Into the Wild (22 page)

And Kylie would hate it if Spenser didn't make it home in time for her wedding. She'd be positively crushed if anything bad happened to him.

So would River.

Brain buzzing, she glanced at the Cerro Hermoso, considered infinite possibilities.

She had to get back her camera.

She chugged a third cup of tea while Spenser doused the fire.

Seconds later he was shrugging on that massive pack. “Ready, angel?”

Stuffing a coca leaf between her cheek and gum, River nodded. “Let's book.”

T
HE
C
ONQUISTADOR WENT
through blondie's backpack a third time. Every pouch. Every pocket. He even ripped out the lining. Clothes, camera, soap, medicine, sun-block, hand sanitizer, insect repellent…

Gator remembered how blondie had begged for bug spray instead of her wallet or expensive camera lenses during the roadside robbery. Fucking loon.

“It's not here,” Con said.

Of course not, Gator thought bitterly. That would have been too easy. They'd searched the treasure hunter's backpack, too…and his person. No map. It had to be on blondie or McGraw, and they were both missing.

Hands on hips, Con surveyed the primitive campsite. “They should have been here with Lassiter.”

“Maybe they got an early start,” Gator wheezed. Christ, the air was thin up here. “Maybe they're up ahead.”

“Why would they separate? Why would she leave her provisions and camera? I don't see additional tracks or evidence that they slept here.” He shook his head, shoved his aviator shades higher up his nose and peered out at the sun-drenched landscape. “No. They're behind.”

“Maybe they turned back.”

“McGraw wouldn't turn back. Not after getting this far. He wants that treasure as much as I do.”

Gator raised a brow. “Know him well, do you?”

Con didn't answer. He hadn't answered any of his questions last night, either, not that Gator had been all that talkative. He'd been too preoccupied with adjusting to the altitude, nursing his various injuries and catching snatches of sleep. Con had been focused on Kane's journal.

“Maybe blondie couldn't keep up,” Gator said, offering an alternate scenario while Con shoved her belongings back into her pack. “Maybe they got trapped by that fog, like us.”

Gator had never seen anything like it. After he and Con had deserted the copter, they'd humped it through mist, rain and wind, but when the fog had gotten so dense Gator couldn't see his hand in front of his face, Con had stopped cold. It was the first time Gator had sensed apprehension in the man. They'd taken refuge in a cramped cave and that's where they'd spent the night.

“Get rid of the body,” Con ordered. “I'll dispose of Lassiter's pack. We'll take River's pack with us.”

Gator frowned. “So we're going to hide and wait for them to show up?”

“No, we're going to hurry ahead and wait for them at Brunner's Lake.”

“How do you know—”

“Because Kane drew the lake in the center of the map. Part of it is on my half, the other part—”

“But you have the first half. The half that tells you how to get there. Will McGraw know—”

“He knows.”

“But why there and not here?”

“Poetic justice.” Con gathered Lassiter's supplies.

“Hide the body where no one will find it.”

Two hundred pounds of dead weight. Gator usually prided himself on his strength and endurance, but these were unusual circumstances. “Boss—”

The man slowly turned and glared.

If looks could kill.

Gator was beginning to wish for death anyway. He'd exhausted his supply of herbal salve on his bruised neck and throbbing ankle. His nose hurt. His lungs and muscles burned. It was hard to think straight. High altitude and brutal terrain, plus it was fucking freezing. The Conquistador didn't look cold. He wasn't breathing hard, either.
Fucker.
Gator was beginning to wonder if the man was human.

“So we hike to this lake and wait,” Gator said, straining not to wheeze. “Then what?”

“We get the map.”

“Without killing River.”

“That's right.”

All because he wanted her for himself. With that treasure in his possession, The Conquistador could do a lot better than skinny-ass, paranoid blondie—an observation he kept to himself. “What about McGraw?” Gator asked, tipping a flask to his lips. He'd been counting on
whiskey to dull his aching body and warm his chilled bones. If only it could help him breathe.

The Conquistador shot him another one of those death stares. “He must live to mourn the loss of Miss Kane.”

Gator would have rolled his eyes at the overdramatic drivel, but he wouldn't put it past the man to poke them out with that damned silver spearhead he kept in his pocket. It was all he could do not to break The Conquistador's neck, the way he'd broken Lassiter's. But Gator needed him in order to get to the treasure. The freak navigated this region like a native, knew shortcuts and tricks that enabled them to move swiftly and silently. He'd cracked the journal's code. Bragged he had the key to the Inca kingdom. All he needed was the map…and River Kane.

“Since you've repeatedly bungled this job,” The Conquistador said, “I'm going to give you clear direction and assistance. Although you're no good to me in your present state.” Disgusted, he tossed Gator a bottle of pills. “Take one of these. It will ease your discomfort. Then I'll help you dispose of Lassiter and share my brilliant plan.”

Gator hated the man's arrogance. He hated the man. The Conquistador paid others to do his dirty work while maintaining anonymity. While dodging risk. Gator swallowed a pill and gathered his wits. Con's arrogance, he thought in a passing moment of clarity, would be the man's undoing. Until then Gator would do his bidding. Afterward, Gator would have it all.

“T
HIS IS DISGUSTING,”
River said.

“I know.”

“I mean it. This is gross. All this muck and mud. Do you know how many germs—”

“I can imagine.”

“Have you had your shots?”

“I'm not a freaking dog, River.”

“Bet that depends on who you ask.” She snorted, sighed. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“And you're never rude.”

“Only when I'm not myself.”

“Like now.”

“You're the one who insisted on coca.”

“Guilty.”
But not sorry,
Spenser thought. The altitude was a bitch and they were pushing hard. If a coca high kept River from hurting, he'd happily deal. She'd been talking his ear off for the last twenty minutes. He didn't mind—she was funny and interesting and, when buzzed, refreshingly unguarded—but it had been a long time since he'd been in these mountains and he was working hard to keep his bearings. He was also concentrating on the marshy terrain. Trekking across the
páramo
was a challenge.

“So how many women
have
you been with?”

“River—”

“Sorry. So?'

“Just keep walking,” he said.

She saluted him and…walked right out of her boot and into the bog. “Gross!”

“For the love of—” Spenser steadied the woman before she fell face first. He freed her pink boot from the thick, sucking mud and bit back a smile as she yanked her stocking foot from calf-deep slime.

“It's cold and—”

“Disgusting. I know. Hold on.” He worked a pair of wool socks from the side pocket of his pack and helped her swap her slimy, wet sock for a thick, dry one. He slaked mud from her pant leg and shoved her foot back into her boot.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure.” He glanced up. “No tirade on germs?”

“Too distracted.”

“By?”

“You.”

She was peering at him over the rims of her sunglasses. He chalked up that dreamy-eyed look to coca. Even so, his heart skipped.
Skipped,
for Christ's sake.

She smiled. “You're awfully handsome.”

“You're awfully pretty.”

“Sure I'm not too delicate for you?”

“Sure I'm not too old for you?”

She scrunched her brow. “Where'd that come from?”

“Forget it.” He brushed a kiss over her mouth. “Come on, angel. Cy's waiting.”

“Cy! Right. My camera. Henry. Stop dawdling, McGraw.” She pushed out of his arms and tromped forward.

He raised a brow when he saw her stuff another coca leaf in her mouth, but said nothing. He'd been chewing on one himself. “Let me lead,” he said, tugging her behind him. “Walk where I walk.”

After a whole second of silence, she asked, “How old are you, anyway?”

Damn. “Turned thirty-seven last month.”

“Happy belated birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“I thought you were older.”

“Ouch.”

“It's just that you're so confident and worldly. So masculine and mature and…skilled. You know. In bed.”

He chuckled. “Keep talking.”

“And you've got all those lines. The crinkles at the edges of your eyes. The brackets framing your mouth.”

“Okay. You can stop now.”

“You don't smoke, so I'm guessing it's a combination of sun and wind exposure and a lot of smiling. Laugh lines. They're sexy.”

He grunted.

“Why are you so touchy about your age?”

“Because I'm the host of a cable television series and
the entertainment industry is obsessed with physical perfection and youth.”

“Since when is thirty-seven old?”

Spenser angled his head. “That's what I'd like to know.”
Fuck you, Necktie Nate.

“Is that why they airbrush your promo shots?”

“Yes.” He noted a particular rock formation in the distance, eyed the sun, then made a hard left.

“I wouldn't retouch your photos,” she grumbled, sounding distracted. “Your face has character.
You
have character. I—” She let out a squeal.

What now?
Spenser turned. “Shit.”

“I'm thinking this is bad. What did you call it? Andean quicksand?”

She was waist-deep in marshy mud.
What the hell?
“Don't panic.”

“Don't come any closer,” she said in a strangled voice. “What if you sink, too?”

“I won't.” He shrugged off his gear.

“Do you have a rope in that clown-car backpack?”

One hundred sixty-four feet of double-dry coated mountaineering rope. He tossed her one end. “Grab hold and I'll pull you out.”

She gave him a cocky salute then grabbed hold.

He pulled…and the rope slid right through her hands.

“Can't get a good grip,” she said, holding out her slimy palms. “Too muddy, too slick.”

“It's okay, hon. We'll attack it another way.” Instead of trying to drag her across the sluggish muck, better
to pull her straight up and out. He eyed a nearby tree, the rope, River. Her silence bothered him. But if she panicked, she'd struggle. If she struggled, she'd sink. He searched his pack for a carabiners. “I'm going to rig something.”

“Okay.”

“It'll take a couple of minutes. Talk to me.”

“I…I can't think of anything to say.”

Indicating her fear had trumped the coca buzz. “How did you meet my sister? You haven't been friends for long, right?”

“A few months.”

“Go on.” He looped one end of the rope and tied a bowline knot.

“I…I needed shoes. For the wedding. My wedding.”

Christ. “Yeah? And?” He tossed the rope over a sturdy branch of a nearby tree.

“Everyone in a three-county radius was talking about the recently refurbished shoe store in Eden. McGraw's Shoe Shoppe.
Walk in comfort, walk in style.
”

His sister's new logo. Actually, the man she'd hired to renovate the family store had come up with that logo. Spenser didn't like to think about the trouble Travis Martin had brought into Kylie's life. Thank God Jack had been there.

“I heard you could get designer shoes at a bargain price. So I drove over. Maple Grove's only about forty minutes from Eden.”

“I know. Reach up and grab the lasso, River. Pull it over your head, under you armpits.”

“Kylie had a limited but amazing selection of high heels. I wanted four-inch stilettos,” she said as she gingerly positioned the rope. “Because I'm short and David's tall and—”

“I get the picture.”

“Anyway, we just sort of hit it off. Kylie and me,” she clarified as she adjusted the lasso. “We were both planning weddings and—”

“Got it.” Spenser channeled his explosive jealously and, with the rigged pulley, easily hauled River from the muck. He refused to think of it as quicksand. Refused to imagine her going under. “Swing and drop,” he said, and seconds later she was safely in his arms.

“Are you going to cry?” he asked as he held her close.

“No. I knew you'd get me out. But I am going to kiss you.”

“Okay,” he said…. and kissed her first.

 

T
HOUGH THE TEMPERATURE
was brisk, the sun shone bright. It was a beautiful clear day.
Dammit.
In between reassessing her priorities and future, River had prayed for rain. She'd cleaned up as best she could after that unexpected dip in the marshy mud pit, toweling off the slime without the aid of soap and water. Spenser had helped her change into fresh underwear and a pair of his Levi's. Yes, they were clean and dry, but she still felt
filthy. Rain would wash away the remaining mud that was now dried and caked on her body and in her hair.

She refused to think about things like jungle rot, fungus infections and rashes—obsessing wouldn't do. Instead, she pretended she'd been the recipient of a luxurious mud wrap, compliments of the Llanganatis outdoor spa. She also pretended that her spirits weren't flagging and her thighs weren't cramping. It seemed like they'd been walking forever.

“Almost there,” Spenser said as if sensing her impatience.

Five minutes later, she spied what looked like three thatched huts. Small, primitive and still several yards away. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head for a clearer look and pointed. “Is that it?”

“Brunner's camp.”

Yes!

She didn't see Cy, but he could be inside one of the weathered shacks.
Please be inside.
She would've sprinted the rest of the way, but she'd learned her lesson about treading haphazardly in the quaking bogs. Up until now the coca had eased her breathing and anxiety. But now…

Please be there.

She had a plan. A new plan. Not perfect, but sensible. Something she could live with…
if
she got her camera back. “Cy!”

No answer. Her pulse raced as they neared the huts. She had a bad feeling.

Spenser tugged her to a stop. “Stay here.”

He moved ahead and pulled a handgun. A freaking semiautomatic! Obviously, he had a bad feeling, too. He looked more like a mean street cop than a celebrity treasure hunter as he carefully circled, then peered inside each dilapidated shack. She thought about the road bandits, about the burglar who'd killed Bovedine. She held her breath, waiting for a spear to sail out of one of those straw huts. But then Spenser signaled her to come ahead and her adrenaline shot to the clouds.

“Cy's not here,” he said, holstering the gun beneath his jacket.

“I knew it.”

“No signs that he even slept here.”

“I
knew
it! He found the picture of the map, sucked more seed juice and just kept going!”

“That doesn't sit right with me.”

“Me, neither! I can't freaking believe this!” She realized suddenly that she was pacing and punching the air.

“Get hold of yourself,”
she could hear Henry saying.
“This is why I don't want you with me.”
He'd said it over and over after finding her in the jungle. She'd hated him for that. She couldn't help it that she couldn't stop crying. She'd been scared out of her wits. But instead of comforting her, he'd scolded.

Spenser said nothing. He was walking around the camp, gaze intent on the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for signs of a struggle. But…” He shook his head.

“That's because there
was
no struggle!”

“
Or
last night's rain washed away the evidence.”

“
Or
he's halfway to Cerro Hermoso!”

Spenser shrugged off the pack. “Why do you want to believe the worst about Cy?”

“Because it makes sense. He's a treasure hunter. He's been looking for this particular treasure for years. He doesn't care who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants. And he doesn't want me!”

“Whoa,” Spenser said. “Who are we talking about? Cy or your dad?”

“Grandpa Franklin didn't want me, either, but at least he didn't kick me out. And David…” She kicked a stump. Kicked it again. All the hurt she'd shoved down on her wedding day and the days after spewed like molten lava. It was hot and destructive and she was helpless to stop it. “That selfish, insensitive…jackass! How could he
do
that to me? At the altar. In
front
of everyone!”

“Easy.” Spenser tenderly grasped her forearms. “You're going to break your foot, angel.”

She whirled and punched his shoulder. “I'm not an
angel.
I'm difficult. I'm…quirky!”

“I like quirky.”

Tears stung and flowed. “What's
wrong
with me?”

“Nothing.”

She was sobbing now. She couldn't stop.

Spenser pulled her into his arms, made gentle shushing sounds that only made her cry harder.

“I had a plan,” she sobbed.

“Disney time-share. A house in the best school district. I know.”

“No, a new plan. Cy ruined it.” She could feel her legs giving way. “Now we'll have to go after him.”

Spenser lowered himself to the ground, rocked her in his arms.

“I wanted to go back,” she hiccupped over a sob. “The risk is too great. Henry made his choice and…there are more important things…other ways to find closure.”

“We can still go back.”

“Not without my camera. I already lost Henry's journal, now the camera, with the picture of the map,” she wailed. “After all these years, he finally trusted me with his work, with a secret, and I blew it.”

“You didn't blow it. We'll get the camera.”

She grabbed a fistful of his jacket and glared up at him through a sheen of tears. “If anything bad happens to you—”

“It won't.”

She'd drown in the depth of his tenderness if she weren't already drowning in tears. She dragged a sleeve across her wet cheeks and sniffled. “I don't love David.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I wouldn't know love if it bit me in the butt.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“What?”

He winked and a split second later she laughed. A scratchy, hiccuppy laugh, but at least it wasn't a sob.

“Better?” he asked, mopping her face with a bandanna.

“Ella warned this would happen.” She took the kerchief from him and blew her nose. “She said I'd explode. That it was only a matter of time. Said you can only keep things bottled up for so long.”

“Something tells me you've been keeping a tight lid on your emotions ever since you lost control in Mexico.”

She quirked a watery smile. “Perceptive.”

“Boils down to listening and observing. I'm pretty good at both. So are you.”