Ransomed Dreams Read Online Free Page B

the third button, rested his hands on the bed, and twitched a shoulder. “Or they follow the mail from Chicago to Mesa Aguamiel.”
    Luke had mentioned the mail. But— “No!” she exclaimed. “Malcolm would never tell! Would he?”
    Eliot ignored the question, her second stupid one of the day.
    She answered it herself. No, Malcolm Holladay, an old friend of Eliot’s father, would never tell. Ages ago Eliot Sr. convinced a district attorney to drop drug charges against Malcolm’s son. Later he pulled strings and the son was admitted to the Naval Academy. The boy was now a retired admiral.
    Malcolm, a rich and powerful man, reminded Sheridan of a loyal bulldog. Short and thickset, he held an undying allegiance to the Montgomery family and still treated Eliot like a son. The legendary tales she had heard suggested he would endure torture before telling anyone that he arranged for her and Eliot’s mail to be picked up at a Chicago post office box, packaged, and sent on to another post office box in Mesa Aguamiel, Mexico.
    The Chicago address was not secret. They had made far too many acquaintances over the years to not keep in touch, however superficial their communication might be via e-mail or on paper. There were the foundations and charities with which they remained involved monetarily. But no one received their true address in return. How, then, had Luke found them?
    Third stupid question of the day. If Luke was involved, then the vast resources of the federal government were involved. Anything was possible. Find a needle in a haystack? No problem. Find a man with no forwarding house address or phone number? Easy.
    Eliot’s eyes, the solid blue of a Mexican summer sky, shone with creative energy. He was lost in his make-believe scenario.
    “You know,” he said, “not that many viable roads lead from Mesa Aguamiel. A question here, a question there. Money changes hands. ‘When do Señor and Señora Montgomery pick up their mail?’” He paused. “Maybe we were followed from there to here.”
    She shuddered. The last couple of times they’d gone to town, she had felt distinctly less jittery. Driving thirty minutes from home on the old highway, sharing it with several tourist buses, had seemed almost routine. She had taken it as a hopeful sign that she was making progress in the emotional department. Maybe she owed an apology to that counselor after all.
    “No matter.” Eliot reached for the next shirt button. “The fact is, we just hoped they would leave us in peace. We never expected them not to be able to find us, not if the need arose.”
    “I expected the need to never arise.”
    His rare smile creased his cheeks. “The naive princess reigns.”
    The old nickname surprised her. It felt like a butterfly wing brushing the tip of her ear. A tickle played down her spine. He used to have a whole litany of playful endearments. Naive princess. My touch of sparkle. Sher the sure thing. Miracle whiz woman. Miss Why Not?
    Those were B.C.E., though. Past tense.
    Eliot said, “Is he in the front or back courtyard?”
    “What? Oh, uh, the back.”
    “He probably flew into Mazatlán.” The coastal city was about a ninety-minute drive from them. “Did he drive up from there this morning?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “But you talked to him?”
    “Yes, we talked.”
    “About?”
    “Coffee. Mercedes. Acrylics on Masonite.”
    “Ah.”
    Sheridan’s jaw went rigid. She made a conscious effort to loosen it by reminding herself that Eliot was alive. His peculiar mannerisms should not be sources of irritation.
    But they were. They drove her up the wall. His personality quirks had lost their endearing quality. Like now. Instead of being simply thorough about Luke’s visit, he obsessed over inane details and pulled her along with him down rabbit trails that would whirl them into tail-chasing circles.
    Eliot took his horn-rimmed glasses from the nightstand. With both hands he carefully put them on, their dark frames a