Off the Rails Read online

  He’d said he wanted to…to taste her.

  She shifted her feet, self-conscious. Her cheeks flushed hot, despite her damp hair.

  “Maria,” he said simply. But his eyes said more. They said he remembered everything too. Every kiss, every touch. Every word.

  “Is this your boyfriend?” her mother asked in Spanish.

  “No,” she said, embarrassed.

  Her mother didn’t appear to believe her. She repeated the question to Ian in the same language. He just smiled and replied, “I need to speak with her in private, if you don’t mind.”

  Maria smothered a groan. She’d never live this visit down. An American had come all the way to Mezcala for her. He had a handsome face and a charming manner. He was like a real-life storybook prince, searching for the girl with the glass slipper.

  She couldn’t tell her mother the truth—that he was a cop, and she was a fugitive.

  “Let’s go outside,” she said.

  Delfina followed them, so Maria reached into her pocket for some money and sent her sister across the street to buy candy.

  Maria thought Ian would ask what was wrong with Delfina, but he didn’t. He didn’t ask why Maria had left his bed without saying goodbye, either. He studied her for a long moment, standing close. He seemed relieved to find her, rather than angry she’d gone.

  “You smell like earth,” he said in English.

  “Like dirt?”

  He leaned in and breathed her hair. “Like earth and fresh water.”

  She imagined that she smelled of the mud that lined the riverbank, but he made it sound pleasant. She was glad she’d taken time to bathe this morning. Otherwise she’d have stunk of bus fumes and road dust. “Did you come here to smell me?”

  His eyes darkened at the question. It dawned on her that they were the exact color of the Balsas, a woodsy blend of green and brown. “I came to ask you about Armando’s daughter.”

  Her heart fell. Of course he was here on official business.

  Of course.

  There were no fairy-tale princes in Mezcala. No handsome American bachelors looking for love. There were just a lot of poor people like her who worked long hours to buy food and clothes and medicine, and dreamed of better days ahead.

  “Armando’s daughter?” she repeated, moistening her lips.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know her.”

  Now he was angry, and she was glad for it. He hadn’t come here to woo her. She wasn’t going to be his girlfriend. They couldn’t share any other kind of passion, so let them share this. Let him be angry. She swallowed hard, watching a pulse throb at the base of his throat.

  “She might be in danger,” he said in a softer tone. “Armando has some ruthless enemies. They’ll go after her to get to him.”

  “Can they find her?”

  “Probably.”

  His warning sent a chill down her spine. She didn’t think anyone else knew about the letter Armando had given her, but the cartels had spies everywhere. Its members had been known to kill women and children.

  There was something about Sarai that made Maria uneasy, as well. Maybe it was her composure, or her quickness to pick up on the “mariposa” hint. Maria couldn’t put her finger on it. Between the exhausting trip home and Hugo running away, she’d had no time to reflect on their conversation.

  “Did you deliver the letter?” Ian asked.

  She nodded. “To her school. Yesterday.”

  “You saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What school?”

  “La Escuela de Nuestra Fe, in Taxco.”

  As he took a small notepad out of his front pocket to jot down the information, an idea occurred to her. Taxco was on La Bestia’s route. There was a camp on the outskirts of the city where passengers waited for the next train to pass by. If her brother hadn’t climbed aboard yet, she might be able to find him there.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said. “The school is for girls only. They won’t let you in.”

  “I don’t need to get in to confirm her location. She’s still there, right?”

  “She said she would be.”

  “You think she was lying?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He tucked the notepad away, frowning. It was clear that he didn’t want her to accompany him. She was an unnecessary complication, and he had an important job to do. She felt a twinge of guilt about her underlying motives.

  “I said I was a relative,” she said. “If she left, they’ll tell me.”

  “Fine. You can come.”

  Delfina returned from the market with a pocketful of dulces. She offered one to Ian, shyly. He thanked her with a tight smile.

  Maria gestured to Delfina. “This is my sister.”

  “Mucho gusto,” he said, popping the candy into his mouth.

  “I’ll tell my mother we’re leaving.”

  He nodded his acceptance and turned toward his rental car. His shoulders were tense as she led Delfina back into the shop.

  “Maybe the candy was too sour,” Delfina said.

  “It wasn’t the candy,” Maria replied. She kissed her mother on the cheek and told her she was going with Ian to look for Hugo. Her mother didn’t approve of this plan. Handsome or not, Ian was a stranger who hadn’t declared his intentions toward Maria.

  Delfina didn’t want Maria to leave, either. She objected by crying and clinging to Maria’s waist. Maria had to forcibly extract herself, which upset Delfina even more. When Maria finally walked out of the shop, her nerves were frazzled. Ian opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in and fastened her seatbelt as he got behind the wheel.

  She knew her reputation would suffer, but it was already damaged beyond repair. That was the price she’d paid for crossing the border. Like many women who’d gone before her, she hadn’t returned with her virtue intact.

  Some of the townspeople thought Maria was to blame for the attack. She’d put herself in harm’s way, but so had every man who’d made the same journey. Men were praised for taking the risk to support their families, while women were expected to stay home and stay safe.

  She sat in silence as Ian drove down the main drag. She wondered how he viewed Mezcala. It was a quaint colonial town, but hardly idyllic. Many of its residents couldn’t afford basic necessities. He turned onto the highway, toward Taxco. He drove without speaking for almost an hour. It felt strange to sit in a car with a man. But they’d been alone together before, all night, under much more intimate conditions. She squirmed at the memories.

  “Your sister,” he ventured, clearing his throat. “She’s disabled?”

  “She has Williams syndrome.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Most people haven’t. It’s a rare disorder.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eighteen.”

  He seemed surprised, probably because Delfina looked about twelve. “Is she in good health?”

  “She has heart problems and some other issues, but she gets along pretty well.”

  He gave her an assessing glance and returned his gaze to the road. They’d switched to Spanish, the language she was more conversant in. He understood it well but spoke it imperfectly, with a heavy accent. She’d always liked the sound of his voice. It had penetrated through her semiconscious fog in the desert, and in the hospital after the attack. He’d held her hand and talked to her in his gentle-rough tone until she opened her eyes.

  “Where did you learn Spanish?” she asked.

  “Here and there. On the street, mostly.”

  “In San Diego?”

  “Yes.”

  He sounded like the surfers who flocked to La Fonda and Rosarito Beach. His speech was slow and melodic and distinctly American. She enjoyed listening to him almost as much as looking at him. “You cut your hair.”

  He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped head. “I needed a change.”

  This Ian Foster was a far cry from the scruffy narco she’d encountered at the
Hotel del Oro. He wasn’t the fresh-faced border patrol officer she’d met four years ago, either. He’d grown harder, worldlier, more rugged. More handsome. She studied his clothes with interest. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His legs were long and lean in casual trousers.

  “How’s your injury?” she asked.

  “Better,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Have you heard from Armando?”

  “No.”

  He glanced at her, his expression inscrutable.

  “You think he’s alive?” she asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “How would I know?”

  “You helped him get away.”

  “Only because he saved my life.”

  “When?”

  “On the day of the shootout. After Chuy found me on the phone with you, he dragged me into his office. He said he was going to kill me, but Armando wouldn’t let him. He stepped between us.”

  His brow furrowed. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  He shrugged, swerving around a pothole in the road. Then he said, “There’s a veterinarian missing from the La Canada Pet Clinic. A woman.”

  Maria was startled by this news. She’d helped Armando walk to the clinic. She’d left him outside the backdoor, semiconscious. Now a woman was missing, and Maria felt responsible. She’d been in the country illegally. She was a fugitive from justice. Maybe Ian would turn her over to the U.S. authorities. Or worse, the Mexican authorities. “Will you arrest me?”

  “I can’t arrest anyone,” he said, his mouth thin. “I’m not with the DEA anymore. I was asked to submit my resignation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I had to quit.”

  “Why?”

  He stared straight ahead, not answering.

  “Because of me?”

  “You, and Sonia Barreras. She died in surgery.”

  Chuy’s girlfriend. Maria felt a pang of sadness, though they hadn’t been friends. “That’s not fair. You didn’t shoot her.”

  “I broke cover and instigated the shootout, against direct orders.”

  Maria’s stomach clenched with regret. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”

  He tightened his hands around the wheel. “So am I.”

  “Can you work somewhere else?”

  “I don’t know. Right now I’m on a temporary assignment with ICE, which is part of Homeland Security. The DEA is investigating the incident at the hotel. If I’m found liable, I can’t transfer to another agency. I’ll have to start over.”

  Maria nibbled the edge of her thumbnail. She knew all about starting over. She’d started over in Tijuana, after her first failed attempt to cross the border. Her second try had been successful, but the time she’d spent in the United States had been a disaster. So she’d gone back to Mezcala to start over again. She’d been hoping to go home and forget Ian.

  Now she realized it was impossible. She couldn’t erase her memories or change her heart. Seeing him in her mother’s store had forced her to face that harsh reality.

  She could start over, but she couldn’t move on.

  Chapter 4

  ONE WEEK EARLIER

  Caitlyn Weiss was having a great day.

  She’d finished her surgeries early and sent the staff to lunch. There were no sick animals to take care of, just routine spays and neuters. The only appointments this afternoon were vaccinations with the vet tech. Caitlyn didn’t have to stick around for those. As soon as she finished walking this dog, she could go home and sleep.

  Sleep.

  She’d been in dire need of sleep since she’d moved to San Diego four months ago. She worked as a relief vet at La Canada Pet Clinic in addition to her regular job at the emergency animal hospital in Otay Mesa. She wanted to work days, but it was a competitive market and she didn’t have enough experience to secure a better position. So she slogged through night shifts and relief jobs, paying her dues.

  The dog she was leading stopped to lift his leg at a cluster of purple wildflowers that were pretty but smelled like skunk. The scent tickled her nostrils as she waited for the dog to finish. She tipped her face toward the sun, enjoying the moment. The field behind the clinic was no paradise. It was a dry lot littered with weeds and bits of flyaway trash, but it was a convenient space for dogs to pee.

  After Oliver was finished, she tugged on his leash to urge him forward. As she entered the back door of the clinic she noted blood splashes on the floor. They’d drained Oliver’s ear hematoma on the exam table this morning. She checked his bandage for seepage and found none. She shrugged and put him in a clean dog run. He wagged his tail at her, tongue hanging out.

  “Good boy,” she said, and stepped back.

  Right into someone.

  Someone…scary. She hadn’t heard him approach, but she could smell him. Fresh blood and male sweat and another odor, like firecrackers.

  Gunpowder.

  She was suddenly aware of the gun pressed to her side. She’d heard several loud pops a few minutes ago, but she’d dismissed it as artillery testing at the nearby Naval Weapons Station. They made a lot of noise over there.

  “Don’t move.”

  His voice was raspy. Spanish accent. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was taller than her. He oozed menace and adrenaline. He was also bleeding profusely. Big red drops splashed at her feet. Oliver made a whining sound.

  She stood still, her heart pounding. She should have locked the back door. The receptionist was always telling her to lock the door because there were homeless people all around this area. There were gang members and drug dealers in the neighborhood too. They were located at the edge of downtown San Diego, less than ten miles from the border.

  “Don’t scream.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. If she didn’t panic, he wouldn’t hurt her. He’d go away and leave her alone.

  He moved the gun away from her side and stumbled backward. She snuck a glance at him as he staggered toward the exam table. He looked terrible: ash-gray skin, purple-tinged lips. He had dark hair and a compact physique. His eyes glittered with a punchy sort of exhaustion. “I need a doctor,” he said, resting his gun on the table.

  She gaped at him, incredulous. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood. “You’ve been shot.”

  “It went in and out.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance for you.”

  He managed to boost himself up on the exam table without falling over. Then he collected his gun again, wearily. “No. You can fix me up.”

  “I’m a veterinarian!”

  “Do your best,” he said, teeth clenched.

  She walked toward the drug cabinet and stared at the shelves, her mind blank with panic. He wasn’t a dog or a cat, but she was a board certified surgeon. She knew how to slow bleeding, apply sutures, and check internal organs.

  She also knew how to put him to sleep. It was worth a try. She filled a syringe with shaking hands. When she approached him, he locked his fingers around her wrist. For a man on the verge of losing consciousness, he was strong. “What’s that?”

  “A numbing agent.”

  “Let me see.”

  She picked up the vial and showed it to him, figuring he wouldn’t have a clue what Telazol was. She was wrong. With a low growl, he threw it across the room. The vial of fast-acting intramuscular sedative shattered with a tiny liquid splash.

  “No drugs. I’m not stupid.”

  She returned to the cabinet, pulse racing. If she fumbled around and wasted time, he might keel over. He also might shoot her, or one of the other employees. She didn’t dare run to the wall phone. Her cellphone was in her purse.

  She’d already tried to trick him and it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t come up with a better option, so she decided to cooperate. Moving quickly, she selected the supplies she needed. Surgical towels, bandages, saline, lidocaine, syringes. First she had to clean the wound.

  He was w
earing a button-down shirt with jeans and work boots. His weathered face and sturdy clothes seemed incongruent with the situation. He looked more like a field-worker than a gang member, but he was clearly on the wrong side of the law.

  He winced as she lifted the layers of his clothing to inspect the wound. There was an ugly, jagged hole on his right side, between his rib cage and his right hip. A smaller, neater hole marked his lower back. That was the entry point. The bullet appeared to have gone through and through, just as he’d reported, but it was still a life-threatening injury. If any of his internal organs had been nicked, he’d die without proper treatment.

  He might die anyway.

  She didn’t say that—his expression revealed he knew it. He knew it, and he’d opted to come here instead of going to a real hospital. A man so desperate was incredibly dangerous. He’d rather risk death than turn himself in to the authorities.

  He gripped the edge of the exam table with his free hand as she cleaned the skin around the wounds. The pain must have been excruciating, but he didn’t complain. She filled a syringe with lidocaine, after showing him the vial. Then she injected the local anesthetic at several strategic spots around the affected area. No amount of numbing would make this process comfortable for him, so she didn’t overdo it.

  When she filled a larger, needle-less syringe with saline, he grew wary. “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to flush the wound.”

  “The bullet’s not in there.”

  She placed a couple of surgical towels by his right hip. There might be bullet fragments or other contaminants in the wound. “It still needs to be cleaned.”

  He didn’t argue, so she continued treatment. He wasn’t as stoic about this step. It hurt, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. She flushed until the fluid ran clear. His tense muscles eased as soon as she was finished. She didn’t see evidence of a foreign body, or any materials from his intestines. After patting him dry, she reached for an extra-large bandage.

  “No stitches?”

  “In this area, it’s better to let it drain.”

  He grunted his permission. She adhered the bandage to his side and wrapped his midsection with stretchy gauze. When she was finished, she washed her hands at the sink. If he had been her patient, she’d have started him on fluids, but she figured that a bunch of tubes and a rolling IV stand would hamper his quick getaway, and she wanted him gone.