THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 18

  She lay for what seemed like hours. The sun sliced itself away on a ridge and bled down the valley. When the mountain threw a protective shadow over them, Miguel rose slowly.

  “Stay close to me,” he ordered, scrambling up the embankment.

  Patricia listened for gunfire. Miguel’s dark outline looked like a target, and she wanted to pull him back. To keep him safe. Fear touched some dormant emotion.

  “Venga. Come,” he whispered.

  His outstretched hand was too far away to grasp. She struggled up from the scooped-out seat. Like the rabbit and the Tar-baby, her hands sunk up to her wrists, and her boots sucked grossly at the mud as she pulled them behind her. She struggled up the slope, grabbing at rocks and brush. Too late she felt the cactus hiding in a tangle of weeds. She screamed and slid back into the deep ditch.

  Miguel created an avalanche of rocks and dirt as he settled down beside her. “Well, perhaps the gunmen are gone. If not, your banshee cry scared them away, I am sure. Let me see.”

  He held her hand at an angle to catch the fading light. She winced as he pulled thorns from her palm and fingers. He mumbled in Spanish.

  “If you’re going to cuss at me, at least do it so I can understand,” she said through clinched teeth.

  “Why do you not speak Spanish? Mi Dios, you were married to a Mexican for years,” he hissed.

  “Because HE never spoke Spanish,” she almost shouted as he pulled out one of the needles. Her palm oozed blood.

  “That is no excuse for your ignorance.”

  “I am not ignorant.” The higher pitch of her voice was due more to pain than caring what he thought.

  He put his hand over her mouth as her voice rose. His breath moved a lock of her hair. She thought he must have heard something, but he held her too long. She tasted dirt and sweat and fought the realization that she wanted to taste his skin against her lips.

  “You talk too much. Be still and be quiet.” He pulled at another thorn.

  She jerked her hand away. “I don’t need you to do acupuncture on me. You’re twisting those things.” She pressed her bruised hand against her stomach, closed her eyes and tried to breathe. Miguel disappeared over the rim of the arroyo.

  Good, she thought. Leave me here by myself, wounded and hunted by some maniacs. I don’t need you anyway, Miguel Ramirez. I didn’t need you years ago and I don’t need you now.

  “Hold still.” Miguel had reappeared holding a long, spiny stem of a plant.

  “Do I need more holes in my skin?”

  “Aloe,” he said. “It will make you heal.”

  “Sure it’s not poison?”

  He ignored her, pulled her up to the desert floor, then darted quickly behind a Joshua tree, motioning for her to follow. The meager protection it provided was comical, but no other shelter was in sight. He put his arm around her waist and held her tight, making their profile as narrow as the tree. His belt buckle cut into her back.

  They darted from tree to tree, resting behind clumps of maguey cactus, always moving away from the arroyo toward the mountains. Road Runner cartoons she used to watch with Max came to mind, and she hoped they were smart enough to outwit whatever wily coyote was after them. When they had walked at least a mile, Miguel announced that no one was following them, and stepped into the open, near a low, crumbling wall.

  Patricia joined him, searching the shadows of the dim landscape they had crossed. The upstretched arms of Joshua trees looked like an army of giants marching toward them in mock surrender. She wasn’t sure they didn’t move as she turned away.

  Miguel led her around the wall into the ruins of a large hacienda. Columns rose up to meet the darkening sky where the roof of a long veranda had once shaded a tiled patio. Shadows of bright paint framed paneless windows. A huge doorway loomed dark in the wall. Carved panels of rotting wood hung on rusty hinges.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Just one of many homes abandoned by the Spanish long ago,”

  Miguel said, as he pushed against the door. It squeaked, and scurries in dried palm fronds answered back. Geckos and night birds fell silent.

  Inside the walls of the great house it was dim, lit only by stars that speckled the sky. The cool breeze that had made her clothes feel cold and clammy out on the desert was shut out. The dark carried a deeper chill. She shivered.

  Miguel took a flashlight out of his pack and shined the beam around the room. Along one wall was a large stone fireplace.

  “Oh, we can build a fire,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “No. Someone might see the smoke.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, and hugged her arms across her chest. She willed herself to stop shaking.

  Miguel glared at her clothes.

  His smile made her angry. “What do you want?” she asked. “For me to say that you were right? That it is cold in the mountains? Had I known I’d be half-drowned in some drainage ditch on the way to Real, I’d have worn a fur coat. You’ll notice these clod-hopper boots didn’t keep me dry.” She stomped her feet, making sounds like a squeegie mop. She grabbed the light from his hand, picked up her pack, and stalked through a doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find the powder room.” She blinked back tears. Cold, wet and miserable, she would be dammed before letting him know. He made her feel so inadequate, a child, incompetent. Her, of all people. Miss Self-Sufficient. She thought of how he had held her as they ran and hid. The comfort of his arms surprised her. She didn’t want the complication of thinking about it.

  The narrow beam of light bobbed before her. With the dark pressing in, she didn’t feel so defiant. She eased through rooms filled with debris until she found a small, almost clear area behind a wall. She kicked some broken plaster to scare away its inhabitants, propped the light on a ledge and opened her pack for some clean, dry clothes.

  Linen and silk caught at her mud-caked, bloody hands. She searched until she found a package of moist paper wipes and a tiny bar of French soap, then stripped to the waist and started scrubbing. It was an impossible task, like cleaning a muddy pig with spit and a Kleenex.

  She shivered with every touch of the wet towel, then washed harder to warm herself. Anger rose in her at the delay once more in rescuing Max. An image of her son looking through bars in a dungeon prison leaped into her mind. Other images flashed by like frames in a horror movie. Stop it! She silently screamed at her imagination. I can’t think of him like that. He’s okay. I have to keep thinking good thoughts.

  She redrew the picture. He was peeking through the bars of his baby bed. A dark-haired toddler holding his fuzzy blanket that he called “Boo.” She held the image as if it were a photograph, remembering every detail of his round face and dark, laughing eyes.

  The wipes were gone, but she still smelled like mud. Her hair hung in strands of dirty dampness. She tried to button her shirt, then groaned at her injured fingers. An answering sound made her jump.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you.” Miguel held out a clay pot. “I found this and a well in the courtyard. It is not good to drink, but is okay for washing.” His hair was wet, glistening with caught moonlight. He smelled of earth and rain.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, reaching for the water. The shirt she had been holding together fell open, and the slim beam of the flashlight focused on her breasts.

  She grasped the pot and they stood, holding the water vessel between them. Miguel’s eyes moved from one half-revealed breast to the other. His gaze lifted.

  She felt the movement of his eyes as if he moved his fingers across the rise and fall of her cleavage, up the flat plane toward her neck, lingering there in the shallow dip between her collar bones, then riding her pulse to her lips. The wedge of light stopped at her cheek and her eyes hid in the darkness like a voyeur.

  The weight of the earthen jug filled her hands. He was gone.

  Miguel could still feel the softness of the dust-covered clay pot in his palms.
He imagined it was Patricia’s touch. A vision of her half-draped bare breasts danced before him like a sprite. He made his way back to the sala of the hacienda, putting distance between himself and the sounds of water splashing. Or maybe he imagined the sounds, too. He kicked some brush out of his way, realized too late that plaster lay beneath it. A pain shot up his leg. It felt good.

  He hobbled onto the veranda, into the courtyard and beyond the walls. Scouting. Thinking. Whoever had been shooting at them had not intended to kill them. He and Patricia would be sprawled in the arroyo not ten feet from the jeep, if that was what had been ordered. No. Someone had just wanted to delay them. The “why” would come later. They were almost within site of La Paloma, but he couldn’t risk leading someone there to Carlos and Rita’s. No, he would have to wait until it was light when it would be easier to see if someone were following him. He shook his head at how far his plan to be “forced” to a hacienda had gone awry. He would have to get word to his men in Cedral and Potrero tomorrow.

  He sensed Patricia behind him. “Do you always go about so softly?”

  “Wouldn’t want our enemies to hear us.”

  “Oh, I do not think we need to worry about them tonight.”

  “What are those?” Patricia asked, pointing to distant wisps of smoke.

  “The people we saw today on their way to Real de Catorce, camping for the night.” He began to gather sticks and scraps of wood. “We will build a fire and be just one of the many pilgrims. It will be safe.” Besides, he thought, if there was warmth in the room, he would not be tempted to hold her against the cold. When the fire was ready, he opened a can of beans and warmed them, then divided a hard bolillo and the beans onto tin plates.

  Patricia ate greedily. He smiled as she sopped up the last of the bean juice with her bread. She licked each finger hungrily. She caught him watching her, and for a moment their eyes held. He took the plates, wiped them with a cloth and stuck them back into his pack.

  Busy work. Woman’s work. It did not matter what, as long as he kept occupied and his eyes away from hers. After gathering more wood and stoking the fire until it warmed the corners of the room, he settled down on his blanket. It overlapped the edge of hers.

  He lay back on his pack and watched her as she watched the fire. He could only see the right side of her face. It was all shadow and glow. The flames seemed to dance on her cheek, her perfectly formed nose and the curving corner of her lips. She had washed her hair, and it hung loose in dark, wet waves.

  He took a lock and tucked it behind her ear. She turned. The firelight fell on the other side of her face. And what had been like the dark side of the moon was beautiful in the light.

  Twisting another long, dark curl between his fingers, he tugged at it lightly, playfully. No response. He dropped his hand.

  He was quiet and still, listening for her breath. The fragrance of the soap she had bathed with seemed the only tangible thing in the room. Crisper than the acrid smoke of the fire, stronger than the hard floor beneath him, more real than the stars in the blue-black canvas overhead. It was as if the only sense he had was that of smell. He took a deep, filling breath of her.

  Her touch made him jump. She had placed her hand on top of his. Still, soft and warm. A light blanket covering his skin. He turned his hand and clasped her fingers, splaying them with a tight clinch. She stiffened.

  He knew he was hurting her, but he had to struggle to release her. He wanted to grab her, pull her beneath him and make her pay for eighteen years of loss and loneliness. He wanted to caress her, soothe and love her with eighteen years of longing.

  A log fell, and sparks burst like fireworks. Patricia jumped. She let go of Miguel’s hand and was immediately sorry. Confused as to why she had even dared touch him, she had no doubt that it had felt right, had felt good. If she tried to sort out her reasons, she knew she wouldn’t be able to do it again. Then she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Civil war waged within her. Self against self, teenager against adult, love against loyalty. She feared even more the battle Miguel seemed to be waging. One moment he was gentle, and his touch dissolved time and treachery. Then he would stiffen as if he were struggling against some hidden enemy.

  She sensed his shoulder near her back. He leaned forward, bracing her. She held her position. His arm circled her, drew her tight. It was at once a loving gesture and a relentless vise.

  Words bombarded her mind. Questions. Accusations. A thundering NO. Her mouth refused to give form to a single thought.

  He rocked her. A soft, soothing movement. With each tilt, she was drawn closer to him. How clever to lull her into his embrace, she thought, ignoring her own desire to press against him.

  The rocking stopped abruptly. Miguel’s arm tightened like a wet rope that had dried in the warmth of the fire, cutting off her circulation. She struggled, half-heartedly, then made her decision.

  As she pulled away, he captured her hand in the quick smooth movement of a dancer catching his partner to twirl her. Her stomach lurched as she turned with a snap and fell into his arms. His hands braced her fall. Before she could regain control, her head was pinned between the frond-covered floor and Miguel’s lips.

  Soothing softness and hateful hardness. She wasn’t sure which was beneath her and which above. And the fire. It was no longer between the great stones of the fireplace. With every kiss, on her lips, her neck, her cheeks, kindling sparked within her, and the blaze spread rapidly. It consumed the combatants of her war and drew all attention to itself.

  The pain in her hands was forgotten as she kneaded his back, pressing him closer. His fingers slid slyly beyond the bands at her waist. Her hands met his. Fingers unused to joint efforts fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, his shirt, her jeans, his trousers.

  “Patricia,” Miguel sighed as he kissed her. His tongue traced the outline of her mouth, then guided her lower lip between his teeth where he tugged it until she moaned. His fingers lingered across her breasts torturing her nipples with sensations too complex to name.

  She dug her nails into his back, lifting her body closer to the power of his assault. When she could no longer stand being a separate entity, she arched her back.

  He accepted the invitation.

  * * *

  Exhausted, battle-worn, they entwined in a truce. Like a sculptor reunited with an early, forgotten work, Patricia’s fingers traced over Miguel’s body, comparing it to her memories. The deep “v” along his spine, the dimples just below his waist. She smiled, content in recognition.

  “A peso for your thoughts,” he said, pushing her wild, damp hair back from her face.

  “A peso?”

  He smiled and lay by her side, his arm a pillow for her head.

  Patricia stared up at the night canopy. “Lousy hotel,” she said. “But, nice ceiling work.” She tucked her thoughts away where they wouldn’t attract attention.

  He pulled his blanket around her shoulder and followed her gaze to the stars. “Do you make a wish?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered,

  “Tell it to me.”

  “Can’t. It won’t come true.”

  “Perhaps if you tell me, I will make it come true.”

  “Okay,” she smiled. “You first.”

  In the distance a dog howled. The fire popped and sizzled. In a corner of the room plaster rustled.

  Miguel pulled her closer.

  “I wish,” he said softly, “I want, very much, Patricia, to know what happened eighteen years ago.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Miguel’s question hung above his head like the blade of a guillotine. Answered, it could descend and cleave him and Patricia apart as surely as the relentless interrogation he had made of her so long ago.

  Patricia was silent, settled into his arms. Was she contemplating her answer? Remembering as he was?

  He had come to Washington right before Christmas. The first few days he had spent arguing with Tomas about the reasons for the student de
monstrations at the University, in his room sulking, or out with his friends drinking.

  He had not yet met Patricia, but he had heard a great deal about her. Tomas praised her constantly. She was an independent thinker, a rebel in many ways. An astute businesswoman, a born leader. Miguel tried to contain his jealousy.

  There was to be a party Christmas Eve. Even though Tomas had hardly listened to Miguel’s arguments, the optimism of youth made him hope that this was a celebration for him. If Tomas admired the traits he did in Patricia, he must see the same and more in Miguel. Even if Tomas didn’t agree with Miguel’s politics, surely family pride would bring Miguel support.

  He imagined Tomas introducing him as a leader of young patriots who would restore rights to Mexico’s downtrodden. The son of the famous Maria Ramirez who helped women get the right to vote. Funds would be raised and he would be sent back to their homeland a hero, suitcases bulging with contributions to the cause.

  Patricia had stood at the top of the grand staircase that night. A vision in green velvet. Tall. Slender. Hair the color of rich coffee swept up into a cascade of curls. Brown eyes, like Mexican topaz.

  Shyness tilted her head and confidence made her look straight at him. He was filled with passion for her. He might have claimed that he fell in love at that moment, except for what happened as she descended the stairs.

  Tomas called for everyone’s attention. A hush fell over the room. All eyes were on Patricia as Tomas took her hand.

  “This is a special occasion tonight,” he said. “This fantastic young woman has just finished her college degree.” Mild applause interrupted him. “No. That’s not the best of it. She’s not been just studying books. She’s also been working for Morelos Enterprises for these three years. Now a reward is due.” Murmurs of agreement came from the crowd.

  “May I present the new director of our Morelos Gallery.” Soccer match cheers filled the room.

  “And,” Tomas raised his hand. “I have a special gift to show my appreciation for her loyalty and hard work.” He took from his pocket an emerald set in an intricate silver design, dangling from a long chain. Patricia’s eyes grew large as she allowed Tomas to fasten the clip. She picked up the enormous jewel and caressed it. Her eyes glistened.