The Captive's Return

First, he had to find Sarafina and Lucia.



That old book was right about the whole "best of times, worst of times" dichotomy.



Lucas hitched the wriggling kid higher on his back and tried not to think too much about their "family" conversation earlier. He'd officially taken on the role as the father of the restless human backpack currently drooling through the shoulder of his flight suit.



Like a little more moisture even mattered after the morning of tropical rain showers.



The makeshift kiddie carrier from his survival vest helped distribute her weight better and when she slept, he didn't have to worry about her sliding off. Blisters on his shoulders from the vines were a small price to pay for keeping the kid happy.



Once he'd let Sara tell Lucia he was her father, that was it. No going back, because there wasn't a chance in hell he would damage a child's trust that way. There was also the possibility Sara was telling the truth.



Stop thinking, damn it.



A fat striped snake slithered under a rotting log and into the stream alongside them. He needed to focus on getting out of the jungle alive. They still had at least one more night in the elements before they reached the CIA safe house. Once they were in the States, he could deal with the rest.



On the positive side, the gunfire had stopped. But that could also be bad news if Chavez was now free to roam.



One hurdle at a time. They had to get through today first and by the looks of Sara, he could be carrying her before much longer.



She'd refused to let him cart her backpack as well as Lucia because of his arm. While she was on a bushes break, he'd taken the water bottles out of her sack and shoved them inside his vest. When she'd confronted him, he'd dared her to fish inside his soaking wet clothes to get them back. Her smile would have made him grin, too—if the curve of her mouth hadn't been so weak.



Maybe he could set Lucia down to skip along for a while and carry the backpack. The kid could use some exercise and he would put his arm around Sara's waist, her pride be damned.



Lucia wriggled again, clamping for balance on his injured arm—holy crap!



He bit back a longer stream of crewdog-worthy curses. "Try to be still. Okay?"



"I don't wanna walk anymore," she whined.



"Well, kid, technically you're not walking," he mumbled.



"Huh?"



"Never mind."



"I wanna go home."



Sara drew up alongside them, steam rising from her drying clothes. "We will, chica, very soon. When we get there, you'll have all your favorite things to eat and fresh clothes."



"And a pool? I'm hot. I wanna swim."



"As soon as possible," Sara reassured her, taking over the conversation, thank God.



"How much more? Are we there yet? You said one day."



He prepped for another Lucia litany of grown-ups are sure wrong a lot.



Instead, Sara pressed a finger to her daughter's mouth. "Remember when our bridge broke?"



"Uh-huh." Her voice quivered.



"That means we have to take a longer way," Sara explained for the thirty-seventh time.



Yet her voice stayed patient, even if her eyes looked weary. In fact, every inch of her appeared dog tired.



He studied the sun, took a quick navigational reading. They hadn't made it as far as he would like, and they still had at least an hour's daylight left. Did Sara have sixty seconds, much less sixty minutes, of energy left?



She'd been a dynamo before, wearing him out on more occasions than he was comfortable remembering at the moment. But maybe he had unrealistic expectations. Heat, rain and stress could take its toll, too.



"Lucas," she huffed, "don't even think about stopping for me. You need to see a doctor for your arm before it turns green and rots off."



He'd forgotten that uncanny knack of hers for reading his mind—and for making him laugh. "Turns green, huh? What do you think of that, Lucia?"



"Ewwww," the imp groaned.



Sara's mouth pulled tight. "Don't you laugh at me, Lucas Quade."



"I wouldn't dream of it."



God help them if she saw into all of his thoughts since she could lynch him for any number of them— ranging from how he wanted to peel off her damp shirt or kiss the tight pucker from her lips, even though he wasn't sure he trusted her anymore.



He whacked a protruding bush, scattering butterflies and lizards. "I wouldn't be stopping for you. I'd be stopping for the chatterbox on my back."



"Uh, chatterbox has fallen asleep."



No way. That fast? He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, he found a tiny face tucked into the curve of his neck, even though her arms stayed locked tight around him. Her eyes were closed, bow mouth open just a little, puffy sleep breaths gusting.



A fresh pool of drool spread on the shoulder of his flight suit.



"Lucas!" Sara called. "Look out."



He jerked around—just in time to keep from running smack into a low branch. "Damn it. Thanks."



Regaining his footing, he knocked aside palms with extra force. A toucan squawked.



Sara continued to cruise alongside him. He slowed, even though she insisted she didn't need it. They wouldn't get anywhere if she gave out.



Sara smiled up at him. "I do that a lot, too."



"Do what? Trip over logs? Run into trees?" he asked, not really caring since he was enjoying seeing Sara's smile.



"Watch Lucia sleep and marvel at how perfect she is. She was too tiny for so long after being born prematurely, I was afraid she would break if I touched her. So I watched her sleep a lot more in those days."



Babies scared the crap out of him like that, too. Some grown-ups, too. One in particular. Sara looked too small and fragile for his peace of mind.



He should keep her mind off her exhaustion since waking the chatterbox wasn't an option. "Tell me about Lucia."



"My favorite subject. You don't know what you've let yourself in for." Sara's Madonna smile stretched wider. "She's tough, like you noticed, in spite of how small she is. She likes to be outdoors, running, swimming, climbing trees."



"She seems to talk well for her age." Something he hadn't thought of before. How well did a three-year-old talk versus a four-year-old? She was also bilingual, a sign of age perhaps. Or genius. Her sentences mixed languages, but he barely noticed anymore since he understood both and somehow her jumble always made sense. "But of course I don't know much about kids."



"Being a preemie slowed her down at first with motor skills, but she has more than caught up now, even though she's still naturally petite."



That could explain the size. For the first time he allowed himself to admit how much he wanted it to be true. Beyond wanting Sara to have stayed safe, the thought of his kid growing inside her...



Except hadn't she said the pregnancy was difficult?



Of course it was. She'd been shot multiple times. If she had been pregnant, then it was a wonder all the surgery and medication hadn't harmed the baby or made her miscarry.



While Sara had been recovering, he'd been back in the States moving on with his life. "What about you?"



"What do you mean?"



"Are you okay? Do you have any lasting problems from being shot?"



She paused to sweep aside a jutting cluster of palms, taking extra care to dance around the scurrying insects before looking at him again.



"Ramon thought of himself as my savior, watching over me for my father and making sure I didn't betray his memory by turning my back on the family. He treated me like a pampered niece, took care of me, set me up as nanny to his grandchildren. Lied to me and wouldn't let me go, but I guess it could have been so much worse."



Something about her answer niggled at him. She was quibbling on an element. Which one? There was a lot of subject matter to cover over five years. "That must have been hell."



"It's going to be all right. I'll see my brother. You've met Lucia. This is much more than I dared dream."



Sporadic gunfire popped again in the distance. The fighting resuming? A hunter?



Hunting for them? He couldn't know for sure until it would be too late.



He wouldn't let it be too late. Not only did he have to worry about Sara and Lucia, but he was responsible for two flight crews back at the Cartina National Airbase. God only knew what had happened to the Delta dudes earmarked to do a smash and grab for a woman who wasn't there any longer. "I will get us out of here."



"I know."



"I won't look at your dead body on a stretcher again."



"You mentioned that before. How could that have happened?"



He needed to scrub a hand over his face to pull himself together, but had his hands full of kid. "Damn. The doctor who assisted must have lied to me. Who knows what he pumped into you to make you appear lifeless."



She shivered, rubbing her hands along her arms. "A quarter of this country is on Ramon's payroll."



"I even paid a priest to give you a proper burial."



Her feet faltered to a stop. "That must have been horrible for you."



It had been hell—no other word fit for the black hole he'd fallen into. Taking care of Tomas had pulled him back out. He didn't ever want to step near that edge again.



"I am so sorry."



"It's not your fault."



"Then why are you being so distant?" She held up a hand. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."



"No. You have a right to ask." They were married, for God's sake. "I've never been good with showing—"



"Feelings? I remember." Sweat trickled into her T-shirt, likely trekking right between her breasts. "I guess I fell into an old pattern there that led us to too many arguments in the past."



"I am sorry." He pulled his eyes off the path of perspiration beads chasing each other into her clothes. "But I can't afford to think about anything except getting us out of here alive."



"Of course."



"I wish I could say I'll be more what you're looking for afterward. You were wise not to marry me."



"But I did."



Eyes forward. Watch the landscape ahead and keep marching, dude, because he wanted a taste of Sara's skin more than he wanted a shower and a real meal. "Let me rephrase. You were right to turn me down when I asked, because I definitely wasn't the right sort of man for you."



Chapter 6



Sara held her spine as straight as the towering trees lining their path—in spite of the thousand-pound backpack and weighty pain of hearing Lucas say he regretted marrying her.



It shouldn't hurt. She'd turned him down three times, after all. But it did, because she'd only told him no in hopes that he would listen and change. Then they could have everything.



She could still recite every word of each proposal. The first, he'd worked into an offhand discussion after they had sex for the first time. The second panted into her ear during sex.



The final proposal came in an ultimatum during their fight on the embassy lawn the day she'd been shot.



She hadn't even realized how foolish she'd been until it was too late. Regret stole her breath faster than the exertion.



She slowed to a stop, slumping against a trunk as big around as the pillars she'd once lured Lucas behind to steal a kiss. "You feel used, of course."



"We did the practical thing at the time." He stopped, as well, without comment, confirming she must really look tired for him not to press on when their lives depended on speed. "I understood that then and now."



At least Lucia was still napping peacefully on his back.



"I was never much of a practical woman, with my silly bubbles and supply-closet ambushes for a quick make-out session."



"You used to drive me crazy." He swayed from foot to foot in a rocking motion guaranteed to soothe Lucia into sleeping longer.