Wed In Wyoming. Allison Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ about Hewitt and Sophia, though? How will they even know their kids are still safe? Couldn’t these Santina group people lie?”

      “Hell yeah, they could lie. They will lie. But there’s another team working on their rescue. Right now, we need to make certain that whatever threats made concerning those kids are a lie.”

      She blew out a long breath. “Why not go to the authorities? Surely they’d be of more help.”

      “Which local authorities do you think we can implicitly trust?”

      She frowned. Miguel had often complained about the thriving black market and its rumored connection to the local police. “Brody, this kind of thing is way beyond me. I’m not a field agent. You know that better than anyone.” Her involvement with Hollins-Winword had only ever involved the transmittal of information!

      A deep crevice formed down his cheek as the corner of his lips lifted. “You are now, sweet cheeks.”

      “I do have a name,” she reminded.

      “Yeah. And until we get the kids outta this country, it’s Sophia Stanley.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Beg all you want. There’s a packet in the glove box.”

      She fumbled with the rusting button and managed to open the box. It was stuffed with maps and an assortment of hand tools. The packet, she assumed, was the dingy envelope wedged between a long screwdriver and a bundle of nylon rope. She pulled it out and lifted the flap. Inside was a narrow gold ring with a distinctive pattern engraved on it and several snapshots.

      He took the envelope and turned the contents out into his hand. “Here.” He handed her the ring. “Put this on.”

      She gingerly took the ring from him and started to slide it on her right hand.

      He shook his head. “Left hand. It’s a wedding ring, baby cakes.”

      Feeling slightly sick to her stomach, she pushed the gold band over her cold wedding-ring finger. It was a little loose. She curled her fingers into her palm, holding it in place.

      She’d never put a ring on that particular finger before, and it felt distinctly odd.

      “This,” he held up a picture, “is Sophia.”

      A laughing woman with long dark hair smiled at the camera. She looked older than Angeline, but overall, their coloring was nearly identical, from their olive-toned skin to their dark brown eyes.

      “Not a perfect match,” Brody said. “You’re prettier. But you’ll have to do.”

      She frowned, not sure if that was a compliment or not, but he took no notice.

      “These are the kids. Eva’s nine. Davey’s four.” He handed her a few more pictures, barely giving her time to examine one before handing her the next. “And this is papa bear.”

      If the situation hadn’t been as serious as she knew it was, she would have laughed right out loud. The real Hewitt Stanley definitely matched the mental image his name conjured.

      Medium height. Gangly and spectacled. Even from the snapshot, slightly blurred though it was, the man’s un-Brody-ness shined through. Other than the fact that they were both male, there was nothing remotely similar between the two men. “This is who you’re pretending to be.”

      “You’d be surprised at the identities I’ve assumed,” he said, taking back the photographs when she handed them to him. He tucked them back in the envelope, which then disappeared beneath his rain poncho.

      “Why do we even need to pretend to be the Stanleys, anyway? The nuns at the convent will surely know we’re not the people who left their children in their safekeeping.”

      “Generally, the Mother Superior deals with outsiders. She’s definitely the only one who would have met with Hewitt and Sophia when they took in the children. And she’s currently stuck in Puerto Grande thanks to the weather that we are not going to let stop us.”

      “Maybe we can fool a few nuns,” she hesitated for a moment, rather expecting a bolt of lightning to strike at the very idea of it, “but the kids will know we’re not their parents. They will certainly have something to say about going off with two complete strangers.”

      “The Stanleys had a code word for their kids. Falling waters. When we get that to them, they’ll know we’re there on behalf of their parents.”

      The situation could not possibly become anymore surreal. “How do you know that?”

      “Because I do. Believe me, if I thought we could just walk into that convent up there and tell the nuns we were taking the kids away for their own safety, I would. But there’s a reason Hewitt and Sophia chose the place. It’s hellacious to reach, even on a good day. It’s cloistered. It’s small; barely even a dot on the satellite imaging.”

      Again she felt that panicky feeling starting to crawl up her throat. “W-what if we fail?” The last time she’d failed had been in Atlanta, and it hadn’t had anything to do with Hollins-Winword. But it had certainly involved a child.

      He gave her a sidelong look. “We won’t.”

      “Why didn’t you tell me all this when you showed up at the aid camp?” If he had, she would have found some reason to convince him to find someone else.

      “Too many ears.” He reached beneath his seat and pulled out a handgun. So great was her surprise, she barely recognized it as a weapon.

      In a rapid movement he checked the clip and tucked the gun out of sight where he’d put the envelope of photographs beneath his rain poncho.

      She’d grown up on a ranch, so she wasn’t unfamiliar with firearms. But the presence of rifles and shotguns hanging in the gun case in her father’s den was a far cry from the thing that Brody had just hidden away. “We won’t need that though, right?”

      “Let’s hope not.” He gave her a look, as if he knew perfectly well how she felt about getting into a situation where they might. “I don’t want to draw down on a nun anymore than the next guy. If we can convince them we’re Hewitt and Sophia Stanley, we won’t have to. But believe me, sweet cheeks, they’re better off if I resort to threats than if Santina’s guy does. They don’t draw the line over hurting innocent people. And if we’re not as far ahead of the guy as I hope, you’re going to be pretty happy that I’ve got—” he patted his side “—good old Delilah with us, sweet cheeks.”

      He named his gun Delilah?

      She shook her head, discomfited by more than just the gun.

      Sandoval certainly hadn’t drawn the line over hurting people, she knew. Not when she’d been four and the man had destroyed her family’s village in a power struggle for control of the verdant land. When he’d been in danger of losing the battle, he’d destroyed the land, too, rather than let someone beat him.

      “It’s not sweet cheeks,” she said, and blamed her shaking voice on the cold water still sneaking beneath her poncho. “It’s Sophia.”

      Brody СКАЧАТЬ