Into the Wild (17 page)

Ella's parting statement slammed River like a nervous bride's tirade. She hadn't slept with Spenser out of spite, had she? She wasn't capable of such a thing, was she? When she'd handed Spenser back his phone she hadn't been able to look him in the eyes. The mere possibility that she'd slept with him just to hurt David struck her with shame. Within the first half hour of the hike she'd gone though a quarter bottle of her pocket sanitizer to wash away the icky feeling.

Thirty minutes later the trail turned muddy, knee-deep in a few places, and even as she fought not to slip, she still obsessed on her motivation. She wasn't the vengeful type. If she were, she could've stuck it to David financially. She could have bad-mouthed him all over Maple Grove. Or as Ella had mentioned, bought a voodoo doll or hired a hitman. But then the thought niggled, what if she'd slept with Spenser to fill some insecure need? Reassurance that she was indeed desir
able, even with her quirks? That possibility made her feel pathetic.

Two thoughts dogged her as they left the clearing and broke into dense forest.

One, I don't have indiscriminant sex.

Two, I don't want to die.

Certain there was an anopheles mosquito with her name on it, she doused her body, clothes and all, with a cloud of bug guard.

“What's that stink?” Cy asked, then sneezed three times in succession.

“It doesn't stink.” The first words River had spoken aloud in over an hour. “It's laundry-fresh Skin So Soft Bug Guard.”

Cy stopped in his muddy tracks, sneezed again. “Did you have to pollute the air with the entire bottle?”

“I didn't—”

He pulled a machete from his belt.

River stumbled back. Alberto had been stabbed to death. In Baños. Cy lived in Baños.

The older man rolled his eyes, “Christ almighty,” then turned and hacked through thick vegetation.

Spenser thumbed up the brim of his hat, regarded her with a tender gaze. “River, there are no malarial mosquitoes here.”

“What?”

“Unlike the lower rain forest, the higher jungle is slightly safer. No anopheles mosquitoes. No deadly snakes. The biggest threat is the damp cold.”

Good news, sort of. Two thoughts dogged River.

One, Spenser's cowboy hat was incredibly sexy (unlike Cy's dorky fedora).

Two, at least she wouldn't die of malaria.

“Ready to talk about it?” he asked as he followed Cy's hacked path.

“What?” Her childhood? Her parents? Her vengeful, pathetic use of sex?

“There are dozens of antimalarial medicines. You're cautious, methodical even. You would have consulted a physician, researched. Primaquine's not a preventative as much as a treatment. You've had malaria. You're worried about a relapse.”

River's pulse accelerated as they pushed through the sun-deprived forest. “Working the puzzle?”

“How am I doing?”

“Your deductive skills are amazing.”

“You provided ample clues.”

Which meant she hadn't been as private about her past with this man as was her norm. She couldn't contemplate that. Not now. Brain full. “It was a long time ago. Back when we traveled as a family. An expedition in Africa. I don't remember any of it. I was only two. But my parents brought it up several times over the years, as did my grandparents and assorted friends in my mom's artistic circle.”

“Your mom was an artist? What medium?”

“She specialized in charcoal sketches and watercolors, although she often experimented with primitive paints. Whatever was available. She traveled with Henry. Visually documented his expeditions.”

River followed Spenser as he wielded his own machete, widening Cy's path. He seemed intent on protecting her from the lash and sting of branches and pricklers. She was intent on avoiding his gaze. Even though she'd agreed to talk about the “bad stuff,” it was far from her comfort zone. “I almost died, or so I've been told. The beginning of my ‘lightning rod for disaster' life.”

“Calculating the years,” Spenser said, “even then there would have been reliable preventative measures against malaria.”

“Are you suggesting my parents were irresponsible?”

“Just working the puzzle, angel.”

“According to Henry it was a tribal shaman's fault.”

Spenser stopped cold, turned.

“You know. A witch doctor.”

“You're kidding.”

River died a thousand deaths. “This is why I don't talk about my past. It's embarrassing. My father, a highly educated man, believes I, his only child, was cursed with a delicate constitution. Low tolerance to germs, prone to infection. An inability to function in primitive conditions.”

Still Spenser stared.

“According to my grandpa, who got it from my mom, Henry got carried away on one of his expeditions, stepped on a shaman's toes and that shaman retaliated by cursing his unborn child. That would be me.”

“Losing time!” Cy bellowed from ahead.

“You're not cursed, River.”

“Over the next five years, I developed countless viruses.”

“Most kids do. Hell, I contracted measles, chicken pox and mumps, all before I was seven.”

“I got severe sun poisoning in Egypt and was attacked by fire ants in Thailand. The fire ants I remember. The pain. The blisters.”

Spenser gripped her shoulder. “Those things could've happened to anyone.”

“But they happened to me. They wanted a boy, a scrappy boy suited to their adventurous lifestyle. Instead they got a wimpy girl who proved a heartache and a hindrance.”

“I'm sure they didn't—”

“They did.” She cringed at the sympathy in his eyes, looked around his strong and capable body. “I can't see Cy anymore. We need to catch up.” She'd told Spenser more than she'd ever told anyone about her childhood. If she kept going, she'd be telling him how they'd decided she'd be safer in the States. How Henry refused to give up his travels and how her mom refused to give up Henry. Spenser was wrong. She didn't feel better for spilling her guts. She felt like an idiot. Exposed. Raw. She felt like a freaking freak of nature!

When Spenser didn't move, she grabbed his machete and whacked a tangle of vines. It felt good. Like punching something. She whacked again, exerting energy, expelling anger.

Not a wimp.

Not cursed.

Whack!

Rescue and closure.

Whack, whack, WHACK!

Somewhere in the Cloud Forest
Altitude 12,000 feet

“S
HE'S LAGGING,
but she's not giving up.”

“I know.” Spenser stood at the face of a steep incline alongside Cy. River was coming toward them, moving at a snail's pace, but moving. Surprising, given they'd been hard at it for close to four hours.

Navigating the dense forest was no cakewalk. Even though Spenser was experienced and fit, he still felt a burn in his thighs, a tightness in his chest. At times he'd had to stoop, hunch or angle to squeeze through thick jungle and narrow tunnels of vegetation. Although the incline was sometimes subtle, they were constantly gaining altitude.

More than once Cy had thrown him a look that said,
let's stop.
Not that he or Spenser needed a lengthy breather, but River would've benefited. Spenser didn't want her to benefit. Didn't want her to rejuvenate. Call him an ass, but he wanted her to cry
uncle.

River, damn her, was not only tougher than she looked, but stronger. Spenser expected her arms to give out after five minutes of swinging his heavy machete.
She'd brutalized gnarled vegetation for close to thirty. She wasn't nearly as effective as Spenser would have been, but he recognized the need to burn off anger.

While she'd hacked, he'd reflected on her story. He'd be resentful, too, if his dad had drummed it into his head that he was somehow inferior. Even though Spenser had disappointed Dewy McGraw by not following tradition and running the shoe store that had been in the family for four generations, the old man had been his staunchest supporter. Obviously, River felt unloved and unwanted by her dad. He didn't know about her mom, but he knew there was more to the story. As much as he wanted to press, he'd held silent. Asking River to speak at length would have been cruel. She was struggling to keep up, struggling to breathe. He kept waiting for her to ask him about his “bad stuff.” Kept waiting for her to succumb to her phobias, to admit defeat, ordering them to stop or turn back. But she'd yet to utter even one request or complaint.

“I've had a bad feeling the last mile or so,” Cy said.

Spenser nodded. “Like we're being watched, only I haven't seen or heard anyone.”

“Could be the altitude messing with our heads.”

“Could be we're being watched.”

Cy shoved his fedora back on his head. “Still waiting to hear what I've gotten myself into, aside from the obvious treasure hunt and associated curse. We're looking for River's dad, but who's on our tail? And why?”

Spenser offered select details.

“So you're attributing a couple of loosely linked
deaths and near-death incidents to the map in River's possession.”

Spenser had only studied the partial map for three minutes tops, but the damned thing was branded on his brain as distinctly as Valverde's guide or Brunner's map—charts he'd studied for years. His pulse spiked as he envisioned the discovery of a lifetime. A secret hidey-hole crammed with gold and silver Inca and pre-Inca handicrafts. Sculpted birds, animals and life-size human figures. Pots of jewelry and the sacred Indian corn.

A king's ransom.

“I'm just saying, Cy, what if?”

“Then I'd say, holy freaking miracle, and quickly add that River would be safer if you or I had that map.”

“She'd be safer out of the equation, period.”

“Almost forgot,” Cy said. “You want her to peter out and turn back. Guess you expect me to return her to Triunfo while you track down Professor Kane and the treasure.”

“That's the preferred plan.”

“She won't like it and neither do I. I'd tick off a half dozen reasons, but here comes your gal.”

Spenser's heart hitched as River lumbered toward them, muddy from the knees down, hair mussed beneath her rolled-brim hat, face flushed and sweaty.

“Why did you stop?” she wheezed.

“We have to go up,” said Cy. “Up where?”

The older man pointed to the jungle-carpeted cliff.
A seventy-degree incline with roots, stubby plants and dwarf trees sticking out of the muddy face. “The only way to get to the
páramo
and beyond.”

Spenser held silent as she accessed the challenge.
Come on, angel. Fold.

“You've done this before?” she asked Spenser, eyes trained on the climb.

“Both times kicked my ass.”

“Any tips?”

For Christ's… He'd expected her to tough it out—for a while—but this was ridiculous. If looking at the formidable terrain ahead didn't scare her off, what would? “It'll take three hours.”

She bent forward, rested her hands on her thighs and gulped air. “It might take me twice that, and given that incline, I'll probably have to crawl on all fours, but,”
gulp, gasp,
“nothing worth having comes easy, right?”

A cliché he'd used more than once on Gordo. Just now it irritated the hell out of him. “There are prickle bushes, arrow plants with spikes and a shitload of branches and bushes that'll poke your eye out if you're careless.”

“I'll be sure to avoid them.”

“Those are the things you need to grab hold of for stability!”

“You don't have to yell.”

“I'm not yelling!”

Cy shot Spenser a look that said otherwise.

River reached into her jacket pockets and traded her insulated gloves for the leather work gloves Spenser
had provided. “These should protect my hands from the worst of it, right?” she asked Cy.

He eyed her up and down, frowned. “We're not going anywhere until you rest.”

“No time,” Spenser said.

“I'm fine,” River snapped, even as she massaged her temples and gasped for air.

“A pain in my ass. Both of you.” The treasure hunter reached down and scooped a handful of select green seeds from the jungle floor. He poured a few into River's palm. “Squash these between your fingers and suck out the milky fluid.”

“What is it?”

“A natural drug,” Spenser said, remembering how Jo had encouraged him and Andy to partake. Liberally.

“A miracle drug.” Cy squashed several between his own fingers. “You'll breathe easier and reduce the risk of muscle cramps. Plus there's the bonus energy boost.”

River's already flushed cheeks burned a deeper shade of red. Probably reflecting on her experience with coca tea. “No, thanks.”

“But—”

“Let's do this.” She dug in for the climb.

Spenser hauled her back. “A minute,” he said to Cy. Hands raised in surrender, the senior adventurer backed away while Spenser tugged River close. “Is this another stunt to prove something to David?”

“No.”

“Your dad?”

“No.”

Spenser frowned. “Me?”

“Get over yourself, McGraw. This is for me.”

Back to an arm's-length attitude. “What happened between this morning and now?”

“What do you mean?”

“You won't look me in the eye. Not for any length of time.”

“Really?”

“Just now you're staring a hole in the tree behind me.”

“I'm not—”

“You are.”

She tried to shrug him off. “We're wasting time.”

Spenser grasped her stubborn chin. “Look at me, dammit.” She did and his heart skipped. Not in a good way. “What's wrong, angel?”

She stonewalled for five seconds then blurted, “I didn't like the way you looked at the chakana this morning. Like it was…the Holy Grail.”

Spenser flashed back on the charge he'd felt when he'd held and admired that ancient relic. “In a way it is.” If she possessed one tenth of his fascination with legendary treasures and lost civilizations, she'd obsess on that amulet as well.

“I don't like how you're trying to get rid of me.”

“I'm not—”

“You purposely set a brutal pace today and now you're trying to scare me off this climb.”

“It's dangerous!”

“And I'm a lightning rod for disaster.”

Fury shot through his body. “Don't put words in my mouth, River.” Rather than shake her, he spun away. “God
dammit.
”

“You want me to chicken out. To poop out. You want me to give you the map, and entrust you, oh, Mr. Macho, Mr. Celebrity Treasure Hunter, with finding my dad while Cy escorts me back to the Jungle Lodge or some other safe haven. Deny it.”

He couldn't. Fists clenched, he turned and saw her leaning against a tree, fighting for balance and breath.

“You said you wouldn't abandon me,” she said in a raspy voice.

Empathy tempered his anger. “I won't refuse to take you and I won't leave you alone. But I
wish
you'd volunteer to go back with Cy. Aside from the risky terrain, River, there's the possibility that someone's trailing us or maybe waiting up ahead, looking for a prime moment to jump you for that map.”

“All the more reason for you to keep me close. To protect me.”

“That's the point. If you'd give me the map, if you'd turn back, I wouldn't have to protect you. I'd be absorbing full risk.”

She shook her head. “I need to be there. I need to do this.”

“You don't trust me.”

River unzipped her jacket and pushed off the tree. “Tell me you're not considering the possibility that Henry discovered the legendary lost treasure.” She produced the chakana, holding it in front of her as if
taunting the devil. “Tell me you're not wondering if this is part of Atahualpa's ransom.”

Spenser burned with familiar desires. His fingertips tingled. He gravitated toward her, toward the amulet, wanting to examine the craftsmanship, to ponder the origin. He stopped cold.

“Just as I thought.” She shoved the necklace back under her shirt.

“River—”

“This isn't about me or my dad. It's about you.”

“You're not being fair.”

“You're not being honest.” She looked away. “Cy! How much juice do I need to get me to the top?” she asked, squashing seeds between her fingers.

Spenser watched as the older man approached and advised. He watched as River complied and then ordered Cy to take the lead.

His head throbbed with two scenarios. Either she'd fly to the top or plummet to the jungle floor.

Without looking at Spenser, she sucked back more of the tasteless white fluid then launched herself at the daunting jungle wall. “Are you coming or not?”

Heart pounding, he gathered up a supply of the
droga.
She was going to be the death of him. Fuck it. Better that than the other way around. “Let's fly, angel.”