No.
If she told him, he would snatch the backpack from her hands and carry it, as well. She pulled out the glucose monitor, pricked her thumb, watched for the results. . .sixty milligrams per deciliter. Low. But not as bad as she would have expected given her erratic diet. She would keep her peppermints within easy reach today.
Hitching up her shirt, she inched her waistband down and swabbed an alcohol patch along her stomach. With a speed born of practice, she drew the insulin into the syringe and pierced her skin with barely a wince.
Done.
She cleared up the supplies, zipped the case closed again and stuffed it down into the backpack. As long as the temperature stayed constant, her insulin did not need refrigeration.
A twig snapped behind her.
Clutching the bag to her chest, she jerked around — eyes drawn to the opened front of their lean-to. Lucia stretched with a jaw-cracking yawn, grubby fists scrubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Sara stifled the urge to dunk her daughter in the stream. Lucas had already warned her about leeches. Cup the water and check it first, as much bathing as they could risk.
"Morning, chica." Sara smoothed a hand over her daughter's smudged brow. "Are you all rested for more walking?"
"Yep." She rolled up to sit. "But it's just us today, right?"
"Uhmm."
Her face scrunched with the early warning signs of a tantrum. "Does he—" she pointed to Lucas "—have to come with us? I just want my mama."
How could she have forgotten to talk to Lucia about Lucas being her father? They'd been so concerned with escape, staying quiet, and then setting up for the night, Lucia falling asleep. Her daughter had been told plenty of stories about her father, but that he was dead. Would Lucas want to explain together?
She glanced at him washing his hands a few steps farther downstream and found him staring back, waiting.
He'd heard.
Her heart pinched all over again. What a sad father-daughter beginning. He should have been there to count her precious pink toes.
Except they hadn't been pink. They had been a frightening gray color, so unbelievably tiny she'd been terrified her three-pound daughter wouldn't live to breathe on her own without the help of a respirator.
She was so damn sick of hospitals and medicines and guarding every word that came out of her mouth. She wanted to crawl up against Lucas's chest and cry all the tears she hadn't allowed herself then because she'd wanted her baby girl to see only smiles for however long she lived.
But she'd given up whining a long time ago. Buck up. "Lucas, do we have a minute or two to talk with Lucia before we go?"
He nodded, picking his way through the undergrowth along the stream bank to stop beside them, dropping to sit on a small boulder. So as not to tower over his daughter? Sara prayed so as she continued to pray he would be sensitive enough to handle this moment—and their child—with care.
Heaven knew he'd been a taciturn man before, but beyond aloof, he'd grown harder over the years. Surely only because of the survival situation.
Sara looped an arm around her daughter's too-tiny shoulders and placed a hand on Lucas's knee to establish a family sort of link, even if only a symbolic one. "Lucia, chica, this is your padre."
"My papa?" Frowning, she studied Lucas with confused brown eyes, then looked back at her mother. "My papa lives in heaven with God."
"That's what I was told. But it wasn't true."
"Well, where's he been?" Lucia asked, risking only quick looks at Lucas while inching closer to her mother.
"He thought I died years ago. He never even knew about you." Please don't let this turn into an awkward discussion of how babies were made.
Lucia's forehead furrowed deep. "You both think wrong a lot. I thought grown-ups was supposed to know everything. Are you sure you got it right this time?"
The night they'd made this precious child came blazing back to mind in sensual detail, tingling along nerves and bringing the remembered scent of him, them together. She'd known in her heart they'd made a baby, even if she wanted to wait to be certain before she told him.
Whispering her certainty to the priest that day of the embassy attack had persuaded the father to perform the bedside ceremony. "I can assure you, he is your father."
The weight of Lucas's eyes drew her attention to him. Was he remembering those steamy Latin nights— and afternoons—spent together in his flat, at hers, even on a secluded beach, the reticent man totally unrestrained when it came to lovemaking?
And wow, was he ever looking reticent at the moment.
He'd always been one to erect barriers the minute anyone came too close. Lucas must be scared to death. Still the child should come first and if he didn't scrounge up a smile soon...
Ahh.
The man did have the most amazing smile, even more precious for its rarity. Lowering to one knee, he moved closer to Lucia, meeting her at eye level.
Watching the two of them settle into their first acknowledged moment as father and daughter...Sara swallowed down tears and slid her arm from Lucia to let them bond.
He rested a hand on Lucia's little shoulder, his pat a bit awkward, touching coming from such a confident man. "I'm sorry I didn't know about you sooner. I would have come to get you right away."
"What would you have done with me?"
"I would have taken you home with me, back in the United States."
"What if I don't wanna go home with you?" Her bottom lip thrust out. "I like Tio Ramon. You're gwumpy."
His eyebrows slammed together. "Grumpy?"
Lucia inched back against Sara, ducking from under Lucas's hand. His face smoothed, eyebrows pulling apart again with as much studied concentration as a major weight-lifting feat. "Sorry. I don't know much about being a dad. I'm more used to being the boss, and sometimes that means I have to be grumpy. Maybe, uh, you could teach me what papas do."
Lucia clung to her mother's shirt. Sara struggled to suppress the urge to tuck her child under her arm, away from anyone who might step on her tender baby feelings, even inadvertently. She wasn't used to sharing her child, but she'd better get used to it.
Lucia peered up at Lucas from under her lashes, toes of her hiking boots turning in to touch. "Papas are supposed to buy toys and give their kids candy and read stories and play horsie."
Well, hell. Sara checked those cute little toes angled in. No doubt deliberately. Her Machiavellian daughter wasn't so scared she couldn't manipulate a battle-hardened veteran.
Could Lucia's acceptance of the changes in her life be that easily accomplished? She hoped so, for all their sakes, but she would still have to hold strong for both of them, because she refused to see her baby girl hurt ever again.
Scratching his forehead, then plowing his fingers through his stream-dampened hair, he finally nodded. "We can shop for candy when we get out of the jungle. I read pretty well, but I've never played horsie."
"I guess we kinda played horsie yesterday when you carried me. You didn't even get tired." She looked up at Sara. "I gotta go."
"What?"
"I gotta go use the bushes."
Of course. She'd only just woken. Still the conversational jolt jarred her in the middle of such an intense moment. Standing, Sara extended her hand. "I'll take you, then we can start our walk. You'll get to play horsie all day long."
Ramon whipped off the camo cover shrouding the Jeep inside the bunker where he and the woman had hidden through the night. Gunfire still sputtered sporadically, frightening even the monkeys silent.
And the woman.
After startling from the bushes, she hadn't spoken beyond saying that she'd been Padilla's captive, that she'd stowed away in one of the trucks when Padilla's troops had left to launch their attack—and she would do anything to survive. He believed the last part at least.
If she'd lied about the rest, he couldn't let her leave and alert Padilla. If she spoke the truth, then he couldn't turn his back on her. His enemy might sink to abusing women, but Ramon would not allow himself to live like an uncivilized animal.
He'd busted his ass, sacrificed years of his life living on the run and fighting for the right to protect what was his in the guerilla days. He wouldn't turn his back on all he'd fought for by ignoring a woman's plea. He refused to be less of a man for the sake of his own survival.
However, if she was a traitor, she could make a valuable bargaining tool to exchange for Sarafina and Lucia. If Sarafina and Lucia were dead, then the woman would also offer a means with which to strike back at the bastard who'd massacred his family.
Rage threatened to pierce his thin veneer of calm. He wouldn't surrender.
His gun weighed heavier in his hands these days, but he couldn't let the enemy—or this woman—see signs of age or weakness. He needed to keep his eyes on her at all times so she wouldn't knife him in the back.
He'd trained his Uzi on her and led her to the bunker where they'd hidden through the night. He recognized the survivor spirit in her, stirring unwilling respect. The woman was toned, young and fit, a long-legged blonde in running shorts and a black T-shirt. Barefoot. But that wouldn't pose a problem as long as his stored Jeep started.
Still, she needed to be ready to run on his order. Reaching under the backseat, he unearthed the duffel stored for just such an emergency. He unzipped, not even needing to check the inventory—a change of clothes, dried food, water purification tablets. A knife and gun.
He passed her an oversize pair of sandals. "Do you have a name?" he finally thought to ask, not that it mattered.
She was simply a means to an end, Padilla's whore, willingly or not. Although she didn't look abused. Health hummed from her.
Her lips pursed so tightly he wondered if she would answer, found that anger seethed within him in spite of his resolution to stay numb and in control. He thought about slapping her—but knew his rage was misdirected, and he prided himself on being fair.
She reached for the shoes, careful not to touch him. "Nola."
"All right, Nola. Do what I say and you will live. Hesitate for even a second and you will die. Is that understood?"
She nodded, taking the shoes and following his every move with those wide wary eyes. Again he studied her flawless skin. He'd seen Padilla's handiwork before. The man enjoyed pain, knives, cigars.
Padilla also used electrodes, which left no marks.
Ramon swallowed down rage, and even relief that his family hadn't been captured. He couldn't think over-long about Sarafina or he would go insane. Financing her expensive, difficult pregnancy had delayed work completing his compound for almost six months, a sacrifice he would make again and again to save a woman who was like family to him. He couldn't let her and Lucia suffer for his sake now.
"Get in the Jeep." He hauled himself into the driver's seat. "Buckle up. The ride will be bumpy."
Once she settled inside, he tugged a bandanna from the bag and tied her wrists to the armrest, tight. She didn't even wince. Her submissiveness spooked him. He had women of his own, always willing and never mistreated beyond a simple slap if they forgot their place. He was better than Padilla after all.
He considered telling the woman she was safe with him, but then fear could keep her docile. Best to let her wonder.
Cranking the ignition, he pumped the gas pedal until the vehicle roared to life. He wouldn't resort to rape. He'd never needed to, and right now with the grief and loss surging through him, sex was the last thing on his mind.
Midway through the night he'd realized survival and revenge weren't enough. He owed it to his country to regain power. He had money stashed away. As long as some of his troops escaped, they could lead additional fighters he would hire. He had a two-way radio to use when the time was right.
