Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke
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walked in, something about kilos. Emily stiffened as the word ran through her mind. She could no longer ignore the trepidation skittering down her spine. There was only one thing she knew of that came in kilos. Drugs.
She stole a glance behind her at Snake. Why hadn’t she seen it before? They weren’t the guests of an eccentric millionaire worried about his son; they were the prisoners of a drug lord. A cold sweat washed over her. What did that say about Peter?
When they reached the hospital wing, Emily sat on the sofa and tried to still her pounding heart. Is this where Peter has been for the past three years? Why hadn’t he called anyone? Why hadn’t he cared that no one had known whether he was dead or alive? Her shoulders sagged as she dropped her face in her hands.
She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hadn’t wanted to face the implications of such a sustained absence. A part of her hoped he was alive, but she hadn’t known for sure. Now she did. But was he trafficking in drugs?
She thought of all the damage drugs did to the users and their families and all the problems they’d had in Colorado Springs lately—the increase in victims of violence at the Galilee Women’s Shelter and all the overdoses at the hospital. She sighed. No, the Peter she knew could never be involved with drugs. Maybe he was still with the CIA? He could be working undercover, that would explain why no one had heard from him for so long. And why he didn’t want Baltasar to know they knew each other. Either scenario meant he wouldn’t be much help to her and Robert. She would always come second to his job, no matter what it was. She always had.
She thought back to their marriage and how much she’d loved him, and the more she loved him the more afraid she’d grown as he became more and more entranced with his job. She knew it wouldn’t have been long before he’d be working undercover, going on dangerous assignments and getting himself killed. The explosion that put him in the hospital was a real eye-opener for her, and she knew she couldn’t live that way—always wondering, always worrying.
She’d made an impulsive and emotional decision to walk out on their marriage. Then she’d waited for him to come home and tell her how foolish she’d been, to assure her that he’d be fine, that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, that he wouldn’t put his job before their marriage. But he never came. He hadn’t loved her enough to fight for her. He accepted her reasons and let her walk away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. Tears stung the back of her eyes. No, as always, she was on her own.
“Emily?”
She opened her eyes to find Robert staring down at her.
“Is everything all right?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Peter is here. She wished she could tell him, but she’d been the wife of a CIA agent long enough to know better. She patted the couch next to her. After he sat, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I believe Escalante is a drug lord.”
“What?”
“I heard him talking about kilos. We have to get out of here.”
“I agree, but how?”
“I don’t know.” Certainly not by counting on Peter. He hadn’t even batted an eye at seeing her again. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to keep at bay flooded her eyes. Peter had been her husband. She should be able to count on his help. She should be able to depend on him.
Robert placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. God will hear our prayers.”
“I hope so,” she whispered, but somehow she didn’t think He was listening.
Chapter Three
At that moment, a bout of coughing had Emily rushing into Marcos’s room, driving home her point more. If God was there for people, if He listened to their prayers, her prayers, how could He let such suffering happen to those the least deserving—the young and innocent? She checked the boy’s chart and saw that he’d already been given his medicine. There wasn’t much she could do for him. She took his temperature then had him sit up as she handed him a glass of water.
“Thank you, Dr. Señorita,” the boy said.
“You’re welcome.” She watched him finish the water then took the glass from him.
His coughing abated and he gave her a big toothy grin. “I have a loose tooth.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh. See?” He stuck his finger in his mouth and wiggled an incisor.
“Look at that,” she said with a big smile. “You have a loose tooth.”
He nodded in happy agreement. “Do you have children?” he asked with eagerness lighting his big brown eyes.
His question poked a wound that would never heal. “No, pequeño. No children. If I did, then I wouldn’t have time for all my children patients.”
“Then it is good, no?”
She smiled at him. “It is good. Now close your eyes and try to get some rest.”
He nodded. “I am extra tired today,” he said as his eyes drifted closed.
The poor boy was getting worse by the hour. Emily sat by his bedside and held his hand, thinking how unfair it was that he should have to spend his day in bed. Children should be running and playing and driving their parents crazy with their unrelenting energy.
She gave herself a mental shake. She was being absurd. Seeing Peter had brought back all the painful feelings of fear and loss and wanting a child more than she wanted her next breath. She sighed. It wasn’t meant to be. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t live with a man who put danger and his work before her. Never again. She had loved him too much to watch him die. And he hadn’t loved her enough to try something different, something new.
She pulled the sheet up to Marcos’s chest. It didn’t matter now. She was over Peter and had been for a long time. The wallop her heart had taken when she saw him earlier was only her feeling of relief that he was still alive, nothing more. She should be thankful and put him out of her mind.
She brushed the hair back from Marcos’s forehead. The poor boy was so thin and pale. Each breath was a struggle for him to take. He was in the beginning stages of Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, an opportunistic infection that had stolen in to take advantage of his shattered immune system.
“Dr Señorita?” He opened his sleepy eyes.
She smiled at him. “I thought you were going to rest.”
“Will you pray with me?”
She hesitated.
“My mama used to pray with me. Every day we’d pray together and ask God to watch over us. And every night before I went to sleep, but ever since she died—” His words broke off and pain filled his eyes.
“Of course, I’ll pray with you,” she said. She couldn’t stand to see the heartache filling his little face.
“Papa doesn’t pray anymore,” he said. “He’s mad at God for my disease, he doesn’t understand it’s not God’s fault.”
Emily squeezed his hand. “Your papa loves you so much, it hurts him to see you sick. I’m sure he doesn’t want you to see him sad.”
Marcos’s lips trembled as he smiled. “You must be a very smart lady.”
“I like to think so.”
“My mama would have liked you.”
His words tugged at her heart and tightened her throat. “She must have been a wonderful lady to have such a special boy.”
He smiled with all the sweetness and optimism that eight-year-olds hold close to their hearts, then pushed his hands together.
“Do you have a favorite prayer?” she asked, hoping he didn’t