Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 2

Spencer gazed at her as if trying to draw the answers from her by the sheer force of his will. What should I do? I have the files, and it’s imperative they’re destroyed at once. Nothing else matters.

  Of course, having Spencer Meyers lose too much blood became something of an issue as each moment passed.

  Drawing in a deep breath to clear her scattered thoughts, she came to a decision. “You’re a Christian, right?”

  Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. He stared at her as if considering his answer. “Yes.”

  “So you have morals, correct?”

  “A thief is asking me if I have morals?”

  “Just answer the question!”

  He sighed. “Yes, I have morals, Ms. Adams.”

  Miranda swallowed. “That means you can’t lie, right?”

  Spencer lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked up at her. “I don’t tell lies.”

  “Then promise me you won’t call the police or tell your father I’ve been here.”

  Spencer’s eyes flashed silver sparks. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because it’s right!”

  “How do I explain my wound?”

  “I’m sure you can think of something.”

  “So I can lie about my injury, but not about the fact that you’ve broken in to my home and stolen private property.”

  “Nothing was broken, and I’m only taking what’s mine.”

  “Semantics, Ms. Adams. What’s in the file?”

  Miranda felt the blood drain from her face. She knew she had to tell him something or he’d never agree to keep quiet.

  She closed her eyes against the terror rushing upon her. Oh, why had things gone so wrong? She was the victim here. Why can’t I get justice, or at least a measure of security?

  Unable to meet Spencer’s gaze, she spoke in a low voice. “The file contains information your father can use against me if I don’t do what he wants.”

  Spencer smiled. “You’re telling me my father is threatening you?” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “He wants me for himself,” she said flatly.

  Spencer’s expression hardened. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

  “Exactly.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Not for one minute.”

  Miranda’s face flamed. “Why? Is it because you’re in on this with him?”

  “My father is not a saint,” he hissed, “but you’re suggesting he’s blackmailing you.”

  She pointed to the files inside the bag. “And apparently I’m not the only one.”

  “I still don’t believe it. You have no proof.”

  “As you can see, I do.”

  Spencer grabbed at his leg and squeezed his eyes shut. “I need help.”

  “When I hear your promise, I’ll get you help.”

  “I can’t promise anything—”

  “Swear you’ll help me,” Miranda cried, trying to stop shivering. “Swear it!”

  “I can only promise to get to the bottom of this, Ms. Adams,” he ground out. “I can’t swear to do something that may go against my, er, morals.”

  Despite his sarcastic tone, Miranda knew she had to be satisfied with that. Maybe, once he heard her side of the story, he wouldn’t turn her in.

  As she realized the hopelessness of the situation, her shoulders sagged. Biting her lip hard, Miranda slipped the gun in her waistband and picked up the glass. Returning to the bathroom, she washed the blood off the glass, as well as anything she’d touched. Taking another towel from the rack, she got it wet in the sink and squirted soap on it from a dispenser.

  Back in the study, she waved the gun at Spencer and told him to stand. He staggered to his feet, gripping the edge of the armchair for support. Miranda ignored an impulse to help him. She scrubbed at all the blood and retrieved the other towel.

  With a sinking sensation, she realized she needed to go out through the front door where she’d be visible to the neighbors. After arriving at the house, she’d disarmed the alarm at the back door and come through a window hidden by a hedge in order to keep her presence limited to one room.

  But Spencer was in no condition for climbing out windows.

  Inwardly lamenting the failure of her plan, she closed the study window and turned off the lamp. She hoped the broken phone cord would be blamed on someone tripping over it. The gash in the woodwork—how would that be explained? Miranda experienced a savage urge to weep.

  “What now?” Spencer asked with his hands raised. “Have murder on your mind, Miranda?”

  “Just move!”

  Directing Spencer to the hallway with the gun, she followed him, wiping off the arm of the leather chair and any drops of blood that fell to the floor as he made his way to the front door. The burgundy carpeting was one small mercy. His progress was slow as he limped a couple of steps, then drooped against the wall to rest. She noticed the sheen of sweat on his face from his efforts.

  Miranda kept her distance, waiting while he unlocked the front door. When he had gone down a few steps, she reset the alarm and eased the door closed behind her. The trip down the stone steps was long and tedious, with Spencer stopping every few moments to rest while pressing the soaked towel against his wound.

  Miranda wanted to scream in frustration. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes. She looked at the bloody towel in her hands, and for a blurred instant, wondered how it got there. She shuddered and looked around. Where would she dispose of it?

  Once they arrived at street level, Miranda concealed the gun and pointed to her car parked along the sidewalk. A tree blocking a streetlight partway down the block cast long shadowy fingers toward where she stood. She trembled, despite the warmth of the evening.

  What now? coiled in her brain like a litany. She was thankful the curbs were lined with cars, and the black color of her Toyota made it less noticeable in the dark.

  Deciding on a course of action, Miranda darted around Spencer and unlocked the driver’s side door. Tossing the keys onto the seat, she turned to him. “You’re going to drive. You shouldn’t have any problem since your right leg is uninjured.”

  “What if I faint from blood loss?”

  “It’s just a flesh wound!” she said, hating the caustic tone of her words. “Now drive!”

  Spencer complied with obvious reluctance and sank into the seat, his respiration labored. Miranda climbed into the back, tossed the towel onto the floor, and leveled the gun at him. While he put the keys into the ignition, her teeth began to chatter.

  Spencer started the engine. “There’s no way you’re going to get away with this.”

  Miranda met his steely gaze in the rearview mirror. “I know,” she said, unable to stop the tears sliding down her face. Rubbing them away, she lifted her chin. “But that fact makes me much more desperate and much more unpredictable.”

  Spencer looked away. He followed her directions, and they wended their way through town in what seemed a surreal dream to Miranda. A nightmare, she corrected. Will it ever end?

  They ended up in a neighborhood full of run-down homes and apartment complexes. Glancing out the window, she took a deep breath and dragged a first aid kit out from under the seat.

  “Stop here.”

  Three

  “Mamá, estoy en casa y hay alguien conmigo,” Miranda said, alerting her mother she was home and had someone with her. She nudged Spencer through the door of her little rental house. What in the world would her gentle, frail mother make of all this?

  A few moments later, her mother shambled from the back bedroom, her dark eyes widening at the sight of Spencer. Though small and feeble, with graying hair piled up on top of her head and tiny hands gnarled with arthritis, Miranda felt pride when she saw her. This was her biological mother, Lupe Perez. Miranda had gone to find her after her adoptive parents died, never imagining her birth mother had endured such a miserable life in the slums of Mexico City.

  “¿Quién es?” as
ked Lupe, staring up at Spencer as if he were some giant on display at a freak show.

  “No one you need to worry about,” Miranda said in Spanish, not willing to divulge his identity just yet. She led Spencer over to the old couch and watched as he sank down onto the cushions with a sigh.

  Miranda went on to inform her mother that the man needed medical attention, knowing Lupe had some knowledge of medicine learned in Mexico. She handed her the first aid kit.

  Regarding Spencer with interest, Lupe pulled on the too-large surgical gloves and produced a pair of scissors from the kit. She cut away the rest of his slacks at the tear. When she saw the wound, her gaze flew to Miranda, then to the gun sticking out from Miranda’s waistband.

  “Hija, a él le dispararon! Shoot,” she said, switching to her limited English vocabulary. “Who shoot him?”

  “Silencio, Mamá! The sooner we help him, the sooner he’s out of the picture.”

  Miranda remembered Spencer’s words from the car. I’ll never get away with it. There will never be an end. He’ll prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. Both he and his father.

  Feeling the tears return, she chastised her weakness. After checking to make sure Spencer cooperated with her mother, she went to the small fireplace and built a fire.

  Once the blaze burned high enough, she slid out the files from the bag. Miranda glanced over at Spencer and saw him watching her with a steady gaze. He remained silent.

  Suppressing dread for the potential repercussions of her actions, she picked up the first file. After writing down the woman’s name and phone number to whom the file belonged, she dropped the file into the flames. The corners began to turn brown. A photograph slipped out and curled up as it melted, the image distorted—then gone.

  Miranda did the same for each file. She would call each woman and tell her she’d destroyed her evidence. At last, she came to her own file. Miranda swallowed bitter tears as she put it into the fire. She watched until only a heap of ash remained.

  ***

  Endeavoring to ignore the pain as the Hispanic woman swabbed his wound with antiseptic, Spencer felt a qualm of unease while he watched Miranda burn the files. Surely she wouldn’t be driven to such lengths over nothing.

  His mind went back over the events of the evening. The whole night had a surreal quality about it. As his pain ebbed, so did his anger. The pieces of this puzzle didn’t fit, and he had an insane desire to try to figure it all out. Why would his father’s beautiful private secretary take such risks over nothing? None of it made sense.

  A new burst of pain in his leg brought his attention back to the woman at his side. He gasped when she plunged a needle and string through his flesh.

  “I’d hold still if I were you,” Miranda said from across the room. She stood and gave him a speculative look. “I have some tequíla in the kitchen if it will help you bear the pain.”

  Spencer ignored her, clutching at the cushions of the couch, feeling the blood alternately flood into and drain from his face. The woman finished quickly as the wound turned out to be smaller once all the blood had been cleaned away. She covered it with gauze and tape and gave him a pitying smile.

  This time when he was handed little white pills with a glass of water, he took them.

  Swallowing hard, Spencer wondered where the woman had learned to sew stitches. On second thought, I don’t want to know. Hoping to distract himself from his pain, he focused on Miranda. “You never told me what was in those files.”

  She sighed and wilted into a nearby chair. Staring at the dwindling fire, Miranda seemed to be a diminished version of herself. She sat slumped, her face marred by the dirty tracks of tears on her darkened cheeks.

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Your father discovered...sensitive information about me, information he planned on using against me.” She looked at her hands. “I should’ve known the position as his secretary, along with the pay, was too good to be true.”

  “What made you think he had anything on you?” While not perfect, his father was considered a respected member of the community. Spencer suppressed a groan. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

  Miranda’s eyes glazed over. “He began to make passes at me. When I rebuffed him, he told me what he knew and threatened to fire me.”

  “So, why not just quit?”

  Her eyes flashed at him. “Don’t you think I thought of that? He told me if I quit, he’d see to it I’d never get another job in the state. Besides, I needed the money.”

  Spencer shook his head. “You didn’t really believe him, did you?”

  Miranda jumped up from the chair. “How dare you sneer at me from your ivory tower! You know nothing of my situation or desperation!”

  “Es por causa mía. It because of me.” The little Hispanic woman pointed a bent finger to her chest.

  “Mamá,” Miranda cried. “Hush.” To Spencer, she said, “My mother is not well. I need the money for her medicine. I continued working for your father for as long as possible for that reason.”

  Spencer’s stomach twisted as a new thought occurred to him. “Did...did you? Did he—” The words tumbled out of their own volition.

  “Never!” Her blue eyes burned like a gas flame. “I also stayed hoping to find proof. Once I had it destroyed, I could look for another job. He could spread rumors about me, but he’d have nothing to back it up with.”

  Spencer plowed a hand through his hair. “Why not take him to court? Sue for libel or blackmail? This is, after all, a free country.”

  “Take your father to court?” she mocked, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I can’t afford the same high-priced lawyers he can.” Her gaze slid to her mother. “Besides, there are collateral issues at risk.”

  Spencer looked at Miranda’s mother, trying to figure it all out. He once heard his father mention his secretary was adopted. Was this her birth mother? After sifting through several possibilities, he wondered if the woman was an illegal alien.

  “Did my father know about her?” At Miranda’s nod, he continued. “And he threatened to turn her in?”

  She nodded again and sank into the chair. Spencer saw tears falling into her lap. He stared up at the ceiling, reeling from these revelations. How could any of it be true? It was so, so Gothic.

  A memory flashed into his mind, the first time he’d seen Miranda Adams, some time ago. He’d arrived at his father’s office and realized the woman behind the desk was new. The thick carpeting had muffled his steps and she apparently hadn’t heard his approach. She sat with her elbows on the desktop, her head in her hands—a picture of abject misery.

  Not wanting to frighten her, he’d lightly cleared his throat. She jerked her head up. At first, his senses quickened at the sight of the attractive woman. Her cap of dark, silken brown curls with red highlights accentuated her olive-toned skin. But when he saw the world of hurt and bewilderment brimming in her startling blue eyes, he’d taken a step back, feeling as though he intruded somewhere he didn’t belong.

  Within the space of a heartbeat, she transformed into a model of cool professionalism, making him wonder if he imagined her grief. In fact, from then on, she’d treated him with a slight edge of disdain.

  Spencer looked over at her now. Miranda had her face covered with her hands. She was crying, her shoulders shaking with the force of emotion. He wanted to reach out to her, to somehow comfort her. The older woman went to her side and put her arms around her, crooning in Spanish.

  Spencer closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of the couch. His injury continued to throb and burn, making him wonder if the liquor wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. He wanted to block out the pain, as well as this entire night.

  If what Miranda says is true, my father is a monster. And I’m just not ready to believe that.

  ***

  Miranda wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to warm up and stop shaking. Her mother went to make a hot cup of tea. Miranda knew
she needed more than tea to get herself out of this mess. She stared at the dying embers of the fire, feeling her hopes and dreams die along with it.

  Her wish that Spencer might understand her plight and let her off the hook was ludicrous. People like him never rested until they meted out every scintilla of justice. He probably didn’t realize how haughty he sounded. At least the burning of the files had minimized his family’s power over her. Now she just had to worry about her mother.

  Miranda looked up and gave a weak smile when Lupe held out a cup of tea. The cup rattled on the saucer as she accepted it. Taking a sip, the heat felt good going down her throat. It was the first thing she’d consumed all day. Marshaling the nerve to execute her plan had made her too nervous to eat.

  Her mother shuffled back to the kitchen. Miranda watched her go, her heart swelling with love at the sight of her. She shuddered, remembering the rats, trash, and human misery in that hellish barrio where she’d found her. The fact that she’d located and identified her mother had seemed to be from divine favor. Miranda closed her eyes. At least that’s what she used to think.

  Draining the last of her tea, she willed the muscles in her limbs to relax. She glanced over at Spencer, wondering what the next course of action should be. He lay sprawled out on the couch, his head lolled back against the cushions. His breathing was deep and even.

  Miranda experienced a pang of sympathy for him. The pain must’ve finally got the best of him. What will I do with him? How can I make him understand my predicament? A prayer formed on her lips, a habit she’d been taught as a child. Miranda stifled it, knowing God didn’t aid criminals.

  She rose, her muscles stiff, and took the teacup to the kitchen.

  Her mother looked up, her dark eyes accustomed to worry, full of questions. “Why is that man, here, Bambina?”

  Miranda settled her arm around her thin shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mamá. I’ll take care of it. It’s late. You need rest.” She plucked a medicine bottle from the counter, listening as she shook it. “Almost empty. Soon, I’ll get some more.”