THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Read online

  She listened for the sounds of vehicles, jeeps. Surely, she would see Jim as he passed by. But, she realized, that would probably not be until tomorrow at the earliest. She had to keep going on her own.

  Sounds of music, hands clapping and laughter reached her long before she could see people settled around a campfire. Without drawing attention to herself, she moved along the outer rim of the circle and sat down behind several darkly clothed women. They were not dressed so differently from herself.

  A slight-faced Mexican plucked at the strings of a guitar. His deep baritone voice, too big for his small form, filled the smokesmudged sky with the strains of “La Paloma.” His sombrero, held by a string around his neck, framed his face like a halo.

  Sizzling sounds seemed an odd accompaniment to the music until Patricia caught a breath of meat frying. Since morning she had eaten only part of a bolillo. The aroma of tortillas, onions and garlic made a mixture of smells that played on her senses along with the music.

  She didn’t dare move forward as others did to hold out a hand for one of the meat filled tortillas. Her teased stomach grumbled angrily. Finally, she inched into the circle to one of the platters. She took two tortillas and slipped back into the dark.

  She ate slowly, prolonging the satisfaction of filling her empty stomach. She sipped from her canteen. Others swigged from bottles of El Presidente or tequila that bounced from hand to hand.

  Mariachi music and off-key voices grew louder with every note and every new bottle as the food ran out. The women around Patricia began to move their baskets and packs to make room for dancing. They plucked their heavy rebosas from their head and shoulders and began to twirl in place with the rhythm of the song.

  Feet trampled near her. Dust rose. Patricia was forced to stand. Men in sombreros and jorongos, or sarapes parted the swishing skirts of the women, stomped their booted feet in hard flamingo steps, and spun their partners like tops.

  Some of the women were dressed in colorful costumes. Reds, yellows, vivid blues flashed in the twinkling lights of the many two and three foot tall velas that dripped wax and filled the air with the fragrance of burning wicks.

  A tall figure, head tipped so that the wide sombrero hid his face, mingled through the crowd. Hands behind his back, he strutted first with one señorita, then another. He stood only a few feet away, dancing for a time with a long-haired girl regaled in an Azeteca costume.

  As Patricia watched, he tilted his head and looked straight into her eyes.

  He looked like the young man at the fiesta at La Mansion.

  His rhythm never broke as he bowed to the one he had been dancing with and stepped in front of Patricia. He brought his mouth to the side of her face. “I will take you to safety.” When she backed away, he took her by the arm in a vise grip. “Dance,” he said. His voice was soft, but the word was spoken so close and with such strength, it stung.

  She moved her body. Her feet were like stones. Her motion was arrhythmic. She didn’t want to dance, tried to pull away. His arms

  THE SECOND MILAGRO

  tightened with her least resistance. “Do you know Miguel Ramirez?” she ventured. The young man leaned into her face again. “ No habla,” he whispered. Lifting his free arm above his head, he threw his shoulders back and took up the rhythm of the music.

  As the song faded into loud talk, he spoke to one of the men and nodded toward Patricia. The man howled like a night animal, grabbed a bottle of tequila and threw it to the young man. A spray of liquid shot up and splattered Patricia. The men’s laughter rang in her ears as she was steered toward the rim of the crowd. They hesitated just long enough for her to grab her basket of belongings. Then he took it from her and rushed them out of the lights of the candles.

  When they had blended with the shadows of the mountains, she cried out in a hissing voice, “Where are we going?” She tried to jerk her hand out of his. He tightened his grip, and whispered, “Quieto.”

  They made their way over outcroppings of rock, around brush and cactus. With no light except a sliver of moon and twinkling stars in a black sky, Patricia couldn’t imagine how he knew where he was or where he was going.

  Thoughts tumbled through her mind like the pebbles and clods of dirt that rolled under her sliding feet. The little scene back at the camp. He must have said something about taking her off somewhere. That’s why the men were laughing and giving him tequila—to get his whore drunk. She winced. They had all laughed at the young man taking the old, dirty woman to his bed. The thought, the implication made her sick. She staggered, but he pulled her on. In the dark it was impossible to make out his features, to comfort herself with the idea that he must know Miguel or why would he be there.

  She shivered in the mountain air that crept in around them. Her lungs filled and burned with every step. She stumbled and sat down hard.

  “We can rest now,” he said as if her stopping had been his idea. He sat down beside her and turned up the tequila bottle he had stashed in her basket. “We have to reach the other side of the hill before we find camp and the others.”

  “What camp? What others? Is Miguel with you?” She slid off her shoes and shook out debris and dirt that had been gouging her toes and the bottoms of her feet. A few places were bleeding. She slipped the shoes back on before her feet began to swell.

  For an answer, he offered her the bottle of tequila. She grabbed it, tilted it and swallowed. Tears burned as if the alcohol coursed her body and pooled in her eyes. She coughed, choking.

  “Quieto.” He reached for the bottle.

  When she had her voice again, she asked, “Why?” whispering more because of her throat than to please him. “Who’s going to hear us? And who are you anyway?”

  “I am an amigo of Señor Miguel.”

  “Is Miguel okay? Did he send you? Why didn’t . . .”

  “You made a bad choice to join the group below, Señora,” he interrupted, ignoring her questions. They would not be so kind to learn you are a gringo. Especially, to learn you are Morelos. Be glad no other came to take you away before me.”

  “I’ve made a number of bad choices in my life,” she said. “Would you just please tell me where we are going and who’s waiting for us?”

  His silence chilled her. He was so still he seemed to be soaking in all sounds and snuffing them out. If only she could see his face, but his profile was like a woodcut against the night sky. She strained to hear anything other that the festivities below. Then, a twig snapped.

  He stood soundlessly, bringing his finger toward his face, telling her to be quiet. He motioned for her to get up and pointed toward the summit of the rise above them. Without a word he climbed.

  Distant music and laughter floated on the air. Below them the velas and campfire threw a soft glow against the sky. Where was the danger she sensed, below or above? Stones rolled behind her. She made her decision quickly and rose to follow this friend of Miguel’s.

  She didn’t have a chance to turn around. Empty space was her first sensation. She was falling, plummeting feet over face. Gravel scrapped her skin, dirt filled her mouth. Rocks slowed her, and brush caught at her clothes. A final jolt. Darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Beneath her hand was a rough board. She moved her fingers slightly. A splinter pricked her skin. She drew back and tried to lift her arm but found that she couldn’t. Her eyes fluttered and opened to darkness. Slowly they focused. A light flickered somewhere to her left. A fire, maybe, Patricia thought.

  She was lying on hard, lumpy bedding. Above her, shadows contrasted until she could make out slats of wood, the underside of another bed. Bunks? Where was she? How did she get here?

  She didn’t know if it was the memory of tumbling down the mountain that made her start hurting all over, or the fact that she was now fully awake, fully aware. Her senses filled. Dampness, mold and smoke. Sizzles and soft pops of burning wood. Murmuring voices. Soft snores.

  Turning her head, she could just make out the close wall
s of a room, a fireplace, and some figures sitting at a table.

  She tried to sit up and moaned.

  “You awake?” someone whispered.

  Patricia shook her head at the voice, denying she heard it. Her brain throbbed when she moved, and she shut her eyes against the pain.

  “You got yourself in a hell of a mess this time.” The soft voice returned.

  “Rachel?” Patricia felt strong hands push her back.

  “Easy kid,” Rachel murmured.

  “Where are we? What—”

  “Shhh. Don’t want to wake up the gendarmes over there.” She gestured toward the room behind her.

  “How did you get here?” Patricia whispered.

  “I should stay put while you’re having fun playing Dolores Del Rio and the Mexican Bandits?”

  Patricia groaned. She tried to raise her right arm again, but still couldn’t. Something was wrapped around it. She turned over on her side to prove she could and winced.

  “Lie still,” Rachel said, pushing Patricia back on the bed. “Going head over ass down a mountainside is not good for somebody your age, you know.”

  “How long have I been out?” Patricia asked. The windows were so heavily curtained, it was hard to say if it was day or night outside.

  “Daniel, one of Miguel’s men, carried you in like a rag doll an hour ago. He wasn’t sure he’d picked up all the pieces until they looked you over good. Don’t think anything’s broken, but they put your arm in a splint anyway. And you’ve got scratches and bruises. Carmina cleaned you up. She seems to know what she’s doing.”

  “Carmina. She’s here? How did you two get here?”

  Miguel thought it was best to get me out of Acapulco, and I wasn’t going anywhere unless you were there. I won. He sent this nice young man to bring me here. We stopped and picked up Carmina, presumably to take care of me. Then we were coming to Real, I thought, when—”

  “Simple as that.”

  “Well, almost.”

  Before either could ask more questions, a door creaked on its hinges in the far side of the cabin. A man stepped into the room carrying an armful of wood. It was the one who had whisked her away from the campsite and up the mountain.

  He whistled a low sound, and a grunted greeting in Spanish came from the shadowy figures. A dark, older man dressed in slacks and a white guayabera shirt followed into the doorway. Patricia thought he looked like the government officials she had met with in Mexico City. He stopped the young man with a hand on his shoulders.

  “Tiene problemas, amigo?”

  As if the man had said nothing, the other one walked into the room, threw the wood onto the floor and bent to stoke the dying embers of the fire.

  While the two talked in low, fast Spanish, Patricia and Rachel sat quietly. The growing fire illuminated the room. It was movie-set pioneer with two women and two men sitting at a wooden table. Patricia stared into dark faces that stared back.

  One of the women poured some water and coffee into a tin pot and placed it on a grate in the fireplace.

  Rachel leaned closely and cupped her hand against her cheek. “I hear Daniel’s voice. Was he one of the ones who came in?”

  “If he’s the one who kidnapped me from the camp below, yes.” Patricia stared at the young man whose face was shadowed in the firelight. She couldn’t make out his features clearly, but he was obviously the same man.

  She wanted to sit up, to call out to him and say—what? So much was happening that she didn’t understand. Rachel was a complication. Why did everyone keep throwing stumbling blocks in her way to Max? God, her head hurt. It was hard to think. She closed her eyes and tried to sort her thoughts.

  “Cafe?” One of the women gave Patricia a mug of coffee, then took Rachel’s hand and brought it gently to the other cup she carried. Her gaze lingered on Rachel, as she went back to the others.

  Patricia sat up and sipped the hot liquid and watched Daniel and the short man. The others sat quietly, eyes watching each other, occasionally glancing at her.

  She heard her name spoken.

  “Can you make out what they’re saying?” she asked Rachel.

  “Daniel’s telling how he “rescued” you. Evidently, there are some unsavory characters looking for you.”

  “More so than this bunch?” Patricia gave a little laugh. What did I do to win such attention?”

  “I don’t know. This character isn’t supposed to be here. Daniel’s trying to get him to leave, but he doesn’t seem to be in a position to run him off. Either that or he wants something out of the guy.”

  The young woman who had given them coffee stood next to Daniel. Not touching him, just leaning into him possessively. Her smooth brown face glowed in the soft flicker of a candle that sat atop the mantle, and her eyes twinkled as if they had captured a thousand fireflies when she looked up at Daniel. She wore a tight black skirt and a white peasant blouse that stretched down over her shoulders. Patricia recognized her as Miguel’s secretary. She was also the girl and he the young man that had been dancing the night of the birthday party.

  She stared at the three other people who sat at the table. One woman dressed in costume. Two men in shirts and pants, their sarapes and jorongos that could transform them in seconds piled in a chair. Pilgrims headed for Real to place a silver milagro at the feet of St. Francis? Unlikely, Patricia thought. So who were they? And where was Carmina?

  Perhaps Miguel had brought Rachel and herself here to be held hostage for the miners. Extra leverage. Maybe he had no intentions of aiding her in getting Max released. Maybe he wanted her and Max out of the way. And Rachel. Whatever was going on, it was time she found out.

  She swung her legs off the bed and sat up before Rachel could protest. The movement released a herd of donkeys in her head, kicking and jumping against their skull corral. Rachel’s arm came out to stop her, but Patricia was on her feet with her last tiny burst of energy.

  “Daniel.” She pushed her way into the circle of firelight and leaned against him, her head swirling. “Is that your name? I, I don’t know what you’—” He took her arm and held it tight, keeping her upright, making her arm throb worse. Her head was numb with pain. She gritted her teeth against the dark that swirled around her and tried to focus.

  The man who had been talking to Daniel let his eyes roam like a slow moving fly over her bandaged arm, her dirty, scratched face, her peasant’s garb. She realized how ridiculous she must look. Well, she wouldn’t be intimidated. A fire kindled in some shadowy corner of her spirit.

  She shrugged the shawl-like cloth from her shoulders, untied the skirt with her good hand, then brushed at her pants to roll them down. She saw where blood had dried on her feet from blisters and cuts. Her shoes felt glued on.

  She pulled the rag from her head and twirled her hair into a bun. She didn’t look like she just came out of a salon and the dirty chinos and shirt weren’t a Chanel suit, but just looking more like herself made a difference. One she felt and the others seemed to acknowledge. She could read the men’s surprise and she pushed on.

  “Miguel was taking me to Max. Where is he? Where’s my son?” She stared at Daniel’s face where the flames of the fire danced along lean lines and lightened his eyes. She was struck by his unexpected Caucasian features. Her knees threatened to buckle. She stiffened her legs. “Take me to him. Now! Tonight!” Her voice bounced back at her from the walls of the shack. She clutched her arms to stop herself from shaking.

  Rachel’s hand settled on her shoulder like a soothing balm.

  “Dice la Señora, Daniel. Tell her, amigo.” The man’s eyes glowed like the coals in the fire.

  Daniel’s jaw clinched. He turned his back to the room, spinning the girl from his side. He took his cup from the mantle and tossed down the coffee like a shot of tequila.

  “Tell me what, Daniel?” Patricia scanned the faces watching her. They looked away.

  “You stay here,” Daniel said. He moved to the fireplace, kicked a log with the toe of
his boot, sending sparks flying.

  Patricia swayed and Rachel steadied her. Daniel grabbed a chair and practically pushed Patricia into it.

  “What do you mean, stay?” Rachel asked, she hovered over Patricia, hands on her shoulders. “Is this some plush mountain resort you brought us to and I just can’t appreciate the view? You said you would take me to Real, too.”

  “I said I would take you to Señora Morelos.”

  “One in the same, since that’s what Miguel told her. Besides, I heard St. Francis could work miracles. Does that mean you’re going to deny me a chance to see again?”

  Murmurs came from the ones sitting around the table.

  “You have to wait here, that is all,” Daniel said in a low voice.

  “No, that’s not all.” Patricia stood on a strength gathered from some unknown place. “What about Max? Is Miguel going to bring my son here?” Her voice cracked like a china cup. She felt her shoulder squeezed again. It was not Rachel.

  “Señora Morelos, perhaps you need to sit down.” He held his hand out to Patricia like a maître d’. His head tilted. “Please. You have walked a long way today. Surely you are tired. Put your shoes off and Gena will bring water to wash the Mexican dirt from your feet. It will make you feel better.” Crooked teeth slid from the cover of his lips as he grinned. The contempt in his voice was as palpable as the sound of water splashing in some corner of the room.

  Patricia stood on hollow reeds, but she refused to sit again. Someone placed a pan of water near her feet. She ignored it and stared at Daniel’s back. “Miguel never was taking me to Max, was he? He lied to me from the beginning.” She rubbed her hands against tear soaked dust that caked her face. “Why?”

  Daniel grabbed her by the hands and pulled her down into the chair. Squatting, he stared her into place; his gaze, steel bands that bound her arms. “There are things you do not know. Lives at stake,” he said through his teeth. “Max is all right. If you want to see him again, you must do as you are told.”