Counterfeit Bride(10)

She groaned aloud, wishing that she'd checked more carefully on the fuel  situation ages before, although it would have made very little  difference. She'd seen no village, filling station, or any other sign of  human habitation since she'd embarked on her headlong flight. Plenty of  cattle, the odd burro, but no people. At first she had been reassured  by this, because it also meant no sign of pursuit, but gradually that  niggle of anxiety had begun to increase, and now, with the approach of  nightfall, anxiety was giving way to fear.

She had no idea where she was. The distant hills seemed no nearer,  although that might be some trick of the light, but somehow she didn't  think so. She had so constantly had to adapt her route to terrain the  truck could cope with that she had begun to suspect she could be driving  in a large circle.

The cab had been bakingly hot all afternoon, but now that the sun had  set, Nicola knew that it would soon become chilly, and her thin dress  would not be adequate protection.

As the truck wheezed to its final stop, she could have burst into tears,  but that would solve nothing, she told herself. She had to think. As a  stopping place, this was far from ideal. She was in a shallow  depression, surrounded by rock and scrub, and it was all too easy to  imagine that there were unseen eyes looking down at her.

No more of that, she adjured herself firmly. Positive thinking, my girl,  and another more thorough search of the truck. This time she discovered  a jerrycan in the back, but it was empty, and she threw it down with a  disappointed groan. Under the seat, she came across a couple of lurid  girlie magazines which indicated that the truck driver had his own  priorities.

She had hoped for a lighter, or at least some matches so she could build  a fire. There was enough dry brush around, certainly, but it seemed  that the driver didn't include smoking among his vices.

She picked up his jacket and regarded it with disfavour. It was far from  clean, but this was no time to fuss about inessentials. Any kind of  warmth, however unsavoury, was better than none at all.

She had a long and hungry night ahead of her, and she didn't dare think  what the following day would bring, on foot under the blistering sun.  She could hardly stay here in this hollow and hope to be found. Even  when the inevitable search was mounted, the surrounding rocks would hide  her. She tried to think about what she knew of this part of Mexico. It  was pitifully little. All her interests had been concentrated on the  areas where Aztec and Mayan remains were to be found, yet she could  remember one of the men at Trans-Chem talking about a particularly  deadly white scorpion which was to be found in the Durango area. Was she  anywhere near there? She wondered frantically. And even if not, might  there not be other scorpions in various colours it would be wiser to  avoid? And mountain lions-she felt certain someone else had mentioned  them. Bears too...

Oh, stop it, she thought biting her lip. All the same, she wished she  had paid slightly more attention to the flora and fauna of this wild  country. She'd read somewhere-or had she seen it in a film-that you  could keep alive by taking moisture from cactus. But which variety?  She'd seen so many. There were others, she knew, which were prized by  the Indians for their mind-blowing side effects. That might be the  answer, she thought. I could get so high, I'd just float out of here.  She chuckled weakly.

It was getting dark very rapidly now, and after only a momentary  hesitation she switched on the truck's headlights. Without fuel, there  was little point in conserving the battery, and perhaps there, was a  chance that the lights would be seen, perhaps by a passing aircraft, and  investigated. That was a more rational explanation for her action than  admitting she was afraid to be alone in the dark, or that if there were  wild animals in the vicinity, the lights might keep them at bay.                       
       
           



       

She picked up the jacket and huddled it round her shoulders with a  shiver. Tomorrow, as soon as it dawned, she would set off towards the  east again, and see how far she could get before finding some shelter  against the fierce heat of the day.

But now she needed to rest. The next day was going to take as much  energy as she possessed. She curled up on the seat, her cheek resting on  her hand like a child's. Sleep came more easily than she could have  hoped, worn out as she was by the tensions of the past few days and the  long struggle with an unfamiliar and often recalcitrant vehicle. She  dreamed of Barton Abbas and her childhood, lying in a cornfield and  watching a hawk turn in a long slow circle in the blue sky above her. It  was peaceful and reassuring, and Nicola's lips curved contentedly as  she slept. It was good to be a child again, to let the worries and  pressures of adult life slide away. Good to be in a sunlit landscape and  watch the hovering hawk-until suddenly the dream tilted sideways into  nightmare, where the hawk was swooping, and she was the prey, transfixed  and helpless, unable to run or defend herself.

She sat up with a little cry, staring round her. The air in the cab was  chill, but she was drenched with sweat, and shaking. What had woken her?  she wondered dazedly. The dream-or something else? Some sound?

She reached for the torch and slid across the seat to the door. She  climbed down from the cab slowly and gingerly and stood rigidly, her  head bent, listening.

Yes, there was a sound. A chinking, scraping sound. She shrank nearer to  the bulk of the truck, gripping the torch, and peering into the pool of  light still cast by the headlights. The torch was hardly ideal for the  function it had been designed for, but it was all she had as a weapon.

Hooves, she thought, still listening intently, her nerves screwed up to screaming point. More cattle? Another burro?

There was a shadow now on the edge of the circle of light, a big dense  shadow which moved, and she heard the unmistakable creak of harness, and  a soft whinny.

She called out, 'Quien es?'

The shadow moved forward into the light. Dark horse, dark rider, A man,  dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his face. Her hand  tightened round the torch. He said, 'Que pasa?'

Her body went rigid. Those two laconic syllables had been delivered in a  voice which was only too familiar. But it couldn't be true, she argued  desperately with herself. Ramon was miles away on his cousin's business.  He couldn't be here. Surely fate couldn't play her a trick like that.  It was her own nervousness, the fact that she'd just woken up from a bad  dream that was making her imagine that it was no one but him  confronting her from the back of the tall black gelding.

Almost dizzily she waited for his accusation, and then realisation  dawned. He didn't recognise her. How could he? When he'd seen her, she'd  been a vivid brunette dressed in pink, speaking Spanish-whereas now...

She said slowly and haltingly with no accent at all, 'Señor-me he perdida!'

'So you are lost,' he said in English. 'It is hardly surprising. This is  not good country to drive in. There is a good road ten kilometres to  the south. Why didn't you use that?'

She hesitated. 'I was heading that way-but the truck ran out of fuel.'

'Would it not have been wise to have filled up the tank before starting on your journey?'

'I-I left in rather a hurry,' she said, her heart beating so loudly it  seemed impossible that he shouldn't hear it. 'I-I'm also very hungry and  thirsty.'

He nodded. 'No gasolene, no food and drink and--' he looked her over-'no  adequate clothing. Even for a crazy turista, you seem singularly badly  equipped. Where did you get the truck?'

His tone was hardly sympathetic, but the abruptness of the final  question threw her. It would be just her luck if he recognised the  damned thing. She would have to be careful.

She said, 'That's a little difficult to explain, señor.'

'Try.' It was a command, not an invitation.

'I-I needed a lift, and the truck was going in the right direction-only the driver-misunderstood.'

'I think the misunderstanding was yours, señorita. You are even crazier  than I thought, to have accepted such a favour from a stranger,'

'It wasn't a favour,' she protested. 'I was going to pay. I have money.'

'But not the currency he wanted, plainly.' For the first time, he sounded amused. 'And may I ask the fate of this man?'

'He-he got out of the truck-to relieve himself. I drove away and left him,' she improvised wildly.

'You are truly resourceful, señorita,' he drawled. 'I will bid you  adios. No one with wit as as keen, or so strong a sense of  self-preservation, can possibly be in need of my poor assistance.'

His hand went up to his hat brim in a mocking salute, and he turned the horse's head.