Betrayed by Jeanette Windle Read Free Book Online Page B

dump.
     
    Rather like the fires that must still be smoldering beneath the surface of Guatemala itself, Vicki thought reflectively, for all its current theoretical Peace Accords. Fires of anger and greed. And revenge.
     
    But not here at least. Not in this place.
     
    Resting her arms on the windowsill, Vicki listened to the sounds wafting upward through other open shutters below. A child sobbing in the dark. The soothing reply of an adult. Girlish whispers and giggles from a dormitory ward somewhere below the window.
     
    Family.
     
    If this noisy, restless, breathing building beneath her feet could be characterized so, then it was Evelyn McKie who was its matriarch. And a much loved one. Vicki had stayed with the missionary during a supper of lentil stew and the madhouse of supervising each age group through bathrooms, story time, and lights-out.
     
    Everywhere they had been besieged by excited cries of “ ¡Tia Evelina! ” “Aunt Evelyn.” Small bodies hurled themselves against the fragile, straight figure for a hug. Teens paused to respond shyly to her interested queries about schoolwork or plans. And she’d called every one by name. How did she keep them all straight?
     
    Family.
     
    It had to be the smoke gusting from the ravine that burned Vicki’s eyes. Impatiently blinking it away, she retrieved her phone and hit Redial, cutting it off with a stab as she heard Holly’s voice mail. Holly, come on, pick up. I know you’re mad, but honestly . . .
     
    “Vicki, dearie, you’re still awake after the long day you’ve had?”
     
    Vicki hadn’t yet closed the door, and as she turned, Evelyn stepped into the room.
     
    “Forgive me for disturbing you this late, but I thought I’d leave these with you if you were still awake.” Evelyn handed Vicki two yellow T-shirts. “You’ll want to wear them out on the project for ID and protection. Even las maras —the street gangs—will usually give Casa de Esperanza personnel a pass.”
     
    Her glance fell on the cell phone in Vicki’s hand, and she added sympathetically, “Still haven’t got through to your friend, eh? Is she with your children’s foundation as well? I don’t think I’ve ever met her in the expat community.”
     
    “Oh, definitely not. No, Holly’s pure tree hugger.” Seeing gentle interest in the bright gaze, Vicki explained briefly.
     
    Evelyn nodded. “I’ve always worked with children myself, and for some people, that seems to put us in opposite camps. But to be honest, I’ve always felt a sneaking kinship with the tree huggers. You couldn’t even imagine what this country was like when I arrived fifty years ago. Green and wild and beautiful—and no garbage. Back then we’d never have imagined anything like this would ever be possible.” She gestured at the fiery glow of the dump through the window.
     
    “The children’s needs come first, of course,” Evelyn continued, “but it really would be a shame for them to grow up with nothing left of the incredible beauty God put into their country, and for that I applaud people like your friend. It always reminds me of an old hymn no one sings much anymore.” Her voice was surprisingly strong and steady as she started singing, “‘This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought of rocks and trees, of skies and seas—His hand—’”
     
    “Don’t sing that!” Vicki’s sharp rejoinder cut through the melody.
     
    As Evelyn broke off to stare, Vicki caught herself. “I’m so sorry. You caught me off-guard. I . . . I’ve always hated that song.”
     
    It was hardly an adequate explanation for rudeness, so she added quickly, “When I was a kid, I always thought the song was talking about my biological father. And since he never figured in my life, it always rubbed me the wrong way.”
     
    “And now?” There was something uncomfortably seeing in Evelyn’s shrewd gaze, the gentle question.
     
    Vicki shrugged. “You mean, the Father being God the Creator,