can take care of her,” a man said. “Your assistance is not needed here. They should never have bothered you with this.”
She struggled to open her eyes, her lids weighed down by sleep and pain. The man who spoke was the one she’d seen come into her tent before. His voice reverberated with a frightening kind of fervor.
“I am confident that you are able to handle the situation, Manco.” The second man answered in the same language of the first—Spanish—but his voice was much kinder, its tones softened by a sophisticated accent and polished manner. “I mean no disrespect. I merely want to help.”
She fought against her stupor and forced her eyes to stay open so she could study the visitor. His eyes were two black stones, polished and bright, his skin a burnished brown, his hair straight and black. He had the right coloring but she didn’t think he was local. For one thing, he wore American jeans and a T-shirt. Her guess was based on his attitude rather than what he had on, however. He had an air of authority about him, a self-confidence that told her he wasn’t about to give in to the man who stood before him. Her eyes shut again.
“I brought her back from the dead.” The tall man’s voice penetrated her fog but just barely. “If not for me, she would be in the ground at this very moment. Her family would be crying and lighting candles.”
“That may be true,” the stranger replied politely. “But you can’t talk to her and I can.”
“I speak the language of healing. English isn’t necessary.”
A paused filled the hut. As it grew, she beat her lethargy and turned to look at them again. The two men stared at each other, their faces filled with tension, and as she watched, the American, which she guessed him to be, stepped even closer to the older man, their chests now almost touching. His voice was so low she could hardly make out what he said. The steady conviction behind it, however, was unmistakable.
“You’re a very busy man, Manco. You have the farm to run, the animals to oversee, your people to guide. I’m sure you could handle this problem, but you don’t need another person to look after.” He paused, his silky voice at once respectful but threatening. “The burden of the woman’s care would require too much of your valuable attention. Your village could suffer. Your men were thinking of you when they came and asked for my assistance.”
He was offering a way to save face, which was nice because the outcome of this argument was not in question. The American was going to get what he wanted, in any event. For some reason, she suspected that was not unusual.
She didn’t know what Manco saw as he studied the man’s face but he must have read something in his expression that gave him pause. After a moment so long Lauren wasn’t sure it would end, he stepped back and held out his hand. “You are right, Doctor, as usual. Your wisdom far outweighs my own. I had not thought of the problem in those terms.”
The man in the T-shirt shook his head. “No one’s wisdom is greater than yours, Manco. The problem is your heart. It is too big. You try to help everyone.”
“You flatter me, but I will accept your praise.” The man smiled as he spoke but it wasn’t genuine. He wasn’t happy, yet there was nothing more that he could do. He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to leave. “I’ll send someone to help carry her out.”
Before Manco had even left the hut, the doctor, if that’s what he was, was at the edge of her bed and lifting the mosquito netting. He appeared pleased by her open eyes.
“You’re awake. That is good. Very good. You didn’t seem to know I was here when I first arrived and examined you.”
He stuck out his hand and confirmed his title. “I’m Armando Torres. I’m going to take you to my clinic so I can see to your injuries. It’s not far from here. Do you think you can make it?”
She attempted to speak but all that came out was a croak.
“Save your energy.” He brushed a curl of her hair off her forehead in a soothing gesture, misinterpreting her effort. “We don’t need to be polite. The niceties can wait.”
She had to try again. “Do you…”
He put his fingers over hers, his kind manner and authoritative air instantly winning her trust. “Do I what?” he asked, his eyes puzzled.
Her gaze fastened on his as if she could pull the answer from him. “Do you know who I am?”
ARMANDO STARED DOWN at Lauren Stanley in shock. When the men who’d retrieved him had said she wasn’t alive, he hadn’t understood. Defensive and angry, Manco had explained the situation with more arrogance than usual and left out the details as well. The Quechuan believed in more than a single state of being, he’d said haughtily, and Lauren’s ailment reflected one that was highly mystical. Armando had accepted the lecture, but he’d had no idea Manco had been referring to amnesia.
“You don’t know your name?” he asked in surprise.
She shook her head then winced at the movement. She was so pale beneath her tan, Armando thought he could see through her skin.
“I can remember a few things,” she said haltingly. “But I don’t know why I’m here or what I do.”
She waited for him to fill her in but Armando didn’t answer right away. Beneath the pallor and grime, she certainly looked like the photo Meredith had sent him, but Armando didn’t like to make assumptions and he wasn’t about to start now. “Did you have things with you?” he asked instead.
“I don’t know.” A look of frustration crossed her delicate features. “I tried to ask, but my sign language skills aren’t too good.”
Armando walked to the doorway. Tiachita, Manco’s housekeeper, lounged on the porch, her need for activity apparently less developed than Zue’s. She looked up as he spoke.
“Did the blonde have anything with her? A bag? Papers? Anything?”
Tiachita stood with a languid grace and walked to the kitchen of the hut, which was housed in a separate building off to one side. She returned a second later and handed him a small ripped windbreaker.
“This is it?”
She gave him the exact reply he’d expected. A slow nod of her head. He cursed beneath his breath and retraced his steps, flipping open the coat as he walked. If Lauren Stanley had fallen in the river with an entire suite of Vuitton luggage, the answer would have been the same. Unattended items didn’t last long in this part of the world. He was surprised even to have this.
He paused on the front porch and looked at the inside tag. Someone had written Lauren Stanley, Dallas, Texas, in small block letters at the top in indelible ink. Luxury had been printed underneath her name.
“There’s nothing left,” he declared when he came back to her side, “except this.”
She raised her head. “A ratty jacket? That’s it?”
He nodded as she fought to focus, her small source of energy obviously depleted.
“There’s a name on the tag,” he said.
In the dim light, her blue eyes seemed to glow. “What is it?”
“Lauren
