* * *
Chapter 10
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"Hold that damn light still!" Sweat saturated Hawk's shirt, staining the armpits and circling splotches in the front and back.
Rorie held the battery-powered lantern in her hand. She steadied that trembling hand by placing the other one over it for support. She had never assisted in an operation before tonight. Had never dreamed she would ever have to. And now, this was her second time.
She and Hawk had done what they could for the burn victims. Some of the people would heal in time, with only a few ugly scars to remind them of the day Emilio Santos and his renegades had ransacked their village. But three of the victims weren't so lucky. One man would surely die before morning; his third-degree burns covered three-fourths of his body. Another man might recover, but he would be hideously scarred. The third was an elderly woman, who had died while Rorie was examining her. Her burns had not been severe enough to cause her death. Hawk said he suspected a heart attack.
Rorie had stood at Hawk's side when he'd dug two bullets from a young man's leg. Even after drinking enough whiskey to make a man twice his size drunk, the boy screamed in agony as Hawk removed the first bullet. Thankfully, he had passed out before Hawk went in for the second one.
And now she watched again as Hawk took the knife he had sterilized, first in the fire and then with the whiskey, and made the incision, delving the knife a good two inches into the man's shoulder. She glanced away, not horrified at the sight of his blood—and dear God, there was so much blood—but sympathetic to the pain he felt. Glancing down into the man's bearded face, she bit down on her bottom lip. Hector Gonzáles's big white teeth sank into the leather strap old Berto had placed in his mouth.
Tears gathered in the corners of Rorie's eyes. Don't! she cautioned herself. Don't you dare start crying. Not now! Not when Hawk needs you to help him. Not when Hector's life is at stake.
Hawk probed deeper. Hector moaned. Tears trickled down Rorie's cheeks.
"I've found it," Hawk said.
Hawk looked at Berto and nodded. The old man handed him the sterilized tweezers. Hawk maneuvered them down into the hole he'd cut in Hector's shoulder, grasped the bullet and eased it up and out. All the while, rivulets of sweat rolled down his neck.
Berto handed Hawk the threaded needle, then stepped aside so he wouldn't block the lantern light. Rorie drew in a deep breath as she watched Hawk stitch up the wound. As soon as Hawk completed the job, she handed Berto the lantern.
"I can clean the wound and cover it with gauze." She nudged Hawk aside with her hip. "Go wash up and get some coffee."
He looked directly into her eyes and saw a strength that amazed him. Trails of tears streaked her dirty face. Her voice had trembled with emotion. But here she was, worrying about him and giving him orders to take care of himself. In his whole life, had there ever been anyone who had truly tried to take care of him? Maybe the foster mothers he'd lived with, most of whom had fed him and clothed him for the money. And comrades like Murdock, who watched his back when they were on a mission. But Rorie's caring about him was a woman's care for a man—a man who meant something to her.
"Go on!" She gave him a gentle shove. "There's nothing more you can do."
Hawk nodded, then turned and walked out of Berto's house and onto the porch. Hector's wife and two children waited, their eyes beseeching Hawk for an affirmation that the man they loved was still alive.
He spoke to them in Spanish. "I removed the bullet. Señorita Dean is cleaning him up now. I think he has a chance." Hawk would not give this family any false hopes. Hector had lost a great deal of blood, but he was strong and tough. With a little luck, he would live. "You can go on in and see him."
Hawk made his way through the village to the mountain stream not far from where he'd parked the jeep. He removed his holster and laid it on the bank. Then he tugged his shirt out of his pants and walked into the stream. The cool water came to his knees. He lay down on the stream bed, immersing himself fully. He shivered as the cleansing flow rippled over his body, washing away the blood from his skin, as well as from his shirt and pants. Lifting his head enough so that he could breathe, he lay there and wished that the water could wash away the sins of his soul; the invisible bloodstains from the countless missions that marred his life. If only the soul's guilt could be removed as easily as Hector Gonzáles's fresh blood.
* * *
Rorie stood on the bank in the moonlight and watched Hawk rise from the stream, like a god springing from a watery bed. Big and tall and gloriously male, he came up out of the water, droplets falling from his hair, his clothes stuck to his muscular body.
Hawk stepped up onto the bank. Rorie held out a mug of coffee. He glanced from her tired face to the earthenware mug.
"I suppose this is some of our coffee," he said.
"You know it is." She didn't take her eyes off him while he sipped the weak brew.
"You watered it down some, didn't you?"
"It will go a lot farther that way. Coffee for more people."
"Did you save us any?" he asked.
"A little."
"What about our other supplies?"
"I left one rifle, one sleeping bag, the machete, enough food for a couple of days, one of the lanterns and—"
"I get the picture." Sliding his hand down the length of his ponytail, he squeezed the excess water from his hair. "These people are going to need a lot more than what we had to give them."
"Do you suppose Murdock could arrange to have some supplies brought to Utuado?"
"Hell, what do you think Murdock is, a damned missionary?" When she glared at him, he shook his head. "Don't look at me that way."
"When we contact Murdock about our boat back to the United States, couldn't we ask him to send some supplies to these villagers?"
"Maybe."
Satisfied with his reply, Rorie sat down on the bank, removed her shoes and socks and stepped into the stream. Hawk strapped on his holster and sat down, watching her while she bathed. He would have preferred for her to strip down to her skin, but even fully clothed, she put on quite a show as she washed the blood and dirt from her face and arms and legs. When he became aroused to the point of being tempted to drag her out of the stream and take her hard and fast, Hawk glanced up at the night sky. He couldn't go on this way much longer, wanting this woman so desperately.
When Rorie finished cleaning herself and her clothes the best she could without any soap, she dragged herself up onto the bank and sat down beside Hawk. She shivered when the cool night breeze touched her wet flesh.
Taking her by the shoulders, Hawk turned her so that her back faced him. Then he grabbed her long, wet braid and unplaited it, as he'd done the night before last in the Cabo Verde hotel basement.
She had beautiful hair. Hair the color of sunshine. Warm and golden. He threaded his fingers through the long, wet strands.
"You're a natural blonde, aren't you?" Hawk had voiced a statement more than a question. "Your brother was blond, too. He and his wife were exact opposites."
Rorie whirled around excitedly and looked at Hawk. "You knew Peter and Cipriana? Why didn't you tell me that you—"
"I didn't know them." Damn his big mouth! Why had he mentioned her brother and sister-in-law? Where was his mind?
Obviously his mind had shifted below his belt and was concentrating on one thing—how much he wanted to make love to Rorie. Beautiful Rorie, with a heart as beautiful as her lovely face and voluptuous body.
"But you said—"
"I saw them once, when I was here in San Miguel," Hawk explained. "Someone told me who they were." He wasn't going to out and out lie to Rorie, but he couldn't—he wouldn't—tell her the truth. Not now. Not ever. "The gorgeous young princess, the apple of her father's eye, had rejected her father and given up her religion for the love of a poor, young missionary from America."
"They were deeply in love," Rorie said. "After Frankie was born, my parents begged them to come
to the United States. But Peter was determined to stay on and finish the five years of mission work he had pledged to the church."
"Keeping his pledge to the church cost him and his wife their lives."
"You're wrong." Rorie jumped up from the ground. "Emilio Santos and his renegades took Peter's and Cipriana's lives, not Peter's devotion to his calling."
Hawk stood, walked over to her and grasped her shoulders, drawing her damp body back against his. She shivered. Lowering his head, he nuzzled her neck.
"You're right, honey." Hawk eased his arms around her, crossing them over her belly. "Your brother did what he thought was right. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't save himself and his wife. Sometimes life has no rhyme or reason and a man has to accept the fact that he's powerless to stop the actions of a madman."
She turned in his arms, her eyes questioning him. "Hawk?"
He grasped her hand and tugged her along with him as he walked toward the jeep. "Come on. We need to get a little rest, if we're going to head out to the mission in the morning."
"I could sleep for a week," Rorie said.
He glanced at his watch. "I can give you about four hours. We should leave at daybreak, but if you're too tired, we—"
"Wake me when you're ready to leave."
He nodded. "I imagine there's room enough for you to sleep in the back of the jeep since you cleaned out most of our provisions."
"Where will you sleep?" she asked, glancing away quickly so that he wouldn't get a glimpse of her expressive face.
"I'll sleep beside the jeep, out under the stars."
"Won't you be chilly?"
"Didn't you leave us at least one blanket?"
"I didn't think about it," she admitted. "I thought that with the sleeping bag, we could open it up and it would be big enough to use as cover for both of us, if we needed it."
"Then it looks like I'll just have to share the sleeping bag with you."
"Now, Hawk, we aren't going to—"
He placed his finger over her mouth. "I'm too tired to jump you tonight, honey. I promise."
The declaration was a lie. He knew it. And she knew it. But Rorie found a level grassy spot on the left side of the jeep and spread out the open sleeping bag. She removed her holster, lay down and placed the gun beside her. She pulled the sleeping bag up to her waist. Hawk followed, repeating her actions and placing his holster to the right of his head. He looked up at the stars. Within a couple of minutes, he realized that Rorie was staring at him.
"Yeah? What is it?" he asked.
"You were really wonderful tonight. You know that, don't you?"
"What the hel— What are you talking about?" He rolled over onto his side and glared at her in the semidarkness.
"I'm talking about the way you helped me with the children and the burn victims. The way you treated Berto with the respect due a village elder. And you probably saved two men's lives by removing the bullets from their bodies."
"I just did what had to be done." Hawk cleared his throat as he rolled over onto his back.
"You didn't even yell at me for giving away nearly all our provisions." She snuggled up to Hawk's side.
"I should have," he grumbled. "Something could happen and we might need those supplies. You won't like it if we wind up eating bugs."
"You know what? You're a good man, Gabriel Hawk." She laid her hand on his chest. "You're a very good man."
He stilled instantly; even his heart stopped beating for a split second. Rorie thought he was a good man. If she knew the truth—if she knew that he had been considered a member of Emilio Santos's renegade army when they executed Peter and Cipriana Dean—she wouldn't think he was a good man. She'd know him for what he was.
He flung her hand off his chest and turned his back to her. "I'm not a good man. I'm a bad man. One of the baddest of the bad."
A denial lodged in her throat. No, you aren't a bad man, she wanted to tell him. You just pretend you are. But she remained silent.
She heard Elizabeth Landry's voice inside her head. He is a man tormented by demons. He is plagued by a past he cannot undo. I sense a true goodness in you. A goodness that can cleanse Gabriel's soul.
What demons tormented him? Rorie wondered. What was so terrible about his past that it plagued him?
And was Elizabeth right about her? Did she truly possess the power to cleanse Gabriel Hawk's soul?
* * *
Hawk removed the rebel flag from the jeep before they left Utuado shortly after dawn. Berto and several of the villagers waved a sad, silent farewell as Hawk drove out onto the paved roadway leading up and into the deep forests of La Montana Grande. With tears lodged in her throat, Rorie turned to look back at the devastated little town.
The road ahead followed the path of the mountain stream in which Rorie and Hawk had bathed the night before. Winding around and around, but forever upward toward the cloud-covered peaks, the narrow one-lane highway cut a path through the pristine beauty of the verdant forest.
Rorie had never forgotten how enchanted she had been with the glorious sights on her trip up to the Blessed Virgin Mission with Peter four years ago. Despite the circumstances and the impending danger, she was no less enchanted on this return trip.
Occasionally she caught a glimpse of a waterfall spilling into a lush, green glade. Yellow-flowering nightshade combined with the other heavy foliage to create the dense underbrush. The woody vines of the lianas grew from their deep ground roots and wrapped themselves around the giant bamboos and other towering trees.
"It looks like paradise, doesn't it?" Hawk said. "But that forest can be deadly for anyone who doesn't know it."
"Did your assignment here in San Miguel take you into the forest?" Rorie asked.
"My assignment took me all over San Miguel, even into the forest."
"Then if we had to go off the road and into the forest, you'd be able to take care of us and still get us to the mission, wouldn't you?"
"Let's hope that won't be necessary."
For the first thirty minutes, their journey up the mountain seemed like a pleasure trip. They limited their conversation to shared observations of the surrounding terrain, refraining from discussing more serious subjects and ruining the sense of being lost in Eden.
Hawk rounded a bend in the road. To the left lay the steep mountainside, lush with life. To the right a deep chasm dropped two hundred feet, promising certain death.
Voices—at least a dozen—talking and laughing, blended together with the rumble of vehicles. The sounds echoed from high above them, on an upper terrace of the roadway. Hawk stopped the jeep and listened. Snapping around in her seat, Rorie stared at him, questioning him silently. He placed his index finger over his lips. She nodded.
The noise grew louder. Whoever they were, they were coming down the mountain, heading straight for Hawk and Rorie.
Hawk searched the roadside, seeking an escape route. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Suddenly he remembered a trail that led into the forest. He'd seen it about a mile back down the mountain. But there was no place to turn the jeep. He shifted the gears into reverse, looked over his shoulder and guided the jeep backward, down the winding mountain road.
Glancing behind, Rorie uttered a silent prayer for their safety, then looked forward, up the road, keeping watch for whoever was marching toward them. Who were they, she wondered, with those loud voices and roaring vehicles? Were they members of Santos's renegades? Or were they Lazaros's rebel soldiers? Or could they be the king's men—a troop he'd sent to the Blessed Virgin Mission to get Frankie?
When Hawk reached a section of roadway with a wider shoulder that didn't immediately reach straight up the mountain or plunge a hundred feet on the other side, he whipped the jeep around and sped down the highway.
"Hold on, honey," he said. "We're going off the road and onto that trail over there." He nodded toward a narrow dirt path leading straight into the forest. "And say a prayer that those guys are making too much noise to ha
ve heard our jeep."
Hawk drove off the road and onto the bumpy trail. They jostled up and down as the tires rolled over deep ruts and large rocks. The farther they went into the forest, the narrower the uphill dirt path became and the thicker the vegetation. Low tree branches and shrubbery limbs beat against the jeep's sides, several ripping across Hawk's and Rorie's shoulders.
Abruptly, the path ended at the edge of a stream. Hawk eased his foot down on the brake pedal as the jeep dived headlong into the shallow creek bed. Rorie toppled forward. Throwing up her hands against the windshield to brace herself, she avoided being tossed out.
Hawk glanced at her. "Are you all right?"
She gulped in huge swallows of air. "I think so."
He threw the gears into reverse and backed up several feet, out of the stream and onto dry land. "Just sit still and be quiet," he told Rorie. "All we can do is wait and listen. And hope our noisy mountain climbers don't come in our direction."
The minutes dragged by slowly. Rorie tried not to look at her watch, but when she heard the sound of vehicles and trampling feet out on the highway, she checked the time. Eight minutes since Hawk had hidden them away.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears like a jet engine. Rubbing her sweaty palms together, she glanced at Hawk. He seemed oblivious to her, his attention focused totally on listening to the sounds of their enemy. She knew that whoever they were, the men on the highway were definitely not their friends.
"Stay here." Hawk eased out of the jeep.
"Where are you going?" She reached across the driver's seat, grabbing for Hawk.
"Listen," he said. "Can you hear? They've stopped and gotten out of their trucks and jeeps. They aren't going any farther down the mountain."
"So? What can you do?"
"I'm going to check out the situation and find out whether or not they heard our jeep and are looking for us." He removed the rifle from under the seat, where he'd placed it this morning. "Keep your pistol ready, just in case."
"Hawk, don't leave me."
"You'll be all right. I won't be long."
GABRIEL HAWK'S LADY Page 15