On Wings of Deliverance

by Elizabeth White

  “Good girl. Now give my stirrup back and hold on.” When she clutched the sides of his shirt, he looked over his shoulder. “You’re gonna have to get a little more aggressive than that.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Whatever you say,” he said with a little smile and a shrug. Waving at Gustavo and Mariela, who stood at the kitchen door watching the show, he kicked Sunflower lightly in the ribs. “Yippee-ki-yo!”

  As Owen had anticipated, the mule’s gait would have registered about 5.0 on the Richter scale. Benny was forced to hang on for dear life.

  The mule also expressed, at regular intervals, noisy objection to his double load, which kept their conversation to a minimum. Since Owen had nothing to do but keep Sunflower from turning around to head back to the barn, he passed the time mulling over this morning’s conversation with Benny.

  Bad experiences when she was very young. What did that mean? Most people he knew had traumatic experiences of one kind or another. He could never understand people who let tragedy dictate their lives. Owen figured you could make your own sunshine.

  Not that Benny seemed to dwell on negative things as a rule. He’d always observed her to be a can-do person. She’d tackled issues with a Mexican orphanage that would have made most women run screaming back to the good old U.S. of A.

  Now here she was, mounted behind him like Calamity Jane, arms wrapped around his waist and heels bouncing in rhythm with Sunflower’s bone-jarring trot. Wondering what she was thinking, he looked down at her slim hands, clasped under his rib cage. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream, her nails short and unpolished but beautifully groomed. She had a little silver ring with a turquoise stone on her right pinkie, and her watch—a simple bangle—was silver as well.

  He took an experimental breath, filling his lungs to make Benny’s arms tighten around him. Sunflower seemed to have settled down. “You okay back there?”

  “J-just peachy. How much longer ’til we get there?”

  “About five more hours.”

  “Five hours?” Owen felt a gusty sigh against his back. “I thought I was in pretty good shape, but I’m beginning to feel muscles I didn’t know I had.”

  “Wait ’til you try to get to sleep tonight.”

  “Oh, thanks. You’re such an encouragement. I guess this is no big deal for you, huh?”

  “Well, old Sunflower’s not exactly in the same league as my cutting horse.”

  “You ride the rodeo circuit?”

  “Yup. Three-time amateur calf-roping regional champ. Got the buckles to prove it.”

  Bernadette chuckled. “I’d like to see you ride sometime.”

  Owen felt his chest swell a bit. “You could come this fall, after you get home.”

  There was a short silence. “I’m not sure where home is.”

  “I’m guessing Mexico doesn’t cut it.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is Memphis your stomping ground?”

  “No.” He thought she wasn’t going to elaborate, but then she said, “I grew up in Collierville. It’s a little bit east of Memphis.”

  “Really? Tell me about your family. You got brothers and sisters?”

  “No, I was in foster care.”

  “Oh.” Kids in foster care generally came from messed-up families that they’d just as soon you didn’t mention.

  Bad experiences.

  He briefly laid his hand on top of hers and felt her fingers flutter against his palm. “I’m sorry, Benny.”

  “One of my foster moms gave me a Bible. She was a nice lady.”

  Owen didn’t find it nearly as easy to talk about spiritual things as his brother did, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get Benny to talk. “Is she the one who taught you about the Lord?”

  “She tried. Her name was Mrs. Coker. How about you? How did you come to know Christ?”

  “The usual. Vacation Bible school. Mom had us in church every time the doors were open.”

  “You’re very blessed, Owen.”

  “I know.” He shifted in the saddle. “But then my dad blew it all at the end. I don’t understand how he could throw our family away for money. I always looked up to him as a kid. He was my hero.”

  Three years ago Owen’s father, a Border Patrol agent, had been involved in a smuggling scheme that had resulted in the murder of two other agents. A year later he’d been killed while trying to cover his tracks. Owen’s mother was just now getting over the tragedy.

  Benny was quiet for a moment. Then to Owen’s astonishment she laced her fingers through his. “Lots of times people self-destruct when they’re separated from God, Owen. Make sure you stay close to Him.”

  Owen could have sworn she laid her cheek against his back for a fleeting second. He decided it must have been his imagination.

  Still, he was strangely comforted, even when Benny released his hand and began to sing, off-key, “Arroz con leche.”

  Rice pudding, huh? He goosed Sunflower with his heels. Poza Rica was a long way off.

  “Wait a minute, Briggs.” Grenville turned off the speakerphone and shut the door of his home office. He sank back into the antique leather chair and swiveled to face the picture window looking out onto his front lawn. “What did you find out?”

  “They didn’t make it to Laredo.”

  “Then where did they go?”

  “Seems they made an emergency landing somewhere north of Veracruz. Some farmers in the area reported it. I must have nicked the fuel tanks.”

  Grenville watched two hummingbirds squabbling over the red glass feeder hanging from the eaves. He found their antics soothing. “Where are you now?”

  “Laredo, their intended destination.”

  “Then you’ll just have to backtrack. Head for the area where the plane turned up.”

  Briggs sighed. “I’m on it.”

  “Briggs…” Grenville paused, picking up the morning newspaper covering his desk blotter. The front page of the editorial section displayed an old file photo of himself, sharing a basketball trophy with his college roommate and cocaptain—now the President of the United States.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  Grenville tossed the paper into the trash can. “Find them.”

  FOUR

  Benny slid off the mule and into Owen’s arms. Her thigh muscles ached, her knees were rubbery and there were blisters in places she didn’t want to think about. To make it worse, her stomach had been rumbling for the last hour. It was past noon and Owen had to be starving, too.

  Owen grabbed the mule’s harness. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, thanks.” She stepped back, staggering a little. “I’ll get out lunch while you take care of Sunflower.”

  They’d stopped at a small pond just off the dusty, rutted track they’d been following for the last two hours. The sight of the little brown pool had instantly centered Benny’s misery on her parched mouth and throat. Water. Blessed gift of a good God.

  She unbuckled the saddle pack, keeping a wary eye on Sunflower’s broad hindquarters. She extracted a couple of bottles of water they’d brought from the plane and the burritos Mariela had sent. Owen ground-tied the mule, letting it graze on the weeds at the edge of the pond.

  Benny handed Owen a bottle of water, smiling when he twisted off the cap and glugged it down in one long swallow.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wish we didn’t have to leave the other two cases back in the plane.”

  “I know, but Gustavo and Mariela will enjoy it. We owed them a little something for their trouble.”

  “You mean besides a new door in their barn?” Owen’s mouth quirked as he put the empty plastic bottle back in the saddle pack. He accepted one of the newspaper-wrapped rolls in Benny’s hand. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Burritos.”

  Owen grimaced. He sat down in the skimpy shade of a mesquite tree near the pond and opened the packet. “Burritos for breakfast, burritos for lunch, burritos for supper. I’m beginning t
o sympathize with the Israelites’ manna complex.”

  “At least Mariela’s a good cook and her kitchen was clean.” Too sore to sit, Benny leaned against the tree and ate where she stood. Biting into the soft flour tortilla, she found it filled with spicy rice, beans and a trace of chicken. “Mmm…I should’ve gotten the recipe.”

  Owen lifted his sunglasses and squinted at her, eyes inhumanly blue-green in the bright noonday sun. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She shrugged. “I like to cook. Rolling tortillas is an art.”

  “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been busy taking care of orphans and translating for medical teams. When do you ever have time to cook?”

  Benny smiled. “Granted, Rosie did most of the cooking at the orphanage, but I had to help. I learned when I was in high school.”

  “Oh.” Sliding his glasses onto the top of his blond head, Owen swallowed the last of his burrito. “Sit down, kid, you’re makin’ me noivous.”

  Laughing, Benny gingerly sat down and stretched out her legs. “Ooh, you were right about the saddle sores.”

  Wearing pants again felt strange. Hot and itchy. At least it was a modest outfit, and she should be grateful Owen had let her borrow them. He had on lightweight cargo shorts and a white Promise Keepers T-shirt. He’d shoved the sleeves up onto his shoulders and she couldn’t keep her eyes off the hard brown biceps that flexed and rolled every time he moved.

  “So who taught you? Mrs. Coker?”

  “Huh?” Benny jerked her gaze to Owen’s face.

  He wadded the newspaper that had wrapped his meal. “Who taught you to cook? You said Mrs. Coker was one of your foster mothers.”

  Food, Benny. He’s talking about food. “No, Mrs. Coker was from my Tennessee days, before—” She snapped her jaws together. “I moved to south Mississippi and finished high school with the Gonzales family.” Rattled, she forced a smile. “Miss Roxanne was my culinary coach. You should try my chicken and dumplings.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to.” Owen canted his head, fixing her with his deceptively sleepy gaze. “I bet you have lots of unsuspected talents.”

  She stared at him, heat rising to her cheeks. He didn’t mean anything by that. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And even if he did, he’d never deliberately insult her. “Well, I speak fluent Hebrew,” she said lightly. “That’s always useful.”

  Owen let out a crack of laughter. “How come you decided to study that language?”

  She shrugged, offering him the last of her burrito, which he swallowed in one bite. “I did my graduate work in missions, but my Hebrew-studies class hooked me, so I decided to stick around for a Ph.D.”

  He looked at her openmouthed for a moment. “How old are you, Bernadette?”

  “You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.”

  “Since you look like you’re about sixteen, that’s hardly an insulting question. Come on, how old?”

  Benny pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Twenty-seven.”

  “And you’ve been in Mexico for over a year. What are you, a genius? Nobody gets a Ph.D. at the age of twenty-six.”

  “People do it all the time. I graduated from Delta State at twenty-one and went straight to seminary.” Benny ducked her head. “I’m…very focused.”

  “Yeah, right.” Owen snorted. “That’s what I’d call it. Why did I not know this about you?”

  “Well, the subject just doesn’t come up in everyday conversation.” Back home in Del Rio/Acuña, Owen and his older brother, Eli, had often come to the orphanage to deliver supplies or take the older kids on outings. Benny had appreciated the help, but there never was much time for adult fellowship. Even at church, she’d deliberately kept Owen at arm’s length. Male-female relationships were a complication she didn’t need or want.

  Now…Well, there was nobody around but her, Owen and Sunflower. She could hardly refuse to talk to him. That would just make him more curious.

  Her glance fell on his big college ring. “Where did you go to college?” Men always loved to talk about themselves.

  He held up the ring, which glinted in the sunlight. “Baylor. Class of two thousand.”

  “Really? What did you study?”

  “Criminal justice. Then I went to Border Patrol Academy and came back to Texas.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I’m kind of a homebody.”

  Benny rested her chin on her knees and studied him. She’d always been a rootless person, self-contained and lonely. Owen, on the other hand, was deeply attached to his family and his home in Del Rio. Self-confident, recklessly extroverted and full of fun and adventure, he never met a stranger and had a talent for turning adversaries into allies. She deeply admired him.

  And secretly feared him.

  “Well, Mr. Homebody, if we’re going to make it back to the States sometime this year, we’d better hit the road. We have to get to Poza Rica before Gustavo’s cousin closes his car lot.” She pushed herself to her feet, starting a little when Owen took her elbow to help her up. “Thanks.” She forced herself not to jerk away from his hand. She had to keep reminding herself that Owen was a gentleman. He’s not grabbing you, Benny. Chill.

  Old habits were hard to break.

  On the outskirts of Poza Rica, Owen and Benny were stopped by a gun-toting federal sitting just off the road in a rusty blue truck that looked like it had been hauling chickens since the Nixon era. The officer got out and gestured for them to dismount.

  “¿Drogas?” He pointed to the saddlebags.

  Owen grabbed Sunflower’s halter to keep him from taking another nip at the officer’s black T-shirt sleeve. “¡No drogas!” That was all they needed—to get hauled off to the Mexican pokey, accused of transporting drugs. He would have given anything to be able to flash a U.S. Border Patrol badge and ease on down the road.

  Instead he opened the saddlebags and let the federal paw through them.

  Owen’s experience with the Mexican national police force had been mixed. Just last year he and Eli had worked closely with an undercover officer named Artemio Petrarca in an operation to rescue Eli’s wife from a brutal smuggler, kidnapper and murderer. Artemio was a fine policeman. But in other quarters Owen had encountered graft, corruption and downright laziness. He hoped this guy would belong to the former category.

  Judging by the way his and Bernadette’s stuff was getting strewn all over the side of the road, though, they were about to experience a good old Mexican morde-dura, or “bite.”

  The officer eyed Benny in a way that made Owen want to clock him. “Déme cincuenta dólares.”

  “Fifty dollars?” Owen let go of the harness. Sunflower could have at the guy.

  “¿Porqué?” Why? Benny coolly folded her arms.

  No Mexican officer would argue directly with a woman if there was a man nearby. The federal flicked a glance at her, then turned to Owen. “Cincuenta dólares,” he repeated. “Por el peaje.”

  Sunflower was straddling a pothole the size of a small car and the guy wanted them to pay a toll? Clearly they weren’t going to get away without a donation to the federal’s bank account.

  Owen hid a grin and pretended to think. “Cinco,” he finally offered. Five.

  “¿Cinco?” The officer frowned, shaking his head. “Treinta.” Thirty.

  “Siete.” Owen ignored Benny’s squeak of protest. Seven bucks ought to be enough to get rid of the guy.

  Scowling, the officer put his hand on his gun. “Diez.”

  “Owen—” Benny grabbed his arm “—give him the money so we can get out of here.”

  He stared down at her for a moment, startled by the real fear in her eyes. Maybe she had a point. The guy would remember two Anglos giving him such a hard time. Making himself relax, he reached for his wallet, which contained nine American dollars. He handed it all to the officer. “No tengo más.” I don’t have any more.

  Except the three hundred-dollar bills he’d stashed in one of his shoes.

  The federal
glared for a few seconds, which wasn’t too intimidating since Owen towered over the guy by at least a foot. Finally the man stepped back, waving Owen and Benny on. “Salgan ustedes.” Get out of here. He muttered a few choice phrases about cheap tourists.

  For Benny’s sake, Owen ignored him and swung onto the mule’s back. Hoisting Benny up behind him, he kicked their intrepid steed into motion. He could feel the federal’s stare as they trotted down the road.

  When they were out of earshot, Benny sighed against his back. “I hope he doesn’t have a radio.”

  “Yeah. If somebody’s looking for us, he won’t have any problem describing us.”

  “Owen, we’re going to have to split up. I’m the one they want and I can easily make it back to the States by myself. With my coloring I can pass for Hispanic.”

  “I’m not leaving you to travel through Mexico by yourself.” The very idea made Owen’s blood pressure rise.

  She patted his hand. “You’re such a gentleman, but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’ve traveled to other foreign countries alone, my Spanish is fluent and I’m familiar with the culture. I’ll really be safer without—”

  “No, you would not be safer without me!” Owen reined in so hard the mule brayed in protest.

  By now they had reached the outer edges of Poza Rica, named “rich hole” because it was Mexico’s largest oil town. Derricks rose like skeletal trees in the eastern distance and the Sierra Madre rippled off to the west. In front of them, the buildings of downtown fell into a pile like blocks dumped out of a toy box. Close by, straggling rows of plywood-and-palm-frond shacks stuck out from the road, intersected by sagging power lines. Children played in the junky, flower-bedecked yards, and old men lounged on cars and trucks parked along the dirt streets.

  Mexico in its essence. Not particularly frightening at first glance. But all kinds of danger lay in wait for an unaccompanied woman.

  He hooked a leg over the old-fashioned saddle horn and turned sideways. He could see the fragile violet veins at her temples, and long, curly black wisps had come loose from her braid to blow against his cheek. Beautiful and vulnerable.