The Book of True Desires

by Betina Krahn

  He felt like a child at Christmas dinner; he hardly knew where to start.

  “Did ye find ’em? See ’em yerself?”

  “We tracked them to the mountains of Veracruz, in Mexico. With the help of Processor Valiente and a good mapmaker, we were able locate a river that bore an exact likeness to a shape in the stone rubbing. We hiked there— Hart and I, in the company of an old medicine woman— and saw the stones and temple. Which, by the way, was built in the crater of an extinct volcano.”

  “A temple in a volcano?” Hardacre drew his chin back at that, doubtful, then gradually more skeptical. “An’ a kindly old medicine woman?”

  “Kindly. Not a word I would use to describe Yazkuz,” Hart observed.

  “I suppose she just gave you this secret.” Hardacre ignored him, just like old times. “Didn’t try to sell it to you or anything?”

  “She asked nothing for her services. She seemed to think it was her duty to share with us, especially Hart,” Cordelia said. “Healer to healer, as it were. She was able to read some of the glyphs and murals in the temple, which said that the gift the Jaguar Spirit gave mankind was healing.”

  “Healing.” Hardacre looked at Goodnight then back at her. “Hart?”

  “Apparently humans used to be spindlier and punier than now and were prone to all kinds of diseases,” she continued. “The Jaguar gave humans the gift of healing, and the rest, as they say, is history. Humans conquered the world.”

  Hardacre gave a huff of disgust, then turned to Goodnight.

  “You agree with this nonsense, Hart?”

  “I do.”

  “You were there for all of it? She didn’t waylay you somewhere and leave you stranded?”

  “She did not.”

  “Fine. Then let’s hear your report.”

  “I believe you just did.” Goodnight folded his surprisingly well-muscled arms.

  “I mean yer full report. You were supposed to be my agent. Keep track of my money and verify th’ results.”

  “I was, I did, and I do.” He pulled out a strip of paper and flattened it in front of Hardacre so he could see the tally. “Expenses: two thousand, nine hundred, and sixty-seven dollars and fourteen cents.” He pulled a stack of coins containing a ten- and a twenty-dollar gold piece and several silver dollars from his pocket. “Thirty-two dollars and eighty-six cents change. And an unused letter of credit.” He tossed a rumpled envelope onto the table. “After all we went through, believe me, it would have been a bargain at twice the price.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  “That’s it?”

  “My report? Yes.”

  “Well, it ain’t good enough. Where’s yer writin’? Where’s the artifacts?”

  “My job, as it was clearly outlined to me, was to verify the authenticity of Cordelia’s efforts and findings. I am doing that now. My task is complete.”

  “That’s it? That’s what I get for my three thousand, four if you count the equipment I bought before the trip?”

  “That is exactly what we agreed upon,” she said pointedly. “Our deal.”

  He looked back and forth between them, sputtering, until he saw the quick, speaking glance Cordelia gave Hart and his blood pressure skyrocketed.

  “You—you did something to him.” He jabbed a finger at her. “You batted those eyes and got under his skin and convinced him to go along with whatever palaver you decided to dish out.” He turned on Goodnight. “Where’s your damned loyalty?”

  Goodnight snapped forward so abruptly that Hardacre recoiled in shock.

  “Where it belongs.” He looked at Cordelia. “With my wife.”

  Just then Montgomery strode into the room with a tray, pitcher, and glasses, headed for the card table.

  “Not now, Montgomery,” Hardacre snapped.

  “But—”

  “Not now, dammit!”

  The red-faced fellow made an about-face and strode out of the room.

  “W-wife?” Hardacre nearly strangled on the word. “You married her?” Then he looked at his granddaughter and covered his shock and dismay with a forced laugh. “You married a butler? That’s rich. You come here to swindle me out of an inheritance, and you end up tyin’ the knot with my butler!”

  “I didn’t come to swindle you out of anything,” she declared hotly. “And he’s not a butler. He never was. He was a brilliant, strong, compassionate, funny, and resourceful man.”

  “Why, thank you,” Goodnight put in.

  “You’re welcome,” she said with a nod his direction. “You treated him like he was a mere servant, but he’s ten times the man you are.” She stopped and went to stand by Goodnight, who rose and put his arm around her. He looked large and formidable and a little forbidding. Hardacre couldn’t believe this man had ever busied himself sorting anybody’s socks.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Cordelia crossed her arms. “Shades of my father and mother’s troubles with you, all over again. We’re married, so that means we must have somehow betrayed you—just as my parents did. Did it never occur to you that their hearts, their desires, their feelings for each other—like ours—don’t have anything to do with you? That Hart and I might have just… jarred and jostled and jolted ourselves into love… all by ourselves?”

  Hardacre stood silent for a moment, braced for a blast but suffering a very different kind of broadside than he expected. He stared at the pair of them, so strong and united and—admit it, dammit—perfectly matched. And for a moment he saw another pair of young lovers standing in their shoes, wanting his approval but touching only his wrath.

  He sat down with a plop.

  “I can tell you right now,” Cordelia declared, “that the sight of him green-around-the-gills and hanging over the rail of a ship was more interesting to me than all of the gorgeous bachelors in Boston combined.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Goodnight said dryly.

  “You’re welcome.” She nodded again and went right back to it.

  “Somewhere between running through the streets of Havana with half the Cuban army on our trail…and watching him dress like a peasant to escape on a smuggler’s ship… and helping him deliver a baby burro… and having him shoot a boa constrictor that was going to drop on me… and seeing him climb inside a volcano’s belly, having him save me from suffocating when I tasted ‘dumb cane,’ and rescue me when I was kidnapped…” She stopped for a minute to catch her breath. “Well, somewhere in the middle of all of that, I fell madly and deliriously in love with him. I can’t imagine my life without him. And wonder of wonders—he seems to feel the same about me. That’s fairly rare, you know, that sort of miracle. Especially for a pair as unique as we are.”

  Slowly the sense of what she’d said seeped through. Hardacre was taken aback, then thoroughly confused.

  “What?” she asked. “Do you just not understand love at all?”

  Hell no. Never understood at all the mad, sweet chemistry that draws one poor human to another in a bond that means more than life. His old heart began to swell in his chest. He’d missed all of that while he was concentrating on less important things.

  He looked at Goodnight, glowering, hoping to burn away moisture in his eyes.

  “You did all that?” he demanded. “What she said?”

  “Absolutely.” Goodnight sighed. “Do you want to hear some of her moments of captivating charm? How she bribed a customs official, smuggled guns into two countries, hired a raving maniac of a professor—”

  “Who happened to know his stuff,” she put in.

  “Granted,” he said with a gallant nod her way. “Then she went toe to toe with a nasty Spanish banker who thought your rubbings should belong to him… held off a regiment of Cuban regulars with a pistol so we could swim for our lives… hacked her way through miles of jungle … faced down a jaguar in the wild—not once but three times—tended me when I was unconscious… got kidnapped and shot… damned near died… all while managing to be so breathtakingly beautiful and c
ourageous and infuriating… that I couldn’t help falling in love with her.”

  “You did all of that?” Hardacre looked to her anxiously. “You got shot?”

  “Want to see?” she said.

  “Here we go,” Goodnight sighed, taking a step back.

  She unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it back, baring her shoulder. The reddish scar was still quite fresh. Hardacre’s jaw dropped.

  Montgomery started into the room with the tray of brandy and lemonade, saw her standing there with her shirt half off… blanched, turned, and exited.

  “Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” Hardacre said irritably. “Just breeze in here with nary a story…we’re back and we saw yer stones and that’s that. How’s a man suppose to believe a word you say?”

  Cordelia looked at Hart, who closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “And you—what happened to our little deal on the side?” Hardacre turned to Goodnight.

  “What little deal on the side?” Cordelia asked.

  “This would probably be a good time to give him his share of the treasure,” Hart declared, gesturing to the satchel by the table.

  “Treasure?” Hardacre was flabbergasted. “You didn’t bother to mention you found a treasure until now?”

  “Well, it wasn’t relevant to the stones, per se,” she said.

  “Get on with it, girl,” Hardacre growled. This was turning out better than he expected. There was still hope…

  She reached into the satchel and pulled out a heavy disk of solid gold, adorned with Mayan symbols in a broad ring around the edges and set with a three-dimensional head of a jaguar in the center. Hardacre’s eyes popped.

  “Is that what I think it is?” He turned on her.

  “I’m not sure what you think it is, but it’s gold,” she informed him. “And it’s your share of the treasure.”

  “My share?” The old man ran his fingers over the lustrous surface of the medallion. “You mean there’s more?”

  “I told you this was a bad idea,” she said to Hart. “Money is all he thinks about. All he cares about. The sight of gold will just set him off.”

  “I want to see the rest of it. All of it,” Hardacre demanded, momentarily entranced by the object beneath his fingers.

  “See?” She gave Hart a dark look, then turned back to her grandfather. “Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible. You see, this is the part of your share you’re not investing in Hart’s pharmaceutical company,” she said. “You’ll have to trust me on this. It will be a marvelous investment. Hart found several very promising medicines in Mexico that will be a great help to people. They just need to be dose-tested and regularized.”

  “You did what? You invested my money—”

  “Treasure,” she corrected him.

  “—my treasure in some nincompoop idea?”

  “As your wedding gift to us. Yes.”

  “After all I done for you—this is what I get?” He turned on Hart. “A hunk o’ gold and a fine fare-thee-well? Ye were supposed to find me a cure.”

  “After all you did for me?” Hart stiffened with indignation.

  “When I took ye in, old son, you wasn’t just broke, you was broken.” He jabbed a finger at Hart. “An’ look at ye now. Full o’ piss an’ vinegar. If I hadn’t sent ye off with her, ye’d still be mewlin’ around, lickin’ yer wounds and sortin’ socks. An’ all I asked in return was one puny little medicine.”

  “Fine. You want a medicine? I’ll make you one.” Hart stalked closer to him. “I’ll regularize and dose-test some cholchicine for you.”

  “Don’t want none of that stuff—it’s poison.”

  “So are most medicines in the wrong dosage or used for the wrong complaint,” Hart said. “That’s the point of the work I tried to do. That’s why I borrowed money from you in the first place, to develop real and safe cures.”

  “And, clearly, this gout medicine will have a priority. This investment won’t only make you money, it’s going to help people live healthier lives.” Cordelia slipped her arm into Hart’s, inserting herself between him and Hardacre and pouring every ounce of charm she possessed into a dazzling smile. “You may turn out to be quite a humanitarian. A shining example for your great-grandchildren. They may even grow up loving you.”

  Hardacre sputtered and started to speak twice, then closed his mouth, scowling. It was blackmail. Pure and simple. She was offering something he never expected to have at this stage of his life: a second chance.

  “She got the makin’s of a real tycoon,” he said to Goodnight.

  “Drives a hard bargain, all right.” Goodnight’s ire was sidetracked by the change on Hardacre’s face. “You should hear her wheedling down the price of donkey rentals.”

  Hardacre dragged a sharp breath and sat back sharply in his chair, his anger replaced by distress. The pain in his foot flared to an unbearable level.

  “Ye’d better hurry with that colchey-stuff,” he said, his throat constricted. “My foot’s killin’ me.”

  His granddaughter looked at her new husband with alarm in those irresistible eyes.

  “He’s suffering. You could try it on him. One last time. Please,” she said. “You could consider it a dosage trial.”

  “I vowed—swore I wouldn’t use it again until I had run a million tests on it and understood its action and potential hazards,” Goodnight said. “And I intend to keep that vow.”

  “Use what?” Hardacre gritted his teeth and fought the pain rocketing up his leg as he watched them.

  “Well, I didn’t make any such vow,” she declared, fishing in the pocket of her skirt for a waxed paper packet containing a small piece of what appeared to be a wrinkled white root. She emptied it onto the polished table in front of Hardacre.

  “You brought it with you?” Goodnight started to retrieve it, but found his way blocked by Cordelia.

  “What’s this?” Hardacre leaned forward to squint at it.

  “This was a part of the healing gift the jaguar gave to humans—or so old Yazkuz believed,” she told him. “It’s the root of a rare orchid found only deep in the Mayan jungle.”

  “It contains a substance of powerful potential, but erratic and dangerous side effects,” Goodnight said. “I recommend that you leave it on the table and save yourself a great deal of discomfort.”

  “Dis-comfert? Hell’s bells. Can’t be worse’n the pain I got now,” Hardacre snapped, looking to his granddaughter. “Whaddo ye do with it?”

  She looked at Goodnight with a pleading expression that finally produced a slight but telling lowering of his shoulders.

  “If the old gaffer’s heart gives out,” he told his wife, “it’s on your head.”

  She turned to Hardacre with a determined light in her eyes.

  “You put it under your tongue and hold it there.”

  Hardacre stared at it, scowling, then looked up at Goodnight.

  “Think it might help?”

  “Truthfully?” Goodnight sighed, bracing himself. “I have no bloody idea. It seems to be a kill-or-cure sort of thing.”

  “Seen anybody die from it?” Hardacre asked.

  “No,” Goodnight looked grieved to admit. “Not yet.”

  “Good enough for me,” Hardacre declared, putting the piece of root into his mouth and giving it a good chomp, then another, before wallowing it under his tongue.

  “What do you feel?” Cordelia asked Hardacre. “A flush of warmth? A chill? Dizziness? Anything at all?”

  He took inventory for a moment, looked uncertain, then shook his head.

  “Maybe a slight tinglin’ in my tongue an’ throat.”

  “Give it time,” Goodnight said, reaching for his wrist and taking out a pocketwatch to time Hardacre’s pulse. For a few moments the ticking of the mantle clock was the only sound in the room. Goodnight felt his forehead and shrugged in bewilderment. “He’s flushed. Starting to feel a little warm.”

  “Ye know, my foot’s startin’ to feel bet
ter.” Hardacre reddened as he struggled to pull up his gouty foot and inspect it. As they watched, he broke into a sweat and began to breathe heavily.

  Just then, Montgomery entered with the tray and halted halfway across the room, looking uncertain.

  Goodnight caught sight of him and waved him over to the table. When Hardacre didn’t object, he strode over and deposited the refreshments.

  As he made to pull away, Goodnight grabbed his wrist and held it with one hand as he reached for the brandy with the other. He poured a generous draught and thrust it into the young officer’s hand.

  Montgomery’s eyes widened, then he seemed to understand, and with a grateful look, tossed it back in one gulp.

  A moment later, the old man abruptly gave several frantic gasps, sagged in his chair, and lost consciousness. Goodnight rushed to take his pulse and pry open his eyes to look at his pupils.

  “His heart is racing. He’s on fire.” He looked up at the startled Montgomery. “Help me get him to the sofa.”

  Cordelia hurried ahead of them to remove some pillows to make room for them to lay him out. She asked Montgomery for some wet cloths and helped Hart remove the old man’s jacket and vest and loosen his collar. He was hot to the touch, but sweating profusely.

  “I don’t understand.” Hart listened to Hardacre’s chest and frowned. “His pulse and heartbeat are fairly steady.” He glanced at Cordelia. “Better than yours and—from what you said—better than mine.”

  “He’s a tough old bird,” she said, stroking the old man’s head, worry for him evident in her trembling hand.

  Montgomery returned shortly with some linen and a basin of cool water.

  “Is he dying?” The lieutenant stretched his neck to see past Hart to the patient on the sofa.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” Hart took the basin from him and handed it to Cordie. “He’ll probably outlive us all.”

  But it was a long and difficult night, and the first gray wisps of dawn were curling around the plantation shutters before there was a significant change in his condition. They had moved him upstairs to his bed, and took turns sitting by his side, bathing his face and chest and arms to keep him cool. By early dawn both Cordie and Hart had dozed off and were startled awake by the rasping sound of the old man’s voice.