A Candle in the Dark (27 page)

“How old were you then?”

She laughed nervously. “Six maybe. Or seven.” Her hand kept stroking. His hair felt like satin. Heavy, dark satin, winding through her fingers like shadows through moonbeams. The fire crackled, the light wandered over his face, highlighting his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips. Showing the trembling of his hands resting on his chest.

Warmth wound through her, spiraling until it became the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, a smile she couldn’t stop, or help. “Once upon a time,” she began slowly, “there was a man named Ilia Muromec, and he was a hero in the city of Kiev…”

They were on their way at sunrise. By noon they’d left the most mountainous part of the trail, entering wider, shallower valleys and wide open savannahs. Solitary ranches dotted the trail at intervals, but they were little more than momentary rest stations, ill-equipped to handle the groups of Americans heading to Panama City. Mostly, all they could supply was a cup of scalding black coffee, but it was enough. The hot weather and the frequent, torrential rainstorms sapped Ana’s strength and took away her appetite. Hours ago she had resigned herself to bumping along on the mule’s back, so sore that every moment she swore she couldn’t stand it any longer.

But she stood it. She stood it because she was too tired to get off. The beginning of this journey had been hard, but it hadn’t really seemed like a
journey
until now, when there was nothing but this monotonous riding, and the dark jungle pressing in all around.

Ana pulled at her wool collar, wishing she could unbutton a few more buttons, desperate to be cool. But she’d already revealed too much of her cleavage, and though at the best of times that hardly worried her, with D’Alessandro now so—unpredictable—showing more flesh made her nervous.

Involuntarily she remembered last night, and the memory brought with it a soft, warm satisfaction that she couldn’t ignore, didn’t want to ignore. She hadn’t failed last night; the knowledge made her feel good, so good it made her fear seem inconsequential. It was a small victory, one she still couldn’t quite believe. He had asked her for comfort and she had given it to him, wanted to give it. He hadn’t been disappointed, and she hadn’t failed.

She was surprised at how happy the thought made her. She had touched him, and though she’d been afraid, in the end it had been all right. In the end, he hadn’t asked any more of her than she’d been willing to give. He’d fallen asleep in her lap, and it felt so good to have him there she hadn’t wanted to wake him. This morning, his smile made her forget her initial nervousness.

The mule stumbled over a rock, lurching sideways, and Ana gritted her teeth as pain shot up her legs, into her buttocks. Thoughts of her partner flew from her mind. For the hundredth time, she thought about walking, and for the hundredth time, she remembered the Indian baggage carriers they’d passed. She was lucky; at least she had a mule to ride. The slender natives walked to Panama City, bent under the weight of the trunks and bags slung between the poles they carried, trudging over the rough terrain. She’d felt sorry for them until Jiméne informed her dryly that they were paid very well for their services, and that when the load became too much for them, they merely left it behind.

They were the only words he’d spoken besides “Hurry up” and “You are too slow.” Ana knew that even if she did decide to walk, Jiméne would never allow it. She would slow them down far too much.

Grimly she remembered that she had been the one in a hurry when they’d first started the trek across the isthmus. She’d no doubt been as obnoxious as Jiméne, ordering all speed in spite of danger. She remembered Esteban’s attack, and clenched her hand around the pommel of the saddle. For her, the lesson to slow down had been hard won. She wondered if she would end up paying for Jiméne’s obsession as well.

She stared ahead. Jiméne was right behind Jose, so close the nose of his mule nudged the backside of the muleteer’s. At the start of the high ravines only wide enough for one mule, Jiméne had waited impatiently while Jose called out a warning to riders on the other side, looking for all the world as if he wanted to take the risk and charge ahead.

“Let’s stop.” D’Alessandro’s voice was so low behind her, she barely heard it. For a moment, she wondered if she even had. Then it came again, louder. “Let’s stop.”

She twisted in her saddle. He looked terrible. White and shaking, both hands clenched around the saddlehorn. She twisted back again. “Jiméne!” she called out. “We need to stop!”

He didn’t even turn around. “No.”

“Dammit, Castañeras, if you don’t—Damn.”

Ana looked over her shoulder. D’Alessandro was clinging to the saddle, nearly sliding off his mount. “Jiméne, wait!” She was off her mule in seconds, helping D’Alessandro down. He fell to the ground with a thud and she knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”

“I feel great,” he said sarcastically. He struggled to one elbow and then sat up, shakily brushing the dust from his shirt, concentrating on the simple motion as if it took all his strength. “Ana, I’m sorry, but I need to rest.”

“Then we’ll rest,” she said simply. She got to her feet, placing her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing angrily as she watched Jiméne slowly moving away. “Jiméne!” she shouted, wincing at the high-pitched sound of her voice. “Damn you, stop!”

He slowed, looked back over his shoulder, and yanked on the reins. “What are you doing?” he called back. “Come along, you will slow—”

“D’Alessandro can’t go on,” she cut him off abruptly.

“Can’t go—” Jiméne’s jaw clenched. He turned to Jose, muttered a few impatient words, and then dismounted. His step was stiff and angry as he moved to where they stood. Brushing past Ana, he went to D’Alessandro and stood over him. “
Como te sientes
?”

“I feel weak,” D’Alessandro replied, raking a hand through his hair. “Not just weak, actually, Castañeras. Sick.”

“I do not believe this,” Jiméne snapped, absently rubbing his injured arm. “You are worse than a child. A week without drink—”

“Nine days,” D’Alessandro corrected.

“Whatever. We cannot stop for you.”

Slowly, carefully, D’Alessandro grasped on to the mule, pulling himself up bit by bit until he stood, one hand resting on the saddle. “I need to stop,” he said, every word careful, heavy with anger. “Go on without me, if you must, but I’m not getting back on that mule. Not now.”

Jiméne expelled his breath in a tight, impatient rush of sound. His eyes narrowed. “I thought—if you were sober—you would be a good doctor. A man, not a child.”

D’Alessandro stiffened. “You—”

“Enough of this.” Ana took a deep breath, stepping between them. She turned to Jiméne. “Surely stopping for the rest of the day will hurt nothing. We have three weeks until the steamer arrives in Panama City. There’s plenty of time.”

“You know nothing.” Jiméne’s jaw clenched.

“I know you’ve been unbearable since Gorgona.” She touched his arm. “Jiméne, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” He wrenched away. “Nothing.” He turned to D’Alessandro, motioning angrily. “Him. He is too weak, useless.”

“Thank you,” D’Alessandro murmured.

Ana threw him a warning glance and turned back to Jiméne. “That’s not the reason you’re so upset, is it?”

“It is exactly the reason,” Jiméne contradicted. “I—” Rubbing his forehead, he turned away, staring at the jungle. Then he turned back, his face a study in indecision. His voice was hoarse with misery. “Ah—I have no choice. I need your help.”

“Our help?”

“Well…” Jiméne looked sheepish. He pointed to D’Alessandro. “His help.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” D’Alessandro said.

“I know. I am
el tonto
—the fool. But I did not know what else to do. You are not well,
amigo
.”

“No kidding.”

“And I thought you would be well. I thought you would be ready.”

“Ready?” Ana frowned, suspicion rising in her mind. “Ready for what?”

Jiméne looked up, down, anywhere but at her. “I must have a doctor.”

“You’re sick?” D’Alessandro asked.

Jiméne shook his head. “Not me, no.
Mi madre
.” He sighed and leaned against Ana’s mule. “In Gorgona, I saw a friend—Diego Villenueve. He has just come from home, and he tells me she is ill—
mi madre
. The
curanderos
say it is
el pasmo
. The fever. But I do not believe them.” He snorted in derision. “They are fakes, folk doctors who treat with juice and prayer. They know nothing of medicine and they save no one. Not me—not her.”

He looked back at D’Alessandro, who watched with serious eyes, arms folded over his chest. “Diego says they are worried—they think she is not long for this world. It is time for a real doctor, I fear.”

“And you think I can help?” D’Alessandro asked.

Jiméne looked at him somberly, speculatively. When he spoke, it was as if the words pained him immeasurably. “I do not know,
amigo
. You saved my life, but it is in spite of yourself, I think. I am not sure—” The words came out in a rush. “I do not know if I can trust you with
mi madre
. I hoped, if you were sober, then
si
, maybe you could help. Now I do not know.”

There was a long silence. Jiméne stared at his feet. Ana looked at D’Alessandro. His expression was closed, his gaze focused on something in the distance, something hidden in the lush, tangled foliage beyond. Her chest tightened, there was a strange squeezing in her throat and a burning behind her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do it either,
amigo
,” he said quietly, without looking at either of them. “But I’m willing to try, if you want me to. And I won’t be upset if you’d rather I didn’t.”

“You will stay sober until we get there?” Jiméne asked.

D’Alessandro nodded. The muscle in his jaw jumped. “Yes.”

“Then I would be honored if you would try.” Jiméne turned to Jose and spoke quickly in Spanish. Then he looked at Ana. “We will rest for now, then. But we must leave early. It is another two days away.”

Ana swallowed thickly. “Of course.”

Jiméne marched off, and she turned to D’Alessandro, meaning to say something to him, to try to ease the bite of Jiméne’s words, but he was already walking toward the jungle, and she still didn’t have the slightest idea of what to say.

Yards from the path, Cain stood motionless, listening. No footsteps came hurrying after him, no voices echoed soft and muffled through the vegetation. It was quiet. Well, not quiet. The jungle was never quiet. But there were no human sounds at all, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and reveled in it.

Christ, it felt good to just stand here, to inhale the humid, fecund scent of plant life and the sweet perfume of flowers. The warm, wet air caressed his skin, too heavy to dry the sweat clinging to his temples, too heavy even to breathe. His heart thudded in his chest. It felt as if he’d just run miles instead of only walked a short distance, and he was exhausted, drained of everything. Drained of even the ability to feel pain.

It had been three years since he’d practiced medicine sober. Three years of fighting the demons that jumped at him from his patients’ eyes, three years of trying to drown the memory of John Matson in bourbon. He thought—if nothing else—he’d at least grown used to his own fears, used to the smell of blood and death and the constant shadow of uncertainty.

But the drink had only numbed him. It hadn’t removed his terror. It was still there, brought to life by Jiméne’s words, only now it was worse than ever. Now he didn’t know how to fight it. He’d promised not to drink, but the thought of making a diagnosis sober made him weak. And horribly, deeply afraid.

Because you can’t do it. You’ll fail. You always fail.

“I trust you, Cain. I trust you…”

Cain squeezed his eyes shut, forcing away the images, reaching instinctively for the flask that was no longer there. But the memory wouldn’t leave him this time—actually, it had never left at all, had merely been clouded by drink. Now, without the bourbon, it bombarded him. In his mind he felt John’s blood, heavy and wet on his hands, heard the ragged sawing of bone and the rasp of breathing. In his mind, he felt the sticky gel of an isinglass dressing and smelled the stench of putrefaction.

There hadn’t been any screaming then. Not a sound. But, ah, God, how he heard the screaming now.

Christ, he had failed so often. So often. And now here was Jiméne, asking for help, offering the same trust that had killed John Matson, and all Cain could think was that he should say no. Should turn around and ride away to Panama City. He was so afraid to face that failure again when he could see it clearly. Much better to be drunk and unfocused and alone. The way he’d always been—

“D’Alessandro?”

He heard her voice before he heard the swish of her skirts against the ferns. It cut through him, running roughshod over his thoughts, banishing everything until he was so focused on her he practically felt her skin beneath his hands.

“D’Alessandro?” She stopped just behind him, just beyond his reach.

That’s right, be careful
, he thought. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew how often he’d dreamed about her during the uncomfortable ride; dreamed about the touch of her hands, caressing her, kissing her—doing more than that.

“Are you all right?” She sounded uncertain, hesitant. Strangely breathless.

He turned around, smiling slightly. “I’m all right.”

“Oh. Good. Well, I—” She half turned. “I guess I’ll leave you alone then.”

“Don’t go.” He spoke before he thought, and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for her refusal. When she said nothing, the relief spilling through him was nearly more than he could bear. He leaned his head back, staring at the leafy canopy above their heads. “A few days ago, you asked me who John was. He was—John Matson was a doctor at Massachusetts General. I apprenticed under him.” He paused, closing his eyes at the memory. “John became… more than a father to me. I studied under him for three years. Then there was a carriage accident—nothing serious, just a cut on his leg. But it… it got worse. He wasn’t much of a patient. By the time he stopped working long enough to see to it, the leg had festered, there was gangrene. We had to amputate.” He laughed shortly, bitterly. “That is, I had to amputate.”