The Heart of a Stranger (12 page)

“Did the pawnshop owner give you the necklace?”

“No.” Ricky shook his head. “He tried to, but I insisted on paying for it. I didn't want to associate the cross with the Mercado family business. I wanted to keep it separate from that part of my life. From the criminal in me. From the guy who ran with the mob.”

Her voice quavered. “And that's what Juan Guapo did.”

“Yes, that's what he did.” Ricky waited, hoping she would forgive him for his sins, absolve him, but she didn't.

When he stood, she remained silent.

“I'll be gone in the morning.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, wishing he didn't have to leave. “I'll call Westin and ask him to send one of his ranch hands over to help you out. He'll probably send Juan.”

She rose. “Juan?”

“Westin has a ranch hand named Juan. He doesn't
speak much English, though. But you speak fluent Spanish, so it'll be okay.”

“Thank you,” she said much too softly. Her voice was so low, he could barely hear.

He gazed at her, a piece of his heart chipping. “I can save your ranch, Lourdes. I have a lot of money. I've been investing in property. I'm one of those real estate moguls you talked about. Only I don't swindle people.”

Which, he supposed, sounded unlikely given his past.

“Are you offering me a loan?”

“No. I'm offering to pay off your debts. To give you what you need to get you back on your feet.”

Her hair blew around her face again. Loose and free and beautiful. “I can't take your money.”

Another piece of his heart broke off. “It's not from the mob. My inheritance from Uncle Carmine went to charity. I earned this legitimately. I've been investing for years, with funds that were clean.” In spite of his induction into the mob, he'd found his own brand of work after Desert Storm, enforcing skills he'd learned and utilized in the marines. No, he wasn't a secret agent like Luke Callaghan nor had he gone underground, joining some quasi-military organization like Tyler Murdoch, but he'd done his share of top-paying, honor-bound mercenary missions.

Her voice was still quiet, still too soft. “It wouldn't be right to take your money.”

Ricky kept his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward and alone. It hurt that she wouldn't accept his help, that she wouldn't let him make a difference in her life. He'd risked his neck to earn his legitimate fortune, to make something of himself. To prove he
could do more than lie, cheat and steal. “Tell your family that I love them. That I'll miss them.”

She stared at him, her eyes turning watery. “So this is goodbye?”

“Yes.” Unless she stopped him, he thought. Unless she called him back.

But she didn't. When he walked out into the night, nothing greeted him but a moonlit sky.

And the devastation of being Ricky Mercado.

 

Three days had passed, but Lourdes couldn't stop thinking about him. Missing him. Wondering what he was doing.

She stood in the kitchen, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, staring blindly at the coffeemaker as the dark brew dripped into the carafe.

He was a former Mafia underboss, she kept telling herself. Not the kind of man she should continue to love.

She glanced at the floor, at the spot where she and her family had huddled in terror. The image of clutching her babies, of clinging to them while they'd cried out in fear, still haunted her at night.

Lourdes reached for a cup. She'd spoken to Elise Campbell since that horrifying day, and the FBI agent had assured her that she and her family were safe.

Elise confirmed what Ricky had said. According to the Mafia, every mobster was fair game, but terrorizing his family or taking innocent hostages was unacceptable.

The Texas mob would probably punish Valente and the rule-breaking hit men, far beyond what the law had in store for them.

Lourdes wasn't sure how she felt about that. But
either way, she was relieved that no one else would be coming back to harm her family, that their ordeal was truly over.

As she poured her coffee, her eyes watered.

What about Ricky? Was he safe? Or would he always be fair game?

She added a powdered creamer to her coffee, then blinked furiously, trying to bank her tears.

The effort proved in vain.

Lourdes stood in the kitchen and cried.

She still loved him, and she always would.

Footsteps caught her attention. She wiped her eyes and turned to see Amy. Dressed in baggy pajamas, with her shiny black hair tousled, the teenager still looked half-asleep.

“You're crying,” Amy said.

Lourdes wiped her eyes again. “My nerves are shot. An aftermath from the crisis, I guess.”

“More like you miss Juan. I mean Ricky.” The young girl frowned. “I miss him, too.”

And so did everyone else in the house. The twins asked about him every day, wondering when they were going to see him again, and Cáco fretted over whether he was using the poultice she'd made.

No one in her family could get him off their mind.

“I'm worried about him,” Lourdes admitted.

“You could call him.”

Yes, Lourdes thought, she could. But she feared what hearing his voice would do to her.

She studied Amy for a moment, and the teenager smoothed her hair. Sometimes she plaited the strands that framed her face into tiny braids and wrapped them with colored ribbon, but this morning she wore no ornaments.

Lourdes breathed a heavy sigh. “You're not disturbed by his past, are you?”

The young girl shook her head. “No.”

“The things he did weren't cool, Amy. He was a criminal.”

“I know.”

Did she? Or was she still caught up in the Mafia myth portrayed on TV? “Don't idolize him for being a mobster.”

Amy made a face. “I don't. But I admire him for having the guts to walk away from the mob. Can you imagine being born into a family like that?”

“No.” She couldn't begin to fathom it.

“How could you sleep with him, and then just forget about him, just let him go?”

Lourdes started. It was a loaded question, particularly from a fifteen-year-old. “I haven't forgotten about him.”

“But you let him go.”

“It's complicated.” So complicated, so confusing.

“He wanted you to ask him to stay.”

Her chest constricted. “Did he tell you that?”

“No, but I could tell. You broke his heart.”

Lourdes's tears started up again. “I'm afraid of loving him. Of losing him.”

“I don't know what to say.” The teenager reached for the cinnamon rolls on the counter and picked at one, tearing off a doughy piece. “Except there are no guarantees in life. You could marry some boring, pocket-protector type, and he could walk across the street on your honeymoon and get hit by a bus.”

Lourdes covered her mouth to keep from laughing. “Men don't use those pocket-protectors anymore.”

“Nerds do.”

“I'm not going to marry a nerd.”

“Maybe, but you're not going to marry Ricky, either.”

The humor inside Lourdes died.

She wanted to. God help her, she did. But she couldn't face the danger of his past, the uncertainty of his future. “I want him to be safe. I want that guarantee.”

Amy ate another chunk of the cinnamon roll. “That's not possible.”

“I know.” And because she knew, she wanted to crawl back into bed and hug her pillow, pretend the warmth was his body, his touch.

“Are you going to call him?”

She glanced at the phone, felt the fear inside her well. “No.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.” She thought about his smile, his kiss, the comfort of his caress. “No idea at all.”

A
lmost a week later, Ricky answered the door. Haley, his determined sister, stood on the other side. She balanced her daughter on her hip. Little Lena grinned at Ricky, and he poked the toddler's belly.

Lena laughed, but Haley didn't. “You've been avoiding me,” she said. “You disappear for over a month. And then you expect to pacify me with a few measly phone calls. After you got the tar beat out of you. After you were shot.”

He wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready to let his baby sister see him smarting over a woman.

Smarting?

Cut the crap, Mercado. You're dying inside.

“Fine. Get in the house and give me my niece.” He stepped away from the door and took Lena.

Haley reached into the diaper bag on her arm and
retrieved a stack of letters and a small package. “I got your mail for you.”

“Just set it over there.” He pointed to the cluttered desk by the window.

His place was a mess. He'd purchased the charming old farmhouse a few months ago, thinking that remodeling it would give him purpose. Roots. A place where he belonged.

But he couldn't get organized, couldn't think beyond the scrap lumber and scattered tools.

Haley sat on his sofa, and he lowered himself onto an easy chair and plopped Lena down on his lap. She looked around for something to amuse herself and grabbed a tape measure from the end table. Pleased with her find, she waved her chubby arms, nearly smacking Ricky in the face.

Not that he would have noticed. Or cared, for that matter.

“Your hair is still blond,” he said to Haley.

Her hair wasn't the only change she'd made. Her features had been altered, too. When she'd faked her own death, she'd become someone new.

But to him, she was still Haley, still his adoring little sister.

She touched a hand to her bleached locks. “I planned on dying it back to its original color. I just haven't gotten around to it. I've been too worried about you.”

“I'm okay.”

“You look miserable.”

He focused his attention on his niece. She was as beautiful as her mama. A sweet, rosy-cheeked baby, dressed in denim and lace. He put his chin against the top of her head. She smelled soft and powdery.

“Ricky, tell me what's going on.”

“Nothing's going on.”

“That's not what Tyler said.”

Great, so Murdoch had mentioned Lourdes. Couldn't a man keep his pain to himself?

“Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about.” He shifted Lena, taking comfort in her baby-girl scent. He would give anything to have a daughter.

Two daughters, he thought. Twins.

Haley scooted to the end of the calf-print couch. “Go ahead.”

He wasn't sure where to begin. “This is about that body.”

“What body?”

“The one that was supposed to be yours.”

“Frank planted it,” she said, cursing Del Brio. “He made sure a body was found so Luke and the others would be convicted.”

Luke and the others were Ricky's marine buddies: Luke Callaghan, Tyler Murdoch, Spence Harrison and Flynt Carson. “That's true, but Uncle Carmine was in on the ruse, too. And so was I. They convinced me it was the only way.”

“Oh, Ricky.”

The disappointment in her voice shamed him. But he'd been carrying this around since the day it had happened. And the guilt was nearly too much to bear.

“Who was she?” Haley asked.

“I don't know. Uncle Carmine had the body imported from Mexico.” And Ricky recalled grieving over it, crying as if the decomposed corpse really was his sister. “We honestly believed you were dead, Haley. Frank, Carmine and me. And when I went down to the morgue, I broke down. I saw that body, and I
mourned you. I missed you so much.” He paused, blew a breath. “I knew Frank burned down the dentist's office to make sure your records weren't available.” And there hadn't been a speck of Haley's DNA to use to compare with the corpse. “I was part of it. The deception that could have sent my friends to jail.”

But it hadn't worked. Luke and the others had been acquitted. And years later, Haley had turned up alive.

Still, Ricky wished he could turn back the clock. Start his life over. Right the wrongs. “I feel like such a bastard.”

“It's okay. That was ages ago.” She came over and sat on the cushioned arm of his chair.

“I'm so sorry.” He gazed at her, recalling the years she'd trailed after him, in awe of her big brother. He'd spoiled her shamelessly, and she'd basked in his affection. “I should have told you and Luke before now.”

“My husband will understand. After everything all of us have been through, he's not going to blame you.” She smoothed the hair at his temples, and Lena lifted her head to watch, to flash her happy-kid grin. “We should look forward to the future. Not dwell on the past.”

“Does that mean I'm forgiven?”

“Yes.” She snuggled closer to her daughter. “Now tell me what else is wrong.”

“I can't.” He couldn't talk about Lourdes, not even to Haley.

She didn't press the issue. Instead, she sat with him in silence for a while, listening to Lena jingle the little bells on her shoes.

“I should go.” Finally his sister reached for her
daughter. “But I'm coming back to make sure you eat. I'll bring a pan of lasagna for dinner.”

She kissed him goodbye, and Lena squealed and grinned. She still had Ricky's measuring tape clutched between her stubby fingers.

“Be good,” he told the baby. He intended to spoil her, too. Just the way he'd spoiled Haley.

An hour later, when he was alone, he paced through the rooms of his house, not quite sure what to do.

Then he remembered his mail.

After he sorted through the letters, he tossed them aside and examined the package.

His heart nearly stopped.

It was from Lourdes.

Like a man possessed, a crazed demon, he tore into the bubble-packed mailer, ripping the seam where it had been sealed.

And found the cross.

There was no note attached, but the inscription on the back of the necklace said it all.

To keep you safe.

 

The late-day sun had already begun to set, painting the sky in a reddish hue.

Ricky called his sister and cancelled dinner. Instead he arrived on Lourdes's property, with his breath fighting his lungs.

He parked near the bunkhouse, then sat behind the wheel for a moment, gathering his thoughts, wondering if he had the right to be here.

He looked up and noticed the door to his old house was open. Instantly he knew Lourdes was there. He could feel her.

In the place where they'd made love.

A fluttery sensation winged through his stomach. Was she getting it ready for a new tenant? Had she found a permanent ranch hand? Or was Westin's man still helping out?

Ricky schooled his emotions and headed to the bunkhouse. After taking the porch steps, he stood at the open door and saw Lourdes.

Her back was to him, and he noticed her hair, the long, honey-colored streaks plaited into a single braid. Tempted to move forward, he drew a rough breath.

He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to absorb what he'd been missing.

Concerned that his presence would startle her, he said her name. Softly. As softly as he could endure.

“Lourdes?”

She turned, and for a moment, a suspended moment in time, they simply stared at each other.

“Ricky,” she whispered.

His name on her lips was nearly his undoing. She hadn't called him Ricky before now.

“I came by to thank you.” He touched the cross around his neck. He wore it on the outside of his shirt, visible to her eye. “This means so much to me.”

She stood in the center of the room. “I wanted you to have it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to be safe.”

He moved into the building, just enough to make their conversation more intimate. He glanced at the sofa bed. He would never forget the nights they'd slept on it, the nights their naked bodies had joined.

She took a step back, and his heart seized, pain gripping his chest.

“Are you afraid of me, Lourdes?”

“I'm afraid for you, Ricky.”

His name. She'd said it again. “I don't understand.”

Slats of light filtered through the blinds, casting an autumn glow over her skin. “I'm afraid of what might happen to you. Of the consequences of your past.” She smoothed her hands on her jeans as if her palms had gone damp. “I trust that my family will remain safe. But you—”

“I'll be okay. No one is going to mess with me.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I can't. But I don't intend to make waves. To rile the mob.” He just wanted out, a clean break. Or as clean as a former underboss could expect. He supposed the stigma would always be there, hovering over him like a mottled cloud.

She touched the corner of the Indian blanket that draped a chair. “I still worry.”

“Why? Because you still care?”

Her breath hitched. “Of course I care.”

How much, he wanted to know. And how deeply. “As a friend? Or as a lover?”

Lourdes froze. How could she answer that? How could she admit the turmoil in her heart?

She'd come here to linger in the place where he'd shaved and showered, drank his morning coffee, read the evening paper, got ready for bed.

But she hadn't expected him to appear, to show up in the midst of her longing.

He fell silent, watching her, those dark eyes waiting for an answer.

God help her, but she wanted him.

“You should go,” she said. Before she did some
thing dangerous. Something that would steal into her dreams.

“If that's what you want.” Those dark eyes lost hope, and he turned away.

He got as far as the door before she stopped him.

“No!”

He spun around, and within seconds they were locked in each other's arms. He slid his hands down her back and drew her closer.

So close, she thought she might die.

“Be with me,” she said.

He gave her an intense look. “For how long?”

Her knees went weak, her pulse jabbed her ribs. The scent of his cologne, the virile blend of wood smoke and wonder, of mist and magic, wrapped around her like a memory.

Would one night be enough?

Could she make love with him, and then let him go?

No, she thought. She couldn't. She couldn't live the rest of her life mourning the mistake she'd made.

The mistake of letting him go.

“Forever,” she said, her voice breaking. “Be with me forever.”

He didn't move. He stood perfectly still, yet she knew his nerves were dashing and darting, streaking through his limbs like a derailed train.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” So very sure. So very much in love.

“What about the things I've done? The crimes I've committed?”

“It isn't up to me to absolve you. To wash away your sins. That's between you and God.” Between the man and his maker.

But even so, he wasn't like Gunther. Ricky Mercado had a conscience, remorse for the things he'd done.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. “Do you truly believe that I won't falter? That I won't trip and stumble?”

And fall back into the mob? She looked into his eyes. They were a clear shade of brown. As dark and troubled as his past, yet honest and giving.

“I trust you.” She skimmed his jaw. “I trust Juan. And I trust Ricky.” Because he was both men. And she was the woman both men loved. “I know your true character. I see what's in your soul.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You're in my soul. You and your family.”

And he was in hers. They were meant to be together. Lourdes knew that now.

She glanced at the cross around his neck. Somehow they'd always belonged to each other, even before they'd met.

“How did you get here the night you were beaten?” she asked. “How did you get to my barn?”

“The hit men jumped me while I was checking out some old warehouses I owned. It was dark when I escaped, so I dodged between the buildings, then headed to a filling station about ten miles from here. There was a truck and a horse trailer there. I climbed in the trailer.”

Her heart lurched. “It was my truck, wasn't it? My trailer?

“Yes.”

Suddenly it made sense. She'd been on her way home from showing yearlings and had gotten dangerously low on gas. After she'd filled the tank, she'd
driven Ricky Mercado, an injured stowaway, directly to the ranch.

“I climbed out of the trailer when you stopped to open the gate,” he said. “I slept in the barn, and you found me the next morning.”

“It was fate.” A destiny neither of them could deny.

“Yes, it was,” he agreed.

She looked up at him, memorizing his face: the strongly arched brows, the hard curve of cheekbone, the slight cleft in his chin, the shadow of beard stubble.

He leaned into her. “Will you marry me? Will you bear my name, my children?”

Tears burst to her eyes, coating her lashes. “Yes.”

“Will you let me adopt your daughters?”

“Yes.” She put her head on his shoulder. He was the father her girls were meant to have, the man who would love and protect them.

“I have everything now. More than I deserve.” Humbled, he stroked her hair, trailing his fingers over her braid.

She kissed him, and he made a pleasured sound. Soon they were touching, tasting, removing each other's clothes.

But they didn't hurry. They took their time, letting the moment guide them.

He smiled as he made up the sofa bed, as he took her hand and led her to simple white sheets and downy pillows.

She sank into the warmth, and he followed her down, pressing his nakedness to hers.