In the Arms of a Hero. BEVERLY BARTON
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deaf. “Thanks. Now, if you’ll take care of—”
Quinn grabbed her arm, then jerked her to her feet and up against him. He hissed his words into her ear. “Don’t tell anyone your name!” He glanced around and saw that the other passengers were watching them. “Hi, there, Chico,” Quinn said. “I’m Quinn McCoy and this is my wife, Victoria.”
Quinn’s deadly glare warned her not to contradict him. He was right, of course, she realized. They had no way of knowing who they could trust.
“Chico has a bullet in his leg that’s going to have to come out,” she explained. “He wanted you to—”
“Fine. I can handle it. Here, you take this whiskey—” he shoved the bottle into her hand “—and go do what you can for that man over there.” He nodded toward the dying crewman.
“But I should be the one to take care of Chico’s leg. After all I am a nur—”
“You’re my wife,” Quinn reiterated. “You’ll do what I tell you to do. You see to the dying and let me remove the bullet from Chico’s leg.”
Her cheeks crimson, her eyes narrowed to angry slits, Victoria stomped across the deck. After sitting, she lifted the dying man’s head onto her lap. She opened the cap and placed the whiskey bottle to his lips.
After only a few sips the man stiffened, then went limp. Victoria checked his pulse. He was dead. She gently closed his eyes, then eased his head onto the deck.
“Do you need any help?” she called to Quinn.
He looked up from his examination of Chico’s wound. “Bring the whiskey with you,” was all he said.
“Is Franco dead?” Chico asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid he is,” Victoria told him as she handed Quinn the whiskey bottle.
Victoria leaned against the railing, letting the night breeze cool her face and body. A full moon illuminated the murky water beneath them and the dense jungle that surrounded them. Vine-covered trees lined the banks of the winding Rio Blanco. Cascades of greenery swayed gently, their silhouettes dark and foreboding.
A pair of screeching macaws, their long tails drooping behind them, flew from one bank to the other. An ant shrike cried out from the jungle.
“Time to go to our cabin.” Quinn slipped her hand into his. “We both need some sleep before the captain puts us ashore near Delicias early in the morning.”
“How early?” she asked.
“Probably around two-thirty or three,” he said. “We go from Delicias up Mt. Simona to El Prado, where my plane is waiting for us.”
“If all goes as planned, you should have me back in Texas by tomorrow night, shouldn’t you?” She fought the urge to jerk her hand free of his, but knew that if she hoped to escape, it was best to cooperate with her kidnapper.
“If all goes as planned.” He tugged on her hand. “Come on. After the day we’ve had, we could both use some rest.”
She allowed him to lead her down the stairs, below deck and straight to the smallest of the three tiny cabins. Inside the closet-size room, stacked bunks hugged one wall, leaving an open space of only a few feet on the other side.
“Sorry that there’s no facilities in the cabin for a bath,” Quinn said.
“I can take a bath when I get home to the Double Crown.”
“Your old man’s ranch is really something,” Quinn said. “It’s like a small kingdom.”
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