway. He was a large, untidy man, with bloodshot eyes, several days’ growth of beard that didn’t look the slightest bit raffish, a pot belly and a stained, rumpled white suit. His gray hair stood up around his bald spot, and he glared at her for a moment, his small dark eyes cunning.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I was hungry, and I couldn’t find anything else. We’ll pay for it—” Belatedly she wondered if Reilly had any money with him. Of course he did—he was infuriatingly efficient.

  Dutchy pushed into the room, an expression of false affability crossing his lined face as he pulled out a cigar. “No, no,” he said grandly. “You should have let me know. I could have had one of the Shumi cook you something. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to eat cold soup out of a can.” He cast a sorrowful look at the empty container, the spoon still sticking out of it.

  “It reminded me of my childhood.” She said it on purpose, testing herself. There was no pain. Not at the moment.

  “That’s why I keep it around. To remind me of civilization while I’m in this godforsaken place. It’s very hard to come by.”

  “And I took one. I’m sorry.”

  Dutchy moved closer, the cigar smoke wreathing around him like an anaconda. “For a pretty little girl like you,” he said, breathing heavily, “I don’t mind. Where’s your friend?”

  “He just went out for a walk. He’ll be back at any moment.” Alarm coursed through her, immediate, justified. There was no other exit to the kitchen shed. Just the door Dutchy was blocking. She slid off the stool, trying to summon up a cool smile. A Caterina, to-hell-with-you smile.

  “That’s right,” Dutchy cooed, coming closer. “A nice, friendly smile. You be nice to Dutchy, and he’ll be nice to you. Morales and his men haven’t gone far, and they’re coming back. They wondered about you, and your friend. They’ll wonder even more about the baby you left with the Shumi women. You shouldn’t expect to keep secrets in a place like this. The Shumi won’t talk, but others will. And I’ve promised to report anything unusual to Morales. He wouldn’t like it one bit if I held out on him.”

  “What baby?” she demanded, unable to hide her panic.

  “Don’t be foolish. I know everything that goes on around here. If I found out, so will Morales. But if you’re nice to me, and you play your cards right, I can keep them away from you.”

  She backed away from him, surreptitiously, but he followed, until she was up against a wall, nowhere to run to, and he was far too close, his big belly pushing up against her, his cigar smoke wreathing them both. “You be friendly to me, little one, and I can be very helpful. People around here know that Dutchy is a good friend to have.” He reached out a hand to touch her face. His fingers were short, stubby, stained with dirt and nicotine, and as he brushed them against her cheekbone she couldn’t control her horrified shudder.

  Dutchy’s grin widened, exposing dark, broken teeth. “You like that, do you?” he murmured, completely misinterpreting her reaction. “You’re a woman of discernment. Broad shoulders and a handsome face are all well and good, but there’s a lot to be said for age and experience.” His hand slid down the column of her neck, and her skin crawled. “Give me a little kiss, sweetheart, to show your good intentions.”

  He leaned forward, his belly pressing against her, his hand groping at her breast, and there was no escape.

  She stood motionless, terrified, defenseless, ready to suffer and endure, when a cool, mocking voice interrupted them.

  “Messing with my woman again, Dutchy?” Reilly stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the shadowy light. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Dutchy backed away from her so quickly it would have been comical, but Carlie was in no mood to laugh. She realized she’d been holding her breath, and she let it out, wondering if she was going to throw up all over Dutchy’s filthy white suit.

  The old man was already across the kitchen, hands raised in the air in a defensive gesture. The f
act that Reilly was pointing a gun at him probably contributed to his sudden repentance. “I meant no harm, Reilly. I’m just a harmless old flirt, you know that. I can’t let a pretty girl go by without making a pass at her. No need to point that gun at me—it was all in fun.”

  “Was it?”

  His voice was grim, deadly. Carlie stood there, mesmerized, afraid to move, afraid to say anything. The sight of the gun in his strong hand brought back other memories, other men holding guns, and the nausea rose higher in her throat. “He didn’t hurt me, Reilly,” she said, silently pleading with him to put the gun away.

  Oddly enough, he did, tucking it back into the waistband of his jeans. “Lucky for him,” Reilly murmured. “Get out of here, old man.”

  Dutchy left, almost tripping in his haste to escape, and they were alone in the tiny shack. She’d thought it was crowded with Dutchy bearing down on her. It was nothing compared to Reilly towering over her, dark and disapproving.

  “I thought I told you to stay in your room,” he said.

  “I was starving,” she said, squaring her shoulders and trying to pull some of her self-reliance back around her. She still felt shaken, frightened, helpless. She didn’t like that feeling. Any more than she liked realizing that Reilly’s presence was rapidly banishing that fear, replacing it with another, more disturbing kind of tension. “I didn’t know when you were coming back.”

  “So you decided to come exploring? Were you looking for a meal, or a better offer? Morales may have been el presidente’s chief enforcer, but all that ended when your stepfather was assassinated. Those soldiers are renegades. Your stepfather’s dead, Caterina, and those loyal to him have gone their own way. You’re nothing more than a pawn now.”

  “I wasn’t ...”

  “As for Dutchy, I think you already discovered exactly what he’s interested in. He’s a bigger danger than an anaconda, and if you think you can trust him—”

  “I don’t trust him!” she snapped. “I was hungry, I told you.”

  He looked at the empty can of soup. “You must have been desperate,” he said calmly. “You want anything else, or are you ready to go up to bed?”

  His even tone of voice was deceptive. She looked up at the big dark man, and fear was back. “I want my own room,” she said. “My own bed.”

  “I’m sure you do. But you aren’t going to get it. You can share with me, you can trust me, damn it,” he said, suddenly angry. “Or you can start out the night alone. You wouldn’t end up that way. Either Dutchy or one of Morales’s men would be joining you. Or all of them.”

  She shuddered. “I can take care of myself ...”

  “Sure you can. I just had a perfect example of just how good you are at protecting yourself,” he drawled.

  “I could have handled him,” she said, knowing just how unlikely that was.

  “Maybe you could have. But I’m not going to risk Billy’s kid’s life on that slim chance. You do as I say, no questions asked, and we’ll be out of here before they even know we’re gone.”

  “Are you really that confident?” she asked faintly.

  “I’m really that good.”

  There was nothing she could say to that. It wasn’t a boast, it was a simple statement of fact, and she believed him.

  “All right,” she said. “I won’t argue with you.”

  “That’ll be the day,” he drawled, half to himself.

  “I don’t argue!” she said, shocked.

  “Lady, you have a very cantankerous streak when you forget you’re trying to convince me you’re a Madonna.”

  He probably thought he was being funny. The words cut her to the quick, though, bringing into doubt almost anything she’d ever believed about herself. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, unnerved..

  “I mean there seem to be at least two people inside that small, luscious body of yours. There’s the saintly mother of the year, trudging along behind me, following orders, biting her tongue, peaceful and serene and not really of this world. Then there’s the strong, angry young woman who gives as good as she gets, who questions authority and who’s driving me crazy. And somewhere in all that mess is Caterina Morrissey, a spoiled, self-absorbed tramp. I’m just trying to figure out which one is the real you.”

  “Who told you Caterina Morrissey is a tramp?”

  “Honey, I read the letter you wrote Billy. Where you told him you were having a better time sleeping around the continent and you didn’t feel like being the wife of an American soldier, even a rich one. Kind of put me off a bit, I do admit.”

  There was nothing she could say. She could remember Caterina’s weak, hesitant last confession. A confession that was neither sanctioned by the church nor forgiven by the holy rites, but a confession free and honest and true nonetheless, between two unlikely friends.

  “I’m not going to argue ancient history with you,” she said instead, primly. “I’m ready to go up to bed, but first I need something to drink. I’m dying of thirst. That condensed soup was pure salt. Is there anything around here?”

  “This is a bar, Carlie. There’s plenty.”

  “I was thinking of water.”

  “We’ll save any decent water for the baby. You can make do with beer.”

  “I don’t drink-”

  “You’ll drink beer and like it. Your other choices are so potent I’d end up carrying you and the kid for the next three days. I could do with a couple of beers myself.”

  By the time she followed him back into the bar he’d already pulled the caps off two tall dark beers. She took one from him, looking at it askance, but he was ignoring her, tipping the bottle back and pouring it down his throat with obvious enjoyment.

  She had no choice in the matter—she was so thirsty she could go out and suck a cactus. She took a big gulp of the lukewarm stuff.

  It tasted strong, dark and yeasty. She drank half of it, then wiped her mouth. “It’s good,” she said, half in surprise.

  “Her highness doesn’t usually deign to drink beer?”

  “Not this kind.” It was an easy enough lie.

  “Funny, I would have thought Dos Equis would be just your style.”

  She drained the bottle. “Is there another one around?”

  His mouth curved in a smile. She liked his mouth, she decided. It was one of the reasons she trusted him. “Here you go, your ladyship.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

  “Ah, the bitch is back.”

  She choked on the first gulp. “I beg your pardon?” she said, glaring.

  His smile was positively beatific. “I think I like you best this way,” he said, taking her arm and herding her toward the stairs. “I suspect it’s the real you.”

  “I want another beer,” she said, hanging back.

  “You haven’t finished that one.”

  She pulled away, stumbling slightly when he let her go, and drained the second bottle. “There,” she said triumphantly.

  He just looked at her. “I thought you were used to drinking.”

  “I am.”

  “Not from the looks of it, kid. Two beers is the cheapest drunk I’ve ever seen in my life. I heard you used to be able to pack it away like a professional.”

  Dangerous ground, she thought hazily. “Maybe my metabolism changed since I gave birth.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Think you can walk upstairs?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, full of dignity, staring past him. The floor was slightly unsteady, and she reached out a hand to balance herself. Unfortunately he was the one she reached for.

  If she’d felt dizzy before, it was nothing compared to being swooped up in Reilly’s strong arms. Ascending the steep staircase didn’t help the fuzzy state of her brain, either.

  “Could you take it a little slower?” she murmured, sinking back against him, totally incapable of fighting him at that particular moment. “I’m dizzy.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low Ned
raspy. “The night is young. I’m not about to let you go to sleep.”

  “You’re not?” She tried to summon up a latent wariness, then gave it up.

  “Not until you answer a few questions.”

  They were in the upstairs hall by now, and it was very dark. She wondered hazily where Dutchy was. If he’d gone after the soldiers they were screwed. Screwed?. Why had she come up with that indecent word? “I answered all your questions, Reilly.”

  “Oh. I just had a couple more.” He kicked open the door to the bedroom, his voice deceptively affable. The oil lamp had burned down low, sending out only a small pool of yellow light.

  “Such as?”

  He carried her over to the bed, and she found herself strangely loath to let go of him. There was a strange glitter in his eyes, one she couldn’t read, and his mouth was dangerously close. She wondered what he’d do if she kissed that mouth. She wanted to try it again. She’d liked her first attempt, liked it very much indeed. She imagined she’d improve with practice, and the amount of beer she’d drunk made her feel pleasantly warm and eager to try again.

  “Such as who the hell you really are,” he said softly. “And whose baby you’re trying to pass off as your own.”

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Reilly wondered, quite calmly, whether the young woman in his arms was about to throw up on him. She looked green, her huge blue eyes were stricken and her body, even in this humid night air, felt tense and cold.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, but her voice shook.

  He considered dropping her on the bed. He didn’t want to—a dangerous reluctance he was willing to acknowledge, even as he deplored it. He didn’t want to let go of her at all, but he knew the longer he cradled her against his body, the harder it would be. In more ways than one.