Читать книгу On Wings Of Deliverance - Elizabeth White - Страница 13

Benny slid off the mule and into Owen’s arms. Her thigh muscles ached, her knees were rubbery and there were blisters in places she didn’t want to think about. To make it worse, her stomach had been rumbling for the last hour. It was past noon and Owen had to be starving, too.

Owen grabbed the mule’s harness. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, thanks.” She stepped back, staggering a little. “I’ll get out lunch while you take care of Sunflower.”

They’d stopped at a small pond just off the dusty, rutted track they’d been following for the last two hours. The sight of the little brown pool had instantly centered Benny’s misery on her parched mouth and throat. Water. Blessed gift of a good God.

She unbuckled the saddle pack, keeping a wary eye on Sunflower’s broad hindquarters. She extracted a couple of bottles of water they’d brought from the plane and the burritos Mariela had sent. Owen ground-tied the mule, letting it graze on the weeds at the edge of the pond.

Benny handed Owen a bottle of water, smiling when he twisted off the cap and glugged it down in one long swallow.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wish we didn’t have to leave the other two cases back in the plane.”

“I know, but Gustavo and Mariela will enjoy it. We owed them a little something for their trouble.”

“You mean besides a new door in their barn?” Owen’s mouth quirked as he put the empty plastic bottle back in the saddle pack. He accepted one of the newspaper-wrapped rolls in Benny’s hand. “What’s on the menu?”

“Burritos.”

Owen grimaced. He sat down in the skimpy shade of a mesquite tree near the pond and opened the packet. “Burritos for breakfast, burritos for lunch, burritos for supper. I’m beginning to sympathize with the Israelites’ manna complex.”

“At least Mariela’s a good cook and her kitchen was clean.” Too sore to sit, Benny leaned against the tree and ate where she stood. Biting into the soft flour tortilla, she found it filled with spicy rice, beans and a trace of chicken. “Mmm…I should’ve gotten the recipe.”

Owen lifted his sunglasses and squinted at her, eyes inhumanly blue-green in the bright noonday sun. “You’re kidding, right?”

She shrugged. “I like to cook. Rolling tortillas is an art.”

“Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been busy taking care of orphans and translating for medical teams. When do you ever have time to cook?”

Benny smiled. “Granted, Rosie did most of the cooking at the orphanage, but I had to help. I learned when I was in high school.”

“Oh.” Sliding his glasses onto the top of his blond head, Owen swallowed the last of his burrito. “Sit down, kid, you’re makin’ me noivous.”

Laughing, Benny gingerly sat down and stretched out her legs. “Ooh, you were right about the saddle sores.”

Wearing pants again felt strange. Hot and itchy. At least it was a modest outfit, and she should be grateful Owen had let her borrow them. He had on lightweight cargo shorts and a white Promise Keepers T-shirt. He’d shoved the sleeves up onto his shoulders and she couldn’t keep her eyes off the hard brown biceps that flexed and rolled every time he moved.

“So who taught you? Mrs. Coker?”

“Huh?” Benny jerked her gaze to Owen’s face.

He wadded the newspaper that had wrapped his meal. “Who taught you to cook? You said Mrs. Coker was one of your foster mothers.”

Food, Benny. He’s talking about food. “No, Mrs. Coker was from my Tennessee days, before—” She snapped her jaws together. “I moved to south Mississippi and finished high school with the Gonzales family.” Rattled, she forced a smile. “Miss Roxanne was my culinary coach. You should try my chicken and dumplings.”

“Believe me, I’d love to.” Owen canted his head, fixing her with his deceptively sleepy gaze. “I bet you have lots of unsuspected talents.”

She stared at him, heat rising to her cheeks. He didn’t mean anything by that. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And even if he did, he’d never deliberately insult her. “Well, I speak fluent Hebrew,” she said lightly. “That’s always useful.”

Owen let out a crack of laughter. “How come you decided to study that language?”

She shrugged, offering him the last of her burrito, which he swallowed in one bite. “I did my graduate work in missions, but my Hebrew-studies class hooked me, so I decided to stick around for a Ph.D.”

He looked at her openmouthed for a moment. “How old are you, Bernadette?”

“You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.”

“Since you look like you’re about sixteen, that’s hardly an insulting question. Come on, how old?”

Benny pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Twenty-seven.”

“And you’ve been in Mexico for over a year. What are you, a genius? Nobody gets a Ph.D. at the age of twenty-six.”

“People do it all the time. I graduated from Delta State at twenty-one and went straight to seminary.” Benny ducked her head. “I’m…very focused.”

“Yeah, right.” Owen snorted. “That’s what I’d call it. Why did I not know this about you?”

“Well, the subject just doesn’t come up in everyday conversation.” Back home in Del Rio/Acuña, Owen and his older brother, Eli, had often come to the orphanage to deliver supplies or take the older kids on outings. Benny had appreciated the help, but there never was much time for adult fellowship. Even at church, she’d deliberately kept Owen at arm’s length. Male-female relationships were a complication she didn’t need or want.

Now…Well, there was nobody around but her, Owen and Sunflower. She could hardly refuse to talk to him. That would just make him more curious.

Her glance fell on his big college ring. “Where did you go to college?” Men always loved to talk about themselves.

He held up the ring, which glinted in the sunlight. “Baylor. Class of two thousand.”

“Really? What did you study?”

“Criminal justice. Then I went to Border Patrol Academy and came back to Texas.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I’m kind of a homebody.”

Benny rested her chin on her knees and studied him. She’d always been a rootless person, self-contained and lonely. Owen, on the other hand, was deeply attached to his family and his home in Del Rio. Self-confident, recklessly extroverted and full of fun and adventure, he never met a stranger and had a talent for turning adversaries into allies. She deeply admired him.

And secretly feared him.

“Well, Mr. Homebody, if we’re going to make it back to the States sometime this year, we’d better hit the road. We have to get to Poza Rica before Gustavo’s cousin closes his car lot.” She pushed herself to her feet, starting a little when Owen took her elbow to help her up. “Thanks.” She forced herself not to jerk away from his hand. She had to keep reminding herself that Owen was a gentleman. He’s not grabbing you, Benny. Chill.

Old habits were hard to break.

On the outskirts of Poza Rica, Owen and Benny were stopped by a gun-toting federal sitting just off the road in a rusty blue truck that looked like it had been hauling chickens since the Nixon era. The officer got out and gestured for them to dismount.

“¿Drogas?” He pointed to the saddlebags.

Owen grabbed Sunflower’s halter to keep him from taking another nip at the officer’s black T-shirt sleeve. “¡No drogas!” That was all they needed—to get hauled off to the Mexican pokey, accused of transporting drugs. He would have given anything to be able to flash a U.S. Border Patrol badge and ease on down the road.

Instead he opened the saddlebags and let the federal paw through them.

Owen’s experience with the Mexican national police force had been mixed. Just last year he and Eli had worked closely with an undercover officer named Artemio Petrarca in an operation to rescue Eli’s wife from a brutal smuggler, kidnapper and murderer. Artemio was a fine policeman. But in other quarters Owen had encountered graft, corruption and downright laziness. He hoped this guy would belong to the former category.

Judging by the way his and Bernadette’s stuff was getting strewn all over the side of the road, though, they were about to experience a good old Mexican morde-dura, or “bite.”

The officer eyed Benny in a way that made Owen want to clock him. “Déme cincuenta dólares.”

“Fifty dollars?” Owen let go of the harness. Sunflower could have at the guy.

“¿Porqué?” Why? Benny coolly folded her arms.

No Mexican officer would argue directly with a woman if there was a man nearby. The federal flicked a glance at her, then turned to Owen. “Cincuenta dólares,” he repeated. “Por el peaje.”

Sunflower was straddling a pothole the size of a small car and the guy wanted them to pay a toll? Clearly they weren’t going to get away without a donation to the federal’s bank account.

Owen hid a grin and pretended to think. “Cinco,” he finally offered. Five.

“¿Cinco?” The officer frowned, shaking his head. “Treinta.” Thirty.

“Siete.” Owen ignored Benny’s squeak of protest. Seven bucks ought to be enough to get rid of the guy.

Scowling, the officer put his hand on his gun. “Diez.”

“Owen—” Benny grabbed his arm “—give him the money so we can get out of here.”

He stared down at her for a moment, startled by the real fear in her eyes. Maybe she had a point. The guy would remember two Anglos giving him such a hard time. Making himself relax, he reached for his wallet, which contained nine American dollars. He handed it all to the officer. “No tengo más.” I don’t have any more.

Except the three hundred-dollar bills he’d stashed in one of his shoes.

The federal glared for a few seconds, which wasn’t too intimidating since Owen towered over the guy by at least a foot. Finally the man stepped back, waving Owen and Benny on. “Salgan ustedes.” Get out of here. He muttered a few choice phrases about cheap tourists.

For Benny’s sake, Owen ignored him and swung onto the mule’s back. Hoisting Benny up behind him, he kicked their intrepid steed into motion. He could feel the federal’s stare as they trotted down the road.

When they were out of earshot, Benny sighed against his back. “I hope he doesn’t have a radio.”

“Yeah. If somebody’s looking for us, he won’t have any problem describing us.”

“Owen, we’re going to have to split up. I’m the one they want and I can easily make it back to the States by myself. With my coloring I can pass for Hispanic.”

“I’m not leaving you to travel through Mexico by yourself.” The very idea made Owen’s blood pressure rise.

She patted his hand. “You’re such a gentleman, but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’ve traveled to other foreign countries alone, my Spanish is fluent and I’m familiar with the culture. I’ll really be safer without—”

“No, you would not be safer without me!” Owen reined in so hard the mule brayed in protest.

By now they had reached the outer edges of Poza Rica, named “rich hole” because it was Mexico’s largest oil town. Derricks rose like skeletal trees in the eastern distance and the Sierra Madre rippled off to the west. In front of them, the buildings of downtown fell into a pile like blocks dumped out of a toy box. Close by, straggling rows of plywood-and-palm-frond shacks stuck out from the road, intersected by sagging power lines. Children played in the junky, flower-bedecked yards, and old men lounged on cars and trucks parked along the dirt streets.

Mexico in its essence. Not particularly frightening at first glance. But all kinds of danger lay in wait for an unaccompanied woman.

He hooked a leg over the old-fashioned saddle horn and turned sideways. He could see the fragile violet veins at her temples, and long, curly black wisps had come loose from her braid to blow against his cheek. Beautiful and vulnerable.

“Okay, lady, let’s have this out once and for all. You claim to be so good at interpreting men. Did you not see the way that federal was looking at you?” He leaned in, practically nose to nose. “You. Are. Stuck. With. Me. Period.”

She stared up at him, mouth pursed to protest. Then something shifted in her expression and she looked away. “I guess I shouldn’t expect you to say anything else.” She didn’t exactly sound grateful.

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind.” Leaning back a little, she gave him a gentle poke in the side. “Turn around and let’s get going before Señor Federal decides to come after us. We’re going to have to disguise you and find a change of clothes.”

“Disguise me?” Owen nudged Sunflower in the ribs with his heels. “How?”

“You’ll see. Just find a general store.”

Owen cast a look over his shoulder and found Benny’s eyes twinkling. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever you’re cooking up.”

“You want to stay with me, you’re going to have to do this my way.”

Unable to get her to come clean, Owen had to content himself with the full-time task of keeping Sunflower’s attention off the wild onions growing along the side of the road.

He could not wait to trade in this contrary, spavined animal for a vehicle with wheels. Cousin Jorge had better have a decent selection.

“I look like an Elvis impersonator!”

Benny surveyed Owen critically in the wavy, speckled mirror. She thought she’d done a pretty good job, considering she’d never been to cosmetology school and hadn’t dyed her own hair since she was fourteen. Back then she’d gone in for magenta and green streaks or a full-platinum bleach. She wrinkled her nose. Thank goodness those days were over.

On the outskirts of Poza Rica, they’d stopped at the first general-store-cum-tourist-trap they came to. Leaving Owen to tend to the mule, Benny had gone inside to purchase a beach towel, a bottle of hair dye, a hat and a pair of cheap sunglasses.

She’d had to get creative to find a place to effect Owen’s disguise. The restroom in the store was out of the question. Slipping a man of Owen’s height past the clerk would have been impossible, and besides, anybody could walk in on them. So they’d headed toward town until they saw an outhouse in an empty schoolyard. It was relatively clean and contained a sink and mirror—the major requirements for Benny’s impromptu beauty salon. Propping the door open, she’d draped the gaudy towel around Owen’s broad shoulders and got to work.

Now his blond hair and eyebrows were jet black. By contrast, his horrified blue-green eyes looked even more electric. She had to admit, he bore a strong resemblance to the King, whose black-velvet portrait hung over the couch in Roxanne Gonzales’s living room. Every day during her sophomore and junior years of high school, Benny had giggled at that portrait as she walked into the kitchen for breakfast.

She whipped the towel off his shoulders. “Can you do ‘That’s All Right, Mama’?”

Giving her a pained look, he slipped on a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt he’d had stuffed in his backpack and buttoned it up. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Would I do that?” She crammed his discarded T-shirt and the towel into the backpack. Fooling around with Owen’s hair had been an intimacy that left her flustered.

“What are you gonna do with your hair?”

“What do you mean?”

“You ought to cut it.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” She grabbed the braid lying across her shoulder. “If I cut this off I’ll look like a Brillo pad.” Vehemently she plopped on her new straw sun hat. “The hit man saw me wearing a skirt, with my hair down. See? In these jeans, with my head covered, I’ll look like a boy.”

There was a short silence as Owen studied her. “I don’t think so.” The look in his eyes seemed to suck every bit of oxygen out of the room.

Or maybe she was just breathless because it smelled so bad in here. “You s-said you wouldn’t—”

Owen sighed. “I know, but…”

There was nothing threatening in his stance, and his gaze was tender. Still, she closed her eyes. Was she afraid of him or herself? She couldn’t help thinking of that picture of her in his notebook.

“Bernadette, look at me.”

She was trying to summon the courage to open her eyes when someone banged on the door. With extreme vigor. Apparently it had swung shut while she was occupied with Owen’s hair.

“What’s going on in there?” demanded a female voice in scandalized Spanish. “Get out here right now or I’ll call the police!”