Tempted by His Target (13 page)

The clothes on the line were still damp. They’d probably dry faster in the sun, now that the rain had passed. With a small sigh, she grabbed her messenger bag and returned to the bedroom for a quick morning toilette. There she noticed a small pine chest at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t seen it yesterday.

Opening the lid, she found a threadbare quilt, a few candles and a Spanish-language Bible. Under the quilt, she hit the jackpot: a pair of huarache sandals and an embroidered tunic. Eyes widening, she brought out the traditional garment, called a
huipil
. It was turquoise with dark blue flowers, and quite beautiful.

Letting the blanket drop, she donned the colorful tunic, which cinched in at the waist and covered her to midthigh. It was supposed to be worn with a long skirt, but she could pair it with pants once hers were dry. Smiling, she tried on the soft leather sandals. Like the
huipil,
they were only a little too large.

She fashioned her hair into two braids and strapped her dagger to her thigh, delighted by her new duds. A few years ago, she wouldn’t have felt this good wearing a designer dress and expensive heels.

Brandon stopped chopping wood as soon as she came outside. He did a double take, his gaze lingering on her bare legs. She was acutely aware of her nudity beneath the tunic. “Wow. You look like an Aztec princess.”

She blushed, shaking her head. “I’m not even Mexican.”

“You could pass, in that outfit.”

“I suppose you could call me a
mestizo,
” she said, using the word for mixed race. “My mother is South American.”

He nodded, resuming his task. There was more tension between them now, along with an unspoken agreement to avoid intimacy. He must have carried her to the bedroom last night, choosing once again to take on the role of guardian. A part of her hoped he’d slept, but she also entertained a vindictive wish that he’d stayed up, aching for her.

She made use of the outhouse and strolled the grounds of the small farm. There was an empty goat pen and a full chicken coop. She picked up the basket by the door and ventured inside, collecting a half-dozen eggs. Emerging triumphant, she marveled at her station in life. She’d really gone country.

“What are you going to do with those?” Brandon asked.

“Boil them. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

She built up the fire a little and put water on to heat, rummaging through the goods they’d bought at the market. Soon they had a light breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, goat cheese and warm tortillas. Brandon seemed to appreciate the meal, even though it was meatless. They could have beef jerky and fresh fruit for lunch.

Before sitting down to eat, he’d washed up and put on a shirt. The bruise under his eye had faded into a faint smudge, and the cut above appeared to be healing well. “What happened to your bandage?” she asked.

“It fell off.”

Finishing her last bite of tortilla, she grabbed the first aid kit from her bag. Although he insisted he didn’t need it, she dabbed a bit of antibiotic ointment on the wound and applied a smaller bandage.

After breakfast, she transferred the clothesline to a sunny spot outside, and he covered their tracks by dousing the fire. He also replaced the wood they’d burned and stacked more in neat piles. His hard work was a payment for their stay. She did her part, making the bed and tidying up the place while he kept his eye on the road.

“Do you want to try to walk?” she asked, feeling uneasy. It was frustrating to be stuck here, mere miles from Guatemala, at a sexual stalemate.

“I doubt we could make it by nightfall.”

“What about bikes? Or another motorcycle?”

“Assuming we could find either kind of transportation for a decent price, we’d still be on the road alone, exposed.”

She nodded in agreement. Her funds were already low, and they probably couldn’t rent bikes on a holiday.

“It would be less risky to wait for a bus or an opportunity to hitchhike tomorrow.” Remembering her map of the city, she retrieved the square of paper from her bag and spread it out on the table. “Here’s the bus station,” she said, tapping her finger on it. Other local landmarks were represented, along with a few businesses. The parade route was highlighted in orange. It started at the graveyard and proceeded through the center of town. “The cemetery is just over this hill,” she said, pointing to an area behind the hacienda. “A crowd will be gathered there most of the day.”

“To do what?”

“Decorate the grave sites. If I remember correctly, they make offerings to the dead. Favorite foods and drinks.”

He arched a brow. “Do they eat it?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I think it’s more symbolic.”

“Let’s go check it out.”

“Really?” she said, surprised.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “It’s only a few miles, and we can stay off the main roads. I saw a trail out back.”

“The goat trail.” She’d seen the narrow dirt path, too. “Maybe it’s a shortcut.”

Anything was better than staying inside the cramped cabin, trying to ignore the tension between them. She couldn’t pretend her desire didn’t exist; it was obvious in every furtive glance she gave him.

Isabel got ready to leave, grabbing her still-damp pants from the clothesline and putting them on under her tunic. She also folded the blanket she’d used and replaced it in the crate. Everything else she left hanging, hoping it would dry by the time they returned. The only item she couldn’t find was the strip of linen she’d used as a washcloth.

Brandon brought his backpack, which held bottled water and a picnic lunch, among other things. He had the gun on him, which bothered her. She’d chosen to train with a knife because it was less deadly. Her intention had been to defend herself, not endanger human lives. On that front, she’d failed, and failed, and failed.

They took off toward the rolling hills, the sun peeking through the clouds. It was a warm, humid day, but not unpleasant. Isabel had grown accustomed to the tropical climate and bore it better than Brandon, who perspired in a manly, endearing sort of way.

“Damn,” he said, wiping his forehead. “You look like a hothouse flower and I’m dripping with sweat.”

She waved off the compliment, and his concerns, conjuring a detailed image of him chopping wood. “I like sweat.”

“Do you have a stinky sock fetish, too?”

“No,” she said, laughing.

“In that case, thanks for washing my clothes.”

“You’re welcome.”

They fell into a charged silence, saving their energy for the climb. She felt self-conscious about her domestic behavior and wondered if it seemed desperate. Her dad’s groupies were like that, needy and overeager. At every concert, thousands of manic, half-naked women had screamed his name.

She’d never understood why he’d loved them more than her.

The hills gave way to a lush green valley, where the air was cooler. Birds chirped and spider monkeys chattered in the trees, as if excited about the festivities. At the base of the valley there was a large cemetery. A crowd had gathered, leaving a trail of marigold petals in their wake, and vendors had set up stands to sell a variety of goods.

Brandon and Isabel paused, surveying the scene from a distance. It looked like a county fair at a graveyard. “What’s that orange stuff for?”

“The flower petals lead the dead home for a short visit.”

He shifted the weight of his backpack, his expression dubious. “This is an odd holiday.”

Isabel smiled and shrugged, agreeing that the celebration had quirky elements. But it was also reverent and meaningful, despite the gaiety. “It’s just their way of honoring loved ones who’ve passed away.”

They didn’t see any of Carranza’s men, hoping to send
them
to the underworld, so they continued down into the valley. The day was sunny and bright, and the colorful decorations created a happy chaos. Hundreds of noisy revelers made it simple to blend in and disappear. They were probably safer here than at the cabin.

For the first hour, they walked through the busy cemetery, studying the decorated grave sites. Many were adorned with handpicked flowers, letters from family members and children’s crafts. Others were laden with food and drink.

“This guy’s ready to party,” Brandon said, gesturing to a six pack of Modelo resting against a headstone.

She laughed, twining her arm through his. They must have passed dozens of shot glasses, but she hadn’t felt tempted to partake. Perhaps all of her longing was wrapped up in him. When her gaze moved to the next site over, her humor evaporated.

Many of the graves had no markers; simple wooden crosses were common. This one had an engraved headstone that read
Nuestra Bebe
. A pair of tiny pink booties had been placed on the grassy mound.

“Oh,” she breathed, covering her mouth with one hand.

He pulled her closer, hugging her head to his chest. After a quiet moment, they continued toward the front entrance, their footsteps a little heavier. Outside the gate, vendors were selling marigold bouquets, fresh-baked bread and glass-encased candles. There was a communal altar set up for
almas perdidas
.

“What does that mean?” Brandon asked, glancing at the sign above the altar.

“Lost souls,” Isabel translated. “It’s a place to pay tribute to loved ones who are missing or buried elsewhere.”

He took a few dollars out of his pocket, approaching the candle vendor. “Do you want one?”

“Why not?” she murmured, her stomach churning.

He chose a white candle and she picked a purple one. Together, they walked toward the altar, placing the candles side by side. He lit both with a long match from the table. Isabel supposed it was customary to recite a short prayer when making an offering, but she didn’t know what to say. She stared at the flame until her eyes watered.

Brandon didn’t speak, either. He glanced skyward in silent contemplation and then looked at her, gauging her reaction. When another woman came to the altar to light her candle, they stepped aside.

He bought a sample of
pan de muerto,
placing the sweet bread in his backpack. “Are you ready to have our picnic?”

Although she wasn’t hungry, she said yes. They left the graveyard the same way they came, via goat path, and found a shady tree on a gentle slope to spread out the quilt she’d brought. Sitting down together, they drank cool water, admiring the view. There were lush green hills as far as the eye could see.

“Who was your candle for?” she asked, curious.

He stretched out with his hands behind his head, looking up at the arching tree branches. “A buddy of mine.”

She studied his face. “How close?”

“One of my best friends. We grew up together.”

“How did he die?”

“Combat fire in Iraq. Earlier this year.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Are you?”

“Of course,” she said, shame coloring her cheeks. None of her friends had died fighting for their country. Most of her acquaintances had been too busy wasting their own lives to worry about saving others. “That’s awful.”

He stared back at her for a moment, pensive. “We were supposed to take a surfing trip as soon as his tour ended.”

“Is that why you came alone?”

“I think so. I couldn’t bear to replace him.”

“Do you ever feel guilty?” she asked, her heart pounding with anxiety. “For being alive, I mean?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I feel guilty for not going. We both talked about enlisting but he was the only one who followed through.”

She ran her palm over the blades of grass beside the blanket, feeling the soft prickle.

“Who was your candle for?” he asked.

“My dad.”

“What did he die of?”

“Nothing heroic,” she said with a bitter smile.

“Tell me about it.”

She stared out into the distance, unsure where to start. “I told you that he got remarried, right?”

“Right.”

“My mom got remarried, too, when I was fourteen. I resented my dad for never visiting and made no effort to get along with my stepdad. I started skipping school to surf, experimenting with drugs. And boys.”

His brows rose. “How did that go over?”

“Not well. By the time I turned sixteen, I was totally out of control. My mom didn’t know what to do with me. She finally sent me to my dad’s.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“I thought it was,” she said, plucking a blade of grass and twisting it around her finger. “He had a different lifestyle. Late-night parties and jet-setting. Even when he was there, he wasn’t really
there
. And I entered the picture at the worst possible time.”

“Why?”

“His second marriage was already on the rocks. He was battling addiction and she begged him to go to rehab. The only thing I cared about was surfing, and getting high, so my presence created more problems. Right before I graduated I got kicked out of school. They argued about it, and he went on a drug binge. She left him.”

“You feel responsible?”

She bent the blade of grass in two. “Yes. We didn’t see each other much after that. I moved into my own apartment and did my own thing. A few years later, he drove his Ferrari off the side of a cliff. Drunk and stoned.”

He didn’t ask if she felt responsible for that, as well. Perhaps it was obvious. “Were you angry?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised by his intuition, “but I couldn’t find a way to express it. Everyone spoke highly of him at the funeral, as if he was some kind of god. He’d touched so many people’s lives, but never bothered to be a part of mine.”

“His mistake.”

She blinked the tears from her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I don’t remember much of the following year. I was a mess. You’d think his death would have scared me straight, but no. I masked the pain with pills and parties.”

He waited for her to continue, his attention rapt.

“My mom tried to help me, but I refused to see her,” she said, dusting the grass bits from her hands. She wanted to stop there, but the words tumbled forth, spilling from her lips. “That’s when I met Jaime. Manuel Carranza’s son.” As the head of La Familia, Carranza was infamous. Brandon knew she was sharing a dangerous tale, and he understood the consequences of hearing it.