Miranda leaned her head into the hollow of Spencer’s shoulder, wondering if he considered her to be the biggest ingrate ever. “It never occurred to me I might be hurting my mom and dad. I didn’t really even know them, and I just thought they were narrow and boring and wanted me to be like them. By the time they realized the extent of my rebellion, I think they gave up hope. When…my mom died, I felt so guilty, like the problems I caused were at least partly to blame.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t true,” Spencer murmured. “Kids always think like that.”
“Maybe. But after the funeral, my father lashed out at me and told me my incorrigible behavior had made her heartsick.” She swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. “He said he was ashamed of me and was sorry that they ever—” Miranda pressed her lips together against a sudden sob. She struggled to compose her breathing, unable to finish the sentence. The buildings across the street ran in a distortion of colors.
Spencer turned her to face him. “I don’t believe it, Miranda. Do you mean to tell me he said he regretted adopting you?”
She nodded, the muscles of her face burning as she strove to keep her composure.
He shook his head. “I just can’t believe it. He couldn’t have meant it. He was striking out in his grief, do you understand that?” He gripped her arms and gave her a gentle shake.
Miranda’s head felt too heavy for her neck to support. “I can understand that now. But at the time, his words bit deep.”
“Let me guess,” Spencer said grimly. “You went out and succeeded in doing something even worse, just to live up to his expectations.”
Miranda saw Spencer’s scowl and shuddered. She nodded. “Not very original, I suppose.”
He shook his head. “I know we’re all human and that everyone makes mistakes, maybe even especially parents, but Miranda, I can’t even begin to know what that must’ve been like for you.” He held her close. “My childhood memories are warm and happy and I always felt the support of my parents.” He paused and tightened his arm around her. “Despite secret sins.”
Miranda pressed her face against his chest, thankful for the strength of Spencer’s arms. Even more for the fact that he wasn’t repelled by her confession. Of course the entire story would blow him out of the water, but for now, she absorbed his sympathy for what it was.
“When I found my biological mother,” she whispered, “she didn’t ask me about my past. She put her arms around me and accepted me without hesitation. Lupe loved me without any expectation. To have found that feeling, and have her die so soon after, was devastating.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda. You’ve been through so much. I’m even sorrier my family added to your grief.”
She shook her head, liking the feel of his shirt against her cheek. “I don’t really think of your father any more. That chapter of my life is closed and it doesn’t affect me, okay?”
She looked up, wanting so much for Spencer to understand she meant her words. His returning expression seemed to say it was different for him. George with all his issues was still his father, and she doubted if Spencer had had time to resolve anything before becoming caught up in her own whirlwind. He still had to face going home. I don’t envy him.
Spencer stroked her back while she rested against him. The fresh anguish brought to the fore by memory subsided into a dull ache. She’d forever have her sins on her conscience, like a sanbenito no one else could see, but in this moment, she accepted the consolation Spencer offered.
After several minutes of relishing the sound of his heartbeat under her ear, the street noise began to intrude. Cars honked and chugged their way past, cries of people advertising their wares, and the chatter of passersby rose and fell about her. As the scene pressed upon her, so did the realization that the boy had not shown up.
“How long do you think we should wait?” Her feet ached and she felt weary in body and soul. “Maybe we should go back to his house.”
Spencer sighed. “I don’t want you back in that neighborhood one more minute than absolutely necessary, Miranda. Besides, without Jesús guiding us, I doubt we could find our way.”
Miranda frowned, hating the thought of just standing around, hoping for something to happen. She wanted to make something happen. She eased from Spencer’s arms and looked up and down the street.
The buildings and people shimmered in the heavy light, like a mirage without the hope of a real oasis. Miranda began to walk in the general direction where they expected the boy to appear. Spencer’s hand encircled her wrist, stopping her.
“No, Miranda. We’re not going.” He pulled her around to face him. “There could be a hundred reasons why he’s not here yet. Maybe he’s sick, or his grandmother isn’t recovered. Maybe he got hurt or—”
“Or maybe he has no intention of coming. Maybe they humored us for the free food and medical attention.”
Spencer’s solemn gray gaze held hers. “Maybe.”
Hearing the note of resignation in his tone shook her. Pressure built inside her until she wanted to scream. “What about you?” she said, struggling to keep the hysteria out of her voice. “You can’t hang around forever in Mexico City. Whatever personal or vacation time you had must be about gone by now.”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you putting your job in jeopardy?” She gripped his arm. “Spencer, this isn’t worth you losing your job over. I don’t need that on my conscience as well.”
His features lightened and a smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “There goes Spencer Meyers, a man permanently scarred and unemployed by that vixen Miranda Adams. A cautionary tale of tragedy and woe.”
“This is serious,” she said in a low voice, fighting the urge to return his smile.
The shaft of wind blew a lock of hair into her eyes. Spencer reached up and brushed it back. “Let’s just stay focused on one thing at a time, okay?”
What could she do but nod? But when the shadows lengthened and the hands crept around Spencer’s watch face, she was reminded of a scripture from the Bible. Hope deferred makes the heart sick.
Twenty-Seven
Worry gnawed at Spencer until he thought he might have ground his molars to nothing. And it wasn’t Jesús he was worried about, it was Miranda.
They sat up against the building where they began their wait some seven hours ago. Miranda hugged her knees, ready to spring at any moment. How could he keep her from bolting and running into Neza by herself?
He felt sick with anxiety and fatigue. Where would this odyssey end? Would he have a job at the end of it? Would he have a life? Back home he faced a confused, long-suffering mother and a spiritually crippled father. He tried to think of the things he enjoyed before tumbling headlong into this fiasco of a rescue operation. Somewhere between pining for an unavailable woman and long hours spent at the office, I must’ve done something fun.
Spencer thought of the few golf games he’d played with business associates, but he categorized that more with work than pleasure. He’d played racquetball from time to time and had dinner with friends about once a month.
Looking back, his life seemed to take on a dull edge, drained of any vibrancy it may have held for him. Why did it take a troubled young woman with impossible plans to turn what he thought was a satisfying life into something he wasn’t sure he wanted to return to?
Next to him, he felt Miranda begin to shake. Somehow he knew she’d given up hope for the day. He put his arm around her and pulled her to himself. In the failing light, he saw the sheen of tears on her cheeks.
The sound of her muffled sobs tore at his heart. Rage surged through him at his inability to help her, that he couldn’t mold circumstances to his will. Spencer uncoiled his body and helped her up until they both stood, leaning against the building for support.
When he felt the blood return to his legs, he coaxed her toward the edge of the street so he could hail a cab. In the taxi, Miranda sat huddled against him, wiping her che
eks with the back of her hand. He directed the driver to her hotel and blew out a ragged breath. All he wanted was a hot shower and hours of sleep. But somehow he had to keep an eye on Miranda.
She seemed to accept it as forgone conclusion that she’d be returning to his hotel. After retrieving her bags and settling with the velador in the Centro Histórico, Spencer helped Miranda into yet another taxi. During the interminable drive to the Zona Rosa, he rested his head on the back of the seat, chafing at the jarring start and stop motion of the car. Every mile intensified his anger and frustration—and the fear that Miranda might do something stupid in her desperation.
When they arrived at his hotel, he led the way to his room. He shoved open the door and motioned Miranda inside. She took a tentative step past the threshold and then turned to give him an inquisitive look.
Spencer made a decision. She wouldn’t like it, but he felt he had no choice. There was too much at stake, too much that could go wrong. Miranda must be kept out of Neza. He hardened his heart at the tear stains on her face and the shadows beneath her eyes. If he had to physically hold her prisoner to keep her from further foolishness, so be it.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he said, hearing the harshness in his voice but too tired to care.
She furrowed her brows. “I don’t understand.”
Spencer shut the door behind him and locked it with a sense of finality. “I’ll call room service and have them bring up a roll-away bed, which I’ll be sleeping on next to the door.”
Miranda’s eyes grew enormous. A tide of color swept into her cheeks. “Do you mean to tell me you’re going to treat me like some kind of hostage?”
He shrugged and walked toward the phone. “I’d like to think I could ask you to stay put until tomorrow, but I have learned one thing about you, Miranda, and that is that you do exactly what you please, without regard to consequences.”
She put up her hands in a gesture of appeal. “Spencer, please—”
“I’m tired, Miranda. I just want to get some rest without having to worry about you.”
Her eyes went blank. “You don’t trust me.”
Spencer picked up the receiver. “Not at the moment.” After he made the call for the roll-away, he turned back to her. She sat on the edge of the bed, her face pale and pinched.
“Look,” he said, trying to inject a note of softness into his voice, “I can’t have you off running through the streets at night. It’s dangerous.”
She looked up at him, anger glittering in her eyes. “Don’t you think I realize that?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “So you had no plans to leave tonight and go look for the boy?”
Twin spots of color appeared and burned on her cheeks as she averted her gaze.
“Just as I thought.”
Miranda jumped up. “You listen to me, Spencer. I’m not trying to be foolish. I’m just trying to get where I’m going. Why can’t you understand that?”
He ignored her outburst and stalked to the balcony doors. He went out and looked over the edge, peering into the ambient darkness, trying to collect his emotions into a semblance of order.
Spencer walked back into the room, half-expecting Miranda to have fled when his back was turned. Instead, she sat in the one chair, perched on the edge, breathing hard and staring daggers at him.
He went to the closet area and yanked clean clothes from the hangers, intent on that shower.
“If you let me go to my own room, I give you my word I’ll stay until we go together in the morning.”
Spencer walked past her and headed for the bathroom. She darted around him, blocking his path.
“Please, Spencer. This is ridiculous.”
Her pleading gaze, combined with her loveliness, nearly undid him. Bone-deep exhaustion at the futility of this trip went to war with his growing need to have her in his arms. But the loss of emotional control was unacceptable. He must maintain a modicum of sanity, and keeping Miranda from further folly was all he could manage at the moment.
“I have to accept your word that you’ll stay here while I take a shower. But since I can’t lock you in, I’m not holding my breath.” He turned and strode into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Miranda clenched her fists until her nails cut the skin of her palms. Horrible, spiteful, intolerable man! She paced around the room to vent her fury, wondering how the tender, solicitous Spencer had turned into such a tyrant. Sore muscles and bruised feelings made her sink onto the edge of the chair.
She stared at the door and at the lock that could be easily turned to let her out. Within minutes she could be on her way to Neza.
Desperation swirled within her, but she knew the odds of emerging from the neighborhood unscathed—alive—would be next to zero in the dead of night. Besides, she had spent the last of her money on the other motel. She couldn’t get another room here either.
Miranda rose and walked to the door, placing her palms and forehead against it. She was trapped, not only by lack of money and time of day, but with a man she’d had the bad luck to have fallen in love with, who despised the sight of her. Earlier, he’d been so kind and understanding. Why the mercurial change?
Miranda wondered if they’d met under more mundane circumstances would they have found each other attractive and perhaps even begun a relationship?
If George Meyers had been just a courteous boss who looked on her in a fatherly way, maybe Spencer would’ve seen her in the office and asked her out. They would’ve gone to dinner and enjoyed a leisurely romance, not experience this hot and cold nonsense exacerbated by circumstances she couldn’t control.
Perhaps any tender feelings that had blossomed were nipped in the bud by her actions. What did he expect? She couldn’t stay in Mexico forever. She was just trying to accomplish a goal. Face it, there’s no more hope of a real relationship with Spencer than there is of finding Soledad and leaving the country with her.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick.
Miranda closed her eyes and gulped back a fresh wave of tears. She heard the sound of the bathroom door opening and turned around. Spencer came out wearing a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans, appearing more casual than she’d ever seen him.
Casual only applied to his attire, however. The brooding, cynical look in his eyes showed his mood had not improved with the shower. She lowered her gaze.
A knock sounded on the door. Miranda looked away as Spencer moved to answer it. He swung the door open wide as if daring her to escape. Miranda clamped her mouth shut against the angry words wanting to burst forth. She walked out onto the balcony.
Closing her eyes, she tried to absorb the same energy she’d come to expect from the view. But the breezy music, festive voices, and twinkling lights failed to cheer her. She felt flat and listless, angry and depressed, and oh, so tired.
“A shower will help,” Spencer said behind her.
Miranda jumped, surprised at his presence. She turned, wanting to see if his mien had changed, but the shadows caused by the light behind him hid the features of his face.
“I’m sure you feel as grimy as I did sitting in the street all day,” he said. “Go take a shower. You’ll feel better.”
His tone still had an edge to it. Didn’t seem to help you much. She tried to find the words to say she felt just plain weird about taking a shower in his bathroom, but came up empty.
Fine. I’ll take a shower, just to appease him. Without a word, she swept past him to her bags and rummaged around until she found a clean set of pajamas and her bag of toiletries.
Inside the bathroom, still steamed up from his shower, she blew out a breath as all the fight drained from her. As soon as she was clean and changed, she’d curl up in bed and sleep and sleep, not caring a fig of what the Spencer Meyers of the world thought of her.
Under the spray of almost unbearably hot water, Miranda felt some of her tension ease. She stayed as long as she could stand it, and then emerged from the shower. She dressed in
cotton pajamas, hoping the frilly sleeveless top and cropped bottoms were respectable enough for Mr. High and Mighty. After brushing her teeth and fluffing her damp hair, she exited the bathroom.
She found Spencer lying back on top of the blankets, against a pile of pillows on the roll-away, which was placed next to the door as he’d threatened. He was reading a book entitled Travels In Mexico—The Easy Way.
Miranda clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a frantic urge to laugh out loud. He looked over at her and flushed red, whether from being caught by his choice of reading material or his latent anger with her, she didn’t know. She avoided his gaze and sat on the double bed, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.
Miranda glanced at the bedside clock. Nine p.m. Should she just crawl under the covers and go to sleep? Pretend to go to sleep, she amended. How could she sleep with Spencer glowering at her from across the room?
“Are you going to turn off the light?”
Miranda swiveled her head toward him, amazed at the rudeness of his tone. “I thought you were reading!”
“I’m done.”
Clenching her teeth together, she reached over and switched off the light. The streetlights from the open balcony window bathed the room in a soft darkness. Miranda plucked at the bed covers, still not comfortable with crawling between the sheets. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and let out a sigh instead.
“What’s the matter?” Spencer barked.
Miranda glared at what she could see of him in the dark. “I’m sorry if I’m not comfortable staying in your room!”
“You didn’t seem to have that problem last night.”
Miranda put up her hands as if he’d physically struck her. Searing shame broke upon her in waves.
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 19