Blue Moon by Linda Windsor

Author:Linda Windsor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2010-03-27T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Once they crossed Highway 307, the van’s engine groaned on its uphill climb into the town of Akumal, set away from its seaside hotel zone. On the right, they passed a market, a lavandería where women folded clothes while their children played on the side of the road outside. Nearby was a restaurant where a man grilled chicken on the walk. The smell wafted on the air enough to make Jeanne’s mouth water, even though she’d just eaten a delicious meal.

Awash with mixed emotions, she replayed Arnauld’s intrusion on their meal. She’d not missed Arnauld’s smug demeanor as he lorded his success over Gabe, nor could she help but feel for the captain, outspent in the tangle of maritime law after he’d invested everything. Most of all, she didn’t like the way Arnauld had rubbed salt in the wound every chance he had. It had been a struggle to curb the impulse to counter Arnauld’s smoothly delivered disdain.

Protective instinct? She barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. She was obviously misguided beyond reason. Gabe definitely needed no protection—or defense for that matter—from her. Gabe had a lot of good in him . . . but when he was bad, he was very bad.

Lord, who is this man? she wondered as they passed a police station with a white pickup marked Policía in red lettering parked outside its green door. And how can I feel both anger and compassion for him at the same time, not to mention the urge to beat some faith into his thick head with my fists?

She studied the residential dwellings to the left of the main street, predominantly made of concrete block with thatched or corrugated tin roofs. Since the coming of tourism, concrete—which held up better against the hurricane—had rapidly replaced the wattle and daub thatched cottages with their bellied gable ends.

But here and there, between the block houses, were a few traditional Mayan casas with stick sides—kitchens perhaps. Many yards had neat gardens beyond stone walls and iron gates, but most were parched, with more dirt than grass.

“Now, if I remember correctly, the Cantina Loca is one of his favorite hangouts,” Gabe said as he pulled to the right side of the main road and parked. As he got out, he sized up the faded pink building across the street.

From her seat, Jeanne did the same. An awning of thatch sheltered the iron bars protecting its windows—from tropical storms, she hoped. Over it was painted a happy, mustached hombre in a sombrero, lifting a bottle in grinning, toothy delight. Lettered in cactus green and black on the brim of his hat was the name Cantina Loca.

“I think you should stay here in the van,” Gabe said after some contemplation. “The music has already started.” He seemed surprised.

Jeanne dubiously studied the window bars with their artfully knotted middles. There were people idling on the street, including the chicken cook, but the thought of being left under the dim street lamp did not sit well with her, and it showed.

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