A Baby For Mommy. Sara Orwig

bills will be paid, and you won’t have to worry about the care for your mother. Think about it.”

      Micah had thought about it for a moment and had agreed to try to find the Webster women and children and bring them back to Texas.

      He still had mixed emotions about the task as he looked down at the solid canopy of green below him. The small government of Cruz had made no search of their own because revolutionaries took all the official attention and resources. The Granillo pilot had lost radio contact shortly before going down. He had been fifteen miles off course, and Micah had a general idea where to search.

      That morning Micah had found the downed plane. As he sped over the treetops, he had looked at the smashed trees where the plane had crashed. He circled to fly over the site several times, thinking that if there were survivors, they would try to signal. But as the trees swayed in the slipstream of his plane, no one had appeared.

      He had been hoping to find them, rescue them and then get right back to Texas. It wasn’t going to be that simple.

      Returning to Agapito, the coastal capital, he had phoned Luke to say he had located the crash site and promised to go back. Within the hour he made arrangements to be flown to the site again.

      Now wind beat against him as he braced himself in the open door of the plane and double-checked his parachute harness. Eduardo circled the plane above the wreckage. As Micah looked down at the burned rubble, he thought about the passengers. Even though he hadn’t known any of them, he felt a wave of sickness at the loss. What hurt most was the thought of the little girls, Sophie and Angelica. He didn’t want to have to go back to Texas and tell Luke the little girls wouldn’t be coming home.

      They approached the crash site the second time. Micah waved to Eduardo and received a salute in return. He saw the slash in the trees coming up. He jumped, dropping through the air, green treetops that looked as solid as the ground rushing up to meet him.

      When he pulled the rip cord, the chute ballooned up behind him, yanking him up, and then he began to float toward the trees. Pulling the steering toggles on the risers, he guided his descent, watching the gash in the trees as it grew larger. The scorched ground and burned bits of plane loomed into view, and he couldn’t imagine survivors. Unless they had gotten out before the plane went up in flames or had been thrown clear.

      For just an instant his stomach knotted as he thought of Shawna and the car wreck. He blanked out his thoughts, clamping his jaw closed grimly as he tried to angle down to where the plane had cut through the trees. He landed on his feet only yards from the wreckage and in seconds was out of the chute. He turned to look around him, listening as the sounds of the forest brought back memories of his years in the U.S. Army Special Forces. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten his survival skills, because he was on his own in a corner of the world that was swarming with rebel insurgents and gun smugglers. Tomorrow at noon Eduardo would return. If Micah found survivors before then, they could all get out by chopper. If he discovered all had been killed, he would have to get the bodies out. But if he couldn’t account for everyone on the plane, he was going to have to hunt for them on foot and get them back to civilization the best way he could.

      Steamy heat made his body damp with sweat within minutes after dropping to earth. He could smell the earthy, rotting vegetation on the forest floor. Judging from the looks of the plane, there were no survivors. Micah poked through the wreckage, and five minutes later he changed his assessment. He couldn’t find any bodies in the burned metal.

      He moved away from the charred rubble and circled it. Something caught his attention. Frowning, he crossed the clearing. A mound was covered with brush and branches and a couple of smaller tree trunks had been dragged over it. He knew he was looking at a hasty burial site before he began to clear away the brush.

      He had seen many dead bodies on military assignments in hot spots in different places of the world. Some had been civilians, most had been soldiers. None had been a beautiful woman from Texas and he drew a deep breath, his stomach knotting as he finished clearing away the makeshift grave. He fished out the pictures Luke had given him.

      Raffaela was a married socialite. He could remember Luke’s deep voice listing her jewelry with as much certainty as if he had presented her with each piece: an eight-carat engagement ring, a six-carat ring their father had given her, a diamond-studded gold wedding band, a ruby pendant with gold filigree, diamond stud earrings. This body bore none of the above. Rachel, the twin, seldom wore jewelry. She owned a diamond ring their father had given her upon her graduation from college, but she wore it only on special occasions.

      So, Micah decided, he was looking at the body of Rachel Webster.

      He thumbed through the six pictures, holding Rachel’s picture next to Raffaela’s picture. With makeup and different hairstyles, it was easy to tell one from the other. But if they had the same hair arrangement and no makeup, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. Now—because of the wreck, the heat, and time that had passed—the quickest way to identify which twin had died was jewelry or lack of it.

      “Just great,” he mumbled cynically. “If the other one is still alive, I get to save the bitch.... Focus on the little girls,” he reminded himself aloud.

      Pocketing the pictures, he tossed the branches back over the body. In a few more minutes he found the pilot’s partially decomposed body.

      For the next hour Micah went over every inch of the crash site, walking in ever-widening circles until he was in thick brush and trees. Lianas draped over branches and hung to the ground. Where an occasional patch of sunlight broke through the forest canopy, the vines were covered with green leaves. Butterflies looped and circled lazily, and scarlet macaws perched high in trees like bright red blossoms.

      It took Micah another hour before he found a hair ribbon caught on a fern. He could detect where someone had moved through the brush, and he followed their tracks. He swore softly because they were headed deeper inland. If they had gone west, they would have had a better chance of reaching a town. Any direction they had taken, they could easily be caught in the middle of guerrilla warfare.

      He prayed he could keep on their trail until he found them. He could detect where leaves were disturbed, palmetto pushed aside. In minutes he spotted a red thread caught on a frond.

      An hour later he discovered where they had stopped to rest beside a murky stream. Once he realized they’d followed the stream, he could track faster. Unfortunately they were headed up the stream and by late afternoon the stream ended and their tracks moved away in the bush.

      In the lush forest, night would come all at once. Keeping an eye on his watch, Micah stopped his search. After the quiet during the steamy midday heat, the trees came alive with the sounds of animals and birds. He slid off his pack, taking a long drink from his canteen. In the last light of day, he fished out the pictures again and looked at the two women, pulling up the picture of the socialite. The Bolivian industrialist had a beautiful Texan wife. Judging from the the tracks, which were growing fresher, he figured he would catch up with her tomorrow.

      

      “I’m hungry,” the smallest girl cried.

      A thick auburn braid of hair fell forward as the woman bent over and retrieved bananas to hand to each child. Two days ago they had come upon banana trees. Starving, they had picked bananas and eaten them. After they had rested, she had picked all the bananas she could carry, making a pack out of the large leaves from one of the trees. They were living on the bananas and the last of the baby formula that had survived the explosion. The carry-on had burned, but cans of formula and bottles had been salvageable and she had placed what she could in the children’s large bag.

      At the sound of voices, she whirled around, her gaze searching through strangler figs, bromeliads and palms while her heart pounded in fear.

      Two men appeared, their gaze raking over her boldly. Terrified, she stared at them. There was no mistaking the lust that gleamed in their dark eyes. Each man wore a holster with a pistol on his hip.

      “Buenos dias,” she said, worrying about the girls. “Girls, get behind me.”

      “Buenos