Robin Hardy Online

From the back cover:

New York copywriter Royce Lindel takes a chance on a camping trip with two female friends in remote Big Bend, Texas. Little do they know that their schedule of activities includes being dumped in the desert by their guide. Matters look bleak until they stumble across other campers: three men whose business in the wilderness involves drugs and guns.

When the men reluctantly rescue the stranded New Yorkers, Royce falls in love with the one they call Padre. But she doesn't know his real name or why he's running. She doesn't even know how he feels about her—until she's kidnapped by the people he just robbed. 

Chapter 1

Royce Lindel looked over the brochures about Big Bend, Texas. "Don't get me wrong; I think it's wonderful that some of these God-forsaken places are open to visit, but that doesn't mean I want to go there," she told Marla, seated across the table from her. They were eating lunch in a café across the street from the Upper East Side Manhattan building where they worked. "I mean, this brochure doesn't say anything about the motel having indoor plumbing. Am I going to have to wash my hair under a hand pump?" She shuddered, recalling pictures of the Texas frontier from school history books.

 Marla shook her blond head. "What if you do? Where's your sense of adventure, Royce?"

 "I have a more highly developed sense of comfort," Royce sniffed. "I don't mind camping for a day or so, as long as there's a bathroom close by. I mean," she leaned forward to whisper, "we're not going to have to share a water closet with the men, are we?"

 Marla almost had to spit out her mouthful to laugh. "Royce, you are such a prima donna! There won't be any 'water closets.' We'll be sleeping in a tent and improvising our own bathrooms. But if you get to whining too much, I'm sure Mack and Tom will be happy to drop you off at the nearest motel."

 Pouting, Royce pulled out a small compact mirror to check her teeth for poppy seeds. She saw the reflection of a twenty-five-year-old face with hazel eyes and an olive complexion. Finding her teeth seed-free, she raised the mirror to fluff her feathery bangs. The small mirror did not capture her best feature: the long, silky brown hair which draped down her back almost to her waist. How to maintain her hair on this upcoming vacation was a primary concern.

 "I don't understand why we couldn't have gone upstate to 'get away from it all,'" Royce complained. "The Adirondack Upland is as wild as you can get."

 "Tom and Mack have been there too many times. They wanted to go somewhere different," Marla said.

 "Why didn't they make the travel arrangements, then? Why did I have to do it all? I've hit the limit on two credit cards just arranging this wonderful trip," Royce griped.

 "Stop complaining, Roycee." Marla pronounced the e in her name whenever she wanted to blunt a harsh statement. "It'll be fun. It will certainly be different. It will expand you as a person." As Marla finished her croissant sandwich, Royce eyed her enviously. Tall, stately Marla, 28, had thick blond hair and strong, symmetrical features. (Royce did not like her own nose.) Marla was daring and self-confident, and actually lived in Manhattan.

 Royce sighed, "Well, today's Friday. We're leaving Sunday, and I still don't have everything I need." She pulled out another brochure. "This recommends a hat, a jacket (because the nights are cool), hiking or riding boots, depending on which you do--Marla, I've never been on a horse in my life!"

 "Mack will show you what to do," Marla replied.

 "He doesn't know how to ride," Royce scoffed. "He pretends to know a lot more than he really does." She continued reading: "Thick socks, a compass, water supplies of one gallon per person per day, dried food, newspaper . . . why newspaper?"

 "I don't know," Marla admitted.

 Royce glanced at her watch and began gathering up the brochures. "If I expect Martin to let me off early today, I've got to finish that jacket copy." Royce was an advertising copywriter for The Chocolate Conglomerate, a children's book publisher. Marla was its marketing director.

 "And I've got a meeting with Wade, that creep in the art department." Marla stood while Royce placed a tip on the table, then they stepped out of the café.

 It was a pleasant May afternoon. The tourists with their cameras and awful clothes were blocking the sidewalks as usual, gawking up at the skyscrapers. Royce and Marla pushed through the throng of pedestrians and Marla started into the street in front of a slow-moving car.

 "Don't jaywalk, Marla!" Royce scolded.

 "All right, chaplain," Marla grumbled, consenting to walk down to the intersection--something she did only when Royce was around.

 Royce asked, "Have you talked to Tom today?"

 "No, I haven't talked to him since Wednesday. Why?" Marla asked.

 "I haven't been able to reach Mack, to let him know the gate number and departure time," Royce said. The light changed and they crossed.

 "He'll probably call to find that out late Saturday night," Marla chuckled.

 "Probably," Royce muttered. They entered the expansive marble lobby of The Chocolate Conglomerate's building and parted at the elevators.

 "I'll be right up. I'm going to scope out the new guy at Images magazine," Marla winked. Royce smiled, privately wondering how Tom would feel about that.

 Royce rode up to the twenty-fifth floor, glancing in irritation at the large company logo in the reception area as she passed through. It was a standing joke throughout the company how the logo for The Chocolate Conglomerate, purportedly depicting a mass of chocolate, on first glance more resembled a pile of. . . .

 Royce entered a small office with two desks. Sitting at the left-hand desk, she sat in front of her computer monitor, brought up a blank page, and extended her fingers indecisively over the keys. Slowly she began typing: "Barfy the Dog is the pet of every child's dreams. He is scruffy, and friendly, and loyal to his owner, Timmy. But when Timmy is hurt in a speedboat accident, what can a dog do? Plenty, if he's as wonderful as Barfy. Come read how Barfy shows his love for Timmy in this sweet story, written by a real twelve-year-old girl. After you read it, maybe you will want to write your own story about special friends."

 Royce read it over, made a few corrections, then triumphantly printed it out for the editorial director, Martin. "There! That was easy." Martin required she submit all her work on hard copy. He was of the really really old school who corrected and edited paper documents with red ink. Once he okayed her copy, she would e-mail it to the production department, who handled everything electronically.

 She put the single sheet into an interoffice envelope addressed to Martin and called, "Joe!" The interoffice mail carrier who had been passing by stopped to take the envelope she held out. "Got a big weekend planned?" she asked.

 "Parties from dusk to dawn!" he replied, smoothing his hair with a flourish, and she nodded wryly. She had heard about Joe's parties, and frankly, she was waiting to hear about his arrest some day soon. "Hear you're going out of town next week," he mentioned.

 "Yeah, and it may be as wild as your party," she said.

 "But not as much fun," he guaranteed, tossing the envelope into his cart.

 "Probably not," she admitted, turning to her telephone to dial Mack's number. She got his voice mail again. As she had already left one message today, she hung up without leaving another. Peeved, she wondered, "Why do I have to do all the calling?"

 The person belonging to the other desk entered the office: "Oh good, you're back."

 Royce looked up at the stout woman in an eighties' style business suit. "Hi, Caryn. What did you need?" Caryn and Royce had an ongoing friendly dress feud: Royce thought Caryn's suits were dowdy and Caryn disapproved of Royce's short skirts and long jackets. 

 "Martin wants to see that copy right away. They're doing the Barfy book jacket layout now," she said.

 "Oh, I just sent it by Joe," Royce said, rising from her desk.

 "Never mind. I just passed him in the hall. I'll get it," Caryn said. She glanced at Royce's hemline before disappearing down the hall.

 Royce sat back down and used the next half-hour to leisurely clean up her desk. She filed completed projects and wrote ticklers in her calendar for upcoming ones. Her telephone rang with one long warble, indicating a call from outside the building. As she answered, "Royce Lindel," Caryn came into the office and handed her the copy she had just done, covered with red-inked corrections and notations. Royce strangled a protest and held it up questioningly to Caryn, who shrugged.

 "Hello, beautiful. What's up?" asked a cheery male voice over the telephone.

 "Mack, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for days," Royce said, more exasperated than she would have been before she was handed that copy.

 "Business, sweetheart," he said, cooler.

 "Well, it took some doing, but I've made all the arrangements for our trip to Big Bend. The four of us will fly out of La Guardia Sunday morning to the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in Texas, catch a connecting flight to El Paso, then take a commuter to Alpine. We'll rent a Jeep there to get us to Study Butte, where a guide will meet us with horses and camping supplies," said Royce.

 There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "This Sunday?" he finally asked.

 "Yes, this Sunday, what did you think? We've been talking about this for weeks, remember?" Royce said.

 "I'm sorry, Royce; I can't make it. My boss scheduled me to attend a four-day conference in Miami next week. I have to fly out Sunday afternoon," Mack told her.

 Royce was almost--but not quite--speechless: "Mack, this was your idea! I didn't want to go tramping around the desert for a week, but you guys just had to 'get away from it all'!"

 "So cancel it, Royce," he said coolly.

 "I've already charged tickets and everything," she said, tears springing forth. "There's no telling how much I'd lose to cancel this late." Then in a spate of defiance, she said, "We'll just go without you! Marla, Tom and I will go!"

 "Yeah, that's a good idea. You and Marla go ahead and go. But I told Tom about this Miami trip, so he's going rock climbing in Watkins Glen next week," Mack said.

 This time Royce was silent for about eight seconds. "You told Tom you had a business trip and didn't tell me?"

 He paused. "Sorry. I forgot. Tom is right here in this building, and--"

 "That's pretty lame," she observed.

 "I said I was sorry. Look, I have to go now--"

 "Goodbye," Royce said, hanging up. She cradled her head in one hand, looking at the lacerated copy on her desk. "What was Martin's problem with this?" she turned with a vengeance on innocent Caryn.

 "He said it made the book sound boring," Caryn answered ruefully.

 "It IS boring!" Royce exclaimed, tossing the paper in the air. "It's a stupid, boring book! The only reason we're publishing it is that the author is the daughter of Dr. Jack Goodfellow, who we've been trying to get under contract for years! They accept a book written by a child and then expect me to write copy better than the book. Why don't they just let me write the book and put her name on it? That would be easier!"

 "You need a vacation," Caryn observed, tapping her chin with a pencil.

 "You're right. I'm sorry, Caryn. I'm so mad at Mack I could spit."

 "So I hear." Caryn's telephone warbled and she turned to answer it.

 Royce swept up the copy to crumple it and drop it into the wastepaper basket. Immediately she thought better of that and retrieved it. Then she looked at the calendar--Friday, May 13. Friday the thirteenth. And they were supposed to fly out Sunday. "I wonder if Marla knows," she murmured, picking up her telephone. She dialed an in-house number but got a busy signal. Shortly after she hung up, however, her telephone sounded the two short rings which signaled an in-house call. "Royce," she answered.

 "It's Marla. Tom just called and said he made other plans for next week when he found out Mack couldn't go. Did you know about that?"

 "Not until ten minutes ago," Royce grumbled. "And if we don't go, I'm out a bunch of money."

 "Well then, let's!" Marla exclaimed. "Let's go! You and I! Let's go just as we planned. What do you say?"

 "Marla, you marketing people need to get a grip on reality. Neither you nor I have ever been farther from civilization than a Howard Johnson's. We wouldn't last twenty minutes in the Chisos Basin," Royce said flatly.

 "But we'll have a guide, and he's bringing all the supplies, which you've already paid for," Marla argued. "Royce, you need to get out of your rut and try something new. Or are you that dependent on Mack?"

 Royce bristled, "No. But--our reservations are for four people. It would still be a waste for just two to go."

 "Then let's get someone else to go with us," Marla said.

 "This late? Not a chance," Royce said.

 "No, listen. I know several people who are going on vacation next week," Marla insisted. "There's Guidry--"

 "I will not go camping with The Octopus," Royce stated.

 "Okay, there's also Renetta Cleary."

 "Renetta? In editorial?" Royce asked. She vaguely recalled a petite, black-haired woman in a dark blue suit.

 "Yeah, I know she has next week off and she's not going anywhere," Marla said enthusiastically.

 "I don't know . . . Renetta?" Royce mused.

 "She's due at a publications committee meeting with me in fifteen minutes. Let's go ask her now. Meet me at her office--you know, by the fax room?" Marla asked.

 "Ye-es," Royce said slowly.

 "See you there in two minutes." Marla hung up.  Royce dubiously put down the receiver and headed for the fax room.

 She found Marla near Renetta's open door. "Ready?" Marla asked eagerly. Royce felt as though she were going on a game show totally unprepared, but Marla smelled a sales job.

 They entered the editor's office together and Renetta glanced up, looking exactly as Royce remembered her. With her hair pulled tightly back, and wearing tasteful, understated jewelry, she was the quintessential New York editor. Royce pulled down on the hem of her short skirt, feeling like a schoolgirl in Renetta's presence.

 Marla opened, "Hi, 'Netta. You know Royce Lindel, don't you?"

 "Yes. Copywriter, aren't you?" Renetta nodded at Royce with the slightest air of condescension. Royce comforted herself with the thought that Renetta was really old--30--and had a few gray hairs.

 "Yeah, that's right. Listen, aren't you on vacation next week?" Marla asked, sitting on the edge of the large, neatly cluttered desk.

 Renetta smiled briefly. "Yes, I have two weeks off."

 "Going anywhere?" Marla asked.

 "I am going to paint my bedroom and curl up with some good books and Marmion," she replied.

 "Her cat," Marla explained in an aside to Royce. "Listen, how would you like to go on the adventure of your life? Royce and I were going camping in Big Bend, Texas, with these two guys, but they weaseled out. Royce here has already paid down on the trip, so we just decided we'd go after all. We've got room for two more. How about it?"

 "No, thank you," Renetta smiled.

 Royce was willing to let the matter drop, but Marla's instinct for sales took control. "Aw, Ren, why not? You were talking about how this pollution is killing your sinuses--five days in the pristine wilderness is just what you need."

 "It will be hot as hades," Renetta noted.

 "Not in mid-May. And think of the cool, glorious nights," Marla urged.

 "With rattlesnakes and scorpions," Renetta added, covering her computer.

 Bested on that one, Marla gamely persisted, "Still, think of the vistas you'll be able to capture with your camera. The horses will carry us--"

 "Horses?" Renetta looked up with a changed expression.

 "Yes, we're hiring horses for the whole trip. We'll be able to explore anywhere we want on horseback. Won't we, Royce?" Marla asked.

 "Yes. A guide is meeting us in Study Butte with horses and camping equipment--everything we'll need. A ghost town is there, and an old abandoned cinnabar mine. Then the guide will take us up the Chisos Mountains on horseback," Royce said, growing excited despite herself.

 "The rare Colima Warbler nests in the United States only in the Chisos Mountains," Renetta observed thoughtfully.

 "That's right!" Royce exclaimed, hearing that fact for the first time.

 "When was the last time National Geographic had a layout of that charmer?" asked Marla, in control again.

 Renetta's look of concentration was almost scary. "What's the cost?" she asked.

 "Not much. Just your airfare and your share of the hotel and food. We can work it all out afterward," Marla assured her. Royce glanced peevishly at Marla. Yeah, she could offer that, as she hadn't paid a dime on it yet. Also, she and Renetta made much more than Royce did.

 Renetta's face settled decisively. "When do we leave?"

 Royce answered, "Sunday morning. La Guardia, American Airlines flight 204, departing from gate 12 at 6:20 A.M."

 Marla added, "Pack light."

 "Wait," Royce interjected. "I've got a bundle of brochures that tell all about it and what to pack. Why don't we go shopping after work? We can grab a bite and plan what we need."

 "Great idea!" Marla seconded.

 Renetta stood, tapping a manuscript into a perfect pile on the corner of her desk. "I'll meet you in the lobby at four o'clock," she said.

 As Royce tied up loose ends throughout the day, she reconciled herself to making the most of this trip. The best part about it, she realized, was that she would be risking something new without Mack. He was always ready to help her try new things so he could rescue her, smirking, when she failed. Royce did not like the way he tried to control her, but she could not bring herself to dump him, either. She had always needed a strong male presence in her life. Maybe, she thought vaguely, she could develop enough backbone during this trip to tell him goodbye.

 One thing she could not do was produce satisfactory copy for Barfy the Dog. She made several attempts, but they were merely variations of the first. Around 3:45, she gave up. "They're going to have to use that or write their own," she declared, leaving the wrinkled, red-lined sheet out on her desk.

 She met Renetta and Marla in the building's cavernous lobby at the designated time, and they trotted down the perennially shaded sidewalks to Central Park. They found a roving vendor and bought pizza, which they took to a green, sunny spot in the park. Royce settled on a bench to watch some little girls clamber up on the statue of Alice, seated primly on her mushroom with the Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit scurrying by.

 Consulting the brochures, Renetta made a list of necessities in impeccable handwriting. She asked all the right questions about what the guide was providing and what they had to supply themselves, then declared herself ready to shop. As Royce made a move toward the subway station, Renetta said, "No; let's walk."

 "To Macy's?" Royce exclaimed. "It's got to be forty blocks!"

 "You're about to be doing a lot more walking than that," Renetta said prophetically, turning down the street. Marla grinned back at Royce, who groaned. She already regretted most decisions made today, including that of wearing three-inch heels. She sure does throw her weight around well for someone so little, Royce thought, running to catch up.

 As they threaded their way single file through the crowded walkways, Royce looked up for a change. The canyon of skyscrapers loomed protectively far overhead. She loved the city. She loved the lights, the noise, the traffic. It was home. When Marla wasn't talking it up, the thought of venturing to such a remote area as Texas filled Royce with dread.

 "Hey, Ren, want to stop here?" Marla shouted.

 They eyed the gaudy pink Trump Tower across the street, but Renetta kept her stride. "I never buy there, on principle," Renetta said, and Royce rolled her eyes. Actually, Royce never shopped there on principle, either--the principle of limited finances.

  Before Royce's feet swelled too much they arrived at Macy's, which had giant dolls perched on a bright yellow box above one entrance. Aware of her ballooning credit card debt, Royce practiced remarkable restraint and shopped only for what she needed: a duffel bag, hiking boots, two pairs of jeans and a jacket (that matched), and a trendy felt hat. Marla and Renetta spent much more on widely varying purchases: Renetta took practical, wearable gear to the checkout counter, while Marla bought gauzy blouses and imitation-hide cowboy boots.

 "You never know who we might meet there," Marla purred, examining one of her blouses. "Cowboys are so sexy, don't you think?" This time Renetta rolled her eyes. Coming out of the store, Royce looked up at a huge billboard featuring The Marlboro Man.

 "Now remember, I have it on good authority that in Texas, it's not 'you all,' it's 'ya'll,'" Marla instructed, following her out.

 "I'll remember that," Royce promised as she held the door for Renetta, who had her arms full of packages. Glancing at the deepening shadows, Royce said, "I've got to get home. See you Sunday."

 "Don't be late, 'cause you've got the tickets!" Marla called.

 "Right," Royce sighed.

 She folded up her bundles as tightly as possible for the subway ride to Queens. Ignoring the stench, the trash, and the panhandlers, she made the trip in her usual manner of not looking at or speaking to anyone. When the train groaned to her stop, she disembarked and climbed the dingy steps to street level. Gripping her packages securely underarm, she quickly walked the few blocks to her apartment building. It was familiar territory, but she never relaxed until she was safely locked in her own small apartment.

 Once inside, she switched on the kitchen light and gasped as a few cockroaches scurried for cover. "I've told the super about those roaches three times," she fumed. She checked under the sink where a bucket beneath the pipe held an inch of water. But the pipe appeared to be dry. "Is it fixed, or not?" she muttered.

 Rather than hope it was, she went to her telephone and dialed the super's number. His answering machine came on. Royce said, "Mr. Hoskins, this is Royce Lindel in 812. Have you fixed my sink? I'm going to be out of town next week, and if it leaks while I'm gone, you're going to be looking at some major repairs. And please have someone spray for roaches while I'm gone!" She hung up with a bang.

 Checking her own answering machine, she was a little disappointed to find no message from Mack. Part of her had hoped he would consider a trip with her worth rearranging his business schedule.

 Dismally, she took her purchases to the bedroom and began packing. Without Marla's colorful presence, all Royce's enthusiasm for this trip had faded. "Well, if nothing else, it will be fun to se Ms. Cleary get taken down a notch or two," Royce considered. Then she had an uneasy feeling, as though premonition informed her that Ms. Cleary was not the only one about to get mussed on this trip. Dismissing it, Royce sat at her vanity to brush out her hair and plan a last day of self-indulgence before leaving for Texas.

copyright 1994, 2007 Robin Hardy

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