by Diana Palmer
He smiled as he studied her. “So, you are awake. And Angel says you speak Mayan.”
“Only one word,” she replied, her tone hesitant. “But I’m literate in Spanish.”
“So am I. My name is Machado. You may have heard of me?” he added, when she seemed to recognize it.
“Yes. We heard that you were with the Fuentes brothers. And that you were the dictator of a country in South America, but you were deposed and sent into exile.”
He shrugged. “An approximation of the truth, but close enough. However,” he added, and his dark eyes twinkled, “soon enough my nemesis will be fighting to keep his position. I must raise enough money to hire the type of talent I need to regain my former office.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“Yes, I did,” he said in an apologetic tone. “I am desperate for money and I find this a more…tasteful way of obtaining it than selling drugs to young boys who have to steal to afford to become addicted to them,” he added in a cold tone.
“You partnered with the Fuentes brothers,” she said icily. “They kill policemen and even journalists.”
“Insects,” he said haughtily. “They are no partners of mine. I permit them to occupy territory here without slitting their throats. That is all.”
She cocked her head, curious. “Here? Where is here?” she asked, looking around. “The boy spoke Mayan. Are we in the Yucatan?”
“No, no,” he replied. “Only in northern Sonora, just across your Texas border, in fact. Convenient to the best targets for appropriation—rich Americanos,” he added with a wicked smile.
She glared at him. “Kidnapping is a federal offense in the United States. A capital crime.”
He held up a hand. “Please do not quote the law to me. It is so depressing to be bound by the moral ideals of imperialists”
She caught her breath. “We are not imperialists!”
He made a rough sound in his throat. She shifted uncomfortably and his mouth pulled up at one side. He knelt beside her and produced a key to unlock her handcuffs. “Barbarians, trussing you up like this,” he said. “I apologize. I told them you were to be handled gently. A woman of quality should not be treated so roughly.”
She laughed shortly. “Woman of quality? I grew up in the slums of El Paso,” she said, feeling such a kinship with this stranger that she could tell him things she’d rather have died than share with Jason. “With no money, a brutal father who drank and beat my mother and me, and who was finally killed by a sniper’s bullet when he held a pistol to my head and promised to pull the trigger because my mother tried to leave him. Does that sound like a quality upbringing to you?” she added.
He was surprised. “But you are a Pendleton.”
“I am a Marsh,” she corrected. “My foster brother is a Pendleton. He has the money. I’ve left his house. I work for a living now and I live frugally. I don’t have any money. So if you’re hoping to ransom me, you’d have better luck for profit by marketing the eggs those scrawny chickens lay,” she added, indicating some free range hens who were scratching in the dirt near the adobe houses.
“He is your stepbrother. Surely he loves you and will pay to get you back,” he insisted.
She drew in a miserable breath. “He’s more likely to tell you to do your worst and be damned,” she said heavily. “His fiancée hates me. She got rid of me by threatening to tell him a family secret that he doesn’t know,” she added. “She overheard me talking about my past and Jason has no idea where I really came from. You see this spiteful woman uses blackmail to get what she wants. Although I’m sure she’ll eventually tell him all about my shameful upbringing, just for fun.” Her eyes met his. “I know some of the hostages taken have been killed,” she said without flinching.
He glared at her. “I do not kill women,” he spat. “As for that hostage, one of Fuentes’s men decided he wanted her and forced her in the night. When I learned of it, I had him shot. I do not tolerate such behavior. Not even when I was El General in my own country.”
She felt less threatened.
“This stepbrother, he would not want you if he knew of your true background? You are certain of this?”
“Very certain,” she sighed. She gave him a sad smile. “So, El General, do you know the expression about buying a pig in a poke? Because that’s what you’ve just done. Figuratively speaking!”
7
EL GENERAL EMILIO MACHADO, advised that contact had been made with Jason Pendleton, spent a few days deciding how to proceed. Finally he sent his ransom demands to Jason through an intermediary, a minor official in the Mexican government in Sonora Province. Gracie heard him dictate it. She wondered if Kittie would oppose Jason paying any ransom for her rival, and decided that she probably would. Kittie was one of the most malicious women Gracie had ever met. But Jason was loyal to people in his life, even if he didn’t like them. He would most likely get together the ransom, for old times’ sake. He and Gracie had argued and parted badly, but he still considered her family. He wouldn’t desert her. She hoped.
But even so, there was a chance that he might hesitate. If, for instance, Kittie told him the truth about his stepsister. In which case, Jason might not feel obliged to do anything. She didn’t know how her captor might react if that happened. Despite his pleasant attitude, he had to have a ruthless side to have conquered an entire nation. The kind man who loved children was probably deadly behind an automatic weapon and wouldn’t hesitate to kill if the situation called for it.
She worried about Barbara, not to mention Mrs. Harcourt and Dilly. They would be concerned and fearful for her. She wished she had some way to reassure them that she was at least safe for the moment. How long that would last, she didn’t really know.
IF SHE EXPECTED QUICK results, she was disappointed. One day passed, then two, then three, then a week without any word from across the border. Gracie reasoned that the wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly and a number of agencies might be involved in working for her release. The FBI, surely. Or would they be? It was an international kidnapping. Would they send the CIA or the Department of Defense or the NSA? Well, she thought, she could be forgiven for her ignorance on the issue. She’d never been kidnapped before.
Her fears that Machado would harm her slowly dissipated. He treated her with Old-World courtesy and respect. And oddly, he gave her the run of the camp. This caused some argument between him and the Fuentes bunch, particularly a stocky, mean-looking young man who argued with him. This was the same man who often gave Gracie looks that made her skin crawl. Despite Machado’s kindness, this was a camp of criminals. These men had killed and would do so again given the slightest provocation.
At first, she’d entertained the prospect of escape, but not for long. Men with automatic weapons patrolled the outskirts of the village, which was surrounded by acres and acres of barren, dry land full of cacti, mostly saguaro, snakes and scorpions. Even a combat veteran with survival skills would be challenged out there, much less sheltered Gracie. For the first time, she was aware of the cocoon she’d been living in, protected from life, insulated from harmful elements of society, kept apart from the day-to-day suffering of the poor. Her charity work was idealistic, and she did know firsthand about poverty, but the intervening years had softened her and made her less aware of how hard it was to make a living without education and opportunity.
She resolved, if she survived this experience, to learn from it and become more involved in the world outside her safety net. She was already getting a taste of it in her new life, where she mixed with ordinary working people. She could see the results of poverty. She was beginning to understand what her life would have been like if her mother hadn’t married Myron Pendleton.
She did feel regret that she and Jason would never be close again, in any respect. Kittie had secret knowledge that could destroy Gracie. She wouldn’t hesitate to use it, either. Gracie could try to explain her past to Jason, but she doubted he’d even listen. He thought Kittie was the moon in the sky. How painful t
hat thought was. Kittie had already gotten rid of everyone that Gracie cared about, and she’d stolen Jason. Gracie had a new life. It was hard and lonely, despite having Barbara’s friendship and support. Kittie would live in her house with Jason, entertain her friends, go to concerts and ballets with Jason. Gracie would live in the shadows of his life and never share afternoons at the sale barn or rides on the ranch with him in close companionship ever again. He hated her for the physical rejection she couldn’t help. He didn’t even know why she’d pushed him away. She, who loved him more than her own life.
She grieved for what was lost, but her immediate situation took precedence. Would they kill her if the ransom demand wasn’t met? Would they kill her if it was? The danger kept her sleepless and killed her appetite. Machado saw that and came to visit her in the small adobe house where she lived with a woman and a child who apparently belonged to the Fuentes organization.
“You think we mean to kill you whether or not we obtain the ransom,” he guessed, watching her eyelids flicker. “I can assure you that this will not happen.”
“My stepbrother helped Fuentes lose a huge cocaine shipment and was instrumental in the death of one brother and the imprisonment of another,” she said sadly. “They want revenge.”
His dark eyes flashed. “This is so. But the power here is in my hands, not theirs,” he replied. “You see those men, señorita?” he asked, and gestured toward a group of soldiers in desert camouflage carrying big automatic weapons. “They do not belong to Fuentes, and would kill him or any of his men were I to order it.”
She relaxed a little. “I see.”
“You do not,” he replied with faint humor. “He has his priorities, I have mine. It was convenient to make a truce here on the border. But he has fewer men than I do, and mine are trained career soldiers. Does that make it clearer?”
She drew in a breath and smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “They want you back alive and unharmed, and that is how you will be returned to them. I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman,” he added with sincerity. “In my country, this means something.”
“In mine, too,” she replied.
He nodded and looked around as a small woman with black hair braided down to her waist came in with the young boy, Angel. She bowed her head, smiling shyly. “¿Con permiso?” she asked hesitantly before she entered.
“A su servicio, señora,” he said, and bowed to her, which made her face color.
The General winked at Gracie and left them alone.
GRACIE MADE FRIENDS WITH little Angel’s mother and was soon chattering away to the woman, who spoke Spanish, as well as Mayan. These people with Machado were not descendants of the Aztecs who settled around what became Mexico City, but immigrants from Central America. Their ancestry was Mayan, which came as a pleasant surprise for Gracie, who was fascinated with their culture.
Camp life for these women consisted of grinding corn and making tortillas and cooking; and, of course, caring for the children. Gracie helped with the corn grinding, setting to work cheerfully while she and Josita, Angel’s mother, talked about children and the hard times in Mexico and the dangers of the border.
The children gathered around her, fascinated with her blond hair. She laughed and told them stories about Kukulcãn, the famed feathered serpent of legend, as well as tales of Mayan conquest and the history of the advanced culture that was gifted in astronomy and making precise calendars. Day by day, as she grew comfortable with her captors, she attracted more young people, also anxious to hear the stories.
Still, she longed for Jason and was homesick for Jacobsville.
One evening, around the central campfire in the adobe house, the General himself sprawled on a colorful woven serape and propped on one elbow to hear her tell about the famed ball games that meant life or death for opposing teams.
When the children were finally shooed off to bed in their hammocks, slung each night inside the dirt-floored adobe houses, the General remained.
“They are truly fascinating, these tales of yours,” he said. “Your Spanish is elegant. If badly accented,” he teased.
She laughed. “I was taught it by a French professor, so it’s not my fault.”
He nodded. “I agree.” He cocked his leonine head and studied her. “You are not afraid of me.”
She shook her head as she smoothed over the sand where she’d been drawing Mayan glyphs for the children, the handful she’d committed to memory. “I see the way you are with the children,” she said simply. “They love you. It’s hard to fool a child.”
He smiled. “I would have enjoyed a family, a big family, with many sons and daughters. Alas, I have spent my life fighting battles. There was no time for a woman. Not a permanent one, that is.”
She understood the insinuation. He did look like a man who knew women intimately. He had a way of looking at her that was more flattering than intimidating, despite her lack of experience. He seemed to sense how naive she was, and to be pleased by it.
“You have a youthful appearance, but I think you are at least in your midtwenties,” he said surprisingly. “Have you not had the opportunity to marry?”
“Not really,” she replied. “I don’t…mix well with men.”
“Because of your father.”
“Because of the way he treated my mother. She said all men were animals once a woman was alone with them.”
“I can understand why you might believe this,” he replied in a voice deep and soft as velvet. “But it is not true. Some men are animals, yes. Not all.”
“She thought my father wasn’t. She was fooled.”
“A betrayal that had sad consequences not only for her, but for her child, as well. Is she still alive?”
“No. Shortly after marrying Jason’s father, she ran her car into a tree and died instantly. They thought it was an accident, that she just lost control. I knew better. But I never spoke of it.” Her soft gray eyes met his dark ones across the campfire. “It’s so odd, that I can talk to you about this, when I’ve never breathed a word of it to Jason.”
“My opinion is not as essential to your happiness as his would be.”
She laughed softly. “You’re very perceptive.”
“You love him,” he said gently. “And not as a stepbrother.”
Her face closed up like a lotus blossom at night. “For all the good it does me,” she told him. “He doesn’t feel that way about me.”
“A truly blind man,” he remarked. “Sad for him. You have qualities that are admirable, not the least of which is your tolerance for different ways of living. I have not heard you say once that it is a pity the people have to live like this, in such squalor.”
“It’s not squalor!” she protested. “They’re happy here. They may not have much in the way of material things, but they love their children and value their families. They aren’t obsessed with owning things. They live with nature, they don’t try to control it. One day,” she said philosophically, “if our technological system should ever crash and burn, it will be people like these who lead us out of the darkness and teach us how to survive in a world that isn’t run by computers.”
He laughed delightfully. “You speak of the legend of the rainbow warrior.”
She brightened. “Yes! You know it?”
“Every indigenous culture has a story about it.”
He cocked his leonine head and smiled at her. “You love history.”
“Indeed,” she confessed with a shy smile. “I have a degree in it and hope to teach one day.”
“You certainly have a knack for it.” He smiled. “I am amazed at the fascination with which the children here listen to you,” he said. “It gives them pride in who they are—something sadly lacking in the dominant societies in which they now live.”
“Pride and self-esteem are the keys to success in life,” she said. “So many cultures have been debased and then destroyed by conquerors…”
“Ah, now you speak of y
our own imperialist culture,” he teased.
She made a face at him. “You call it imperialism—we call it protecting other democracies. Truth is subjective.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Yes. This is true.”
Nearby, the guitarist had changed songs and was now playing a tender love song in Spanish. To Gracie’s surprise, Machado started to sing it, his deep voice seductive and alluring in the darkness. Gracie sat up, listening, her pleasure in his talent apparent. The song was about a man who worshipped a girl from afar, without the money to win her. He lost her to a rich ranchero and mourned her every time he heard the rain, like tears, on his roof.
“You sing beautifully,” she said when the song ended. “If you hadn’t been a dictator, you could have been a famous singing star.”
He chuckled. “I sing for my own pleasure. But compared to running a country, niña, it is a poor second. I have an addiction to power.”
“A failing common to men, I have noticed.” She sighed, her thoughts returning to her current predicament.
She hesitated. “Have you heard from Jason yet?” she asked worriedly. She’d asked the same question every day this week, and he’d given her nebulous answers. Her nerves were beginning to wear thin.
He checked the wide watch on his wrist. “We were promised a reply tonight. My man should have made contact by now. I expect that we will be hearing something from your stepbrother very soon. You must be anxious to go home.”
“Sort of,” she said with a wan smile. “Jason’s fiancée will be scathing about the money it costs him to ransom me, if he does, and I don’t know how he’s going to react. Other than my closest female friends back home, I imagine the only people who will be glad to see me will be the federal agents who oversee the ransom payment. It will be a feather in their caps that they retrieved me alive and in one piece.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “This fiancée—does he love her, you think?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. He seemed to. He certainly took her side against me and the household staff.” She moved restlessly. “That’s not like Jason. Especially with Mrs. Harcourt. She’s been with him since he was born.”