Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love)

by Bonnie Blythe

“The trick is to buy from vendors who are busy,” Miranda said, licking her fingers. Spencer seemed too busy eating to reply. She smiled, on one hand gratified by his apology, on the other, still upset by his attitude regarding her mother.

  She looked up at the thick, inky sky and the delicate Baroque architecture lit up with golden lights. Like Mexico City, Spencer was a study in contrasts. She doubted she’d ever truly reconcile either one.

  ***

  Spencer sprawled out on his bed and stared at the crack in the ceiling, reviewing his first evening in the city. So far not so good. He squinted at the crack where it started in one part of the room and wound its way across and beyond the light fixture. Was it cosmetic or structural? Had the earthquakes that almost routinely savaged the city done the damage?

  On the drive from the airport he'd noticed areas where downed buildings had left yawing expanses between structures. Why hadn't they ever been rebuilt? That question disturbed his longing for order and predictability.

  Like the crack in the ceiling, Spencer felt the foundations of things he once held firm shake under the pressure of Miranda’s earth shattering situation. I must be crazy for coming here. How had he allowed a pair of flame blue eyes make him abandon good judgment and sound reason?

  Spencer sat up and rose from the bed. He stalked across the room and went out onto the balcony. Lights like beaded necklaces stretched as far as the eye could see. The sight was nothing like any other night view he’d seen before. This had a barbarity to it, like a vast tract of tangled wilderness with millions of campfires, tended by secret Indian tribes practicing exotic ways and customs. Over that scene a vague picture of a city was transposed, giving the darkness a spurious sense of civility.

  What was it that attracted Miranda to this place? What was it that attracted him to Miranda? Spencer reached out to lean on the edge of the ironwork. His hand encountered empty air where the railing should’ve been. What the—!

  Momentum pitched him forward. Spencer buckled to his knees, trying to reverse his fall. He grappled for a handhold in the dark. His splayed fingers clawed at a portion of ironwork to his left. Spencer grabbed at it with every ounce of his strength, just able to stop himself from sailing all the way over the edge.

  Hugging the railing with both arms, he gulped for air. A gust of fetid wind sighed past his face. Discordant notes of traffic and mariachi music wafted on the breeze. He squeezed his eyes shut. Thank you, God.

  When his heart stopped trying to explode from his rib cage, he crawled over to the side of the building, leaning back against the reassuring feel of concrete behind him. Spencer narrowed his gaze as shapes coalesced in the flickering shadows. He realized the middle portion of the ironwork was gone, like a giant paw of some Mexican mythological creature had knocked it clean away just for the purpose of giving interlopers like him the fright of their lives.

  He sucked in a steadying breath and struggled to his feet. When the world ceased spinning, he backed into the bedroom and returned to his bed. The curtains lifted in the wind as if taunting him to return to the edge. Spencer rolled over and closed his eyes, praying for wisdom to escape the madness that was Mexico City.

  Twelve

  The following morning, Spencer felt faint with the effort to breathe. He followed Miranda along the busy street to flag down a taxi. After a fitful night, she’d awoken him early, ready to begin her search. As if exhaustion wasn’t enough, he had to struggle in an effort to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

  Miranda’s explanation that the air pollution was much worse during thermal inversion didn’t comfort him at the moment. Apparently, the ring of mountains around the city inhibited the smog from dispersing, but in the winter months, warmer air prevented the polluted air at ground level from rising and being blown away. As Spencer regarded the haze over the city, it felt like he was walking in an airless miasma.

  Beside him, Miranda strode along the sidewalk, seeming unaffected by the atmospheric conditions. He wondered why she wore a short coat in such warm weather. Just looking at her made his skin itch from the heat. He was vaguely aware Miranda planned to visit governmental buildings at some place she called Paseo de la Reforma, most likely for information on her sister. But what good would that do? She didn’t have enough paperwork.

  He had a sore throat and his stomach was in knots. With renewed fervor, Spencer prayed for a successful end to this trip so he could go home and breathe.

  “You know,” he said, struggling to appear hale and hearty despite the fact he could barely keep up with her, “that coat makes it look like you’re not wearing anything underneath. You keep telling me how traditional and conservative people are here. Aren’t you worried about someone getting the wrong idea?”

  Miranda flashed him a smile. “It’s the Indians who are most conservative. Los capitalinos are pretty much like those in other large cities.”

  A weathered woman in brightly embroidered clothing passed them by carrying a basket on her head, an old man hawked lottery tickets, and young girls sold bunches of fresh flowers along the streets. No one seemed to pay any attention to a woman walking around with apparently only a coat for covering.

  Nearby, the strident voices of shoeshine boys competing with each other for business clamored in his brain. Spencer clutched his head. “Where exactly did you say we were going?”

  “Well, I thought I might start my search at the U.S. Embassy, just to see what direction they point me in.”

  “This is insane, Miranda. Surely you’re aware you can’t just wander around and expect to find someone in a city this size, especially without paperwork!”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” she mocked. “Besides, I have my paperwork. Just none for my sister.”

  They passed by a stand selling pan dulce. The sugary aroma wafted out onto the street.

  “Wow, that smells great. I forgot to have breakfast this morning,” Miranda said. “Why don’t we stop for some desayuno, eh señor?”

  Spencer’s stomach heaved at the idea. He shook his head. He watched as she handed over some coins to the vendor. She took the sweet bread in a paper wrapper, making an endearing picture as she bit into it. Her face looked flushed and youthful, her hair glowing in the hazy sunlight.

  The coat she wore stopped at mid-thigh, apparently longer than whatever she wore underneath. His gaze dropped further down. He cleared his throat and looked away, but not before he had a vision of long tanned legs and high-heeled shoes. A stabbing pain pierced his skull, right above the eye.

  Spencer considered asking her again the reason for her odd attire, but figured she’d give him another incalculable response. It was too early in the morning for him to deal with more than simple respiration.

  A green VW screeched to a stop in front of them and Miranda got inside. Spencer followed, feeling relieved to stop walking for a minute. He didn’t even have the energy to compare the photo on the back of the seat with the driver. The way I feel right now, murder would be a mercy. He closed his eyes.

  “Wake up, Spencer.”

  Spencer became aware of someone jabbing him in the shoulder. He forced open his eyes and saw a blurry image of Miranda urging him out of the taxi. He stumbled out after her, shoved some cash at the driver, vaguely certain that he hadn’t paid earlier.

  Miranda resumed her quick pace. Spencer noticed the tree-lined street was quieter, and he released a slow sigh of relief. After another block, she came to a sudden stop. He bumped into her from behind.

  Miranda turned to him. “Here we are!” Her bright smile was at odds with the martial look in her eye. “Um, it might be better if you wait here. Play the tourist for a few minutes. Lots of neato statues around. I’ll be right back.”

  “Um, okay.” A bench. He needed a bench so he could sit down.

  She put her hand on the glass door of a tall building flanked by American and Mexican flags. “By the way, could you hold my coat for me?”

  Before he had a chance to respond, she slid the coat from her should
ers and tossed it to him. Through the blur of the oncoming coat, Spencer caught a glimpse of skin. A lot of it.

  “Miranda!” But she’d already disappeared inside the building. Spencer stared at the main doors, wondering why there appeared to be more than one set. With his hand extended, he walked to a nearby signpost and leaned against it. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. After taking deep breaths, which he regretted, he tried to remember what it was about Miranda that alarmed him.

  Only one way to find out. Tacking across the entrance to the building, he pulled open the heavy glass door and went inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, hushed interior, he glanced around for something nearby to lean on. The tiles of the floor seemed to heave beneath him.

  Spencer squeezed his eyes close for a moment. When everything stopped spinning, he opened them and looked around. He caught his breath at the sight of a beautiful woman in a skimpy purple dress leaning over a countertop. She spoke in whispered tones to a red-faced official. The woman glanced over at him. Her smile faded.

  Miranda! A hot surge of anger choked him. He lurched over to where she stood. She continued speaking to the official, in a soft breathy tone Spencer hadn’t heard her use before.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed, trying desperately to ignore the swell of her bosom and honeyed skin.

  She looked up at him and gave him a slow wink. “Hola, señor. ¿Qué pasa?”

  Spencer felt his temperature shoot into the stratosphere. Moisture beaded on his brow, and he tugged at the collar of his shirt, hoping for a cooling breeze. Marshaling all his strength, he reached out to take Miranda’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  She turned to the official. “Thank you for your information.” She motioned toward Spencer and winked. “Mio güero.” With a light laugh, she allowed herself to be led away.

  Spencer tried not to lean on her as they walked out of the building to the street. When they were outside, Miranda jerked her arm away and turned on him. Her expression of anger turned to dismay.

  “Spencer!” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Suddenly he felt her arms around him. His head was so heavy, he couldn’t help but rest against her a little. Jasmine. She smells like sweet jasmine.

  “Taxi!”

  From far away, Spencer heard her voice. He was aware of being pushed into a vehicle. The drone of an engine lulled him until hands yanked him out of the car and propelled him into a dark doorway.

  “Lean on me, Spencer. C’mon! You can make it!”

  He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as he stumbled up a flight of stairs. Hands grappled in his pockets until he heard the clatter of keys. In the next instant, he was pushed through a door and toward a bed.

  He recognized his motel room. The freshly made bed beckoned to him. He could imagine the soothing feel of cool sheets against his skin. But his feet veered him toward the tiny bathroom. A remaining shred of cognizance made him kick the door shut with his foot, before he leaned over the toilet and was violently sick.

  Miranda cringed at the sounds of retching from the other room. Poor Spencer. He sounded like he was dying. After there was silence for a moment, she knocked on the door. “Are you okay?”

  More silence. Then, finally, “I’m okay.”

  Miranda heard him turn on the sink and splash water. “Spencer? I hope you’re not getting that water in your mouth.”

  “What?”

  She leaned against the door panels. “I’m sure you’ve heard ‘don’t drink the water’, but that also means not rinsing your mouth out with the water, brushing your teeth with it, stuff like that.”

  He groaned. She did, too, wondering if it was the reason for his illness. She spotted a container of bottled water and grabbed it. “Here’s some drinking water,” she said, edging the bathroom door open enough to hand it to him. “You need lots of fluids. Bottled ones.”

  After several minutes, Spencer came out of the bathroom. His face was waxy and his hair stood up in spikes on his head. Miranda took his arm and led him to the bed. After he was settled, she sat next to him and touched the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin felt cool and damp.

  Spencer looked up at her with dull eyes he could barely keep open. She experienced an unexpected pang of sympathy.

  “You poor thing. In the last few weeks, you’ve been shot, exposed to high levels of pollution, and now have a probable case of turista and altitude sickness.”

  “It all started when you came into my life,” he said with a weak grin. “What’s a güero?”

  She raised her brows, surprised he remembered that particular detail. “It means little blond boy.” Miranda reached over to smooth his hair back from his head. “It was kind of a joke.”

  Spencer caught her hand and drew it away. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  She looked across the room where her coat lay, and felt her face heat. Oops. “Hush, you need to rest.”

  “I will not hush.”

  Tugging up the neckline of her dress, Miranda lowered her gaze. “You’re not gonna like it.”

  “Try me.”

  She lifted her chin and faced him. “I have noticed that dressing this way can, um, facilitate information and at times, favors from certain official persons.”

  Spencer struggled to raise himself up on his elbows. “You mean you’re using yourself, your body, as bribery?”

  “You make it sound so tawdry.”

  “It is tawdry!”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “How do you think I got my mother across the border? Mordidas, little cash bribes, only go so far. Not all of us are made of money, you know. I’m just using what assets I have.”

  Spencer’s face took on a fevered hue. “If this is how you operate, then I’m not surprised my father got the wrong idea about you.”

  Miranda gasped as hot fury surged through her. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  Spencer put up his hand. “I’m sorry! But don’t you have any self-respect?”

  “Not a whole lot after your father got through with me!”

  “Am I always going to be judged by his actions? What have I done to you that in any way resembles his behavior?”

  “Thinking the worst of me every chance you get, for a start!”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Really?” she said, glaring at him. “When I said I use myself to gain favors you assumed I meant sexual favors, didn’t you?”

  A tide of deeper red swept into his face, turning him incandescent.

  Miranda made a noise of disgust and stalked over to where her coat draped over the back of a chair. She shrugged into it and closed it tightly about her frame. “You can never see past your prejudices, can you? Everything’s black and white when you can afford it!”

  She marched over to the door and yanked on the handle.

  “Miranda, wait.”

  She hated the way her heart leapt at the softness of his tone.

  “Look at me.”

  Miranda turned, clicking her tongue. “What?”

  “Don’t…use yourself anymore that way, okay? That’s why you have me with you. Although I can’t condone bribery.”

  Spencer’s face had returned to its sickly pale color. Another stab of sympathy took her by surprise. She suppressed a sigh. “Paying for information, that’s all.”

  He passed a hand over his face. “Fine, paying for information. If you feel you need to do it, use money next time. My money. Promise me.”

  Miranda ran her fingers along the edge of the coat collar. “I don’t like always using your money. I feel guilty.”

  “Don’t. It’s part of the deal to find your sister.” He lowered his voice. “And I’m angry because I don’t want to think of you making yourself vulnerable like that. I respect you too much, Miranda. Despite what you think, I really do.”

  Miranda averted her gaze. Jamming her hands in the coat pockets, she made a muffled reply before stepping into the hall and shutting
the door behind her. Leaning against the panels, she swiped her tears away and took several deep breaths.

  He doesn’t know anything about me! And the moment he finds out everything, he’ll choke on his empty homily about respect.

  Miranda tried to think of the treachery of his father, to make sure she never forgot where Spencer came from. But the image of his father faded, replaced with Spencer’s kind expression and gentle eyes. She blinked it away and strode to her own room.

  Thirteen

  Is it possible to die of humiliation and pain?

  Spencer decided Montezuma had had his revenge and then some. After two days spent steps from the bathroom, he sprawled on his bed and wished he were dead. I hate Mexico. I hate my total loss of control of this trip to purgatory. And I hate the way I always say the wrong thing to Miranda.

  Spencer didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. He often did think the worst of her. It seemed everything she did shocked him in one way or another. How else could he react? Did the woman do anything in a sane, normal manner?

  He thought of Julia, the woman he’d hoped might be the one. She’d been everything he desired in a woman—elegant, feminine, and soft-spoken. And she didn’t goad him into saying horrid things that made him burn with shame afterwards.

  Spencer rubbed his face and stifled a groan. His stomach muscles felt like rubber, his hands shook, and his clothes were soaked with sweat. Hoping the worst had passed, he decided to take another shower. As he shuffled to the bathroom, he reminded himself to keep his mouth closed while he washed. He’d need to remember that in other situations, too.

  When he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, he noticed a box of soda crackers, several bottles of sports drink, and some over-the-counter medicines on the tiny room desk. The sheets also had been changed. Before taking a shower, he’d left it a tousled mess. Now the blanket was smoothed over the surface and the pillows plumped. He glanced toward the door.