Elizabeth White - On Wings Of Deliverance

Owen lifted his sunglasses and squinted at her, eyes inhumanly blue-green in the bright noonday sun. “You’re kidding, right?”

She shrugged. “I like to cook. Rolling tortillas is an art.”

“Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been busy taking care of orphans and translating for medical teams. When do you ever have time to cook?”

Benny smiled. “Granted, Rosie did most of the cooking at the orphanage, but I had to help. I learned when I was in high school.”

“Oh.” Sliding his glasses onto the top of his blond head, Owen swallowed the last of his burrito. “Sit down, kid, you’re makin’ me noivous.”

Laughing, Benny gingerly sat down and stretched out her legs. “Ooh, you were right about the saddle sores.”

Wearing pants again felt strange. Hot and itchy. At least it was a modest outfit, and she should be grateful Owen had let her borrow them. He had on lightweight cargo shorts and a white Promise Keepers T-shirt. He’d shoved the sleeves up onto his shoulders and she couldn’t keep her eyes off the hard brown biceps that flexed and rolled every time he moved.

“So who taught you? Mrs. Coker?”

“Huh?” Benny jerked her gaze to Owen’s face.

He wadded the newspaper that had wrapped his meal. “Who taught you to cook? You said Mrs. Coker was one of your foster mothers.”

Food, Benny. He’s talking about food. “No, Mrs. Coker was from my Tennessee days, before—” She snapped her jaws together. “I moved to south Mississippi and finished high school with the Gonzales family.” Rattled, she forced a smile. “Miss Roxanne was my culinary coach. You should try my chicken and dumplings.”

“Believe me, I’d love to.” Owen canted his head, fixing her with his deceptively sleepy gaze. “I bet you have lots of unsuspected talents.”

She stared at him, heat rising to her cheeks. He didn’t mean anything by that. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And even if he did, he’d never deliberately insult her. “Well, I speak fluent Hebrew,” she said lightly. “That’s always useful.”

Owen let out a crack of laughter. “How come you decided to study that language?”

She shrugged, offering him the last of her burrito, which he swallowed in one bite. “I did my graduate work in missions, but my Hebrew-studies class hooked me, so I decided to stick around for a Ph.D.”

He looked at her openmouthed for a moment. “How old are you, Bernadette?”

“You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.”

“Since you look like you’re about sixteen, that’s hardly an insulting question. Come on, how old?”

Benny pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Twenty-seven.”

“And you’ve been in Mexico for over a year. What are you, a genius? Nobody gets a Ph.D. at the age of twenty-six.”

“People do it all the time. I graduated from Delta State at twenty-one and went straight to seminary.” Benny ducked her head. “I’m…very focused.”

“Yeah, right.” Owen snorted. “That’s what I’d call it. Why did I not know this about you?”

“Well, the subject just doesn’t come up in everyday conversation.” Back home in Del Rio/Acuña, Owen and his older brother, Eli, had often come to the orphanage to deliver supplies or take the older kids on outings. Benny had appreciated the help, but there never was much time for adult fellowship. Even at church, she’d deliberately kept Owen at arm’s length. Male-female relationships were a complication she didn’t need or want.

Now…Well, there was nobody around but her, Owen and Sunflower. She could hardly refuse to talk to him. That would just make him more curious.

Her glance fell on his big college ring. “Where did you go to college?” Men always loved to talk about themselves.

He held up the ring, which glinted in the sunlight. “Baylor. Class of two thousand.”

“Really? What did you study?”

“Criminal justice. Then I went to Border Patrol Academy and came back to Texas.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I’m kind of a homebody.”

Benny rested her chin on her knees and studied him. She’d always been a rootless person, self-contained and lonely. Owen, on the other hand, was deeply attached to his family and his home in Del Rio. Self-confident, recklessly extroverted and full of fun and adventure, he never met a stranger and had a talent for turning adversaries into allies. She deeply admired him.

And secretly feared him.

“Well, Mr. Homebody, if we’re going to make it back to the States sometime this year, we’d better hit the road. We have to get to Poza Rica before Gustavo’s cousin closes his car lot.” She pushed herself to her feet, starting a little when Owen took her elbow to help her up. “Thanks.” She forced herself not to jerk away from his hand. She had to keep reminding herself that Owen was a gentleman. He’s not grabbing you, Benny. Chill.

Old habits were hard to break.

On the outskirts of Poza Rica, Owen and Benny were stopped by a gun-toting federal sitting just off the road in a rusty blue truck that looked like it had been hauling chickens since the Nixon era. The officer got out and gestured for them to dismount.

“¿Drogas?” He pointed to the saddlebags.

Owen grabbed Sunflower’s halter to keep him from taking another nip at the officer’s black T-shirt sleeve. “¡No drogas!” That was all they needed—to get hauled off to the Mexican pokey, accused of transporting drugs. He would have given anything to be able to flash a U.S. Border Patrol badge and ease on down the road.

Instead he opened the saddlebags and let the federal paw through them.

Owen’s experience with the Mexican national police force had been mixed. Just last year he and Eli had worked closely with an undercover officer named Artemio Petrarca in an operation to rescue Eli’s wife from a brutal smuggler, kidnapper and murderer. Artemio was a fine policeman. But in other quarters Owen had encountered graft, corruption and downright laziness. He hoped this guy would belong to the former category.

Judging by the way his and Bernadette’s stuff was getting strewn all over the side of the road, though, they were about to experience a good old Mexican morde-dura, or “bite.”

The officer eyed Benny in a way that made Owen want to clock him. “Déme cincuenta dólares.”

“Fifty dollars?” Owen let go of the harness. Sunflower could have at the guy.

“¿Porqué?” Why? Benny coolly folded her arms.

No Mexican officer would argue directly with a woman if there was a man nearby. The federal flicked a glance at her, then turned to Owen. “Cincuenta dólares,” he repeated. “Por el peaje.”

Sunflower was straddling a pothole the size of a small car and the guy wanted them to pay a toll? Clearly they weren’t going to get away without a donation to the federal’s bank account.

Owen hid a grin and pretended to think. “Cinco,” he finally offered. Five.

“¿Cinco?” The officer frowned, shaking his head. “Treinta.” Thirty.

“Siete.” Owen ignored Benny’s squeak of protest. Seven bucks ought to be enough to get rid of the guy.

Scowling, the officer put his hand on his gun. “Diez.”

“Owen—” Benny grabbed his arm “—give him the money so we can get out of here.”

He stared down at her for a moment, startled by the real fear in her eyes. Maybe she had a point. The guy would remember two Anglos giving him such a hard time. Making himself relax, he reached for his wallet, which contained nine American dollars. He handed it all to the officer. “No tengo más.” I don’t have any more.

Except the three hundred-dollar bills he’d stashed in one of his shoes.

The federal glared for a few seconds, which wasn’t too intimidating since Owen towered over the guy by at least a foot. Finally the man stepped back, waving Owen and Benny on. “Salgan ustedes.” Get out of here. He muttered a few choice phrases about cheap tourists.