by Linda Ladd
"What happened?" she muttered groggily, and he half carried, half dragged her as he felt his way farther down into the tunnel.
"The shaft collapsed, and it could go again. Can you walk?"
She coughed, then moaned again as she struggled to move. "I don't know. My leg hurts. It's bleeding, I think."
"Come on, try to stand up."
One arm around her waist, he pulled her to her feet. Carlisle groaned, but she was regaining her senses now. She clutched his arm with her fingers. "What about Esteban?" Her voice grew shrill as she began to remember. "Where is he, Chase?"
"He's dead," he said, but he choked on the words, anguish hitting him like a blow to the head. He started off down the tunnel, blindly, feeling his way along the walls.
"Is there a way out?" she asked from somewhere behind him.
"Just come on, dammit," he said harshly, remembering that Esteban was dead because of Carlisle. He heard her sob, but he was unaffected. Esteban was gone.
Moving slowly down the gradually sloping floor of the shaft, he barely noticed when Carlisle grabbed the back of his shirt in order to keep up with him. He thought only of getting out into fresh air where he could breathe and see; it already felt as if his lungs were packed with dust and grit.
He knew his eyes were badly hurt—burned by the blast. The pain made the hurt in his hands seem insignificant. Finally, after what seemed; like an eon, his boots sloshed in the water, and he knew they'd reached the right tunnel. He knelt, splashing water on his face, trying to cool his eyes.
"Is the shaft flooded?" Carlisle asked, her voice low and frightened.
Chase put out his hand through the darkness and touched her. "It's not much farther, down through the water, then we'll get out."
He felt her cringe, but she didn't complain or ask any more questions. Moving into the water, he heard her gasp as she followed, still clinging to his shirt.
"It's so warm," she said, her voice setting off subterranean echoes along the water-filled passage.
Chase didn't answer, but proceeded through the blackness, feeling his way along. The wall was rough and damp with slime, but he knew he was getting closer to the cave. Carlisle held on tightly, wading behind him as the water gradually grew deeper.
"It's over my head!" she cried a few minutes later.
"Just hold on to me, and I'll tow you. It's not much farther."
After that, she said nothing and only soft splashing sounds interrupted the tomblike quiet. A short time later, Chase waded out inside the cavern, the cool, fresh air making him shiver after so long in the spring. Carlisle followed, her teeth chattering loud enough for him to hear, and he felt his way to the wall where they'd left the lanterns. He found them after a few moments, but by now his hands were numb and nearly useless.
"You're going to have to light the lantern. I can't do it," Chase said, then sat still as Carlisle felt her way toward him in the dark. He heard her fumbling with the tin of matches, heard the scratch of a match.
Carlisle sobbed in relief when the match fired. The tiny flame painted the cavern with darting lights, and her eyes found Chase where he stood at the edge of the water. The sight shocked her. His battered face was grotesquely swollen now. He'd lost his makeshift bandages in the water, and blood oozed from his hands. While she watched, he put his fingers to his eyes, leaving traces of crimson on his dirt-smeared face.
"Oh, dear God, Chase, you're losing so much blood!" she cried, sick to the core. "We've got to get your hands bandaged."
"Just get the goddamn lantern lit so we can see!" he demanded furiously, and Carlisle stared at him in dismay as he came toward her, feeling his way with outstretched arms. "What's taking so long? Light the damn thing!"
"Oh, my God, Chase," she said, horrified as the truth dawned. "Its burning now. Can't you see it?"
She watched him stop where he was and stare in her direction. His eyes were so bloodshot, the whites were no longer visible. His eyes were blood-red.
"Bring the light to me."
Carlisle obeyed, and when she came close, he reached out and touched her.
"Do you have it?"
His voice was quiet, but tense.
"Yes, it's right here in my hand." She held it up close to his eyes, but he only stared straight ahead.
"Hold it closer," he ordered.
"I can't, Chase. It's right in front of you!" she cried, her heart breaking as he reached out, blindly knocking into her.
"Oh, God," he muttered, turning and stumbling a few feet away from her. "The explosion did it. I looked right into the blast," he said very low, as if explaining it to himself. "I'll be able to see in a few hours. Dammit, we'll have to stay here until I can."
Carlisle remained silent, but for the first time, she looked around the cave. Three horses were tied in the far corner, and a large pile of supplies was stacked on a rough bed frame against one wall. She went there, then stopped in her tracks as Chase whirled around.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
He was staring at a spot several yards in front of her, and for a moment she was overwhelmed with sorrow, knowing it was her fault he was blind and helpless.
"To get bandages for your hands," she answered, but her voice broke with emotion. She hurried to the saddlebags and sorted quickly through the food, whiskey, and clothes, pausing when she saw some of her own things, a skirt and blouse, even undergarments. He'd come for her, she thought, and he'd been hurt so much. And gentle, sensitive Esteban was dead because of her. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she went back to Chase.
"We have to clean the wounds," she said hesitantly. "And your shirt is wet and covered with blood. Let me help you."
He stood silently while she struggled to strip off his shirt; then he waded back into the spring, bathing his face and arms. Thankfully, the water was crystal clear. Carlisle stood at the edge as he returned and sat a few feet away. Without speaking, she began to wrap the strips of cotton around his palm, her stomach turning at die sight of the punctured flesh.
"I'm sorry, Chase," she said, tears running down her face. "I'm so sorry about Esteban."
He didn't look in her direction. "Why did you decide to help us? I don't understand why you didn't let them kill us in the church."
"Do you really have to ask me that?" she cried. "Because I care about you! I couldn't bear to see them hurt you!"
Chase looked away, and Carlisle felt panic rise inside her breast, making it hard for her to breathe. "I didn't know about the ransom note, Chase. You have to believe me! I only went with them that night because they were my friends, and I knew you were leaving the hacienda. Arantxa and I planned to join the rebels last year at the convent, before I even met you. I didn't know they wanted to hurt you, please believe me!"
"Esteban's dead because of you," Chase said in a leaden tone, then got up and felt his way slowly to the old makeshift bed. While she watched, he found several bottles of whiskey in the pack. He sat down, his back propped against the wall. Clumsily, using both hands, he lifted the whiskey and took a deep draught.
Carlisle sat still, but in her mind's eye she saw Esteban running toward the dynamite, heard the explosion again. She knew that Chase had every right to hate her. She closed her eyes and felt deathly sick but she thrust her nausea away and walked back to the supplies. She got out several blankets and clean clothes, trying not to think about anything.
She took them back to the water, glancing at Chase. He still lay on the catre, drinking whiskey steadily. The bottle was already half empty. She knelt, realizing every muscle in her body ached. Removing her filthy, torn clothes, she waded into the spring, checking her arms and legs for cuts and bruises. She found plenty, but she knew she was lucky not to have fractured a bone or suffered a concussion. Why should she be the one to emerge unscathed? She thought as she washed the grime from her hair and body, the hot water feeling good. After drying off, she donned clean clothes and wrapped herself in one of the blankets. Huddling against the wall,
she watched Chase drink himself into oblivion.
For two long hours, there was total silence in the cavern, neither Chase nor Carlisle uttering a word. Carlisle watched with a heavy heart as again and again he brought the bottle to his lips for long draughts of the mind-numbing liquor. She knew his eyes were hurting him, because he rubbed them often. Several times he went to the pool to bathe them with his unbandaged fingertips.
Every time she shut her own eyes, she saw the sharp spikes pinning Chase's hands to the wall, and each time the haunting vision made her want to retch. How could Javier do such a savage thing? How could she have misjudged him so completely? They'd used her, sent a ransom note to lure Chase to San Miguel. Chase had come to rescue her. He did care about her, or he had. Now he hated her. Now Esteban was dead, and Chase was blind. Again she felt terrified, Oh, Lord, his loss of sight had to be temporary. But what if Javier and his men came for them before it returned? And what if his eyes didn't heal? She couldn't bear the thought of Chase being blind for the rest of his life! Tears fell again, and she laid her head on bent knees, suffering in silence. He'd never forgive her, never. Even if she hadn't known Javier's real intentions, she had gone with him willingly, and
Chase would never understand that. He'd only remember that she'd lured Esteban to his death, and Chase to agonizing torture. He wouldn't care if she'd acted unwittingly or not.
Never before in her life had Carlisle felt such dreadful remorse. Her heart ached as if it were being squeezed by a gigantic vise.
A glassy clink broke the silence, and Carlisle looked up as the empty whiskey bottle rolled across the earthen floor. Chase sprawled on the catre, sunk in a drunken stupor. When he groaned she went to him.
He was restless now in his pain, turning frequently. She sat down beside him, tucking a blanket around him, lifting his hand into her lap. The bandages were already blood-soaked. She knew the wounds should be sutured. They were deep, and jagged on both the palms and the backs of the hands because of the way he'd jerked them off the nails.
When he lay still for a few moments, she decided to rebandage them. She tore more strips from the shirt she'd used before, then found enough whiskey in the bottle to cleanse the wounds. He didn't move when she poured the liquor on his left hand, then tightly rewrapped it. But when she dribbled the liquid over his other palm, he flinched with pain and tried to draw his hand away. Rousing groggily, he tried to sit up as she swiftly bound the wound.
''Carly?"
He felt for her, and Carlisle's heart tightened at the sight of his beautiful dark blue eyes now reddened and blind.
"Yes, Chase, my darling, I'm here," she whispered, tears coming again.
"What's the matter?" he asked, the whiskey slurring his words.
"I'm sorry, Chase, I'm so sorry."
He frowned as if trying to understand, then laid his head back. Carlisle felt so alone, so guilty and forlorn, that she huddled down close beside him and wept, for him and Esteban—and for herself, because she loved him so desperately and knew that now he'd never hold her again.
Chase jerked awake, aware immediately of only pure, riveting pain. At first, he didn't understand why he couldn't see. His head, hands, and eyes all, throbbed with fiery agony. He couldn't think where he was or who he was, and he didn't care. He only wanted the pain to stop.
He groaned, then tender hands touched his face, comforting hands that did not hurt him. He heard the voice, sweet and disembodied, and a picture erupted inside his head of shining golden-red hair and eyes like emeralds. The hands came again to soothe him, and he gave up his thoughts and sank again into the deep, midnight-blue ocean of sleep where he found peace.
When next he struggled up from those blurry depths, the voice returned, quiet and welcome.
"Drink this, my darling. It will help the pain."
His head was lifted very gently, and a cup pressed to his lips. The whiskey went down strong and potent, and he swallowed more. Eventually the liquor dulled his thoughts, his aching palms, and soft hands returned to touch his eyes with a cool cloth, bathing his forehead and cheeks, wetting parched, dry lips, soothing and comforting. Then he smelled fragrant hair as it brushed his mouth, felt soft lips upon his cheek, and tried desperately to see.
"Carly," he muttered, the name alighting in his brain like a butterfly on a rose, bringing with it a sense of contentment and, curiously, an awful dread which remained coiled in his subconscious like a cobra ready to strike.
The drink was offered again, and he took it gratefully, sinking gradually into his cocoon of dreams.
When he awoke the next time, he was completely lucid. The pain was still there, but now a dull, persistent throb. His memory of San Miguel came flooding back, his torture, Esteban's death, Carlisle's betrayal. He sat up quickly and paid the price. His head pounded as if he'd been hit by a board.
"Chase! Lie back, please!"
It was Carlisle, he realized, her hands upon his chest, pressing him back down. His skin crawled as if a serpent writhed across his flesh.
"Get away from me," he snapped, unable to see her, unable to see anything.
Her hands immediately withdrew. He sat tense, a wave of rage rising inside him, higher and higher in a swirling, mind-encompassing flood, washing away reason and deluging him with bitterness. The pain intensified almost at once, especially in his hands, until it felt as if he held them buried in piles of flaming embers.
Carlisle's voice came again from the darkness, soft and trembling and full of sorrow.
"Please, Chase, let me help you. You need me now. There's no one else here. Let me make it up to you."
"I don't need anybody. Is it night or day?" he demanded, hating the perpetual blackness, trying to see even a glimmer of light, anything.
"It's morning."
After she'd answered him, Carlisle said nothing else, but he felt sure she stood very near, well within his reach. He could sense her presence, detect the scent of her hair. He felt a sudden, almost overwhelming need to reach out and touch her, to draw her near and run his fingers over her beautiful, traitorous face, so he would know he wasn't living alone in some awful, terrifying nightmare. It was like an ache, his desire to hold her, as vivid as the one throbbing in the palms of his hands. He sat still, fighting it, listening for a sound that would reveal her whereabouts.
"Are you hungry?" she asked after several minutes, and he quickly jerked his head toward her voice. He hadn't thought about food, but now he realized his stomach felt shriveled and shrunken.
It was then, for the first time, that Chase felt his helplessness, his dependence on the woman who'd led him to ruin. He gritted his teeth, vividly remembering the last time he'd seen Esteban, the last time he'd seen anything. A flash of bright light, then absolute darkness. His sight would come back, he told himself firmly. In time he would see again. He had to believe that.
"How long have we been here?" he asked, turning his head in the direction where he thought Carlisle was standing. When she answered from a different spot, he muttered a low oath, angry that she could move around silently, watching him. The feeling of dependence on her mounted, and he hated it. He hated it worse than anything he'd ever experienced.
"Three days," Carlisle said at last.
Injured as he was, the wheels in his head began to spin. Would the rebels come searching for them, or would they assume them dead? He thought of trying to make the trip back to the hacienda, and realized immediately that it would be madness in his present condition. Carlisle had no idea how to get there. He could only hope that if Perez sent out patrols, they'd have one hell of a time finding the other end of the shaft. Later, when his eyesight returned, held try to reach friends in the area. Later, he'd ride back to San Miguel and avenge Esteban's death.
"Chase," Carlisle said softly, "you have to eat something to keep up your strength. You've lost a lot of blood."
He didn't answer, but he knew she was right. He felt unwell and shaky—and trapped. It was an awful thing to be isolated in darkn
ess.
"I found rice and beans in your saddlebags." She hesitated again. "I cooked them for us. They're still warm on the fire. I'll feed them to you if you like. I know you can't use your hands. They're too swollen."
Since when did Carlisle know how to cook? Chase wondered. Probably part of her training as a soldadera during her weeks at San Miguel. A surge of vicious anger rent him.
"Just hand it to me," he snapped.
He heard her move away, and, for the first time, the crackling of a fire. A moment later, she placed a small cup in his hands. He held it in the crook of his elbow, trying to grasp the spoon with his fingertips. He listened to see what Carlisle was doing, but she was making no sound. She watched him from somewhere, Chase knew it, and it made him uncomfortable.
Carlisle was watching him from her seat beside the small fire she'd built with such difficulty, tears running down her face. She had longed for and dreaded the moment when he would awaken and remember that he hated her.
She wiped the wetness from her cheeks, sick to see the way his bandaged hands fumbled with the spoon. She ached to help him. He needed her now so desperately, but his pride and anger ruled him. He'd called her name over and over when his mind was subjugated by whiskey—her name and Esteban's—and she'd begun to hope that he did care about her enough to forgive her, someday when his grief over Esteban had diminished and his wounds had healed.
Helplessly, she watched him bring the spoon to his mouth, and she remembered the first moments in the mine shaft after the explosion. She'd opened her eyes to pitch blackness, and she could remember how frightened she'd been. She wondered if Chase was scared. It was hard for her to imagine him being afraid of anything.
Dear God, she thought, he might never see again. The realization was like a knife in her heart. When a muffled sob escaped her, Chase looked in her direction, then set the bowl on the floor and lay down, as if he'd suddenly lost his appetite.
"Chase? Will you let me change the bandage on your hand? The wound needs cleaning."