by Pam Crooks
Elena stared at the man from around Jeb’s shoulder. He wore the clothing of a peasant—sandals, loose cotton pants and a thin shirt open at the chest. She couldn’t begin to guess his age, though the years were considerable. Sun and wind had etched deep lines into the leathery skin. His hair was heavy with gray and wild with tangles. It appeared not even a hat could tame its unruliness.
Whatever his eccentricities, he appeared lucid and determined to talk to them. Why else would he search them out, with a lantern no less?
“If I was one of de la Vega’s men, you would not be alive right now.” He spoke English, the accent of his own tongue thick but not overwhelming. He halted and lifted his lantern high. His black eyes studied Elena for a long moment. “Nor would you, gringa.” He shook his head sadly. “Especially not you.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Jeb growled.
“He knows who I am,” Elena said, taken aback. She stepped from behind Jeb, no longer afraid to let the little man see her.
“Sí,” he said. “You are Nicky’s mother.”
She sucked in a breath. Just hearing him say her baby’s name…
“I know everything that happens here,” he said. “Come. Bring your horses. We must talk. I have a place where you can hide.” He turned and headed deeper into the trees.
Elena exchanged a glance with Jeb.
“Could be a trap,” he muttered.
“I don’t think so.”
She didn’t know why, but she believed the old man. He knew about Nicky, even seemed sympathetic to her plight. Maybe desperation drove her to trust the man, but if he could help in even the smallest way to get Nicky back, then she would let him talk all night.
“He seems harmless, but hell, we wouldn’t know for sure until it was too late,” Jeb said.
But he headed toward his horse.
“What have we got to lose?” she asked, heading for her horse, too.
“Our lives, for starters.”
She kept her eyes on the bead of light ahead of them. “I trust you’ll make sure that won’t happen. Hurry, Jeb. I don’t want us to lose him.”
“Let me go ahead of you. First sign of trouble, you turn tail and run, you hear me?”
“Yes. I promise.”
The light had grown smaller. Jeb grasped his horse’s chin strap and headed toward it, Elena right behind him with the mare.
By the time they caught up with the old Mexican, he had stopped at his destination. He turned the lantern to its highest vantage.
They stood in front of a wall of rock on one side. An open grotto of sorts gave shelter from wind and detection from the south. A thick growth of trees from the north would provide a glimpse of the world beyond the hills. The air was cool, protected from the heat of the sun. Somewhere in the near distance, she could hear the muted trickle of water over stone.
“My name is Simon,” the man said, bringing her attention back to him. He laid out a bright-colored rug and set a clay jug on top. A cup. Cheese and a round loaf of bread. “Are you hungry?”
Jeb glanced at Elena. She shook her head, her belly still full from their late dinner.
“Neither of us are,” he said.
“Thank you, though,” Elena added.
“You have eaten at Berto’s cantina, then, eh?” Simon squatted on his haunches, tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth.
Jeb released his horse’s chin strap and strode closer. He still carried his Colt though his grip had relaxed. “How did you know?”
“I saw you coming from San Ignatius. Everyone who visits the village stops there.” He shrugged. “There is no other place to get a good drink or a hot meal than Berto and Alita’s cantina.”
Elena sat on the rug across from Simon. After a slight hesitation, Jeb joined her, sheathing the revolver before he hunkered beside her.
“You are no longer suspicious of me,” Simon said, gesturing toward the holster. “That is good.”
Jeb grunted, both his weapons visible and in easy reach. “I’m always armed, so don’t go getting clever on me.”
To Elena’s surprise, Simon chuckled. He winked at her. “Is he always so—how do you say it—touchy?”
Her mouth softened. “Most times, yes. His name is Jeb Carson. And I am Elena Malone.”
He acknowledged the introduction with a polite bow. “He is helping you find Nicky.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be here now without him.”
“How do you know of her son?” Jeb asked.
“I told you, gringo. I know everything that happens,” he said, chewing on a piece of the cheese.
“How?”
“I watch. I learn.” Abruptly he dipped his head, lifted one shoulder and contorted his body into a hunchbacked, grotesque thing. “And I pretend I am loco.”
Elena drew back at the horrific sight he made in his tattered clothes and wild hair. “Oh, my.”
Jeb breathed a startled oath.
“Why must you pretend to be crazy?” Elena asked, not sure if she should pity him or not.
He transformed himself back and calmly took another bite of bread. “Because Ramon must pay for what he has done. And there is no one left.”
Jeb’s eye narrowed. “Talk, old man.”
He swallowed his food. His black eyes met Jeb’s, but Elena could see the pain, the hate, in them. “Ramon rode into our village one night. He brings his men. Zapatistas, all of them. They are drunk on tequila. They steal our money, rape our women. All because of their cause.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Did you fight back?”
“Sí, but we were only a few against so many. And we had no weapons. We were only poor farmers. What did we know of fighting? Killing? We fought with what we had, but it did not matter.”
“How horrible,” Elena breathed, stricken.
Simon swung toward her. “There is no word to describe what we suffered that night.”
“Then what happened?” Jeb asked quietly.
“They set fire to our fields and the village. As if what they had done to us was not enough. We were burned out of our homes, our crops. We had nothing left.”
Elena bit her lip, the sympathy pouring from her.
“Those of us who could, moved away,” Simon went on. “Those of us who could not—” he shrugged “—I buried.”
For a long moment, neither Jeb nor Elena spoke. Elena didn’t think she could if she tried, not the way her throat was clogged.
“The cemetery,” Jeb said. “You take care of it, don’t you?”
Simon reached for the jug, filled the cup with water, sipped. “It is important no one is forgotten.”
“Your family?”
“They died that night, Señor Jeb. My wife. Three sons. One daughter. My father and brother. They are all gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Gracias. Me, too.”
“But—” Elena hesitated. “Why do you stay? You say there is nothing here for you.”
“My family is here.” Simon’s expression turned fierce. “I should have died with the rest of them. Many times, I have tried to understand why I did not. But I can not leave them. Never.”
“I see.” She swallowed.
“For them, I must seek justice.”
“Against Ramon,” Jeb said.
“Sí. Against all of them.”
“Go on.”
“When they come back to Mexico, to their camp, I watch them. I listen to them talk. I learn their plans.”
“How?” Jeb demanded. “Do they know you? Trust you?”
Simon rose, strode toward a large straw basket heaped with acorns. He scooped up a palmful, then dropped them on the rug. Elena watched them scatter.
“Have you ever had roasted acorns, Señor Jeb?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Ramon has a special weakness for them.”
“You bring him roasted acorns?”
“He does not question a craz
y man who makes the best roasted acorns on the mountain.”
“I see.” Jeb frowned. “He doesn’t recognize you from the night he raided your village?”
“No. It was dark. So much confusion. So much violence. I can move about their camp freely.”
“And that is how you learned of my son,” Elena said softly. “When you were in their camp. Bringing Ramon roasted acorns.”
“Sí.” Simon’s troubled glance lingered on her. “He is a fine boy, Elena. Ramon is proud of him.”
“I know.” Her chin tilted. She had seen that pride for herself.
“His men laugh when he tells them how he takes Nicky from his mother who sells medicina from a wagon. Ramon boasts that Nicky will be a great leader for Mexico one day.”
“No. Never,” Elena grated.
“You must get Nicky away from him before it is too late.” Simon leaned toward her, his expression suddenly wild, desperate. If Elena hadn’t known his sincerity, she would’ve been frightened of him. “You must take him back to America where he will be safe again. There is trouble coming. You must believe me.”
“Trouble?” Jeb asked sharply. “Does it have to do with the illicit arms shipment?”
Simon whirled. “What do you know of the rifles Ramon is expecting?”
“Just that the deal has been set up. And the men who did it. Nothing more.” Jeb’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of it?”
“I only know the rifles are coming. No one knows when. Not even Ramon.”
“The shipment has got to be stopped,” Jeb said, his expression grim.
“Sí, sí. It must.”
“We’ve got to find out who’s bringing them in. When. Where.”
Simon squared his narrow shoulders. “I will do what I can to learn this. But what can we do? We are only two men against dozens.”
“I’ll find a way,” Jeb said.
Simon glanced at Elena, as if he needed convincing. The job would be difficult, even for an entire army of men.
“He’s quite good,” Elena said, thinking how Jeb had tailed the band of revolutionaries right to their hideout. “You can be assured of that.”
“You trusted him to find your son. I will trust him, then, too.” Simon rose, quickly gathered the rug and the remains of his meal. “You will be safe here. Ramon does not know of this part of the mountain.”
“When will we see you again?” Jeb asked, rising with him.
“I will go into his camp tomorrow, then I will come back to you. You must not let Ramon or his men find you here. They will kill you both.”
On that dire warning he left, as quickly as he had appeared, a wild-haired wraith swallowed up by the darkness of the night.
Elena met Jeb’s glance. The light from Simon’s lantern cast a pallor to his skin, a sheen that made him look more ruthless than usual, his determination as fierce as ever to stop Ramon’s revolution and whisk Nicky back into her arms.
If anybody could do it, Jeb could. And with Simon’s ability to infiltrate the revolutionaries’ camp and glean key information, the chances seemed better than ever that he would succeed.
It was almost too much to hope for.
Chapter Eleven
Something nagged at Elena. She resisted the feeling—she didn’t want to wake up yet. She was too warm, too comfortable, too sleepy. She rolled over to her side and pulled the blanket up higher over her shoulder.
The feeling wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t define it—an unsettling intuition that something wasn’t quite right, an awareness that was instinctive and maternal, like when Nicky was fussy and couldn’t sleep, either….
Her eyes flew open.
Nicky.
She sat up, heart pounding, searching for him.
She wasn’t in Pop’s wagon. Nicky wasn’t in his bed. She wasn’t in hers.
She blinked at the low-burning fire, remembered she was in a cave of sorts. A gentle breeze stirred the trees beyond. Across from her, Jeb slept.
Jeb.
The unsettling feeling disappeared.
He lay with his back to her, huddled under his blanket, shivering.
Jeb shivering?
Alarmed, she tossed aside her own blanket and scrambled over to him. She laid a hand on his shoulder, gently.
“Jeb, what’s wrong?” she asked.
He rolled over to his back. Perspiration beaded his forehead and saturated the dark tendrils of hair on his temple. Glazed and feverish eyes lifted to hers.
“You’re sick,” she said.
Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. He seemed too powerful, too invincible, to fall victim to human frailty.
“Didn’t mean to…wake you,” he said, his low voice hoarse.
She smoothed away the hair from his forehead. His skin blazed hot against hers, and she clucked her tongue in dismay. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Not much you can do.”
“I can try, can’t I? What hurts?”
“You name it, it hurts.”
“Oh, Jeb.”
She bit her lip in sympathy. How could she help him? They were hiding on a mountain. It was the middle of the night. And a band of rebels was close by.
“Maybe you ate something that disagreed with you,” she said.
“Don’t think so.”
She discarded the notion, too. She’d eaten the same food he had with no adverse effect.
“I’ll get you some water,” she said.
“Water. Yeah.” His eyes closed.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Not going anywhere.”
She found a cup and washcloth in his saddlebag and hurried to the waterfall she’d discovered just beyond their camp, a runoff from some mountain stream. After filling the cup and soaking the cloth, she knelt beside Jeb and helped him sit up. He drank until the cup was empty, then eased back down again.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
He looked exhausted. Elena took the washcloth and bathed his forehead.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” she asked.
“Felt it comin’ on for a while,” he said. “Most of yesterday.”
She recalled his heat when he had held her after they’d discovered Nicky in the hideout last night. The pallor of his skin in the lantern light, too, and the sheen of perspiration on his face.
He’d been stoic. Strong. The fever had set in, and she hadn’t known.
“Do you get sick often?” The washcloth dabbed over his whiskery cheek, his chin.
“Never.” He frowned. “’Cept once, when I had malaria.”
“Malaria!”
“Last year. The Philipines.” He grimaced. “Heard it could c-come back. Guess it did.”
The washcloth faltered. “You think you have malaria?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, my God, Jeb.”
“Got any…quinine?”
“Sorry. I’m fresh out.”
“’Fraid of that.”
“I have Pop’s elixir, though.”
He opened one eye. “No, thanks.”
Exasperation at his low opinion of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound rolled through her. He’d never even tried her father’s medicine.
“Jeb, it’ll help take away the pain,” she coaxed.
“Don’t n-need it. I’ll be better by morning.”
Unfortunately, she couldn’t force him. Maybe the malady would truly pass in a few hours, as he claimed. He seemed so tired, though. The shivers were uncontrollable, and his fever was alarmingly high.
What if not even Pop’s elixir could help him?
“Maybe I should get Simon,” she said, worried.
Both eyes flew open.
“The hell you will,” Jeb growled.
“He might know what to do.”
“You’re not going to wander the mountain in the dark…lookin’ for him. De la Vega could find you.”
That was certainly true enough. And Elena didn’t want
to suggest the possibility of riding into San Ignatius, either, even though Berto and Alita would know if there was a doctor there who could help.
“I’ll wait until morning, no later,” she said firmly, giving in. “If you’re not better by then, we’ll do things my way.”
His hand lifted and found hers. He managed to carry her fingers to his lips for a weak kiss. “I’m goin’…to be f-fine.”
Her mouth pursed, but she didn’t pull away. “People die from malaria, you know.”
He rested her hand on his chest, covered it with his own. “Not me, sweet. Got to get that boy of yours…first.”
Even feeling this miserable, he hadn’t forgotten Nicky. She gave his fingers a quick squeeze, then pulled his blanket higher to his chin. “That’s right, Jeb. You do. So you’d best go to sleep and get your strength back. I’m going to stoke the fire higher for you. We have to stop these shivers.”
“Got a better idea.”
She stopped fussing. “Like what?”
“A warm woman goes a long way in helping a man when he’s c-cold. Her blanket, too.”
It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. “Are you suggesting I sleep with you?”
“Been sleepin’ with me every night. Just…too damn far away is all.”
“Well.” His proposition flustered her. “I’ll give you my blanket, but I’m going to sit with you awhile instead. That fever bears watching.”
“Don’t want your blanket…if you’re not going to share it with me.”
“I do believe you’re flirting again,” she said. She retrieved the wool covering from the other side of the fire and draped it over him, making sure he was covered on all sides.
Despite his fatigue, a crooked smile came through. “When I’m feelin’ better, I’ll show you w-what…real flirtin’ is like.”
“Oh, shush.”
But her belly warmed unexpectedly at the promise. He said nothing more, and after a moment, Elena realized he’d fallen asleep. She added more wood to the fire until it burned high and free, then resoaked the washcloth with fresh water and bathed Jeb’s face again.
Afterward, she sat beside him, her knees drawn up to her chest, her troubled gaze rarely leaving him. It was a strange thing having Jeb sick. It frightened her now that she’d grown to depend on him.