“Mark!”
Corinne bounded away from Diego Quintana, arms outstretched, skirts flying around her legs. She was more beautiful than ever. And if Mark had any doubts about her feelings toward him, they dissipated as she threw herself into his open arms.
“Oh,” she gasped, clutching him as her momentum carried them backward a few steps.
Mark regained his footing and laughed. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
Rising on tiptoe, Corinne linked her arms behind his neck and kissed him long and hard on the mouth.
Hello, Miss Muffet!
The fatigue that made Mark’s legs ache on the downward climb from the mountain faded in a surge of pleasure and relief. Could a man die of joy overload? He held her tight against him and returned the affection, just as he’d promised himself, once he realized that he wasn’t dead and in some cold, black hell. Except the devil didn’t look like the shaggy kid from the late nineteenth century holding an oil lamp over his face.
“I love you, Muffet,” he moaned as she backed a breath away. If a woman could fill a man’s mind, making him want to linger in a smoke-filled inferno rather than go on to that bright spot people talked about, then she had to be the one.
Her kiss-dazed expression exploded with renewed vigor. “Ohhh.”
Once again her lips sought his, her fingers raking at his temples, giving new meaning to the adage love hurts. The invasion of raw pain forced Mark away.
“Ow, ow, ow . . .”
“What? Oh, Mark,” she fretted, seizing a section of her full skirt and dabbing at the fresh blood from the barely sealed wound at his pounding temple. “I’m so sorry.” Flustered, she turned away, shouting for Dr. Flynn.
Mark caught her at the waist before she got too far. “It’s just a little sore,” he lied, not wanting to let her go. She and her stubborn faith had given him a lifeline in his darkest hour.
“Still, it would be wise for the doctor to examine you,” Diego Quintana suggested. “And by the look of him, your companion also.” Mark shot him an accusatory look. “No thanks to you and your father’s cohorts.”
At that moment, recognition registered on Don Rafael’s face.
“Enrique!” The man staggered backward, looking at the youth as if he’d seen a ghost. “But it is not possible. Pozas said that the boy was dead.”
“Perhaps my uncle lied to you because he feared what Dr. Krump would do if he learned that I escaped,” the disheveled boy suggested. “Papá and I were the only ones who knew exactly where the caracoles were. Not even Tío Lorenzo had been into the mines.” Scuffing his bare feet in the dirt, he added, “I should not have left the orphanage.”
“You see what your Don Juan and his friends are capable of?” Mark told Corinne in triumph. “Terrorizing kids for profit, not to mention murder.”
Ignoring him, she stared, incredulous, at Enrique’s long hair, filthy outdated clothing, and face smeared with black coal dust and soot. “Enrique!” She rushed to the boy and enveloped him in her arms. “We thought you were dead.”
Mark cut her off. “You had quite a little game going here, you and your father, didn’t you, Quintana?”
“But Diego knew nothing of the caracoles,” Don Rafael spoke up, directing the disclaimer not only to Mark but to a number of official-looking men that Mark hadn’t paid much attention to until now. “If you must cast blame,” Rafael said to one of them, “then cast it on me.”
Were the suits and Federales Blaine’s cavalry? Mark wondered.
“Don Rafael called the authorities and told them everything,” Corinne told Mark, stepping into the circle of his arm with Enrique in tow. “Dr. Krump and Lorenzo Pozas are in jail already.”
That explained all the cars and uniforms, but whose side were they on? Rafael wasn’t in cuffs, which suggested that more pieces of this puzzle were missing.
A tall, broad-chested man in a linen suit stepped forward, offering Mark his hand. “I am Carlos Aquino, your brother’s associate.”
One for the good guys. Keeping Corinne close—if he had his way, he’d never let her go—Mark accepted it, much relieved. “Glad to see you arrived with the troops.”
“I called my cousin Vincente.” Aquino nodded toward another man of much the same build, but in blue tailored linen. “Vincente works for the Mineral Resources Council, so naturally he was interested in your suspicions regarding the possibility of fossils in the area. However, Don Rafael had already notified the state authorities by the time we arrived with the Federales to check out your strange story.”
“Strange isn’t the half of it,” Mark quipped.
“When we saw the smoking ruins,” Vincente Aquino spoke up, “we thought that we were too late to help you.”
“Everyone thought you were inside,” Capitán Nolla told Mark.
Frankly, Mark suspected Nolla, too, but decided to keep quiet until he heard more of what had happened on this side of the Twilight Zone. It couldn’t be any more outlandish than what he’d seen in the last twelve hours.
A network of mines riddled the mountain under Hacienda Ortiz, connected to the house by a tunnel from its underground chamber. That was where Mark had found a treasure trove of Ortiz memorabilia, including the turn-of-the-previous-century duds.
“Well, thanks to Enrique”—Mark motioned the timid boy for-ward—“ I’m fine.”
“But how—?” Corinne started.
Mark put a finger to her lips. “We’ll tell you everything, but right now, we both are exhausted and starved.”
“We’ll go to my grandmother’s.” Corinne framed Mark’s jaw in gentle hands. “She is going to be almost as happy as I am.” She unleashed the love that sparkled in her eyes in a soulful kiss that ended in a sigh. “Almost.”
The patio of Doña Violeta Quintana de la Vega was populated with well-wishers coming and going, as the news of Señor del Cerdito’s homecoming spread through the small town. Soledad was as tearful with joy as she’d been with grief the night before.
After Mark retired to the guest room to shower and change, the housekeeper bustled about with full intentions of helping Gaspar and her sister put together a buffet of deli meats from the market and food that came in from all parts of the village for the impromptu celebration. But at the slightest snag, she broke down in a fresh torrent of emotion.
“Soledad,” Corinne said, giving her a gentle hug. “You must try to celebrate God’s goodness, not focus on the bad that could have happened.”
With a loud sniff that sent her digging into the pocket of her bright yellow apron for a tissue, the emotional housekeeper agreed. “Pues . . .” She withdrew an embroidered handkerchief and blew her nose loud enough to put the church bells to shame. “I will make the struggle.”
“Go check on Toto, wash your face and hands, and then see what you can do,” Corinne ordered gently.
Front legs bandaged and nose smeared with aloe from the damage that his foraging for Mark in the ruins had done, Toto had been relegated to Doña Violeta’s pantry. That was as much leeway as Corinne’s grandmother would allow the animal in her elegant villa, despite his exemplary dedication to the search.
Later Dr. Flynn checked out Enrique, amazed that the boy had survived so well in the maze of mine shafts. After a bath and a joyful reunion with Antonio, he proudly regaled them all with tales of hunting, trapping, and roasting his kill over an open flame kindled with matches he’d found in the storage rooms hidden behind the hacienda fireplace.
“Tío Lorenzo, he looked for me, but I know how to walk like a ghost and hide in the darkness.”
Antonio took in his brother’s every word with nothing less than sheer adoration. “How I wish I could have been there too.”
At this, Enrique’s bright gaze sobered. “I am glad that you were not, ’Tonio. It is fun to hunt, but not so fun to be hunted.”
Corinne’s heart felt squeezed as she imagined what the boy must have gone through emotionally. Granted, Enrique had survived like a man, but he was still a child, with all a child’s fears and insecurities. She hoped the authorities put Lorenzo Pozas behind bars forever.
Since Enrique was so wired with excitement, Vincente Aquino opted to take Mark’s statement while the boys ate their fill in Doña Violeta’s kitchen under Soledad’s doting eye. Freshly showered, shaved, and dressed in clothes borrowed from Diego, Mark sat very much alive and warm next to Corinne on the sofa in the salon and shared what he knew regarding the burning of Hacienda Ortiz.
“Lorenzo Pozas and some guy named Sergio, whose elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top, knocked me up the side of the head, hogtied me in a chair, soaked the hacienda in gasoline, lit a match, and left through a hidden opening in the fireplace. The last thing I remember before blacking out was falling over in an attempt to break the chair.”
“And that is when the boy found you?” Vincente Aquino inquired.
Prayer availeth much, Corinne paraphrased, overwhelmed that she’d received more than she’d asked for. Not only had God delivered Mark, but Enrique as well.
Enrique told Mark how his uncle had imprisoned him in the mine shaft without food and forced him to show Lorenzo where other fossils had been discovered. But Enrique escaped, relying on the hunting and survival skills that his father had taught him and on the items that he found in a chamber beneath Hacienda Ortiz. It sounded like an underground museum filled with mementos from the past.
“Just in time,” Mark told him. “I’d run out of the Twenty-third Psalm.”
He squeezed Corinne’s hand, and her heart swelled with even more thanksgiving for the spiritual connection they now shared.
“It is incredible that a child of nine could survive in the mines,” Vincente marveled. “But the Indios know the ways of the land.”
“As Enrique said, he and his father spent a lot of time hunting and trapping,” Corinne reminded him. “But whose body is buried in the boy’s place? We went to the funeral.”
“The government will exhume the body,” Vincente informed her, “although I feel certain that Pozas will tell us, once we are through interrogating him. Don Rafael really thought Enrique was dead.”
“I was lucky that Enrique followed his uncle and Sergio into the tunnel last night and saw what they were up to, or I’d have been a goner.” Mark turned to Corinne. “I want to do something for him . . . get him a mountain bike, something.”
“That would be up to his new parents,” she pointed out.
Father Menasco had promised to call the London couple as soon as he heard the news about Enrique and Mark, and they were overjoyed to be able to bring Enrique home too.
“And now that Pozas is going to jail, the adoption should go through without a hitch.”
“Can you tell me more about what is in this underground chamber you and the boy talk about?” Carlos Aquinos asked. He glanced at his cousin. “That is, if your official interview is over.”
Vincente eased against the high back of one of the matching chairs across from the sofa. “With Señor Madison’s testimony and that of the boy, we have enough to send them all to prison.”
“Even Don Rafael?” Corinne asked. “He didn’t try to kill anyone . . . and he called the authorities on his own.”
“But he covered for the ones who did try to kill me,” Mark reminded her.
“But—”
“As I assured your grandmother, great consideration will be given in the matter,” Vincente said, helping himself to a bowl of chili-spiced crackers and nuts.
“Don Diego Ortiz’s secret chamber—you say it was connected to the Hacienda Ortiz by a secret passage,” Carlos Aquino intervened to bring the conversation back to his original question. “But neither I nor the previous owners ever found it. How was it built into the fireplace?”
“Shades of Zorro,” Mark said with a chuckle. “I never looked closely inside the hearth, and when Enrique pulled me through, I was unconscious . . . but I’d like to have another gander at it after the roof is pulled away.”
Behind them, a telephone rang, almost as loud as the church bell. As Corinne recovered from the start it gave her, Gaspar appeared, heading straight for a massive writing desk under her mother’s portrait, and answered it.
“I always thought that the measurements of the fireplace and hearth were overdone,” Mark went on. “Too much space for—”
“Pardon me, Señor Mark, but your brother wishes to speak to you,” Gaspar announced. “There is another phone in Doña Violeta’s room, if you wish to speak in quiet.”
“I’ll show you.” Corinne jumped to her feet, glad for the interruption. Mark was tired, despite his can-do show for everyone. “I really think, since the interview is over, that you gentlemen should let Mark rest awhile . . . although you’re welcome to stay and partake of my grandmother’s hospitality,” she added, every inch the hostess she had observed her grandmother to be.
“As you can see from the activity on the patio . . .” Corinne glanced to where Diego and Violeta sat at a table, conversing with the guests. “She is holding court.”
Although Carlos Aquino looked disappointed not to hear more of Hacienda Ortiz’s secrets, he was gracious. “But of course, you are tired,” he told Mark.
“I will return tomorrow to take the boy’s official statement after he has calmed down a bit,” Vincente chimed in, rising to take his leave. “If I think of anything else, perhaps I can ask you then.” He shook Mark’s hand. “Adiós, señor, señorita.”
“We’ll take the call in the other room,” Corinne told Gaspar, who passed the message along to Blaine on the other end of the line and put down the handset to show the Aquino brothers out.
The moment Corinne and Mark entered the privacy of her grandmother’s bedroom, Mark pulled Corinne into his arms with a rejuvenated vigor, backing her against the closed door. “Alone at last.”
“Mark.”
He kissed his name from her lips, letter by letter, and when he drew away, his breath was shallow and fast as her own. “Did I tell you that I loved you?”
“Yes, but I want to hear it again and again . . . after you speak to Blaine.” Although duty first was the last thing she really cared about. He gave her a wicked wink. “Come on.” Grabbing her hand, he led her, twickled to the tips of her toes, to the antique black phone by Violeta’s high poster bed. With his free hand, he picked up the receiver, tucking her into the curve of his arm with the other.
She nuzzled the curve of his neck with her head.
“Hello, Blaine.” Moving the mouthpiece aside, he whispered behind her ear. “Think Grandmother would object to our honeymooning in this?”
Honeymooning?Was she hearing right? Corinne looked up at him.
“It’s been quite a night,” he admitted, all business for Blaine. “I’m afraid the hacienda is lost.”
“I don’t recall being proposed to,” Corinne said, sidling closer.
“Yeah, I know there’s insurance.” He stole a quick kiss from her earlobe and whispered, “If I did, would you?”
His words tickled, stirring Corinne’s confusion. “What? The wedding or the bed?” She tried to wriggle around to face him, but his arm locked her waist against him.
“Frankly, I haven’t had time to think about it.”
“What?” she hissed in impatience. Was he talking to her or Blaine? Somehow the idea of sharing a proposal with her future brother-in-law didn’t ring her romantic bell.
Mark covered the mouthpiece. “Did you know the insurance money plus what we already have will build exactly what the orphanage needs?”
It was great news. But at the moment, her reactions were skewed with an urge to snatch the phone from Mark and beat him with it.
“Blaine wants me to draw up the plans and see the project through.”
“That . . . that’s good,” she managed, still hung up on honeymoon. Honeymoon meant marriage. Corinne made a face. She didn’t want to honeymoon in her grandmother’s bed.
“Caroline wants to know about the honeymoon.”
“Caroline is on there too?” Corinne gasped. Her proposal, such as it was, was being broadcast all the way to Pennsylvania.
“She’s running on about colors.”
Colors? She hadn’t said yes yet. Heat shot up Corinne’s neck, fueled by anger and embarrassment. “Have you lost your mind?”
“And about how lucky you are to have a guy like me.” Mark grinned.
Glaring at him, Corinne tried to grab the phone, but he held it out of her reach, laughing.
“Easy, Muffet . . .” Switching it to the other hand, he spoke. “Blaine, Caroline, I have to go. I think this woman is trying to say yes to my marriage proposal, and she means business.”
Corinne gaped. “Oh!” If he was for real . . . if they were in on this . . . she . . . she’d . . .
“They want to say congratulations,” he told her, handing her the phone.
Corinne jerked it to her ear. “I haven’t said yes, and after this stunt, I may have to think about it.” When Blaine made no reply, a cloud of suspicion gathered in her mind. “Blaine, are you there?”
Mark hopped up on the raised mattress without the aid of the antique steps kept by the bedside. “Will you marry me, Miss Muffet?”
Corinne slammed the handle into the cradle. “Before or after I strangle you?”
“I love a woman with fire.”
She winced. “Don’t say that word.”
“Right.” Mark sobered. “But I am serious.” He motioned her closer with his finger. “I promised myself that if I ever got out of that inferno, I’d make you my wife and soul mate.”
“Soul mate?” It made her heart ring.
“I know I’m not perfect,” he said, “but knowing you has changed me for the better.” Mark slid off the bed, folding her hands to his chest. “Corinne Diaz Quintana Vega, et cetera, et cetera . . . will you marry me and be one with my heart . . .” He brushed the knuckles of one hand with his lips and placed it behind his neck. “My body . . .” he said, doing the same with the other. “And my soul?”
His gaze reached into hers, kindling the light of a million stars within. “With this kiss,” he whispered, cupping her chin and raising it so that their breath mingled between them, “I vow to make the struggle too.”
He covered the twitch of Corinne’s smile with his mouth, dissolving her amusement over the Indio turn of phrase with an infectious fervor that lifted her off her feet—or was that the strong arms around her, molding her to him so that their hearts beat in counterpoint?
Her heart and body shouted yes a thousand times over, but it was Corinne’s spirit that penetrated the dizzying storm with its calm affirmation. God asks no more of anyone but to make the struggle. To do so with the man she loved was a no-brainer.