Ransomed Dreams (2 page)

What drivel that was! Eighteen months—or to be more precise, seventeen months, three weeks, and two days; but who was counting? All that time had passed and only one thing was healed: Eliot’s gunshot wound. His other wounds, the invisible ones, still oozed like toxins from a waste dump site. He was not the same man she had married.

Sheridan took a deep breath and let the bitter argument go. Nostalgia and regret settled back down into whatever corner of her heart they’d found to hide out in. Their impact, though, lingered.

Would time ever erase her longing for the Eliot she had married? The animated one, the one others adored, the one who was
engaged
in every detail of life, whether simple or complex, with every person who crossed his path. The one from B.C.E., Before the Caracas Episode. Now, in their A.C.E. days, he might as well be a deaf-mute for all the interest he showed in the world around him.

Sleep deprived, she totally blamed him. She didn’t mean to. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice. The bullet that shattered his nerves shattered their life. Everything about it was over. Health, career, home, friends. All gone. Kaput. Some days she barely recognized herself and Eliot. Where were the Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery she once knew? These routines, hometown, health, acquaintances, and even personalities seemed lifted from the pages of some stranger’s biography.

“Oh, honestly. Get over it already, Sher.” She forced a swallow of tea and focused on the scene before her.

A lone sunbeam pierced between two mountain peaks and sliced into the distant mists. Another followed. And another and another until finally pure light broke free. Valleys and canyons burst into sight. Loud birdsong erupted. Then, as if God had uncurled His fist, long fingers of sunlight shot forth and touched the wrought-iron railing where she stood.

It was achingly gorgeous.

Sheridan flicked at a tear seeping from the corner of her eye. “You should have stayed in bed, you foolish, stubborn woman.”

Sunrises were the worst because they represented the best of what had been.

Most days she could ignore that thought. Evidently not today. She and Eliot were morning people.
Had been
morning people. Their daily ritual of tea and conversation at an east-facing view, awaiting dawn, was seldom missed. With crazy-full schedules, they needed such a time to relate on the deepest levels. Some days their hearts positively danced and sang in union. Naturally, through the years the tune changed now and then, the tempo sped up and slowed down, but the music never stopped. It never stopped. They always talked. They always connected.

Until that day in Caracas.

Now she watched sunrises by herself.

“You really should’ve stayed in bed.”

But it was so beautiful. And it went on and on like a slow waltz. At the bottom of her street now, purple haze still shrouded the town square. The sky brightened in slow motion above it, the fiery ball itself still hiding behind a peak.

Something moved in the semidarkness below. A person. Early risers were not uncommon, but she was startled. Something felt off about this one.

Or was that just her hypervigilance? Compliments of the incident in Caracas, it kicked into gear at times without warning, filling her with anxiety and suspicion.

Now she could see that it was a man. He passed the bandstand, his strides too deliberate for a villager, too American. He headed straight for the steep incline that led up to her house. In city terms, the distance was perhaps a block. In Topala terms, it was simply up beyond the sculptor’s shop.

The sun overtook the peaks and the man came into view.

“No way.” Her heartbeat slowed, but not quite to normal.

Even with his face concealed by a ball cap, his body clothed in a generic khaki jacket and blue jeans, a city block separating them, she recognized him. She recognized him simply because the air vibrated with him.

Luke Traynor owned whatever space he occupied.

Sheridan set the mug on the table beside her, tightened the shawl around her shoulders, and massaged her left arm. She felt no surprise at his unannounced arrival nor at the early hour. It was as if she had always expected him to show up sooner or later.

But as he climbed the narrow street, an uneasiness rose within her. Her muscles tensed. Why was he here? He had promised not to come. Sixteen months ago he promised. Not that she was keeping track. . . .

The sound of a soft whistle drew her attention back toward the square. Javier, the young sculptor, stood on the porch steps outside his shop. Behind him, the handicraft shop owner emerged from his door.

Javier raised his chin in question.

Sheridan gave a half nod. They needn’t be concerned. The stranger was, so to speak, a known quantity. Not that she felt the least bit glad to see Luke. Eliot would most likely be severely distressed at his arrival.

Wishing Luke were an apparition did not make it so. He continued his steady pace, arms swinging gently, head down as if he studied the cobblestones, making his way to her house.

Since that day in Caracas—the day her husband died in every sense except physically, the day this man saved her life—Sheridan had understood intuitively that Luke would always be a part of her life. And there he was, out of the blue, ascending her street in the middle of nowhere on a spring day as if he visited all the time.

She suddenly remembered the date. “Good grief.”

It was Annunciation Day, a day of remembrance, of celebration for when the angel Gabriel visited Mary and announced her future. How apropos. Luke appeared without warning. He would not have come unless he had something to tell her, some message that would irreversibly change her future.

Was this his joke or God’s?

Luke neared and looked up, straight at her.

She saw not the man whose presence had always triggered apprehension in her, but rather the guardian angel who had saved her life.

Sheridan turned and made her way inside, down the stairs, and through the house.

* * *

Sheridan opened the front door and stopped.

Luke Traynor stood less than six feet away, at the low gate in the stone wall where her front terrace met the steep hill.

She returned his steady gaze, knowing full well her own expression did not mirror the one before her. While dread, relief, and excessive gratitude rearranged every muscle on her face, his remained perfectly composed. The sharp nose, thin lips, and deep-set eyes could have been made of the same cobblestone he stood on.

He flashed a rakish grin. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He cocked his head, somber again. Always the gentleman, he waited for her to make the first move.

Sheridan clutched her shawl more closely and resigned herself to riding out the emotional disarray rumbling through her. She both loathed and loved this man. Of course he knew that, so it didn’t matter how she reacted to him except that she’d like herself better if she were polite.

With a quiet sigh, she walked to him, planted a kiss on his scruffy, unshaven cheek, and eased into his embrace. Nestled against the rough collar of his jacket, she smelled the familiar scent of him, an indescribable mix of earth, sun-drenched air, and confidence that bordered on lunacy. She felt the hardness of his body, always unexpected given his average height and build.

“Sheridan. How are you?”

“Fine.” She backed away, crossing her arms.

“And Eliot?” he said. “How is he?”

“Fine.”

Luke blinked, a slow movement of lids indicating he could take the truth.

She wanted to shriek obscenities at him. The disconcerting thing about angels, though, was that it was impossible to keep up any sort of pretense. Like an angel, Luke had stayed close beside her for long weeks after the shooting. He had gone with her to the edge of hell, holding on to her until she came back. He knew her better than she knew herself. Glossing over answers was a waste of time with him.

She tried another phrase. “We’re doing about as well as could be expected.”

He nodded.

“Eliot is still asleep.”

“It’s early. Perhaps I can greet him later.”

The resistance drained from her. Yes, Gabriel had come to deliver a message, and he would not leave until he’d done so.

She had no inkling how to shield Eliot and herself from this unexpected source of distress but gave a lame attempt. “I don’t suppose you’re passing through town and simply must be on your way right now, this very minute?”

“Sorry.”

She inhaled, her shoulders lifting with the effort, and blew the breath out with force. “Coffee?”

“Love some.”

Chapter 2

Chicago, Illinois

Her forehead against the cold windowpane and her arms crossed, Calissa Cole seriously pondered taking up smoking again.

It might be worth it.

On the one hand, there was stigma, expense, bad breath, the risk of dread disease, the squander of time and energy trying to find a smoke-friendly spot on the sidewalk protected from rain, snow, sleet, wind, heat, and humidity.

On the other hand was sheer, unadulterated stress release.

Yes, it might be worth it.

“Ms. Cole?”

She turned to see a nurse, the young one with the bouncy ponytail. “Yes?”

“You can come in now.”

“Thank you. By the way, do you smoke?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good for you.”

“Do you want me to ask someone—?”

“Nah. I quit eight years ago.”

With a curious smile, the nurse left, her white shoes squish-squishing on the linoleum, her ponytail swaying.

Calissa pivoted back to the window.

It was monsoon season in Chicago. Spring showers on steroids. Pewter had colored the entire city for an entire week. No wonder she wanted a cigarette.

She shut her eyes and hummed.
Chicago is my kind of town.

It was. Calissa loved Chi-town. She was beautiful no matter what color she wore, no matter how many days in a row she adorned herself in the same one.

A typical early spring day in her city was not why Calissa considered smoking a good thing to do.

With a sigh, she jerked at the collar of her blouse to straighten it. She smoothed her gray pin-striped jacket and skirt. A glance at the muted cell phone in her hand revealed no messages. She dropped it into her handbag. The nurses fussed at her whenever she checked for messages on it in the ICU.

Calissa strode down the hall toward the double doors, her pumps clicking as if she had a purpose in mind other than to sit at her father’s bedside and urge the unconscious man to hang on for just a while longer.
Hang in there. You can do it.

If she was lucky, maybe Nurse Ponytail would say the same thing to her.

Or tell her who might have an extra cigarette on hand.

Chapter 3

Topala

Sheridan glared at Luke, seated across from her at a small wrought-iron table in the front courtyard. Her emotions still ran high. She was happy to see him. She didn’t want to be happy to see him, therefore she wasn’t really happy to see him. She wasn’t supposed to see him ever again. He’d said he wouldn’t come. She and Eliot had made sure no one could even find them. He would be so upset that Luke had found them. That was the heart of the matter. How had he found them?

“How did you find us?”

A tiny smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “How? Not
why
did you find us?’”

“I don’t really care to know
why
.”

“Actually I prefer to wait until Eliot joins us before I explain the why. When do you think he’ll be available?”

“Don’t change the subject.” She tapped her finger on the table. “No one—and I mean
no one
—knows where we are.”

Amusement shone in his gray-green eyes.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are and for good reason. It was a stupid question.”

“Perhaps
unnecessary
is a better adjective.”

“I can’t believe I asked it. People like you can find anybody they want, whenever they want. It doesn’t matter if those people don’t want to be found.”

“Sheridan, I’m not the bad guy.”

“No? You’re here, and you’re not supposed to be, first off because you promised and second because we want to be left alone. You ignored both of those. That adds up to a bad guy of the worst sort.”

“There are extenuating circumstances.”

“As Eliot would say, tommyrot.”

“Well, yeah. Most of life is.”

“Oh!” She should be quiet. Her ears hurt from the pounding in her chest.

She averted her face and tried to focus on the courtyard. The small enclosure at the front of the house usually calmed her. Bougainvillea vines teemed with crimson blossoms and ran riot over the high walls. Plants overflowed in dozens of terra-cotta pots scattered about the colorful tiles—bright red geraniums, emerald green succulents, fragrant white alyssum, and jasmine.

It was a losing battle. Luke, the angel–slash–bad guy, had brought darkness with him. Shadows from the past loomed over her, obliterating the peaceful beauty.

And he hadn’t even gotten to his message yet.

She looked at him. He waited quietly for her to say whatever it was she had to say. The sheer familiarity of him struck her again. There really was no reason to hold back.

“Ambassadors should be allowed to retire in peace.” She nearly hissed the words.

“Yes, they should.” He took off his ball cap and ran a hand through his hair, medium brown and too short for a hat to indent. “After what happened in Caracas, I understand your and Eliot’s need to create a safety zone far away from the world you knew. I apologize. I’ve disrupted your safety zone—”

“Disrupted? You’ve violated it, Luke!”

“I am truly sorry.”

“Who else can I expect to show up on my doorstep?”

“No one. I promise.” His tone conveyed security. It always had, even when circumstances blatantly denied it.

But obviously some faction in Venezuela hated the U.S. ambassador. Did they still? Enough to finish the job they’d begun? “If you found us, then that means our location is no longer secret.”