Authors: Sara Craven
Nicola took off the wig and ran her hands luxuriously through her hair. Never again, she thought, and pitched it through the open window. Some desert bird was welcome to use it as a nest. She unzipped her bag and took out the long-suffering blue dress, giving it a critical shake, then found the simple leather sandals she wore with it. When she had changed, she rolled the orchid pink dress and the elegant shoes into a bundle and left them under the rock.
As she re-started the engine, she thought thankfully, 'It's over.'
Another two hours had passed, and Nicola had just realised that she was hopelessly lost, when the truck ran out of fuel. Alerted by the sputtering of the reluctant engine, she searched among the dials on the dashboard for the petrol gauge, and realised with a sinking heart that the needle was vacillating nervously in the red section.
She groaned aloud, wishing that she'd checked more carefully on the fuel situation ages before, although it would have made very little difference. She'd seen no village, filling station, or any other sign of human habitation since she'd embarked on her headlong flight. Plenty of cattle, the odd burro, but no people. At first she had been reassured by this, because it also meant no sign of pursuit, but gradually that niggle of anxiety had begun to increase, and now, with the approach of nightfall, anxiety was giving way to fear.
She had no idea where she was. The distant hills seemed no nearer, although that might be some trick of the light, but somehow she didn't think so. She had so constantly had to adapt her route to terrain the truck could cope with that she had begun to suspect she could be driving in a large circle.
The cab had been bakingly hot all afternoon, but now that the sun had set, Nicola knew that it would soon become chilly, and her thin dress would not be adequate protection.
As the truck wheezed to its final stop, she could have burst into tears, but that would solve nothing, she told herself. She had to think. As a stopping place, this was far from ideal. She was in a shallow depression, surrounded by rock and scrub, and it was all too easy to imagine that there were unseen eyes looking down at her.
No more of that, she adjured herself firmly. Positive thinking, my girl, and another more thorough search of the truck. This time she discovered a jerrycan in the back, but it was empty, and she threw it down with a disappointed groan. Under the seat, she came across a couple of lurid girlie magazines which indicated that the truck driver had his own priorities.
She had hoped for a lighter, or at least some matches so she could build a fire. There was enough dry brush around, certainly, but it seemed that the driver didn't include smoking among his vices.
She picked up his jacket and regarded it with disfavour. It was far from clean, but this was no time to fuss about inessentials. Any kind of warmth, however unsavoury, was better than none at all.
She had a long and hungry night ahead of her, and she didn't dare think what the following day would bring, on foot under the blistering sun. She could hardly stay here in this hollow and hope to be found. Even when the inevitable search was mounted, the surrounding rocks would hide her. She tried to think about what she knew of this part of Mexico. It was pitifully little. All her interests had been concentrated on the areas where Aztec and Mayan remains were to be found, yet she could remember one of the men at Trans-Chem talking about a particularly deadly white scorpion which was to be found in the Durango area. Was she anywhere near there? She wondered frantically. And even if not, might there not be other scorpions in various colours it would be wiser to avoid? And mountain lions—she felt certain someone else had mentioned them. Bears too...
Oh, stop it, she thought biting her lip. All the same, she wished she had paid slightly more attention to the flora and fauna of this wild country. She'd read somewhere—or had she seen it in a film—that you could keep alive by taking moisture from cactus. But which variety? She'd seen so many. There were others, she knew, which were prized by the Indians for their mind-blowing side effects. That might be the answer, she thought. I could get so high, I'd just float out of here. She chuckled weakly.
It was getting dark very rapidly now, and after only a momentary hesitation she switched on the truck's headlights. Without fuel, there was little point in conserving the battery, and perhaps there, was a chance that the lights would be seen, perhaps by a passing aircraft, and investigated. That was a more rational explanation for her action than admitting she was afraid to be alone in the dark, or that if there were wild animals in the vicinity, the lights might keep them at bay.
She picked up the jacket and huddled it round her shoulders with a shiver. Tomorrow, as soon as it dawned, she would set off towards the east again, and see how far she could get before finding some shelter against the fierce heat of the day.
But now she needed to rest. The next day was going to take as much energy as she possessed. She curled up on the seat, her cheek resting on her hand like a child's. Sleep came more easily than she could have hoped, worn out as she was by the tensions of the past few days and the long struggle with an unfamiliar and often recalcitrant vehicle. She dreamed of Barton Abbas and her childhood, lying in a cornfield and watching a hawk turn in a long slow circle in the blue sky above her. It was peaceful and reassuring, and Nicola's lips curved contentedly as she slept. It was good to be a child again, to let the worries and pressures of adult life slide away. Good to be in a sunlit landscape and watch the hovering hawk—until suddenly the dream tilted sideways into nightmare, where the hawk was swooping, and she was the prey, transfixed and helpless, unable to run or defend herself.
She sat up with a little cry, staring round her. The air in the cab was chill, but she was drenched with sweat, and shaking. What had woken her? she wondered dazedly. The dream—or something else? Some sound?
She reached for the torch and slid across the seat to the door. She climbed down from the cab slowly and gingerly and stood rigidly, her head bent, listening.
Yes, there was a sound. A chinking, scraping sound. She shrank nearer to the bulk of the truck, gripping the torch, and peering into the pool of light still cast by the headlights. The torch was hardly ideal for the function it had been designed for, but it was all she had as a weapon.
Hooves, she thought, still listening intently, her nerves screwed up to screaming point. More cattle? Another burro?
There was a shadow now on the edge of the circle of light, a big dense shadow which moved, and she heard the unmistakable creak of harness, and a soft whinny.
She called out, 'Quien es?'
The shadow moved forward into the light. Dark horse, dark rider, A man, dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his face. Her hand tightened round the torch. He said, 'Que pasa?'
Her body went rigid. Those two laconic syllables had been delivered in a voice which was only too familiar. But it couldn't be true, she argued desperately with herself. Ramon was miles away on his cousin's business. He couldn't be here. Surely fate couldn't play her a trick like that. It was her own nervousness, the fact that she'd just woken up from a bad dream that was making her imagine that it was no one but him confronting her from the back of the tall black gelding.
Almost dizzily she waited for his accusation, and then realisation dawned. He didn't recognise her. How could he? When he'd seen her, she'd been a vivid brunette dressed in pink, speaking Spanish—whereas now...
She said slowly and haltingly with no accent at all, 'Señor—me he perdida!'
‘So you are lost,' he said in English. 'It is hardly surprising. This is not good country to drive in. There is a good road ten kilometres to the south. Why didn't you use that?'
She hesitated. 'I was heading that way—but the truck ran out of fuel.'
'Would it not have been wise to have filled up the tank before starting on your journey?'
'I—I left in rather a hurry,' she said, her heart beating so loudly it seemed impossible that he shouldn't hear it. 'I—I'm also very hungry and thirsty.'
He nodded. 'No gasolene, no food and drink and—-' he looked her over—'no adequate clothing. Even for a crazy turista, you seem singularly badly equipped. Where did you get the truck?'
His tone was hardly sympathetic, but the abruptness of the final question threw her. It would be just her luck if he recognised the damned thing. She would have to be careful.
She said, 'That's a little difficult to explain, señor.'
'Try.' It was a command, not an invitation.
'I—I needed a lift, and the truck was going in the right direction—only the driver—misunderstood.'
'I think the misunderstanding was yours, señorita. You are even crazier than I thought, to have accepted such a favour from a stranger,'
'It wasn't a favour,' she protested. 'I was going to pay. I have money.'
'But not the currency he wanted, plainly.' For the first time, he sounded amused. 'And may I ask the fate of this man?'
'He—he got out of the truck—to relieve himself. I drove away and left him,' she improvised wildly.
'You are truly resourceful, señorita,' he drawled. 'I will bid you adios. No one with wit as as keen, or so strong a sense of self-preservation, can possibly be in need of my poor assistance.'
His hand went up to his hat brim in a mocking salute, and he turned the horse's head.
My God, Nicola thought, he's going! She ran forward.
'Señor—please! You—you can't just leave me here like this!'
Her movement startled the horse. It threw up its head and began to sidestep, only to be brought effortlessly back under control by its rider.
He said coolly, 'I have told you where the road is, señorita. To walk that distance should not be beyond your powers. You seem young and healthy.'
Nicola stared up at him, wondering how on earth she had ever found him attractive. His face was dark and forbidding under the shadow of his hat, his mouth harsh and uncompromising.
She hated him more than, she had ever dreamed it was possible to hate anyone, but she made her voice pleading. 'I'm tired, and hungry—and very frightened, señor. There must be some shelter of some kind that you know of.' She paused, and then said flatly, 'I'll pay you to take me there!'
'Aren't you afraid \ might ask the same price as the truck driver? You wouldn't rid yourself of me quite so easily.'
Nicola swallowed. 'That's a chance I shall have to take. I—I don't want to spend the night alone in that truck.'
'I think you already take too many chances, señorita.' His tone was soft and chilling.
Nicola shivered inside the jacket. This was a side of Ramon she had not seen before. No sign now of the charm, or the sensual teasing which had so embarrassed and disturbed her.
Her hands gripped together. She said in a low voice. 'Please help me.'
There was a silence, then he shrugged slightly. 'Very well. Tonight we will find some shelter, and in the morning we will see what is best to be done. Are you travelling quite alone?'
'No,' she said hastily. 'I'm joining friends. In Monterrey. That's where I was heading for.'
'Then you are well off the track, señorita.' Again that faint amusement. 'At the moment you are on your way to La Mariposa, the hacienda of Don Luis Alvarado de Montalba. You have perhaps heard of him?'
She forced herself to say casually, 'I think I've heard the name—yes. Is this his land?'
'It is. And he would be desolated to know that he was harbouring unsuspected so charming a guest. Perhaps I should take you to the hacienda.'
'No.' She hoped he hadn't picked up that note of panic. She tried to laugh. 'Please, señor, I'm not really in any fit state to meet any great Spanish landowner. I've behaved like a complete fool, and I know it. If you could just guide me to where I can get transport for Monterrey, I'd be eternally grateful, but I don't want to meet this Don Luis.'
'Very well,' he said evenly. 'What luggage have you?'
'Just a bag.'
'Then I suggest you fetch it, so that we can be off.'
She was pulling it out of the truck when the thought struck her that if nothing else he might recognise the bag. But she could hardly pretend that she had lost it, and there must be a million similar bags in the world, she told herself, slinging it over her shoulder like a satchel. If the worst came to the worst, she would brazen it out.
But he never gave it a second glance. 'The horse has good manners. You need not be frightened.'
I wish I could say the same for his owner, Nicola thought as she unwillingly prepared to accept his assistance. She'd expected the use of a stirrup and perhaps a helping hand into the saddle, but instead he bent towards her, his arm going round her waist and lifting her as if she was a featherweight. And she was to sit in front of him, she discovered to her dismay.
She ventured on a protest. 'I know how to ride, señor.'
'I have already commented on your resourcefulness, señorita. Unlike the unhappy driver of the truck, I prefer to keep you where I can see you. And I should warn you that Malagueno accepts you on his back because I am here, but you should make no attempt to ride him alone.'
Nicola stared straight in front of her, glad that he could not read her expression. Her paramount wish was that she had pushed jeans instead of a dress into her bag, although the skirt was full enough to allow her to ride astride without too much difficulty. But it still revealed more of her slender legs than she could have wished under the circumstances, and this made her feel nervous and vulnerable and acutely conscious of her femininity. But then that was how she had been feeling from the moment she had met him, she thought in self-accusation.