Taming Alaska (So Not Prince Charming Book 1) (3 page)

“Twenty-one and he owns a company?” If he’s that good, what’s he like in bed?

“Shane’s smart and works very hard. I know he’s rough around the edges, but he’s a good man. He’s ambitious, and he’s going places.”

I don’t see myself permanently with someone like Shane, no matter how hot the blowtorch he carries.

Yet Mom settled for Dad, but she started with money. “You could’ve had anyone, Mom.”

She resembles a classic movie star, blonde, wavy chin-length hair, pale blue eyes, and creamy skin.

“When I met Fay’s father Benton, I was expected to marry him. Our properties butted up to one another, and together, we’d own some of the best oil lands in Texas. So I did.” Regret shines in her eyes. “He wasn’t a good husband, he drank too much and cheated on me, and our families expected us to stay together, but then he died.” Her face tightens. “I hired Jorge to help me with my garden. He has such a green thumb.” She smiles like someone my age romanticizing over a boy, like I did for asshole Trevor.

Before I pull back onto the highway, a faded red truck slows as it passes us, probably to gawk at Mom. It doesn’t surprise me though. Men always whistle at her, and she just smiles and waves them off.

Dust soots the truck’s windows, and it doesn’t have tags, though one could be taped on the inside of its dirty windows.

She lets out a wistful sigh. “Your father and I spent many days in the gardens, a little brush against his sun-drenched skin here and there, yet he never flirted with me, and then one afternoon, he was planting rose bushes and he said, ‘
Mi madre le encantan las rosas
,’ and he started to cry. He was only twenty and missed his family terribly. He sent most of his money home to Mexico. We made love that night under the stars…at my insistence.” She laughs.

She’s six years older than Dad and had Fay when she was twenty-four. Her much older Benton died a couple years after Fay’s birth, and I was born a few months after her wedding to my dad. “Mamá, TMI.”

She laughs again, and it sounds like the tinkling of bells. “I love how you and Willa speak Spanglish. It sounds so romantic, much like your father.”

I love her laugh and kisses to my forehead. I always will.

“It’s just that…” Her tone turns suddenly serious. “I think you’re set on finding some perfect man, and I don’t want you to be disappointed. I want you to marry a good man, like your father, like Shane, and that man may not come in some pretty little package, like the novels you read or the movies you watch. Money and a tailored suit won’t buy you happiness.”

She must be referring to Shane’s homeless street corner attire. “Most divorces are over money.” I completely disagree with her, but there’s no sense spoiling our time together. I know a charismatic, sophisticated, gorgeous Prince Charming waits for me. Though I love Dad, I don’t want a man with dirt underneath his nails, and I will know Mr. Right the minute I meet him. In two more years, I’ll start Stews and date college men, no more childish, unfulfilling high school boys, but I’d let Shane deliver on his offer last night.

Once we cross over into New Mexico, Mom finds a diner to stop at that brags of the best tamales in the Southwest. A beat-up red pickup similar to the one I saw earlier is parked in the lot, but Texas and New Mexico are full of old pickups.

In my short, colorful skirt that Mom recently bought for me, I glide into the diner, inhaling the fragrant aromas. The diner is packed with locals, so the food must be good. After we take a corner booth, I finger through the menu and stare at the storm that has moved farther west of us.

Mom and I order tamales and sopapillas. A few of the Mexicans stare at us because we’re so different. I don’t look like I belong to this beautiful woman.

When two deputies wander into the diner, most of the locals lower their hats and scoot down in their chairs and a few leave. One man, his corn-colored hair stuffed under a trucker’s cap, slides so far down he almost slips under the table. Another man, his face hidden by his cap, smacks the blond to sit up straighter. One of the officers gives them the once over.

After we eat and Mom pays our bill, we go to the car, and I notice the red pickup is gone.

“Do you want me to drive?” she asks.

“
Soy bueno
.”

“Honey, put up the top in case it rains.”

The storm is miles away now, but I press the button to secure the top anyway.

Mom studies Google Maps on her phone, and after another hour of driving, she points to an upcoming road. “Turn there. I’ve heard the claret cup and asters bloom near the mountains here.”

I pull off the highway and drive onto the dirt road toward the mountains. When the desert field filled with wildflowers comes into view, the sight steals my breath away. “It’s beautiful.”

“We’ve hit the mother lode of flowers.” She’s so excited she claps her hands. “Hurry, park, and get your shovel and gloves.”

I pull off to the side, pocket the keys, and leave my phone in the center console next to Mom’s. From where we’ve parked, I can’t see the highway, so it’ll be hard for any park ranger to catch us taking wild flowers.

With a few pots and my trowel in hand, I kneel beside her and dig carefully around several flowers. We’ve gathered a few when the distinct sound of a truck rumbles toward us.

“We should go,” I say, staring nervously at the dust being kicked up by the truck in the distance.

Mom helps fill the backseat and floor with the plants. She shades her eyes using one hand. “I don’t think it’s a park ranger. Let’s get in the car just in case.”

We’ve got everything loaded up by the time the red pickup truck with no tags pulls up next to us. My heart leaps into my throat while Mom hops into the car, signaling me to hurry.

I jump into the car, lock the doors, and fumble with the keys, dropping them between the seats.

As I dig for them, the driver-side window shatters into my hair and lap, and then the door opens. I’m yanked out of the car by my hair, kicking and yelling and scratching. Ice-cold terror flows through my veins. I claw at his masked face that reeks of marijuana. From the way he’s screaming, my fingernails tore through the knit mask and dug into his flesh.

Mom reaches for me. “Let go of my daughter.”

Another man with startling blue eyes wearing coveralls like the man holding me breaks her window and hauls her out of the car.

The man clutching me drops me on my butt then hits me so hard I see stars. Mom is screaming at them to leave me alone. She fights so desperately that her captor wallops her in the head, and she goes still.

“Mom,” I say through a veil of tears. “Mary
madre de jesús
,” I pray. “
No dejes quese muera
.” I scream, even though the fight has drained from my heart at the sight of her limp body.

The two men tie us up with rope and throw us into the back of the truck. They drive about a quarter mile down the road, spewing dirt and gravel that cloud around us. I cough on the dust while scooting close to
mi madre
to listen for a heartbeat. It’s faint, but she’s alive.

I work on my bindings to loosen them. They’re partially undone on my hands, but I leave my feet bound. The masked men pull in front of a small shack and unload us, kicking Mom off the truck. Her head smashes into a rock with a sickening thud. The man with eyes the color of mud drags her toward the shack, a trail of blood lingering in the sand.

I can’t hold myself together. Wracking sobs steal my breath away.

They deposit us onto the dirt floor inside the shack where two small windows let light into the dingy interior.

“Take off their shoes so they can’t get far,” one of them says.

Mom is wearing her sneakers with daisies stamped on them while I have on my purple Vans. The man with blue eyes pulls off my shoes and stuffs them in his coverall pockets. A few strands of lemon-yellow hair peek out from his mask.

After they go outside, closing the door behind them, Mom shakes her head, lifting it off the ground. Blood trails onto her neck from her ear. She leans over and spittle flows from her mouth.

Fighting off heaving sobs, I finish unbinding my hands and then my feet.

“Are you all right?” I ask, choking on my tears.

Her head wobbles, and her eyelids droop. The painful sight of her settles into my heart like cold stones.

“I’m fine,” she rasps.

I tighten my lips, holding back more tears as I work on her bindings. They’re much tighter than mine. My hands tremble as I fiddle with the knots.

“I can’t loosen your bindings,” I whisper, fighting the knotted rope.

“Look at me, Cindy,” she says in a low shaky voice. “You need to run and get help. They’ll be back any second, and one of us needs to escape before they return.”

Tears run tracks down my grimy face. “I can’t leave you.”

“Do this for both of us. Go now.” She nods at the back window.

With tears blurring my eyes, I hug her and say, “I’ll get the car and come back for you.”

“No. Go to the car and call the police. You may not have a signal until you get to the main road or a town. Hurry.”

I nod, though the thought of leaving her crushes my chest. I get up and climb out the back window, scraping and cutting my knee in the process. Their backs are toward me, so while they talk in the front by the door, I tiptoe past them, stumbling a few times in my bare feet. I sneak behind the truck before running as fast as I can to the Mercedes. The sharp rocks and hot sand bite my feet, but I ignore the pain.

I reach over halfway to the car when I hear one of them shout, “She got away,” and the truck roars to life.

As the truck barrels toward me, the Mercedes comes into sight. I’ll never make it. While I sprint to the car, the truck fishtails. I jump into the car and search for the keys between the seats, my hands trembling. After digging them out, I rev the engine and gun it. The truck rumbles right behind me, tapping my bumper. I press the pedal to the floor, chucking rocks that ping off the truck’s front bumper. I can barely breathe from the panic twisting my heart and lungs.

Maybe Mom got away while they’re chasing me.

When I reach the paved road, I drive up onto it, bottoming out the Mercedes and scraping the pavement, but now they’ll never catch me. I use the hands-free to call the police, but there’s no signal. Behind me, the truck stops, turns around, and races back down the dirt road.

Please don’t hurt her. Please let her escape. Using the back of my bare arm, I wipe the tears tumbling onto the steering wheel.

If they want money, Padre will gladly give it to them.

The Mercedes pushes over a hundred while I continue dialing 911. Before I drive even ten miles, red and blue lights flash behind me. I pull off the road, jump out of the car, sobs clogging my throat, and run to the cruiser.

“Mi madre,” I cry. “They kidnapped her.”

“Did you steal that car, girl?” he says. “Did you and your mamá just hop across the border?”

I stop crying. “What the hell?”

That’s when he slaps the cuffs on my wrists and turns me over to INS, or maybe it’s border patrol.

Chapter Three

Shane

After knocking on my door, my admin assistant pokes her head into my office in downtown Austin and interrupts me. “You have a collect call from the Alamogordo county jail in New Mexico.”

“Who is it?” Who would call me from jail? That’s a stupid question. My half brother. Most of my friends. “I’ll take it in here.”

I hit the line that’s blinking. “Shane O’Flannery, I’ll accept the charges.”

“Oh Shane,” Cyn sobs into the phone.

“Cyn, why are you calling me from jail? Where’s your mom?” Whatever it is cannot be good, so my heart constricts in my chest in preparation. Mrs. Diaz told me she was taking Cyn on a road trip. Where is her mom?

“They’re holding me for border patrol,” she says, rushing through her words. “The stupid idiots think I hopped the border, and my mom…”

“Cyn, Cyn, slow down.”

“They kidnapped my mom, and nobody’s at home. I couldn’t get a hold of my dad. And…and…and.” She’s bawling, which is understandable. “I got your number from Mom’s phone. Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not.” I lean forward in my chair, rubbing my forehead.

“Shit,” I mutter while the floor opens up and swallows me. Not Mrs. Diaz. She’s such a wonderful lady. She found me and helped my company get recognition from its inception. “It’ll take me two to three hours to get there.”

“How can you get here so quickly?” The question strains in her voice.

“I’ll rent a chopper. While you’re waiting for me, write down or record on your phone every detail, no matter how small, what your assailant was wearing, shoes, hats, what vehicle, where you were held. Anything you can remember.”

“All right,” she says between hiccups.

“Let me talk to the sheriff or whoever is holding you.”

“Shane, can you track her?” The hint of hope in between sobs pains me to hear. I’ve recovered more dead bodies than live ones during search and rescue.

I know now why she called me. “Yes, though the police will soon.”

“I’ll get the lady watching me. Thank you, Shane. I owe you.” The breaking in her voice tears open my heart. I have to find her mother alive.

Some woman picks up on the other end of the line, so I contain my anger. “You are detaining Cynthia Diaz, when you should be searching for her mother Grace Diaz, formerly Grace Hunt, Texas oil.”

“Oh my God,” she says, gasping. “We had no idea.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours to pick up Miss Diaz.”

“We’ll get right on it, Sir.” I can’t leave her in New Mexico by herself, especially when I can get there sooner than anyone else.

I hang up and tell my office I’ll be gone for the rest of day. It only takes me a few minutes to zip through traffic to a private airport/heliport on the outskirts of Austin in the car I borrowed from my mom because my Harley’s in the shop.

It isn’t hard for me to rent a chopper in the spur of the moment, since I borrow small planes from my friends to fly to the coast on the weekends to fish. I’m in the chopper and taking off in no time.