Kay David - The Searchers

But by her third cup, she knew she wasn’t going to do any of those things. Instead, she was going to do what she’d been doing ever since Shepard Reyes had walked into her office. She was going to think about him and her past. And about Renaldo. And about the baby…

She could still smell the smoke that had been in the air that morning. Drifting in through the open window, the scent had been so strong she’d gagged. No one but the richest in Punto Perdido had had propane to cook their meals. Everyone else, including her aunt and uncle, gathered firewood to fuel their stoves and heat their homes. The midwife who’d attended her, Amarilla, had been burning eucalyptus leaves, too. She’d said the pungent blue-gray smoke would purify the air so Maya could rest easier.

Torn apart by a pain she’d thought would never end, Maya had sunk into delirium, accompanied by the screaming voices of her aunt and uncle and all those stinging scents. Even now she couldn’t stand to smell a fireplace.

She closed her eyes. After this many years, she would have thought her sorrow would have left her, but it’d been her steady companion through all her well-fought battles and her triumphs, too. Even in her brightest moments—her college graduation, passing the bar, the partnership at the firm—Maya hadn’t been able to escape the memories. Over the past few years, she’d managed to contain them, but Shepard’s appearance had given them new life.

Despite the pain, one fact remained the same. The child had died. The midwife had brought the body to the bed and held it close so Maya, too weak to even lift her arms, could see. Behind her shuttered eyes, she saw the baby again. The image of the tiny body, so still and colorless, had pressed itself into her brain. She’d never forget it.

Just like the trip that had followed. More than half sick and completely destitute, she’d slept in the jungle until she was strong enough to walk, stealing fruit from the market when no one was watching. A week later, she’d left the village on foot, faint and light-headed but determined. Two days after that, she’d joined a band of illegals. They’d made their way to the coast and then to Cartagena where they’d left by boat, sailing to a barren stretch of Mexico’s eastern shore and landing at night somewhere between Tampico and Brownsville. The man who’d led them—their coyote—had been brutal; whatever his demands, everyone had complied, including Maya who’d nothing to pay for her passage except her youth and beauty.

Buried in the deepest, darkest shadows of her shame, she knew she’d done what she had to in order to survive, but the cost had been high. On some level, she really believed it was just as well the baby had died. A child couldn’t have survived the nightmare trip.

Then she remembered. She’d barely been more than a child herself.

Maya stood up and went to the kitchen sink to dump her cold tea, her thoughts as black as the February storm clouds outside the window, her feelings as empty as her heart. Shepard’s words echoed in the void.

Are you absolutely certain?

SHEPARD’S SUV SPED through the traffic of Bogota as he honked at the other cars and ignored the stop signs. A cacophony of noise assaulted his ears through the bulletproof glass, but that was all that could make it past the windows. His father had had the vehicle built ten years ago when trips to the mine had become too dangerous.

The roads were even more perilous now. Everyone knew that vehicles going to the mine held money while those returning carried emeralds. The chances of gaining something valuable were almost one hundred percent. For the most part, las terroristas left Shepard alone, the car simply an extra precaution. They knew they’d lose any fight with him—either on the spot or later, when they least expected it.

He pulled the armored vehicle into the driveway of the Reyes family home and the security gate opened automatically, the guard stationed in the shack outside the brick fence watching for him. He parked quickly then crossed the tiled courtyard and strode through the front door into the entry. The cool, dim interior of the villa spoke of money and power but Shepard didn’t notice.

He was still thinking about Maya Vega. He couldn’t get over the fact that she was so different from the person he’d expected. Renaldo had drawn a mental picture for Shepard of a young girl, poor and hungry, who’d been swept away by Renaldo’s brash bravado and promises of riches and escape. His cadre knew his true identity and of the fortune his family controlled. Maya had to have known, as well. To anyone in her situation, Renaldo would have been quite a prize.

Shepard had always assumed, as well, that she knew of her uncle’s part in Renaldo’s death.

But now he wasn’t so sure. After talking to Maya, the situation—and the woman—seemed even more complicated than he’d thought.

Not only was she not the person he’d expected, she wasn’t even the person she pretended to be. The protective wall he’d seen the day they’d met was a diversion. Maya was a total enigma, her real self hidden as deeply as the emeralds at Muzo. To make sure things stayed that way, she was working hard at fortifying that respectability: The black robe she wanted was more than a symbol of just how far she’d come—it would be a formidable shield against her past.

Unfortunately, however, her greatest weakness was that very past. And if he had breached it, others might, as well. The thought was ominous for one simple reason.

Eduard Reyes had never changed his will. The document read now as it had almost two decades before. The majority of the Muzo and all it represented was to go to his favorite son, Renaldo, and if not him, then to his heirs. Javier, Shepard and Luisa followed, in that order.

To Shepard, it had never mattered and he believed Luisa shared that sentiment. But Javier was a different story.

Shepard went up a floor, taking the steps two at a time, walking quickly to the door to his father’s room. He knocked softly then entered.

His father looked as if he were already dead. Pale and thin, he lay beneath the sheets, his chest barely moving as he breathed. But his eyes fluttered open as Shepard came close and the illusion evaporated. The fire in their depths burned as brightly as always, if not more so.

“Did you talk to El Idiota?” he rasped.

Putting aside his worries about his brother, Shepard sighed. “That’s no way to refer to Colombia’s Minister of Mines, Papá. The man is—”

“The man is an idiot,” his father reiterated. “Anyone who wants to do the things he does has no understanding of los piedreros. We’ve worked with them for years.” He feebly pounded his chest with a gnarled fist. “The Reyes family knows the miners better than they know themselves.”

Eduard was right, but he was also wrong. For years, the family had had free rein over how they treated the workers, but times were changing. They wanted a fair wage and good doctors and schools for their children. Unlike everyone else in their family, Shepard agreed with the Minister of Mines who thought the men deserved more.

“Have you picked out my casket?”

Eduard’s question pulled Shepard from his thoughts. He sat down in the chair next to the bed. “No, I haven’t,” he answered. “Should I?”

“If you listen to that man and do what he says, you’ll kill me,” Eduard replied. “You might as well attend to the details.”

Shepard’s jaw tightened at Eduard’s drama. His father was a sick man—a sick seventy-year-old man—but he’d attempted, without much success, to manipulate Shepard for years. Thankfully, the door to the bedroom opened before Shepard could answer.

Shepard’s mother and sister entered the room, the women moving toward the bed as if pulled by a string. An apt analogy, Shepard thought grimly. They were Eduard’s puppets, controlled by love, hate or greed. That’s why Eduard was always so frustrated with Shepard. He didn’t play along.