Maria gripped his arm to gain his attention. “If you want to get on, we have to go now!”
He shook his head, but she wasn’t deterred. She released his arm and started jogging alongside the tracks. Before he could shout at her to stop, she grabbed the next ladder and swung up. Her slim legs dangled in space for one chilling moment. Then she ascended.
Fuck.
He rushed to catch up with her, his mind reeling. What other choice did he have? He couldn’t let her go alone, unprotected. His feet moved in step with the train, boots thudding along with his racing heart. As he leapt for the ladder, his wounded leg buckled and almost gave out on him. He smothered a cry of pain and regained his balance. He managed to avoid the crushing wheels, but it was a close thing. His hands found the rungs and he pulled himself up, arms shaking.
He made it. Just barely.
Chapter 6
Maria gripped the slippery rungs and looked over her shoulder for Ian.
He was running along the tracks, coming after her. She held on tight and prayed for his safety. It wasn’t easy to leap aboard a moving train, especially when it was starting to regain speed, but most healthy adults could manage.
Accidents happened, of course. Strong men tripped and fell. Able-bodied youngsters slipped off ladders. People got jostled and shoved aside in the mad rush. Some tumbled onto the tracks. Others were accosted by roving gangs of train robbers. She didn’t know which tragedy had befallen her father. There were no witnesses on these routes, just weary travelers and ruthless scavengers.
Ian was quick and lean, with the sculpted physique of a marathon runner, so she didn’t think he’d have any trouble. She was wrong. He faltered at the last second, as if his ankle had twisted. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered his gunshot wound.
Oh no. How could she have forgotten he was injured?
She’d been distracted on the way here by his handsome face and tall, broad-shouldered build. He’d been walking at a brisk pace, without a misstep or a single complaint. If anything, he’d seemed to enjoy the exercise. He’d looked muy sexy, like a rugged outdoorsman.
When he recovered his balance and climbed up, she rested her face against the rungs, relieved. Then she scrambled over the top of the railcar to give him room. The surface was covered with flat metal grates. There were only about a dozen men aboard, so it wasn’t crowded yet. She found an open space near the ladder and waited for Ian to join her.
Ian ascended slowly, knuckles white with tension. His face was pale. When she reached out and tried to help him, he scowled in annoyance. She shrank back, heart racing.
The other men atop the railcar chuckled at this exchange. They thought Ian was a clueless thrill seeker or an amateur reporter, spoiled by luxury and in over his head. Most of the passengers who rode La Bestia were Central American. They were hard as nails, and tended to be very macho, like Mexicans. They respected physical strength and bravado.
That was one of the reasons she’d felt so compelled to climb aboard. She’d seen a boy in the crowd, and she knew then that her brother wouldn’t hesitate to jump on the train. Hugo had too much pride to let a ten-year-old kid outdo him. He’d risk his neck, but he wouldn’t risk ridicule. He wouldn’t return to Mezcala a coward, too scared to ride the rails.
Young men were fools. All of them.
Ian pulled himself up, dragging his left leg. His pants had a dark stain above the knee. When the other passengers saw that he was injured, not weak, their amusement faded into disinterest. They’d seen worse. They had no pity for a rich American who’d decided to take this journey for fun, or to tell a story. This was life and death for them.
Maria studied Ian as he settled in beside her. He was clearly in pain, but he didn’t seem to want her help. He had his own streak of machismo.
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching his knee. “I wasn’t thinking.”
His eyes darkened at her apology, as if it irritated him further.
She dropped her gaze to his wounded thigh. The bloodstain on his pants was about the size of her palm. “Do you have any bandages?”
He shrugged out of his backpack and rifled through it for a large square bandage. She held it for him while he unbuttoned his fly with one hand. He reached down his pant leg and removed the old bandage, which was soaked with blood. He tossed it over the side of the train. Then he slapped on the new bandage, holding it in place.
“How are the stitches?”
“They’re okay.”
She doubted the doctor had expected him to be this active. He needed to rest and recuperate, not train-hop across Mexico.
“Can I do anything?”
He deliberated for a moment. “There’s an ACE bandage in my pack. It’s elastic.”
She rummaged around and found a roll of stretchy beige fabric. It would keep the other bandage from slipping off and give his thigh extra support. He tried to take it from her, but she held tight. She was the reason he’d reinjured himself. The least she could do was help him with first aid.
“Let me,” she said. “It’s safer.”
He couldn’t argue that. They were on a moving train, untethered. Letting go with both hands was risky. If they stopped suddenly, he could tumble over the edge. So could she, but his larger body made a better anchor. He could hold onto her and the train at the same time.