CHAPTER SEVEN

By the time the inky-black night began to fade into the early glow of daylight, Beth was numb. Beyond hunger, despite midnight rations that had the taste and consistency of dog biscuits, beyond fear, beyond distrust. If the Guiding Light caught up with them, raped and murdered her, then at least she’d get a chance to lie down, she thought, too exhausted to summon up even a tremor of panic at the thought. If MacGowan decided to exact physical payment before they made it down the mountain, the same held true. Anything to stop this endless trudge though the thick growth of the jungle.

Everything hurt. Her feet, her hips, and knees from the constant jarring of the steep downward path, her back and shoulders from the backpack MacGowan had dumped on her, telling her she had to share the load. Which she would have insisted upon anyway, and would have told him so, but even then she’d been too tired to argue. Besides, she knew very well he’d made the pack as light as he could out of deference to her ridiculously puny strength.

When she got out of this she would soak in a hot tub for three days, have marathon massages, and then she would start iron-man training. This was absurd – she should be able to handle a climb down a mountain without falling to pieces.

Though he was moving fast, pushing them along with barely time to breathe. She viewed the approach of daylight and almost wept with relief. They’d have to stop and hide so the rebels wouldn’t find them.

But to her horror MacGowan pushed on when she began to slow. “We’re far enough away from them that we can keep going,” he said. His head swiveled around and his eyes narrowed. “Did you say something, Sister Beth?”

She couldn’t even summon up annoyance. It had been a tiny sob of pure despair, one she’d swallowed immediately. “Not a word,” she managed to say. And they kept walking.

The heat was unbearable. The lower they climbed the thicker the growth, and as the sun cooked away the dew it steamed slightly. Beth managed to braid her hair and tie it up with MacGowan’s grubby bandanna, but she could feel the sweat slide down her back and puddle at her waist. She was wearing nothing but a thin sleeveless tank underneath the loose cotton shirt, with no bra, but eventually she stripped down to the tank, no longer giving a shit. MacGowan was too intent on moving them to notice, and Dylan, who had finally stopped his incessant complaining, was behind her. Besides, he considered her ancient, mutton to his lamb, even if he had generously offered to “tap that.”

Her feet began to burn. Her expensive pair of sneakers were a mess. There was blood soaking through the heel, but it didn’t seem to be leaving any trace, so there was no need to stop. At one point she cried again, keeping her face down and wiping the silent tears from her face, but if the monster in front of her noticed he said nothing. He just kept going.

They finally stopped as the sun began sinking again. They’d been following the stream that was slowly turning into a river, the sound of the water one last bit of torture. He turned and she almost barreled into him, managing to halt in time. She felt her body begin to droop, and she stiffened her knees and her spine.

“We can take an hour,” he said, and she was too whipped to do anything more but nod, dropping where she stood in a boneless heap. A mistake, she realized glassily as he loomed over her, even though Dylan followed suit and sprawled out behind her, his usual litany of complaints simply background noise like the tropical birds and the rush of water.

And then MacGowan’s steel-gray eyes hardened. “You fucking moron,” he said softly. “You’re bleeding.”

She could barely summon enough energy to look at him. “I don’t care.”

“I do. You know how fast you can get an infection in this climate? I don’t fancy having to carry you the rest of the way.”

She took just a moment to notice the touch of Irish in his voice again. What American man said “I don’t fancy”? “Just leave me then.”

“Tempting. But you’re worth too much money.” He glanced down at Dylan’s sprawled body. “Hey, brat. Stay here. If you move I’ll kill you.”

“I can’t move,” he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “Just kill me now.”

It said a lot that she didn’t even react when MacGowan leaned down and scooped her up, effortlessly, as if he hadn’t been leading the Bataan Death March. She let her head sink against his chest, keeping her eyes closed. He smelled like the jungle. Like sweat and sun and the rough cotton of his clothing. He smelled strong and good, and she wanted to turn her face against him, hide herself from a world that had become too much.

But she had never been the type to run and hide, and she held very still in his arms as he carried her through the jungle.

The water was louder now, and the sound of it covered her stifled groan as he stopped and lowered her to the ground. It was running clear and cold, dancing over the rocks, forming pools here and there on the wide, flat river bed. He knelt down in front of her and began to take off her shoes, and the pain was sudden and unexpected, strong enough that she let out a short cry that she managed to muffle behind her hands.

“You can scream if you want to,” he said, taking off the second one with more speed than delicacy, like someone ripping off a band-aid. “There’s no one around to hear.”

She managed to pull herself together. “And how can you be sure of that?” Her voice was breathless from pain and exhaustion, but it was better than being dead.

“Trust me, I know.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said, trying to put a little strength into her voice and failing.

“No, you don’t.” He was rolling up the loose legs of her heavy cotton pants, and she suddenly fell back with a helpless laugh.

“What’s so funny?” He didn’t pause as he reached for the other pants leg, rolling it to her knee.

“I was thinking that I haven’t shaved my legs in months,” she said, feeling a little hysterical. “And I was worried about what you were going to think.” She giggled again, unable to stop.

He sat back on his heels, watching her inappropriate amusement. “First, Sister Beth, I don’t know why you’d be worried about what I’m thinking. Do I look like the kind of man you’d normally shave your legs for?”

She tried to control her giggles. “I don’t shave my legs for anyone but me,” she said.

“Ah, but that would be a crime, darlin’,” he murmured, and she felt his rough hand slowly run up her calf. “You have the most beautiful white gold down on your legs. If this were another place and another time I’d lick my way up them.”

She jerked, startled, her dazed eyes opening fully, and she could see him grin at her. She pulled herself together. “Given the amount of hair on your face, I don’t think you’re anyone to judge.”

“It’s been a long time without a razor, Sister Beth. I’ll make you a bargain. We get out of this in one piece, I’ll shave for you if you promise not to shave for me.”

“Go drown yourself, MacGowan,” she muttered, closing her eyes.

She heard his laugh. It was a good laugh, she thought muzzily. The laugh of a man who enjoyed life. What would it be like to live through three years of captivity in the Andes and still be able to laugh?

“The bank’s a little high here,” he said, reaching for her.

She tried to fight him, and he caught her wrists in a hard, painful grip, hauling her toward him. “Don’t annoy me, Sister Beth, or I might have to drown you. I’m betting I could talk your bleeding heart foundation to give me some money for at least trying to get you out of here.”

“Not if you murder me.”

“But they won’t know that, and you won’t be around to tell.” He pulled her against him, and a moment later he’d slid down the bank of the river, carrying her with him, and they were hip deep in icy water.

The current was so strong that it tugged her out of his arms, but he managed to hold on to her, letting her half float against him. “And this is supposed to accomplish what?” she demanded.

“It’ll cleanse the wound, since we don’t have any disinfectant. I can wrap something clean around it, but you’re going to slow us down anyway.”

Her endurance was fading fast. “So drown me,” she muttered. “Put me out of my misery.”

He pulled her floating body back against his gaunt one, and his grin was savage. “Oh, hell no, darlin’,” he murmured. “You’ll make some lucky man a very rich, very pretty wife, and there aren’t that many of them to go around. I consider it my duty to mankind to keep you alive.”

“I don’t feel particularly pretty right now,” she grumbled.

He looked down at her, held loosely in the circle of his arms as the water bounced her against him. “As a matter of fact you wouldn’t win any beauty contests at this point,” he said judiciously. “But I expect you’d clean up well. I’ll give you my final judgment after we got to civilization.”

“No, thanks,” she muttered, knocking against him. He was hard all over, hard bones, hard muscles, hard . . . Her eyes opened wide as she stared up at him in disbelief.

He just laughed down at her. “Three years of celibacy, remember?”

She yanked herself out of his arms, but a moment later the water had pulled her away, and he came after her, cursing, a pungent mixture of Spanish, English, and a few languages she didn’t recognize.

The water swept her off her feet, and she went under, then came up sputtering, looking around for him in a panic. He was nowhere in sight, and she screamed his name, as something closed around her ankle, and she remembered anacondas, as the water closed over her head again.

And then she was hauled up into the blessed, muggy air, and MacGowan was beside her. Even MacGowan was better than an anaconda, and she threw her arms around him, sobbing in relief.

For a moment he froze, then simply hauled her out of the water, dumping her on the river bank and climbing up beside her. “Why the sudden affection?” he said gruffly.

“I don’t like snakes.”

“And?”

“I thought it was an anaconda getting my ankle. Not you.”

“I’m not as bad as an anaconda?”

“Not quite,” she said, observing her pale feet. “What next?”

“Just keep from touching the dirt and I’ll bring the bandages.”

He disappeared into the undergrowth. Dylan was there, watching her with interest, and Beth untied her shirt from her waist and pulled it around her, shivering with the cold but determined to keep her frozen nipples from his interested gaze.

He came and sat down beside her. He hadn’t had the benefit of two immersions in icy streams and he stank, but she could smell weed on him as well. “Dude,” he said companionably, “the man likes you.”

“Dude,” she replied, “he likes the money he’ll be paid when he brings us back to civilization.”

“Well, he likes you more than he does me. Don’t you?” He turned to MacGowan

“That’s not saying much,” he grumbled. He looked at her critically. “Take off your shirt.”

“I will not.”

Without a word he turned and walked away, and she knew he wasn’t bluffing. “Okay, okay,” she called after him. “But why.”

He came back. “I need something clean to rest your feet on while I bandage them. And I was planning on using the sleeves for bandages. Any more questions?”

She wasn’t in the mood for fighting. “No questions,” she said, unbuttoning the shirt. They were in the shadows, and even in the steamy heat she had a chill, which the wet cotton wasn’t making any better, and she slipped it off her shoulders and handed it to him.

He caught her ankles in his hands, and they were warm against her icy skin. Her feet were pale in his tanned hands, vulnerable, and she turned her face away while he worked, swiftly and efficiently, binding her feet. Next he took her light sneakers, split them open with a wicked-looking knife, and managed to edge them back onto her swathed feet before falling back, eying his handiwork critically.

“That’ll have to do,” he said, rising. “Next time tell me before things get this bad.”

She looked up at him. “You want me complaining about every little twinge?”

He held out his hand to her, but she scrambled to her feet on her own, managing not to wince in pain. “I wouldn’t call those feet a minor twinge.”

“I didn’t think there was anything that could be done about it.”

“Do me a favor – try not to think.” His voice was terse, and under any other circumstances she would have snapped back. But this was his element, not hers.

“All right.”

He raised an eyebrow, then laughed shortly. “A submissive female? I didn’t think they still existed.”

“Hardly. These are unusual circumstances.”

“Glad you realize it. Dylan, what the hell are you doing?”

The teenager had lit up a joint the size of California and was smiling at them peacefully. “Just chilling, man.”

MacGowan snatched the blunt from his mouth and sent it spinning into the swirling river, ignoring Dylan’s howl of protest. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all I had left, honest. You’re a major buzz-kill. I was keeping up with you – what the fuck does it matter how stoned I was as long as I didn’t fall behind?”

MacGowan grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, shoved a hand inside his loose shirt and emerged with a faded cloth bag. He sniffed it, and tossed it after the joint, holding on to Dylan as he tried to go after it. “Suffer, dude,” he said. He glanced up at the sun overhead. “Another couple of hours and we can stop. That okay with you, Sister Beth?”

“You’re the boss,” she said wearily. “Just get me out of here.”

He laughed again, shaking his head, releasing Dylan. “You going after the weed, Junior, or are you going to come with us?”

Dylan just glared at him, not smart enough to realize MacGowan was their only hope, Beth thought. A moment later they were moving again, down the path that was growing steeper, and then she stopped thinking entirely, putting one foot in front of the other, just to keep moving.

It was pitch-black when he stopped next. There was no moonlight – thick clouds covered the night, and somewhere in the distance she could hear an ominous rumble. It either had to be gunfire or thunder and at the point she would have preferred gunfire. She’d gone beyond misery to a state of numbness that kept crumbling every time she stepped the wrong way, or the bandages rubbed against her feet, or her stomach growled. She was almost disappointed that it was only another fucking rainstorm, the third that day.

MacGowan shoved the two of them down in the bushes with a terse, Schwarzenegger-like “I’ll be back,” but even a tropical downpour couldn’t put a dent in Dylan’s stink, and his mood was even worse. So Beth simply curled in on herself, ducking her head and praying for it to be over.

She didn’t know how long he was gone and she didn’t care. At least she wasn’t walking. She heard his voice from a distance as the rain pounded down on her bowed head but she didn’t bother to move. He could go on without her. She was staying here, and if things got really bad she’d find an anaconda and feed herself to it. Enough was enough.

She was barely aware of his hands on her, and when he scooped her up in his arms she was too beaten down to react. Between their soaked bodies a faint trace of heat bloomed and blossomed, and she turned her face into his shoulder, hiding it from the pounding rain. She stopped thinking, she stopped feeling. She simply closed her eyes and let the night take her.