Surely Mark hadn't done this.
What about Daniel Vargas? What did he have to do with all of it?
"No!" Nick jerked awake, his eyes wild.
Mary Beth bent and tried to soothe him, her hand on his cheek. "It's okay. Just a dream."
"No." He shook his head. "Not a dream."
"It's okay," she repeated.
She didn't expect him to say anything else since he'd closed his eyes again. When he did speak, his words were lucid, but they were the words of his delirium.
"It's in the blood."
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Nick slept the night through, waking only once to reach for juice on the small table. Mary Beth lay on the narrow cot next to his and stared at the ceiling, bright morning light gleaming across the room.
The more she thought about what he'd been repeating, the more curious she became. It's in the blood. What was in the blood? Were the words a reaction to the drug in his system? Or was it more?
Like those old sayings. Blood will tell. Blood ties.
She and Mark were tied by blood, by kinship. By love. And it was beginning to look like Mark was involved with some pretty bad things. Had he been duped, as she had been years ago, and gotten in over his head?
Nick shared a blood tie with Daniel Vargas. Was he thinking that his cousin had gotten involved in gunrunning and counterfeiting?
Not likely. From everything she'd heard and read, Daniel Vargas was considered a San Matean national hero. The man responsible for the rescue of foreign hostages from the same group that had eventually killed him. He'd been buried with full honors.
She sat up and looked at the man she'd nearly made love with, the man she had to remind herself she didn't know. She was sure of only one thing—if Nick was willing to go so far as to take responsibility for Daniel Vargas's son, then it only stood to reason that if Daniel had broken the law, Nick would do everything in his power to keep it from coming to light.
No matter the consequences to Mark.
Nick opened heavy eyelids. The disembodied feeling he'd experienced seemed to have passed. Pain, not particularly intense, centered on the two wounds and pulled at him as he tried to reach for the juice on the table by the cot.
He grimaced. He was going to have to get up.
Raising his left arm to shade his eyes against the morning light pouring through the small window, he saw that Mary Beth's cot was empty, her blanket folded neatly at the foot. He moved his arm enough to focus on his wristwatch—mid-morning. He'd wasted too much time. Even if he wasn't completely well, he had to think, plan.
And believe in Daniel, who'd given him so much. Who'd counted on him. Whom he'd let down.
Daniel couldn't have been involved in counterfeiting or gunrunning. His relationship with Mark Williams simply indicated an investigation cut short by his death.
But that didn't explain the numbers in both their writing. And if that wasn't enough, the two men had been seen together and Daniel's dog tag had been in Williams's safety deposit box. That spoke of friendship. Or collusion.
"You're awake." Mary Beth's voice pierced his thoughts.
She stood at the door, looking fresh. Beautiful. Memories of how she'd looked at the river raced across his mind, but he pushed them away ruthlessly. He couldn't afford to think like that. He had nothing beyond a fabricated life to offer her.
Then there was that other problem. What would he have to do once he found Mark Williams?
She gazed at him long and hard, as if she were thinking about what to say. Afraid she might see the questions he was still asking himself, he cleared his throat.
"I have to get up."
"You really shouldn't. You might tear something."
He smiled at her abrupt shift in emotions. Ever practical Mary Beth. "But I have to."
She stared at him a moment before her expression reflected her understanding. "Oh."
"Yes, oh." He rolled to his left side, holding his stomach.
"Jean's gone."
He paused in mid-roll. "I still have to get up." He used his arms to push himself up, trying to avoid any use of his stomach muscles. "Just help me get there. I can take care of the rest."
She steadied him as he swung his legs off the cot.
They'd stripped him. He had borrowed boxers on, but his pants were gone. When he stood, the room swayed. Mary Beth stood next to him, balancing him as best she could. He couldn't help but turn his face and inhale the scent of her. Holding on to her and leaning against the wall, he managed to get to the bathroom.
The return trip was much worse. By the time he fell back into the bed, he was cold and sweaty. The room seemed to be spinning in ever faster circles.
"I've made breakfast," she said, wiping his brow with a cool, damp cloth.
God, he felt horrible. The thought of food made him queasy. "Can I have it later?"
"Sure."
Her voice soothed him. He managed to straighten out and relax, aware that the pain was not bad at all. It was the dizziness that wouldn't go away.
Until she wiped the cloth across his neck and chest.
She was trying to comfort him, while he was the son of a bitch who hadn't yet decided what he'd do about her brother's involvement with his.
He wouldn't be beholden to her. Knowing he was being a jerk, knowing she was only trying to help, he said, "Stop," and grabbed her hand, yanking the cloth from it.
She jumped up and fled.
He swore in English.
Mary Beth squeezed the orange with vengeance. All she wanted to do was make Nick comfortable. Well, she'd forget about his comfort. She'd feed him, make sure he drank enough liquid and let it go at that. It was obvious he didn't want her to touch him, so she wouldn't.
She was a fool.
No, she was an idiot for reacting to a wounded man. She had to quit reacting and start acting, taking charge. Nick wasn't well. She had to go on. As soon as the road opened, she'd have to take her chances alone. Jean would tell her how to get to Los Desamparados.
With renewed purpose, she washed her hands and put the orange juice on a tray along with fried bananas, eggs and hot rolls. He'd damn well better eat.
Prepared to treat him like a stranger, she found him on his left side, his face pale. She wanted to cry.
"Jean left some pain pills," she offered.
He shook his head, his dark hair ruffled against the pillow. "I don't want to even think about drugs," he said with a humorless laugh. "Besides, I'm not in pain." He turned toward her. "The Rangers know someone was at the stockade. They'll know to search for a wounded man. Once they look around the mission, they'll come straight to Jean's."
He was right. She hadn't thought of that. Everyone was searching for her. What would they do to him if she left?
"Where's the Rover?"
"You can't move yet. Jean said—"
"Mary Beth." His tone sounded a warning.
"He hid it in some trees. But you need—"
"To get better. I have today, at least."
"You can't be serious. You're not well enough—"
"Time is running out. There's no choice." He struggled to sit up.
With Mary Beth's help he did, and he ate all the food she'd fixed. She hadn't left the room before he fell asleep again.
The long day wore on. Nick woke to drink and go to the bathroom. Every time he got up, she was sure he was going to collapse. But he treated his weakness like he would a recalcitrant politician who refused to agree to a compromise by ruthlessly pushing ahead.
By late afternoon, when Jean got back from checking on patients, Nick had convinced himself that he could take a shower. She was only convinced he'd kill himself, and told him so.
"I am perfectly capable of showering."
"You're perfectly capable of falling down and ripping your stitches out."
"You're not my mother, damn it!"
She bit back a sharp retort, knowing she'd argued with him when he'd needed someone to c
ajole him.
"Of course she's not your mother." Jean stood in the doorway smiling at them. "You have a wonderful mother. Mary Beth is simply trying to follow my instructions."
Nick turned on him, holding on to the table for balance. "Which were to keep me in this damn bed until I rot?"
"No. Which were to keep you still so you don't destroy my stitches."
"Funny," Nick replied. "They feel like my stitches."
Jean shook his head and gave Mary Beth a look that begged patience. He directed his words toward Nick. "You want a shower?"
"Of course I do. I stink."
Mary Beth saw the militant glint in Nick's eyes. He was going to get a shower one way or the other. She hoped Jean didn't insist on refusing him.
"For the sake of your pretty nurse, I'm going to help you." Jean winked at Mary Beth. "She shouldn't have to put up with your bad temper and your smell."
Nick released the table and eased back onto the cot. "Thank you." He gasped as he relaxed. "I think."
Jean laughed, winked at her again and spoke to Nick. "Don't let the water hit the stitches directly and don't use soap on them. You're healing quickly, no point in pushing your luck."
Mary Beth left them, and a few moments later, as she busied herself in the kitchen, she heard the shower running. Jean had brought back a matahambre from one of his patients. The steak roll contained spinach, eggs and carrots and smelled wonderful. She hoped Nick wasn't too tired from his bath to eat.
She had just put the matahambre into a pot to warm, when she heard the knock on the door.
"¡Doctor!" a woman shouted.
Afraid that it might be the Rangers or Elliot Smith, Mary Beth peeked out the window and saw a woman and child. Jean couldn't possibly hear anything in the bathroom. The knocking continued as she went to get him. She stepped into the steamy bathroom and told him.
"Don't leave him in there more than another minute or two," Jean said to her. To Nick, he said, "I'm going to answer the door, Nick. Mary Beth is here."
Mary Beth heard the door close behind her and turned toward the shower. Behind the yellow vinyl curtain, she could make out the shadow of Nick's body. He leaned against the wall, his head bent forward, letting water run down his neck and back.
Moments later, Jean opened the door and said, "I've got to go. There's been an accident. There are clean bandages in the examining room." He left, then Mary Beth heard the front door slam.
She looked back at the shower stall. How in the world was she going to deal with this forced intimacy?
"Nick?" She hated the awkward sound of her own voice. "Jean had to leave. You have to get out."
"Hmm?"
"Jean's left. You have to get out of the shower."
A thud resonated through the small bathroom. Muffled mumbling followed. Nick's silhouette tilted precariously. He tried to push himself upright, away from the wall. She forgot about anything but the possibility that he might fall, and threw open the curtain.
He listed slightly, both hands on the tiled wall, his back to her. In a single instant, she took in the beautifully sculpted muscles, the soft hair under his arms, the dark hair plastered to his head. And the horrible stitches at his waist.
Reaching out, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, his muscles tense.
"Turn—off—the water." His words came in pants. "Hand me—a towel."
She released his shoulder and did as he'd asked. Holding the towel toward him, she waited.
"Turn around," he ordered, wrapping the towel around his waist.
This was ridiculous.
He turned his head—to see if she had, she presumed.
His blue eyes fastened to hers. "Turn around," he repeated.
His words brooked no argument, so she made to turn.
But at that moment, he tilted forward and began to fall.
He didn't, because she steadied him as he caught hold of the towel rack. Balancing his wet, slippery body, she braced herself as he struggled to push against the wet tiles.
With awkward effort, he stepped out of the shower and stumbled down the hall with her, soaking her clothes. Finally in the bedroom, he lurched onto the fresh sheets, pulled up the top one, and closed his eyes.
"Nick?" she asked, afraid he'd passed out. She reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder.
"I'm okay," he mumbled. Rubbing a hand down his face, he added, "I'm getting everything wet."
Relieved to hear his voice, Mary Beth looked down at him. The white sheet clung damply to his chest and legs, molding to them. He was the most beautiful man.
"I need another towel," he said.
She met his gaze, a flush spreading across her face as she realized he'd caught her staring. "I'll, uh—" she muttered "—get one."
"Wait," he said, grabbing her hand. "I'm sorry for behaving like a wounded bear. Worse. I would have fallen if you hadn't been there. I would have bled to death if it hadn't been for you."
His eyes seemed so intense, so open. She pulled away, afraid of what he might say.
"No, Mary Beth. Wait. Give me a minute." He took a deep breath. "Don't think I stopped before, at the river, because I don't want you. God knows I do."
He smiled, but it was such a sad smile, Mary Beth didn't understand it.
"Sex involves a lot more than bodies." He released a pent-up breath. "It involves…" He paused, as if searching for words. "What matters is innocence of spirit."
"Nick—"
"Let me finish." He placed his hand over the sheet against his stomach. "I don't have innocence to give you. Neither of body nor of spirit. You need that."
"Please don't—"
"No way to protect you." He closed his eyes for a single moment, then opened them, searching her face. "Neither your body nor your spirit."
"I'm responsible for myself," she replied, wanting to stop him.
"I can't give you the life you should have." His words came out as a harsh whisper.
"You can't know what I should have."
His voice gentled. "What's the most important thing to you?"
The answer that came to mind surprised her. Love. She'd wanted love from her parents, but had only gotten it from Mark. The yearning for it was something she could no longer deny, but something she would not voice, certainly not to him. She couldn't bear for him to know. Instead, she focused on the mistakes she'd made. She'd wanted love and had been given a pretense. What she should have been given was something else.
"Honesty," she said, knowing it would have saved her so much.
"I can't give that to you."
She turned, unwilling to let him see what she so desperately wanted to hide from herself.
She'd fallen in love with him.
"I'm sorry." His words rumbled in the quiet of the room.
Her parents had never spoken of love. She'd been guilty of fearing the emotion, too. She remembered the man in college, the hurt on his face when she told him she was leaving town. She'd lied to him, telling him she'd keep in touch. She hadn't known how to soften the blow.
Nick had tried to be kind, to give her some dignity to hold on to. Whether he admitted it or not, he was an honest man.
"I'll bring dry sheets."
"How'd Nick make out?" Jean asked when he came back four hours later.
"Okay. He's asleep." Mary Beth closed the days-old newspaper she was reading at the kitchen table. She didn't want to think about anything he'd said. "Is the road to Los Desamparados open yet?"
"No. I'm told it will open tomorrow." Jean put his black medical bag down on the table. "I'll pack bandages and antibiotic capsules. Put them in the bag where Nick keeps his guns."
"Is there anything I should know to watch for?"
"He knows how to take the stitches out. You may have to help with his back, but that's—" Jean looked at her for a long silent moment, then sat down and tented his hands together. "You can trust him. There are few men who deserve trust more."
"He warned me not to."
/> Jean shook his head. "You have to understand Nick's sense of responsibility. He doesn't let anyone down. I haven't figured out how he does it without allowing anyone to get too close—with the exception of Daniel."
She wanted to understand this man who had been so important to Nick, who still was. "I know Daniel was stationed in the Río Hermoso Valley, but why did he have a house there? Why not live in Ciudad San Mateo?"
"Daniel bought the property years ago. Long before that famous hostage rescue that made him a household name in this country. He and Nick used to go fishing there." Jean stood and poured himself a cup of coffee. "That land was one of the first signs that Daniel wasn't going to do as his father wanted. The general opposed the purchase and certainly didn't want Daniel to build the house. But Daniel was his own man. He did it, smiling at his father the entire time."
"The general seems to be a difficult man."
"The general is a son of a bitch." Jean's green eyes seethed with emotion. Anger and something else. Something the doctor wouldn't allow her to see. Regret, maybe?
"Sorry. I didn't mean for that to come out like that."
"You know him?"
"Well enough to wonder why in the world Elena allowed her father to tie her to him," Jean replied.
Jean didn't call her Doña, Mary Beth noted. "It was an arranged marriage?"
"Oh, yes. The money and influence of the Romeros, the up-and-coming military officer."
"So the general wanted the marriage for the good it would do him politically?"
"There is nothing the general does that isn't geared toward that end. He tried to groom Daniel to follow in his footsteps." He grinned. "But Daniel wouldn't play his game. The general handpicked a girl from a powerful family for Daniel's wife. Daniel simply refused."
Mary Beth wondered if that was why Daniel hadn't married Laura. It didn't seem like much of a reason. "He must have been very angry."
"He was, and he blamed Nick because Nick had always been Daniel's confidant. But behind that anger is envy, I think. It makes the general furious that Nick was so close to Daniel. It galls him that Nick is so successful, that he's succeeded at everything he's ever tried. Have you met Carlos Montoya?"
To the Limit Page 14