“True.” Michael moved into the room.
It was furnished in a haphazard way at odds with the elegance of the rest of the house. Every time their father had taken a wife, the new Mrs. West had redecorated. Michael and his brothers had gotten in the habit of stashing their favorite pieces here. The playroom had become a haven for castoffs in more ways than one.
There was a library table that had once been the property of a Spanish viceroy of Mexico. It made him think of his brother Luke and countless games of poker—which Luke had usually won. Michael’s second-oldest brother might seem reckless, but he had always been good at calculating the odds. Luke was almost as at home with a deck of cards as he was on the back of a horse.
A chessboard with jade and jet pieces sat on the table now. Michael paused there to pick up the jet king and turn it over and over in the hand that wasn’t holding the thick envelope. Chess had always been Jacob’s game. The patience and planning of it had suited him when they were young, just as his careful accumulation of wealth did now.
Michael sighed and put the chess piece down. It was hard to ask, but worse not to know. “How’s Ada?”
“Mean as ever.” Jacob stood. He was a big man, Michael’s oldest brother. Big all over, and four inches taller than Michael’s six feet. His hair was short and thick, a brown so dark it almost matched Michael’s black hair; his shirt, too, was dark, with the subtle sheen of silk. “She’s doing well, Michael. The treatments are working.”
The breath he hadn’t realized he was holding came out in a dizzy rush. He cleared his throat. “Good. That’s good.”
“You here for a while?”
“I’ll have to leave in the morning. I’ve been…” He glanced at the envelope still in his hand. “Taking care of business. You have anything to drink other than that fancy cologne you’re sipping?”
“I think I can find something cheap enough to please you.” Jacob moved over to the bar. “How much of an effect are you after?”
“More than that,” Michael said when his brother paused after pouring two fingers of bourbon.
Jacob handed him the glass. “You can start with this. You won’t be here long enough to nurse a hangover.”
“I’ll nurse it on the plane.” He let his restless feet carry him to the pinball machine in the corner.
Pinball—that had been his game back when they all lived here. Flash and speed, he thought, and swallowed cheap fire, grimacing at the taste but relishing the burn. He’d been drawn to both back then. Lacking Jacob’s patience and Luke’s athleticism, he’d settled for the gifts he did have—a certain quickness of hand, eye and body.
He couldn’t complain. Agility was an asset for a man who lived the way he did. So was a clear mind…but tonight he preferred to be thoroughly fuzzed. He tossed back the rest of the liquor.
Jacob’s eyebrow lifted. “In a hurry?”
He shrugged and went over to the bar to refill his glass. What he’d done—what he intended to do—was for Ada, and therefore worth the sacrifice. Without the treatments administered by a Swiss clinic, she would die. But the treatments were experimental and very, very expensive.
There had been only one way for the West brothers to raise the money to keep Ada alive. The trust, the be-damned trust their father had left his fortune tied up in, could be dissolved and they could claim the inheritance none of them had wanted to touch…once they fulfilled the conditions.
Luke had already done his part. Michael intended to do his—that’s why he was here. Jacob wouldn’t be far behind…all three of them dancing to the old man’s piping at last, five years after burying him.
Jacob set his snifter on the bar. “Pour me some more while you’re at it. I’m not interested in a hangover, but I’ll keep you company. What’s the occasion?”
“What else?” He tossed the envelope on the bar. “That’s a copy of the prenuptial agreement your lawyer drew up for me, duly signed and notarized.”
“I see. Found someone already, have you?”
Michael lifted his glass, empty now, in a mocking salute. “Congratulate me. I’m getting married as soon as I get back from this mission. So tonight, I’m going to get very, very drunk.”
One
Were they coming for her?
She sat bolt upright, thrust from sleep into wakefulness. The bed ropes creaked beneath her. The taste of fear was thick and dry in her mouth. Dan, she thought. Dan, why aren’t you here?
There was, of course, no answer.
If it had been a sound that awakened her, she heard nothing now except the rhythmic rasp of Sister Maria Elena’s breathing in the bed beside her. Darkness pressed against her staring eyes, the unrelieved blackness only possible far from the artificial glow of civilization.
Automatically her gaze flickered toward the door. She couldn’t see a thing.
Thank God. Her sigh eased a single hard knot of fear. If they came for her at night—and they might—they would have to bring a light. She’d be able to see it shining around the edges of the door.
Her gaze drifted to the outside wall where whispers of starlight bled through cracks between the boards, smudging the darkness. Soldiers had hammered those boards over the window when they’d first locked her in this room last week.
One week. When morning came, she would have been here a full seven days. Waiting for the man they called El Jefe to return and decide if she were to live or die…or, if the taunts of her guards were true, what form that death would take.
He would decide Sister Maria Elena’s fate, too, she reminded herself, and wished the fear didn’t always come first, hardest, for herself. But while the sister was a religioso, she was also a native of San Christóbal, not a representative of the nation El Jefe hated even more than he hated organized religion. She was old and ill. He might spare her.
A.J. pushed back the thin blanket, careful not to wake the nun, and swung her legs to the floor. Her knees were rubbery. Her breath came quick and shallow, and her hands and feet were chilled.
She ignored the physical symptoms of terror as best she could, making her way by touch and memory to the boarded-up window. There she folded her long legs to sit on the cool, dirty floor. Spaces between the boards let in fresh air—chilly, this far up in the mountains, but welcome. She smelled dampness and dirt, the wild green aroma of growing things, the heavier perfume of flowers. Even now, in the dry season, there were flowers here.
Wherever “here” was. She didn’t know where the soldiers had brought her when they’d raided La Paloma, the sleepy village where she’d been working. San Christóbal had a lot of mountains.
The boards let in slices of sky along with air. And if the sky was clear…yes, when she leaned close she could see a single star. The sight eased her.
The night wasn’t truly silent. Inside, there was the labored breathing of the feverish nun. Outside, frogs set up a staccato chorus, and the soft whirring of wings announced the hunt of some night-flying bird. Somewhere not too far away, a man cried out a greeting in Spanish and was answered. The distant scream of a puma rattled the night. Then there was only the sighing of wind through trees.
So many trees. Even without boards, without soldiers and fear, it had been hard sometimes to find enough sky here to feed a soul used to the open plains of west Texas.
A.J. tried not to regret coming to San Christóbal. That, too, was hard. Her eyes stayed open while her lips moved in a soundless prayer.
It shamed her, how deep and terrible her fear was. It weakened her, too, and she would need strength to get through