Stranger Danger (8 page)

His lips brushed her hand in a
swift kiss. “Do you have any antibacterial soap? And some clean towels.
 
Wash it with soap and warm water.”

Sara found a bottle in the
bathroom and gathered towels.
 
She put
them on the counter and dug into his duffel for first aid supplies.
 
Her fingers closed around the edges of a
driver’s license and she pulled it out.
 
Santiago’s picture was displayed, but the name read ‘Javier
Morales’.
 
“What’s this?”

“My evil twin – I’ll tell you
later, I promise.”

“You’ve been working undercover.”
It wasn’t a question but he nodded. She fumbled her efforts to remove his
ruined t-shirt and reached into the junk drawer for scissors.
 
Sara snipped it away and ran the water until
it heated.
 
With gentle motions, she
washed away most of the blood although the wound still seeped a little.
 
Santiago said nothing, stoic as a soldier,
but his lips were pressed into a tight line.
 
“I’m sorry I’m hurting you.”

“
De nada
,” he grunted through gritted teeth. “Just finish,
por favor
.”

Twenty long minutes later, she’d
finished washing it, cleaned it with peroxide, and applied plenty of
antibacterial cream.
 
She wrapped the
wound with gauze from his bag, following his instructions to first wrap his
bicep, then the injured shoulder.
 
Sara
wrapped it across his back to hold it in place. “Better?” she asked.

“No.” He tried to flex his arm
and went white. “Help me get a clean t-shirt on.”

It didn’t work.
 
The shirt fit too tight to be comfortable so
Sara rooted through his things until she found a button-down chambray
shirt.
 
Santiago put it on with her help
but left it open.
 
He reached for the
tequila and downed some more. “I need to sleep,” he said. “So do you.”

“Let me change the sheets first.”

By the time she had, then put
away the perishable groceries and slid into bed beside him, Santiago lay on his
back asleep.
 
He slept fitful.
 
His body twitched with restless energy and
she suspected lingering pain.
 
Once or
twice, he mumbled something in Spanish, but she couldn’t quite make out what he
said.
 
Sara touched his right arm and
stroked it.
“
Calmarse
.
 
Take it easy, Santiago.
 
I’m here with you,
mi corazon
.”

He calmed a little and shifted
into a deeper sleep.
 
Sara closed her
eyes, one hand touching him for reassurance he was here. He was safe for now,
but she didn’t sleep at all.
 
Her mind
whirled with the rapid sequence of events and she replayed them.
 

 
Tomorrow loomed unknown and more than a little
scary.
 
Fear burned through her, swift
and potent.
 
Her chest tightened and her
breath caught.
 
Sara sought her mind for
the prayers she’d learned in childhood and later in Spanish with Santiago’s
help.
 

“
Dios te salve, Maria
,” she whispered, so soft she doubted he could
hear her even if he awoke. “
Llena eres de gracia,
El Señor es contigo
…”
The words of the Hail Mary, the Ave Maria comforted her so she repeated them,
alternating from Spanish to English and back.
 
Her repetition leached away some of the tension and fear.
 
And although she failed to sleep, Sara rested
a little.
 
After the first light turned
the black to gray, she rose and made coffee, reacquainting herself with the
kitchen.

While it percolated, Sara opened the front door to
greet the morning.
 
Hot, humid air
flooded her senses, but the sunlight kissing the tops of the tall trees
radiated with brilliant beauty.
 
She
listened and heard no sound but the dull roar of the air conditioner in the
bedroom.
 
The fresh farm aroma of cut hay
wafted on the slight breeze and Sara sighed.
 
For now, they seemed safe.
 
Maybe
they could stay that way.

After her first cup of coffee, Sara checked on
him.
 
She found him awake and staring at
the ceiling.
“
Cómo estás
?”

“
Estoy mal
,” he said and she believed
him. He looked awful.
“
Me
duele la cabeza
.”

“I imagine your
head hurts from the tequila,” Sara told him. “How’s your shoulder?”

Santiago
frowned and rubbed his face.
“Sore as a bitch.”

“There’s
coffee if you want some.”

He nodded.
“
Si, por favor, gracias, la
muñequita
.”

“I’ll pour you
a cup.
 
If you’re hungry, I can make
breakfast.
 
Would you like some eggs and
sausage?”

“No,
just coffee.”

She brought it
to him.
 
He’d propped up against the
headboard, so she sat down on the edge of the bed facing him. “
Gracias
,” he told her. “I probably
should eat, but I don’t want anything. I feel like shit.”

Sara ached to
embrace him, but she didn’t want to hurt his shoulder.
 
Instead, she reached for his left hand and
wrapped hers around it, gentle and careful not to jar him. “Of course you
do.
 
You were shot.” Beneath her touch,
his skin baked. “Your hand is hot,” she told him. She put the back of her other
hand across his forehead, then her palm. “I think you’re running a
temperature.”

He sipped
coffee and tried to shrug.
 
It must’ve
hurt, because he winced after the brief effort. “
Si,
I probably have a low grade fever, nothing to worry about.”

But, she did. “Right,
macho man, but I’m still concerned. Do you want something to help your
headache?”

“How about
ibuprofen, maybe some ice?”

“Sure.” As she
stood up to fetch both, Santiago swung his legs around and sat up. “What’re you
doing?”

He fired a
sharp look in her direction. “I gotta piss,” he told her. “And I’m going to the
couch.
 
I’m not staying in bed like I’m
sick.”

Torn between a
desire to kiss him or slap him, Sara shook her head. “No,” she said in a tone
dry as crisp toast. “No, you just have a bullet wound through your
shoulder.
 
You lost a lot of blood
yesterday and you’re running a fever.
 
No
reason to stay in bed, none at all.”

Santiago
snorted. “Don’t make a big deal, Sarita. I feel bad but I’m okay. Don’t worry,
it’s not like I’m going to die or something.”

He could have,
though. The sobering thought did what nothing else had, brought tears. As he
tottered to his feet, Sara slid an arm around his waist to steady him.
 
The solid bulk of his flesh reassured her
irrational fears he could succumb into death, but when he wrapped his uninjured
arm around her, she broke.
 
Tears she’d
squelched under pressure erupted and she turned her face against his
shoulder.
 
She wept, her sobs muffled
against his t-shirt as he held her, murmuring words of comfort.
 
“Don’t
,
la muñequita
, don’t cry.
 
I promise
I’ll heal.
 
I may not feel so great today,
but I’ll be better.
 
Por favor, querida
.”
 

“I thought I
lost you once.” She sobbed in response. “I can’t stand to lose you again,
especially not forever.”

“
Callarse
,” he said. “Hush. You never
lost me, Sarita, you only thought you did.
 
Te amo
, Sara.
 
I always did and I always will.
 
Eres
el amor de mi vida
.”

She sobbed harder.
 
He was the love of her life too and would be forever. “I love you so
much, Santiago,” she said. “I never stopped thinking about you or wishing I’d
see you again.
 
I never thought I would,
though.”

“If I’d know you wanted me, I would’ve come, no
matter what.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let me go piss now, although I’m
shakier than I thought.
 
Go get me the
ibuprofen, the ice pack, and heat me some soup or something.
 
I’ll make it to the couch without collapsing.”

Sara clung a moment more, unwilling to let go. “All
right,” she said and sniffed. “I’m still scared, though.”

“About me?
I told you, I’ll be
fine.”

“I still worry,” she said, “And I’m frightened.
 
I can tell we’re in terrible danger and I’m
so afraid we won’t make it.”

His voice dropped lower and his tone sobered. “I’ll
do all I can,
la muñequita
. We have
everything to live for, now.”

They did, if they could.
 
And in the dilapidated old trailer in the
middle of remote woods in the Ozark Mountains, Sara had never loved him
more.
 

Chapter
Six

Santiago sprawled on his right side, his long body
taking up most of the couch.
 
His head
rested on a wedge pillow Sara hauled out of the bedroom.
 
A cold pack for his tequila-induced headache,
a little sirloin burger soup in his stomach, and some pain relievers to ease
his hurts had done wonders, Sara thought.
  
She found some Mannheim Steamroller CDs in the stack by the seldom used
stereo, ones she’d brought long ago.
 
Once, she and Santiago had listened to the eclectic group, marveling at
the blend of classical tunes with modern instruments and nature sounds.
 
She put Fresh Air VI into the player and let
the sounds of the sea combined with the lilt of music fill the room.
 
A small smile teased his lips as she sat on
the floor beside the couch where he reclined.

The music flowed over her, peaceful and soothing to
her troubled spirits.
 
How long has it been since I kicked back and
listened to Mannheim Steamroller or anything else?
Sara had no idea.
 
She gazed around the room and noted the
personal touches, most of them Erik’s and his brother’s leavings, a few
hers.
 
Remembering what Santiago had said
at her apartment, how it lacked any sense of home, she couldn’t deny it.
 
Maybe it was time to try to explain why.

“Santiago?”

His half-slit eyes opened. “
Si
, Sara?”

“Do you still want to know why my apartment is so
bare and lacks personality?”

He rose up on his good elbow. “Of course I do. Why?”

She realized the truth had been difficult, but
sharing it with Santiago was even harder. “I didn’t really care,” she
said.
 
“I’ve existed without living.”

“I understand that,” he said, voice gentle and soft.
“But, why,
la muñequita
?”

Sara struggled to find words to explain. “I blame
myself for Erik’s death, so I suppose there’s guilt.
 
He’s dead so I shouldn’t be able to enjoy
life.
 
But I also feel like some kind of
failure.
 
I planned to be a teacher and I
sell flowers.
 
I wouldn’t even have been
able to buy the shop if Erik hadn’t died.
 
My other dreams all faded away to dust a long time ago.
 
I don’t dream about the future or make plans
or even hope.
 
I don’t do a lot of the
stuff I once did or take pleasure in little things.
 
I came here last year for the fall colors,
but I haven’t been anywhere else since.
 
I gave up, Santiago, on life and being happy and everything. Or, I had,
until….” Her voice trailed into silence. For a few moments, Sara refused to
look at Santiago, afraid to read pity or scorn in his expression.
 

He touched her cheek and she glanced up. “Sara, tell
me.” His eyes met hers, brimming with need and bright with emotion.