The Last Honorable Man (13 page)

Del saluted him with his bottle. “Comm guys don't have careers, Chuckie. They have cubicles.”

“Jerk.”

“Damn straight.”

Before Charles left, he gave Del one last look. “For what it's worth, doesn't seem right, what they did to you.”

Del just stared until the man walked away.

“Damn straight,” he finally muttered when Charles was gone.

Nine minutes later, the six-o'clock news came on the TV set above the bar. Del motioned for the bartender to turn up the sound as his face appeared under the banner “Fired!”

Wondering if his grandfather was watching the news tonight, Del ordered another beer. This one with a Wild Turkey chaser.

 

Elisa woke to a faint scratching sound. She jolted in her half sleep, fearing it was rats. Then she realized she was in the ranger's living room, not the filthy basement where she had been taken after she was arrested in San Ynez. There were no piles of garbage or human waste. No rats.

The scraping sound came through the dark again, from the vicinity of the door, then something metal clanked to the floor and the murmur of a guttural curse penetrated the wall.

Moving slowly, silently, Elisa reached for the gun the ranger had left her and pointed the barrel at the darkened entryway. The door lock clacked, and a dark figure barely distinguishable as a man stepped through. He dropped a key ring and didn't bother to pick it up.

Elisa pulled back the slide on the pistol. The moonlight filtering through the window gleamed off the black steel. The silhouette raised his hands like a prisoner. A bright, white smile knifed through the darkness as the silhouette said, “Honey, I'm home.”

The gun fell from Elisa's hand and clattered to the table.

“I could have shot you!” she said.

“But you don't believe in violence,” he replied.

Shock cut off her mind's ability to reply, then fury brought a course of expletives to her tongue.

Elisa stormed into the bedroom. She stayed there while the ranger bumped down the dark hall. A moment later the light came on in the bathroom, and she heard water running. Finally curiosity got the better of her.

The door was open, so she leaned against the doorjamb and poked her head inside. Every nerve snapped to attention. “You're hurt!”

The ranger held a washcloth to a cut above his left eye and a hand towel to his split lip. Blood mixed with the running water in the sink and ran pink down the drain.

“S'nothing,” the ranger said. His words were slurred, more from the effects of the alcohol she could smell on him like cheap perfume than his injuries, she guessed. “You should see the other guy. All four of him.”

“One man you were seeing four of, or four different men?”

“Two men I was seeing double of. Get it, two times
two…or is that two plus two?” He reached to hang the towel back on the bar and stumbled. She caught him.

“Did you drive home like this?”

“Tried to. But the cabbie wouldn't give me his keys,” he said, chuckling at his own joke.

At least he was a happy drunk. It could be worse. Much, much worse, given what she had heard on television tonight.

Why did he not tell her he had been fired?

She turned his swollen cheek gently. “Your face,” she said, her heart twisting at all he'd suffered because of her.

“S'all right. Nothin' could hurt worse than…”

“Than what?”

He drew a heavy breath. “Than lookin' at you knowing what I did to you. To Eduardo.” He took a stumbling step to the bedroom.

Stunned, Elisa almost failed to catch him. Just in time she looped one of his arms over her head and ducked under his shoulder. “Come on, you need to lie down.”

She helped him stumble to the bedroom, flipped on a lamp and pushed him down to the bed. He landed spread-eagle on his back atop the king-size mattress, still grinning. “You're very pretty when you're disgusted with me.”

“See if you can get your clothes off,” she said, shaking her head. “I'll get you an ice pack.”

By the time she returned, he had flipped to his stomach and turned off the lamp. His eyes were closed and his clothes were still on. He had made some attempt to follow instructions, though. One of his boots lay on its side on the floor. The other hung cockeyed off the end of his foot. He looked like a little boy, too worn out from a
day's play to do more than throw himself down and sleep.

A very large little boy, with broad shoulders, a long firm body and a tight backside.

Chastising herself for noticing, Elisa turned the lamp on again, sat on the side of the bed and dabbed at one swollen eye with towel and ice. “I thought you were going to get undressed.”

“Thought you might want to help,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

She smiled, as much at the girlish flutter in her stomach as at his drunken flirting. “In your dreams.”

“Been there, done that.”

Elisa's hand went still. Did he really dream about her? Or was his joking just a way to cover the pain?

And avoid the conversation they both knew they needed to have.

After several long seconds of contemplation, she resumed her ice treatment. When she finally found the courage, she asked, “Why didn't you tell me you had been fired?”

“I was…ashamed,” he said into the arm pillowing his head.

“You have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

His back shuddered. “I didn't see him, Elisa. I looked into that warehouse and I saw a man with a gun. Just one man. Why didn't I see Eduardo?”

“I do not know.”

He rolled over. His eyes opened but squinted, heavy lidded, against the glare of the lamp. “Are you sure?”

“What?” She stopped dabbing at his face. Surely she had not heard him right.

“Tell me you didn't know what was going down in there.”

“Why?” The cold from the ice in her hands seeped up Elisa's arms to her heart. “What do you think I've done?”

With a great deal of effort, he arched his hips off the bed and pulled a folded square of paper from the hip pocket of his jeans. Collapsing back to the mattress, he handed it to her. “The other man at the warehouse, the one with the gun, was from San Ynez. A member of your
resistance.”
His lip curled on the final word.

“You think I was buying arms for my cause?” Temper flared like a sunspot. She almost flung the paper back at him. Despite their differing political views, she had thought he knew her better than this, trusted her more. She started to tell him so, but a long look at his slack, swollen face and the defeat in his gray eyes reminded her of all he had lost today.

He had a right to know what he had lost it
for.

She took a deep breath, unfolded the tattered sheet and studied the man it pictured. Exhaling slowly, she gave the paper back. “I do not know this man. And I know nothing of what was happening in the warehouse that day.”

His hand fell limply to the edge of the mattress. The piece of paper fluttered to the thick beige carpet.

Unsure whether that meant he believed her or not, unsure if even he knew, with the alcohol clouding his mind, she rose to leave.

Turning over, he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Don't go.” His voice was rough, thoroughly male, and sent a purely female response skittering through her veins. She hesitated, torn between the feelings for him that had been growing all week and the residue of her anger. How could he even have thought her capable of brokering weapons?

But then, he wasn't in full control of his faculties tonight. Which made her wonder if it was he who asked her to stay, or the alcohol.

“You need to rest,” she said, breaking his grip on her and folding his arm across his chest.

As she started again to leave, he flopped his wrist over his eyes and mumbled, “I told 'im you weren't involved. I told him.”

She stopped. “Told who?”

Frowning, he jerked his head to the side. Either he didn't know, or he wasn't willing to name her accuser. “He didn't believe me. Said I had to let you go. Send you back, or else.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. Was this true? He had been threatened?

“Told 'im I couldn't do that,” he said, his words sharper. She would not have thought he had the strength, but he raised his hand, traced the line of her jaw and tangled his fingers in her hair. The touch, and his voice when he spoke again, was soft. “I would never do that. I promised you.”

His promise. Was that all that held him to her? Foolishly she hoped there was more.

His hand still wrapped in her hair, he tugged her toward him, not hurting, just guiding her close. “Don't go,” he said again, barely a whisper.

And this time she didn't. She switched off the bedside lamp, took his hand from her hair, clasped it in both of hers. He turned to his side, facing her in the dark, and she stretched out in front of him.

A thick forearm dragged her tightly against him.

His heart lurched unevenly against her back. His breath warmed her shoulder. His breathing gradually be
came deeper until she thought he slept, but out of the dark, a last soulful murmur reached out to her.

“They're going to press charges against me for shooting Eduardo. Negligent homicide.”

Her heart stopped beating. She was afraid to move. Afraid to turn in his arms and offer him the comfort he deserved, lest he stop before he told her all of it.

“They're going to put me in a cage, 'Lis,” he slurred, nearly asleep. “Lock me up like an animal.”

Elisa's heart nearly tore in two. Now she understood this morning's “errands.” He was preparing to leave her, making sure she had everything she needed to live here, alone, while he was gone.

Stubborn fool. He was going to let them send him to prison rather than break his promise to her.

She could not let that happen.

She had already turned the ranger's life upside down. Because of her he had lied to his family and lost his job. She would not let him lose his freedom, too.

She was not sure who was so afraid of her that he would ruin a good man's life to see her sent back to San Ynez, but she had her suspicions.

Tomorrow she would share them.

D
el woke to the sound of gunfire. Three sharp reports—
bam, bam, bam!
The cop part of him screamed to get up, take cover, get the bad guys. The hung-over part pulled a pillow over his head and groaned.

The doorknob rattled. Hinges creaked. Wishing whoever was coming to finish him off would just hurry up and get it over with, he opened one eye.

And saw Elisa slide through the door, a cup of coffee in one hand and two little white pills in the other.

The popping he'd heard hadn't been gunshots after all. Elisa's knocks had just sounded like cannon fire to his throbbing head.

Gliding across the room, she smiled brightly. Damn, she looked good. Even through his bleary eyes. She had on a pair of white shorts that set off her long, tanned legs, and a V-neck top that set off her—

Holy Mother.
He'd slept with her. She'd slept with him, rather.

“Good morning,” she said, reaching the bed. “Coffee or aspirin first?”

He closed his one open eye and burrowed deeper under the covers. “Neither.”

The memories came in fragments. Elisa pressing ice to a face that must have looked like something out of a
Rocky
movie. Elisa holding his hand.

Him asking her to stay.

He was relatively sure he hadn't been in any condition to do anything they'd both regret. But, geez, he hoped he hadn't done anything to embarrass himself, either. Or her.

The covers jerked out of his hands. The brilliance of a full morning sun hit him between the eyes like a wrecking ball.

“What is it they say in Texas?” Elisa the cover ripper asked. “Up and at 'em, cowboy?”

He groaned. “You know what else they say in Texas?”

She quirked an eyebrow.

“He who pokes his fingers in a rattlesnake nest better know how to tie his sneakers with just one hand.”

Nonplussed, she set the coffee on the bedside table. Del's nose wrinkled at the scented steam wafting his way. The coffee smelled strong, the way he liked it. His stomach rumbled.

“You have visitors,” Elisa said. “Your ranger friends.”

Del frowned, and decided against the coffee for the time being. His stomach wasn't ready to go to work yet this morning. “What do they want?”

“To help.”

“There's nothing they can do.”

“That's not what they say.”

He thought about how Mr. Baseball—a Fed, supposedly—had manipulated the director of the DPS, the shooting investigation, even a judge, if the man could produce an arrest warrant as he claimed. Enough lives had been ruined by this thing. “I don't want to involve them.”

“You didn't. I did.” Elisa pulled a fresh shirt and pair of jeans from his bureau and handed them to him.

“How's that?”

She opened his bureau again, this time digging through his underwear drawer, shoving aside without comment the box of condoms he kept there. When she turned to answer, she held two white socks and a pair of navy-blue boxers.

Del had had a healthy interest in women since he'd been about fourteen. Over the years he'd found his tastes leaned toward women who wore little black dresses and high heels, hung out in upscale bars and liked to dance. He'd never imagined a scene as domestic as a woman wearing shorts and flat sandals, standing there with his underwear in her arms, could be so appealing.

Then again, they were in his bedroom.

“I called them,” she said.

He turned his mind off sex and back to the subject at hand. “Why?”

She hesitated, sat next to him on the bed. “It was the only way I could think of to help you.”

“I must have really scared you last night if you went to the
policía
for help. I thought you didn't trust cops.”

“I am beginning to trust one, I think.” She looked at him, and the brush of her gaze against his felt like a caress. Then she grinned and thunked the underwear against his chest. “Now, get dressed. Your friends are waiting.”

She stood and turned to leave.

“Wait,” he called, throwing back the covers and standing so suddenly the motion had him clutching his head. Thankfully she waited patiently while he pushed the nausea back. Even more thankfully, he realized he still had on his jeans from yesterday. “About last night. I just wanted to tell you…”

“There is no need to apologize.”

“Yes, there is. But that isn't what I was going to say. I wanted to tell you…thanks. For taking care of me.”

What he wanted to do was kiss her, but he wasn't sure she'd appreciate it, despite the warmth shining in her dark-coffee eyes. He didn't feel much like a prince at the moment. Probably didn't look much like one, either.

“You are welcome,” she said, then waved her hand toward the bathroom. “Now go. We have much to do.”

 

Del was right—Elisa did not trust the police.

But she was working on it.

He had not let her down, had he?

In fact, he far surpassed her expectations. She had agreed to this pretense of marriage, believing they would never be more than uneasy accomplices. She never thought she would come to depend on his sturdy resolve, to admire his loyalty to family and duty. To desire the crush of his full mouth on hers.

Their relationship had progressed further in their short time together than she could have guessed. They still stood on opposite sides of a political line. But they had learned to work together for a common cause. They had become friends and now, she sensed, teetered on the brink of becoming lovers.

Whether they fell over that edge or not might well depend on what happened today. There was much to
discuss. Some of it would be difficult, especially in front of others. But it was time to tell her husband the whole truth, no matter how difficult.

And hope that he would understand.

She topped off the rangers' coffee cups while he showered. Kat Solomon drank hers—when she stopped talking long enough to drink—with so much cream and sugar she might as well have had a milk shake. Clint Hayes added a little water to temper the heat, and Captain Matheson took his coffee straight up, the way he took his conversation.

“I hate to say it. But with a liberal jury and a lot of spin, a good prosecutor might get a conviction on negligence. What will you do if Del goes to jail, ma'am?” he asked.

Liberate him, she wanted to say. The way she had liberated many of her people held unjustly in San Ynez. She recognized the idea as a foolish thought, though. This was not San Ynez, where prisoners were housed in old school gymnasiums and guarded by drunks. And these were Texas Rangers she was talking to. She did not think they would appreciate her fervor for undermining the American penitentiary system.

“I would prefer to see that doesn't happen,” she answered instead.

“Don't you worry,” Kat piped in. “We've already done some legwork. Got the name of this bar where Garcia used to hang out a lot and—”

“Kat!” The captain stood her down with a stare. “Let's wait for Del, why don't we?”

Elisa estimated that meant they would take the cue from their friend on whether or not to share their information with her.

“Don't worry, Kat,” Elisa heard her ranger call from behind her. “Won't be a long wait.”

There was an empty seat between the female ranger and Clint, but Del dragged a decorative chair from against the wall and wedged himself in next to Elisa. His hair was wet and his shirt clung to his damp skin, testifying to his superior body. One eye was bruised and puffy, but his smile had returned.

“Holy moly, Cooper,” Kat said. “Your face looks like one of my nephew Austin's crayon drawings. His favorite color is purple.”

“You get it all out of your system?” the captain asked. Nobody had to clarify what Del had needed to purge. Anger was one of those universal truths everyone understood.

“For now,” Del said.

“Good enough.” The captain scanned the faces around the table. “Let's get to work.”

“Before we start,” Del offered, “there's something I want to say.”

He paused to clear his throat, his friends waiting expectantly.

“I just…I mean…I'm sorry about the way I acted yesterday. I was mad, but I shouldn't have taken it out on all of you.”

Silence surrounded the table a moment, then Clint drolled, “Ouch. That must'a hurt,” and the tension snapped like a dry twig.

“Clint,” Kat warned, elbowing him, then smiled across the table. “That's really sweet, Del. We knew you didn't mean anything by it. Heck, if you can't lean on your friends when times get tough—”

The captain scooted his chair back, scraping the legs on the tile floor. “Apology accepted. Now can we get
on with this? Mrs., ah, Cooper, you said you had something to tell us?”

“Call me Elisa, please.”

Del looked at her curiously while she prepared herself with a deep breath. Her nerves buzzed, both afraid of his reaction to the truth she was about to tell and relieved to finally have it out.

“Del told me,” she said, looking at the ranger captain, “that he could not be held accountable for Eduardo's death if Eduardo was part of the transaction taking place in the warehouse.”

Captain Matheson nodded. “If he went there to conduct criminal activity, then he knowingly put himself at risk. The liability is his, not Del's. But we have no proof that Garcia was involved in the arms deal. Are you telling us you do?”

“Not proof, perhaps, as your courts demand. But suspicions.”

Del's eyes turned cold as chips of ice. “You said the resistance doesn't buy guns.”

Though her stomach twisted at the implied accusation, she didn't blame him for his suspicion. She had never been totally honest with him—until today.

“The resistance does not,” she said. Looking around the table, she wondered if any of the rangers, with their Uncle Sam and their red-white-and-blue upbringing, could believe the depravity of the leadership that controlled her country. “But the military might.”

Even stone-faced Clint showed his surprise. “You're saying someone in the U.S. is selling guns to a foreign government? That's a majorly serious offense.”

Del studied her curiously. “And knowing who the guns were for doesn't help me any.”

“Unless it was Eduardo doing the buying,” she said quietly.

The captain frowned. “What makes you think Garcia was connected to the San Ynez army?”

“When I met him, he was injured in an army attack. His wound infected. In his fever, he talked of El Presidente finally taking his rightful place as leader of San Ynez.” Bile boiled in Elisa's throat as she thought of Sanchez, the butcher, and his illegally gained power in her country. There was nothing rightful about assassination. “I thought his rambling no more than the delusions of illness, but later, after he recovered, he began to ask questions. About the resistance. Especially about our leader. I began to wonder if his presence in that village, on that day—even his injuries—had really been an accident. Colonel Sanchez has sent spies before to infiltrate the resistance before. To learn the identity of La Puma, our leader. What better way to earn our trust than to be wounded supporting the cause?”

“So you sent him away.” Kat looked as entranced as a teenage girl at a romantic movie. Only this wasn't any movie. This was Elisa's life. “Even though you…cared for him.”

Elisa nodded. “Yes.” It had been a hurtful time for her. A time when the mantle of responsibility threatened to crush her beneath its weight.

“Because you couldn't risk exposing your people's leader?”

Her mouth turned dry as powder as she gathered herself to tell the rest. She could not bear to look at Del for fear of the recrimination she might see.

She swallowed painfully. Del had accepted some of who—and what—she was. Feelings had developed between them despite their different backgrounds. If those
feelings were to grow, he had to know the whole truth about her. If he couldn't accept it, then their relationship was as flimsy as their marriage.

She raised her chin. Carefully met his measured gaze.

“Because I
am
my people's leader.”

 

Del leaned against the jamb at the bedroom door, watching as Elisa brushed her hair. Despite the questions he needed to ask, now that the other rangers were gone and he could voice them in private, he paused to watch. The image of her in the mirror, stroking a brush repeatedly through the silky black waterfall of her hair, seemed so feminine, so serene. Totally at odds with his idea of a woman who was not only involved with a third-world insurgent party, but had founded it.

She'd never intended to become the guiding force behind the resistance in her country, she'd said. But when, after spending three days imprisoned in the dark without food or water, she'd escaped, she'd lead her brothers and three other prisoners to freedom with her. From that point forward, they looked to her for direction. Together they'd vowed not to rest until all those whom Colonel Sanchez held unjustly were free.

She hadn't wanted the responsibility of being their leader. Circumstance had called her to the role.

Which made Del wonder how she had found it so easy to walk away—especially to go to a man she considered a traitor to his people.

“You knew,” he said as she raked the brush down the length of her hair again, “that Garcia wasn't just some bleeding-heart world-aid worker.”

“I suspected,” she corrected.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You were going to marry him, anyway.”

“I had a baby to think about.”

“All this about saving your people from tyranny, fighting for freedom, is just rhetoric, then. Easily abandoned when it's inconvenient.”

“No.”

“He was your
enemy.
”

“He was the father of my child.”