In the Arms of a Hero

Coming in at night would have been ideal, except it would have required Julio to light the runway. Any unidentified light up so high in the mountains would have been suspect if seen by rebel soldiers. So coming in at dusk had been the wisest alternative. The plane, once hidden by brush, a lot of it removed from the runway itself, would be safe enough. As safe as any isolated spot on this godforsaken island.

He had done his homework on Victoria Fortune before flying out of Puerto Rico, after refueling there earlier in the day. The more he knew about the woman beforehand, the better his chances of persuading her to leave Santo Bonisto. The picture that had been included in the folder Sam had given him didn’t look much like a sophisticated heiress. The fresh-faced redhead, with a splattering of freckles across her nose, looked more like the girl next door than a multi-millionaire’s daughter. But her do-gooder complex marked her as lady who had more money than sense. Any woman in her right mind wouldn’t be playing nursemaid to a bunch of peasants in a Third World country ready to blow sky-high at any moment. Just what was Ms. Fortune trying to prove? With her college degrees, she could be working in any hospital or clinic of her choice in the U.S. Or with her daddy’s millions, she could be part of the jet-setting idle rich. So why had she become a member of the World Health Institute? And why had she stayed in Santo Bonisto when civil war broke out? Didn’t she know that by staying in Palmira, she risked not only her life, but the lives of anyone who befriended her? And now she was risking his life—the sucker her father had hired to save her spoiled little butt.

“There is no time to set up camp, Señor McCoy.” After laying aside his machete, Julio began dragging up brush to cover the plane. “You must go to Palmira as quickly as possible, if you wish to bring Señorita Fortune back with you.”

Quinn lifted a heavy tree limb that lay on the ground. “What’s happened?” He positioned the limb against the side of the plane.

“The rebel forces will be in Palmira no later than day after tomorrow. Perhaps as early as late tomorrow.” Julio continued the process of hiding the plane from any aerial observance. “In order to reach Palmira before daybreak, you must get started immediately.”

“I thought I’d have more time.”

“Your supplies are ready.” Julio removed a rolled parchment from his jacket and handed it to Quinn. “The quickest and safest way to reach Palmira is to take a boat upriver. I have a boat waiting for you when you reach the Rio Blanco. Here’s a map to guide you down the mountain and to the river. I have marked the exact location of the clinic in Palmira. I understand that Señorita Fortune has a room there.”

“Just what will I run into on my way?” Quinn asked.

Julio disappeared inside the thicket to his right, then returned leading a heavily laden mule. He retrieved an M-16 and tossed it to Quinn. “Going in will be relatively safe. Coming out is another story altogether.”

Julio grinned, exposing a wide expanse of rosy gum above a row of white teeth. He removed the backpack from the mule.

Quinn strapped on the pack, checked the M-16 and then opened the map. Scanning the map quickly, he noticed that Julio had outlined the rebel troop movements in the area. They were advancing toward Palmira at this very moment. If he didn’t get in as soon as possible, he might not be able to find Victoria Fortune and get her to safety before all hell broke loose.

“I couldn’t make any arrangements to aid you in returning from Palmira,” Julio told him. “The rebel forces have spies everywhere. Just a hint that someone from the outside was in the area would send off alarm signals. If you need help while in Palmira, contact Segundo. He works at the Cantina Caesar. You can trust him.”

Quinn gripped Julio’s shoulder and shook his hand soundly. “Keep an eye on my plane. If all goes as planned, I should be back with my passenger before nightfall tomorrow.”

“If anything goes wrong, your best course of action is to head to Gurabo. There’s a U.S. consulate there, and for now, the capital city is still held by the president’s army.”

Getting Victoria Fortune out of Santo Bonisto sounded as if it would be a simple operation. Travel to Palmira, tell the woman her father had sent him to fetch her home, bring her with him down the Rio Blanco and up Mt. Simona, then fly her back to Texas. An uncomplicated task—if rebel soldiers didn’t already have Palmira practically surrounded. “My gut instincts tell me not to count on this being easy.”

“Sí,” Julio said. “A man should always listen to his gut instincts.”

Victoria studied the man’s face—young, handsome, and deadly still. His big brown eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. She had lost him. Tears clouded her vision. Emotion clogged her throat. She had seen people die before, had attended elderly patients on their deathbeds and children passing away after suffering with incurable diseases. But this was her first experience with a soldier whose body was riddled with shrapnel. And he was only one of many who had been brought to the clinic from a battle less than twenty miles from Palmira. Nationalist soldiers were trying valiantly to protect Palmira from the horde of savage rebels blazing a path of death and destruction on their march toward Gurabo.

With gentle fingers she closed the youth’s eyes, then lifted the sheet to cover his bloody body.

“Move this man onto the back porch,” Victoria instructed Felipe, an elderly Palmira resident who had volunteered to help with the onslaught of wounded men being brought into the clinic. “There was nothing I could do for him. And I’m sure there will be others who will die tonight. Go to the church and bring Father Marco. He’s needed here. Then see if you can round up some men to…” She took a deep, calming breath. “Someone will have to bury this man and any others who die.”

“Sí, señorita,” Felipe said. “I go now.” His weary, faded brown eyes gazed at her with the same adoration she often saw in Ernesto’s eyes. “You care for the soldiers who are alive. Let me take care of the dead.”

Victoria nodded, then brushed her damp bangs from her forehead. Nightfall had brought cooler temperatures, but the day’s humidity lingered inside the stucco walls, creating a steam bath effect. The crowded clinic, filled beyond capacity, reeked with body odor, medicinal scents, fresh blood and the unmistakable stench of death.

Rain was badly needed—to ease the humidity, clean the air and to stall the rebel forces’ descent upon the town. Most of the roads leading in and out of Palmira were either dirt or sparsely graveled and filled with potholes. If it rained, perhaps the Nationalist troops could hold off the attack on the town until reinforcements arrived.

Victoria left the dead man with Felipe as she rushed toward Dolores, who was trying unsuccessfully to hold down a delirious soldier. Before she reached them, Ernesto restrained the man while Dolores prepared a syringe.

Her eyes met Dolores’s and they exchanged a silent message that assured Victoria she could move on to someone else. Although she had worked long hours on many occasions and had handled emergencies from time to time, nothing could have prepared her for the onslaught of wounded men who littered the clinic. Some she could help, others she couldn’t. The most she could do for several was to ease their pain. Less than an hour earlier she had operated on a middle-aged man whose black eyes reminded her of her father’s. A strong, broad-shouldered soldier, who now lay hovering between life and death.

She wasn’t a doctor, and a doctor was what these men needed. But she was all they had—their only hope. The burden of that responsibility hung heavily on her shoulders. She was needed here, tonight, as she had never been needed before in her life. And she suspected that in the days and weeks ahead, she would be needed even more.

Perhaps she’d been foolish to stay in Palmira, putting her own life in danger. But how could she have lived with herself if she had abandoned these people when they needed her the most? Some of the young soldiers were boys from Palmira who had volunteered in recent days. Two she knew by name lay here in her clinic now, both wounded and suffering. She had removed a bullet from Carlos’s shoulder. He would live. The other boy, Aluino, wouldn’t survive until morning. His body had been ripped apart. He had been beyond saving when he’d been brought to the clinic.

The entire town worked together, friends and families with a common goal. By morning there wouldn’t be a Palmira citizen not involved in the effort to bring in the wounded, care for them, bury the dead or even go to the front lines to fight with the government soldiers. And there was not one person, if the time came, who would not lay down his or her life to protect Señorita Lockhart. These people were like a second family to Victoria. And as her own family, they were loyal and supportive. And they needed her far more than the rich and powerful Fortunes ever would.

Victoria stepped outside, slumped onto the steps and leaned her head against the wall. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. She was bone-weary. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast yesterday. Glancing into the sky, she sighed when she saw dawn spreading across the horizon, illuminating the world with a soft crimson glow. A red sky at dawn often meant rain. As she rested alone on the steps, she prayed for rain. Soon. This morning. Torrents of rain that would cleanse the earth and hinder the rebel troop’s movements.

The sound of a ragged Jeep coming up the street caught Victoria’s attention. More wounded, she thought. Men were piled into the back of the Jeep, their bodies mutilated beyond repair. Dear God, how much longer could she endure this horror?

As she stood she speared her fingers through her short hair, combing the tousled strands. When the Jeep approached the clinic, she noticed a foreigner—el extranjero—riding in the front seat. The man wasn’t from Santo Bonisto. Although his skin was dark, it was tinted by a deep suntan. His brown hair was cut short, only a bit longer than a crew cut. He wore rumpled khaki pants, mud-splattered boots and his short-sleeved khaki shirt was open enough to reveal a tuft of dark chest hair. He was big, broad-shouldered and had the look of a desperado.

The man jumped from the Jeep the moment the driver stopped. An M-16 draped across his shoulder. Within seconds he was issuing orders, organizing the men who rushed out of the clinic to carry the wounded inside. Victoria wondered who this man was and what he was doing in Palmira, helping the soldiers. Had the Santo Bonisto Nationalists hired mercenaries to aid them in their fight? Or was this man some U.S. government agent sent to assist? Everyone knew that the recent discovery of oil in this small island nation had made its welfare of prime interest to the U.S. It was the oil find that had instigated the current civil war.

“Señorita, where will we put these men?” Ernesto asked as he watched the helpers carrying the men inside to the crowded clinic hallway. “There are no more beds and the hall is covered with pallets.”

“What about the basement?” Victoria suggested. “We’ll move around whatever we can down there, light some lamps and then make pallets on the dirt floor for the less seriously wounded. We’ll have to move some of the other patients out to make room for those who need immediate attention.”

Dolores emerged from the clinic, wringing her hands. “How many this time?”

“There are six wounded men,” the stranger said. “We left behind two that were dead.”

Dolores glared at the big Anglo. “Who are you?” she asked in her heavily accented English.

“Quinn McCoy, ma’am.” He responded to Dolores’s question, but his gaze was riveted on Victoria.

“You’re an American.” Victoria had suspected as much, but the man’s deep, throaty Southwestern drawl identified his nationality.

“So are you.” He looked her square in the eye and smiled.

A shiver raced up Victoria’s spine. She didn’t like his smile. It was too cocky, too self-assured. And the way his gaze moved over her, languidly, appraisingly, almost seductively, unnerved her.

“What are you doing with these men?” she asked as she motioned to Dolores to go inside, not wait for her. “Has the United States sent down some military help for the Nationalists?”

“I’m not with the U.S. government. I’m self-employed.”

When he moved closer to her, she instinctively inched backward, taking a couple of steps up the stairs toward the clinic entrance. “Does that mean you’re a mercenary?”

“Yeah, I suppose that could be one of my job descriptions.”

She nodded, then turned and hurriedly raced up the stairs, leaving the stranger behind, escaping from the odd sensation his searching stare created in her stomach. There was something dangerously unnerving about the man.

Just as she entered the clinic, she heard her name called out from somewhere behind her. Victoria. The voice that spoke her name was deep and dark and decidedly American. She whipped around and came face-to-face with the stranger. Sucking in her breath, she eased backward and lost her balance. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

“How do you know my name?” Her heart drummed madly in her ears. Was this man really a mercenary hired by the Nationalists or was he working for the rebels? Did he know who she really was, that her father was Ryan Fortune? Was he here to kidnap her?

“Don’t look so worried—” he lowered his voice to a whisper as he leaned over and placed his mouth near her ear “—Ms. Fortune.”

She gasped, then tried to pull out of his captive hold. “Who are you?”

“Quinn McCoy, mercenary, pilot, bodyguard. At your service, ma’am.”