In the Arms of a Hero

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.”

Victoria clenched her teeth. She didn’t like that decided twinkle in his eye, as if he were playing a game with her and enjoying himself immensely. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Mr. McCoy, but I can assure you that all I have to do is scream and a dozen men will come to my aid immediately.”

“By all means, don’t scream.” A barely concealed chuckle underlaid his words.

“Then let go of me!” The moment she renewed her struggle, he released her.

Ernesto came up beside Victoria, taking a stance as her protector. “Is something wrong, Señorita Lockhart?”

Before she could reply, Quinn McCoy said, “Using your mother’s maiden name as a ruse? Not a bad idea. But not even a fake name will protect you for very long once the rebels take over Palmira.”

“How—how did you know that Lockhart… Just who are you, Mr. McCoy, and what are you doing here in Santo Bonisto?”

“I’ve told you who I am. And as for what I’m doing in Santo Bonisto…I was hired to come here to—”

“By whom?” Her heart lodged in her throat. She had the oddest notion that she knew who McCoy’s employer was.

“Your father,” he told her, locking his gaze with hers. “He sent me to get you out of the country and bring you home to Texas.”

“My father! I should have known.” Placing her hands on her hips, Victoria glowered at her rescuer. “You can leave right now—and without me. Go back to Texas and tell my father that I’m needed here.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Quinn said. “What you want or don’t want doesn’t enter into this equation. You’re leaving with me today, before the rebel troops take over Palmira.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not going anywhere. These people have no doctor. I’m the only trained medical staff here at the clinic. Now, with the war raging so close and all these wounded men being brought in, I can’t possibly leave.”

“Look, princess—” when Quinn took a step toward her, Ernesto blocked his path “—we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s up to you. But one way or the other, you’re coming with me. Today!”

“Then it’s going to be the hard way,” she told him, peering at him from around Ernesto’s shoulder.

“Damn,” Quinn mumbled under his breath. “I was afraid of that.”

Two

“I don’t have time to deal with you, Mr. McCoy! There are men dying all around us. They’re my top priority at the moment.” Victoria Fortune spun around and rushed into the clinic.

“Wait just a—” Quinn said as he bounded up the steps.

But Victoria’s protector, a thin, haggard young native, held up his hand, halting Quinn’s ascent. “If the señorita doesn’t wish to leave with you, then we will not allow you to take her.”

“You realize that her life is in danger, don’t you?” Quinn asked.

“Sí, señor. I know what could happen to her if it is discovered by the rebel forces that she is an American heiress. But remaining in Palmira or leaving here is her decision to make, not yours.”

“It’s nothing to me one way or the other.” Quinn shrugged. “But it matters a whole hell of a lot to her father. He wants his little princess home all safe and sound. And he’s paying me a small fortune to make that a reality.”

“You cannot take her against her will. We will not allow it.”

“If you care so damn much about her, then I’d think you’d want to help me get her off this island before—”

“We will make sure that her true identity isn’t discovered. We will keep her safe.”

“You can’t assure her safety and you know it. The only way she’ll be safe is if she leaves Santo Bonisto.” Quinn grunted when he noted the determined look in the man’s dark eyes. No way was this guy going to help him.

“Go away, señor. Go back to America and tell her father that she will not leave the people who so desperately need her.”

A frontal attack wasn’t working, Quinn thought. Time to change tactics. Use a more subtle approach. “Maybe I can help out around here. I know some basic first aid. I’ve treated knife and gunshot wounds. If I can’t get Ms. Fort—Ms. Lockhart to leave right now, then I could stay for a while and do what I can to help her.”

The man eyed Quinn suspiciously, then held out his hand. “I am Ernesto Hernando. Your help will be appreciated.”

Quinn shook the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Ernesto.”

“Do not think that by working alongside Señorita Victoria, you can talk her into leaving us. Her mind is made up. You won’t change it.”

Quinn gripped Ernesto’s scrawny shoulder. “I’m going to help you patch up the wounded the best I can, for now. But the honest truth is that somehow I plan to find a way to persuade Victoria to leave with me today.”

“I will be as equally honest with you, Señor McCoy—if you try to take her against her will, we will be forced to kill you.”

“Since we’re being so damn honest, Señor Hernando, you need to know that if any of you get in my way, I’ll be forced to retaliate.”

Ernesto nodded solemnly. “I thought as much.”

“Then we understand each other perfectly, don’t we?”

“Sí.”

Quinn knew what war and death looked like. Up close and personal. But it didn’t matter how many times he had experienced the senseless waste, he still wasn’t immune to the suffering. A part of him could understand why Victoria refused to abandon these people. He had watched her for hours now as she tirelessly tended to the wounded. Whatever else Victoria Fortune was, she was no spoiled, helpless rich girl playing at being a nurse.

The shapely, long-legged redhead was a tough-talking, hardworking professional totally unintimidated by the enormous task facing her. He hated to be the one to take her away from these people, but he’d been hired to do just that. A job was a job. He never let his personal feelings interfere with his assignments.

Quinn had one more card to play and if that didn’t sway Victoria, he’d be forced to take drastic actions. When Ernesto’s wife Dolores insisted that Victoria take a break and eat something, Quinn took the opportunity to follow her into the small, makeshift office that doubled as her bedroom.

“We have enough food for you, too, Señor McCoy,” Dolores told him as he entered the office.

“No, thanks. But a cup of coffee would be great.”

“I’ll be right back with your coffee,” she said in Spanish. “I hope you like it black. We have no cream or sugar.”

“Black is fine.”

He had learned the Spanish language gradually over the years, finding it useful in his line of work to know how to speak more than just English. He was fluent in Spanish and French, knew enough German and Italian to get by, and had gained a smattering of various other languages.

Victoria slumped down in the tattered swivel chair at her desk. She leaned her head back against the plaster wall behind her and closed her eyes momentarily. After breathing a deep, heaving sigh, she opened her eyes and stared directly at Quinn.

“Thanks for your help,” she said. “You make a pretty good medic. Dare I ask how you gained your knowledge?”

Quinn sat on the edge of her desk. “In my line of work a guy needs to know how to keep himself and his associates alive.”

Quinn took a long, hard look at Ryan Fortune’s daughter. Her tan pants and white shirt were filthy, stained with a combination of blood, mud and unidentifiable substances. Her short-cropped red hair was damp with perspiration. Her thick bangs clung to her forehead. Without a smidgen of makeup, she looked about eighteen instead of the twenty-five he knew her to be. The sprinkling of freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks added to the wholesomeness she projected.

Bone-weary, dirty and disheveled, Victoria Fortune shouldn’t have appealed to him, but she did. And for the life of him, he wasn’t sure why. She was cute, in a clean-cut tomboy sort of way, but definitely not his type. He wasn’t usually attracted to the cute type or the filthy rich. Victoria was both.

He’d had a few dalliances with the debutante sort, and had found most of those ladies a little cool for his liking. He preferred the more earthy types, the ones who knew how to give as well as take. Maybe that’s what appealed to him about Victoria. Despite her heiress status, she was obviously a giver and not a taker.

“What are you staring at?” When she frowned, her small, perfect nose crinkled slightly.

“At you, princess.”

Squaring her shoulders, she sat upright in the chair and glared disapprovingly at him. “I appreciate all you’ve done here today, but if you think hanging around helping out will change my mind about leaving Palmira—”

“Here’s your coffee.” Dolores entered the office, then handed Quinn a cracked mug filled with steaming black liquid. She glanced at Quinn and then at Victoria. “Stay in here and rest for a while, señorita. We have things under control for the time being.” She left the office and closed the door behind her.

“I’ve got something for you.” Quinn reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out a letter and handed it to Victoria.

“What’s this?”

“A letter from your father.”

She made no move to open the envelope, just sat there for several minutes staring at it. “I’m not sure I want to read this. My father can be a very persuasive man.”

“Don’t you think you owe him that much? The man has already paid me a quarter of a million dollars to come after you. That tells me your safety is worth more to him than anything.”

“Of course, you’re right. I have to read it.” She ripped open the envelope, removed the one-page missive and unfolded the handwritten letter.

My dearest Victoria,

I know you do not want to leave Santo Bonisto, that you feel you will be abandoning the people of Palmira when they need you the most. But you must know that your life is in danger from the rebel forces. Being an American puts you at risk. Being my daughter is a death sentence.

I have hired a man, Quinn McCoy, whom my security chief, Sam Waterman, assures me is the best there is at what he does. Please, go with Mr. McCoy. Let him bring you safely home to me. To your family.

You may think we don’t need you, but we do. Now more than ever. Lily’s trial date has been set. I cannot believe that she was ever arrested for murder, not my sweet, gentle Lily. I try to hide my worry from her and from the family, but the situation doesn’t look good. The media is having a heyday with the situation saying horrible things about my lover murdering my wife. If these vultures had known your stepmother the way we did, they wouldn’t make her out to be the wronged wife.

Even Matthew and Claudia have put aside their differences in order to lend their united support. Your brother and sister-in-law have suffered greatly since their precious little Bryan was kidnapped and I pray that, despite everything, they can save their marriage. After all that your family has endured during these past months, don’t you think we have all suffered enough? I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Don’t add to my torment. Come home where you belong. Home where you are needed.

I love you,

Daddy

Her father knew all the right buttons to push. He knew her weaknesses. More than anything, she wanted to be needed, to help those who suffered as her mother Janine had suffered during her long, agonized bout with cancer. Victoria had been a child—only twelve—when her mother had died, but she had vowed then and there that she would dedicate her life to alleviating the suffering of others. She hadn’t been able to save her mother, but her mission in life was to save as many lives as possible.

Now her family was suffering—not physical pain, but a mental torment that seemed to be spreading like wildfire, affecting one person after another. The kidnapping of her nephew Bryan. The breakup of her brother Matthew’s marriage. The death of her wicked stepmother Sophia. The arrest of Lily, the woman her father loved.

Her father was right. Her family did need her. Her father needed her. She should go home!

But how could she leave Palmira? She had made a commitment to these people. They were counting on her. If she left with Quinn McCoy, there would be no medically trained person at the clinic. People would surely die without her.

But if I stay here, I could very well end up dead, she reminded herself.

Quinn watched the play of emotions on Victoria’s face and knew she was torn between doing what her father asked and fulfilling her duty to the people of Palmira. If she agreed to her father’s request, it sure as hell would make his job a lot easier. He didn’t like the idea of having to force the woman to go with him. But if kidnapping her was the only way to get the job done, then that’s what he’d do.

“Do you know what the letter says?” Victoria asked.

“No,” Quinn said. “Sam Waterman gave me the letter sealed. But I figure your father asked you to come home and told you that your family needed you right now.”

“He wants me to go along nicely with you, to put my life and the needs of my family first.” Victoria tossed the letter on the scarred, wobbly desk as she shoved back her chair. She stood, then began pacing back and forth in the 10’ x 10’ room.

“His request doesn’t sound unreasonable to me.” Quinn’s gut instinct told him that she was in the process of talking herself out of leaving Palmira, despite her father’s pleas. “You’ve got to know that by staying here, you’re signing your own death warrant.”

“Possibly,” she agreed. “But if I leave with you today, how many people will die because I’m not here to save them? Is my life worth the lives of countless others?”

Quinn released a loud huff, then rubbed his forehead as he chuckled. Damn stupid do-gooder! Out to save the world! The woman had a martyr complex! She was willing to die for the people of Palmira. Noble sentiments. But did she really have any idea what the rebel troops might do to her? Before and after they collected a sizable ransom from her father. And Ryan Fortune would pay whatever they asked. But he’d never see his daughter alive again.

“Your life is priceless to your father,” Quinn said.

“I wish I could do as my father asked, but…I can’t.”

“Is that it? You’ve made your decision? You’re definitely not leaving with me today.”

She nodded.

“What do I tell your father?”

“Tell him— No, don’t tell him anything.” Victoria sat, then opened a desk drawer and withdrew a pen and paper. “I’ll write a letter to him and you can deliver it when you return to Texas.”

“Your last will and testament?”

She cut her eyes in Quinn’s direction, the look one of pure disdain. “Haven’t you ever cared enough about anything or anyone to risk your life?”

“Nope, can’t say that I have.” He eased up off the desk. “I’ve risked my life more than once, but it wasn’t for any ideal or for anyone I cared about. It was always for money. That’s the only thing worth risking your life for.”

“Money is meaningless without integrity and self-respect and genuine—”

“Spoken like a woman born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” Quinn leaned over the desk, putting his face only inches from hers. “I grew up a poor, motherless kid in Houston. I just barely managed to stay on the right side of the law. I can relate to these Santo Bonisto peasants a lot better than you can, princess.”

Her gaze locked with his. She clenched her teeth tightly. Her cheeks flushed. Aha! His remarks had hit a nerve!

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Do you feel guilty that you and your family are so rich and these poor people don’t have a pot to piss in? Do you really think sacrificing your life is going to change one damn thing for them?”

“You’re heartless, aren’t you, Mr. McCoy?”

“Got that right!” He withdrew from her. “Somebody mentioned a cantina not far from here. I need a good stiff drink. I’ll be back in about an hour to pick up that letter you’re going to write to your father.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll have Ernesto bring the letter to you. I assume you’re going to Cantina Caesar. It’s the only one in town.”

Quinn opened the door, then paused to look back at her. “See you around, princess.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You never know.”

Segundo laid his meaty hand on the bar, placing his palm up as his mouth curved into a toothless smile. The massively built owner of the Cantina Caesar reminded Quinn of a Sumo wrestler.

“To arrange passage for two on the Evita, the only boat going down the Rio Blanco this evening, costs more than I anticipated.” Segundo sighed. “Now that the rebel troops are within striking distance of Palmira, any form of escape has doubled in price.”

“I understand.” Quinn retrieved the money from a pouch in his backpack, then counted it out on the bar. “Did you make the other arrangements?”

“Sí. That, too, will cost—”

“Twice as much.” Quinn added the extra cash atop the other bills on the bar. “When Julio told me that I could rely on your assistance, he forgot to mention how expensive your services are.”