Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,77
deserve Nattie, but when God put you both in my life, I felt as though it was his way of telling me that I truly was forgiven. But I-I must not have believed it completely, because I was afraid. I was flat out terrified to tell you the truth about myself. I should have known you’d understand. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t face losing someone I loved again.” He spoke as though he were realizing it himself for the first time.
Daria grasped his hands tighter. “Cole, we’re going to have a baby. This should be the happiest time of our lives.”
“Daria, I’m too afraid to be happy about this. What if something goes wrong? I can’t face losing you, losing another baby. And if that happens, I’ll lose Nattie, too.”
She stroked his head the way she would have comforted a frightened little boy. “No Cole, that’s not going to happen. You would never lose Nattie. Nothing is going to happen. I’m fine.” She took his hand and placed it over her belly, covering it with her own. “This baby will be fine. Everything will turn out fine, you’ll see.”
He took her face in his hands, and his voice was fierce when he told her, “I love you, Daria. What would I do without you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “You’ll never have to find that out. Never.”
Twenty-Two
His eyes were open, but he thought he must surely be dreaming. The voices he heard were speaking English—crisp, unaccented American English. After all this time, it was a sound so strange it almost sounded like a foreign tongue to his ears.
There were at least two of them—deep, masculine voices—and they were shouting.
“Show us where it is now, or I’ll blow your head off!”
Nate winced as the man let out a string of profanities. These were not the first words of his native language he’d hoped to hear. He threw off the dirty, coarse cloth that had covered him and sat up on the hard dirt floor of the hut. Peering through the thin slivers of space between the bamboo and grasses that made up his prison, he cocked his head to one side, straining to hear the rest of the exchange.
The thick leaves of a palm tree blocked Nate’s view of the Americans, but he could clearly see the face of the man called Juan Mocoa. He was on his knees before the Americans, and, judging by the tension in his jaw and the raw fear in his eyes, his life was at stake.
“Please, no. I tell you where it is, Captain,” Mocoa squealed. “I give it back. I give it all back, Captain.”
Nate was stunned to hear Mocoa plead for his life in fluent English. He had always been suspicious of Juan Mocoa, for the man seemed to have a vested interest in Nate’s continued imprisonment—though why, Nate could only guess. Now, hearing him speak English, his suspicions were heightened.
If these men were enemies of Mocoa, perhaps, Nate thought, they could help him escape. Then, taking a chance, he shouted at the top of his lungs in English, “Hey! Help me out here! Hey!” His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it frightened him, yet he felt stronger than he had in weeks.
Still peeking through the wall of his hut, he watched one of the Americans step into view and walk toward the sound of his voice, eyes darting to and fro.
“Who said that?” the American shouted. “Where are you, man?”
Even from his inferior vantage point, Nate could see Juan Mocoa’s mind working, plotting to use this interruption to his advantage. But the other American, the one Mocoa called Captain, moved in to stand over him, gun ready, while his partner walked cautiously toward the sound of Nate’s voice.
“Show yourself!” the American bellowed.
Nate struggled to his feet and rattled the door of the hut, afraid to let himself realize how close he might be to freedom. “Here! I’m over here!”
The American turned his rifle on the young native guard who had shrunk down outside Nate’s door as soon as he heard the commotion.
“Open the door,” the American ordered, gesturing roughly with his gun. The youth looked to Juan Mocoa, as if seeking permission. Then, realizing that Mocoa was in no position to give orders, he looked back to the gun and complied, struggling briefly with the vine ropes that served as a lock.
Within seconds Nate was standing before a red-bearded, blue-eyed American.