Chapter One
San
Diego, California—September 1889
"BETHANY!”
PROFESSOR Horatio T. Brasfield turned with an excited cry and called again.
"Bethany! Come here—splendid news!” His hands trembled, and his thin face
creased into furrows of delight as his daughter appeared in the doorway of his
study. She paused, surveying the litter of manuscripts and thick books on her
father’s desk, and shook her head with wry bemusement.
"You’re quite
untidy, you know,” Bethany observed as she gingerly entered the book-lined
room, and her skirt caught on a jumble of artifacts. Grumbling, "How can you
find anything in all this clutter?” she disentangled the folds of material
from a barbed spear adorned with ratty feathers, then stepped cautiously around
a grimacing statue of a South American fertility god.
"I have a method,” Brasfield replied vaguely
and turned to lift the crackling folds of a thick bark-page book arranged in
accordion pleats.
A fond smile curved her mouth as she approached
her father without further mishap, and her gaze deepened with affection.
Rimless spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of Papa’s nose, and his
eyes that were a lighter shade of blue than her own sparkled with glee as he
tapped a forefinger on the pleated pages on his desk. Reaching out, she
smoothed back the thinning brown hair that straggled onto his forehead. "Papa,
you really must take better care of yourself,” she scolded, but there was no
real censure in her tone. "You’ve been poring over those manuscripts for weeks,
not getting enough to eat, or enough rest, and your eyes—you must rest them
before...”
Waving an impatient hand, Brasfield cut off her
rambling scold. "None of that matters. Look here at these figures in this
ancient Spanish manuscript. Do you see?”
Peering over his shoulder, she gazed at the
colorful rows of figures postured in various poses. The professor had
painstakingly removed centuries of grime to reveal bright colors beneath the
layers of dirt, and she could barely make out what appeared to be a man in a
feathered headdress holding a shield in one hand and arrows in another.
"Do you think—”
Brasfield interrupted excitedly, "I know!My interpretation must be correct. Bethany,
I believe that there truly is a lost city in Peru—the legendary Vilcapampa where
the Inca warlords fled from the Spanish conquistadores.” He lifted the fragile
bark pages almost reverently. "If my deductions are accurate, this indicates
that the last refuge of Manco Inca—a powerful ruler—is in the ancient province
of Vilcabamba, just northwest of the city of Cuzco in Peru.”
She arched her brows in faint surprise. "But I
thought an expedition could find no trace of such a city. Didn’t the university
send out men with native guides a few years ago, and those fortunate enough to
return reported no finds?”
"True, but they didn’t allow me to
spearhead the expedition, either,” Brasfield said with grim firmness. "I
informed Arthur Morton of his mistake, but, of course, as head of the
university, he was not amenable to my comments as to his ineptitude.”
She said dryly, "I should think not. Papa, you
must practice tact on occasion if you expect to receive financial support from
the university.”
"I don’t need them now.” Brasfield lifted the
thin bark pages from his desk. "Bentworth has enlisted the aid of a guide for
me and is providing the unmet funds for an expedition. Private funds are much
more lenient than those entrusted just by the university.”
A slight frown puckered Bethany’s brow, and she
wrinkled her nose with distaste. "Oh? Spencer Bentworth? Mr. Morton claims he
is unscrupulous when it comes to the acquisition of artifacts. Dare you risk
your spotless reputation with a man such as him?”
"There’s a lot more at risk than a mere
reputation, dear child,” Brasfield murmured, sliding his rimless spectacles
back up his nose and peering closely at the scroll. "History is to be made, and
I intend for my name to be inscribed as the man responsible for bringing back
to light the magnificence of the Incas. Yes, the discovery of the lost city of
Vilcapampa will ensure my place in the annals of history—here, read Bentworth’s
letter, and you will understand.”
"Papa,” she began, but her father had bent over
his desk again, absorbed in the unraveling of the scroll’s mysteries. Sighing,
she took the crumpled sheet of paper he’d
shoved in her direction, smoothed out the creases, and read Bentworth’sterse message. Her father was right. Bentworth unreservedly granted him the
rest of the funds for an expedition and even provided the name of a guide. A
man by the name of Trace Taylor was said to have come across the ruins of an
ancient city on one of his forays into the jungles of Peru, and he now resided
in the city of Lima. She frowned. Did her father really intend to pursue this?
It seemed unlikely that he would be able to realize his dream, but then, he had
been studying the Incan civilization for as long as she could remember.
Another sigh escaped her, and she replaced the
letter on her father’s desk, smiled slightly when he didn’t even notice her,
then left the study. She closed the door behind her and returned to the small
tiled veranda where she had been doing research of her own.
A stack of books stood beside the lounge on
which she had been reclining, and she retrieved the top volume as she sank back
onto the cushions. Somehow, though, her
attention could not return to the words she had found interestingbefore her father’s excited call. Travel to Peru? An extended exploration of
dense jungles and mountainous terrain? She feared Papa was not physically up to
it. After all, her father was in his late fifties and was more accustomed to
poring over illegible tablets brought back by the more intrepid than he was
actually doing the field work himself.
Oh, it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to
go out into the field; on the contrary, he had pleaded with university
officials for many years to allow him to do so. No, it was his erratic health
that held him back, and Bethany feared that his determination to do so now
might cause him harm.
"Foolish old goat,” she murmured fondly. Her
eyes softened, and she tugged on a thread of her hair, peered down at it, and
decided she needed a shampoo. Brown strands had lightened in the California sun
lately since she could never remember to wear a hat. Her hair was her best
feature she’d always thought, as it was thick and hung in a straight shining
fall when she brushed it out after a shampoo. It was her saving grace. If not
for her hair, and eyes that wavered between blue and violet, she would have
long ago been relegated to the ugly side of plain. As it was, she found herself
still regarded as just plain. Fair enough, she supposed. She knew her
limitations. Life had dealt her a hand that she finally accepted. She would
never be the petite blonde with gay laughter and sparkling chatter at a dance, but
always be the painfully shy, too-tall, awkward woman in a corner. Certain
rewards enjoyed by some were not to be for her, so she had made a niche in
which she was useful and content. Being the daughter of Horatio T. Brasfield,
eminent professor of ancient cultures and archaeology, was a full-time job.
Sometimes she felt more like a caretaker than a
daughter. After his wife’s death fifteen years before, Professor Brasfield was
prone to forget about food or time when he was working, and if she didn’t take
him a tray of nourishing food, or insist that he rest, he might have perished
from starvation long ago. Bethany was the only person he would allow to bully
him into resting for any length of time, and knowing this, she decided that if
her father was so determined to follow his dream of discovering the lost city
of the Incas, she would have to go with him.
Smoothing folds of material over her knees, she
closed the book she had been reading on great artists and gazed across the
veranda at the slopes leading seaward. Their house was small—as befitted a
professor whose concerns lay more with scholarly pursuits than fame and
fortune—perched on a California hillside overlooking the hills and ocean.
Seawinds brushed over her face, lifting her hair, ruffling the lacy collar of
her blouse. It was autumn, and the air was warm.
Stretching luxuriously, she tried to clear her
mind of worries of past, present, and future, concentrating instead on
enjoyment of the moment. She closed her eyes against the bright press of sunlight,
breathed deeply of the rich fragrance of ocean air sweeping over desert sage
and manzanita on the hills, the silken touch of the wind across her bare arms
and face. It was almost as comforting as a caress, she thought before she
could stop herself, then her eyes snapped open and she sat upright.
There was no use in even contemplating such
things. She’d had enough of that, hadn’t she? After all, Stephen had proven to
her how faithless a man’s touch could be, how utterly casual and deceitful. And
Stephen was gone now, had never really been hers in the first place. He’d
almost literally left her at the altar. Another woman had captured his
attention and love, and she was beautiful and available while Bethany was not.
It wasn’t that she might not have agreed to his more intimate caresses; he’d
just never pursued it that far. So now here she was, twenty-five years old and
left on the shelf. It had taken nearly a year, but she’d come to the
inescapable fact that it was not meant for her to be loved. Her lot in life was
to assist her father, to delve into history and leave lasting monuments of
their work. That would be her legacy. Instead of children and a husband, she
had her father’s work to occupy her time and mind.
Why else would she have willingly given up what
one professor at the university had called her "exquisite talent with a
paintbrush and chalks” to help her father? After all, what was her small amount
of talent compared to the mark her father would leave on history? And he’d
always said she was the only assistant he’d ever had who possessed such a
light touch with ancient artifacts. She could clean dirt-encrusted pottery
without leaving so much as a mark on them, while others often shattered fragile
pieces.
Sighing, Bethany tried not to recall how
desperately she had once wanted to become an artist. That had passed, of
course, with time. Now she was content being her father’s assistant. And he
depended upon her to get things done, take care of matters that he could not do
when he was so involved in such time-consuming research and study. All his
colleagues said that she was an excellent, capable worker, and how lucky
Brasfield was to have her.
Whatever was she doing relaxing on the veranda
when there was so much to do? So many arrangements to make—passage on a steamer
to Peru, supplies for an extended expedition, bearers to carry the supplies,
and, of course, a guide. What was his name? Taylor. Yes, that was it, Trace
Taylor. He’d better be good, she thought as she rose from the comfortable lounge
to begin preparations for a wonderful adventure. This may well be Papa’s last
such exploration. He deserved to succeed.
Chapter Two
Lima,
Peru—October 1889
"GET UP!” A fierce pounding shook the door, and
the words filtered through the solid oak again. "Get up! I have to talk to
you!”
Inside the cluttered office that doubled as a
lodging, a man and woman lay on a narrow bed, both naked. She arched upward,
bare breasts brushing his mouth, and he applied himself studiously to creating
more of those lovely female moans that he appreciated. Interruptions were to be
ignored. Cupping his hands on her breasts, he paid strict attention to his
duty. His hand slid between them, and the pounding on the door resumed. She
grabbed his head with both hands, pushed at him, and he swore before muttering
that she should ignore it.
"There’s no one I want to see more than you
right now,” he said as he returned to his very pleasurable task. Enveloped in
a sensual haze, he concentrated on soft skin and willing female, ignored the
pounding on the door and the edges of a headache beginning to encroach on the
moment. There was another ache that concerned him more, and he knew just what
would ease it.
Pushing forward, nestled between warm thighs,
he smiled as her hands moved to hold his head instead of push him away and
renewed his efforts. Tantalizingly close, he had just reached the sanctuary he
sought when the hammering reverberated through the room as if the door were
being struck by a battering ram.
"Taylor! I know you’re in there!”
"Aw Christ,” he muttered in disgust as his
partner shoved free of him and rolled off the bed, her Spanish invectives
leaving him in no doubt that it didn’t matter if he was through or not, she
certainly was. He watched with resignation as she stepped into her dress,
grabbed a warm serape to throw over her voluptuous body, and marched to the
door.
It didn’t help that the headache now matched
the other ache in ferocity, and he squinted against the light that assaulted
his eyes as the door opened. It was briefly blotted out by her exit and the
entrance of Gil Fortune, a man he had liked up until this moment.
"Oh,” said Fortune, pausing just inside the
door as Juanita stormed off. "Bad timing?”
Trace said something extremely crude and pulled
a pillow over his head. He lay there in the temporary absence of light while he
waited for at least one of the throbbing aches to cease. It took longer than
usual, but finally he peered out from under his pillow to see Fortune sitting
in a chair at the table. He hoped his expression was as ferocious as he felt.
"What the hell do you want?”
"Speaking of hell—you look like it.”
He shoved his pillow aside. "If I had my pistol
close, I’d shoot you.”
"Good thing for me it’s all the way over here
on the table. Ah ah—don’t get up. I’ve no desire to look at that this
early in the day.”
Since he had no desire to expose his rampant
need to another man, he just said, "Throw me my pants then. And it’s your own
damn fault if you see something that scares you. You’re the one who showed up
at the crack of dawn banging on my door.”
As he tossed a pair of cords toward him, Gil
remarked, "Your face is more scary than anything you might have in your pants.
When was the last time you shaved? All I see is black hair and attitude. And
it’s the crack of noon, not dawn.”
Another pithy remark flew from the direction of
the bed, and Fortune went to the stove.
"Do you have any coffee? Looks like you need
some.”
He stepped into his pants and pulled them up,
buttoning them as he regarded Gil from slitted eyes. It must have been the
last bottle of whiskey. His head pounded, his eyes felt scratchy and sore, and
there was a taste in his mouth like he’d licked a stable floor.
"I don’t need coffee. I need a shot of
whiskey,” he muttered, considering the "hair of the dog” theory to be fairly
effective.
"You don’t need to meet a prospective client
still drunk,” Gil advised and rattled the coffee pot so loudly that Trace
winced.
"I don’t have any prospective clients.
Remember?”
Standing with his back to him, Gil poked at the
embers in the stove and fed it another log before saying over his shoulder,
"You do now. I just got the mail packet. It’s late, but there’s a letter for
you stating that a Professor Brasfield will be in Callao on the 15th of October,
and as you were referred to him, he expects you to meet him at the boat.”
Interesting. He scratched the bristle of beard
on his jaw. "What’s today’s date?”
"October 14th.”
That figured. Almost enough time to cure his
itch and look presentable. "Kinda sudden, isn’t it?”
Gil pumped water into the coffee pot. "There
was a storm and the mail was delayed, but at least it arrived, which is better
than we can expect most of the time.”
Raking a hand over his bare chest, palm
brushing the thick pelt that kept him warm in the damnable chill of winter,
Trace briefly considered going back to bed and saying to hell with it. Most
jobs that came his way lately paid little to nothing. He’d make better money
finding lost dogs for little old ladies.
"This professor isn’t looking for his dog, I
hope,” he muttered. "That’s all I get these days.”
Gil dumped coffee into the pot and sat it on
the small stove. "You’ve got to ignore what happened a while back. Your
services are hired for Brasfield. It pays well. You need the money. Go clean up
and shave, and the coffee will be ready by the time you’re done.”
Since Fortune was using the only place on the
stove to heat water, Trace resigned himself to washing and shaving in cold
water. Not the best way to soften up three days of beard.
It was more difficult than he anticipated. The
cold water wasn’t the worst of it, but the dull razor and listless shaving soap
left him looking like a rat had tried to chew it off instead of a man with a
razor, headache, and foul temper. He had enough white patches on his face to
pass for a pigeon’s favorite statue.
Gil looked up when he stepped back into the
room, his gaze arrested by the sight, but he had the good sense not to comment.
He pushed a cup of steaming coffee across the table toward him. "Strong enough
to put hair on your chest. Not that you need more. Sit down. Once I tell you
about this new client, you may want to kiss me.”
"It’d take more whiskey than South America
imports to get me that drunk.”
He stuck his arms into a shirt and buttoned it
up to his neck, then lowered his large frame into a chair that he expected to
splinter into pieces at any moment. His size wasn’t conducive to native-made
furniture. He’d have to special-order from Brazil to get chairs big enough to
make him comfortable.
The mug of coffee heated his hands as he lifted
it to his mouth, looking at Gil over the rim. "Start talking.”
"You’ve been referred as a guide for
Professor Horatio Brasfield. He’s searching for Vilcapampa.”
It took a moment for this to filter through the
clouds in his mind. Possibilities presented options, then questions. "Who
referred me?”
Gil shrugged. "What does that matter?”
Trace stared into his coffee, ran his thumb
across the rim, thoughts as dark as the brew. "Seven months ago, I led an expedition
into the Andes, and I’m the only one who made it back. That’s enough to ruin
any guide. I’d like to know who recommended me and why.”
For a minute Gil didn’t answer, then said
reluctantly, "Bentworth.”
Hot coffee burned his tongue and throat, black
and bitter. It figured.
"Look,” Gil added, "you need the work. If you
ever expect to guide another expedition, you’ve got to prove to
everyone—including yourself—that the last time was fate and didn’t have a damn
thing to do with your ability. Everyone in Peru knows that you’re the best
damned guide around.”
"It seems to be a well-kept secret,” he said
dryly. "I haven’t been able to get a job guiding little old ladies across the
street, much less anyone into the jungle or mountains.”
Shrugging, Gil said, "Since it was Bentworth
who blacklisted you, obviously he’s had time to reflect and reconsider.”
"I just never thought of him as the reflective
kind. Especially when it was his money that funded that damned expedition.
Christ.” He set down the mug and rubbed his eyes with both hands.
"Look, you did your best to talk those fools
into turning back. They wouldn’t listen, but it wasn’t your fault.”
"Sometimes the dead speak more loudly than the
living.” Trace shook his head. "I don’t trust Bentworth.”
"So don’t trust him. But what else are you
doing to do? You’re rotting away here, so either you take a job that pays you
enough to stay, or go back home with your tail between your legs. I don’t see
that you have any other choice.”
"Dammit, Gil. I hate it when you’re right.”
Nodding, Fortune sympathized, "I’m not just a
pretty face.”
Eying the younger man with amusement, he took a
scalding sip of coffee. Not even his own mother would have called Gil handsome,
but behind his irregular features, slight overbite, and pale eyes the color of
gooseberries lurked the charm of a statesman and the calculating brain of a
physics professor. He could sweet-talk a young lady out of her drawers and make
her think it was her own idea, and tell you how many pennies were in a jar to
the exact amount after only a glance. A man of many talents.
"I’m sure you brought the letter,” he said once
the coffee burned a path to his stomach, and Gil promptly took an envelope out
of his inside coat pocket and pushed it across the table.
"As your agent, I took the liberty of accepting
for you. I sent a cable that will be at Callao before you can get there. May I
suggest you invest in a new wardrobe before leaving? Clothes make the man, I
hear.”
"My choices denote me truly,” Trace
paraphrased. "It’s too early for Hamlet. I haven’t said I’m taking the job yet
anyway. I swore I wouldn’t take anyone into the Andes again. Not looking for
Vilcapampa, anyway. That place is cursed.”
"Don’t tell me you believe those old myths.”
He thought about it, remembered odd things,
then said flatly, "I never did before, but
the last time—” He paused before finishing, "The last time, it seemed as
if everything we did was jinxed. I’ve never seen anything like it. Ropes that
were fine the day before were suddenly rotten. Food that was sealed tightly in
tins was opened and found to be filled with worms.” He shook his head. "I would
rather dance with the devil than try it again.”
Gil smiled. "Do you prefer a waltz or country
reel?”
